maternal love

page views:1 Publication date:2023-06-11 12:45:37

My father passed away when I was 11. My mother was only 32 then, still very young. A
boy at her school took a liking to her. He was quite well-off, six years older than her. He had just been allocated an apartment and had savings.

But because I always ignored him, he disliked me. Sometimes, when he argued with my mother, he would point at me and yell, "
If this brat doesn't behave properly, I'll beat him up!"

In the end, my mother didn't agree: "A little hardship is nothing, but I can't stand this kind of treatment! You should leave." I knew
my mother was doing it for me. That boy was narrow-minded and spread rumors about my mother everywhere. Later,
it spread throughout her school. Not only was she demoted to teaching the graduating class, but her promotion was also ruined. My mother
didn't say anything about those gossips. But she must have been in great pain inside. At that time, I only half understood, but I knew she was doing it for me.

Actually, it was all because my mother was a beautiful woman. And she was universally acknowledged as beautiful. She often said that aesthetic ability determines
taste, and taste determines temperament. I think what she didn't say was: A certain aura makes a person stand out.

It's a feeling unique to children that age. A kind of budding instinct. This budding instinct usually leads to a teenager's
first encounter with the opposite sex. And I was no exception at that age.

"Ping'er, if you don't understand something, just ask your mother," my mother often said to me. Perhaps she knew that
after losing my father, I became very introverted. She was afraid that I would keep things bottled up inside and develop a wrong outlook on life. "
What if you get angry?" I asked her. She smiled: "Mom won't really get angry with her son."

Indeed. My mother never really got angry with me. Although some of her questions seem absurd and silly now, she still had
reasonable explanations. Gradually, I became more and more interested in matters between men and women. The topics I talked about with my mother also gradually
increased.

"Mom, how did I come into this world?" I pressed on: I mean, how did I first get into Mom's belly
? And how did I come out? Actually, at that time, I vaguely knew a little about matters between men and women. I
asked my mother this out of curiosity, but more than that, I wanted to see her embarrassed. It was a bit of a thrill. She was silent
for a moment, then her eyes lit up and she said, "Oh, I know about this. But it'll take a long time to explain. You don't want to go hungry,
do you? Okay, help me pick some vegetables first, I'll tell you after dinner." My mother was occasionally a little cunning. Though not often,
it came in crucial moments. She told me that sometimes students would ask questions outside the curriculum
, questions even the teacher didn't know the answers to. In such cases, she could choose to ignore them. Other
teachers always liked to confidently say, "I don't teach what's not in the syllabus." But my mother didn't like to refuse her child's thirst for
knowledge: "It's my responsibility, how can I avoid it with a single sentence?" But she also couldn't make herself look too awkward, otherwise
the class wouldn't be able to continue. At this point, she would always say gently, "Student, class time is limited, we still have
content to cover. We can't let this affect the other students. How about this, you can come to my office during afternoon self-study,
and I'll explain it to you. Okay?" A few reasonable words resolved the awkward situation. Afterwards, she had
time to prepare.

She used this tactic on me as well. Before bed, when I pressed her for an answer, my mother turned over, seemingly having already
thought it through: "Ping'er, you were originally in Mommy's tummy. Back then, you were just a cell, very, very small,
called an egg. Later, Daddy's sperm combined with Mommy's egg, becoming an embryo. After ten months, the embryo
grew, and after birth, you were like a baby." My mother's answer was too cunning; I hadn't achieved my goal, so I
wasn't about to give up: "Mommy, how did Daddy's sperm get into your tummy?" My mother frowned,
but then quickly regained her composure. She probably anticipated her precious son's probing questions. "Swimming!" she said vividly. "
Sperm are like tadpoles; they swim in by themselves." Saying this, she turned to the bed, pulled the blanket towards herself
, leaving me exposed. The implication was probably that it was time to go back to her own room to sleep.

I still wouldn't give up, so I crawled back under the covers and tugged at her shoulder: "Where does the sperm swim in from?

Can I see?" My mother blushed and turned to stare at me. I think she must have been incredibly embarrassed.

But being a teacher, she quickly regained her composure: "Ping'er, I can't show you there. It's
an adult's privacy. You'll know when you grow up." I said "Oh," and asked, "Then
what place is it? If you won't let me see, can't you at least tell me?" My mother glared at me and said irritably, "
The place where you pee!"

My goal was achieved; even my mother has her limits sometimes, haha. I pretended not to understand and continued,
"Do I have sperm? Where are they?" My mother smiled and said, "You're too young, you don't have any yet.
I'll tell you when you're older and have some, okay?" She glanced at her watch and said to me, "Ping'er, it's
past 10 o'clock, you should go to your room and sleep. Otherwise, you won't be able to get up tomorrow." I hummed in agreement, nodded, and stood up
but didn't move. "Mom, I have one last question, please tell me?" My mother tilted her head and
smiled slightly. "Okay, that's the last one. After you tell me, you should go to sleep." I scratched my head and asked, "
You just said I grew inside your belly and then was born. Where did I come from?"
This question had kept my mother up at night, but unexpectedly, she chuckled, sat up, and said, "Have you
ever heard of cesarean section? It's when they cut open my belly and take you out. Look, there's still a scar."
She turned on the bedside lamp, lifted her pajamas, and showed me a scar more than an inch long on her lower abdomen. "Look, right here. It's
long, isn't it?

I carried you for so long, and then I had to go through surgery to have you. It wasn't easy." Good heavens! I was
incredibly moved. My eyes welled up with tears: "Mom..." My voice was already trembling with sobs.

Sigh, I never expected my mother to be so capable, so adept at handling her naughty son. It turned out this trick was already in her "teaching
syllabus

. "

My mother pulled me close, hugged me tightly, and kissed me on the cheek. Then she wiped
away my tears: "Alright, good boy, don't cry anymore, go back to sleep. It's getting late." My mother was very patient with me
. Whether it's current social events, principles of conduct, everyday life tips, or even questions like sex education,
My mother always handled things very well. No matter how I asked, she always gave reasonable and well-reasoned answers. She would also occasionally dress in accordance with
her teachings. Because we could chat freely, I found it very enjoyable at the time. Only when I grew up did I realize that she was not only an excellent
teacher, but also a mother who could view her children with a calm and balanced perspective. She knew how to say what should and shouldn't be said, and how to
say it appropriately. She satisfied my curiosity without conveying the wrong information.

At that time, I only vaguely understood the feelings between men and women. Seeing boys and girls on the street arm in arm, quite affectionate,

I imitated them, hugging my mother. Like any mother who spoils her child, she wasn't angry; on the contrary, she seemed
to enjoy me whispering sweet nothings to her face like that. Perhaps my mother had been too lonely these past two years. Back then,
she never found chatting with me, her little brat, annoying. But she always had to go to school or work early the next day and couldn't stay up too
late.

But it seemed like there was still more to say.

Finally, winter vacation arrived. After finishing the end-of-term chores, my mother was on vacation. Now that she could sleep in later,
we talked about everything. We chatted about everything under the sun – her colleagues, my classmates, all sorts of things –
and many interesting things. Sometimes we talked so late that we slept together.

My mother wore pajamas, those long nightgowns with straps. I don't know if other women do this, but she
probably found them uncomfortable and always took off her bra before bed. Nestled in my mother's arms, I often saw two small
protrusions on her chest, which greatly aroused me. Those round mounds had always attracted me since I was little. But before, I just rested my
head there. Never before had I felt this way, wanting to touch them. At first, it was a tentative touch;
they were soft, like jelly. Seeing that my mother didn't respond, I became bolder. When she fell asleep, I started
gently kneading them. Later, I simply slipped my hand inside her nightgown from the neckline. "Oh dear, what are you doing! Your hands are freezing cold."

My mother woke up and caught me red-handed. "Why aren't you asleep? What are you scribbling about?" My mother was a little annoyed
and pulled my hand away. "Go to sleep now, or what time will you get up tomorrow?" My mother seemed only annoyed by my naughtiness
and didn't think anything of it. My heart skipped a beat, and I said coquettishly, "Mom, I want you to hold me while I sleep, okay?"

I put my other hand on her chest and buried my face in her arms.

She was a little helpless. "You're so old, still so clingy. You don't act like a big kid at all. What,
do you still want to nurse?" She slapped my bottom. "Want to nurse! Want to nurse!" I looked up at my mother and
licked my lips. She chuckled, annoyed. She shook her head helplessly and flicked my forehead with her index finger
. "Wanting to nurse is useless, Mom doesn't have any milk." When I was little, my mother didn't mind me touching her
breasts. Before I was six, even when others were around, I would often reach inside her clothes and touch her. She would just look at
me and smile, not getting angry. Back then, my father said she spoiled me too much. Perhaps so; mothers always tend to pamper their sons.

Years later, I understood a bit about matters between men and women. When I touched that area again, my mindset had changed considerably.

But my mother still seemed to treat me like a child, occasionally teasing me. "Ping'er. You're so old and still
sleeping with your mother.

Aren't you afraid people will laugh at you?" My mother stared at me with a half-smile. "No, I'm not afraid. No one else
sees anyway," I said. My mother's breasts were full and slightly sagging. Gently squeezing them, I could feel
something moving inside.

My mother, perhaps a little uncomfortable from my pinching, pressed my hand down and said, "Just because you can't see it doesn't mean you can't see it, right? Isn't that just
burying your head in the sand?" "No, no!" I noticed her mistake: "Bullying your head in the sand means pretending
not to know after being discovered. But no one has discovered it yet. Mom, you used the wrong words." Taking advantage of her distraction,
I lifted her nightgown a little higher and grasped her other breast. I could feel her nipple had swelled considerably, hard and
erect.

My mother blushed slightly, thought for a moment, nodded, and said, "Okay, you're quite good at choosing words. I
mean, what if someone finds out? What will you do then?" I said, "So what if someone finds out?
Is it wrong to be close to Mom? Those who forget their mothers after marrying are the ones who are wrong!" Saying this, I took one of her breasts, opened my mouth
, and sucked on the nipple.

My mother hummed a few times, stroked my hair, and her breathing became a little heavy. After a while, she said,
"It's good that you think that way. But it's different. You'll have to get married sooner or later..." She shook her head and said, "
I'm getting off-topic. Let me ask you: You're so old and still sleeping with your mother and still breastfeeding... Don't you feel ashamed?" My heart
skipped a beat: Why does my mother always ask these questions? Is she also wondering why she can't sleep with me?

"It's true, it seems like all my classmates sleep alone. There are
several classmates like me who only live with their mothers, but they all sleep in their own beds. Why is that?

I was 12 years old that year. I was probably more ignorant and naive about sex than 8 or 9-year-olds are now. Those few
days, my mother would often pull down my pants to look, but she no longer touched me with her hands. She let me pull back my foreskin and feel
if the swollen area hurt. It wasn't until a few days later that it was completely healed. My mother never said anything to me about it. But her
attitude towards me changed after that. Perhaps through this incident, she realized I had grown up, that I was a
little man who couldn't be ignored. 'From now on, you should sleep alone,' my mother finally pushed my hand away. Perhaps because she
discovered I could ejaculate, she wouldn't let me touch her breasts when I slept. 'My son is grown up now, he can't always
sleep with his mother, understand?' she said."

I was a little sad: "Mom, why can't your son sleep with you?" My mother hesitated, looking at
the ceiling, and said, "It's because...we're afraid of doing 'that'." I asked again, "What do you mean by 'that'?" My mother
pouted and said helplessly, "Some boys do 'that' with their mothers when they sleep with them...
it's like they're taking advantage of their mothers...you'll understand when you get older. That's why boys can't sleep with their mothers."

"Mom, I'm your child. I only want to be good to you. How could I take advantage of you?" I felt a little wronged
.

At that moment, I thought about the relationship between men and women and suddenly understood: a mother is a woman, and a son is a man. A mother and son
can also have "that" relationship, just like a father and mother. And a mother and son...
"We definitely can't do 'that'," I thought. Thinking this, I nodded and said, "I understand. Then we
just won't do anything bad. Mom, I don't quite understand. We'll do what we can. Tell
me what we can't do. Okay?" As I spoke, I touched her breasts again, feeling her nipples slowly swell.

My mother hummed in agreement, her face turning red again. She nodded and said, "We won't do anything bad. That's fine
." Suddenly, I felt a little tempted. I hugged my mother's neck and asked knowingly, "Does hugging Mom like this
count as 'something bad'?" My mother laughed, "No! If it were me, I would have hit you already." I felt a surge of joy
and asked, "Then how about this?" I hugged her even tighter and kissed her on the cheek. My mother said, "It should
n't count, right?" I said, "If it counts, it counts; if it doesn't, it doesn't. What does 'should' mean?" My mother looked at me,
shook her head helplessly, and said, "Okay, it doesn't count." I straddled her again and asked, "How about this?" My mother
sighed, "It doesn't count..."

I pressed myself against her, grabbed her breasts with both hands, and rubbed my lower body against her, saying, "How about this?" For some
reason, this action made me suddenly feel hot all over, a strange feeling. My mother frowned
and said, "This isn't good. Get up..." She pushed me aside. But at that moment
, a fire suddenly ignited in my heart, and an impulse emboldened me to do something unexpected: I pressed her shoulder
and kissed her lips. My mother was startled, afraid she would push me away. She was strong, and with a forceful struggle, I fell to
the ground. My head hit the cabinet.

My mother panicked, worried that I had hurt myself somewhere. "Ping'er, where did you bump into?" She came over and helped me up,
stroking my head with a worried expression. I was burning with desire, and I grabbed my mother and pounced on her, pinning her down on the bed.

Now she couldn't push me away anymore. In desperation, she tried to hit me, but I endured the pain and kissed her, refusing to
get up no matter what. Perhaps afraid of hurting me, she only hit me a couple of times before softening her grip. I seized the opportunity to grab her wrist and press it onto the bed
, then continued kissing her.

After kissing her for a while, I suddenly felt a throbbing in my lower abdomen, and then my underwear became wet. I felt a little lost,
unsure of what to do next. And that was it.

I looked up at my mother. She was staring at me too. "Mom, is this how it is?" She paused, "
What?" I released her hand, touched my head, and said with a grin, "Is this what you meant by 'bad things
'?" My mother was taken aback at first, then chuckled. She turned her head to the side, her face stern,
and said, "Um, no. But it's already a bit bad. You shouldn't be like this. You know?" It was clear that her
initial tension and fear had been replaced by helplessness and amusement; I wondered if there was any other reaction. She pushed me away
and crawled back into bed. I tried to pull the covers up to get in, but my mother kicked me out: "Disobedient! You're punished by
sleeping in your room tonight." Thinking about it, she realized how strange it was and couldn't help but laugh. She casually ran her hand over my thigh and felt
something wet. Lifting the covers, she saw a wet patch on the front of my underwear. Pulling down the waistband, she saw my semen and quickly tore off
some tissues for me to wipe.

Afraid I'd get cold, she slept in her bed that night. "Take off your underwear. Tear off some more tissues to clean yourself up."

My mother was afraid I'd catch a cold if I went back to my room naked, so she made me take them off to sleep. Compared to the chill of my room, cuddling
with my mother was much warmer.

From then on, my mother was trapped in her own web of guilt. Every winter break after that, my mother and I would sleep together. I would always hold
her tightly while we slept, and she would reciprocate by holding me back. Because this didn't count as "doing something bad." Who told her not to explain
what "bad things" actually meant?

In the morning, the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was my mother's face. I couldn't resist kissing her, and she woke up. "What are you kissing me for
? Get up!" My mother was a little annoyed and pushed me up. "Mom, I want to lie down a little longer." My mother also
wanted to lie down a little longer, and she hummed in agreement, letting me hold her. I put one leg around my mother's waist and hugged her even
tighter. But then, my erect penis pressed against my mother's lower abdomen.

My mother touched it, realized what she was holding, and quickly pushed me away. She opened the drawer by the bedside and
took out a pair of her underwear, stuffing them into my hand. "You, shameless thing, aren't you?" She slapped my butt.

A smile played on her lips: "Hurry up and put your underwear on. Oh, you've got pubic hair now? Ha, put it on, it looks
so ugly like this. You're all grown up now." She noticed the change in the base of my penis. I smiled and took the underwear
, putting it on, but my penis was swollen, and it was very uncomfortable: "Mom, your underwear is too small, my penis is too big, it's so
tight."

My mother chuckled and said, "Shameless. You're so young and already bragging. Even your dad can
wear this, and you still..." She stopped abruptly, probably realizing something was wrong. I knew that if I
touched her breasts, she would become more talkative, so I grasped one and gently twisted it. "Oh," my mother's mouth
opened slightly, and she made a sound, wrapping her arms around me.

Seeing that my mother seemed a little hesitant, I asked, "Mom, is my dad's penis much bigger than mine?"

My mother blushed and hummed in agreement. "How much bigger?" I couldn't help but ask. "Much bigger," my mother's
answer was too simple, and I wasn't satisfied. I circled her breasts with both hands and whispered in her ear, "How much is 'much
'?"

Her breathing was a little heavy, and she didn't answer me. I rolled over and pressed myself against her, just like last time. Seeing that she didn't
push me away with her eyes closed, I took out my penis from my underwear. I pulled her hand to hold it: "Mom, is it half as long as mine?" This time,
my mother didn't let go, and just held it like that. "No," she said, squeezing it slightly. I asked again, "Is it
half as thick?"

As I spoke, I pushed up her nightgown, revealing her breasts. My mother opened her eyes, saw me staring at her chest, and
reached out to cover them. Then she closed her eyes again. I felt her breathing become more rapid, so I pried her hands open and pulled her hands to hold
my penis. "How thick?" I asked her, while simultaneously grasping my mother's two breasts with both hands. She stopped resisting,
her eyes closed and panting, "...a little thicker." She was still holding my penis in her hand.

I felt very comfortable; those two mounds were soft like jelly. Her nipples were large and hard in my mouth
.

I straddled my mother's waist, suckling at her breasts. About ten minutes passed like this. Then she began to hold my
penis and move it back and forth. The pleasure enveloped me, and I couldn't help but want to cry out, "Ah!" With a loud shout, I
ejaculated again. My penis throbbed a dozen times, and I felt an unprecedented sense of pleasure. "Get off," she said, slapping my buttocks
.

She tore off some paper for me and sat up to clean herself.

Semen sprayed onto my mother's lower abdomen, soaking the front of her underwear. She took off her underwear, wiped herself with it for a
while, then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it onto my dirty underwear on the bedside table. That was the first time I had ever seen a woman's genitals. There was indeed
no penis, only a dark tuft of hair. Because she was facing sideways, I couldn't see anything further down.

I remembered her saying, "You can't look at a woman's private parts," so I wanted to look even more closely. But by then, she had already put on
a clean pair of underwear and crawled back into bed. "Oh dear, my son has grown up. I'm getting old too," my mother
said, stroking my head. "Mom, you're not old at all. I heard many students at school like you." My mother laughed
and whispered in my ear, "Is it comfortable?" I nodded, my hand caressing her breasts, and asked, "
Mom, what are you doing? It feels so good." My mother smiled, gently pushed my hand away, and took
off her nightgown from her head. She touched my penis and made me hold it in my hand, saying, "Hold it yourself, one in front and one behind, just
like that.

It feels better than touching the front with your hand." I caressed her bare breasts with one hand and my own penis with the other, feeling
a little lightheaded. She laughed, tucked my semi-erect penis back into my underwear, and said, "You can't do this all the time, it's not
good for your health.

Once a week at most. Okay?" Clearly, my actual needs at that age far exceeded my mother's demands.

Being intimate every day made my mother feel uncomfortable. She wanted me to do it myself, but I always said it was uncomfortable. Sometimes
when watching TV, I would take it out and let her hold it. I would also reach under her clothes and touch her breasts. Sometimes I would push her down on the sofa
until I came. In the days that followed, the need for "rubbing" increased and became more frequent.

By the second year of junior high, it had become once every two days. During that year, besides being intimate with my mother in bed,
I also watched porn for the first time at a classmate's house. Strictly speaking, it was only a Category III film. It had a plot, but
no nudity. But it still aroused me a lot. I knew what it was like for men and women to do that, but
I felt even more mysterious about a woman's private parts.

I tried touching her while she was asleep. Touching it from the outside felt like a soft piece of flesh, with a tuft of hard hair. But touching it
from inside was difficult. Her underwear was tightly closed. It was hard to take it off without waking her up. Sometimes, when my mother rubbed my genitals,
I would deliberately suck on her breasts. This way, my penis would be close to her genitals, and I could ejaculate all my semen onto her underwear.

Sometimes, after I ejaculated in the middle of the night, she was too lazy to get up and change her underwear, so she would just take it off and leave it aside before going back to sleep. That gave me
the chance to touch her tender vulva. "Mom, why can't I see where you pee, but you can touch mine?"

I asked her again as soon as I started touching her. My mother gently moved her hand inside her clothes, turning to the side to adjust her position: "From underneath,
don't tear the neckline." She didn't answer, but instead took my hand and stroked her breasts from under her clothes. "Mom, I'm asking you
something.

Why?" My mother thought for a moment and said, "Because you're still young and don't know enough about sex. When you grow up
and understand more, you can look. But not at me, but at the person you like." I
pinched her nipple while shaking my head, "If I don't understand, I can learn. Why can't I look? Besides, I
like Mom too." My mother laughed, "Don't pretend. You know what I mean by 'like'? It means you can
look at your girlfriend's, but you can't look at mine. I'm your mother. You have to respect me. Looking is disrespectful. Ah
... oh..." Maybe I pinched too hard, because my mother hit me. I could only gently rub her, "
Mom, why is it disrespectful for me to look? That doesn't make sense. If I respect you in my heart, even if I look..."
"It's out of respect for you. Didn't you say that proving a problem requires reason and evidence? This one doesn't have any evidence." Mother nodded, gently
stroking a few times: "Actually, I shouldn't be doing these things for you. It's just that you're still young, so it's not a big deal.

When you get older, it won't be okay. Otherwise, you'll go astray. Understand?" "Mom, actually, I've already seen
your private parts."

Mother's hand on my penis stroking faster and faster, and I couldn't help but say it. "What?" Mother
was stunned.

I held Mother's hand and continued stroking, kissed her cheek, and said, "Sometimes you don't wear underwear. I
saw it in the morning. Two pieces of flesh, and if you pull them apart, there are two more pieces inside, all red. You see, I didn't become bad after seeing it.

I used to always wonder what it looked like. After seeing it, I won't keep having these wild thoughts." Mother lowered her head and silently
rubbed my penis. I was excited by her rubbing and couldn't help but stroke her thigh. "Mom, let me touch you
."

I slipped my hand under her skirt, down her thigh, and touched her inner thigh. My mother grabbed my hand but didn't
say anything.

I felt like I was in a movie, kneading her breasts and kissing her lips. I heard my mother

make a soft "hmm" sound, and I felt a rush of heat to my head. I pushed her down onto the sofa and pressed myself against her. "Promise me
you won't do 'that'!" My mother stared at me, saying each word clearly. I nodded. I knew she meant 'that'
: "I promise I won't. Mom, I promise you." My mother's body went limp, and her hand loosened. My hand
touched her crotch, feeling her palm was wet. She didn't resist anymore, wrapping her arms around my neck, her breathing
becoming rapid. I kissed my mother wantonly, one hand caressing her breasts, the other slipping into her panties, directly
touching her tender vulva.

Beneath the stiff pubic hair was a patch of warm, wet flesh. After a few strokes, my mother began to breathe heavily. I straightened
up and lifted her skirt. My mother leaned against the back of the sofa, opened her eyes and looked at me, her gaze somewhat unfocused. I lifted
her legs and pulled down her panties. She lifted her legs, letting me pull off her panties, and closed her eyes again. I
couldn't wait to see what she looked like down there, so I pushed her legs apart, revealing the area with its thick black hair.

I squatted down, so I could see her genitals very closely. At the base of her snow-white thighs, two thick...
A piece of brown flesh was sandwiched between labia. Prying the labia apart revealed
a scarlet interior. The labia were covered in mucus, stretching out glistening strands as they separated. Then, droplets of fluid began to trickle from a small pit beneath the labia. Reaching out
to touch that pit, my mother moved. The labia contracted, the pit becoming a deep, fleshy opening.

Above the labia, a pink bud peeked out. I inserted my finger into my mother's opening,
feeling a violent contraction around it, gripping my finger tightly. Then I released it. In school physiology class, I
knew that what I was touching was a woman's vagina.

My mother opened her eyes, saw that it was just a finger, and then closed them again. She gripped the sofa armrest, her face
showing discomfort. I couldn't take it anymore. I got up, took off my pants, and, imitating what I'd seen in videos, lifted my mother's legs,
straddled her, and pressed her down on the sofa. I held my penis and tried to insert it into her vagina. "No, no..." My
mother sensed my intention and pushed me away forcefully. As my penis entered her labia, she released her grip, took my shoulder, and closed her eyes. My glans moved in and out shallowly a few times before sliding out and ejaculating
on her lower abdomen . "Who taught you to do this?" my mother asked. "No one taught me, I just thought of it myself," I said, afraid to admit I'd watched porn. My mother nodded and said, "Don't do this again. This is that bad thing. Remember?" 　　I said, "Oh, I know." After that, our relationship changed a little. Although I still didn't actually penetrate her, everything was more open. We caressed each other, hugged, and kissed. Except for her period, my mother would take off her underwear before going to bed. Sometimes, when I got her wanting it, she would even masturbate by inserting her fingers into her vagina. But as soon as I mounted her, she would push me away: "You can't do this. It's not good." She always said that, but never explained why it was bad. "Why is it not good? Mom, tell me?" My mother looked at me, her gaze gradually softening: "If Mom does this with you, things will get messed up. What if we get pregnant?" But how could a pale warning withstand the burgeoning curiosity and wild physical needs of a teenager? One summer 　　night in my second year of junior high. My mother and I were naked and intimate as usual. I lay on top of her, licking her genitals and sucking her breasts. Two fingers moved rapidly in and out of her vagina, making her very ecstatic. She held my head and began to moan, "Ah...ah..." By the moonlight, I saw her buttocks glistening with vaginal fluid . Her legs were spread apart, her labia twitching, her opening appearing and disappearing, a sight I couldn't resist any longer. I inserted my penis into her vagina. 　　Entering my mother felt hot and comfortable. After a few thrusts, she realized it was my penis inside . Her hands pushed against my shoulders, but then went limp. "Oh...oh...gentle..." With each thrust, my mother moaned, then hugged me and said, "No...oh...don't rush...slower..." After a dozen more thrusts, I ejaculated. Afterwards, my mother said that when she first helped me masturbate, she had thought this day would come, but she just didn't want to face it. 　　My mother said I was really a troublemaker, making her squat in the bathroom for half a day. I ejaculated inside, and it wasn't her safe period; she was afraid something would happen. She had to squat and let the semen flow out. Fortunately, she got her period again later. "Serve your father first, then you. I don't know what I owed your Li family in my past life." Although she said that, my mother still enjoyed having sex with me. She bought a lot of condoms and taught me how to use them. She also told me to stop for a while when I was about to ejaculate so I could "play a little longer." After school started, we mainly did it in the morning. Often, my mother would have me lift her legs and hoist them onto her shoulders, saying, "Hurry up, my little darling. You'll be late for school... ah... oh... oh... hurry up and fuck me..." When I wanted it, my mother would always give it to me. I especially liked to put my penis into her vagina when she was wearing a neat suit . I knew that her vagina would be itchy all day, and she would come back at night wearing her underwear and flaunt it in front of me. 　　My mother didn't allow me to swear. "Fuck" and "penis" were dirty words in her eyes. But I liked to say them, deliberately teasing her. Maybe it's just her rebellious nature. After hearing it so often, she would sometimes unconsciously blurt it out: "Hurry up and eat, then we'll fuck, oh... ah..." Every time I corrected her, "You can't call it fucking, you have to call it intercourse," my mother would glare at me. But she would quickly give in and continue moaning with her eyes closed. 　　The first time I penetrated her from behind was in the third year of junior high. My mother was shocked that time. She said my father had never done this before. 　　I said, "Haven't you ever watched porn?" She countered, "When did you watch it?" So I confessed. 　　That was the first time we watched porn together. My mother was stunned. I asked her how it felt, and she just smiled foolishly. 　　I teased her, "If you don't like it, I'll turn it off?" Unexpectedly, she grabbed the remote control with one hand and my penis with the other. 　　Both hands were hard. After that, my mother often imitated what she saw in porn while we watched. Her lustful nature gradually emerged. 　　I pushed my mother down on the bed, my penis thrusting into her again and again. She said my penis is now as big as my dad's. 　　I was so happy, my lower abdomen was all hairy, I finally felt like an adult. "Mom, do you and Dad play a lot ?" 　　My mother opened her eyes and shook her head: "Not much." "Really?" I was a little smug. "Then I fuck Dad a lot?" 　　My mother pinched me: "Of course it's you, you dirty-mouthed little devil, you're always messing with me, your dad and I used to only do it once a week." "Then I'm the man who fucks you the most, right? I roughly counted, I've fucked you two or three hundred times. Hehe!" I looked at the woman under me, my mother, and felt really smug...

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