【The Return Journey (Part Two)】

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Chapter Two: Farewell to Yesterday's Daughter-in-Law,
Only Then Can We Appreciate a Mother's Profound Love. Since my deskmate had transferred schools, I
had no choice but to focus on my studies. Teacher Cheng was quite kind to me, even calling me out for heart-to-heart talks several times, urging me to concentrate on my studies and not let romantic feelings interfere with my further education. By
the end of 2003, my first semester of junior high had ended. During this period, two major events occurred in my family.
One was good news: to create favorable conditions for my further education, our family sold our old small house and
borrowed tens of thousands of yuan from relatives and friends to buy a three-bedroom, one-living room, two-bathroom apartment. At that time
, housing prices weren't as outrageous as they are now; the fully furnished apartment only cost less than 130,000 yuan in total. The other event was not good news: my
older brother, who was in high school, suddenly decided to drop out and learn a trade from my uncle.
My brother had never been a good student, but he wasn't mischievous; he just couldn't concentrate on his studies. This time, my brother
was clearly determined; no matter how much my father beat him, he refused to continue high school. Left with no other choice, my parents sent my older brother
to the provincial capital to be looked after by my uncle, hoping he could learn a trade and at least secure a livelihood.
After my brother left, the house felt rather empty. My parents' relationship wasn't good. In my memory
, before I went to university, my father had beaten my mother several times, the worst time almost resulting in him smashing our
29-inch color television. My father was a good student, but like me, he was quite playful.
In his second year of high school, influenced by his classmates and given four yuan of pocket money by my then-great-grandmother,
he lost interest in studying and traveled all over the country with his classmates, much
like the Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution. When my father returned to the county town after broadening his horizons, he lost interest in studying. So my grandfather taught him
a trade in gold and silver jewelry making, arranged a marriage for him, and then kicked him out of the house. As it turned
out, most of my dad's classmates who took the college entrance exam that year ended up in government positions, earning government
jobs. The best among them reached the deputy director-general level. This disparity deeply disappointed my dad, which is why he
placed such importance on my studies, constantly reminding me that you only realize how little you know when you need it. As
I mentioned before, my mother came from a rural area. My maternal grandfather had six children—four daughters and two sons
. Although he had served in the military, his family was still very poor, and my mother couldn't afford to go to school. She could barely read or write
, so she greatly admired educated people. My dad, although he didn't graduate high school, was definitely well-educated in our hometown;
he would have been more than qualified to be a middle school teacher. So, when my parents went on blind dates
, although my dad was of average height and had a somewhat childlike appearance, my mother took a liking to him at first sight. Perhaps
because we didn't have many topics to discuss, my dad actually looked down on my mom a bit. Plus, my mom was
the kind of person who would follow her husband wherever he pleased, lacking assertiveness, only knowing how to keep the house spotless and perfectly
organized.
In our family, my dad was the man of his word, the one who didn't back down
. He hid the bankbook, the house certificate, and the household registration book. However, he had a flaw: he liked to get drunk, and he was prone to it. He always drank too
much and made mistakes, and sometimes when drunk, he would act out and even hit my mom, which made me especially angry. At the end of 2003,
before my brother returned from the provincial capital, for some reason, my parents started arguing again. My dad said my mom did
nothing but play mahjong all day and didn't do anything productive. My mom complained that my dad got drunk every time he drank. In the end, my
mom lost control of her emotions and suddenly said that my dad was having an affair. I was stunned when I heard that. For
me, my parents' arguments were an unavoidable psychological trauma during my adolescence. I always thought it was just our family
, but later I realized that almost every couple born in the 1960s argued.
I know who the woman my mother was talking about was; she was my third aunt, though not by blood. My father loved
playing chess. When we first moved to the county, he met two chess friends. These two friends were about the same age as my father
and got along very well, so they became sworn brothers, with my father being the second oldest.
My third uncle was actually a bit simple-minded, but he had a special skill: making excellent tofu. He also had an urban
household registration and a detached house in the county, so he married a beautiful country girl, who became
my third aunt. Actually, I rarely interacted with my third aunt; I only visited them once a year during the Spring Festival
. However, my third aunt was clearly different from my mother. My mother's breasts were starting to sag, she
was gaining weight, had a "spare tire" around her stomach, large, fleshy hips, and thick thighs, though she had
fair skin. My third aunt, on the other hand, was tall and slender, with a well-proportioned figure, high, firm breasts, and
a pert, shapely bottom. While not exactly a willow-like waist, she didn't have much excess fat either .
Plus, my third uncle was a simple-minded man. Such a beautiful flower stuck in cow dung—who knows
how many people coveted it? I thought my mother had just blurted out that my third aunt and father were having an affair,
but I later realized that there might be some truth to it.
My father was furious with my mother, slapped her, and left. I was alone in
my bedroom, wanting to stand up for my mother but afraid of my father's power. I sympathized with my mother's plight but felt powerless to do
anything, so I just lay in bed silently weeping.
What could you expect a boy under 15 to do for his mother? Perhaps from that moment on, I felt a strange
pity for my mother. This sympathy and protectiveness towards the weak led me to love her dearly. I both
loved and hated my mother, and I both respected and feared my father.
After being slapped, my mother didn't return to the master bedroom but came to my door and knocked gently a few times.
Because I insisted on having some privacy, my room only had one key, tied with a red
string, which I always wore around my neck. I opened the door, and my mother saw the tear stains on my eyes, knowing
I was worried about her. Although there was still a red handprint on her cheek, she hugged me tightly without saying
a word.
My mother hugged me for a while, then I pulled away, and she seemed puzzled. I searched through the drawer on my desk
, intending to find a bottle of safflower oil to apply to my mother and reduce the bruising. My mother understood what I meant.
She sat comfortably by my bedside, waiting for me to apply the medicine. Actually, finding safflower oil was just an excuse. Since starting
junior high, I've rarely hugged my mom. Just now, when she pressed against me, I could feel a very strong
feminine scent. My female classmate also has this scent, though much fainter. For example, my classmate
's scent is like a faint gardenia fragrance; you can barely smell it unless you look closely. But my mom
's scent is like a blooming peony, rich and intense. Plus, when my mom's body was pressed tightly against mine,
our chests were pressed together, and I could clearly feel her breasts being flattened slightly. This close
physical contact felt wonderful! However, I felt guilty, so I interrupted this
tender mother-son embrace and started looking for safflower oil for her. Finding the safflower oil, I took a
sanitary napkin from the bottle on the table, dipped it in the mercurochrome, and gently applied it. I controlled the pressure very lightly, more like
caressing a lover's face.
After applying the face cream, my mother was quite happy. She leaned against the wall, then pulled me over and let me lie in her
arms, then started talking to me. I can't remember what we talked about, but it was a rambling conversation.
My mother seemed to be saying that she hadn't wanted to talk to me since she saw me dating, a typical case of forgetting one's mother after getting married
. Now, the youngest son knows how to care for his mother, you brat! Sometimes I want to wash your hair, and you won't let me! My
mother's body was extremely supple, voluptuous, plump but not bloated, with full breasts, a thick waist, and a wide bottom. When my head rested against her,
it was a rare pleasure.
This mother-son warmth didn't last long. After a short while, my mother started exhaling cold air.
Clearly, my father had done more than just slap me. I stood up, took out the safflower oil, and prepared to give my mother a full-body checkup. Although it was winter, the temperature wasn't cold. My mother 　　was wearing a pink undershirt when
she was arguing .
I had Mom lie face down on the bed, then lifted her long-sleeved
thermal underwear up to her waist and began to examine her. Mom already had a bit of a "spare tire" around her waist,
and although there were some red bruises, they weren't very noticeable. I rubbed some safflower oil on my hands and gently applied it to Mom
's back. My pressure was clearly just right, and Mom's pain subsided considerably. Then she pointed upwards with her left hand
; there was another bruise in the middle of her back. I was about to lift her underwear a little further when Mom stopped
me. Clearly, if the underwear went up any further, even though she was lying face down, part of her breasts might be exposed
, and Mom was quite sensitive about these things.
So I slipped my hand inside my mother's undershirt, and following her directions, I found the right spot and began to gently
massage. As my arm moved up and down,
I could see the edge of my mother's right breast through the gap between her undershirt and her clothes, thanks to the light. I only had one thought: so big, so white, so round
… Actually, I really wanted to casually reach over and gently touch it, since
I hadn't touched any woman's breast since junior high school. My massage became slower and slower
, and the area I massaged with my hands became larger and larger. As a result, my right little finger "accidentally" brushed against my mother's
right breast, which she didn't notice at the time. But when I touched her breast several times in a row, my mother
became a little suspicious. She sat up, put on her clothes, and said, "Why have you been massaging for so long? It doesn't hurt anymore,
son, go to sleep."
I was disappointed because the pleasant sensation from my fingers made me love my mother's breast
. However, since my mother said she wanted to sleep, I didn't have any legitimate reason to keep her there. So I said
okay and prepared to take off my clothes and go to sleep. Mom turned off the bedside lamp for me and went back to her bedroom. A
little while later, I noticed my bedroom door had been opened. Mom gently locked it from the inside, then lifted my blanket and
lay down on my bed. "Your dad hasn't come back yet, and my bed is freezing. Your blanket is
warmer." For Mom, she wasn't sure if I had intentionally or unintentionally touched her breasts.
Plus, the rare warm atmosphere we'd created today was something she cherished,
and she was afraid I'd revert to my indifferent self tomorrow. So, Mom found a perfectly good reason
to squeeze in with me for the night. And Mom was also observing me—was I
developing a curiosity about female genitalia, or had I already crossed the line with my girlfriend
? After all, for a teenage boy, if he did something wrong out of impulse, it would be too
late to regret it.
At the time, I didn't grasp my mother's fickle thoughts. I
was simply excited to have some physical contact with her. When she crawled into bed and lay flat, I
naturally turned to my side and placed my right hand on her stomach. We were about the same height then, and
when we lay side-by-side, our thighs were pressed tightly together, like dense grass in a flowerbed,
leaving no gap for even a single sunflower.
My mother didn't mind this level of physical contact; it was normal between parents and children
. If I had reached for her breasts, buttocks, or groin—those three sensitive areas—she
would have given me a good scolding. Fortunately, I was still quite innocent then. Even sleeping with her,
I was only drawn to her maternal warmth and didn't intend to take advantage of her. So I quickly fell asleep
.
Seeing how well I slept, my mother was relieved. She assumed my massage
was unintentional and that she had overthought things. The next morning, however, Mom was already up early. When
I greeted her warmly, she didn't look happy, glared at me, and then told me to take out the trash.
I felt completely innocent and had no idea what I had done to offend her. Later,
when our relationship finally crossed that line, Mom told me that I was extremely restless in my sleep, and one night I accidentally put my hand
on her breast, and my palm just happened to lightly grasp it. So, Mom initially thought I was
pretending to be asleep.
However, when she was about to push me away, she heard my snoring and sleep talking. Confirming I was truly asleep,
she sighed and forcefully pushed my hand away, placing it back down. The next morning, she found my hand
back on her chest. Only then did Mom understand why I never slept properly with my pillow and
sometimes even had a stiff neck – it was because I often hugged my pillow to my chest while sleeping. At that moment
, Mom regretted not weaning me earlier. Before we knew it, the New Year was approaching. In previous years
, I would go with Mom to my maternal grandparents' house for a few days. But this year was different;
the college entrance exam was less than 100 days away. So, I didn't visit any relatives this year, only paying respects to my grandparents and
visiting Teacher Wang and Teacher Cheng. After the New Year, our graduating class started
school early, on the eighth day of the new year. My older brother had already left on the sixth day, and Mom packed many clothes into his bag until he
got a little impatient. Seeing this, I couldn't help but think that if I went to university, my mother would probably
be just like today, wanting to cram every common item into my bed. "While parents are alive, one should not travel far"—the old
saying still holds true.
Even though school had started, the weather was still cold. My family wasn't used to using electric blankets or hot water bottles, so every time
I crawled into bed, a bone-chilling cold would hit me. Later, I told my mother this as a joke,
and she took it to heart. Every night before I came home, she would come to my bedroom and sleep on my bed for half an hour
to warm it up. When I returned to my room, my mother would get dressed and go back to her own room. Occasionally,
when I was hungry, she would make me some late-night snacks—basically, fried rice with eggs.
Sometimes, if my father came home late, or if my mother wanted to stay warm in bed, she would sleep there until
the next morning. However, my mother no longer slept on the same side as me; instead, we slept back to back, each at one end of the bed.
Sometimes, however, when Mom saw my feet were particularly cold, she would place them against her
chest to warm them up. She would also have me hold her feet, pressing the blanket against my armpits to keep out any drafts
.
At first, I didn't have any impure thoughts, but when my feet touched Mom's chest
, my toes just barely reached her breasts. Mom's plump breasts, soft as dough, made me
want to turn my feet into a rolling pin and roll them around in that dough.
After sleeping with her for a few days, I finally couldn't resist putting this idea into practice. My toes curled slightly, and I started playing with Mom
's breasts. For Mom, as long as I didn't touch her feminine features with my hands or my penis,
she wasn't actually very sensitive. My mother would always impatiently swat my feet away and say, "Little
one, go to sleep quietly, you have school tomorrow."
Besides my mother's breasts, her round, plump buttocks also attracted my attention. When my mother had her back to me
, I would turn around and lie on my side in the same direction as her, like standing in line during morning exercises in junior high school
. However, there was almost no gap between my mother and me. I would use my lower abdomen
to press against my mother's big buttocks, then put one hand on my mother's thigh, and then sleep peacefully.
My mother and I mostly slept together in winter, so she wore thick clothes, often just a thermal
undershirt. Therefore, I rarely had the opportunity for skin-to-skin contact with her. But I later realized that the reason my mother wore
a thermal undershirt instead of underwear to bed was because she was afraid that I would be curious and think about her private parts, and taking off a thermal undershirt was obviously
much more troublesome than taking off underwear. My mom is a very heavy sleeper and hard to wake at night. So, if I secretly pulled her underwear
down a few centimeters, she might not even notice. But if she wore only a thermal undershirt, the noise would definitely wake her up
. Later, when I learned this, I couldn't help but laugh at my mom for being so suspicious. However, I also thought that
if my mom slept with me wearing only her underwear and bra, our intimacy would probably progress
much faster…
In the following days, I gradually mastered a trick: when I came home from school at night, I wouldn't
disturb my mom. Instead, I would quietly take off my outer clothes and get into bed. In this situation, my mom and I
slept at the same end of the bed, so she wouldn't kick me out, right? Of course, my little scheme didn't escape my mom's notice, but
seeing that I had become much more well-behaved in my sleep, she didn't call me out.
By the time I reached my final year of junior high, my parents were doing everything they could to supplement my nutrition, and my mom was no exception. Every morning
, she would get up with me to make me a cup of egg drop soup and force me to drink it. Then, every noon, rain or
shine, she would bring me lunch on time. However, by the time I finished eating and my mom returned home, the food was already
cold. Eventually, my dad, feeling sorry for my mom's hard work, started eating lunch at their shop every day so my mom
could take two meals to school and have a hot meal.
Perhaps because of the increased nutrition, I grew quite a bit taller that year, so my clothes from the previous year were often too
small. So, I would go shopping with my mom almost every month. Actually, it was from that time that I
began to understand that almost all women are shopaholics. To pick out a t-shirt for me, my mom would walk with me
for an hour or two. But this process wasn't tedious, because every time we went shopping, I would occasionally put my arm around
my mom's waist while we strolled around. Because I'm a few centimeters taller than my mother, my hand lands right
at the base of her right breast. Sometimes my fingers would lightly slide along the edge of her right breast,
then I'd rub it a few times. My mother knew I was trying to grope her, but she pretended not to notice and didn't seem to mind.
After my mother and I went shopping for clothes, we'd always try them on one by one when we got home. The process of my mother helping me try on clothes was quite
interesting. For example, if I wanted to try on a t-shirt, I'd have to take off the one I was wearing and
go shirtless. But even though I'd grown taller by then, I was still very thin, a skinny guy,
not very good-looking.
After trying on t-shirts, I'd have to try on jeans. When I first tried on jeans, I'd always hide
in my room, put them on, and then come out. One time, my mother laughed at me mercilessly, saying I was "not even pubic hair yet,
and I'm already embarrassed." I was prepared to pull out my feathers to prove my innocence to my mother...
Now, I'm a little man! But I felt this action was extremely inappropriate, so I changed tactics.
When changing jeans, I no longer avoided my mother. Instead, I directly took off my old jeans and put on the new ones.
To prove I had grown pubic hair, I would secretly tuck a bird feather into the edge of my underwear to see if my mother could notice
it. This was a roundabout way of proving that my little bird was just beginning to show!
However, to my disappointment, when I took off my jeans, she was basically busy with other things and
didn't have time to look at me at all. But perseverance pays off. One time when buying jeans, the size was too small;
when I put them on, the belt didn't even reach my waist. My mother was a little anxious, measured the size, and then took them off.
When I sat on the edge of the bed and started taking off my jeans, this time my mother didn't avoid it. She also saw
the bulge on my boxer shorts. Although she had seen it countless times when I was little, she was still
a little embarrassed to see it now.
When I put on my old jeans again, my mother helped me tuck the hem of my undershirt into the belt
. Inevitably, Mom noticed the bird feather I'd deliberately tucked into my waistband. She immediately understood my intentions and slapped
me across the face. "You're so young and already behaving like a hooligan! Don't ever do that again outside,
or you'll get arrested by the police, and your dad and I won't bail you out!" But from then on, every pair of pants Mom bought for me
, she would try on to check the size, and she would spend quite a while doing so. Could it be that Mom
was secretly taking advantage of me too?
Spring arrived, and the weather gradually warmed up. Of course, Mom wouldn't sleep with me anymore. However, her
relationship with Dad hadn't completely improved, so she moved to my brother's room and slept
in her own bed. My dad's personality is such that he responds better to gentle persuasion than force, so although he felt bad for Mom, getting her to
apologize was difficult. At this point, Dad asked me to act as a mediator to help him mend his relationship with Mom. However
, at that time, I don't know why, but I missed the days when my mother and I slept in the same bed terribly, so I didn't like that
my father and mother reconciled so quickly. Therefore, I pretended not to understand the olive branch my father offered.
Later, although I was left alone in my room, my mother would always come to check on me at night. She would
tuck me in, occasionally chat with me, and help relieve my stress. Or, when I was asleep
, my mother would lower her head and kiss my forehead or face before going to sleep herself.
But one night, I was already asleep when I was awakened by the urge to urinate.
My mother, who had just returned from playing mahjong around midnight, happened to come to my room. She
came to my bedside with practiced ease, and prepared to kiss my cheek before going to sleep. I had just
woken up, and as I straightened myself to get up, my lips collided with my mother's
, and I cried out in pain. Mom seemed a little embarrassed, saying she'd woken me up in the middle of the night, so
she urged me to go to bed early and hurriedly left my room. But I felt my lips were a little wet;
could it be that, by some coincidence, I'd actually kissed Mom? No wonder she seemed a little embarrassed.
Before, our expressions of affection were usually just me kissing Mom's cheek, and her returning the kiss on my forehead
.
But this kiss was like a dragonfly skimming the water, tasteless and uninspiring. Why are those
couples on TV so enthusiastic about kissing?
The next evening, Mom came to my room to chat, and I asked her the same question. Mom
seemed to find it difficult to answer, saying I'd understand when I went to college, started dating, and got a girlfriend.
I wasn't satisfied with her perfunctory answer. With a sense of exploratory mission, I decisively
lied to Mom, "Mom, wait a minute, it looks like you have something on your face."
Actually, Mom doesn't care much about Dad's opinion of her; she's very concerned about what I think of her.
Perhaps because of heartbreak in her relationship, she poured almost all her attention into me.
So, at that time, I essentially played the dual role of her son and her emotional support. Because I always said
my mother was fat, she was quite self-conscious about her figure. However, when I praised her skin—even though she had wrinkles,
her skin was fair and smooth, without any blemishes—she still considered herself beautiful. So, every morning, my mother
would carefully wash her face and apply things like Dabao Soda Cream and face cream.
Since she took such good care of her face, she naturally valued the results of her facial treatments. My words immediately
attracted her attention; she leaned closer to me, letting me see her clearly under the light. Then, I pretended to help
her find blemishes, but actually, after a few glances, I quickly pressed my lips to hers. Afterward,
I even licked my lips, but still felt nothing.
My mother was stunned. Seeing me lick my lips, she grabbed my ear tightly,
and I immediately stood up in pain. "You little rascal, you've learned to tease your mother now! Your waist's gotten thicker, and your guts' getting bigger!
You've even learned to ambush me now!" I couldn't help but feel a little guilty. "Mom, I just didn't get a taste yesterday,
so I'm trying it out today, nothing more! Besides, you kissed me so many times when I was little!"
Hearing this sophistry, my mother was stunned for a moment. She then realized, "I'm your mother,
it's only natural for me to kiss you, but you're my son, it's unacceptable for you to kiss me!" At that point, my
mother started to think that maybe she should keep some distance from me. Although mothers like their sons to be affectionate,
it's not good for a nearly fifteen-year-old boy to always be clinging to his mother! Fortunately, my mother saw that
I had always had excellent grades, and although I was mischievous, I was also a responsible person. I was also quite influential among my classmates
, so although she worried that I might be precocious, she didn't think that I was a mother-son.
This little rascal... my mother recalled an experience from a few days ago. That day, Mom bought a pair of white capri pants.
When she put them on for me, I kept saying she was fat, even though she was on a diet, and then I suddenly slapped her bottom. Mom's
plump bottom started jiggling. Mom was a little embarrassed, realizing she really should lose weight, but...
This youngest son is so disrespectful to his mother; it's more like
flirting between lovers than mother and son.
Perhaps my precious son had planned this all along, Mom thought. Before this, I'd been especially
filial to my mother, often offering to massage her. When she lay in bed, I'd start by pounding her shoulders, then work my way
down to her thighs. However, when my son massaged my buttocks, he used his fists, not
his palms, and he didn't deliberately rub my buttocks more than necessary, massaging my entire body. Perhaps he genuinely wanted to
relieve my lower back pain from years of sitting and playing mahjong?
But as Mom slowly recalled these past few days, she suddenly realized something was wrong. Her thighs, mouth, buttocks
, and breasts—I'd touched them all. Mom realized I was gradually breaking down her defenses.
If I offered to massage her again now, focusing on her buttocks and rubbing them a few times,
perhaps she wouldn't be as wary as before?
However, Mom wasn't entirely sure, because until that day, I hadn't considered touching
her private parts in any way. Mom thought that if I truly saw her as a woman, I would definitely try to
touch her private parts. If I was just purely curious about the opposite sex and wanted to be closer to Mom
, then I would be very careful and absolutely wouldn't touch her.
Even so, for the next six months, Mom deliberately kept her distance from me. She
no longer stayed overnight in my room, and she no longer kissed my forehead at night. However, during that time, I
was busy preparing for the high school entrance exam, so I didn't pay much attention to Mom's coldness. At that time, I only had one thought
: at least I had to get into the county's top high school, and if possible, I would try to get into the city's top high school to bring honor to my parents!
Speaking of which, some people might wonder why I wasn't interested in Mom's private parts. Actually,
it wasn't that I wasn't interested, but that I had already seen Mom's private parts. What? I had already seen them? You probably don't
believe me, right? Let me explain in detail.
When we were still living in our small bungalow, my mother would take a basin of foot-washing water to the lobby every night before bed
to wash her private parts. We didn't have a bathroom then, so when I needed to urinate, I had to run to
the lobby and find a chamber pot. The lights in the lobby were always off while my mother was washing. So when I
came out of the bedroom behind our house to urinate, my mother was a little caught off guard, but not nervous, because I
couldn't see anything. After washing, she stood up and prepared to pull up her pants. However, at that moment,
my brother, who was in my parents' bedroom, also came out to urinate and opened the bedroom door. Although my mother reacted quickly and told my brother to close the door, I could still clearly see 　　what my mother's private parts looked like
thanks to the light shining through the crack in the door . 　　Actually, every woman's private parts are pretty much the same: first, a large inverted triangular patch of pubic hair, below which is a 　　brownish-red slit, and next to the slit are two slightly everted labia. No wonder they say women have two mouths: the upper 　　mouth for speaking, and the lower mouth for producing fluids. Men have two heads: the upper head concerns morality, and the lower head concerns instinct. My mother 　　's labia were slightly darkened at the edges, but the inside was a vibrant deep red, like a sweet plum, 　　making me want to take a bite. There was still some moisture on my mother's vulva, probably not dried, dripping 　　down. 　　Whether intentionally or unintentionally, when my brother opened the door, my mother's first reaction was not 　　to let him see. So, when she realized her other son was in the living room, I had already 　　seen her genitals clearly, and this memory would be buried deep in my heart, accompanying me throughout my adolescence. 　　"Silly son, what's so interesting about your mother? Study hard, and if you get good grades, you'll definitely marry a 　　woman a hundred times prettier than your mother. Don't look anymore, or you'll get a sty. Even if you see something, 　　forget it immediately, or your zombie will come looking for you tonight." I don't remember if I was in third or 　　fourth grade at the time, just starting to watch Hong Kong horror movies, and my mother's threat was very effective; I quickly forgot about it 　　. 　　However, when I started paying attention to my mother again in my third year of junior high, that long-buried memory resurfaced in my 　　mind. I wondered if her already dark lips had become even darker. Did my mother 　　never brush her teeth down there? Although instinctively I wanted to have further physical contact with my mother, 　　I still had a limited understanding of sex. Since I had already seen my mother's vulva and touched my female classmate's 　　, a woman's genitals weren't so mysterious to me. Naturally, 　　I wasn't that curious about my mother's genitals, nor did I ever think of touching them. 　　Based on this judgment, my mother believed that I was only touching her buttocks and breasts out of curiosity about the opposite sex and my 　　natural desire for intimacy. Therefore, my mother felt relieved and stopped 　　deliberately keeping her distance from me.

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