My Story with My Mother

In 1949, my mother was born into an ordinary rural family in northern Jiangsu. She was the youngest and only daughter among her maternal grandfather's six children. In rural China during the 1950s, there was no such thing as wealth disparity; the only difference was the number of work points earned for each family's labor. Because she had five older brothers, the family didn't need her as a laborer, so she didn't have to drop out of school early like her five uncles.

After graduating from high school in 1967, my mother was considered an intellectual and, through connections, found a job as an accountant in a unit under the Nanjing Municipal Bureau of Materials. Later, through an introduction, she met my father, a fellow villager who also worked in Nanjing, and they married. During the factional struggles of the Cultural Revolution, no one knew their fate. Tragically, my father took the wrong side in that chaotic period and was dismissed from his job and sent back to the countryside. The ensuing violent fighting directly led to my father's lifelong disability and mental breakdown. To avoid implicating my mother, my paternal grandfather's family requested a divorce, but this was strongly opposed by my maternal grandfather and uncles, as my mother was already two months pregnant at the time. This sudden change determined the future of my mother and me in her womb, and it is also the reason why I am writing these words.

I believe that most children start to remember things when they are seven or eight years old, and my memories also begin from that time

. First,

among the trivial memories of my childhood, the ones that left the deepest impression on me were the alarm clock that rang in the morning and the sound of my mother's bicycle. Being a heavy sleeper is probably a common trait among children. It seems like there's never enough sleep, so the alarm clock is the sound I hate the most. Every three to five minutes after the alarm goes off, I rub my sleepy eyes and call for my mother. My mother always sits down by my bedside when I call, and then reluctantly puts on the clothes she has prepared, amidst her countless scoldings. I can never forget the moment I'm dressed, when she gently pats the back of my head and says, "Hurry up, dinner's ready." A school day quickly passes by in a mix of seriousness and playfulness. Every child waits for their parents to arrive in the evening. I always stand on tiptoe among the other children, craning my neck to look at my mother's figure in the distance. It's almost a tacit understanding formed over a long period of time. My mother is always not far from the school gate, where she can see me and I can see her. She gives me a look, and I can rush out of the crowd and walk towards her under her protective gaze. Usually, when I sat on the back of my mother's bicycle, I liked to hug her waist, close my eyes, and silently calculate the time for the next turn. I often used the bicycle bell as she turned to check if my calculations were correct. If I was right, I would lean back, hook my arms around her waist, tilt my head back, and let out a joyful "oh oh!" If I was wrong, I would press my head against her back without making a sound. Sometimes, my mother would smile knowingly and join in this little game. The innocent boy, unaware of the world's ways, let the days flow by slowly in this routine and carefree state.

II.

That year I was 15 years old, a year that brought about significant changes for my mother and our family. The wave of reform had rapidly transformed our city. My mother, unable to resist the persuasion of her colleagues, resigned from her small job at the materials bureau and started a plywood business through connections with former colleagues. Being a boarding student, I naturally didn't know how my mother ran her business, but from the updated furniture and my mother's reduced control over my allowance, I realized that our family was slowly becoming wealthier. Our home became more lively and vibrant, and we received more visits from relatives back home.

One summer during my first year of high school, my maternal grandfather, who rarely visited the city, unexpectedly knocked on our door. My mother was delighted that my father had come all this way, so she invited me to sit with him. My grandfather asked about my and my mother's lives, then suddenly fell silent, looking troubled. My mother asked, "Dad, is something wrong? If you need money, just say so." My grandfather coughed and said, "Nothing, nothing, as long as you're doing well." He then lowered his head, but my mother and I knew he was preoccupied. My mother asked, "Is it something else?" My grandfather gave me a noncommittal look, as if he had something he couldn't tell me. My mother gestured for me to leave and told me to close the door behind me. Actually, my mother and I both knew what my grandfather was going to say; he was going to touch on the thing my mother and I least wanted to talk about—my father. I stood quietly outside the door, sensing what was about to happen. My grandfather said, "I think you know, nothing's wrong at home. Your brothers..." "Things are all fine, but we can't just leave their side of the family like this. You and the children haven't been back to see them for over ten years. We know that, and we haven't forced you, but they still treat us like family. The children's grandfather and uncles often come to our house to say hello and ask about you. I heard a couple of days ago that the children's grandfather is quite ill. I think you should take the children back to see him, so they don't laugh at us for being unreasonable. After all, you haven't divorced. Why don't you take some time to go back?" Mom didn't say anything, and the two of them were frozen in the room. Finally, Grandpa said, "I know I shouldn't have opposed your divorce back then, but things have already come to this. Let's save face, after all, in the countryside, people value these things. I won't say anything more. I'm going to catch the train back now." After seeing Grandpa off, Mom didn't speak for a long time, sitting blankly in the room. Seeing Mom's hesitant look, I felt very sad. I went over to Mom and said, "Mom, go back. I'll go with you. We'll be back in a day." Mom looked up at me with a very helpless look in her eyes.

Thirdly,

after notifying our hometown, my mother and I packed our bags and boarded the bus home a few days later. It was a completely unfamiliar road, a road I had never traveled before, from birth until I was 16. In 1986, rural areas in northern Jiangsu were still very poor. Through the bus window, I saw dilapidated villages on both sides and a bumpy, dusty road ahead. My mother held my hand tightly the whole way, and I could feel her nervousness. After a bumpy 200-kilometer journey, we arrived at the town where my grandfather's village was located. As soon as we got off the bus, my uncle drove up in a tractor and greeted us: "Sister-in-law, you're back. Get in the car, everyone's waiting at home." My mother nodded without saying anything and pulled me onto the tractor, which had already been laid out with a cotton mattress.

Obviously, my grandfather's family had made preparations. Many relatives had gathered in the courtyard. I didn't know if it was to welcome my mother and me or to show off the family's power. Because we didn't know anyone there, no one greeted us. My mother and I stood blankly in the courtyard, accepting everyone's scrutinizing gazes. Finally, my uncle came over and said, "Sister-in-law, come inside. Actually, Dad's nothing serious, just a cough. My brother is much better than before. Although he doesn't recognize people, he can eat and relieve himself without any problems. It's alright." My mother took my hand and followed my uncle into the house. It was a typical farmhouse in northern Jiangsu. In the center of the room was a large square table, with two wooden chairs on either side. I could guess that the old man sitting in the chair was my grandfather. He had the face of an ordinary old farmer, his hands on his knees, his back hunched, looking up at my mother and me. The middle-aged man on the small stool next to him didn't look at us. He tilted his head and muttered something to himself, his eyes sometimes unfocused and sometimes focused, as if staring at something. I clung tightly to my mother's side, unable to believe my eyes, unable to believe that this was my father. At this moment, Grandma came in wiping her hands and said, "Please invite your sister-in-law to sit down." Then she started chatting with Mom. Uncle pulled over a chair and said, "Sister-in-law, sit down. Let the children go out and play." He then grabbed my hand and pulled me outside.

IV.

As someone born in the 1970s, I received a lot of traditional education, so I've always despised and disdained erotic descriptions. However, here, in this piece recounting an important trace of my life, I must elaborate on those things I once despised, and the subject is none other than my mother, because it touches the deepest and most authentic corner of human nature. Its real existence is irresistible. There is no pornography here, only an analysis and exploration of human nature. Let the story begin when my uncle pulled me into the yard.
The people who were originally in the yard hadn't left; they were gathered in small groups, whispering,

"This is the wife the eldest brother married when he was in the city. It's been over ten years."
"She hasn't come back since she got married?"
"No, something happened, and she's been raising the children alone in the city."
"If you're counting age, she must be in her thirties."
"About that."
"My goodness, she's five or six years older than me, but she looks younger than me."
"Of course city women look younger than us, what do they eat and drink?"
"Yeah, look at her figure, unlike you, who's as thick as a barrel."
"You're not much better than me, hahaha."
"At this age, and so good-looking, city men are so bad, there's bound to be some.
" "Of course, how many can stay faithful?"

I don't know when, but Grandma was already standing to the side, pulling my hand to watch the video and saying, "Be careful of gossip." After saying that, she pulled me into the house. That night, I went to sleep in my uncle's room, and my mother went with Grandma. Perhaps because I was at someone else's house, I woke up very early the next day. My uncle was still asleep, so I quietly got up and wandered around the yard. As I was wandering, I suddenly heard voices coming from my grandmother's room. I went over and saw my mother and grandmother talking.

"Are you going back today?" My grandmother said,
"Yes, there are still things to do there." My mother said
, "When you have time, bring the children back more often. We don't want anything from you, just let people know that we are still a family."
"Okay." "
It's not easy for a woman to be out there. The atmosphere outside is not as good as in our village. We are a respectable family."
"Who's not respectable?" My mother was a little angry.
"Never mind, I'm just reminding you, there are people gossiping outside."
"What are they saying?"
"It's nothing, never mind, I'll go make breakfast."

My mother and I didn't eat breakfast; we just left some money and started our journey back to Nanjing. My mother didn't say a word the whole way, and I could sense her low spirits.

V.

When we arrived in Nanjing, it was almost 3 PM. My mother went straight to her room, and I sat alone on the sofa in the living room. The house was very quiet, except for the monotonous ticking of the wall clock. Suddenly, I heard sobbing coming from my mother's room. Ah, my mother was crying! This was the first time I had heard my mother cry since I was born, until I was 16. It was a suppressed sound, a sound of grievance, a sound of release. This crying made me uneasy. I stood helplessly at the door of my mother's room, not knowing what to say to comfort her. Suddenly, I couldn't control myself and started crying too. My mother opened the door, patted my head, and said,

"Go back to your room and rest for a while. I'm okay."
"Mom, don't cry. It hurts me to hear you cry."
"Okay, Mom's okay now, I'm not crying anymore," she said, closing the door again.

Perhaps the two-day trip had truly exhausted her, because she drifted off to sleep in her room. When she woke up, it was nearly evening. She heard the chopping sounds coming from the kitchen; Mom must be preparing dinner. As she got up to open the door, she found a note slipped under the door. Its contents are etched in her memory forever:

"My dear, this is the first time Mom has talked to you about family matters as an adult, even though you're only 16. You heard Mom cry, and you wanted to know why. It wasn't because of Grandpa and your father's illness; Mom was crying for herself. Mom felt wronged and stifled. From the day your father left us, Mom has been working tirelessly to keep this family afloat. I have no complaints, nor do I resent your grandfather's attempts to stop me from divorcing, because it was the choice Mom made. You've seen the situation at home; that's why I didn't want to bring you home. I didn't want you to see your father's condition and feel any psychological burden. I hope you understand." Your father and I have been estranged for so many years. The feelings we had back then have long since faded in the process of raising you and working tirelessly day and night, almost forgotten. But Mom knows that I still have that unbroken engagement, so I've done my best to keep this family together. But Mom is a woman, and Mom is so tired. I can bear the physical exhaustion, but who can share the bitterness in my heart? Who can defend me against the gossip in society? Who can explain myself to my family who doesn't understand me? Today, Mom cried, and I feel relieved. I don't feel like I owe anyone anything, and I don't feel any burden anymore, because Mom has done right by them. Life goes on, right? I believe you can understand and support Mom. "

After reading my mother's message, I cried again. This was the first time my mother had so formally treated me as part of the family and communicated with me. In her heart, I had become a sensible child, a child she could confide in and who could understand me.

I leaned against the kitchen doorway, quietly watching my mother busy preparing dinner. For the first time, this familiar figure felt so warm, yet suddenly so unfamiliar. I felt that this was no longer the mother who busied herself with my daily needs, but a woman who had endured more than ten years of suffering. This woman longed for understanding and needed comfort. I stood there silently, watching my mother's every move, not missing a single subtle action. The afterglow of the setting sun slanted in through the small kitchen window, illuminating my mother. I could clearly see the fine, glistening beads of sweat on her slender white neck. The light shone through her floral chiffon dress, clearly revealing the outline of her body beneath the dress from behind—a hazy beauty, and I must admit it was a beauty that could stir the heart of a 16-year-old." The raw, instinctive beauty of a 16-year-old boy. Realizing my presence, my mother suddenly turned and stared at me, who was still in a daze. I still can't quite describe what that look was like. I only remember frantically telling her in a timid voice that I had read her message, and then looking back at her with a gaze I had never felt before. My mother gripped the edge of the kitchen counter with both hands, leaned back slightly, tilted her head back, and stared blankly at the ceiling. Suddenly, her breathing turned into sobs, and two streams of tears slid down her cheeks. I understood that this was another release for her, a release that came from facing her son, who could understand her, and that this would bring her complete relief. I could no longer control my excitement and rushed forward to hug my crying mother. I believe this was extremely rare in the family education environment of the 1980s. In my heart, this was an embrace that broke down communication barriers between my mother and me, an embrace that removed the awkwardness between mother and son, so it was a reassuring and warm embrace. But as mentioned earlier, this embrace brought a 16-year-old... As a 18-year-old boy, I was more than just that. That primal instinct erupted from my subconscious in an instant. I clearly remember my body trembling uncontrollably, my mind a complete mess. The only direct sensation was the faint, intense fragrance emanating from my mother, strongly stimulating my sense of smell. My chest was pressed tightly against her two rising and falling breasts. There were no words, no movements, no eye contact. After her breathing calmed, my mother gently pushed me away and continued her unfinished dinner. I went to the table and sat down alone.

That night, I had my first nocturnal emission.

I believe in the predetermined nature of things. I've had many thoughts about certain things, but they were just thoughts, especially about things that society avoids.

The days that followed were uneventful. I was completely able to control myself from doing or even thinking about them. At that time, I was thinking... Perhaps that day's events will be forever buried deep within us, never to resurface, but as mentioned before, fate's brush is destined to leave a longer and deeper mark on your life, one that we cannot resist. One day, my mother suddenly said that she needed to renovate the interior of her old house, which was over ten years old, and that we would need to move to her colleague's house temporarily for about a week. Actually, that aunt's old house wasn't spacious either. Her father vacated his original master bedroom for my mother and me, and the old man moved to another small bedroom. He did ask if it was inconvenient, and if so, he would go back to the countryside for a few days. However, considering that it was someone else's house, it was better for one of them to stay at home, so he said, "It's okay, it's just a few days, we can make do, no need to trouble yourself any further."

I clearly remember that day was August 3, 1986. It was the first time I had ever slept in the same bed with my mother since I could remember. It was a sweltering night. We gave the only electric fan in my aunt's house to my grandfather. The house, built in the 1960s, didn't have any shower facilities in the bathroom. Most people went to public bathhouses to shower, and in the summer, they could only wash themselves indoors. My mother and I sat on the bed, chatting idly while hoping for the impossible coolness to come. In the end, sleepiness won out. My mother told me to get the only bottle of hot water in the kitchen. I knew what my mother was going to do, so I hid in the hallway outside. Listening to the sound of my mother washing up inside, the scene from several days ago, which had been suppressed, flooded my mind again. My heart was pounding, and the pulse of my blood was surging through every corner of my body. My mind was a jumble of thoughts when I suddenly heard my mother knocking on the door from inside.

"Put the rest of the water back in, Grandpa might need it. You can come back and wash up too, the water's still warm," my mother said, handing me the thermos through the crack in the door. I suppressed my excitement and softly hummed in agreement. The moment my mother opened the bedroom door for me, my instinctive shyness and already excited heart prevented me from meeting her gaze. While drying her hair, she said,

"Just use that water to dry yourself off before bed, it's getting late."
"Okay."
"After you're done washing, hang your clothes on the rack on the bed. I'll wash them tomorrow." My mother continued drying her hair and said,
"Okay."

On the bed were the clothes my mother and I had changed out of after our shower. But as I hung up the clothes, my mother's close-fitting underwear stirred my body, which had calmed slightly from the shower. In 1986, a bra was considered extremely revealing for most Chinese women. Only women with open minds dared to wear it, yet still had to endure gossip and accusations of being immoral. I remember it was a now-extinct "Aihua" brand bra with a side clasp. The cups had simple floral embroidery, no padding, no underwire, and certainly no lace, but it was enough to make me tremble at that time.

"Turn off the lights and go to sleep after you've washed," Mom said softly.

I lay down on the other side of the bed, Mom on one side and I on the other. That night, I had another nocturnal emission in my dreams

. If the excitement of the first night finally subsided in the darkness and quiet, then the second night felt like heaven had completely shattered the barriers I could resist. The heat was still unbearable, the excitement returned, Mom and I lay on opposite sides, and I gradually calmed down in the darkness. However, the sudden thunder and lightning in the middle of the night pushed Mom and me, like a scene from a novel, into that taboo corner of human relations and society. It seemed that heaven was using this weather to foreshadow what was to come, and my heart, like the sky struck by lightning that night, was deeply etched with a mark.
I don't know what time it was, but a strong wind and torrential rain rushed into the house, waking my mother and me. We got up together, closed all the windows, and then lay back down. The rain and wind were kept out by the closed windows, but the house felt stuffy and hot, like a stuffy can. The dazzling lightning and deafening thunder made it impossible to fall asleep. My mother and I, who were originally sleeping on opposite sides, kept tossing and turning and got closer and closer. Inadvertently, we made physical contact. Neither of us avoided it; it all felt so natural. It was Mom who spoke first.

"Can't sleep? Are you hot?" She reached for the palm-leaf fan from the bedside.
"Yeah, it feels so stuffy," I replied.
"Yeah, come closer, Mom'll fan you."
"Okay," I moved closer.
"Feeling any better?" Mom said.
"Yeah."
"Just bear with it for a few days. Once the house is all set up, we'll go back, and we'll have an electric fan," Mom said, continuing to fan herself.
"Let me fan you for a bit, Mom. Are you tired?" I said.
"It's okay. When you were little, I used to fan you like this until you fell asleep. I'm used to it," Mom said.

Although Mom said that, I could feel her fanning slower and slower. Mom was tired. I raised my arm and grasped her smooth, white wrist.

"Don't fan me anymore, Mom," I said.
"It's okay," Mom said.

Although she said that, Mom didn't insist. She let my hand rest on her wrist. That brief skin-to-skin contact instantly made my blood rush. That unstoppable force once again took over my mind—I hugged Mom.

"Aren't you hot?" Mom said, pulling away slightly.

I said nothing, just held my mother tightly, trying to stop her from forcefully pulling away. She stopped moving, and we were almost face-to-face, our breaths mingling. At that moment, her body scent intensely stimulated my sense of smell again. It was an irresistible force, without inner struggle, without fierce judgment. That force pressed my lips to her soft ones. I didn't want to give up the burning sensation of our lips meeting, but my tongue involuntarily darted out to explore her deeper depths. I vividly remember her lips opening and closing hesitantly, and when my tongue touched hers, the uniquely maternal scent intoxicated me. I sucked, licked, and swallowed, while she passively and acquiesced to me. In that state, one is lost and confused, so I don't know how my hands slipped inside her clothes and grasped her breasts. My frail mother had a pair of full and elastic breasts. When I held them, they felt smooth and moist. I could clearly feel the protruding and erect nipples in my palm. They felt soft and fluffy when I gently pinched them, so I dared not knead them carelessly. I could only carefully caress my mother's delicate breasts with my own tender fingers. Unlike touching my mother's breasts, I was fully aware of how her panties had slipped off her body. To be honest, I had absolutely no courage or boldness to touch my mother's most private parts. But lovers in the throes of passion are always oblivious to everything else. My burning desire to enter her made me entwine my entire body around her. I didn't know how to get close to her to extinguish and release my energy. Sometimes I would lie on top of her body, passing on her warmth, and sometimes I would tightly embrace her slender waist, feeling her softness. Clinging to her like glue, I never stopped stretching and wriggling, constantly rubbing and pulling. But it wasn't until her soft yet slightly prickly pubic hair tickled my lower abdomen that I realized her panties had slipped down to her ankles. My mother's slender, white legs were naturally and obediently spread apart. When a woman's private parts are exposed, I believe any boy who has never had sexual experience will never forget it. The thick, inverted triangle of pubic hair covered the entire mons pubis, and the dark red labia were slightly parted, revealing the pink flesh inside. The clitoris, like a bud or calyx, was tightly wrapped between the two labia, and silky secretions dripped slowly from the vaginal opening. My mother was 37 years old that year, the same age as my current lover. Of course, I know the desires of a 37-year-old woman, let alone my mother who had been divorced for more than ten years. I want to emphasize again that the above description is my true feeling at the time, and there is no disrespect or lewdness towards my mother in the slightest. I entered my mother's body. I cannot describe the feeling at that moment. It was like you, who were burning up, plunged into a clear spring, like you, who were extremely thirsty, took your first sip of iced drink, like you, who were about to freeze, were put into a warm embrace, like parched and cracked fields encountering sweet dew. My mother and I, or more precisely, a 16-year-old boy and a 37-year-old woman, possessed each other. Throughout the entire process, my mother didn't make a sound. Even the moment I entered her body, she only furrowed her brow slightly. I now fully understand my mother's feelings at that time. She was conflicted, nervous, and confused, but she also needed it. As I vigorously enjoyed the silky smoothness inside my mother's vagina, the "plop" sounds caused by repeated thrusting embarrassed her. She tried her best to raise her waist to reduce my room to move in and out, or she would tightly hook her legs around my buttocks to prevent me from moving too much. I believe that she didn't want to see any of her son's movements on her body at that time. She seemed to prefer the grinding of my penis inside her vagina. This is the contradictory combination of my mother and a 37-year-old woman, because I also felt the pleasant expression on her face and the writhing deep inside her vagina when my hot and huge penis filled her vagina. Amidst the thunder and lightning outside, my mother and I completed our first sexual encounter. After I ejaculated all my semen into her vagina and uterus, she simply raised her hand and took a few pieces of toilet paper to protect her private parts. She didn't want to get up; she didn't want outsiders to see any unnecessary movements that would signal the end of her sexual intercourse. She had removed the last line of defense for a 37-year-old woman, but she still upheld her dignity and reserve as a mother. I understood and respected her.

The 16-year-old boy's lust was as fierce as a flood. At dawn, I climbed onto my mother's body again. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining. The morning sunlight weakly shone into the room. Perhaps this light reminded my mother, because she suddenly pulled the sheet over her chest and tried to slip off me. But my lust was already high, and I held tightly to my mother's buttocks, not letting her go. I saw the strange look in my mother's eyes, regret and shame. I stopped moving and lay panting on my mother, but my engorged penis was still tightly wrapped by my mother's vagina. I turned my head away, not daring to meet my mother's gaze. As my breathing became even, I withdrew from my mother's body. I lay quietly on my side in bed, listening to the rustling sounds of my mother getting dressed.

"Get up and wash your face, we'll go downstairs for dinner in a bit," she said softly as she dressed.
"Okay," I replied

. The moment I got out of bed, my mother lifted the sheet and quickly rolled it up. I knew she didn't want to see the mess; she wanted to clean up any trace of last night. In the bright sunlight, she was still a mother.
When my mother and I went out, the old man from that house was already pacing in the hallway. He waved when he saw us.

"You two must not have slept well last night, you were quite noisy," he said, laughing heartily.

I knew he was referring to the weather last night, but my mother's face flushed instantly. It seemed to touch a sensitive nerve. "Yeah, it's okay," she replied, quickly walking towards the door.

I don't think I need to elaborate on the following days. Those days in the rented room came to an end amidst the heavy breathing of my mother and me every night. Back in my newly decorated home, I slept in a separate room from my mother, and things returned to normal. On the surface, my mother didn't show the ambiguity I'd expected; instead, I seemed a little awkward, avoiding her gaze. Perhaps this interlude was over, I thought at the time. But having already experienced the body of a mature woman, I often fantasized about my mother at night. The restlessness of adolescence prevented me from finding peace and tranquility, but respect for my mother's wishes still took precedence, allowing me to suppress my terrible desires.

Summer vacation quickly came to an end, and next semester I would be a high school freshman. I prepared diligently, but the visit of two children from my grandmother's hometown disrupted the recovering atmosphere between my mother and me. Back then, city high schools could select outstanding junior high graduates from various counties within the province. The two boys, one a year older than me and the other two years older, were sent from my mother's hometown in advance to prepare for enrollment, so they stayed at my house for a few days. According to the family hierarchy in my hometown, I should call them "brother," and they should call my mother "aunt." Although they came from the countryside, we were classmates, so we had some common ground and didn't feel awkward. Meals were fine, just a couple more pairs of chopsticks. But when it came to bedtime, with four people in two rooms, how to divide the space? My mother, of course, wouldn't allow the two boys to go to her room, but to be considerate of our guests, she arranged for them to squeeze onto my small bed, and I to sleep on the sofa in the living room. I didn't say anything, but the two brothers insisted on sleeping in the living room so I could continue sleeping in my room. My mother, of course, wouldn't agree to let guests sleep on the sofa, so in the end, I stayed in the living room as she wished. I looked at my mother with a face full of grievance, but met with her scolding gaze. Although I was a hundred times unwilling, I still understood my mother; she couldn't let herself sleep in the same bed with her 16-year-old son in front of outsiders. It was late at night, but I couldn't fall asleep. My eyes were fixed on my mother's bedroom door, waves of impulse surging within me. What would my mother do if I pushed open that door? Would she scold me, or even slap me? My mind raced with these wild thoughts. In the dim night, a figure seemed to approach me. My eyes widened, and a slender, graceful silhouette became increasingly clear. The familiar scent filled my nostrils. I watched silently as the figure stood beside me. The darkness accentuated her fair skin, her disheveled hair partially obscuring her handsome face, and her thin nightgown unable to conceal her alluring curves. My blood began to rush through my veins, instantly activating my primal instincts. I almost trembled as I stood up, facing my mother.

"Mom, I don't want to sleep in the living room. I can't sleep," I said in a barely audible voice.
Mom smoothed her hair from her forehead and looked at me without saying a word. I took her hand and
pleaded, "Mom, let me sleep in your room."
Mom tried to pull her hand away, but I held it firmly
. "Come on, Mom, let's go to your room, okay?" I said, pushing her towards her room.

Mom's steps were passive, yet seemingly compliant. The moment I entered her room, my excitement reached its peak. I hugged her from behind, inhaling her alluring scent. Through her thin nightgown, my hands roamed over her body—her fair thighs, slender waist, and smooth back. Finally, my hands rested on her firm, full breasts. I caressed, kneaded, and squeezed them with ecstasy. Her nipples quickly hardened, and her desire surged within her under my stimulation. My mother and I fell onto her soft bed at the same time. The room was dark with the curtains drawn, and I couldn't see my mother's expression. I could only hear her short breaths. My mother instinctively used her weak arms to block me in order to maintain her dignity as a mother, but this blockage was futile and unwilling, because fierce sexual desire was devouring her. Finally, as my mother futilely twisted and turned to avoid me, her thin undergarment was stripped off. What a body she was! I don't know what beautiful words to use to describe it. No woman I've ever been with, not even my current lover, can compare to my mother back then. Looking back now, she was like a flawless piece of white jade, sculpted by a master craftsman. She was crystal clear, and every curve of her body was exquisitely perfect. I'll make no secret of the fact that my 37-year-old mother was a rare beauty. Completely enveloped by desire, my mother lay on the soft bed, panting, letting me kiss every inch of her skin. When I touched her beautiful cheeks and our lips met, she accepted my tongue very slowly, just like before. She never kissed me deeply, nor did she actively suckle; it was just a light touch of the tip of her tongue. I think this was a very instinctive reaction from my mother's heart, because she knew that there was no romantic love between us, only the love between mother and son. During lovemaking, a woman's genitals are always what a man most urgently wants to explore. Following my mother's smooth thighs, my tongue wandered closer to her most private area. Her panties weren't yet off, and my mother instinctively gripped the waistband tightly with both hands, protecting her last line of defense with a woman's innate shyness. I stopped, staring intently at my mother's genitals. Unlike most other women, in 1986, with relatively open-minded views, my mother dared to wear close-fitting thongs. I remember they were light pink, low-rise cotton panties, the small material tightly hugging my mother's curved hips. From my mother's slightly parted... Between her legs, I could clearly see the crotch of her underwear was soaked with saliva. The tight cut couldn't completely cover her thick pubic hair, and the outline of her vulva was highlighted because of the tightness. I reached out and grabbed her wrist, trying to pull away from her protective barrier, but she resisted repeatedly with her weak arms. I knew in my heart that she was doing this to express her helplessness and struggle as both a mother and a woman. She also knew that this was ultimately futile, and that she was destined to expose herself completely naked and have to accept her son. As the panties that covered the woman's entire secret were slowly slid off, my mother covered herself with her crossed hands, revealing her feminine instincts once again, as if telling me that I could stop. My mother hesitated and was uncertain, but I clearly saw her abundant secretions dripping uncontrollably from her dark red vulva. At that moment, my excitement reached an uncontrollable point, and my engorged penis swelled to its limit. More than ten days later, I entered my mother's body again. My urgent thrusting made my mother uncomfortable. She didn't want her son to release his sexual desire on her so roughly. What she wanted was a slow, unassuming intercourse, without giving her any awareness of her being sexually active. Perhaps only in this way could she reconcile the contradictory feelings of being both a mother and a woman. I slowed down the pace, pushing in slowly each time. This allowed my sensitive glans to savor every detail of my mother's vagina. I always like to compare my current lover with my mother. Both have soft vaginas, but my mother's is tighter and gives me a more gripping feeling. Perhaps it's because my mother is relatively tall, as I can hardly touch the so-called flower core at the bottom of her vagina. I gently lifted my mother's waist with my arm, signaling her to raise her hips to accommodate my penetration. However, she pushed my hand away, nonverbally telling me she rejected having sex with her son in that way. Helplessly, I withdrew my hand, but my inner yearning for my mother's clitoris made me anxious. I lifted my mother's slender legs, trying for the first time in this position to explore the depth I desired. My mother naturally knew my intention; as mentioned before, she could not accept any "lewd" way of having sex with her son. So, she pressed her soft thighs against my shoulders, trying to separate us, but I had already firmly blocked any of her movements, and my swollen glans was already pressed against the entrance of her wet and slippery vagina. Without a moment's pause, I thrust into her body with all my might. It was another unforgettable penetration; I reached the depth I wanted, my glans touching my mother's clitoris. A tingling sensation flowed from my glans to my whole body, as if... That was my mother's other mouth, capable of sucking and licking my eager glans. The moment we touched, her body trembled violently, and she let out a soft "Ah!" This was the only time she had ever made a sound during our numerous sexual encounters. The sound was a mixture of extreme physical stimulation and intense mental tension. Making sounds during intimate contact with her son was unacceptable to my mother. She tried again to break free, but her frail body was controlled by my outstretched arms. Helpless, she bit her lip to stifle the sounds she felt shouldn't be heard. But the intense, electric shock-like stimulation made it impossible for her to control her body's spasms. With each thrust to her clitoris, she tried to lower her hips to avoid the almost unbearable tingling. Her hands gripped the sheets beneath her helplessly, trying to control her excessive movements. She refused to show her son her... The pleasure was meant to maintain her dignity as a mother; perhaps she could still preserve her physical posture and not reveal too much, but she couldn't control her endocrine system. Mucus seeped from the inner walls of her vagina, flowing out with each thrust of my penis. My entire penis felt as if it were coated with a layer of white, smooth cream. The "sizzling" sound appeared rhythmically with the rise and fall of my body. I kept increasing my pace because I truly enjoyed the full care my penis received from my mother's warm, moist vagina. Suddenly, my mother's hand, which had been gripping the sheets tightly, loosened, then quickly tightened again, making a pulling motion. Previously, each thrust made me feel like I was retreating, but suddenly my mother's buttocks lifted up. This sudden movement made my glans press firmly against her clitoris. My mother's body trembled violently, her buttocks began to move wildly to meet my penetration, as if trying to completely swallow my penis. Startled by this sudden change, I looked up at my mother. At this moment, her cheeks were flushed, and her nose... Fine beads of sweat appeared, her brows furrowed and relaxed, her rapid breathing turned into soft panting. I began to tense up, not knowing what was happening. I stopped moving and released my mother's legs from my shoulders, but she didn't stop. She actively moved her plump, delicate buttocks up and down, stroking my penis, which was still inside her tender vagina. The stroking motion became faster and faster. Suddenly, my mother's slightly bent legs straightened and kicked out, then quickly pulled back and wrapped around my waist, hooking me tightly between her fair and tender thighs. My glans could clearly feel my mother's vagina contracting and relaxing rapidly and rhythmically. A warm secretion gushed from the depths of my mother's vagina, sprinkling onto my glans. With this ejaculation, my mother's body convulsed rhythmically. I watched this unprecedented movement, my entire body stiff except for my penis inside my mother's vagina. This was the first time in my life that I had witnessed a female orgasm. As my mother's trembling subsided, she relaxed and lay there quietly until my semen once again flowed into the womb that had nurtured me. A woman is exhausted after an orgasm. When my penis withdrew from my mother's vagina, she didn't wipe her genitals as she had before.
Instead, she remained motionless in that position, her spread thighs exposing her entire vulva, letting the mixture of vaginal fluid and semen flow freely. Her labia, engorged from friction, remained pressed together as they had during intercourse, revealing the tender flesh beneath. Her once soft and thick pubic hair, now soaked, clung haphazardly to her lips. Looking at my mother's genitals, now a mess after my recent ravaging, I felt a complex mix of emotions I can't quite describe. Was it pleasure? Satisfaction? Guilt? I truly don't know. At 16, I naturally didn't understand any sexual techniques, but this simple repetition of that monotonous action was enough to bring my mother, who hadn't experienced lovemaking in over a decade, extreme pleasure. I lay on my side, nestled in my mother's arm, my cheek pressed against her breast. Because of her nephritis during pregnancy, my mother had never breastfed me, and as a result, her breasts retained their youthful shape—soft, white, and delicate yet firm and perky. I couldn't help but open my mouth and suckle her nipple to compensate for my childhood regret. My mother seemed to sense my desire and naturally wrapped her arm around my neck, pulling me into her embrace. Although our sex made her truly a woman, throughout the process, my mother felt repressed, restrained, and unable to fully open herself up. Compared to sex, she seemed more willing to accept me nestled in her arms, suckling her nipple. Although physiologically it was sexual contact, from her perspective, she saw it as motherly love, and she could openly enjoy my caresses. Neither of us cleaned ourselves after sex; we simply lay there, embracing each other, on the messy bed. That night, it was the first time since birth that I fell asleep with my mother's nipple in my mouth.

When my mother and I woke up, the sun was already high in the sky. My mother gently pushed me away from her embrace and started getting ready, while I lazily remained in bed.

"Get up and go wash up," my mother said softly, wrapping herself in a piece of the bed.
"I want to sleep a little longer," I replied.
"Go wash up first, then go to sleep. I'll tidy up the bed."
"Okay, are you going to wash up, Mom?"
"Bring me a basin of warm water when you're done."
"Oh," 　　I said.

When I finished showering and brought water to my mother, she had already cleaned the room. She was sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for my water. "Mom, why didn't you just go to the bathroom to wash?" I asked. 　　"The bathroom door has glass; people outside can see in. There are strangers in the house; it's not convenient," my mother said. 　　"Oh," I said, still sleepy, and lay back down on the bed. 　　"Go outside for a while; I'll wash up," my mother said. 　　At the time, I really didn't understand why she wanted me to leave after we had been so intimate. Now I think it might be because of a woman's innate shyness, or more likely, because my mother wanted to maintain her image as a mother. At night, she could use the cover of darkness to reveal her deepest female instincts, but she couldn't accept it during the day when the light illuminated every corner of society. I don't think my mother was deceiving herself; she was purifying our sexual relationship. She wanted to keep this sexual relationship far removed from promiscuity, allowing her conflicted heart to find relief and comfort. 　　Lying in bed, I suddenly thought of my two older brothers from the countryside who lived with us. What would they think if they got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and found I wasn't sleeping in the living room? I'm sure they wouldn't sleep in the same bed as their mother. As teenagers, what would they think of her? Do all kids at the age of sexual awakening always observe women from a sexual perspective, like I did? Sure enough, a few days later, their whispered conversation confirmed my suspicions. Just before dawn, my mother and I finished our second sexual encounter that night. As usual, she asked me to get her some hot water to wash her genitals. As I passed through the living room, I noticed my bedroom light was on and I could hear them whispering. I quietly stood at the door and overheard their conversation. 　　"School starts in a few days, and we'll be eating at the school cafeteria again," the older brother said. 　　"Yeah, the food at the school cafeteria definitely won't be as good as Auntie's cooking," the younger brother said 　　. "Of course, Auntie not only cooks well, but she's also tall and beautiful." "She's quite beautiful, don't you think?" the younger brother said. 　　"Yeah, compared to other women her age in our village, Auntie is definitely more beautiful, and her temperament is a hundred times stronger," the older brother said. 　　"Yeah, I really like listening to her talk; her voice is so sweet and gentle, it seems like she'll never get angry," the younger brother said. 　　"Haha, of course! You think everyone's like your mother, yelling at you all the time?" the older brother said. 　　"Of course, village girls can't compare to city girls," the younger brother said. 　　"What do you think is beautiful about her?" the older brother said. " 　　Every part of her is beautiful 　　," the younger brother said. "Beautiful in every way? You talk like you've seen something before," the older brother said. 　　"Hehe," the younger brother laughed. 　　"What are you laughing at? Did you really see something?" the older brother said 　　. "You're the worst one! You love staring at Auntie, don't think I don't know," the younger brother said. 　　"Hehe, I really like her calves, so slender and white, I really want to touch them," the older brother said. 　　"Yeah, have you noticed something different about Auntie compared to other rural women?" " I mean, the clothes," the younger brother said. 　　"Of course it's different, it's more fashionable." The older brother said, 　　"I'm not talking about that. Didn't you notice that Auntie has a few clothes that women in our village don't use anymore?" The younger brother said 　　, "I didn't pay much attention. What?" The older brother said 　　, "I only recently learned what it was from a book." The younger brother said 　　, "What is it? Tell me." The older brother said, 　　"Actually, I noticed it as soon as we arrived. That day, Auntie was wearing a thin white gauze shirt." The younger brother said, 　　"Yeah, what's so strange about that?" The older brother said, 　　"I'm not talking about the thin shirt. Through the thin shirt, there was something that looked like a woman's vest but wasn't a vest." The younger brother said, 　　"Oh, what? I didn't look closely." The older brother said, 　　"It's like she had two narrow straps hanging from her shoulders, which occasionally peeked out from her shoulders." The younger brother said, 　　"Oh, maybe it's some kind of vest." The older brother said, 　　"No, I found it later among the clothes she hung out to dry. It wasn't a vest at all." The younger brother said, 　　"Then what is it? " "The older brother said, 　　'The book says it's called a bra, also called a bra, and it's a close-fitting garment to prevent women's breasts from sagging.' The younger brother said 　　, 'Oh, the women in the village never wear them?' The older brother said 　　, 'No, I've never seen one. Even young women in their twenties who care about their appearance have never been seen wearing one.' The younger brother said, 　　'You know quite a lot.' The older brother said, 　　'I just found out myself, hehe.' The younger 　　brother said, 'But I heard from the villagers that my aunt didn't seem to breastfeed. She had some kind of illness that prevented her from doing so.' The older brother said, ' 　　Oh, no wonder her breasts were so perky and full. She hadn't breastfed before. 　　' The younger brother said, 'Yeah, especially when she wore that white shirt, her breasts were so swollen that the buttons on her chest could barely be fastened.' The older brother said, 　　'Yeah, they were so tight. I felt so uncomfortable for her, hehe.' The younger brother said 　　, 'I heard that breasts that haven't been breastfed have pink nipples.' The older brother said 　　, 'How would I know? I've never seen one. The women in the village who breastfeed are all dark-skinned. They don't look good.' The younger brother said..."

"Hey, Auntie's skin is so fair, and she's never breastfed, so her nipples must be pink," the older brother said.
"What's wrong with you? You want to eat your wife later, haha," the younger brother said.
"You don't want to? Let's not talk about who's who. We're all about the same age, it's not normal not to want to." The older brother said.
"Speaking of which, I just remembered something. Have you noticed our little brother?" The
younger brother said. "What's wrong? What did you find out this time?" The older brother said
. "Several mornings I've woken up and found him not in the living room." The younger brother said.
"Where did he go?" The older brother said
. "Where else could he go? To Auntie's room, of course." The younger brother said.
"You mean he sleeps with Auntie?" The older brother said.
"Maybe." The younger brother said.
"Oh, really? He's so old." "The older brother said
, 'Kids in the city are all spoiled, who knows?' The younger brother said
, 'Hmm, then do you think he might…' The older brother said
, 'Hehe, we're thinking the same thing.' The younger brother said
, 'If it were me sleeping with a woman like my aunt, I definitely couldn't stand it.' The older brother said
, 'Who could stand it? I couldn't stand it either
.' The younger brother said, 'Don't talk about this. We're staying at someone else's place and you're gossiping about them. It's not good.' The older brother said,
'Hmm.' The younger brother said…'

After hearing these words, my head was in a mess. I lay on my bed all day thinking about what they said. My mother probably sensed something was wrong and asked me what was wrong. I said nothing. I knew what kind of blow these words would be to my mother if I told her. The reason I wrote the above dialogue is just to tell everyone that everyone has a dark side. I'm the kind of person who thinks and acts on things, but from a human nature perspective, we can't simply use worldly methods to divide good and bad people.

VI.

High school is different from junior high. The interval between each public holiday is one month. My mother's business is getting busier and busier, and she can't find time to go to school to see me, so we rarely have the chance to meet." As for our relationship, based on the above text, I think everyone understands that my mother was always hesitant and worried about us. She would never actively pursue or indulge my desires. Of course, I admit that if I strongly insisted, I believe my mother would give in. However, every time I went home, I saw my mother's busy and tired figure, so I controlled myself, even though it was painful and agonizing.

I don't know exactly when my mother and father went through the divorce proceedings, and this didn't affect me much. After all, I don't have much of an impression of my father; he only played a virtual role in the family. My mother

's remarriage was also arranged by my maternal grandfather, through an acquaintance. The man was from Fujian, two years older than my mother. He came to Jiangsu with my mother when he was very young but had never married. He used to work in a government department in Nanjing before resigning. I didn't find out until the wedding was about to take place. My mother asked an aunt to explain to me, saying that she was mainly worried about affecting my studies and that my mother was very tired from running the business alone. She also said that after the wedding, my mother would live with me, etc. The wedding date was chosen to be the 16th day of the first lunar month in 1987, which was also the last day of my winter vacation. Because the groom's ancestral home was too far away, the ceremony was held at my maternal grandfather's house, which was equivalent to my grandfather hiring a son-in-law to live with his family. Since it was my second wedding, the only guests on the day were the families of my five uncles. Of course, there was no ceremony, and everyone had a reunion dinner to acknowledge the new member of the family. The not-too-busy day passed quickly, and my five uncles all went back to their respective homes. After dinner, my grandfather, who had been busy all day, was very tired and invited me to rest with him. Honestly, I absolutely couldn't accept my mother going into the same room with a strange man. I stammered that I wasn't sleepy. My mother sensed my hesitation and stood up, saying,

"Dad, this child has a lot on his mind tonight, always going on and on. Don't let him disturb your rest. Let him stay with me."
She then gave the man a look, and he said,
"It's okay, Dad, I'll sleep in your room. Let the child stay with his mother."
My grandfather didn't say anything and got up to go back to his room. My mother said to the man,
"You should go early too. If anything happens to Dad tonight, please keep an eye on him."
"Hmm," the man said, and followed Grandpa into the house.

Mom and I sat quietly at the dining table, neither of us speaking. The air in the room seemed frozen. I'm sure my face was filled with hurt and a desperate need for Mom's comfort. Finally, Mom stood up and said,

"Want to sleep? If not, Mom will stay with you a little longer."
I knew Mom was giving me an out, so I understood and changed the subject, saying,
"Mom, it's so cold in the countryside. Won't we get cold at night?"
"It's okay, you'll warm up under the covers. Come on, go to sleep."

I followed Mom into another bedroom—or rather, Mom's new room. It was an old house that had just been painted. The room was furnished with newly made tables and chairs. The bright red "double happiness" character above the bed was particularly eye-catching under the lamplight. The aunties, always eager for good fortune, had already made the bed during the day. The bright red double quilt and pillows seemed to foreshadow everything that was about to happen. My mother reached into the blankets and took out a hot water bottle, handing it to me and saying, "Take this to warm your hands." I hugged the hot water bottle, which was no longer too hot, and paced around the room, shivering. "Are you feeling better?" my mother asked. I nodded, still shivering. My mother said again, "Go to bed quickly, just cover yourself with the blanket." I remember taking off each... The biting cold of the clothes sent a shiver down my spine, and it wasn't until I snuggled into the warm blankets that I slowly recovered. I looked at my mother from under the covers and said, "You should sleep too, Mom." "Okay, I'll sleep," she replied. As she spoke, she walked to the wall and turned off the light. Although the light was off, the room wasn't dark because the bright moonlight of the 16th of the lunar month shone through. My mother seemed to notice this, and after removing her heavy outer coat, she slipped into bed wearing only her thermal underwear. I watched her every move intently. I didn't know that my mother, who always slept in her pajamas... Would we really just lie there fully clothed? Sure enough, after only a few minutes, Mom groped around under the covers and took off her thermal underwear. The moment she pulled her clothes out of the covers, my heart started racing. The desire that had been dormant for almost half a year began to surge within me again. Mom, wearing only a bra and panties, released a lot of her unique body scent, especially in this enclosed and warm bed. Because of the excitement, I couldn't help but tremble. My trembling was noticed by Mom. She reached out and touched me, saying, "Are you still cold?" I was at a loss. I nodded and then shook my head. Seeing that I was alright, Mom withdrew her arm and said, "Go to sleep." How could I possibly fall asleep peacefully? I lay motionless in my spot in the blankets. I admit I had the urge to pounce on Mom and hug her, but it had been six months since our last sexual encounter. In those six months, I had suppressed that urge countless times, and Mom seemed to be subtly implying in her calm tone that she could manage not to have sex again, and she didn't expect her sexual needs to be met in any way. So I dared not make any move. But primal desires drove me wild, repeatedly assaulting my already fragile mental state. The countryside of northern Jiangsu is quiet in winter, with only the occasional bark of a dog telling people that night has fallen. No one knows that in this new house, on the same bridal bed, a mother and child, almost naked, are wrapped in the same blanket.

"Mom," I uttered in a pitiful tone.
"Hmm, not asleep yet," my mother replied, her back to me.
"Mom," I uncontrollably used my childhood voice.
Perhaps this tone stirred the mother's love within her, for she turned around and said in a gentle voice,
"What is it?" Then she reached out her delicate arm again and stroked my head.
"I want to...eat for a little while, okay, Mom?" My plea was almost a sob.

Hearing this, Mom didn't move her arm away but kept it on my neck. My heart pounded with a mixture of nervous excitement and anticipation for her answer. I could feel her hand trembling slightly on my neck, and I knew she was also struggling internally. Finally, desire once again took over our intimate moment. Mom's fragrant body pressed against my already burning body. As I mentioned before, what Mom could most readily accept was me suckling her breast; perhaps it was a kind of compensation for my childhood. My mother's hand pulled me closer, and she gently pressed my shoulder, signaling me to bury my head under the covers. I naturally complied. In the darkness, I felt her other hand lift her bra. There were still those full, firm breasts, still those incredibly sensitive nipples. I opened my still-parched lips and took them in completely. My wet tongue glided around the nipple, savoring every tiny bump on the areola. My mother's nipple quickly hardened, and I couldn't help but gently nibble at it. My mother's arm, which was wrapped around mine, trembled slightly with my nibbling. I think all men are the same; during sex, they won't abandon either breast. My hand rubbed and squeezed my mother's other breast, and the full, swollen breast yielded to the changes in my hand's movements. As my lips left my mother's breast and moved downwards, she realized that the memory she didn't want to recall was about to unfold again. She tried to stop me by tightening her grip on my arm, but I ignored her attempt, as she too was about to be melted. Finally, under my persistence, she released her already delicate and weak arms, and instead, she gently placed her hands on my head, which I was searching for, as if guiding me to touch all her sensitive areas. I kissed almost every inch of her skin, even leaving faint teeth marks on any tender spot. Her body undulated gently in the warm blankets, fully enjoying every pleasure her son brought her. Unlike last time, this time when I pulled down her underwear, she was compliant, because she knew in her heart that the outcome was already predetermined, so let it happen; she had completely lost control. Many novels use the words "fragrant" or "scented" to describe the smell of a woman's genitals, but that's just a poetic description. In reality, a healthy woman's genitals have a slightly sour, fishy smell; at least I know my mother's smells like that. Although I had penetrated my mother's body through that area several times before, this was the first time I had used my lips and tongue to experience it. I pressed my face, nose, and tongue tightly against my mother's already moist and slippery vulva, wanting to use all my senses to experience the vulva of the mother who gave me life. I didn't say that part could emit an intoxicating scent, but I dare say that scent could rapidly arouse a male. My mother, already aroused and her desire was high, couldn't control the vigorous secretions of her 38-year-old body. Streams of viscous fluid kept overflowing from her vaginal opening, no matter how much my lips and tongue sucked, my mouth was filled with the slippery juices from inside my mother's body. I nibbled at my mother's most tender parts. Her two crescent-shaped labia, which were not very thick to begin with, parted slightly due to the engorgement caused by my tongue. After several sexual encounters, I knew that a woman's most sensitive parts should not be touched directly. So I only used the tip of my soft tongue to touch my mother's clitoris very lightly. But even this very light touch made my mother's entire body tremble violently. My mother instinctively pushed my head away with her hands, letting me know that she could not bear such direct stimulation. I slowly straightened my body and pressed myself against my mother's curvaceous, fair, and warm body. My mother knew what she was about to receive. She opened her arms and pulled me into her embrace, naturally spreading her legs slightly apart. Unlike before, this time my mother actively adjusted the position of her hips, moving her honey hole to the head of my penis, which I could easily insert with a simple thrust. I knew that my mother's desire for penetration had reached its peak. As I entered her completely, my mother's arms wrapped around me tightly, and her legs hooked and pressed against my waist. She seemed not to want me to pull out; she wanted to fully enjoy the feeling of being filled and satisfied. I waited, until my mother slightly raised her hips and relaxed her legs, loosening their grip on me. Like a wild horse, I began my frenzied thrusting. My movements were rough, even savage, because my lust had raged within me. I didn't care whether my mother could withstand my onslaught; I only remember the loud slapping sounds of our abdomens pressing together. That night, my mother's vagina was tighter, warmer, and more lubricated than ever before. She didn't stop my unbridled advances, letting my swollen glans scrape and experience the wetness within her vagina. As my movements gradually calmed, my mother again embraced me, her hands gently sliding across my back, as if telling me not to engage in such violent intercourse, but to allow for as long a tender, prolonged contact as possible. I understood her meaning and changed my thrusting to a slow, gentle movement of my penis within her vagina. Sure enough, my mother's limbs gradually relaxed from their initial stiffness, and she even pressed my head against her chest, letting me suckle her nipples. Because of the slow, gentle rhythm, our intimate moment lasted a long time. During that time, my mother didn't show any tension or discomfort. Even after I ejaculated, she held me close, preventing me from withdrawing from her body too quickly. When I woke up in the middle of the night, my mother was still fast asleep, holding me. Thinking about her remarriage and the fact that I wouldn't see her again for a long time after returning home and going back to school, I climbed onto her again. My sleepy mother let me do as I pleased. Although she had no desire at this moment, the residual secretions and semen from her vagina last night still made it easy for me to penetrate her again. When I penetrated her, she didn't open her eyes, only made a soft "hmm" and then placed her hand on my buttocks. I knew what she meant. I didn't make any movements, just let my penis remain quietly inside her, enjoying and remembering that tight grip and warm wetness.

The next morning, when my grandfather knocked on the door, my mother and I were still in our warm bed, not yet awake. We opened our eyes almost simultaneously. My mother knew my thick penis was still inside her, but instead of immediately pushing me away, she brought her full breasts to my mouth. After a few minutes, she gently patted my back and then lightly pushed my buttocks away. I looked up at my mother, and she looked at me too. When I pulled my penis out of her vagina, her gaze remained unchanged. Her eyes told me that she loved and cared for me, knowing that now that she had remarried, she might never be able to be so intimate with me again. In the morning light, I watched as my mother fastened her red bra, a symbol of her new marriage, and put on her red underwear.

VII.

I have no way of knowing whether my mother's married life was happy or not, but that man was just a fleeting figure in her life. Ten days after their marriage, he died in a famous fire in Nanjing. Since there was no real affection between them, it didn't cause my mother much pain; at most, she could only sigh that she would have to face life alone again. However, her period didn't arrive on time that month, which greatly troubled her. The doctor clearly told her she was pregnant. Of course, my mother could choose to have an abortion, but some busybodies had already leaked the news to the man's mother. Later, I heard from my mother's friend that the old woman had knelt down and begged my mother to continue her family line. My mother was caught in a painful choice. Traditional values still dominated her thinking; she knew that as a wife, she had already shouldered the responsibility of carrying on the family line. If it weren't for our passionate wedding night, I don't think my mother would have let a 70-year-old woman plead with her. The helpless old woman eventually went to my grandfather. Under the persuasion and pressure of the two elders, my kind-hearted mother reluctantly agreed to the marriage. Her only request was that the child take her surname.

When God created all things, He allowed this seemingly complex natural world to quietly follow the laws of inevitability, which even thinking humans cannot defy. Sexual activity is the only way God ordained for human reproduction. Although it is the only way, it does not restrict the identities of men and women involved, and it is permitted as long as the conditions are met for the formation of new life. As a member of nature, a mother cannot control or prevent the embryo from forming in her body, nor can she choose which man's sperm her egg will combine with. What a mother worries about is that she cannot determine whose flesh and blood the child in her womb is.

I was completely unaware of my mother's pregnancy at first. Anyone with children knows that a woman's body doesn't change much in the first four months of pregnancy. Plus, the weather wasn't very warm during those months, and I was wearing thick clothes, so even though I went home once a month, I didn't notice anything. I remember in June, when my homeroom teacher informed me that I had to participate in a math competition and couldn't go home, I asked someone to send a message to my mother asking her to send me my allowance for the following month. I wasn't in the dorm when my mom arrived. After I rushed back, my best friend handed me the money my mom had brought and told me that my mom left before I put the money down. While he was telling me this, I noticed that another roommate had a mysterious smile on his face. I was a little angry and asked him what he was smiling about. He said nothing, but the smile that puzzled and angered me remained. Then my best friend pulled me aside in the corner of the hallway and explained,

"Auntie probably suspected something. Your belly is a little protruding. She didn't mean anything by smiling. Maybe she felt embarrassed that we're both 17 and her mom is pregnant again, so she wanted to smile when she saw you."

I remember pushing my best friend away and yelling at him for talking nonsense before storming back to the classroom. In the following days, although I was busy preparing for my senior year final exams, my classmate's words kept flashing through my mind.

I'll never forget the moment I opened the door to my mother when I got home for vacation. A light blue tank top covered her young woman's body, and beneath the knee-length skirt were her slender, white legs. Her nipples, unbraced, stood erect on her full, swollen breasts, taut over her thin dress. Her noticeably protruding belly told me that my 38-year-old mother was nurturing a new life. My mother slightly raised her head, her beautiful face calm, as if she had mentally prepared herself to meet her son's gaze. I stepped aside, past her in the hallway, and rushed into my room without saying a word. I sobbed, smashing everything in the room with my backpack, tearing at my hair. It wasn't so much a catharsis as a punishment for my own resentment and anger. It was hard to pinpoint who was at fault, but the pain was silently borne by my frail mother alone. My frenzy subsided with my mother's soft sobs. It brought me back to my senses. Did I really need my most wounded mother to comfort me?

For the next few days, I didn't cause any more trouble, but I also didn't communicate with my mother at all. The atmosphere at home was tense and suffocating.
Suddenly, one day, there was a knock on the door, which surprised me. My mother had a key. When I opened the door, I saw my mother's pale face, bloodless and lifeless. Her frail body trembled as she was supported by an aunt. The aunt settled my mother in the room and, as she left, said to me with a pitying and helpless tone, "Take good care of your mother. We just came back from the hospital. Your mother had an induced abortion." Watching her leave, my heart ached as if pierced by needles. Guilt and self-reproach slapped me hard across the face like two heavy blows. I stared timidly at my mother's door, unsure how to push it open. More than

a month passed in the blink of an eye. In this month, I experienced the tedium of housework. My frail mother, under my less-than-attentive care, slowly recovered. Seeing her complexion becoming rosier day by day, I gradually found some comfort in my heart.

I remember it was late afternoon in August, as I was sitting alone in the living room reading. I saw my mother push open her bedroom door and quietly come out. "I'm going downstairs for a walk," she said. This was the first time in over a month that she had spoken to me. I was startled and didn't know what to say, so I replied, "Oh..." Then I quickly added, "Mom, let me come with you." She didn't answer, just nodded slightly. On the way downstairs, she didn't offer to help me, so I could only follow behind her somewhat timidly. The summer evening sun had become weak and gentle, and a light breeze carried the air. People in the neighborhood were chatting in small groups, but my mother and I strolled along, one after the other. Occasionally, we would bump into an acquaintance and nod in greeting. My mother seemed to enjoy this slow walk, and we didn't return home until nightfall. "Mom, sit down, I'll cook." That was the first thing I said as soon as I entered the house. "I'll do it," Mom said. "You rest, Mom," I said again. "I'm fine, it's okay," Mom said as she went into the kitchen. To be honest, I didn't really enjoy that dinner. I was filled with a vague sense of unease, an unease I couldn't quite describe. While eating, I sat on the sofa, absentmindedly staring at the words in a book. My mother, who had finished clearing the table, came over and sat beside me. My heart pounded, and I felt more nervous than ever before. My mother noticed all of this. She picked up a fan from the sofa and gently fanned it. The breeze, carrying her scent, filled my nostrils. I knew that scent so well. "Catch up on your studies later. You haven't had time to study lately," my mother said softly as she fanned me. As she said this, a wave of sadness washed over me, and a few tears fell onto the pages of my book. My mother reached out and patted my head to comfort me. I sobbed even harder. Perhaps it was the sobbing that triggered my mother's instinctive maternal love; she pulled me into her arms and gently patted my back. When I calmed down in my mother's arms, she gently pushed me away and said, "Go to sleep early." Hearing this, I immediately threw myself into her arms again and said in a spoiled tone, "No, Mom, hold me a little longer." "Then why don't you rest?" my mother said. "Mom, I'll sleep with you tonight." I really don't know where I got the courage to say those words. As soon as I said them, I suddenly realized that the atmosphere in the room had frozen instantly. My mother also suddenly stopped patting my hand. I really didn't know what my mother would do at that moment. I was nervous and even a little scared. "Go wash up, you're all sweaty." A few seconds later, my mother's soft words dispelled the awkwardness. The male desire in my heart made me understand that this was a kind of tacit consent unique to women, even though I was only 17 years old at the time.

When I hurriedly washed up and went into my mother's room, my mother was bending over and tidying up the clothes on the bed. I stood at the door and watched my mother. People say that induced labor is more harmful to a woman's body than postpartum confinement. It is indeed true. My mother's movements were not as nimble as before. It seemed that every movement took a lot of effort for her. In the dim light of the room, her frail figure was slightly thinner than before her pregnancy, but her hips, encased in a sky-blue sundress, appeared so full and rounded. Her calves, peeking out from under the hem, were still as smooth as ever. The armpit hair she inadvertently revealed against her fair arms looked so dark and alluring. The most noticeable change was in her breasts; five months of pregnancy had given them ample nourishment, making them even firmer than before, and her nipples were particularly prominent under the thin nightgown.

"Go to sleep," Mom said, glancing back at me before picking up the folded clothes and walking away.
"Oh," I replied, then lay down on one side of the bed, quietly awaiting the impending storm. Suddenly, the light in the room snapped off, and my heart clenched with that sound. In the darkness, I listened to my mother's footsteps approaching the bed. The moment my mother's body slipped under the blanket, my blood surged, and I felt my cheeks slowly warming. It had been six months since my last sexual encounter with my mother, and in those six months, my testosterone levels had reached their peak, seemingly preparing for tonight's explosion. My hand slowly approached my mother's body from under the blanket until it touched her soft lower abdomen. My mother didn't avoid my touch but let my hand roam over her body. I gently turned her to face me with the hand around her waist, pressing my head and face against her chest, while simultaneously pulling her body tightly against mine. I lifted my head to find her lips and tongue. When our tongues finally intertwined, the desire within my mother began to slowly rise. My lips gently traced her cheek, down her smooth neck, and lingered on her full, firm breasts. Under the teasing of my tongue and the kneading of my hands, her nipples quickly became erect and hard. Naturally, with my other hand, I lifted my mother's skirt and reached for her most intimate area. A woman's shyness couldn't withstand the teasing of my fingers, and my mother's tightly closed thighs gradually parted. I placed my whole hand on her protruding mons pubis, and my free middle finger could freely and wantonly touch her genitals. Although it was through her underwear, I could still feel the heat and moisture there. As I rubbed and pressed with my fingers, the wetness became more and more obvious until the fluid overflowed and soaked through her underwear. I knew that at this moment, my mother's last line of defense had been completely broken. When my mother's last undergarment was stripped off, and her entire warm body, exuding a charming aura, was completely exposed before my eyes, I rolled over and straddled her. An impatient heart urged me to enter my mother's body. I twisted my hips, using my already hot and hard penis with bulging veins to find the entrance to my mother's vagina. Just as the head of my penis touched my mother's labia, my mother seemed to be electrocuted and pulled her hips up, pushing my lower abdomen hard with her hand. Just as I was surprised by my mother's actions, her other hand, which she had been holding, handed me a piece of plastic. At that time, I didn't know anything about condoms, nor did I understand why my mother had that thing. Of course, I now know that it was a family planning product that my mother received when she remarried. I remember my mother almost twisting her head, closing her eyes, her face flushed red as she helped me put on the condom. Although we had already had sex three times before, this was the first time she had touched my penis with her hand. Perhaps she was ashamed of this initiative, but also helpless. I enjoyed the way my mother's delicate fingers played with my penis. When she was sure I could insert it safely, my mother slowly lay down and guided me with her hand, which was already holding my penis, to her slightly parted vulva. I clearly remember the "plop" sound. With that sound, my thick, hard penis slid in to the hilt. My mother's head tilted back slightly as I entered, as if she couldn't immediately accept the sudden fullness in her lower body. The subsequent attack on my mother's body was fierce and unrestrained. I almost exhausted all my strength, rubbing my hard, hot penis against the tender flesh inside her vagina in the deepest and most frequent way. My mother's legs tightly wrapped around my waist, enveloping my entire body in her warm inner thighs. I still couldn't forget to look down and admire my mother's genitals. With each thrust, my mother's labia would open and close, and her clitoris, which was erect due to excitement, was slightly exposed and pink and moist under the wrapping of her labia minora. I couldn't help but squeeze it with my hand. This sudden and direct stimulation made my mother almost cry out. Her whole body trembled, but she immediately blocked my teasing there with her hand, obviously unable to bear it. I must admit that condoms in the 1980s greatly reduced the sensitivity of my glans penis. I could no longer feel the gentle nibbling inside my mother's vagina and the smooth, moist sensation of her vaginal fluids. I tried different intensities and positions, but I still couldn't get the pleasure I craved. Even when I was exhausted and panting as I lay on my mother's soft body, biting her nipples, I still didn't feel like I was going to ejaculate. My mother was also very tired, but she could only lie there obediently and wait for my next round of attacks. Because of the exhaustion, I could no longer repeat the previous intense thrusting and instead used slow, gentle movements, even though my penis remained hard. I don't know how my mother felt, or if she was also unwilling to continue this kind of sex that exhausted her and that I couldn't finish. My mother started to support her body with her arms, adopting a semi-arched posture to accommodate my penetration. Seeing this, I simply pulled my mother's body up and placed her buttocks on my thighs. I wrapped my arms around my mother's waist, and the two of us engaged in intercourse in a cross-legged position. Throughout the entire change of position, my mother never let my penis leave her body, but adjusted in a natural transition. Perhaps this way, she felt more at ease. The changed position allowed me to admire my mother's plump, white breasts, and it also made it easier for me to use my arms to hook her buttocks. My mother was also able to respond more flexibly to my every move. I buried my head between my mother's two soft breasts and alternately licked her nipples, while my mother gently wrapped her arms around my neck. As time went on, the stimulation made me more sensitive. Although the hymen prevented me from clearly discerning all the changes inside my mother's vagina, I could still clearly feel the slippery wetness during the thrusting process. As the insertion became smoother and the squelching sound gradually increased, I knew that my mother's fluids were beginning to overflow in large quantities, and her orgasm was approaching. I looked up at my mother's face, but she had already tilted her head back, her eyes tightly closed, her arms wrapped around my head, which was resting on her breast. I felt her hips begin to move involuntarily, as if searching for a suitable point of contact between my glans and the inside of her vagina. The movements were becoming increasingly larger and deeper. I stopped in surprise, but my mother ignored me and continued her movements. I knew this was her instinct or unconscious reaction as she approached orgasm. She had forgotten the dignity and restraint she had always upheld as a mother. An irresistible flood of pleasure overwhelmed her. As before, her vagina began to contract rhythmically, and with each contraction, thick, copious amounts of vaginal discharge slowly trickled down between her vagina and my penis. My mother climaxed. But she didn't utter a single moan. From her tightly clenched lips, I knew she was trying hard to control herself. As for me, I really wanted her to make a sound so I could fully enjoy a perfect sexual experience. But from my mother's perspective, I could accept and understand that she still couldn't fully release herself in front of her son. After her climax, my mother's body went limp and she collapsed onto the bed, letting me, who hadn't yet ejaculated, release my pent-up desires on her body. When I finally climaxed, my mother didn't react; she simply touched my head, a strange expression flashing across her face—perhaps relief, perhaps affection, perhaps some kind of ending… I couldn't decipher it.

This was the last time my mother and I had sex. Although I asked her several times afterward, she always firmly refused. I admit I used a lot of erotic descriptions in the above text, but as I said at the beginning, I don't like pornography, I even despise it. However, the reason I used this, and the object of my affection, is my mother, is because this truly happened during my childhood, an event that will leave the deepest mark on my life. My mother and I are both upright and cultured normal people, but this is how it happened. This is an exploration of human nature, a glimpse into the most authentic and profound aspects of humanity.

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My Story with My Mother

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