Son, do your best!

page views:1 Publication date:2023-06-11 13:33:25

My father passed away when I was 17, and my mother was only 39, still very young. Later, a man at school, six years older than my mother, took a liking to her. This man had just received an apartment and had savings; his conditions were quite good. But I just didn't like him, and he disliked me too. We often argued about this, and my mother had no choice but to break up with him. My mother said, "It's okay to suffer a little, but I can't let my child suffer! You should leave." I knew my mother was angry because of that man, and she said many hurtful things to my mother, which greatly affected her, even causing her to miss out on a promotion at school. My mother didn't say anything about the gossip, but she must have been very bitter inside. At that time, I only half understood, but I knew it was because of me.

My mother was a beautiful woman, and a recognized beauty. She often said that aesthetic ability determines taste, and taste determines temperament. I think what she didn't say was: temperament makes a person's appearance stand out.

At that age, the instincts unique to children were stirring, which made me curious and aware of the opposite sex, and gave me a special feeling and closeness to my mother.

“Ping’er, if you don’t understand something, just ask your mother.” My mother often said this to me. Perhaps she knew that I had become very introverted after losing my father. She was afraid that I would keep things bottled up inside and develop a flawed outlook on life. “What if you get angry?” I asked her. She smiled and said, “Mom won’t really be angry with her son.” Indeed. My mother had never really been angry with me. Even though some of her questions seem absurd and trivial now, she still gave reasonable explanations. Gradually, I became more and more interested in matters between men and women. I talked to my mother about more and more things.

“Mom, how did I come to be?” I pressed on. “I mean, how did I get into Mom’s belly in the first place? And how did I come out?” Actually, at that time, I vaguely knew a little about matters between men and women. Asking my mother this was not only out of curiosity, but also because I wanted to see her embarrassed, which I found a bit exciting. She was silent for only 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, and I'll tell you after dinner."

My mother was occasionally a little cunning. Though not often, she used it at crucial moments. She told me that sometimes students would ask questions outside the curriculum. Some of these questions even the teacher didn't know the answers to. In such cases, she could choose to ignore them. Because 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 just a sentence?" But she couldn't make herself too difficult, otherwise the class wouldn't be able to continue. At this time, she would always say gently, "Student, class time is limited, and 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 self-study this afternoon, and I'll explain it to you. Okay?" A few reasonable words resolved the awkward situation. Afterward, she had time to prepare. She

also used this tactic on me. Before bed, when I pressed her for an answer again, my mother turned over, as if she had 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, and it became an embryo. After ten months, the embryo grew, and after birth, you were the little you you were."

My mother's answer was too cunning; I hadn't succeeded, so I wasn't about to give up: "Mommy, how did Daddy's sperm get into your tummy?" My mother frowned, but then became quiet again. She probably expected her son to ask so many questions. "Swimming!" she said vividly. "Sperm are like tadpoles; they swim in by themselves." As she spoke, she turned to the inside of the bed, pulled the blanket over herself, leaving me exposed. It was probably a signal that it was time to go back to my room.

I still wouldn't give up, and crawled back under the covers, tugging at her shoulder: "Then where did the sperm swim in from? Can I see?" My mother's face turned bright red, and she turned to stare at me; I think she was extremely embarrassed at that moment. But as expected of 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 breaking point sometimes, haha. Pretending not to understand, I 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 back 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. "Okay, that's the last one. After you tell me, you should go to sleep." I scratched my head and asked, "You said earlier that I grew up in your belly and then was born. From where did I come out?" I thought this question would keep my mother awake, but to my surprise, she chuckled, lifted the covers, sat up, and said, "Have you heard of a cesarean section? It's when they cut open Mom's belly and take you out. Look, there's still a scar." As she spoke, she turned on the lamp, lifted her pajamas, and showed me a scar more than an inch long on her lower abdomen.

"Look, it's right here. It's long, isn't it? Mom carried you for so long, and even had to go through a C-section to bring you into this world. It wasn't easy!" Oh my god! I was incredibly moved when I heard that. My eyes welled up with tears: "Mom..." My voice trembled with sobs. Sigh, I never expected my mother to be so capable, handling this naughty boy with such ease. This tactic was already in her "teaching syllabus." My mother pulled me close, hugged me tightly, kissed my cheek, and 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 was current events, principles of conduct, everyday life tips, or even questions about sex, my mother always handled them well. No matter what I asked, she always gave a reasonable and well-reasoned answer. She would occasionally offer her own advice. Because we could chat freely, I felt very happy 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 treat her child with a calm and accepting heart. She knew exactly what to say and what not to say, and how to say it appropriately. She satisfied my curiosity without conveying any problematic information.

At that time, I only vaguely understood the emotions between men and women. I saw boys and girls on the street with their arms around each other, and it seemed quite friendly. I also imitated them, hugging my mother like that. Like any mother who spoils her child, she didn't get angry; on the contrary, she seemed to enjoy me whispering to her face like that. Perhaps my mother had been too lonely these past two years. Back then, she never found it annoying to chat with me, her little brat. 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 dealing with the end-of-semester chores, my mother also had a vacation. Now she could get up later, and we talked about everything. We talked about everything from inside and outside of school, her colleagues, my classmates, all sorts of things, and we talked about many interesting things. Sometimes we talked so late that we slept together.

My mother wore pajamas, the kind of long nightgown with straps. I don't know if other women are like this, but she probably felt uncomfortable and always took off her bra before bed. When I nestled in my mother's arms, I often saw two small mounds on her chest, which greatly stimulated me. Those round mounds had always attracted me since I was little. But before, I would just rest my head there; I never felt this way, wanting to touch them. At first, it was a tentative touch; they were very soft, like jelly. Seeing that my mother didn't pay attention, I became much bolder and started gently kneading them while she was asleep. Later, I simply slipped my hand under her nightgown from her neckline.

"Hey, what are you doing! Your hands are so cold." My mother woke up and caught me red-handed. "Why aren't you asleep? What are you doing?" My mother was a little unhappy and pulled my hand out: "Go to sleep quickly, 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 in a spoiled tone, "Mommy, 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 said with a hint of exasperation, "You're so old already, still so clingy, you don't act like a big kid at all. What, do you still want to nurse?" As she spoke, she patted my bottom.

"I want to eat! I want to eat!" I looked up at my mother and licked my lips. She chuckled, annoyed. Shaking her head helplessly, she flicked my forehead with her index finger: "Wanting to eat is useless, Mom doesn't have any milk anymore." When I was little, my mother didn't mind me touching her breasts. Before I was six, even when others were around, I often reached inside her clothes to touch them. She just looked at me and smiled, not angry. Back then, my father said she spoiled me too much. Maybe so, mothers always spoil their sons.

Many years later, I understood a bit about men and women, and when I touched that area again, my mindset had changed quite a bit. But my mother still seemed to treat me like a child, occasionally teasing me. "Ping'er. You're so big and you still sleep with your mother. Aren't you afraid people will laugh at you?" My mother stared at me with a half-smile. "I'm not afraid, anyway, no one else sees," I said.

My mother's breasts were full and slightly sagging. Gently squeezing them, I could feel something flowing inside. My mother seemed a little uncomfortable from my pinching, and she pressed my hand down, saying, "Just because you can't see it doesn't mean you can! Isn't that like burying your head in the sand?" "No, no!" I pointed out her mistake: "Burying your head in the sand means pretending not to know after someone has created something. But no one has created anything 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 felt 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?" 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!" As I spoke, I took one of her breasts in my hand, 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 get married sooner or later." She shook her head and added, "I'm getting off-topic. Let me ask you: 'Aren't you ashamed to still sleep with your mother and still be breastfeeding at your age?'" A thought struck me: "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. Several of my classmates, like me, live with their mothers, but they all sleep in separate beds. Why is that?

That year I was 19, and regarding sex, I was probably more ignorant and naive than 8 or 9-year-olds are now. At the time, my penis was a little red and sore. For the next few days, my mother would often pull down my pants to look, but she no longer touched it with her hand. She let me retract my foreskin and feel the swollen area to see if it hurt. It wasn't until a few days later that it was completely healed. My mother never said anything to me about this, but her attitude towards me changed afterward. Perhaps through this incident, she was creating the impression that I had grown up, that I was a little man who couldn't be ignored.

"From now on, you should sleep by yourself," my mother finally pushed my hand away. Perhaps it was to establish my ability to ejaculate, but she wouldn't let me touch her breasts while sleeping. "Your son is grown up now, he can't always sleep with his mother, understand?" she said. I felt a little sad: "Mom, why can't a son sleep with his mother?" My mother hesitated, looking at the ceiling, and said, "It's because...we're afraid of doing 'that'." I asked again, "What is 'that'?" My mother pouted, helplessly saying, "Some boys, when they sleep with their mothers, do 'that' with their mothers, they're bullying their mothers. Anyway, you'll understand when you grow up. So boys can't sleep with their mothers." "Mom, I'm your child. I only want to be good to you. How could I bully you?" I felt a little wronged.

At that moment, I thought about the relationship between men and women, and suddenly I understood: a mother is a woman, and a son is a man. A mother and son can also have 'that' between a man and a woman. Just like how a father and mother might do that. But a mother and son definitely can't do 'that'. Thinking of 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 swelling. My mother

hummed in agreement, her face turning red again. She nodded and said, "We won't do anything bad. That's fine." I suddenly felt a little tempted, and hugged my mother's neck, knowingly asking, "Is hugging Mom like this considered 'something bad'?" My mother laughed and said, "No! If it were me, I would have hit you already." I chuckled inwardly and asked, "Then how about this?" As I spoke, I hugged her even tighter and kissed her on the cheek. My mother said, "It shouldn'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 feel suddenly hot, a strange sensation.

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 excitement emboldened me to do something unexpected: I pressed her shoulders and kissed her lips. My mother was startled and pushed me away. She was strong, and with a forceful push, 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 hurt yourself?" She came over to help me up, stroking my head, her expression very anxious. My body was burning with desire. I grabbed my mother and pounced on her, pinning her to the bed. She couldn't push me away anymore. In desperation, she tried to hit me, but I endured the pain and continued kissing her, refusing to get up. Perhaps afraid of hurting me, she lessened her blows after a couple of hits. I seized the opportunity to grab her wrists and pin her to the bed, then continued kissing her. After

kissing for a while, I suddenly felt a throbbing in my lower abdomen, followed by a wetness in my pants. I felt a little lost, unsure 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, scratched my head, and said with a grin, "Is this what you meant by 'bad things'?" My mother was taken aback at first, then burst out laughing. 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?" I could tell her initial tension and timidity had been replaced by helplessness and amusement; I wondered if she had 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 found it funny 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 to wipe it off.

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 sleeping naked in my room, so she made me take them off. Compared to the chill of my room, cuddling with my mother was much warmer. From then on, my mother trapped herself in this situation. Every winter vacation, my mother and I would sleep together, always holding her tightly, and she would have no choice but to hold 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, I opened my eyes to see 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 unhappy 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 over my mother's stomach and hugged her even tighter. But this meant my erect penis was pressing against her lower abdomen. My mother touched it, realized what she was holding, quickly pushed me away, opened the drawer by the bedside, took out a pair of her underwear and shoved it 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. You're all grown up now." She noticed the change in the base of my penis. I laughed and took the underwear, but my penis was so swollen, 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..." She stopped abruptly, probably realizing something was wrong.

I knew that touching her breasts would make her more talkative, so I grasped one and gently rubbed it. "Oh," my mother's mouth opened slightly, and she made a soft sound, wrapping her arms around me. Seeing that my mother seemed a little hesitant, I asked, "Mom, is 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 brief, and I wasn't satisfied. I circled her breasts with both hands and whispered in her ear, "How much bigger?" Her breathing was a little heavy, and she didn't answer me. I rolled over and pressed myself against her 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. 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, covered them with her hands, and closed her eyes again.

I felt her breathing quicken, pried her hands open, and pulled them to grasp my penis. "How thick?" I asked her, simultaneously grasping both of her breasts. She didn't resist anymore, breathing heavily with her eyes closed: "...a little thicker." She was still holding my penis in her hands. I felt very good; those two mounds were soft like jelly, the nipples were large and hard in my mouth. I straddled my mother's waist, sucking on her breasts. About ten minutes passed like this. She started moving her hands back and forth on my penis. That pleasure enveloped me, and I couldn't help but want to shout: "Ah!" With a loud cry, I ejaculated again. My penis throbbed a dozen times, and I felt an unprecedented pleasure.

"Get off," she slapped my buttocks, tore off some paper for me, and sat up to clean herself. Semen sprayed onto my mother's lower abdomen, and the front of her underwear was completely wet. 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'd ever seen a woman's genitals; there was no penis, just a dark tuft of hair. Because she was facing away from me, I couldn't see anything further down.

I remembered her saying, "You can't look at where someone urinates," so I wanted to take a closer look. 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, and I'm getting old," my mother said, stroking my head. "Mom, you're not old at all. I heard many students at school like you," my mother laughed. She whispered in my ear, "Is it comfortable?" I nodded, my hand caressing her breasts, and asked, "Mom, what's making you feel so good?" My mother smiled, gently pushed my hand away, and pulled her nightgown off her head. She touched my penis and made me hold it, saying, "Hold it yourself, one in front and one behind, just like that, it feels better than touching the front with your hand." I stroked her bare breasts with one hand and my own penis with the other, feeling a little lightheaded. She laughed, tucked her semi-erect penis back into her underwear, and said, "You can't do this all the time, it's bad for your figure. Once a week at most, okay?"

But my actual needs at that age far exceeded my mother's request. Our daily intimacy made my mother feel uncomfortable. She wanted me to do it myself, but I always said it was uncomfortable. Sometimes while watching TV, I would take it out and let her hold it, while I would also reach inside 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 my senior year of high school, it had become once every two days. During that year, besides intimacy 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 excited me greatly. I know what it's like for men and women to do that, but I find a woman's private parts even more mysterious.

I've tried touching her while she's asleep; from the outside, it feels like soft flesh and a tuft of stiff hair. But touching inside is difficult; her panties are tightly wrapped, and it's hard to take them off without waking her. Sometimes when my mother rubs my genitals, I deliberately suck on her breasts. This way, my penis is close to her lower body, and I can ejaculate all my semen onto her panties. Sometimes, after ejaculating in the middle of the night, she's too lazy to get up and change her panties, so she just takes them off and leaves them aside before going back to sleep. That's when I have 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, turning to the side to adjust her position: "From underneath, don't tear the neckline." She didn't answer, but took my hand and stroked her breasts from under her clothes. "Mom, I'm asking you. Why?" My mother thought for a moment and said, "Because you're still young, you don't know enough about sex. When you grow up and understand more, you can look. But not at me, but at people you like." I pinched her nipple and shook my head, "I can learn if I don't understand, why can't I look? Besides, I like Mom." My mother laughed, "Don't pretend, you know what I mean by 'like.' It means you can look at your girlfriend's, but not mine. I'm your mother, you have to respect me. Looking is disrespectful. Ah... oh...

" I pinched my mother's nipple too hard, and she slapped me. I could only gently rub her nipple: "Mom, why is it disrespectful of me to see this? It doesn't make sense. If I respect you in my heart, I'll still respect you even if I see it. Didn't you say that proof needs to be based on reason and evidence? This has no evidence." My mother nodded and gently stroked my penis a few times: "Actually, I shouldn't have told you these things. But you're still young, so it's not a big deal. When you get older, it won't be good, otherwise you'll go astray, understand?" "Mom, actually, I've already seen your private parts." My mother's hand on my penis was stroking it faster and faster, and I couldn't help but blurt it out.

"What?" My mother was stunned. I held my mother's hand and continued stroking it, kissing her cheek. I said, "Sometimes you don't wear underwear, and I see it in the morning. Two pieces of flesh, and if you pull them apart, there are two more, all red. See, I didn't become bad after seeing it. I used to always wonder what it was like, but after seeing it, I won't have those wild thoughts anymore." My mother lowered her head and silently rubbed my penis. I was pleased by her rubbing and couldn't help but stroke her thigh. "Mom, let me touch you." I slipped my hand under her skirt 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 and said, word by word. I nodded. I knew she meant sex. I said, "I'm sure I won't, Mom, I promise you." My mother's body went limp, and her hand loosened. My hand brushed against her crotch, feeling the dampness in my palm. She didn't resist anymore, wrapping her arms around my neck, her breathing becoming rapid. I kissed my mother passionately, one hand caressing her breasts, the other slipping inside her panties, directly touching her tender vulva.

Beneath the downy pubic hair was a patch of warm, moist flesh; after a few strokes, my mother began to pant heavily. I straightened up, lifting her skirt. My mother leaned against the back of the sofa, opening her eyes to look at me, her gaze somewhat dazed. I lifted her thighs, intending to pull down her panties, but she lifted her legs, letting me rip them off, then closed her eyes again. I couldn't wait to see what it looked like there, so I pushed her legs apart, revealing the thick patch of dark hair. I squatted down, so I could see her genitals very closely. At the base of her snow-white thighs, two thick labia majora sandwiched a brownish fleshy patch; parting the labia revealed a scarlet interior. Her labia were covered in sticky fluid, leaving glistening strands as she withdrew. Then, droplets of water began to trickle from the small pit beneath her labia. Reaching out to touch that pit, my mother moved. The labia contracted, the pit transforming into a deep, fleshy opening. Above the labia, a pink bud peeked out. I inserted my finger into my mother's opening, feeling intense compression all around. I gripped my finger tightly, then released it. I knew from sex education class that what I was touching was a woman's vagina.

My mother opened her eyes, saw that it was just my finger, and closed them again. She gripped the sofa armrest, her face showing discomfort. I couldn't take it anymore. I got up, pulled down my pants, and, mimicking what I'd seen in the video, lifted my mother's legs, straddled her, and pressed her onto the sofa, my hand gripping my penis as I tried to insert it into her opening. "No, no—" My mother sensed my intention and pushed me away violently. But as I inserted my penis into her labia, she released her grip, held onto my shoulders, and closed her eyes. After a few shallow thrusts in and out of her vagina, the head of my penis slid out and ejaculated onto her lower abdomen.

"Who taught you to do this?" my mother asked me. "No one taught me, I just thought of it myself," I said, not daring to admit I'd watched porn. My mother nodded and said, "Don't do this again. This is what's wrong with you, remember?" I said, "Oh, I know."

After that, my relationship with my mother changed a bit. Although we still didn't actually penetrate each other, we were much more open. We touched each other, hugged and kissed. Except for her period, my mother would take off her underwear before going to bed. Sometimes, I would make her want to do it too, and she would even masturbate by inserting her fingers into her vagina. But whenever I rode on top of 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 wrong. "Why is it not good? Mom, tell me?" My mother looked at me, her eyes softening: "If Mom does this with you, things will get messed up. What if we get pregnant?" But how could a pale warning stop the burgeoning curiosity and wild physical needs of a young man?

One summer during my senior year of high school, my mother and I were naked and intimate again, just like always. 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 feel very aroused. She held my head and began to moan, "Ahhh... Ahhh..." In the moonlight, I saw that her buttocks were covered with glistening vaginal fluid. Her legs were spread apart, her labia were moving, and her vaginal opening was sometimes visible and sometimes hidden. I couldn't resist any longer, and I thrust my penis into her vagina.

Entering my mother's wet and slippery little cunt, I felt it was very hot and comfortable inside. I moved on top of her a few times before she realized that my penis was inside. Her hands pushed against my shoulders, but then went limp. "Ouch... Oh... Gently..." With my thrusting, my mother moaned for a while. She hugged me and said, "No... Oh... Don't be too fast... Slow down..." Under my mother's guidance, I thrust my penis hard, fucking my mother's little cunt with all my might. My mother also raised her buttocks to meet my thrusts. My mother started moaning softly, panting. I felt myself ejaculating, and after a dozen or so thrusts, I ejaculated. Because I didn't know anything, I just ejaculated inside her in my excitement.

Afterwards, my mother said that when she first helped me masturbate, she knew 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 her, 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, and she was relieved.

Later, my mother scolded me, saying, "You 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 our sex life. She bought me a lot of condoms, taught me how to use them, and even told me to stop for a while when I was about to ejaculate so I could "play a little longer."

After school started, whenever I wanted, my mother would give them to me. I especially loved inserting my penis into her vagina when she was dressed in her neat suit. I knew her vagina would itch all day, and she would come home at night and strut around in front of me in her underwear. We mainly did it in the early 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..." My mother forbade me to use dirty words; "fucking" and "penis" were considered dirty words by her. But I loved it when she said it like that, and sometimes I would tease her on purpose.

Maybe because I heard it so often, she would sometimes unconsciously say it out loud: "Hurry up and eat, we'll fuck you later, hey... ah..." At this point, I would deliberately correct her: "You can't call it 'fucking,' you have to call it 'intercourse.'" My mother would glare at me. But after a few hard thrusts, Mom quickly couldn't hold back her pleasure and kept moaning with her eyes closed.

The first time I penetrated her from behind was during my freshman year of college. My mother was surprised that time; she said my father had never done anything like that. I asked her, "Haven't you ever watched porn?" She retorted, "When did you watch it?" So I confessed.

That was the first time we watched porn together, and my mother was mesmerized. I asked her how she felt, and she just smiled foolishly. I teased her, "If you don't like it, I'll turn it off?" To my surprise, she grabbed the remote control with one hand and my penis with the other, both hands hard. After that, my mother often imitated what she saw in porn while we watched and did it together, and her lustful nature gradually surfaced.

I pushed my mother down on the bed, thrusting my penis into her repeatedly. She said her penis was now as big as my dad's. Her lower abdomen was also covered in hair; she finally looked like an adult. I was very happy to hear this and said, "Mom, do you and Dad play together a lot?" My mother opened her eyes and shook her head: "Not much." "Is that so?" I was a little smug. "So, who fucks you more, me or your dad?" My mother pinched me. "Of course it's you, you dirty-mouthed little devil! You're always bothering me. Your dad and I only do it once a week."

"Then I'm the man who's fucked you the most, right? Actually, I roughly calculated it, I've fucked you five or six hundred times, Mom, we're an old married couple." I looked at the woman beneath me, my mother! Her pink arms were tightly wrapped around my neck, her face flushed as she looked at me, making me feel like I was ascending to heaven with sexual bliss… [The End]

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