"Sex Between Mother and Son" from A History of Human Customs

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As the title suggests, this is a short story with a discussion element. When the troublesome word "incest" appears repeatedly, we must have a clear understanding of it.
Remember, it's "clear understanding," not "sober understanding," because neither morality nor law can forcibly prevent it. We can only "clearly" know what it is, but cannot "soberly" despise it morally—after all, the taboo of incest is ultimately not due to morality, and who can be certain that there won't be a strong attraction between close relatives?
I will begin to tell this lengthy story, reflecting the course of events through the changing ages of the mother and son.
"Sex is Everywhere"
Over twenty years ago, when Mom and Dad signed a contract, they officially became a legal couple.
In other words, both gained the legally recognized right to have sexual intercourse. Mom and Dad could have sex "protected by law" and have children. Conversely, any sexual activity between men and women that doesn't complete this process is "self-defeating."
That year, Mom was about 25 years old, and a year later, I came into the world (ironically, we are still very curious about the specific process of our arrival, but that's not something we can know).
Ten months of pregnancy, one day of childbirth—I lived in my mother's warm belly for ten months, during which time the boy's genitals developed and tightly embraced my mother's tender uterus—truly a joyous and happy time. Finally, amidst my mother's screams and struggles, I left this comfortable paradise, crossing the extremely swollen vagina, and was born with a cry.
If we consider the contact of male and female genitals to be sexual intercourse, then during the time of the son's birth, he had already engaged in sexual activity with his mother.
But neither the father nor the mother would think that way. They only knew they had given birth to a new life, but they never considered that during the process of this new life's birth, the mother actually had sexual contact with "two" men, not "one."
The arrival of the new life brought both joy and trouble. The young father had to work twice as hard to feed his wife and son, while the mother stayed home with me, the infant.
I would often cry loudly because I was hungry, and my mother would take off her top to breastfeed me. My mother's breasts were at their largest at this time, soft and firm. She gently held me in her arms, bringing her large, white breasts to my mouth. I eagerly took my mother's swollen nipple into my mouth, greedily sucking the sweet milk, the ultimate delicacy for an infant, fresh and delicious.
My mother smiled at me like a saint, looking at her crying son in her arms, gently stroking me. I reached out my tiny hands, constantly touching those beautiful mounds of flesh. We always have such respect, praise, appreciation, and longing for women's breasts, because they are a treasure bestowed upon women by the Creator to nurture humanity, so great and so alluring. A man's liking to look at a woman's breasts may not be considered impolite, but rather an uncontrollable urge in the face of life, and a yearning for motherhood.
This was a wonderful time, no less than being in the womb; I could fully enjoy my mother's sweet, full breasts—they were mine, and no one could take them away. Of course, Dad and Mom would also do what they wanted at night. Perhaps Dad also wanted Mom's breasts. When they were together, Dad would always suckle Mom's nipple as hard as he could.
Often, Mom would scold Dad, "Don't be so crazy! You'll drink all the milk, what will our son do?"
Dad would laugh and say, "It's okay, I'll only drink what our son leaves behind."
Mom would blush and hug me shyly, saying, "We won't give any to him, right, son? Mom's milk is only for you."
Dad would then burst into laughter.
This is an important detail that we cannot easily overlook: both the father and the young son are possessive of the mother's breasts. This can be seen in the father kissing the mother's breasts during intercourse and the infant's desire for the mother's nipples.
What does the possessiveness of the father and son towards the mother's breasts indicate? For the son, is it merely a need for breastfeeding or a male need for a woman? I don't know, and I don't want to delve any further, otherwise those extreme "moralists" would make me a pariah.
At this time, I was an infant boy, and my mother put me in my own little bed. But I would always cry loudly at night because I was hungry or wet the bed, disturbing their peace. My mother had no choice but to let the three of us sleep together, and I lay between my father and mother.
But that wasn't enough for me, so I would often poop and pee at the same time. And because I was often nestled in my mother's arms, I would poop directly onto my father. What a naughty little thing! My father grumbled angrily, and had no choice but to take his clothes, which were covered in my excrement, to wash. This way, I could lean against my mother's soft arms and fall asleep contentedly in her gentle maternal embrace.
In this way, because my father anticipated being attacked by my poop at any time, he kept his distance from my bottom and from my mother as well; I finally relied on the unique ability of an infant to enjoy my mother's love all to myself.
During this time, my arrival not only reduced my parents' sex life, but my mother's delicate postpartum body also meant she had to spend long periods at home with me.
My father was very busy with work to support the three of us, which meant my mother's hormones were likely to be active when he wasn't home. A woman's breasts are her erogenous zones, and when my mother breastfed me,
my little mouth diligently sucked on every part of her nipple—this was fundamentally
different from my father's sucking; men would never suckle so carefully and for so long as an infant. I think at that moment, my mother was not only breastfeeding, but also enjoying the sexual stimulation from her breasts that her child provided. It's a very subtle feeling, one that only a mother can truly understand—a blissful experience of hidden, delicate
sexual pleasure while feeding her child.
Time flies, and six years have passed in the blink of an eye. I'm six, and my mother is 32. As mentioned above, my mother has always treated me like the baby in her arms, showering me with love and care. My father, due to work, has been away from home for many years, just as he was when I was an infant. I'm certain that my mother's sexual needs were very strong at that time, and I can give a few examples to prove it.
1. Although children think of six as "adults," I still needed my mother to bathe me; otherwise, I would never get the areas that needed cleaning properly clean.
My mother placed me in a wooden tub, lathered me with soap, and also scrubbed my genitals. A boy's genitals are, after all, male physiological characteristics. When a mother touches them, even if her son doesn't seem to feel anything, does the mother feel nothing at all?
I still remember my mother wiping my entire body with a towel, always gazing at me with infinite tenderness. It's well known that boys like to play with their genitals; Freud called this "the earliest form of sexual desire."
When I touch my genitals, my mother scolds me repeatedly, "Don't play with your little penis! You'll get sick!"
Why can my mother touch my genitals so casually, yet be so disgusted by me playing with my "little penis"?
I think this is likely because my mother hopes to obtain sexual satisfaction from her son without him being aware of "sex"—this can prevent her son from "going astray" and also make her feel at ease—this deeply hidden mentality is very difficult to understand.
2. My mother and I often play together on the bed during the day. I can't remember exactly what we played, but one thing I do remember is that my mother liked to play with me while affectionately kissing my cheeks and mouth.
My mother hugged me and said affectionately, "You little rascal, come here, give Mommy a kiss." So
I immediately pouted my little lips and kissed my mother's cheek. My mother said again, "My good baby, give me a kiss."
Mother and son happily kissed.
At this time, I always rode on my mother's belly, excitedly shouting, "Giddy up! Horse, run faster!"
My mother laughed and said, "Little rascal, you're making Mommy breathless!"
My mother didn't care much about kissing me; in her eyes, I was just an ignorant child, and kissing was an expression of affection between mother and son. But who can prove that when my mother kissed me passionately, there wasn't a sexual expression involved?
I was a child, and also a man. Kissing can have many meanings; it can express affection while simultaneously providing sexual satisfaction. Regarding
the "emergence of the Oedipus complex,"
I don't remember the specific details anymore; I'll only describe the process and the state of affairs within that particular environment.
I think the "Oedipus complex" likely emerged during my childhood, through time alone and intimate contact with my mother. Once this complex developed, it was difficult to shake off because the emotions involved were so deep and complex—it's hard to say whether it was familial love, attachment, romantic love, or sexual desire.
Six years later, I was 12 years old, and my male hormones were gradually developing. So, at this time, perhaps while still deeply attached to my mother, I also experienced a man's attraction to mature women and sexual urges.
My mother was 38 years old at this time, and in my eyes, she was incredibly sexy and beautiful: she wasn't tall, about 157 cm, and had a slightly plump figure with a dignified and clear face; her eyes were large and gentle, and her lips were full; her earlobes had always been my favorite feature since I was little—small, delicate, and incredibly tender; her breasts weren't as large as they used to be, her waist was gradually becoming fuller, and her thighs and hips were quite plump.
You can see from this description that I had begun to carefully observe my mother's body, a fundamental difference from childhood: a child only knows that their mother is kind and gentle, while a teenager, building upon that foundation, develops a vague understanding of "sex."
For a while, I could still sleep with my mother. In my sleep, I still clung tightly to my mother's neck like a child. This seemed to make my mother very proud; she often happily told her friends about me: "My baby son is so close to me; he always hugs me tightly at night."
My mother believed that I was still the same as when I was first born, simply an attachment to the mother's body. I felt the same way at the time and didn't feel uncomfortable.
But one time, I suddenly felt that my mother beside me was also a woman, a thought that surprised and excited me greatly. I unconsciously reached out and hugged my mother, gently stroking her breasts. This unconscious act made me so nervous that I could hardly breathe, yet I was incredibly happy. I pressed my body against my mother's back, resting my head on her shoulder. It felt warm and gentle, and I quickly drifted off to sleep.
In her sleep, my mother gently pushed my hand away, murmuring, "This child never grows up, still wants to nurse!"
My actions were a mixture of sexual attraction and the attachment I once had as a child.
Another time, I woke up groggily in the early morning and stroked my mother beside me. It was early autumn, and my mother was wearing a vest. Her skin was delicate, and her fair and full arms were clearly visible, with a wisp of downy hair peeking out from under her armpits. My mother's face was delicate and full, and her sexy neck and chest were clearly visible.
I was overjoyed and hugged my mother tightly, caressing her full, smooth arms, then wrapping my arms around her neck and resting my head on her chin. In her sleep, my mother unconsciously reached out to stroke me, pulling me close to her waist, so we were face to face. Her heavy, slumbering breaths excited me greatly; I almost wanted to kiss her lips like I did as a child.
I lay on my side, one leg draped over my mother's well-defined hip, a possessive desire for her body filling my mind. My penis quickly became erect, brushing against my mother's lower abdomen several times. I pressed my face even closer to my mother, my forehead against her lips, and she unconsciously hugged me tighter, pressing her full cheek against mine.
I was so happy I almost cried out. I could estimate that our lips were only centimeters apart, and I really wanted to kiss her soft lips. But I didn't dare. I could only hug my mother's soft waist and caress her small earlobe.
I didn't dare to kiss my mother like I used to, which showed that while I had developed a sense of sensuality, I also had some self-restraint. I remembered that in the year or two before I turned twelve, I would pull hard on my mother's nightgown in my sleep, trying to grab her breasts; but now I didn't dare to kiss her.
I think this is related to my mother gradually realizing my sexual maturity. She must have noticed that her son had developed at least some sexual awareness and was no longer the ignorant child he once was. Therefore, my mother consciously kept her distance from me in certain ways, making me feel her rejection of my expressions of affection. This explains my timidity.
There's another point I almost overlooked. If we assume this incident hadn't happened, it might have greatly diminished my desire to possess my mother.
I still clearly remember when I was only a few years old, I accidentally witnessed my parents playing around in bed. It seemed like they were joking, but it also felt quite sexually stimulating. To be precise, it was because the parents neglected their child's presence and engaged in acts resembling sexual intercourse in front of him that the son developed a desire to have his mother's body like his father's. Prolonged periods of solitude between mother and son further intensified this desire.
We cannot underestimate children's judgment; they can understand the world with keen observation and rich emotions, far surpassing their ability to explain things verbally—because many things and scenes cannot be expressed in words. The
truths children grasp in their hearts, truths they cannot clearly articulate, may remain forever undiscovered by us adults.
In general, during this period, my attempts at intimacy with my mother (or perhaps "teasing" would be more accurate) were rejected by her. I felt a mix of fear, excitement, and desire. Finally, I realized I was no longer a child. Trying to achieve sexual satisfaction through the same affection a child shows their mother
was wrong—my mother certainly felt the sexual satisfaction I provided (
evident in her reactions to my touch in her sleep), but she wouldn't readily accept my blatant sexual advances.
In the above text, my frequent use of the word "sex" is solely based on my feelings and judgments, and may not be entirely appropriate, but it is supported by ample theory and examples.
Moralists often vehemently criticize views like mine, condemning them as "filthy, vulgar, and a desecration of the pure bond between mother and child." However, sex does not preclude our sincere emotions. There are many ways to express emotions, and sex is one of them.
Moreover, sex and love are often inseparable:
1. We can discuss the affair between Ximen Qing and Pan Jinlian in *Water Margin*.
Could a man and woman, captivated by sex, harbor no affection whatsoever? Pan Jinlian's marriage to Wu Dalang was unhappy, so she first hoped for Wu Song, and after being rejected, accepted Ximen Qing's pursuit. Of course, such extramarital affairs are condemned by traditional morality, but who can deny the existence of love in the pursuit of a man she desires?
2. For example, in The Bridges of Madison County, the female protagonist falls in love with the male reporter, and the two have sex after falling in love. Can you separate "love" and "sex" here?
Considering these reasons, I have summarized the above two parts as "ubiquitous sex" and the resulting "Oedipus complex." Below, I will further describe and analyze the changes in the family's marital breakdown and the mother-son relationship.
"Using" sex as revenge; changes in the mother-son relationship.
We use six years as a timeframe. Six years later, I am 18 years old, and my mother is 44.
I have gained the composure of an adult and richer emotions, while my mother has lost some of her youthful beauty, her face bearing the marks of time, but she has gained a mature charm and a dignified air.
In my eyes, my mother is always so beautiful; no woman has ever impressed me like her: she is intelligent, humorous, hardworking, kind, and dignified. In other words, my love for my mother only grew stronger, but this "love" was different from before: undeniably, I still felt some attachment to her, and there was still a lot of sexual attraction, but more importantly, I was deeply captivated by the extraordinary charm of a mature woman.
This "love" underwent a huge change, a result of my gradual growth. I no longer openly "professed my love" to my mother as before, but expressed my feelings very subtly; at the same time, I became bolder and no longer afraid of my mother's rejection.
At this time, something very unpleasant happened: my father had an affair (note that from this point on, we change our address for our fathers from "Dad" to "Father." This change in address signifies that the boy has become a man, no longer having the original attachment to his father, and perhaps even harboring some hostility).
I remember my mother once told me that marriages in her generation were generally not very happy. Due to the Cultural Revolution, many people grew up in the countryside and couldn't return to the cities immediately. Their urgent need for sex led many of them to hastily get married.
We can easily conclude that marriages based solely on sexual needs are unlikely to have an emotional foundation—which is why we often see couples in their forties getting divorced or having extramarital affairs. This example verifies the relationship between "sex" and "emotion" mentioned earlier; forcibly separating the two will yield no results. Similarly, I don't intend to endorse Plato's concept of love "completely armored," nor do I believe that my previous sexual provocations would produce positive results.
So what exactly is "emotion"? It's a question that could be debated for a thousand years without finding an answer, and I don't want to discuss it further.
What I find laughable is that those who have extramarital affairs don't necessarily derive much satisfaction from the affair. Perhaps initially there's the sexual thrill of trying forbidden fruit and the excitement of finding "new love," but as time goes on, they discover that the other person isn't much different from their spouse. Thus, we see a cycle: marriage – extramarital affair – divorce – remarriage – another
extramarital affair – another divorce… until finally everyone gets fed up and decides to stop doing this exhausting and unprofitable thing.
Isn't that ridiculous? Marriage shouldn't be taken lightly, and once you have a wife (or husband), you should fulfill your responsibilities and not easily commit adultery; conversely, those who enjoy philandering shouldn't get married, to avoid upsetting everyone.
I've seen the woman rumored to be having an affair with my father; she was a sleazy, nouveau riche, utterly repulsive. Unfortunately, perhaps that's just my father's taste; or perhaps he felt he couldn't compare to my elegant and proud mother, and voluntarily gave her up—which is why I repeatedly remind him: marriage shouldn't be taken lightly.
My mother argued with my father about this for a long time; her anger was so intense and destructive that even I, an observer who "didn't participate in the fight," was deeply affected. I witnessed my mother's anguish, so much so that she banged her head on the ground, and immediately went to comfort her.
My mother leaned sadly on my shoulder, tears streaming down her face, soaking my sleeve. I comforted my grieving mother, inwardly cursing my father's despicable behavior and that damned scoundrel.
I loved my mother dearly, so I would never allow anyone to harm her. Although, according to Freud, the father is the son's rival in the competition for the mother, I still wouldn't allow him to be even slightly unfaithful to my mother (originally, the son should have been happy at this time, because he could have the opportunity to have his mother all to himself).
This emotion, which even I found perplexing, was perfectly natural for a mother and son with such a deep bond, but at the same time, it also resembled the complex feelings of someone in a love triangle.
As I comforted my mother, who was sobbing in my arms, I experienced a bittersweet mix of emotions, while secretly plotting revenge against my father with intense rage. Taking advantage of a time when neither of my parents was home, I raped that slut (see my humble work, "The Mature Woman Who Came to My Door").
No one knew that after this act of revenge, that slut never dared to associate with my father again and obediently left. This was the first time I used sex to get revenge on my father. Later, my mother seemed to find out about it, mentioning it to me casually, but my furious reaction terrified her into not asking any further questions.
Once, while comforting my mother, I expressed my love to her by passionately kissing her and holding her tightly in my arms.
My mother understood what I meant and pushed me away, saying, "Don't do this! Are you going to bully me too?"
Looking at the glistening tears on my mother's beautiful face, I almost cried: "Mom, I love you! Why would you rather be bullied by him than accept me?"
My mother angrily slapped me, and seeing my reddened face, she immediately stroked me with heartache and sighed, "What should I do?"
I hugged my mother again, expressing my apology with deep kisses and caresses. My mother didn't object anymore, obediently letting me comfort her, sobbing against me. She nestled gently in my arms, and from her helpless and pitiful eyes, I could see she was waiting for me to take her. This time, my mother accepted me, but I couldn't bear to have her. I sighed again, offered a few words of comfort, and stopped pressuring her. I understood that my mother hadn't truly accepted me; she was using sex to retaliate against my father, and I had no interest in that kind of sex.
It's strange how our first reaction when our lovers betray us is always to retaliate with sex—just as we feel utterly hopeless when we see our lover having sex with someone else.
Sex is selfish, and love is selfish.
When private property is not respected, people will compensate themselves and retaliate in the same way.
"The mother fell in love with her son."
Under pressure from my mother and me, my father was forced to back down and break off contact with that woman. My mother and father stopped their fighting, and everything returned to normal. But in my eyes, the rift between my mother and father was irreparable; they could never return to their former intimacy. I was very worried about their superficial harmony; I felt a suffocating atmosphere permeating the house, but I was powerless to change it.
Time flew by, and four years passed in the blink of an eye. I was 22, and my mother was 48. My infatuation with my mother grew stronger every day, never wavering. During this time, Mom seemed to suddenly regain the charm of a young woman, becoming radiant. She was still rather plump, but she had completely lost the vibrant energy of youth.
I was delighted by her transformation and proud of her youthful spirit.
My father, feeling increasingly distant from my mother, also felt unwelcome and focused his attention on work and socializing. If I wasn't home, Mom was very lonely, with no one to talk to. As I grew more independent, it seemed there was even less for us to discuss.
This was something I didn't want to see, and I resolved to try my best to understand my mother and care for this lonely, charming, and beautiful woman. I'm referring to my mother as "a woman" here because we're more like adult friends than a simple, childish mother and son.
I often took the initiative to chat with my mother, opening up my mind and knowledge, engaging in free-flowing and expansive discussions. My mother was delighted by my maturity and captivated by my increasingly outstanding demeanor, because I could glean everything from the tender gaze she gave me.
In our spare time, we would do housework together while happily chatting, and the harmonious scene was indescribable. The charm it conveyed was something that those pretentious men and women who constantly talked about "charm" but lacked substance could only dream of. What is charm? It is a noble and elegant state of mind, a tacit and harmonious pairing. Without spiritual communication and rich inner cultivation, it cannot be learned at all; at best, it is merely a superficial imitation, all show and no substance.
I happily savored all of this, as if I had returned to the innocent and joyful days of my childhood. My mother was also very intelligent; she not only listened but also offered guidance. This made me even more captivated—of all the girls and women I had ever known, none understood me as well as she did, offering such guidance. Her charm was unparalleled! What reason did I have not to love such a woman?
Gradually, my mother became a source of emotional support for me. I often noticed her slightly bowing her head, gazing at me with dreamy eyes, as if I were her entire life. A sweet smile played on my mother's face, almost imperceptible, like the shyness and tenderness of a young girl in first love facing her lover.
At this moment, I would deliberately stop, smiling, and say, "Mom, what are you laughing at?"
My mother would then realize she was completely captivated, blushing and quickly saying, "Nothing! Please continue."
I would give her a sly look, revealing a knowing and tender smile, and continue explaining my views and doing my chores. My mother would involuntarily stop again, casting me with affectionate glances; her bright eyes seemed to be permanently attached to me.
This was a woman's reliance on and infatuation with a man, and I could express this feeling so clearly.
Because of my care, thoughtfulness, and increasingly mature charm, my mother was finally experiencing a completely new kind of enjoyment.
How intoxicating this was compared to her past foolish courtship! My meticulous care in daily life and my continuous emotional growth made my mother feel that she had found a man's protection and care, which is the most important pillar for a woman. Deep in their minds, every woman has a dependence on men and a desire for protection and attention. When she feels that the man beside her treats her this way, she will give him sincere gratitude and even all her love.
My care for my mother doesn't make me expect anything in return; I just want to cherish this fleeting beauty of life—but honestly, if my mother truly gave me everything, I would accept her love with overwhelming emotion.
Once, I was standing on the balcony, lost in thought, when, without me noticing, my mother came to me. My mother hugged me from behind, resting her head on my shoulder, and gently chuckled, asking, "Silly boy, what are you daydreaming about?"
I felt an overwhelming tenderness, and my breathing quickened involuntarily. I took my mother's hands and kissed them deeply, then turned and wrapped my arms around her soft shoulders, pulling her close. My body was hot; such intimate contact had become rare.
I kissed my mother's cheek and earlobe; she flinched slightly, playfully scolding me, "Still so naughty!"
Looking at my mother's shy expression, a strong desire surged through me, making me almost unable to control myself. I wanted to become one with my mother right then and there! Because I loved her so much! I pulled my mother closer with the arm I was holding, and my hand inadvertently brushed against her armpit, feeling her full, soft breasts.
My mother didn't move, continuing to talk to me gently. I let go of her, took her hands, and looked at her again.
My mother's smile is the most beautiful flower in the world. Longing to be there, I didn't want to spoil this pure moment, so I tried hard to suppress my rising desire. My mother gently asked, "What are you looking at? Silly boy? Don't you recognize your mother?"
I earnestly replied, "Mom, you're so beautiful! If you went for beauty treatments and health maintenance regularly, no one would guess you're almost 50."
My mother happily chided me, "You naughty boy, so sweet-talking! When did you learn to be so attentive to your mother?"
I spoke the truth, and my mother laughed heartily.
Although I didn't take the initiative, my mother's affection for me was undeniable. I often stared intently at my mother's beautiful and captivating body, admiring her repeatedly. She attracted me like a goddess; and she always looked at me with tender affection, her flirtatious glances touching my heart. I never imagined that one day I would actually win my mother's love, something I never even dreamed of before. Our mutual care, understanding, and tacit agreement laid a solid foundation for us. All we needed was the alluring and exciting stimulant of "sex" to ignite it, and then everything fell into place naturally.
My gaze towards my mother grew increasingly passionate, and she seemed to sense it, appearing somewhat uncomfortable, yet also quite satisfied. My mother was perhaps proud of attracting her young son, and even more so, she felt deeply captivated by his elegant and handsome appearance—a two-way connection. Driven by the gradually escalating tension and arousal of sex, their interdependent hearts became both tense and excited, fearful and yearning, filled with fantasies and anticipation about what was to come.
I noticed that my mother's attire was becoming increasingly glamorous; she was dressing for me, enjoying the passive feeling of being stared at with my burning gaze. There was a touch of "visual rape" involved; my mother probably enjoyed this feeling of being "forced" by her beloved son, contentedly waiting for me to take her.
On a cool and mild autumn day, after noon, Mom changed her clothes: she wore a cream-colored embroidered short-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of short, fitted casual pants. Her short, ear-length hair looked exceptionally delicate and fresh after washing. Mom went to the balcony, and I quietly came up behind her, gently embracing her ample waist and kissing her neck. Mom didn't resist at all; instead, she slowly rested her head and body against my chest. I noticed Mom closed her eyes, smiling as she let me caress her. My heart pounded, and my hands gradually moved to caress Mom's chest.
Mom became somewhat aroused, reaching out to turn my head and kissing my cheek. Looking at my mother's slightly red lips and smelling the fragrant orchids, I was even more captivated. My mother was like a vibrant crabapple blossom just awakening from a deep sleep, mesmerizing and endearing. I couldn't help but lower my head to kiss her lips. My mother tenderly offered her cherry lips, closing her eyes at the same time. When I kissed my mother's tender, fiery lips, it felt like holding two ripe, sweet fruits in my mouth, savoring them endlessly, unwilling to let go…
After a long while, our lips reluctantly parted. My mother was still immersed in the blissful moment, pressing close to me, humming softly, her face flushed, her starry eyes slightly closed. When a woman doesn't love you, she won't show any reaction to your advances; but if a woman is completely devoted to you, she will offer her lips for you to savor. I kissed my mother's lips again, this time we were incredibly excited, becoming one for a full ten minutes, unwilling to separate; we were both exploring every sensitive spot on each other's bodies in our passionate love.
My mother, panting, rested her head on my chest, saying breathlessly, "My dear child, I
can't breathe!" I kissed her forehead and said, "Mom, you were so excited just now! You made it hard for me to breathe."
My mother buried her face in my chest shyly... Words were superfluous now, just as lovers in the throes of passion say, "Silence speaks louder than words."
Finally, after a long and tender moment, my mother and I, completely entranced, stripped naked and became one! It felt like I had been waiting for this moment for five hundred years! Guided by my mother, I stepped back into my long-missed birthplace—my childhood Eden, a warm and safe haven filled with endless joy. Returning to this familiar place filled me with extraordinary excitement; my heart pounded with joy.
Caught up in my joy, my mother cheered excitedly, welcoming me, her prodigal son, back to her homeland. I played merrily in her soft, tender womb, scattering my love little by little into the soil that gave me birth.
With each thrust, my mother cried out, just as she had during my childbirth, a mixture of pain and bliss: "Good boy, Mommy gives you everything! Hurry!"
My love for my mother transformed into boundless passion, and I thrust even more fiercely.
I longed to possess my mother to forever protect this woman I loved so deeply; I wanted to have her!
Just as she had already completely possessed me! With a simultaneous cry from mother and son, we collapsed, leaning on each other, panting heavily. We continued our passionate lovemaking, releasing all the pent-up emotions we had been holding back. We couldn't distinguish between pleasure and pain; we only wanted to be inside each other, to possess our precious one forever…
When our lovemaking was completely exhausted, my mother and I were utterly drained. We embraced, gazing at each other with a tenderness that shone through our exhaustion. My mother was both happy and in pain, and she cried—after all, joy and sorrow are siblings born of the same mother! I held the woman I loved most in my life tightly, letting her hot tears fall on me. From that moment on, she was my woman, and no one could take her away from me.
d8888d's reply:
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d8888d's reply:
Thanks for sharing.

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