The mother's love, romantic love, and sexual love between mother and son [The End]

Over twenty years ago, my parents officially became husband and wife. My mother was about 25 years old that year, and a year later, I came into the world. The arrival of this new life brought both joy and trouble. My young father had to work twice as hard to feed his wife and son, while my mother stayed home with me, the infant.

I often cried loudly because of hunger, so my mother would take off her top to breastfeed me. At this time, my mother's breasts had developed to their largest size, soft and firm. She gently held me in her arms, bringing her large, white breasts to my mouth. I eagerly took my mother's swollen nipple into my mouth, greedily sucking the sweet milk, the ultimate delicacy for a baby, fresh and delicious.

My mother smiled at me like a saint, looking at her crying son in her arms, gently stroking me. I also reached out my delicate little hands, constantly touching those beautiful mounds of flesh. We always have such respect, praise, appreciation, and longing for women's breasts, because they are a treasure bestowed upon women by the Creator to nurture humankind, so great and so alluring. A man's attraction to a woman's breasts may not be considered disrespectful, but rather an uncontrollable urge towards life and a yearning for motherhood.

This is a wonderful time, no less precious than being in the womb, where I can fully enjoy my mother's sweet, full breasts—they are mine, and no one can take them away. Of course, fathers and mothers also do what they want at night. Perhaps the father also desires my mother's breasts; when they are together, he will always suckle at her nipple.

Often, I would see my mother scolding my father, "Don't be so crazy! You'll drink all the milk, what will happen to our son?"

My father would laugh and say, "It's okay, I'll only drink what our son leaves behind."

My mother would blush, hug me shyly, and say, "We won't give it to him, right, son? Mommy's milk is only for you."

Then my father would laugh heartily.

This is an important detail that we cannot easily overlook: both the father and the young son are possessive of their mother's breasts. This can be seen in the father kissing the mother's breasts during intercourse and the infant's longing for the mother's nipple. What does the possessiveness of fathers and sons towards their mother's breasts signify? For my son, was it merely a need for breastfeeding or a male need for a woman? I have no way of knowing, nor do I want to delve deeper, otherwise those extreme "moralists" would turn me into a pariah.

At that time, I was a baby boy, and my mother put me in my own little bed. But I would always cry loudly at night because I was hungry or wet the bed, disturbing their peace. My mother had no choice but to let the three of us sleep together, and I would lie "between my father and mother." But even that wasn't enough for me, so I would often urinate and defecate at the same time, and because I was often snuggled in my mother's arms, I would poop directly on my father.

"What a naughty little guy!" my father would complain angrily, and he would have to take the clothes covered in my excrement to wash. This way, I could lean against my mother's soft arms and fall asleep contentedly in the gentle warmth of motherhood. Thus, anticipating the unpredictable onslaught of my feces, Dad kept his distance from my bottom and also from Mom; I finally had the unique ability of an infant to enjoy my mother's love all to myself.

During this time, my arrival not only reduced Dad and Mom's sex life, but Mom's delicate postpartum body also meant she had to spend long periods at home with me. Dad was very busy with work to support three people, meaning Mom's hormones were likely to take effect when he wasn't home.

A woman's breasts are her erogenous zones, and when Mom breastfed me, my little mouth diligently sucked every part of her nipple—a stark contrast to Dad's sucking, where men would never suckle so carefully and for so long. I think Mom wasn't just breastfeeding; she was also enjoying the sexual stimulation from her breasts that her child provided. It was a very subtle feeling, known only to the mother herself, a blissful experience of this "hidden and subtle" sexual pleasure while feeding her child.

Time flies, and six years have passed in the blink of an eye. I am six years old, and Mom is 32. As mentioned above, my mother always treated me like a baby in her arms, showering me with love and care. My father, at this time, was away for many years due to work, much like when I was still an infant. I'm certain that my mother's sexual needs were very strong at that time, and I can give a few examples to prove it.

1. Although children think that six years old is already an "adult," I still needed my mother to bathe me; otherwise, I would never get those parts properly clean.

My mother would put me in a wooden tub, lather me with soap, and also scrub my genitals clean. A boy's genitals are, after all, male physiological characteristics. When a mother touches them, even if the son doesn't feel any discomfort, does the mother necessarily feel nothing? I still remember my mother wiping my entire body with a towel, always gazing at me with infinite tenderness.

It's well known that boys like to play with their genitals; Freud called this "the earliest form of sexual desire." When I touch my genitals, my mother scolds me repeatedly, "Don't play with your little penis!

You'll get sick!"

Why can my mother touch my genitals so casually, yet she's so averse to me playing with my penis? I think this is likely because my mother wants to obtain sexual satisfaction from her son without him being aware of sex—this prevents him from "going astray" and also makes her feel at ease—this deep-seated mentality is hard to understand.

2. My mother and I often play together on the bed during the day.

I can't remember exactly what we played, but one thing I do remember is that my mother liked to kiss my cheeks and mouth affectionately while playing with me. My mother would hug me and say affectionately, "Little rascal, come here, give Mommy a kiss." So I would immediately pout and kiss my mother's cheek. My mother would then say, "Sweetie, give me a kiss." And the two of us would happily kiss.

At this time, I would always ride on my mother's belly, excitedly shouting, "Giddy up! Horse, run faster!"

My mother would laugh and say, "Little one, you're making it hard for me to breathe!"

My mother had no reservations about kissing me; in her eyes, I was just an ignorant child, and kissing was a way for mothers and children to express their affection. But who can prove that when my mother kissed me passionately, there wasn't a sexual expression involved?

I was a child, and also a male; kissing could have many meanings, and could express affection while also providing sexual satisfaction.

[The Emergence of the Oedipus Complex]

I don't remember the specific details here at all; I will only describe the process and the state of affairs in a specific environment. Regarding the "Oedipus complex," I think it probably emerged during my childhood alone time and intimate contact with my mother. Once this complex occurred, it was hard to shake off because the emotions involved were too deep and complex; it was hard to say whether it was familial love, attachment, romantic love, or sexual desire.

Six years later, I was 12 years old. My male hormones were starting to develop, so at this time, while still feeling attached to my mother, I also experienced the attraction and sexual urges that men have for mature women.

My mother was 38 years old then, and I found her incredibly sexy and beautiful: she wasn't tall, about 157 centimeters, and had a slightly plump figure with a dignified and clear face; her eyes were large and gentle, and her lips were full; her earlobes had always been my favorite part of her body—small, delicate, and incredibly tender; her breasts were no longer as large as they used to be, her waist was gradually becoming fuller, and her thighs and hips were quite plump.

You can see from this description that I had already learned to carefully observe my mother's body, which was fundamentally different from my childhood: a child only knows that their mother is kind and gentle, while a teenager, building upon that foundation, has developed a vague understanding of "sex."

For a while, I could still sleep with my mother. In my dreams, I was still like a child, tightly hugging her neck. This seemed to make my mother very proud; she often happily told her friends about me:

"My darling son is closest to me; he always hugs me tightly at night." My mother thought I was still the same as when I was first born, just a kind of attachment to the mother's body.

I felt the same way at the time and didn't feel any discomfort. But one time, I suddenly felt that the mother beside me was also a woman, a thought that surprised and excited me greatly. I involuntarily reached out and hugged my mother, gently stroking her chest. This unconscious action made me so nervous that I couldn't breathe, yet I was extremely happy.

I pressed my body against my mother's back, resting my head on her shoulder, feeling warm and gentle, and quickly fell asleep. In her sleep, my mother gently pushed my hand away, murmuring, "This child really won't grow up; he still wants to nurse!" This behavior of mine was a mixture of sexual orientation and the attachment of a child.

Another time, I woke up hazily in the early morning and stroked my mother beside me. It was early autumn. My mother was wearing a vest; her skin was delicate, and her fair, full arms were clearly visible, with a wisp of downy hair peeking out from under her armpits. Her face was delicate and full, and her sexy neck and chest were clearly visible. I was overjoyed and hugged my mother tightly, stroking her plump, smooth arms, then holding her neck and resting my head on her chin.

In her sleep, my mother unconsciously reached out to stroke me, wrapping her arms around my waist, bringing us very close together face to face.

Her heavy breathing in her sleep excited me greatly, and I almost wanted to kiss her lips like a child.

I turned to my side, placing one leg on my mother's well-defined hip, a possessive desire for her body filling my brain, and my penis quickly became erect, brushing against her lower abdomen several times.

I pressed my face even closer to my mother, my forehead against her lips, and my mother unconsciously hugged me even tighter, pressing her full cheek against mine. I was so happy I almost shouted. I could estimate that my lips were only a few centimeters away from my mother's, and I really wanted to kiss her soft lips. But at that moment, I didn't dare. I could only hug my mother's soft waist and caress her small earlobe.

I didn't dare to kiss my mother like I used to, which shows that while I had developed a sense of sensuality, I also developed self-restraint.

I remember that in the year or two before I turned 12, I would forcefully pull at my mother's nightgown in my sleep, trying to grab her breasts; but now I didn't dare to kiss her. I think this is related to my mother gradually becoming aware of my sexual maturity. She must have realized that her son had developed at least some sexual feelings and was no longer the ignorant child he once was. So my mother would consciously keep her distance from me in certain aspects, making me feel her rejection of my "expressions of affection," which explains my timidity.

There is also a point I almost overlooked. If we assume that this incident never happened, it might have greatly reduced my desire to possess my mother.

I still clearly remember when I was just a few years old, I accidentally witnessed my parents playing around in bed. It seemed like a joke, but it also felt sexually stimulating. To be precise, because my parents neglected me and engaged in something resembling sexual intercourse in front of me, I developed a desire to have my mother's body like my father's. The long periods of solitude between mother and son only reinforced this desire.

We shouldn't underestimate children's judgment; they can understand the world with keen eyes and rich emotions, which is far superior to explaining things with words—because many things and many scenes cannot be expressed in writing. The truths that children understand in their hearts, truths they cannot clearly articulate, may never be discovered by us adults.

In general, during this period, my mother rejected my attempts at intimacy (or perhaps "teasing" would be more accurate). I felt a mix of fear, excitement, and longing.

Finally, I understood that I was no longer a child. If I tried to achieve sexual satisfaction through the same affection a child shows their mother, I was mistaken—my mother must have felt the sexual satisfaction I gave her (this could be seen in her reaction to my caresses in her sleep), but she wouldn't willingly accept my blatant sexual advances.

[Using "Sex" as Revenge; Changes in Mother-Son Relationships]

We use six-year intervals as a benchmark. Six years later, I was 18, and my mother was 44. I had gained the composure of an adult and richer emotions, while my mother had lost some of her youthful beauty, her face bearing the marks of time, but her body possessing a mature charm and dignified elegance.

In my eyes, my mother remained beautiful; no woman had ever impressed me like her:

she was intelligent, humorous, hardworking, kind, and dignified. In other words, my love for my mother had only grown stronger, but this "love" was different from before: undeniably, I still had some attachment to her, and a great deal of sexual attraction, but more than anything, I was deeply captivated by the extraordinary charm of a mature woman. This "love" underwent a significant change, a result of my gradual growth.

I no longer openly expressed my love for my mother as before, but rather expressed my feelings very subtly; at the same time, I became bolder and no longer afraid of my mother's rejection.

Then, something very unpleasant happened: my father had an affair (note that from this point on, we change our address for our fathers from "Dad" to "Father." This change in address signifies that the boy has become a man, no longer having the same attachment to his father, and perhaps even harboring some hostility).

I remember my mother once telling me that marriages in her generation were generally not very happy. Due to the Cultural Revolution, many people grew up in the countryside and were unable to return to the city immediately; their urgent need for sex led many to hastily marry. We can reasonably conclude that marriages based solely on sexual needs are unlikely to have an emotional foundation—which is why we often see couples in their forties divorcing or having extramarital affairs.

This example also verifies the relationship between "sex" and "emotion" mentioned earlier. Forcibly separating the two will yield no results. Similarly, I don't intend to endorse Plato's concept

of love as "fully armored," nor can I accept that my previous sexual advances would have a positive effect. So what exactly is "emotion"? It's a question that could be debated for a thousand years without a definitive answer, and I don't want to elaborate.

What I find amusing is that those who engage in extramarital affairs don't necessarily derive much satisfaction from their infidelity. Perhaps initially there's the sexual thrill of tasting forbidden fruit and the excitement of finding "new love," but as time goes on, they discover that the other person isn't much different from their spouse.

Thus, we see this cycle: marriage – extramarital affair – divorce – remarriage – extramarital affair – divorce again… until finally everyone gets fed up and decides to stop doing such a laborious and unprofitable thing.

Isn't that laughable? Marriage is not something to be taken lightly, and once you have a wife (or husband), you should fulfill your responsibilities and not easily engage in extramarital affairs. Conversely, those who enjoy philandering should not get married, lest everyone be unhappy.

I've met the woman who was rumored to have had an affair with my father; she was a slutty, overweight nouveau riche, utterly repulsive. Unfortunately, perhaps that's just my father's taste; or perhaps he felt he couldn't compare to my elegant and proud mother, and thus automatically abandoned her—that's why I repeatedly remind everyone: marriage is not something to be taken lightly.

My mother argued with my father for a long time about this. Her anger was so intense and destructive that even I, an observer who hadn't participated in the fight, was deeply affected. I saw my mother so distraught that she banged her head on the ground, and I immediately went to comfort her. My mother leaned sadly on my shoulder, tears streaming down her face, soaking my sleeve. As I comforted my grieving mother, I cursed my father's despicable behavior and that damned slut through gritted teeth.

I loved my mother very much, so I would never allow anyone to hurt her. Although, according to Freud, the father is the son's rival in the competition for the mother, I still wouldn't allow him to be unfaithful to my mother in the slightest (originally, the son should have been happy at this time, because he could have the opportunity to have his mother all to himself).

This emotion, which I myself couldn't understand, was only natural for a mother and son with such a deep bond, but it also resembled the complex feelings of a love triangle.

As I comforted my mother, who was crying in my arms, I experienced a bittersweet feeling, while inwardly I was furiously plotting a way to get revenge on my father. Taking advantage of a time when my parents were away, I forced myself on that slut (see my humble work, "The Mature Woman Who Came to My Door").

No one knew that after this act of revenge, that slut never dared to flirt with my father again and obediently left. This was the first time I used sex to get revenge on my father. Later, my mother seemed to know about it, mentioning it to me casually, but was too frightened by my furious reaction to ask further.

Once, while comforting my mother, I expressed my love to her, kissing her passionately and holding her tightly in my arms. My mother understood what I meant, pushing me away and saying, "Don't do this! Are you going to bully me too?"

Looking at the glistening tears on my mother's beautiful face, I almost cried: "Mom, I love you! Why would you rather be bullied by him than accept me?"

My mother angrily slapped me, and seeing my reddened face, she immediately stroked me with heartache and sighed:

"What do you want me to do?"

I hugged my mother again, expressing my apology with deep kisses and caresses. My mother didn't object anymore, obediently letting me comfort her, sobbing against me. She nestled gently in my arms, and from her helpless yet loving eyes, I could see she was waiting for me to take her.

This time, my mother accepted me, but I couldn't bear to have her. I sighed again, offered a few words of comfort, and then stopped forcing her. I understood that my mother hadn't truly accepted me; she was using sex to retaliate against my father, and I had no interest in that kind of sex.

It's strange how our first reaction when our lover betrays us is always to retaliate with sex—just as we feel utterly hopeless when we see our lover having sex with someone else.

Sex is selfish, love is selfish.

When what is private is not respected, people will use the same methods to compensate themselves and retaliate against others.

[Mother fell in love with her son]

Under pressure from my mother and me, my father was forced to back down and break off contact with that woman. My mother and father also stopped their conflict, and everything returned to normal. But in my opinion, the rift between my mother and father was irreparable; they could never return to their former intimacy. I was deeply worried about their superficial harmony; I felt a suffocating atmosphere permeating our home, but I was powerless to change it.

Time flew by, and four years passed in the blink of an eye. I was 22, and my mother was 48. My infatuation with my mother grew stronger each day, never wavering. During this time, my mother seemed to have suddenly regained the charm of a young woman, becoming radiant. She was still rather plump, but she hadn't lost any of the vibrant energy of youth.

I was delighted by her transformation and proud of her youthful spirit.

My father was growing distant from my mother and me; he also felt unwelcome, so he focused his attention on work and social life.

If I wasn't home, my mother would be very lonely, with no one to talk to. As I grew more independent, it seemed there was even less for us to talk about. This was something I didn't want to see, and I resolved to try my best to understand my mother and care for this lonely, charming, and beautiful woman. I've started referring to my mother as "a woman" here, because our relationship is more like that of adult friends, no longer simply a childish mother and son.

I often initiate conversations with her, letting my thoughts and knowledge flow freely, engaging in boundless, imaginative discussions. My mother is delighted by my maturity and captivated by my increasingly refined demeanor, for I can glean everything from the tender gaze she gives me.

In our free time, we do housework together while happily chatting; the harmonious atmosphere is indescribable, a charm that far surpasses the empty rhetoric of today's pretentious men and women who constantly talk about "charm." What is charm? It's a noble and elegant state of mind, a tacit and harmonious partnership, something that cannot be learned without genuine communication and rich inner qualities; at best, it's merely a superficial imitation, all show and no substance.

I joyfully savor all of this, as if returning to the innocent joy of childhood. My mother is also very intelligent; she not only listens but also offers guidance. This made me even more captivated—of all the girls and women I'd ever dated, none understood me or offered such guidance as my mother. Her charm was unparalleled! What reason did I have not to love such a woman?

Gradually, my mother developed a kind of spiritual dependence on me. I often noticed her lowering her head slightly, gazing at me with dreamy eyes, as if I were her entire life.

A sweet smile played on her face, barely perceptible, like the shy tenderness of a young girl in first love facing her lover. At these moments, I would deliberately stop, smiling, and say, "Mom, what are you laughing at?"

My mother would then realize she was completely entranced, blushing and quickly saying, "Nothing! Please continue." I would glance at her slyly, revealing a knowing and warm smile, and continue sharing my views and doing my chores. My mother would involuntarily stop again, casting her affectionate glances at me once more, her bright eyes seemingly glued to me.

This was a woman's reliance on and infatuation with a man; I can express the situation at this moment so clearly. Because of my care, thoughtfulness, and growing intellectual maturity, my mother finally experienced a completely new kind of enjoyment. How intoxicating this was compared to my past foolish courtship!

My meticulous care in daily life and my continuous spiritual growth made my mother feel that she had found a man's protection and care, which is the most important pillar for a woman. Deep in their minds, every woman has a dependence on men and a desire to be protected and valued. When she feels that the man beside her treats her this way, she will give him sincere gratitude and even all her love.

My care for my mother doesn't make me expect anything in return; I just want to savor this fleeting, beautiful life—but to be honest, if my mother truly gave me everything, I would be very excited to accept her love now.

Once, I was standing on the balcony, lost in thought, when my mother appeared before me. She hugged me from behind, rested her head on my shoulder, and gently asked with a smile, "Silly boy, what are you daydreaming about?"

I felt incredibly tender, and my breathing quickened involuntarily. I took my mother's hands and kissed them deeply, then turned and wrapped my arms around her soft shoulders, pulling her close. My body was hot; such intimate contact had become rare.

I kissed my mother's cheeks and earlobes; she flinched slightly, giggling and playfully scolding me, "Still so naughty!"

Looking at my mother's shy expression, a strong desire surged through me, making me almost unable to control myself. I wanted to become one with my mother right then and there! Because I loved her so much!

I pulled my mother closer with my arms, my hand inadvertently brushing against her armpit, feeling her full, soft breasts. She didn't move, continuing her gentle conversation. I released her, took her hands in mine, and gazed at her again. Her smile was the most beautiful flower in the world, and I, captivated, didn't want to disturb this pure moment, struggling to suppress the rising flames of desire.

My mother softly asked, "What are you looking at? Silly boy? Don't you recognize your mother?"

I said earnestly, "Mom, you're so beautiful! If you went for beauty treatments and health maintenance regularly, no one would guess you're almost 50."

My mother happily chided me, "You naughty boy, so sweet-talking! When did you learn to fawn over your mother?" I was telling the truth, and my mother laughed heartily.

Although I hadn't made any advances, I was certain of my mother's affection for me. I often stared intently at my mother's beautiful and alluring body, admiring her repeatedly. She attracted me like a goddess; and she always looked at me with tender affection, her ever-present flirtatious glances touching my heart. I never imagined that one day I would actually win my mother's love; it was something I never even dreamed of before.

Our mutual care, understanding, and tacit agreement laid a solid foundation for us. All that was needed now was

the alluring and exciting stimulant of sex to ignite it, and then everything fell into place naturally.

My gaze towards my mother grew increasingly fiery. She seemed to sense it, appearing somewhat uncomfortable, yet also quite satisfied. Perhaps she was proud of attracting her young son, and even more so, she felt deeply captivated by her elegant and handsome son—a two-way connection. Driven by the gradually arousing sexual desire, our two interdependent hearts became both tense and excited, both fearful and yearning, filled with fantasies and anticipation about what was to come.

I noticed that my mother's clothes were becoming increasingly glamorous; she was dressing for me, and she was also enjoying the passive feeling of being stared at by my fiery gaze. There was a certain "visual rape" involved; Mom probably enjoyed the feeling of being "forced" by her beloved son, waiting contentedly for me to take her.

One cool, mild autumn day, after noon, Mom changed her clothes: she wore a cream-colored embroidered short-sleeved t-shirt and short, fitted casual pants. Her short, ear-length hair looked exceptionally delicate and fresh after washing.

Mom went to the balcony, and I quietly came up behind her, gently embracing her full waist and kissing her neck. Mom didn't resist at all; instead, she slowly rested her head and body against my chest. I noticed Mom closed her eyes, smiling as she let me caress her. My heart pounded wildly, and my hands gradually moved to caress Mom's chest.

Mom became somewhat aroused, reaching out to turn my head and kissing my cheek. Looking at Mom's slightly red lips and smelling the fragrant orchid scent, I became even more moved. Mom was like a vibrant crabapple blossom just awakening from a deep sleep, captivating and endearing. I couldn't help but lower my head and kiss her lips. My mother tenderly offered her cherry lips, closing her eyes as she did so. When I kissed her soft, red, and fiery lips, it felt like holding two ripe, sweet fruits in my mouth, savoring them endlessly, unwilling to let go… After a long while, our lips finally parted reluctantly. My mother was still immersed in the blissful moment, clinging tightly to me, softly humming, her face flushed, her starry eyes slightly closed. When a woman doesn't love you, she won't show any reaction to your advances; but if a woman is completely devoted to you, she will willingly offer her red lips for you to savor.

I kissed my mother's fragrant lips again, this time we were incredibly excited, becoming one for a full ten minutes, unwilling to separate; we were both exploring every sensitive spot on each other's bodies in passionate love.

My mother, panting, rested her head against my chest, her breath coming in short gasps. "My dear child," she said, "I can't breathe!"

I kissed her forehead and said, "Mom, you were so excited! You were suffocating me."

My mother buried her face in my chest shyly… Words were superfluous now, just as lovers in the throes of passion say, "Silence speaks louder than words."

Finally, after a long and passionate embrace, my mother and I, completely lost in our intoxication, stripped naked and became one! I felt as if I had waited five hundred years for this moment! Guided by my mother, I stepped back into my long-missed birthplace—my childhood Eden, a warm and safe fortress, filled with endless joy.

Returning to this familiar place filled me with immense excitement, my heart pounding with joy. Infected by my happiness, my mother also cheered excitedly, welcoming me, her wanderer, back to her homeland.

I played joyfully in the soft, tender embrace of my mother, scattering my love little by little into the soil that gave me birth. With each relentless thrust, my mother cried out, just as she had during my childbirth, a mixture of pain and bliss: "My good child, I've given you everything! Hurry!"

My love for my mother transformed into boundless passion, and I thrust even more fiercely. I longed to possess my mother and forever protect this woman I loved so deeply; I wanted to have her! Just as she had completely possessed me!

With a simultaneous cry from mother and son, we collapsed, leaning on each other, panting heavily. We continued our journey in the climax of lovemaking, releasing all the pent-up emotions we had held back for so long, unable to distinguish between pleasure and pain, only wanting to penetrate each other's bodies and possess our precious child once and for all…

When our love juices had run dry, my mother and I were utterly exhausted. We embraced, gazing at each other with a tenderness that shone through our exhaustion. My mother, both blissful and in pain, actually cried—after all, joy and sorrow are brothers born of the same mother! I held the woman I loved most in my life tightly, letting her hot tears fall on me. From this day forward, she is my woman, and no one can take her away from me.

[The End]

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The mother's love, romantic love, and sexual love between mother and son [The End]

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