Mother's Second Sex

Chapter 1

Yes, I am a bitch. I'm super slutty. I want to fuck men all the time. When my vagina itches, one penis isn't enough. I need one, two, three. If I can't find one at once, then... This is a well-known hotel district. I sat in the car watching my mother yell at my pale-faced father about the devastating truth.

Although when my father wasn't home, I could often smell a pungent, fishy smell, similar to bleach, in the laundry basket. After puberty, I naturally knew it was the smell of semen, so my mother's infidelity wasn't too surprising. But hearing my mother screaming and confessing that she was a bitch who loved group sex in a busy, bustling area was quite a shock for me, a 15-year-old.

Watching my father, tall and imposing with the sharp, sarcastic, and aggressive personality typical of lawyers, being rendered speechless for the first time in his life by a defendant, a criminal, even though this criminal was his usually gentle wife, I felt a cruel sense of pleasure at the prospect of our family falling apart. I felt that Mom had avenged Dad for me, and at the same time, I felt that Dad had avenged Mom for me. As this internal drama played out, outside the window, Dad viciously pushed Mom to the ground and spat in her face. Then, forgetting he had driven there, he strode across the street, got into a taxi, and drove away.

The terrible traffic jam behind me and the shrill honking of cars pulled me back to reality. I hurriedly got out of the car and looked at Mom, who was sitting in the middle of the road. Her tight short skirt was squeezed down to only cover half of her buttocks, revealing thick pubic hair and her bright purple, everted labia majora exposed on the bustling streets of Taipei.

I hurriedly helped her up, then quickly pulled her skirt back to its normal position. After she got up, Mom quickly regained her composure and went to the driver's seat, urging me, "Baby, hurry up and get in the car, we're blocking someone's way." Mom drove calmly, her cheek still bearing Dad's spit. At a red light, I handed her a tissue: "Mom, there's something on your cheek, it's dirty." "

Just leave it there, pretend a man ejaculated on your face. But thank you, I really need some tissues, give me a few more." As she spoke, she lifted her skirt to expose her genitals, expressionlessly taking the tissue. I saw a thick, fishy-smelling yellow liquid overflowing from her vagina.

The familiar bleach smell told me it was semen. Her thighs, pubic hair, labia, and semen instantly filled my vision, and my penis quickly became erect, throbbing hotly in my pants. Mom folded the tissue and placed it on her genitals, sticking out her tongue, saying, "It wouldn't be good to get your dad's leather seats smelling like that."

The car was silent as my mother, her skirt lifted to reveal her messy pubic hair, drove me all the way. The silence was so profound I could almost hear the gurgling sound of semen flowing from her vagina. Years later, I became involved in my mother's sexual games—or, as she put it, the road to liberation. This scene in the car had a deep impact on me, even though the same level of intimacy was child's play for her, even easy.

But every now and then, my mother and I would tacitly agree, as if this was the starting point, using this premise to plan the course of our game, like restarting an overheated computer. I think that in my mother's journey of a licentious life, showing her the unknown future of men flowing from her genitals—something we could talk about but never about—must have left a mark on her soul, allowing her to break free from worldly constraints and open up a new level of understanding of bodily liberation.

Mom drove the car back to the community's basement parking lot. As usual, she smiled and greeted the security guard at the driveway checkpoint. After parking, she didn't immediately turn off the engine. Her eyes were a little vacant, and her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. I could see the veins on her hands were bulging and her knuckles were white. Her attempts to remain calm throughout the journey seemed to have been stretched to their limit like a rubber band. I was struggling to think of something to say to wake her up when, a few seconds later, she came to her senses and said, "We're here. Let's go upstairs and go home."

She turned off the engine, lifted her buttocks in the car seat, pulled her skirt up, and squeezed the damp toilet paper she had placed on her genitals into her hand. After opening the car door, she casually tossed it on the ground. For some inexplicable reason, while waiting for the elevator, I stuffed that clump of wet, sticky, and fishy-smelling toilet paper into my pocket.

After entering the room, my son and I went back to our respective rooms. I locked the door and threw myself onto the bed. The whole day had been beyond my comprehension. I learned her secret of sometimes disappearing without a trace for years, and I saw her purplish, engorged labia. This was a completely unfamiliar woman, even though she had the face I knew as my mother.

It all felt like a dream. The swollen, painful feeling of my penis throbbing against my foreskin reminded me that this was all real.

I took out that disgusting wad of toilet paper. The milky yellow semen mixed with a few pubic hairs that must have belonged to my mother. I couldn't help but forcefully pull out my penis. After only a few strokes, before I could even put the toilet paper down, I couldn't help but ejaculate a large amount of semen. Instantly, the room was filled with the smell of multiple men.

My mind went blank for what felt like an eternity before a knock on the door startled me awake. My mother was calling my childhood nickname from outside. I stared, somewhat dazed, at my naked, sticky genitals, still wet with semen. A used tissue lay on the edge of the bed. A wave of shame washed over me, and I pulled the blanket over my head, refusing to respond.

After calling a few more times, my mother said, "Baby, I'm so sorry for embarrassing you in front of everyone today. I don't know how to explain what I did. It's okay if you don't forgive me. You're so young, and you've witnessed this, discovering your own mother is a slut. I'm going to my maternal grandmother's house in Taichung now. Even though you might not forgive me, or might not want to acknowledge me, or want to hear from me,

I will keep in touch with you often. We are mother and son, connected by blood. When you're older, if you're still curious about what happened to me, I will discuss it with you openly and honestly. I promise you, I will never lie to you again." Although I have the identity of a woman, I will always be your mother. I love you. After Mom sighed, I heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. I took off my clothes and left the room, wandering aimlessly around the house. I opened my parents' room; it was neat and tidy, and I couldn't tell at all that Mom had left.

After showering, I carefully sealed the clump of toilet paper with Mom's pubic hair stuck to it in the transparent bag that had contained food, and put it in the bedside table. I lay there, lost in thought.

Around 1 a.m., I heard the doorbell ring, followed by someone banging on the front door. The iron door banged loudly, followed by Dad shouting for me to open it. I got up, locked my bedroom door, and turned off the light. Dad made a scene in the hallway for about ten minutes. The neighbors came out to check on him, and finally, the aunt next door found the key in Dad's pocket. Everyone helped him inside.

After the neighbors left, I could hear Dad muttering to himself on the sofa through the wall, occasionally letting out a roar and vomiting sounds.

Around 6 PM, I heard Dad enter the master bedroom, followed by the sounds of bottles and jars smashing and glass shattering on the floor. I finally realized Mom had left the house and burst into tears.

(II)

After Mom left, Dad became a manic-depressive drinker, which surprised me quite a bit. He had been having affairs for years and frequently went to hotels to discuss business. I even overheard him joking with a partner at a law firm about renting a private room at a certain hotel, paying annually, and specifying which hotel girls would work as his secretaries on a rotating basis.

He became distraught over Mom's departure. At fifteen, I naively thought this was a sign that Dad still had feelings for Mom. However, as I grew older and embarked on my own complex sexual adventures, I realized that Dad's feelings stemmed from a broken pride, unrelated to love.

Dad's affairs were an open secret in the family. When I was around eight, his mistress came to the house, swaggering and provoking Mom. When Dad returned home, Mom simply said, "That Miss So-and-so is so pitiful; you'd better not come home often."

Now, comparing this to Mom's shocking, lewd, bitch-like confession,

on the timeline, Mom forgot the day that Miss So-and-so came to challenge them.

To pick me up from school, I stood there in a daze at the school gate and watched cartoons in the school security office. Finally, the security guard, seeing it was getting late, called a taxi for me. When I got home, I saw a girl with long hair, dressed simply and looking like a kindergarten teacher, sitting on a stool by the door putting on her shoes. It was Ms. [Name]. She saw me and started chatting with me right there at the door, asking all sorts of questions. Although she seemed friendly, she was still a stranger, and I didn't feel comfortable opening the door to let her in. Just as I was starting to get impatient, Mom came out of the elevator.

She paused for a moment when she saw me with the stranger. Ms. [Name] stepped forward and introduced herself as Dad's girlfriend. Mom came over and patted my head: "Baby, I'm sorry, Mom went to Aunt [Name]'s house to play cards and forgot the time. Are you hungry? Come in and wash your hands and tidy up. Mom will chat with this lady for a bit."

I smelled a foul bleach odor on Mom, and her breath smelled equally unpleasant.

In short, Dad would come home drunk in the early hours of the morning and rush off to work reeking of alcohol. At first, I thought it was quite pleasant. Mom, who used to nag, wasn't around, and Dad, who was a clean freak and put a lot of pressure on me in my daily life, had no time or mood to care about me. For a fifteen-year-old boy, it was heaven. But after a few weeks, the house, which was just me and Dad, became a mess. The heavenly days turned into a filthy hell. I felt a huge hatred for Mom and unconsciously called her a bitch in my mind.

Since no one was home, I started to wander around, go to internet cafes and hang out with friends at night, and even went to temples to meet people my age or older who played the Eight-Family Martial Arts. In a short time, I began to understand what it meant to be a socialite and was no longer the obedient good student.

A few months later, I came home at one o'clock in the morning and went to the refrigerator in the kitchen to get something to drink. I walked into the kitchen, which my mother had insisted on renovating a few years ago and which she was very proud of, and turned on the light to see that the floor was piled with things, and the mess showed that they had been carelessly thrown away. It was all Mom's stuff. The sheer quantity suggested that all her belongings from the master bedroom were here.

"Damn it, what's wrong with Dad now?" I cursed inwardly as I walked towards the master bedroom. Suddenly, I heard a woman's moans, followed by a man's heavy breathing. It sounded like the legendary moans of lovemaking, and it was coming from the master bedroom. I tiptoed closer, and even without pressing my ear to the door, I could hear the sounds of slapping, the man's low moans, and the woman's high-pitched, lewd cries.

This was too much! I numbly returned to the kitchen, drank some water, and absentmindedly rummaged through my mother's belongings. Under several large coats, I found piles—no exaggeration, piles of sexy lingerie, or rather, erotic lingerie—all kinds of styles: leather, sheer fabric, made of just a few cotton threads, thongs, C-strings, vests, open-crotch camisoles, colorful stockings, completely transparent cheongsams, and the legendary full-body fishnet stockings. It was clearly from an online erotic lingerie retailer. I continued searching, but aside from a few wireless vibrators that looked quite expensive, there was nothing else of note.

Before me lay a pile of my mother's familiar everyday loungewear and supposedly expensive suits, next to which was a heap of extremely sexy, suggestive underwear that conjured up vivid images. What were these two doing?

Even so, I examined this rare lingerie exhibition with a scholarly attitude, finding that most of the underwear showed signs of wear, smelling of laundry detergent. A few thongs that fully covered her genitals and most of the open-crotch underwear had indelible off-white stains on the crotch.

The thought of my mother wearing these clothes in front of men, having sex with them, filled me with an indescribable bitterness, pain, and disgust. In anger, I kicked all the clothes into a pile, but as I left the kitchen, I couldn't resist taking a black thong with me.

Back in my room, I wrapped my penis tightly around the thong, listening to the moans from the master bedroom as I masturbated. How far could this family go? Mom had been gone for months without a word, and I couldn't even imagine what I'd say if she contacted me. How could I, at fifteen, face all this?

Half-asleep, I was suddenly awakened by the pain of morning erection. It turned out the thong was still half-wrapped around my penis. After tidying myself up, I realized it was almost noon. Thinking Dad must have already left, I looked at the thong on the bed and felt it was a waste to only take one yesterday; I should have hidden a few more, more unique ones. I searched the kitchen, but all my sexy clothes, including the vibrator, were gone. I deliberately knocked on the master bedroom door and turned the handle; it was locked.

Dad started bringing women home every few days. At first, he'd sneak over in the early morning, but after a while, sometimes I'd hear women moaning in the room around seven or eight in the evening. The door had evolved from being locked to being half-open, providing me with the perfect environment for peeping. Because of this, I discovered it was always a different woman; I guessed they were all paid for.

Although watching my own father have sex with a woman was a very strange feeling, the women he brought back were all quite attractive. Watching them suck on penises, thrusting their hips against men, and actively guiding their penises into their vaginas with their hands, some women had tattoos that distorted with their movements, like flowers swaying in the wind.

My father's behavior was becoming increasingly strange. When I had to ask him for living expenses, we inevitably had conversations. Although his tone was still quite serious, I could sense his memory and concentration faltering. Suddenly, a woman lifted her upper body and grabbed my hand forcefully with her right, while her left hand parted her labia majora: "Put your fingers inside and help me grasp; I can't reach inside."

I moved my face closer, less than fifteen centimeters from her vulva. A sour, fishy smell hit me. Her vaginal opening was the size of a ten-yuan coin, opening and closing like the mouth of a goldfish in a fishbowl. My fingers entered, guided by her. My fingers entered a wet paradise. I was a little shy at first, but how could I give up when a woman had already shamelessly exposed her genitals to me like this? Following the demonstration in the pornographic video, I started to move my fingers in and out.

She seemed relieved, leaning back in her chair. She spread her labia with one hand, widening them further and further, while with the other hand, she used her red-painted, rhinestone-encrusted nails to tease a small, raised spot above her vaginal opening—probably her clitoris. The rhythm of her teasing of her clitoris matched the speed of my thrusts, and she breathed heavily, using her breath to direct my thrusting speed: faster, faster, stop, stop for a moment, okay, move slowly, don't move too much, pull out a little, thrust in hard, slowly, slowly, faster, faster, faster—my fingers became a vibrator.

Two fingers, put in two fingers…

three fingers… Ah, so good. Three fingers, so full, so good, hum hum hum hum, so good! She pinched her clitoris with her thumb and forefinger, pulling hard. Her hand, which had been spreading her labia, was now grasping and kneading her breasts. I now had the energy to observe her nipples; her skin-colored nipples wore nipple rings, which swayed like small boats on the sea with her breasts. Her tongue licked her bright red lips, and her buttocks swayed violently up and down. One of the strings on her purple lace-up panties came undone from the twisting, and the crotch area hung on my wrist. Her

vagina contracted violently, feeling like it was going to swallow my whole hand. One leg was hooked around my neck, and I could feel the muscles tensing. Suddenly, she screamed that she was going to orgasm, her body curling up towards the ceiling, trembling. A few seconds later, her legs relaxed and she stepped onto the ground. A warm liquid gushed from her vagina—urine.

After pulling my fingers out, I untied the other string on her panties and held them in my hand. My father's women varied in size and shape, their sexual techniques and service attitudes were all different, the only thing they had in common was that they wore the sexy clothes left by my mother.

[The End]

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