The First Chapter of the Afterword to My Memoirs of My Oedipus Relationship with My Mother: A New Beginning

Even though she has passed away, she lives on forever in my heart. After years of silence, I must say that after sharing these deepest stories, my life seems to have released some pressure. Online, I can speak freely, and no one knows whether it's true or false. I used to write down many past events, but I knew there was no interaction, and no one would know my story.

Several years ago, after YiX published her first article about her mother, I was like water in a reservoir that had reached a breach, overflowing in large quantities. There was no planning, no context; I simply wrote down that initial moment of emotion, partly to satisfy my vanity—wow, someone actually likes my writing!

After that, besides my Oedipus complex, I wrote many articles about mothers and sons, and various fantasies about mature women. However, these were merely to satisfy my memories of women I had encountered in the past. Later, I came to sexinsex and started writing this series about my Oedipus complex. I originally only planned to finish writing parts I and II, which is why there was the hot spring sex scene. Except for the sex scene, everything else in that scene was real. I remember writing about the hot spring again in a supplementary chapter. I couldn't help it because I was already exhausted. After finishing part II, I decided to stop writing.

I have to say that my mindset had changed a lot at that time. I started to think about the true meaning of my relationship with my mother. Was it just simple sexual stimulation? Or the sense of conquest over mature women? Or was it the woman's identity, being a mother, that made me feel more violated? I don't know myself, but whenever I lay in bed and recalled that unspeakable relationship between my mother and me, I got up, connected to the computer, and started writing part III of my Oedipus complex.

Because I wanted to use the power of words to let people know, in a way that was more or less true and half-false, that someone once had this relationship. But the one thing I didn't expect was that I would get trapped in those memories while writing. Some people might notice that in Part III, there are so many personal confessions, constantly repeating the same thing.

It's the incestuous relationship with my mother that makes me feel so guilty and conflicted. So in Part III, you can see that I keep hinting at something, meaning that deep down I really know this is wrong, but unfortunately, I can't get over it. So Part III was abandoned without a conclusion.

After the break, I started consulting a psychologist and told him that I was using writing to release stress, but I didn't expect it to drag me into deeper memories. Fortunately, I've only recently started to get out of it. People should live for themselves, not for others. But my attraction to mature women hasn't changed, especially with my psychologist, who has given me a lot of help, both psychologically and physically.

That day, at the appointed time, I arrived at this quiet clinic again. It was located in a suburb of Taipei, a private clinic recommended by a friend, and only open to VIPs by appointment. I was lucky enough to get here because a friend knew someone there, but honestly, it didn't matter where I went. At that point, I was probably as good as dead.

The first psychiatrist was a woman in her late 30s, with a shapely figure. I had heard from friends before that private clinics catering to the wealthy usually offered special services because rich men's wives are strict. I would just pretend to be sick to go to the hospital; as for going to the hospital when I wasn't sick, that was an open secret.

However, I was going to the psychological counseling department, so it didn't matter to me. The psychology department was on the eighth floor of the hospital, but the elevator pointed to the seventh floor. The psychology department had to be climbed one more flight of stairs, then across an aerial bridge to another small outbuilding. They called it protecting patient privacy, but I thought it was an illegal addition.

My first appointment left me drenched in sweat. Basically, it started with some weird question-and-answer sessions, then I lay on the bed listening to soft music and smelling relaxing incense. The doctor would try to elicit my innermost thoughts. This was my standard operating procedure (SOP) for two months. Honestly, it didn't help me much. I went home still depressed, and seeing anything related to her would make me want to cry.

By the end of the fourth month, I really didn't want to go anymore, so I called to cancel. Surprisingly, the person on the other end was quite insistent, saying I had to go. Fine, I went out, but it started pouring rain as soon as I stepped outside. Damn it! But a promise is a promise, so I had to go anyway.

It was around that time that I met her, my new therapist.

The wind and rain outside had soaked me to the bone. As soon as I entered, a tall woman entered. She wore a light purple knitted sweater that tightly hugged her breasts, perfectly accentuating her curves. She wore a long, narrow white skirt that reached her knees, highlighting the contours of her thighs, waist, and hips. Her face possessed the air of a mature woman, a weathered look born of life's experiences. Her long black hair was neatly tied in a ponytail, with her bangs swept to the left, exposing her right ear and neck.

I paused, then asked, "Where's the doctor from before?" The new doctor said she would be handling my case. Without a smile, she ordered me to the shower to wash myself. I put on the hospital-provided gown and came out. I wanted to follow the standard operating procedure, but the new doctor told me to lie down on the bed—a single bed. She pulled a chair next to me, and as I turned my head, I saw her black stockings. To my surprise, I saw bulges on her long skirt up close. Could these be black stockings with suspenders?

Thinking about this, and remembering the "special services" my friend had mentioned, I wondered if the hospital thought I didn't want to come back and had quickly sent an older woman to seduce me. Thinking this, I decided that no matter what, I wouldn't come back next time. However, no one expected that this treatment would lead to such an unexpected outcome.

After the female doctor briefly discussed my condition with me, she learned that I had come to see her because I couldn't get over my mother complex. She assumed I would just relax by listening to music. However, I didn't expect her to ask me to masturbate in front of her. "Huh? Excuse me, could you say that again?" I asked. The doctor replied expressionlessly, "What's wrong? Am I not attractive enough? Or do I need to do more to provoke you? Like, like this?"

She then propped herself up on the bed, lifting her upper body so her face was face-to-face with mine. I could smell her perfume and the large breasts of her purple sweater. The doctor stuck out her tongue, her eyes half-closed, looking at me with a hazy, half-open gaze. She slowly licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and said, "You don't like me? Don't you like mature women the most?"

I stared blankly at her. She was so seductive, so incredibly lewd. My mind started conjuring up images: this mature, seductive psychiatrist, knowing her psychiatric department rarely had patients, so she went to great lengths to keep them from leaving. Knowing my preferences, she dressed as a highly educated yet lewd doctor, donned a long robe, and began to tease me in every way possible. In this small consultation room, surrounded by her decadent scent, I imagined her face pressed against mine, her tongue slowly licking my earlobe, chin, and neck.

She reached out her right hand, and beneath my robe, my naked body was like a toy. Her slender right hand caressed my chest, down my abdomen, my pubic hair, her crystal nails lightly brushing against me, further arousing my lower body. I could clearly feel the ring on her right ring finger; its coldness added to the stimulation.

The doctor bent her right index finger and thumb into a circle, using a reverse grip, and gently encircled the base of my penis. Through the thick pubic hair, she held the base of my penis with only her index finger and thumb, gently rotating it. Each rotation moved the pubic hair, and gradually, my penis began to engorge with blood. While the doctor's hand rotated, she slowly added a stroking motion, somewhat like the way they do masturbation in Western porn, only the doctor's hand was gentler and used a reverse grip, which felt incredibly comfortable. My

penis was rock hard. I extended my right hand, pressing the back of it against the doctor's white, narrow skirt, sliding it upwards. I could clearly feel the curve of her thighs, the soft flesh of her waist, against her knitted sweater. As my hand moved upwards, I felt my lower breast being supported by her bra. Moving upwards, I pressed the back of my hand against my left breast, tracing a clockwise circle through the sweater, lining, and bra, exciting and stimulating the doctor's nipple.

The doctor's breathing became heavier, his right hand now completely gripping my penis. His robe was completely undone. I lay on the hospital bed. If someone walked into the examination room at this moment, would they know, even through the curtain, that the doctor was masturbating me? My genitals trembled with the doctor's up-and-down movements. My right hand, which had been rubbing my breasts with the back of my hand, now began to knead them with all five fingers, pinching only one side. In the middle, I would repeatedly point at the nipple with my index finger, pressing down hard, and then turning it around. Every time the doctor did this, he would let out a soft moan of pleasure. And every time the doctor's left hand tried to stop me from playing with my breasts, it was blocked by my left hand.

My left hand caressed the doctor's right earlobe, gently kneading it. Seeing the expression on her face, this mature, seductive woman, made my mouth dry. I pressed my left hand against the back of her head, pulling her down, and began sucking on her lips. I sucked hard, pulling and releasing her lower lip, my tongue forcing its way through her teeth, intertwining with hers. I wondered if this wanton, mature woman was offering me sexual services for money
, and if she did the same to other wealthy men.

My right hand slipped under her sweater, exploring upwards until I found her warm, heavy breasts, a large C cup, almost a D. For some reason, as I fantasized about kneading her breasts, old memories flashed through my mind. Had I ever fantasized like this, reaching inside my mother's clothes and playing with her breasts?

But the image of my mother quickly vanished. I continued to fantasize about my right hand kneading the doctor's bra. The bra had lace patterns, and my fingers squeezed between the bra and my breasts, fully feeling the erect nipples. I longed to suckle.

As I imagined the doctor's breasts under her knitwear, her right hand moved with increasing dexterity, expertly swaying up and down. Her warm palm held my penis gently, without applying force, showing great experience. Every time she moved up and down, the lower edge of my glans was scraped by the base of her thumb, making the sensation even more pleasurable. Whether it was rapid stroking or rhythmic swaying, her fingers would occasionally flick my scrotum. All these stimulations made me realize that this mature woman truly understood the needs of young men.

The main reason I like mature women is their experience. They know how to manipulate a man's penis, unlike typical young women who just go through the motions, at most mimicking the lewd oral sex and masturbation techniques in porn. They don't really manipulate the penis, yet they pretend to love it – it just feels fake.

The doctor's right hand, however, felt like genuine service. That queenly, manipulative nature, wanting me to ejaculate but then slowing down just before it happens, reminded me of my mother. The image of her reluctantly masturbating me, yet shyly urging me to ejaculate when holding my penis, or coldly helping me release my pent-up desire, holding my penis with disdain while simultaneously manipulating it with both hands.

The image of my mother overlaps with the doctor's – why? Is it because I haven't fantasized about women in a long time? Really, after so many years, I might have even forgotten sexual fantasies. Only now do I realize that my fascination with mature women is finally sprouting again. Am I back to that person who fantasizes about slutty women?

At this point, I really wanted to see the doctor lying on the table, her plump buttocks raised high. Her fleshy buttocks, covered by her long, narrow white skirt, revealed the outline of her panties and suspenders. Any man would want to thrust into those buttocks hard. A mature woman's buttocks, though not perky, were full and round. If I could penetrate her from behind, it would feel amazing.

Pulling her skirt up to her waist, my hands gripped her lower back, my penis rubbing against the seam of her panties, the head soaked with her juices. The doctor turned and looked at me with a mournful expression, wanting me to enter, to fill her vagina completely.

At this moment, I thought of my mother for the third time, of all the perverse things we did together on the back balcony, circling my penis against her buttocks, continuing to thrust against her with shame, afraid of being punished. Why did I have such courage back then, to challenge the taboo of incest between mother and son?

If I could really have sex with the doctor? Wait, no, my reason kicked in. Why did the doctor make me think about these things? Was it to make me miss my mother through sexual fantasies? Is that really it? Then why did he make me masturbate? Was he just making me release my pent-up emotions? What was the doctor's purpose in making me fantasize about sex?

On a stormy night, the doctor, disregarding moral decay, was giving a patient sexual therapy. These images kept flashing through my mind. In reality, my genitals were slowly becoming engorged with blood. In my fantasy, the doctor's right hand, as the tip of his penis secreted more and more fluid, moved his wrist up and down faster and faster. Finally, I squeezed his C-cup breasts hard with my right hand, my legs straightened and twitched, and after letting out a plea of pleasure, my semen splattered on my lower abdomen, while the doctor's hand was covered with thick, foul-smelling semen.

I longed for this long-awaited ejaculation, wanting to have sex with the doctor. I wanted to grab her hand and relentlessly slam my head against her fleshy buttocks on the hospital bed, watching the tender flesh tremble. Her vagina sucked at my penis; the second time my penis was engorged, it needed the lubrication of her vaginal fluids.

The doctor lay on the bed like a doggy-style position. I pulled her right hand with my left, forcing her to support herself with only her left hand. I held her waist with my right hand, adjusted my penis, and thrust downwards from a slight angle, forcefully pushing deep into her cervix. The doctor groaned, as if she were crying out. There was no way around it; the doctor's previous clients were all wealthy middle-aged bosses. How could a young man like me easily let this slut go?

I licked my lips, letting my penis enjoy the contractions of the doctor's vagina. Her juices had soaked my underwear while she was masturbating me. As I went faster, I had only one thought: to ejaculate deep inside. With my right hand, I grabbed the doctor's ponytail and pulled it back forcefully, tilting her head back and arching her back into a U-shape, her buttocks sticking out even higher. I thrust all the way in, releasing my semen in shuddering bursts. My left hand gripped the doctor's left buttock tightly, giving it a hard slap before reluctantly opening her vagina.

When I came to my senses, the doctor whispered in my ear, "I want to see you masturbate, is that wrong? If you're too scared to do it in front of me, try using me as an object of your sexual fantasies." I wanted to say something, but I couldn't. Was the doctor trying to bring me back to my original self?

The boy who got excited by his mother's plump buttocks? Back to the most primal lust? Thinking about the thrill of having affairs with his mother? I don't understand why the doctor wants me to do this. I admit she's a very attractive woman. If she were walking down the street without her white doctor's coat, perhaps I'd look at her more closely because of her radiant appearance. But now she's a doctor; shouldn't she be helping me?

Is it really just lust? Or something else? If I really follow the treatment, will I be able to escape my nightmare? As I hesitated and was about to leave, the doctor, with her hands in her coat pockets, said to me, "I've seen many patients, and most of them can't get over their own issues, especially emotional ones. Your problem is particularly complicated because it involves family ties—both kinship and affection—the inseparable bond with your mother, a twisted love that society can't accept. Many people fall into this trap under moral pressure."

I turned to look at the doctor. The bright fluorescent light in the examination room shone on me, casting my shadow on the marble floor. The shadow wasn't pure black; it was a blurry, subtle shadow cast by the strong light, like a persistent, haunting demon.

"Doctor, I don't know if there's anything I can do, but I'll try to do what you say. However, I'll consider the masturbation thing. Thank you."

After I left, I drove home, parked the car, and scrolled through my phone. I saw a new message: "No one can live in the past; only by moving forward can the sun shine on your face." Seeing this, tears welled up in my eyes because someone had said something similar to me before.

"Son, no one can live in the past; only by moving forward can you step out of sorrow."

I miss you so much, Mother.

Even though she has passed away, she lives on forever in my heart. After years of silence, I must say that after sharing these deepest stories, my life seems to have released some pressure. Online, I can speak freely, and no one knows whether it's true or false. I used to write down many past events, but I knew there was no interaction, and no one would know my story.

Several years ago, after YiX published her first article about her mother, I was like water in a reservoir that had reached a breach, overflowing in large quantities. There was no planning, no context; I simply wrote down that initial moment of emotion, partly to satisfy my vanity—wow, someone actually likes my writing!

After that, besides my Oedipus complex, I wrote many articles about mothers and sons, and various fantasies about mature women. However, these were merely to satisfy my memories of women I had encountered in the past. Later, I came to sexinsex and started writing this series about my Oedipus complex. I originally only planned to finish writing parts I and II, which is why there was the hot spring sex scene. Except for the sex scene, everything else in that scene was real. I remember writing about the hot spring again in a supplementary chapter. I couldn't help it because I was already exhausted. After finishing part II, I decided to stop writing.

I have to say that my mindset had changed a lot at that time. I started to think about the true meaning of my relationship with my mother. Was it just simple sexual stimulation? Or the sense of conquest over mature women? Or was it the woman's identity, being a mother, that made me feel more violated? I don't know myself, but whenever I lay in bed and recalled that unspeakable relationship between my mother and me, I got up, connected to the computer, and started writing part III of my Oedipus complex.

Because I wanted to use the power of words to let people know, in a way that was more or less true and half-false, that someone once had this relationship. But the one thing I didn't expect was that I would get trapped in those memories while writing. Some people might notice that in Part III, there are so many personal confessions, constantly repeating the same thing.

It's the incestuous relationship with my mother that makes me feel so guilty and conflicted. So in Part III, you can see that I keep hinting at something, meaning that deep down I really know this is wrong, but unfortunately, I can't get over it. So Part III was abandoned without a conclusion.

After the break, I started consulting a psychologist and told him that I was using writing to release stress, but I didn't expect it to drag me into deeper memories. Fortunately, I've only recently started to get out of it. People should live for themselves, not for others. But my attraction to mature women hasn't changed, especially with my psychologist, who has given me a lot of help, both psychologically and physically.

That day, at the appointed time, I arrived at this quiet clinic again. It was located in a suburb of Taipei, a private clinic recommended by a friend, and only open to VIPs by appointment. I was lucky enough to get here because a friend knew someone there, but honestly, it didn't matter where I went. At that point, I was probably as good as dead.

The first psychiatrist was a woman in her late 30s, with a shapely figure. I had heard from friends before that private clinics catering to the wealthy usually offered special services because rich men's wives are strict. I would just pretend to be sick to go to the hospital; as for going to the hospital when I wasn't sick, that was an open secret.

However, I was going to the psychological counseling department, so it didn't matter to me. The psychology department was on the eighth floor of the hospital, but the elevator pointed to the seventh floor. The psychology department had to be climbed one more flight of stairs, then across an aerial bridge to another small outbuilding. They called it protecting patient privacy, but I thought it was an illegal addition.

My first appointment left me drenched in sweat. Basically, it started with some weird question-and-answer sessions, then I lay on the bed listening to soft music and smelling relaxing incense. The doctor would try to elicit my innermost thoughts. This was my standard operating procedure (SOP) for two months. Honestly, it didn't help me much. I went home still depressed, and seeing anything related to her would make me want to cry.

By the end of the fourth month, I really didn't want to go anymore, so I called to cancel. Surprisingly, the person on the other end was quite insistent, saying I had to go. Fine, I went out, but it started pouring rain as soon as I stepped outside. Damn it! But a promise is a promise, so I had to go anyway.

It was around that time that I met her, my new therapist.

The wind and rain outside had soaked me to the bone. As soon as I entered, a tall woman entered. She wore a light purple knitted sweater that tightly hugged her breasts, perfectly accentuating her curves. She wore a long, narrow white skirt that reached her knees, highlighting the contours of her thighs, waist, and hips. Her face possessed the air of a mature woman, a weathered look born of life's experiences. Her long black hair was neatly tied in a ponytail, with her bangs swept to the left, exposing her right ear and neck.

I paused, then asked, "Where's the doctor from before?" The new doctor said she would be handling my case. Without a smile, she ordered me to the shower to wash myself. I put on the hospital-provided gown and came out. I wanted to follow the standard operating procedure, but the new doctor told me to lie down on the bed—a single bed. She pulled a chair next to me, and as I turned my head, I saw her black stockings. To my surprise, I saw bulges on her long skirt up close. Could these be black stockings with suspenders?

Thinking about this, and remembering the "special services" my friend had mentioned, I wondered if the hospital thought I didn't want to come back and had quickly sent an older woman to seduce me. Thinking this, I decided that no matter what, I wouldn't come back next time. However, no one expected that this treatment would lead to such an unexpected outcome.

After the female doctor briefly discussed my condition with me, she learned that I had come to see her because I couldn't get over my mother complex. She assumed I would just relax by listening to music. However, I didn't expect her to ask me to masturbate in front of her. "Huh? Excuse me, could you say that again?" I asked. The doctor replied expressionlessly, "What's wrong? Am I not attractive enough? Or do I need to do more to provoke you? Like, like this?"

She then propped herself up on the bed, lifting her upper body so her face was face-to-face with mine. I could smell her perfume and the large breasts of her purple sweater. The doctor stuck out her tongue, her eyes half-closed, looking at me with a hazy, half-open gaze. She slowly licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and said, "You don't like me? Don't you like mature women the most?"

I stared blankly at her. She was so seductive, so incredibly lewd. My mind started conjuring up images: this mature, seductive psychiatrist, knowing her psychiatric department rarely had patients, so she went to great lengths to keep them from leaving. Knowing my preferences, she dressed as a highly educated yet lewd doctor, donned a long robe, and began to tease me in every way possible. In this small consultation room, surrounded by her decadent scent, I imagined her face pressed against mine, her tongue slowly licking my earlobe, chin, and neck.

She reached out her right hand, and beneath my robe, my naked body was like a toy. Her slender right hand caressed my chest, down my abdomen, my pubic hair, her crystal nails lightly brushing against me, further arousing my lower body. I could clearly feel the ring on her right ring finger; its coldness added to the stimulation.

The doctor bent her right index finger and thumb into a circle, using a reverse grip, and gently encircled the base of my penis. Through the thick pubic hair, she held the base of my penis with only her index finger and thumb, gently rotating it. Each rotation moved the pubic hair, and gradually, my penis began to engorge with blood. While the doctor's hand rotated, she slowly added a stroking motion, somewhat like the way they do masturbation in Western porn, only the doctor's hand was gentler and used a reverse grip, which felt incredibly comfortable. My

penis was rock hard. I extended my right hand, pressing the back of it against the doctor's white, narrow skirt, sliding it upwards. I could clearly feel the curve of her thighs, the soft flesh of her waist, against her knitted sweater. As my hand moved upwards, I felt my lower breast being supported by her bra. Moving upwards, I pressed the back of my hand against my left breast, tracing a clockwise circle through the sweater, lining, and bra, exciting and stimulating the doctor's nipple.

The doctor's breathing became heavier, his right hand now completely gripping my penis. His robe was completely undone. I lay on the hospital bed. If someone walked into the examination room at this moment, would they know, even through the curtain, that the doctor was masturbating me? My genitals trembled with the doctor's up-and-down movements. My right hand, which had been rubbing my breasts with the back of my hand, now began to knead them with all five fingers, pinching only one side. In the middle, I would repeatedly point at the nipple with my index finger, pressing down hard, and then turning it around. Every time the doctor did this, he would let out a soft moan of pleasure. And every time the doctor's left hand tried to stop me from playing with my breasts, it was blocked by my left hand.

My left hand caressed the doctor's right earlobe, gently kneading it. Seeing the expression on her face, this mature, seductive woman, made my mouth dry. I pressed my left hand against the back of her head, pulling her down, and began sucking on her lips. I sucked hard, pulling and releasing her lower lip, my tongue forcing its way through her teeth, intertwining with hers. I wondered if this wanton, mature woman was offering me sexual services for money
, and if she did the same to other wealthy men.

My right hand slipped under her sweater, exploring upwards until I found her warm, heavy breasts, a large C cup, almost a D. For some reason, as I fantasized about kneading her breasts, old memories flashed through my mind. Had I ever fantasized like this, reaching inside my mother's clothes and playing with her breasts?

But the image of my mother quickly vanished. I continued to fantasize about my right hand kneading the doctor's bra. The bra had lace patterns, and my fingers squeezed between the bra and my breasts, fully feeling the erect nipples. I longed to suckle.

As I imagined the doctor's breasts under her knitwear, her right hand moved with increasing dexterity, expertly swaying up and down. Her warm palm held my penis gently, without applying force, showing great experience. Every time she moved up and down, the lower edge of my glans was scraped by the base of her thumb, making the sensation even more pleasurable. Whether it was rapid stroking or rhythmic swaying, her fingers would occasionally flick my scrotum. All these stimulations made me realize that this mature woman truly understood the needs of young men.

The main reason I like mature women is their experience. They know how to manipulate a man's penis, unlike typical young women who just go through the motions, at most mimicking the lewd oral sex and masturbation techniques in porn. They don't really manipulate the penis, yet they pretend to love it – it just feels fake.

The doctor's right hand, however, felt like genuine service. That queenly, manipulative nature, wanting me to ejaculate but then slowing down just before it happens, reminded me of my mother. The image of her reluctantly masturbating me, yet shyly urging me to ejaculate when holding my penis, or coldly helping me release my pent-up desire, holding my penis with disdain while simultaneously manipulating it with both hands.

The image of my mother overlaps with the doctor's – why? Is it because I haven't fantasized about women in a long time? Really, after so many years, I might have even forgotten sexual fantasies. Only now do I realize that my fascination with mature women is finally sprouting again. Am I back to that person who fantasizes about slutty women?

At this point, I really wanted to see the doctor lying on the table, her plump buttocks raised high. Her fleshy buttocks, covered by her long, narrow white skirt, revealed the outline of her panties and suspenders. Any man would want to thrust into those buttocks hard. A mature woman's buttocks, though not perky, were full and round. If I could penetrate her from behind, it would feel amazing.

Pulling her skirt up to her waist, my hands gripped her lower back, my penis rubbing against the seam of her panties, the head soaked with her juices. The doctor turned and looked at me with a mournful expression, wanting me to enter, to fill her vagina completely.

At this moment, I thought of my mother for the third time, of all the perverse things we did together on the back balcony, circling my penis against her buttocks, continuing to thrust against her with shame, afraid of being punished. Why did I have such courage back then, to challenge the taboo of incest between mother and son?

If I could really have sex with the doctor? Wait, no, my reason kicked in. Why did the doctor make me think about these things? Was it to make me miss my mother through sexual fantasies? Is that really it? Then why did he make me masturbate? Was he just making me release my pent-up emotions? What was the doctor's purpose in making me fantasize about sex?

On a stormy night, the doctor, disregarding moral decay, was giving a patient sexual therapy. These images kept flashing through my mind. In reality, my genitals were slowly becoming engorged with blood. In my fantasy, the doctor's right hand, as the tip of his penis secreted more and more fluid, moved his wrist up and down faster and faster. Finally, I squeezed his C-cup breasts hard with my right hand, my legs straightened and twitched, and after letting out a plea of pleasure, my semen splattered on my lower abdomen, while the doctor's hand was covered with thick, foul-smelling semen.

I longed for this long-awaited ejaculation, wanting to have sex with the doctor. I wanted to grab her hand and relentlessly slam my head against her fleshy buttocks on the hospital bed, watching the tender flesh tremble. Her vagina sucked at my penis; the second time my penis was engorged, it needed the lubrication of her vaginal fluids.

The doctor lay on the bed like a doggy-style position. I pulled her right hand with my left, forcing her to support herself with only her left hand. I held her waist with my right hand, adjusted my penis, and thrust downwards from a slight angle, forcefully pushing deep into her cervix. The doctor groaned, as if she were crying out. There was no way around it; the doctor's previous clients were all wealthy middle-aged bosses. How could a young man like me easily let this slut go?

I licked my lips, letting my penis enjoy the contractions of the doctor's vagina. Her juices had soaked my underwear while she was masturbating me. As I went faster, I had only one thought: to ejaculate deep inside. With my right hand, I grabbed the doctor's ponytail and pulled it back forcefully, tilting her head back and arching her back into a U-shape, her buttocks sticking out even higher. I thrust all the way in, releasing my semen in shuddering bursts. My left hand gripped the doctor's left buttock tightly, giving it a hard slap before reluctantly opening her vagina.

When I came to my senses, the doctor whispered in my ear, "I want to see you masturbate, is that wrong? If you're too scared to do it in front of me, try using me as an object of your sexual fantasies." I wanted to say something, but I couldn't. Was the doctor trying to bring me back to my original self?

The boy who got excited by his mother's plump buttocks? Back to the most primal lust? Thinking about the thrill of having affairs with his mother? I don't understand why the doctor wants me to do this. I admit she's a very attractive woman. If she were walking down the street without her white doctor's coat, perhaps I'd look at her more closely because of her radiant appearance. But now she's a doctor; shouldn't she be helping me?

Is it really just lust? Or something else? If I really follow the treatment, will I be able to escape my nightmare? As I hesitated and was about to leave, the doctor, with her hands in her coat pockets, said to me, "I've seen many patients, and most of them can't get over their own issues, especially emotional ones. Your problem is particularly complicated because it involves family ties—both kinship and affection—the inseparable bond with your mother, a twisted love that society can't accept. Many people fall into this trap under moral pressure."

I turned to look at the doctor. The bright fluorescent light in the examination room shone on me, casting my shadow on the marble floor. The shadow wasn't pure black; it was a blurry, subtle shadow cast by the strong light, like a persistent, haunting demon.

"Doctor, I don't know if there's anything I can do, but I'll try to do what you say. However, I'll consider the masturbation thing. Thank you."

After I left, I drove home, parked the car, and scrolled through my phone. I saw a new message: "No one can live in the past; only by moving forward can the sun shine on your face." Seeing this, tears welled up in my eyes because someone had said something similar to me before.

"Son, no one can live in the past; only by moving forward can you step out of sorrow."

I miss you so much, Mother.

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The First Chapter of the Afterword to My Memoirs of My Oedipus Relationship with My Mother: A New Beginning

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