I am just a woman, from forty to fifty.

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

Author: From Forty to Fifty
Date: August 25, 2008
Word Count: 19841
The reason for this title is that in the previous post, "I Love My Son," I shared some of my experiences and feelings, but the moderator said it was irrelevant to the topic. So, I used this relatively broad title, so I can stay on topic and speak freely. My previous post was locked, so I'm starting a new one. It's still just rambling, whatever comes to mind. If it's appreciated, I'd be very grateful.
(I)
The things I wrote about before are all in the past; I rarely wrote about things that were immediately relevant, always recalling them after some time had passed.
Now my son has been in university for a year, and we've been living apart for a year now. Fortunately, we're not far apart, but the university is strict with freshmen and he can't often stay out overnight, so he can only come back every few weeks.
Although it wasn't as close as our daily interactions before, it was better than nothing. It was much better than those students whose schools were thousands of miles from their hometowns, only returning home once every six months or a year. I could comfort myself with the thought that seeing each other again after a month apart brought a joyful feeling, like a honeymoon. That's what I said, but deep down I still wished we could be together all the time.
Thankfully, my days at school were busy and fulfilling, and I felt tired when I got home. My sleep quality was okay; I knew the excruciating loneliness and longing I felt when I occasionally had insomnia. I longed for the weekend to come so I could see him and experience the warmth and happiness of being held in his arms. His embrace felt like the whole world; there seemed to be nothing else outside of it. I couldn't see or feel anything else. Love, and love-filled sex, always gives women a hazy, illusory feeling, a lingering aftertaste even after separation.
Actually, my single life only lasted six months. A younger boy entered my life; he was my nephew, my sister's child, who transferred to the high school I attended.
My sister's marriage is as unhappy as mine. Mine completely dissolved, while hers is only in name. I don't know why our fates are the same; we are both good women.
She's less educated than me, but she surpasses me in both figure and looks. She's taller and prettier, with a shapely figure—the kind of slender woman with full curves.
In her youth, her beauty was a source of pride for our whole family. But beauty can be a woman's downfall. During her school years, she became complacent and relaxed her efforts, only getting into a vocational college and working as an ordinary employee in a company ever since. She was very
picky about her husband, wanting a "good husband," and eventually married someone relatively wealthy, but he had many of the common problems of rich men: a lack of responsibility towards family and spouse. Now his business is in another city, and she manages it there, rarely coming home. My sister says he must be having an affair, but she doesn't want to confront him or cause a scene. As long as he doesn't mention divorce and continues to give her money regularly, she'll maintain the status quo. Actually, she also has a lover.
I was shocked when I heard this, but quickly came to terms with it. I understand that emptiness and loneliness.
She tells me everything, and only me, but there are many things I haven't told her. I'm reluctant to confide in anyone I know well, even my closest relatives. I
always thought I was someone who could process my inner pain on my own, someone who could bear the pressures of life alone. But when I first encountered the internet, the urge to confide surged like a tidal wave. Sometimes I'd grab a stranger and talk endlessly. It took a while for the urge to subside; I felt I'd said enough, and any more would make me sound like a complaining woman.
So I envy my sister. She can trust me and confide in me, sharing her innermost secrets face-to-face with someone close to her. The feeling of releasing that burden must be so liberating. I've never tried that. Sometimes she complains that I don't tell her enough secrets, but that doesn't affect our relationship. Our love for each other needs no words.
She's talked about the pleasures of her lover and advised me to find one while I'm still relatively young. I didn't explain much, feeling that I'd gotten through so many years and it'd become a habit I could handle. But when she asked, "Aren't you lonely, both physically and emotionally?" I didn't know how to answer. Who isn't lonely?
My nephew was attending a high school near his home, but after half a year, he felt the teaching staff wasn't good enough, so he transferred to the high school I attend. While it's not the top-tier school in the city, it's still among the top, and the better schools are very competitive.
When my sister told me about this, I was very supportive. However, she said my nephew has always been a day student and has never lived at school, and going back to his own home every day is too far. So, she wanted to live with us, with her paying for living expenses. Her husband gives them a decent amount of money, and her job is just a side job with a low salary.
I wanted to persuade her to let her child develop independence, but I was afraid she would think I disagreed. Actually, I wasn't too keen either, even though I love my nephew very much. This would not only increase my burden but also be a great responsibility.
My sister, like me and all mothers, loves her child very much. I was a little hesitant to entrust her precious child to me, but ultimately, I agreed.
I rarely refuse people and am used to always being there for them, so I helped with the paperwork.
I think there are advantages to having my nephew stay at my house. Ever since my son and I had that incident, I've been worried that my sister and nephew might follow the same path, because our situations are quite similar, both having fertile ground for such things.
Once, when I went to her house, she was walking around in just a t-shirt and tight underwear. The underwear was so tight it exposed her buttocks, which were deeply embedded in her crotch. She didn't seem to care that my nephew was right there; it seemed like she always dressed like that at home.
I was shocked, thinking they were like us, but then I thought it probably wasn't. We're very careful when other people come to our house, avoiding eye contact and intimate gestures. But my sister and nephew didn't seem to care that I was there; they still hugged and did other things. They probably still have no ulterior motives, but I'm worried that their closeness will eventually lead to that kind of relationship.
My sister told me that her nephew is very dependent on her, always snuggling up to her and acting spoiled. Sometimes she likes her to dress up in a very innocent way; my sister looks young, and in a sportswear outfit with her hair in a ponytail, she has a refreshing, student-like feel. My sister feels that sometimes when they're together, they look like a young couple. When she talks about her son, her face is full of pride and happiness, but listening to her makes me very uneasy and worried about their future.
My sister is more outgoing and cheerful than me, but her son is a shy boy, even more shy than his brother. He always speaks softly and in a low voice, and when there are many people around, he lowers his head. His delicate face blushes, which looks very cute. Although he doesn't talk much and isn't very sweet-talking, everyone who meets him likes him; you can tell at a glance that he's a good boy.
I felt this even more when he lived with me. He was very meticulous and considerate in everything he did, afraid of causing me any trouble. Whenever he had time, he would rush to help me with housework. I didn't have to worry about his studies at all; his teachers all praised him to me. He listened attentively in his elective classes, making the teachers feel respected. Since there weren't many students, the good students would study the main subjects, while the less academically gifted students would do all sorts of things.
My sister has a somewhat impulsive personality, but I'm so proud of her for having such a sensible and adorable child.
He could only come home for two days off each month during high school, and usually only once a week on Sundays. It was quite a long journey, requiring two bus transfers, but he still went back. I knew he missed his mother. What angered me was that my sister wasn't home twice, which disappointed my nephew. Later, I scolded her, saying that it was only for a short time each week, and she couldn't be home? I told her that unless it was something particularly important, she should be home on Sundays.
I don't want my nephew to always seem so cautious around my house, or to feel like he's living under someone else's roof. I want him to feel relaxed and make himself at home. I've subtly hinted that he shouldn't always think he'll be a burden. My schedule is the same as his, so he won't bother me; he just cooks an extra portion, and his mother even paid for it.
Actually, I don't want the money; I just want my sister and nephew to feel at ease and balanced.
But telling him to relax isn't enough to make him relax. So I often chat with him and have heart-to-heart talks. He's not a talkative person, which I've always understood, but when we talk, I realize he's a very intelligent kid.
I knew nothing about him before, but after talking to him, I realized he had thoughts beyond his years, though he wasn't psychologically mature—perhaps a common characteristic of young people these days.
Living together for several months made me like him more and more, but I also felt increasingly guilty. It felt like I was back in that initial state when I developed feelings for my son—a hazy, expectant feeling. I blamed myself countless times for being so inhuman, having those feelings for my nephew.
My nephew isn't as athletic as my son; he doesn't do outdoor sports as often, so he has fair skin and a delicate face. While I prefer a more masculine type, I'm not completely averse to handsome men. My adorable nephew is so endearing; any woman, even anyone, would like him after spending time with him. Whenever I felt that way, I mentally berated myself as a perverted woman, but I couldn't control or eliminate that feeling; I could only resist it.
I seem to have a strong liking for pure-hearted and innocent young boys. I long to possess their pristine purity, to escape the ugliness of society and the complexities of human relationships through them. Perhaps it's because I've been in society for over twenty years and still haven't truly integrated. I can't stand the darker aspects of life; I yearn for the simplicity and beauty of humanity. Yet, I harbor sinful thoughts, creating a tangled web of contradictions. What kind of woman am I? Aloof yet promiscuous, kind yet wicked? I want to uphold morality, but transcending ethics gives me immense pleasure.
I want to seduce my nephew, to dress scantily in front of him and sway my hips. He often sees his mother dressed scantily, but he's never seen me dressed scantily. My body is more mature and voluptuous; it must be more attractive to him. He wouldn't be indifferent to a woman like that. I imagine him blushing and looking down—it would be incredibly adorable.
I think he's unaware of my current emotional state, unaware that when I touch his head and shoulders, it's no longer the caress of an elder, but mixed with other thoughts, unaware that my heart trembles with excitement.
If I were to undress him piece by piece, revealing my voluptuous body, he would surely want to look but dare not, his face flushed with the shyness of a young boy. If I were to approach him and touch him, would he flinch or reciprocate? Either way, his reaction would excite me.
How wonderful it would be to remove his underwear myself, to see his cute little thing, so clean and white. Would seeing a woman still possessing such charm in front of him make him grow bigger? I would definitely be unable to resist kissing it, taking it into my mouth, letting it grow even larger inside me, a blush rising on his clean penis, as easily embarrassed as his adorable face.
It has never tasted a woman before; would it mind a mature woman more than twice its age? When it enters a woman's body, it would surely be nervous, excited, and at a loss.
I so want to see his face at that moment, what kind of expression would it have? Would he succumb to the temptation of pleasure and thrust back and forth, or would he remain shyly still, letting me move my body?
What am I doing? I'm describing a sexual fantasy about having sex with my nephew. I've thought about it before, but this is the first time I've written it down. I'm so excited! My genitals are completely soaked, my underwear is wet. I don't have the chance to actually have sex, so let me just imagine it. I
just masturbated, and when I returned to reality, I immediately felt guilty. It's always like this; it's so upsetting. Believe me, I would never do that. I wouldn't betray my sister, my nephew, or my son. Even thinking about it like that, I already feel guilty towards my son. He's my only love, someone I can't betray, both emotionally and physically. I will control myself. Please forgive me.
Every time my son comes home and I see them together, I feel even more guilty—a complex guilt. It's a guilt of not being able to face my nephew's innocent eyes, and also a guilt of seemingly betraying my son.
If my nephew isn't home for the holidays when my son comes home, we can't do anything. I work on weekends too, and I usually come home with my nephew in the evenings, leaving no time alone with my son. My nephew only comes home on Sunday afternoons, but by then my son has to go back to school. My son is very unhappy about this, but he won't show it in front of his brother. So later, my son tried to come home around the end of the month when my nephew came home.
I'm starting to lose control. This weak-willed, wicked woman really wants to wash his underwear so she can have a chance to touch what she's touched. But no matter how much I beg him, he won't let me wash his clothes. He always washes them immediately after changing them and never saves them up.
I want to see his underwear when he changes, but he's never given me that chance. I don't even know when he changes. He's fully clothed when he's in the house. I want him to wear less, so I deliberately set the air conditioner temperature high. I've told him several times to take off his shirt if he's hot, but he still says he's not hot and won't even take his shirt off. I can't keep asking him, but I'm so anxious and eager to see his body.
I also want to wear less clothing, but he wears so much and says he's not hot, so what excuse do I have? I've never worn those little underwear in front of him, so I just wear tight-fitting long clothes and shirts, at least enough to show some of my curves. But he never tries to peek like my son does, which disappoints me.
One morning, I woke up and suddenly really wanted him to see my little underwear that I only wear to bed, so I lay there facing the window with my back to the bedroom door, without covering myself with a blanket. I left the bedroom door slightly ajar—it's normal to not close the door properly when you get up in the middle of the night, right? I told myself that.
Every day I get up before him and only wake him when the food is almost ready. He'll be surprised if I didn't get up today, but it's normal that I was too tired from work to wake up. After he got up, he walked around in the living room.
Was he peeking at me through the crack in the door? He didn't wake me up; instead, he went to the kitchen, heated up breakfast, and ate it himself. A while later, I heard his footsteps approaching my bedroom door. I so hoped he wouldn't knock but would just stand there staring, but he knocked quickly. I could sense a slight hesitation in his voice.
This time, I was certain he'd seen me. I didn't believe he was looking down when he knocked. My heart pounded with excitement. Was he staring intently at my backside? I couldn't see his expression, but he must have blushed.
He knocked and whispered for me to wake up. I really wanted him to see my body a little longer, so I deliberately waited until he called me a few times and his voice grew louder before pretending to just wake up. I glanced at the clock and exclaimed in surprise, "How late is it already?"
I'm not good at acting; my performances are completely inauthentic. He calmly said the food was hot and we'd eat and leave without being late. Suddenly, I felt incredibly uneasy, as if he could see right through me. He's so smart, and my acting is so clumsy. Even a simple sentence like "Why is it so late?" sounded so fake to me, and my expression was unnatural.
I know my mental state is somewhat precarious, like walking on thin ice while surfing the internet in the office. But I will manage it well; believe me, I truly will only stay at this stage and won't develop anything further.
My habit is to recall and write down past experiences, treating them as fictional stories. It's a bit funny to think that some people claim fictional experiences are true, but I insist on emphasizing that it's fictional.
Women are imaginative creatures; their fantasies are sensual and hazy, a kind of imaginative experience of the soul and flesh, unlike men's logically rigorous and complete plots. But the world is full of men's fantasies; can't women also have theirs? Besides, I've repeatedly said I definitely won't develop anything further.
Many men like beautiful mature women, but can't mature women like handsome men? Why is this world so unfair to men and women? Even knowing that many men have a mother complex, I don't understand why they prefer mature women to young girls. Young girls, in every way—figure, looks, skin—surpass middle-aged women. You can't imagine how middle-aged women envy the youthful exuberance of young girls, how they reminisce about their own lost youth. Young boys and young girls are equally beautiful, so I admire and like them both.
Although I don't understand it, I still try to understand this particular male preference. But why is my preference misunderstood? I think there are quite a few women like me. Although I haven't met many women like that, I've met too many men who like mature women. Even if such women make up only a tenth or a hundredth of the number of men, that's still a large group.
I'm not trying to rally others to defend or clarify myself; I just want to say that the existence of a mother complex and a child's love are mutual. If you accept the former, you must also accept the latter. I've made a mistake once, but I won't repeat it—I've said this countless times and don't want to repeat myself.
Words alone cannot fully describe a person; only through genuine interaction can you truly understand the touching kindness of someone. He is considerate of everyone, whether he knows them or
not, and puts himself in others' shoes. When he was sick at night, he tried to keep his voice down when he coughed, afraid of disturbing my sleep and making me worry. Hearing that low cough coming from under the covers moved and pained me. Like a child, he feared injections and medicine, but he remained quiet and didn't cry.
Ha, so I really treat him like a child. When I called his mother to say I wouldn't be going home this weekend, he tried to control his cough and shorten the call. I know he didn't want his mother to worry.
One of his teachers told me that after an exam, he went to the teacher and, in a very low voice, said that one of the major questions had been misjudged. His alternative method was also correct, but the process differed from the answer key. The teacher checked and confirmed it was the same, and wanted to add the points. He said it wasn't necessary; the rankings were already finalized, and he knew what he was doing. Many students, especially the top-ranked ones, fight for every point, often requiring several revisions to the rankings before the final decision is made. Teachers are always afraid of students coming to complain about their grades. His understanding made all the teachers like him very much.
He was also very tolerant of his father. I once cautiously brought up this topic, and he said calmly that he couldn't change other people's opinions or the current situation, but he remembered the joy of his family in his childhood and his father's doting love, so he didn't hold a grudge. However, now when they met, there was more politeness and less intimacy, which saddened him.
He rarely talked about his inner world and rarely spoke so emotionally; I listened with a deep sense of sympathy and sighed deeply. Sometimes I see him outside my office window taking PE class. He doesn't like playing intense sports; he prefers gentler ones, or he just sits quietly in the shade watching others perform. His calm demeanor is a beautiful sight.
I suspect that living in that kind of family, he must also have a mother complex. Once, I woke up one morning to hear him softly calling for his mother in his sleep, his voice gentle and his tone melodious, like a baby's sweet whim. To be honest, I felt a little jealous. I could feel his deep longing for his mother, even though he never showed it to others.
One night, something happened that shocked me. I was still awake when I heard him go to the bathroom, but he didn't relieve himself and came back quickly. What was he doing? So I stayed awake for a long time. Luckily, I wasn't sleepy that day anyway. I made sure he was asleep before I got up and went to the bathroom. I saw some toilet paper he had thrown away in the trash can. I opened it and, oh my god, it was his semen! He really had been masturbating, just as I suspected. I almost fainted. Did he fantasize about me when he masturbated? If so, I would be so happy, even if it was just for a moment in his mind.
Please forgive my perverted behavior. I looked at it very closely and even smelled it. I am a lewd woman. I admit it myself, so please don't tell others. This piece of paper made me masturbate.
Excessive desire is an extreme torment. Desire has practically become a habit, controlling my body more than love does. I don't want it to be this way. Each time, I feel regret afterward, but when the desire returns, I forget everything. It's like an addiction, isn't it? The worst part is, the addiction comes on so quickly and lasts so short. In my regret, I want to glue that perpetually insatiable craving shut, but when I orgasm, I feel that place gives me such intense pleasure, something I can't give up.
Why do people have sexual desire? It's so torturous. How wonderful it would be if it disappeared after fulfilling the purpose of procreation.
Only when my son comes home at the end of the month and satisfies me can I stop fantasizing about the people around me, but the urge returns in a few days. Besides, I can't fully immerse myself in my son; I feel a sense of guilt, like I'm having an affair. But I swear I will control my body.
Having experienced it once, I know where I am psychologically now. I want to engage in seductive behavior, like exposing my body or skin-to-skin contact, but I pretend it's unintentional, afraid the other person will discover my intentions—that would be incredibly embarrassing. But if things continue to develop, they'll become more blatant, gradually revealing to the other person that it's intentional. This kind of subjective behavior is very stimulating; a little testing, if it gets a positive response, has a huge psychological impact.
But I won't go that far, no, no, no, no. Maybe he really noticed something was wrong with me and suggested staying at the school dormitory, saying his classmates had warmly invited him and there were still rooms available. I said the dormitory environment isn't as good as home, and I wondered if he could get used to the hard bed. He said it would be good to get used to it. I couldn't keep insisting, so I said I wouldn't go through the formalities yet, and would tell the dormitory manager to let him experience it first and see if he could adapt.
To my delight, he came back after a few days because the late-night chatter in the dormitory was keeping him awake, and he felt groggy the next day. He didn't want to express his dissatisfaction.
After that, I toned it down considerably for a while.
Regarding my opinion on incest movies about mothers and sons, I like watching the beginning of the story the most, but of course, the later parts are also essential, otherwise it would become a feature film. Movies depict all sorts of situations about how the mother and son got into a relationship.
Several men broke into the room. Only the mother and son were home. They maliciously shoved and beat the mother and son, then held weapons to their necks, threatening to harm them if they disobeyed. They used the mother-son bond to coerce them. One man forced the mother to kneel facing her son, then manipulated her genitals from behind. The mother gradually couldn't help but moan in front of her son, whose penis grew larger. The mother took it into her mouth, while the others watched and masturbated.
I was deeply impressed by this and liked it. I think the reason is that forced incest between mother and son would have less moral condemnation, although I don't want this to happen in real life.
I don't even know the names of the people in the movie. Ideally, the mother should be around my age, and the son should be younger and not have a full beard; that would look too fake. Even in a movie, I prefer a sense of realism. I haven't seen movies like this for many years.
Actually, the above should be considered a belated reply to a message I don't even know who sent it to me.
My son and I have watched those kinds of movies together. He likes to mimic the positions shown in the movies, so I don't want to watch movies about mother abuse—it would be too painful. Besides, we don't have those tools. A little tenderness and mild abuse is fine.
I've also seen movies about mothers being raped, but I can't imitate the mother's resistance. I always want to laugh. Why should I resist? I'll definitely have to submit in a moment anyway. I really can't act like that; I easily burst out laughing. And then there are movies about mothers seducing their sons, and sons seducing their mothers. I find it hard to be realistic. A little body wiggling and teasing is okay, but to act out how to expose and seduce from beginning to end like in the movies—I can't do it, and there's no need for that. We've had disagreements on this, but I won't say more.
Women fear the passage of time and the aging of their beauty. When I was in my thirties, I had almost no wrinkles on my face, only a few when I smiled. But after forty, whether I'm crying, laughing, or calm, fine crow's feet appear at the corners of my eyes. Unless I have surgery, these rings of time etched on my face cannot be erased.
For a while, I didn't dare look in the mirror. I longed to see old photos to recapture my former beauty, but when I did, I couldn't help comparing myself to my current aged appearance. My skin was no longer radiant but dull, and my lips weren't as vibrant as they used to be. The so-called fullness, sexiness, and mature charm, the so-called "still charming in middle age," were all just self-deception. How could I compare to my youth in any way? Perhaps because of these things, I found some comfort in the confidence that some young men gave me when they showed interest in me.
But no amount of comfort from anyone could compare to what my son could give me. Sometimes I felt that as long as he didn't dislike me, even if everyone else thought I was ugly, it didn't matter. Sometimes, a few words of praise from him would make me overjoyed.
He understood my thoughts and never made us feel the age gap. Even when he was on top of me giving me pleasure, I couldn't forget these feelings. Seeing his youthful face, I inexplicably felt sad and tears welled up in my eyes. He didn't say anything, but lowered his head to kiss away the tears from the corners of my eyes, and at the same time kissed my crow's feet. His kiss moved me so much that I almost trembled. He didn't dislike me, he loved me, he loved everything about my body, even my crow's feet. I wrapped my arms around his back and tightly clamped my legs around his waist. The happiness of that kiss was even higher than an orgasm.
I'm ashamed that my writing is too scattered. I just wrote whatever came to mind. Sometimes I'm embarrassed to write some explicit words, but sometimes I will write as much as possible. The more lewd I write, the more excited I feel. This is related to my state of mind at the time.
(II)
There is a reason why I said I wouldn't continue with my nephew, because I had been tested by an extreme situation.
It was a class reunion. Many people came from other places. After not seeing each other for many years, they were all drunk, crying and laughing. I, who can't hold my liquor, was no exception.
It was past nine o'clock when I got home. As soon as I got out of the taxi, my legs went weak and I
almost collapsed. Even a few steps felt like I was floating on clouds. I could barely climb the stairs on my own, so I asked my nephew to come down. I sat on the bottom steps, feeling dizzy. After he got down, I held onto him with one hand and the handrail with the other. He had his arm around my waist, practically lifting me up. I wanted to stay put and let him lift me completely so we could have closer contact, but it was fine this way. His hands were warm, and with the alcohol and his touch, my body felt even weaker.
Finally, we got home, and I sat down on the sofa. He poured me a glass of water and sat down next to me. I squinted at him sideways; I think that look in my eyes must have been seductive.
My desire was incredibly high; my underwear was soaked. I didn't know if it was from drinking too much and incontinence or just some vaginal discharge. I wanted to rush up to this shy, handsome man, strip him naked, and enjoy him, to put his penis in my mouth and taste it. I wondered if he would mind my strong smell of alcohol.
But I didn't move. Even in that state, I maintained a certain level of clarity, and besides, I was truly exhausted. After a while, I went to the bedroom to sleep. Even
in that extreme excitement, I didn't act, and I felt I never would again. I never did anything truly out of line with him. All I did was fantasize, and even those fantasies initially made me uneasy because when I masturbated, I always imagined a man on top of me, imagining my fingers as his penis.
For years, this image had been my son, but since my nephew moved in, his face would frequently appear in my mind when I masturbated, which distressed me greatly. I
didn't want this. At that time, I only wanted to focus on my son, to belong to him completely, body and soul, like lovers. Thinking of another man during my happiest moments was emotional infidelity, even though he didn't know, I couldn't forgive myself. I
desperately tried to banish my nephew's image from my mind, replacing it with my son. At first, their faces alternated, but the more I tried to remove my nephew's image, the clearer his became, until eventually it completely became his face.
Because the process of forcibly forgetting actually reinforces the impression, my body needed to keep my fingers moving, but the image of the person on top of me made me feel guilty, as if I couldn't continue. I felt like I was having a personality split; the mixture of pain and pleasure made me writhe, unsure of what to do.
But my hands didn't stop, and gradually the guilt lessened, replaced by a pleasure that overwhelmed my weak will and controlled my thoughts. I began to solidify the image of my nephew, letting my imagination drive him to thrust on me. If he weren't in the next room, I would have screamed.
For some reason, my imagination was incredibly realistic; it felt like he was truly on top of me, and I could almost see the beads of sweat on his fair face.
I quickened my pace, wanting to let the guilt go to hell. The guilt that followed the climax was irrelevant now; I just wanted to extinguish the burning desire coursing through my body.
Even my imagination became increasingly audacious. At first, I dared not fantasize about my nephew, but gradually I stopped rejecting his image in my mind, always finding a suitable reason for myself.
Anyway, what I imagined didn't actually happen, I couldn't shake his image, and his presence gave me a fresh and intense pleasure, so why not?
Later, my thoughts became even more outrageous. I actually wanted to enjoy the bliss of having two men at once, to do it with my son and nephew. Oh my god, every time I first thought about it, I was both eager and afraid to think about it. Later, it became a habit. I knew such thoughts were impossible, but that couldn't stop my uncontrollable imagination.
During sex, I wanted all my sensitive areas to be satisfied: my tongue to be kissed or in my mouth, my neck to be licked, my breasts to be held, my vagina to be filled, my clitoris to be gently rubbed. Every time I did it with my son, there were always two parts that weren't satisfied, and the feeling of touching myself was very different from being touched by a man. Two men would be enough; there weren't even enough sensitive areas on my body for them to share.
Oh my god, I've never done it with two men before. Just thinking about it made me incredibly excited. Two handsome young men, how wonderful it would be if they served me together.
What position should I use? I didn't know what to do. My son was thrusting from behind, while my mouth was filled with my nephew's penis. I'd never even seen what it looked like, but I could imagine it was a clean, pure white thing, untouched by any other woman. The faster my son thrust, the faster I swallowed and released. Finally, all three of us climaxed together, ejaculating inside me. Oh my god, it was so exciting! I didn't need to think anymore.
Some people regret that my writing lacks sexual descriptions. Actually, I've written a lot but haven't published it. Those writings have little plot, just explicit language and naked descriptions, really unsuitable for the internet. They were for my own flirting.
After reading them, my lust intensifies, but if I read them normally, I'd blush. How could I write such shameful, vulgar language? It doesn't match my current writing at all; it doesn't seem like it came from the same person.
Another thing I regret is that a good online friend once asked me to video chat with my son while we were having sex. Although we've comforted each other on video before, I still couldn't agree to this request. What if he caught me with screenshots showing our faces?
He then compromised, asking me to record it myself with a webcam, check it, and then send it to him. He begged and pleaded, assuring me that he would never share it and would delete it after watching. He even told me how to record with a webcam.
I thought this was safe enough, and I also thought it would be exciting, so I agreed without thinking. Now, I feel guilty for hiding it from my son and letting others see his body.
After recording, there were many shots showing our faces. I didn't record two parts: one where my son was lying down and I was sitting on him with my back to the camera and my body blocking his face, and another where I was kneeling on the bed and he was behind me.
I thought these two parts were fine and planned to send them. But then I realized that in the first part, my hair was showing, so I didn't send it. Although my hairstyle is quite common, I only sent the second part. In this part, neither of our heads were visible, and the background was just a white wall, so it should be fine.
But the moment I clicked send, I immediately regretted it. Why did I seek this thrill? Why send this to someone I'd never met? I felt strange about my actions, and afterwards, I was filled with anxiety, regret, and fear.
Later, when I logged on, I saw many of his messages. From his words, I could sense his excitement, but one sentence sent chills down my spine: he said his classmates masturbated after seeing the video with the filename "Real Mother-Son Incest," and he had actually shown it to his classmates.
I immediately questioned him about why he had sent it to others. He explained that he hadn't sent it to anyone else, only his roommate, and promised not to share it. But I was still very angry, yet afraid that if things escalated, he might actually do something drastic, so I held back.
Actually, he's a very good person. I've known him online for quite a while, and I only sent him the file because I felt he was kind and trustworthy. He said the file had been deleted, which I don't quite believe, but he must have kept his promise and didn't send it.
The name "不惑至天命" (Bu Huo Zhi Tian Ming) comes from the fact that I'm between forty and fifty. "不惑" means forty, and "知天命" means fifty, so the middle is "不惑至天命".
Later, I realized that although I'm over forty, I'm still confused about my actions, but I'm also confused about what I'm doing. However, by attributing everything to fate, I've found peace, and my confusion has subsided. The name I unintentionally chose actually resonates with my state of mind. It's a way of shirking responsibility, but also a form of liberation.
But the real confusion doesn't disappear. I'm still confused about why I have such a strong sex drive. Sometimes I think I might be sick; hypersexuality is a kind of illness. But sometimes I feel my illness isn't too serious, and sometimes it's just normal, not at the level of a disease. I'm too embarrassed to consult a doctor.
In other people's eyes, I'm a very upright and dignified person, and my students respect me. How could they imagine I have that side to me?
Sometimes, even while lecturing in class, I'd suddenly feel a strong urge to masturbate. My body would instantly become hot and I'd break out in a light sweat, with warm, contracting sensations in my groin. I could suppress the urge, but I was afraid of appearing strange in front of the students, which made me very nervous. I tried my best to appear calm and nonchalant.
Finally, class ended, and I'd rush to the restroom, wash the chalk dust off my hands, and then squat inside to masturbate. The school restrooms were in the teaching building, and the girls' restrooms were always crowded with long queues. The small door had gaps at both ends.
If you stood on the steps and peered in, or bent over and looked through the gaps, you could see who was inside. No one would be so bored as to look in that position, but I was still nervous about being seen, so I slightly raised my hips while squatting, not standing straight.
The girls outside chattered excitedly, urging so-and-so to come out quickly. Their bright, bell-like voices made me feel incredibly sinister for doing this kind of thing in there.
Maintaining that position was very tiring; my legs were aching. Fortunately, I reached orgasm relatively quickly when I was tense. After I came out, I rested in the office for a while, feeling quite lost.
There was another class right after that, and those students below had no idea what their teacher had just done. I felt that under the scrutiny of those earnest, inquisitive eyes, my soul was defiled.
(III)
I don't know how to connect the events; there's no connection or causal relationship between them. The narratives seem chaotic, but hopefully, they're understandable.
It happened quite a while ago, before my nephew came. At home, my son made me wear one of my cheongsams. I had forgotten I'd worn it for years. For a time, I really liked the style of cheongsams, feeling they best expressed the beauty and gentleness of Eastern women—not the Qing Dynasty style, but the modernized version. It requires a high level of figure and temperament; not everyone can pull it off. I dared to try it. I initially wanted to have one custom-made for a better fit, but after inquiring about the price, I thought it was too expensive and gave up. I tried on two pieces at a department store counter, and unable to resist the saleswoman's enthusiastic praise, I bought one at a hefty price. It felt great on, and I was beaming all the way home carrying it. It felt different from buying other clothes; I felt like I had bought back a hazy, dreamlike era. When I got home, I admired myself in the mirror for a long time. But then I discovered a problem: I couldn't wear it to work, and even wearing it on the street felt out of place. It would attract attention from passersby, and I didn't know if their gazes were admiration or curiosity. I don't like being the center of attention. The only time it came in handy was at a school party where my group's performance was a solo, and I wore it on stage. The response was great, better than the performances by other teachers with more performers. Actually, singing in a group is more difficult than singing solo because it requires coordination and long practice sessions to perfect. After that, I wore it less often.
Talking about clothes has taken me quite a while now. If he hadn't mentioned it, I would have almost forgotten about this cheongsam that had been sitting unused in my closet for so long. He said he really liked it and was very proud of me when he saw me on stage. After rummaging through my drawers and taking it out, I felt a pang of nostalgia. The color was still vibrant, but my appearance was aging. It fit me better now, since I'd gained some weight since a few years ago, and it seemed to accentuate my curves even more. I admired myself in front of the mirror, striking poses, puffing out my chest and sticking out my hips, imitating the alluring women of old Shanghai. He watched and clicked his tongue, telling me to pull the slit up to my hips. I laughed and said the charm of a cheongsam lies in its allure, that's what makes it captivating; too much exposure wouldn't be beautiful. But I did as he said. When I looked down at my legs, I realized I was still wearing slippers. I quickly found a pair of high heels to change into. What did it matter if the floor got a little dirty? I looked beautiful, haha. Before I could even finish admiring myself, he hugged me and touched my buttocks through my clothes. I said, "Be gentle, this material isn't like me; it can't withstand your rough handling." He was quite obedient, reaching his hand inside my cheongsam to touch me, then pulling down my underwear to touch my skin directly.
We embraced face to face, and I could feel his erection pressing against my abdomen. It aroused me. He lifted my clothes and unhooked my bra. I raised my hands to help him take off my cheongsam as well, but he put his clothes down and continued to caress me through them. Was he going to look or do it? If he wanted to look, taking off my bra would make it less attractive than when I was wearing it. If he wanted to do it, he shouldn't take off my clothes. This itchy feeling through the clothes wasn't very satisfying. He pushed me down in front of the sofa, made me hold onto the sofa and stick my butt out, and actually wanted to do it while I was dressed. He lifted the back of his cheongsam up to my waist and back, and I saw my bare buttocks in the mirror. Some people say that my body descriptions and details are too few. I can't see how to describe my own body, and no one is interested in describing a man's body, right? Fortunately, I can describe the scene in the mirror. I feel that saying how alluring my figure is is like bragging, but my buttocks are indeed round and white, and my waist is also quite slender and soft—of course, slender is relative to my buttocks. I can bend my waist and stick my buttocks out high. I like the visual contrast of a slender waist and full buttocks. My legs are straight and of moderate thickness. In short, my body is well-proportioned. Other than that, I don't know how else to describe it.
He stood behind me, stroking me with both hands, his eyes fixed on the mirror. Then he took out his penis and rubbed it against my lower body. I was aroused and kept writhing, my buttocks thrusting back, seeking penetration. He played his game of teasing me, supporting my buttocks to prevent me from moving back. Once I was sufficiently wet, he suddenly thrust in unexpectedly. He never got tired of this kind of play, making me tremble and scream, which gave him satisfaction. He probably felt that touching my breasts through my clothes wasn't pleasant, so he wanted to touch them inside my cheongsam. However, the clothes were too tight to accommodate both hands, so he lifted the cheongsam all the way up to my chest. I said it would be better to take it all off, but he disagreed, insisting on keeping the crumpled cheongsam on me. I said, "Then take off your high heels, wearing them makes my feet hurt from bending over." He felt sorry for my hardship, so he looked in the mirror and thrust hard a couple of times before reluctantly letting me take off my high heels and put on slippers.
In the beginning, we hardly spoke during sex. I think it was because speaking brought us back to the feeling of everyday life, and we didn't want to reconnect with reality, so we remained silent. Later, as it happened more often, it became normal, no different from any other couple. I know many couples use various techniques to flirt and get more excited, and we were no exception; verbal flirting and physical teasing felt normal. While I was changing my shoes, he went back to the room, brought out an old textbook, and told me to read it aloud in a lecturing tone, without making any moaning sounds. He continued thrusting behind me. I read it verbatim, completely reciting from the text, unable to organize my thoughts. Suddenly, he sped up his thrusting while I was reading, and after a surge of intense pleasure, my eyes glazed over, and I couldn't continue. He stopped, telling me to calm down and continue. While I was reading, he thrust violently again, making it difficult for me to continue. He seemed to enjoy this, repeating it over and over. I knew that if I didn't let him influence me and kept reading, he would feel disappointed. Only when I was interrupted, and my reading turned into moaning, did he stop. He felt a sense of victory, as if he had controlled the woman beneath him. I would still satisfy him with this little bit of pleasure; I could tell he was very excited.
Before, when we rarely spoke during class, he would only ask me simple questions like, "Is this position tiring? Does it hurt you? Are you comfortable like this?" Later, we became bolder, saying lewd things to each other. It was indeed very exciting. I'm a little embarrassed to write it here, but to put it bluntly, most of our conversations consisted of declarative and interrogative sentences, while the climax was filled with imperative and exclamatory sentences. He said those kinds of things, panting, that I used to be very sexy when I was lecturing, and that it made him hard, and he wanted to rush up and fuck me on the stage in front of the whole class.
I originally wanted to write it in dialogue form, since things had already gone this far, there was no need to pretend to be innocent, but I deleted it after writing it. When I was saying it, I only felt lewd and excited, without feeling anything else, but writing it down made me feel very uncomfortable. I don't know how to write it well. Anyway, at that time, there was no word or sentence that couldn't be said; we both wanted to use the most lewd words to stimulate ourselves and tease each other. After a violent thrust, he pulled out and ejaculated onto my buttocks. We were both breathing heavily. I remained in that position while he wiped our bodies. Then he picked me up, limp and exhausted, and we lay down on the bedroom bed. Only after we were finished did we take off our clothes and embrace. I needed this. I felt that afterplay was more important than foreplay. As long as the passion was high, foreplay was unnecessary or even nonexistent, but afterplay was essential. The sudden emptiness in my vagina needed to be filled by physical embrace. A woman feels very lost when she is left alone after sex. She only leaves a man's embrace when her breathing is steady and her mind is at peace. It's even happier to fall asleep in each other's arms like that.
He filmed the lovemaking with his phone so he could see it when he wasn't around. We changed positions. When I lowered my head, he grabbed my arm and pulled me up so my face was facing the camera. Later, when I looked at the footage, I realized the camera was too close. The whole picture was of my distorted face, eyes tightly closed and mouth wide open. I didn't look very good. I couldn't help but scold him, "You've ruined such a beautiful old lady like me!"
No relationship is ever completely peaceful; there will always be ups and downs and conflicts. The cause of the problem may be trivial, but it can be magnified by emotions. Neither party has committed any fundamental wrongdoing, and unpleasantness usually dissipates eventually. I try to avoid getting angry over trivial matters in the future, as we don't have much time together anyway. However, humans are emotional beings, so conflicts are inevitable.
The issue arose when we were buying him a phone. I wanted an expensive, high-quality one, but he insisted on a cheap one with basic functions. I thought high school phones were cheap enough, and we shouldn't keep using cheap ones. We each stuck to our own opinions and neither of us would budge. I tried to persuade him, but in the end, we didn't buy one, and we went home unhappy. We didn't have a verbal argument, but his insistence on his own opinion upset me. It felt like he no longer considered my opinions, and this feeling of being excluded from my sphere of influence terrified me, as if the day he left me was approaching.
I could tell he wasn't happy either. He rarely argued with me, and when he did offer his opinion, I didn't take it. So we didn't speak for a long time. Later, I realized it wasn't worth it. We were both thinking of each other. I wanted him to have better things, but he didn't want to spend too much money. So I talked to him about it. Actually, I didn't need to explain; he understood. He was just in a bad mood and didn't speak to me first. He nodded slightly, but his expression was still unhappy.
I pulled him into the bedroom and gently took off his clothes. I knew our moods would improve over time, but sex would help faster. Then I took off my own clothes. Neither of us spoke. The atmosphere was a little awkward. I was afraid he would refuse me, which would be even more awkward. But he didn't refuse or take the initiative; he just obediently let me do as I pleased. I licked his neck and his firm chest muscles with my tongue, then slowly knelt down and took his penis into my mouth. No matter where I kissed his body, this was the final destination. I knelt in front of him, licking and looking up at him. He looked down at me too. I willingly made this submissive gesture and liked seeing his superior gaze.
I didn't want things to get stuck in a stalemate. If one of us had to give in first, I was willing to, even if it meant admitting my mistake. In everyday life, I wouldn't kneel before him, but in this situation, I could. Consider it a form of apology. The mistake wasn't my opinion, but my stubborn refusal to back down. I regret making both of us unhappy over something so trivial. If I could, I would exchange my humility for his smile. I think we probably understand each other implicitly. As long as he respects me normally, I can abandon all dignity at this moment, and I even find a certain pleasure in abandoning dignity, allowing me to do anything without restraint.
Looking at his cold, piercing gaze, I figured my actions were in line with his wishes. I wrapped my arms around his buttocks and thighs, sucking vigorously, then knelt down to kiss his feet, moving up his legs back up to them. His gaze softened, and he said the floor was too cold, so we should go to the bed. He was worried about my knees, so he stood on the bed, and I followed him to continue sucking his penis. His excitement intensified; he grabbed his penis and slapped it against my face with one hand, while his other hand grabbed my breast, squeezing hard enough to hurt a little. Normally, that kind of force would definitely hurt, but the pain lessened considerably when he was aroused, perhaps because his body secreted something like an anesthetic.
Seeing how excited he was, I was afraid he would ejaculate too soon, so I crawled my legs between his and moved forward until my face was between his legs. Then I reached out and grasped his penis, and he knelt down on top of me. I gently grasped it and quickly began to stroke it. It was the first time I had ever actively used my face to catch his semen. He saw me like this and shouted excitedly. I knew he was about to climax, so I quickened my pace, and finally, hot semen splashed all over my face. This was better than him ejaculating inside my vagina. I don't know if I still have fertility, but if I were to get pregnant with my son's child, I couldn't accept it psychologically; I didn't even dare to think about it.
He lay motionless beside me, breathing heavily, but I was still not satisfied. I thought I had been forgotten, but then he reached down and touched my genitals again. I finally breathed a sigh of relief. Actually, whether my body was satisfied or not didn't matter, as long as he remembered me.
I increasingly enjoyed acting lewd during sex, and he seemed to enjoy seeing me like that. I asked him if he liked lewd women, and he said no, he liked dignified women becoming lewd. I don't know why, but I wanted him to be rough during sex, to hit me or yell at me. At that moment, I didn't need dignity, only stimulation and pleasure. I just needed him to respect me normally.
(IV)
It's been a long time since I wrote this. Looking at the last post, it's been half a year. Some things have happened during this time. Some of them were big events for me, but I won't go into them because they're not interesting. I feel that whenever I'm tense and depressed, my libido becomes particularly strong, and I always think about sex and fantasize to relieve it.
My nephew has been living with me for a long time. I kept my promise and didn't have anything happen between us. We get along peacefully, although sometimes I still yearn for him and fantasize about him, but overall I can handle it calmly. These words might sound ridiculous to others, but I think it's very difficult for me to do this. It took a lot of resisting temptation. I'm no longer hiding it; I really am a promiscuous woman, and now I recognize myself.
I've changed in the last few years, only four or five years, but I've changed irreversibly. At first, I didn't want to admit it, and I especially hated people online calling me a slut or a whore. I wanted to curse them out. But when those things happened, I unconsciously thought of those words describing me, and it made me very uncomfortable. Why did I think of myself like that? The more I tried to stop thinking about it, the stronger those words became in my mind, as if a voice was truly calling me a slut.
Later, during sex, I actually wanted to hear my son call me that, but I wanted him to respect me. We say lewd things, but before, we only said things like "it's so deep," "it feels so good," and used vulgar language to refer to each other's genitals and how we were going to do it. I don't want to tell him, because I think he wouldn't dare call me a slut or a whore. How should I tell him? I said, "Son, do you call me a slut?" I can't even say that when I'm extremely excited. I've said so many lewd things, but I don't know how to get him to say this. When I video chat with other people, I've tried to say it to them, but at most they just say things like "slutty."
The age of my video chat partners is getting younger and younger, and I feel incredibly guilty. I'm preying on teenagers for my own desires. I used to think high school students were too busy with their studies to do many of these things, but I've discovered quite a few are doing it. I haven't been teaching or educating them, yet I've been tempting them into doing those kinds of things. I feel like I have no right to educate students anymore. I rarely reprimand students anyway, and now I basically don't say a word. I just focus on teaching my classes; how can I lecture others when I haven't even done a good job myself? I used to discuss with other teachers in the office which students were dating early. They were just beginning to experience romantic feelings, had emotional needs, and hadn't done anything wrong. What was wrong with that? Even if it affected their studies, it wasn't a moral issue. And what about me? What about my morality? How should I judge myself?
I don't like inherently rude people. I prefer innocent, shy young men, curious and naive about sex, who become wildly excited under my influence, uttering lewd words and making lewd gestures at my direction. That gives me a special kind of pleasure. I often think I might be the middle-aged woman in China who has seen the most young boys' penises. But that's just wishful thinking on my part. I don't know what other women my age think, whether they're as interested in young boys as I am. Maybe they're well satisfied by their husbands and don't have the same wild thoughts as me.
I always think youth is wonderful. Even if someone isn't particularly good-looking, that youthful energy is still appealing. If they're also handsome, my heart will race the moment I turn on the video call, imagining seeing the young man's penis—it's incredibly exciting. Some boys would proactively ask me if they could call me "Mom" while masturbating in front of me, while others would be shy and not call me that. If I casually called one of their sons, he would immediately respond excitedly by calling me "Mom." I've rarely encountered anyone who disagreed with this kind of relationship, which isn't surprising. Boys willing to video chat with a middle-aged woman like me probably have an Oedipus complex; how could they not like calling me "Mom"?
I both enjoy the colors of youth and treat them as substitutes for my nephews, so sometimes I let them call me "Second Aunt." I think they might find this strange and understand that I'm interested in my nephews. I don't want to tell them about my relationship with my son and nephews; writing about it would be exciting, but talking about it during video chat might ruin the atmosphere. I tried at first, but some boys didn't want to hear it and liked to feel like they were my only one at that moment, so I simply stopped talking about it.
I think they were sincere at that moment. I was loved, and I was happy, even if it was only for a short time, even if we never contacted each other again. Some infatuated boys are really persistent. I didn't want them to fall in love with me, so I had to cruelly stop contacting them. You could say I wanted to try something new, but I really have my own principles and bottom line. I did consider their feelings. No matter how much I deceive myself by saying I still have my charm, I'm still past my prime and not worthy of the love of boys in their prime. They were just infatuated with that maternal warmth, treating me as someone they could give maternal love to.
I still take care of my nephew's daily life, and my sister has more free time. Gradually, I realized that her wanting her nephew to attend a good school was one thing, but another was that she wanted more free time. I don't feel resentful; I just hope that she, who loves to play, can rein herself in a little. She's not young anymore and should be more mature, showing more care for her son. The love she gives is irreplaceable.
I still love my nephew; that desire for him, body and soul, has only grown stronger. But I know I can't have him, let alone his heart. He always treats me with polite respect and a touch of familial affection. He's always so subtle, making me unsure if he's even aware of my actions and thoughts. But I think he must be. How could such a smart kid not notice a woman's occasional behavior that goes beyond familial affection?
I also feel I can't go too far. My enthusiasm is met with indifference, and I feel embarrassed, so I slowly bury it deep inside. So every day, I go about my routine: getting up early and coming home late, making him breakfast and late-night snacks, cleaning his room—that's all there is to daily life.
Yet he remains the object of my most frequent sexual fantasies. The more unattainable something is, the more I crave it. I really want to experience what it feels like to make love with him. When I masturbate at night, I imagine him thrusting against me, then penetrating me from behind, his hands grasping my breasts. The thought that he's right next door excites me greatly. Sometimes, I'm afraid he might hear the sound of my fingers going in and out of my vagina if he's not asleep, so I use my fingers to scoop out the fluid from my vagina and smear it on my thighs. The less fluid there is, the quieter the sound becomes.
I will always remember that morning. I went to his room to wake him up. I pushed open his door and saw his blanket piled up in front of his chest, his erect penis pushing his underwear high. It was the first time I had ever seen him erect. Even through his underwear, it was enough to excite me. My head spun for a moment, and then my heart raced. I held onto the doorframe and stood there for a while, then cautiously called to him. He didn't wake up, and there was a soft snoring sound. He probably went to bed too late last night. I mustered my courage and walked to his bedside, pretending to shake him awake, but actually I wanted to get a closer look. I kept glancing at his penis and then at his face, afraid he would suddenly wake up. If I really wanted to wake him, why would I be afraid of him waking up?
His breathing was even, which reassured me somewhat. I didn't wake him, but instead stared at him intently. I was even afraid that the slightest sound of swallowing would wake him. When I'm nervous, I swallow incessantly, and the more I try to hold it in, the less I can resist. Seeing that he was still fast asleep, I mustered my courage, held my breath, and bent down to approach his penis, slowly bringing it closer with my mouth. I was so nervous that my heart felt like it was about to jump out of my throat. I wanted to take off his underwear and put his penis in my mouth. I stuck out my tongue and brought it as close to his penis as possible, but I was afraid of accidentally touching it and waking him. I held my breath completely, feeling like I was suffocating. I had to straighten up, but I couldn't bear to leave. In a moment of inspiration, I tried to walk silently to the bathroom, grabbed a rag, and placed it under his bed. I squatted down at an angle where the blanket covering his chest would conceal me, thinking that if he woke up, I would pretend to be wiping the floor. I occasionally clean in the early morning, though it's rare.
I stared intently at his penis, my eyes glued to it, imagining what he was dreaming about. His penis was erect, and I wondered if it would stand up if I took off his underwear. I really wanted to see what it looked like. It hardened for a while, then slowly began to shrink. I didn't want it to shrink, but seeing the shape of his penis and scrotum wrapped in his underwear still excited me. I was already wet. I reached under my skirt, pulled aside his underwear, and inserted my fingers directly into his vagina. The pleasure was so intense that my knees buckled and I almost fell to the ground. I used to always stroke my clitoris first when masturbating, but this time I didn't have the time or the need. I wiped the water from my fingers haphazardly on my underwear and buttocks to avoid making too much noise. I stared intently at his penis as my fingers moved rapidly in and out of his vagina. I couldn't control the sounds coming from inside. My climax was approaching, and I didn't have time to wipe myself dry.
I steeled myself and went to the living room, kneeling on the sofa. From that position, he couldn't see me, but I could see his penis. The sofa back also concealed my lower body. I pulled down my underwear and forcefully inserted my fingers into my vagina, almost tearing the backrest with my grip. Looking at his legs and his swollen member, I imagined myself sitting on him, moving wildly up and down. I felt too far away, unable to see clearly. I longed to be back by his side, but ultimately lacked the courage. The pleasure that day was unusually intense. I slumped on the sofa for a while, went to the bathroom to clean myself, and then went to wake him. He woke up and didn't know what had happened. The feeling was a mix of guilt and strangeness. Even now, thinking back, I still find it unimaginable, unbelievable—that I actually did that. I was so bold.
No matter how much I fantasize, satisfying myself with my hand is never as intense as the pleasure of a penis filling my vagina. I usually use one finger; there's space inside. I can also fit two or three fingers, but when I'm going fast, I can only use one. Thankfully, I have my son to satisfy me. Actually, I feel very guilty towards him. Although I haven't physically cheated—I'm even using the word "cheating"—I've thought about it countless times in my mind. Emotional infidelity is still infidelity. Writing this makes my body feel like it's on fire, and I'm getting wet down there. It always feels like this every time I write.
We can only have sex every few days, which is too long and doesn't satisfy me. Every time, I start wanting it again two days later. I really don't know what to do. In a few years, I'll be fifty. No matter how much I love him, how reluctant I am to let go, he'll eventually have his own life. What will I do then? Will I live a lonely life, or will I remarry? Can I even find another man to marry? I haven't thought about it for many years, but lately I've felt a strong need for a man, both physically and emotionally. When I'm isolated and helpless, I long for someone to lean on; when I'm sexually frustrated, I crave someone to satisfy me. I like young men, but I'm not completely against mature men. The sense of dependence a young man can't provide is something a young man can't offer. It's just that none of the men my age around me satisfy me. I'm being too idealistic. In reality, there's probably no such person as I imagine. Even if there were, I wouldn't meet them, and even if I did, they wouldn't be interested in me.
Excellent men in their forties are in high demand, all looking for young and beautiful women, while I'm getting older and less attractive. Who would want me? I don't want to settle. I really don't know what to do.
Maybe only during passionate sex can I forget these troubling problems. Some people say that my writing reveals some masochistic tendencies. I didn't understand it before, thinking, "Who would be so pathetic as to need to be abused to feel better?" But now I'm certain, I really do have those tendencies. Sometimes I fantasize about someone holding a knife to my throat and forcing me into a brutal rape. I also fantasize about a group of strong, masked men gang-raping me, but behind the mask is always a very masculine face. They hold my arms down, grab my hair, and stuff things into my body—oh, I'd better not talk about it, it's too disgusting.
I like it when he's dominant during sex. When he acts like a fierce little wild animal, I get incredibly excited. I want him to be panting heavily, grabbing and biting my body. I want to be pinned down by him, unable to move, my hands restrained, unable to break free from his control no matter how hard I struggle. I don't know what I can't say even now, but I'm just too embarrassed to say it directly. So whenever he's a little rough, I get excited, thinking that way he'll know what I like. I like it when he slaps my butt; it feels so lewd. I like it when he grabs my breasts hard, even though it hurts a little, the pleasure makes me forget the pain.
I want to be a docile little lamb in front of him, completely at his mercy. When he teases me, I feel especially weak, especially feminine, and especially excited. I feel like my son and I are the opposite of what we usually are. He's usually gentle and polite, but he becomes wild in bed. Maybe men's bodies have a primal wildness. I used to be a little afraid of him being too rough, but now I feel it's not enough.
As for me, I'm usually very sensitive and reserved, with a strong sense of self-respect. I can't stand being insulted. My students respect me, and those who know me rarely make inappropriate jokes with me. Everyone thinks I'm an independent, strong, and upright woman. Some young female teachers even say to me, "Sister X, I want to have your personality." But they don't know what I've done behind everyone's back. Maybe I've been lonely and repressed for too long, and I've forgotten what it feels like to be cared for, pitied, or even abused. I can dress elegantly and wear a little makeup, but that doesn't make me womanly or give me the feeling of being a woman.
I really need a man, a man who can give me a shoulder to lean on. I don't know what to say; I'm wet down there and heartbroken. I used to think I could give up everything for my son. I love him so much, I could give up my life for him. I used to think about how much I love him, and if I had to endure the cruelest torture in the world to save his life, could I agree? The moment that thought crossed my mind, I knew without hesitation that I could, that I could do anything for him, and of course, that I could give up my own happiness for him. But now I feel that no matter how much I love him, I still crave a little happiness of my own.
I've always relied on him, and sometimes he treats me like a husband cares for his wife, but it's mostly me giving him maternal love, which is tiring. Besides, we're apart so often now, and it's very depressing. This is a woman's feeling.
I really need a man, a man I can lean on. I don't know what to say, I'm wet down there and heartbroken. I used to think I could give up everything for my son. I love him so much, I could give up my life for him. I used to think about how much I love him, and if I had to endure the cruelest torture in the world to save his life, could I agree? The moment that thought crossed my mind, I knew without hesitation that I could, that I could do anything for him, and of course, that I could give up my own happiness for him. But now I feel that no matter how much I love him, I still long for my own little bit of happiness.
I've always relied on him, and sometimes he treats me like a husband cares for his wife, but it's mostly me giving him maternal love, which is a bit tiring. Besides, we're apart so often now, it's very depressing.

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I am just a woman, from forty to fifty.

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