Platonic mother-son relationship

Can a Platonic love exist between a mother and son? That is, a purely spiritual mutual affection. I'm constantly distracted and unable to concentrate on my work because of this question. I hide alone in my office, refusing to see anyone, not even my secretary, Winnie, to avoid her constant questioning—she's too nosy. Winnie is my "strategist," the person closest to me in the company, and a good secretary who knows how to read her boss's expressions. If I were in a relationship, I couldn't hide it from her, because she knows my daily routine inside and out. What I do from morning till night—it all depends on her. And she's adept at subtly probing, getting me to reveal my feelings. I finally admitted that I felt like I was in love. Who made me feel that way? I didn't tell her. She only knew that he was a boy younger than me. This self-proclaimed love consultant said, "A relationship between an older woman and a younger man isn't unusual. Look at Tingfeng and Faye Wong, weren't they the envy of many? They might eventually break up, but the process is romantic, and you should enjoy every moment. Don't miss the opportunity, seize the day. Good men are almost extinct, and at our age..." Winnie was much younger than me, let alone me. But what she said was exactly the encouragement I needed. Sometimes I wondered if I should indulge myself like this. I didn't know if Winnie was concerned or just looking out for something, but she used this as an excuse to bring up my "relationship," trying to find out how it was going, and even bluntly asked, "Have you slept with him?" I was startled and blushed with embarrassment. These things shouldn't be discussed in the office, especially since she was assessing my progress in love, which was even more inappropriate. I'd never thought about it that way; I believed it absolutely shouldn't happen, and it was impossible. Sleeping with my son? That was unthinkable. But she pointed out this possibility, placing it in front of me. Any relationship that develops will inevitably veer in that direction. "Vannie, we won't sleep together. We just get along well, and we'll be... friends. It's purely platonic." "I don't believe you. Don't lie to yourself. You're just insecure. You're afraid he'll mind your age, that you're too old for him, right? He's willing to date you, which means he doesn't mind your age. If he doesn't mind, he'll think about sleeping with you. If you're willing, you just need to give him a hint..." "You don't understand. We really won't... it's impossible." I stopped her from continuing. "We won't not sleep together! When love between a man and a woman reaches its peak, they'll go to bed together. An outsider sees things clearly. Even though I haven't met him, just looking at your feelings, I can say for sure that what's between you two is more than platonic." She didn't understand. If she knew who that man was, she wouldn't say that. I kept telling myself it was impossible, that I shouldn't even think about it, otherwise I'd be afraid to develop a relationship with him. Although we felt almost like we were in love, and I enjoyed that feeling, it wasn't real love. My son and I were just a mother and son, relying on each other and passing the time together—it was that simple. However, I was willing to try all the suggestions Winnie offered about our "romantic life" and apply them to my life with my son. Certainly, we wouldn't go all the way to bed. But what's wrong with adding a little romance to our lives? Being with my son really helped me regain my confidence. He was generous with his compliments; every word was a pleasant melody to my ears. I started to believe I still had feminine charm, and I noticed men were all staring at my thighs, including my son. Winnie's half-joking remark seemed to make a lot of sense. She said that the reason I put all my energy into my work, adopting a strong, career-woman style and dominating men, was probably a form of psychological compensation… Compared to Winnie, I have far less dating experience. She's my subordinate, yet her life is far more colorful than mine. She can list all her boyfriends, comparing their strengths and weaknesses, including their performance in bed. I'm not as open-minded as her; even if I've slept with someone, I wouldn't tell anyone. People think I have many suitors, but actually, very few. At my age, all the men who debuted around the same time as me are married. The unmarried ones are all too unappealing. Those less successful than me, or younger than me, are not worth my time. Honestly, whenever a man shows me affection, I become wary, afraid of being cheated out of money or sex. Who can truly understand a woman's heart? Last night I couldn't sleep, because I saw him, coming back from a run, wearing only shorts, his body half-naked, youthful and fresh. The firm, well-proportioned muscles, the freshness of his skin—it all filled me with an overwhelming sense of lust. Like a crazed old maid experiencing love for the first time, I thought about him all night. He and I slept only a wall apart, and I wanted to go over and see his sleeping posture and handsome face, just like he was as a child. He's my son! How could I be so infatuated with him that I couldn't sleep? In the morning, before I left for work, he knocked on my door and said, "Mommy, remember I made plans with you tonight? Dress nicely, okay? Wear the high heels I gave you? You look especially good in strappy stilettos." "Really?" I was mesmerized, spending half an hour in front of the mirror getting ready, trying to find a match for those high heels. Finally, convinced I looked good enough, I opened the door and saw him waiting for me, smiling. He looked me up and down. I was relieved when he was satisfied. He said, "Wow, you're getting more and more beautiful!" "Really?" "I'm so envious of that beautiful girl I got to have dinner with." "Nonsense, don't joke about Mommy. Save those sweet words for younger girls, I don't need them." "Would you rather I tell you the truth or a lie?" "The truth, of course." He leaned close to my ear and whispered, "You really are charming. You've been looking in the mirror for ages, don't you believe it?" Then he gently kissed my cheek, and my heart started pounding. I sat down in the office and checked my watch, waiting to leave. Time passed slowly in the office; I had no interest in looking at documents. When the phone rang, it wasn't his voice, so I just gave a perfunctory answer. We had agreed he wouldn't call. He calls after I've told him I'll be busy that morning, with business engagements or meetings that evening. He'll try to find a moment during lunch to have a quick lunch with me. Usually, he'll send a letter via courier. I flip through the stack of cards and letters he's written to me, reading them over and over again. On special occasions, he'll choose very delicate and thoughtful cards for me, so receiving a Valentine's Day card isn't surprising; in fact, I look forward to it. He's a good letter writer, and I love reading his letters—the concise words conveying his care and longing for me. Longing arises naturally when we're both at work and can't see each other. When he travels for work, he always sends cards and letters expressing his longing, starting before he even boards the plane at the airport, and they arrive every day. He's instilled in me the habit of waiting for mail every day. We live under the same roof, so why do we exchange letters? It's only a few streets from his office to mine. One day, he started writing to me, sharing his feelings, and he never stopped. Of course, I wrote back. What did I write about—? More about missing him, I suppose. How much did I miss him? I don't even know. Suddenly, an email from him popped up on my computer screen, reminding me, "Honey, you're busy, but don't forget our date tonight." He told me how anxious he was waiting for that moment, hoping to see me immediately. And how could I forget? I replied, "Honey, I'm waiting just as long for you to pick me up in front of my office…our date tonight, and I miss you too…" What kind of longing does a mother have for her son? Back when he was studying abroad, I was so busy that I didn't even have the heart for the traditional Chinese poem about a loving mother sewing clothes for her wandering son. Lately, however, I find myself writing letters, filled with indescribable, endless longing. The letters in my hands, each line written in my son's handwriting, pour out his delicate feelings. Between the lines, a peculiar love overflows, intimate and almost seductive, with a powerful allure, urging me to follow it. Every day, like an addiction, I wait for his letter to arrive on my desk before my heart finds peace. Winnie calls these private letters "love letters," and they must be delivered to me through her from the reception desk. Indeed, like love letters, each one sweeter than the last. When Winnie knocks to come in, I feel like a guilty thief, immediately hiding the letter so she won't see it. Winnie knew I had a date and came in to remind me it was almost five o'clock, time to leave work. I casually walked out of the office, and Winnie caught up with me, asking, "Seeing you dressed like that? Are you going on a date with him?" "Him my foot. I'm not telling you." Her question was unnecessary; I'd only been dating one person lately. My sweet, knowing smile had already given her the answer. Actually, she was just confirming her suspicions, enthusiastically offering me advice. "Have fun. When I saw you this morning, I had a feeling you two would have a very special date, a very romantic one. Maybe he'll make a move on you, and what you're hoping for might happen tonight. If I were you, I'd give him more encouragement, and so on..." she whispered in my ear. I responded to her kindness with a nod and a smile.I can't explain why Winnie's words stirred my heart so deeply, making me feel as if I were floating on clouds. Tonight was just a routine date with my son; we usually spend two or three nights a week together out and about. Winnie? Her various suggestions for my "love life" are just spice up my dull life, completely unrelated to anything involving sex. The more she spoke, the more explicit it became, which I felt was going too far. But I just love listening to her quirky ideas; otherwise, I wouldn't allow my subordinate to be so presumptuous. I like the feeling her words give me, like moths fluttering around my heart. Before I grow old and lose my looks, I've decided to open my heart, let things take their course, seize the moment, and enjoy life. Life is already so restrictive. These days have been quite joyful, so let it be. Why make things difficult for yourself and run away from happiness? I've felt very happy these past few days, ever since my son's heartbreak… His heartbreak became our starting point. He lost a childhood sweetheart, someone I once considered my future daughter-in-law. He tried several times to win her back but failed, becoming depressed and withdrawn. I took him to a bar called "Happy Hour" to let him drink his fill and cheer him up. I comforted him, saying that my son is no less capable than others; he's young, handsome, and charming. However, fate is predetermined. Losing a loved one is painful, a huge setback. I know, because I've been abandoned myself, and I understand that feeling. But are there no girls in the world? Out with the old, in with the new… My son and I were all quite drunk, drinking until closing time, and we had to ask the bartender to call a taxi to take us away. In our final round, we clinked glasses, wishing everyone would treat themselves better in the future. I also wished him that something new would come soon. After that, we spent a lot of time together. He said that he had previously neglected his mother because he was focused on dating. Moreover, he discovered that while his mother appeared to be a strong, successful woman with a busy work schedule, she was actually quite lonely and needed companionship and affection. And I, during my son's down days, kept him company until he made a new beginning. This expedient arrangement seemed to work out for everyone. So, my husband and I often spent time together, and he jokingly called this time "dating." What's wrong with two people without a partner "dating" to relieve boredom? I asked him, "Has something new come along yet?" "You're coming, tell me quickly, and I'll tactfully step aside." He said, "I've made progress, but the time isn't right yet." With him by my side, I feel like I've become a few years younger. His youthful energy and humor inject vitality into my dull and stressful life. And he, too, has become mature and steady. What do mothers and sons do when they're dating? They can do anything. After get off work, on holidays, they watch movies together, go to concerts, eat out, travel... We've been to many places together, to the ends of the earth, leaving our footprints and silhouettes. On my desk in the office, there's a photo of us together. During the cherry blossom festival in Ueno Park, Japan, a stranger set us up, telling us to get closer, to be more affectionate, and took the photo on our behalf, treating us like a couple. So, outside of work, I began to have a private life and space. Ever since the waiter at our usual restaurant mistook us for a couple, he suggested we play a game: pretend to be a couple at that restaurant. When he called me "wife" in front of the waiter, I covered my mouth and laughed. Tonight, we're going to that restaurant. We go there often because it's the best in town; the ambiance and food suit our tastes. He picks me up in front of my company. I always leave before my colleagues to avoid them pointing and gossiping if they see my boyfriend. I walk lightly out the door, and he's already waiting. His hand naturally extends for me to help him into the car. Only now do I notice that the tie he's wearing is a gift from me. He was impeccably dressed in a suit, a pristine white handkerchief tucked into his jacket pocket, looking as if he were attending a formal banquet. In the train carriage, my posture caused my skirt to ride up, revealing a section of my thigh above my stockings. He politely helped me adjust my skirt, his gaze lightly sweeping over the fishnet stockings. These fishnet stockings were the ones he had picked out when we shopped together at the company. He was patient with women while shopping, possessed impeccable taste, and was adept at giving women advice. He could spot clothes and dresses, even intimate apparel, that suited my figure and status at a glance. Gradually, his influence changed my clothing choices; he had insights into everything from innerwear to outerwear. For example, he'd talk about which style of high heels best accentuated the lines of my legs, which bra would subtly highlight my shapely breasts, and so on. His comment, "Don't bury your beautiful legs, men love to look," made all my newly bought skirts appear several inches shorter. When we walked together, his hand would always rest on my waist or gently on my hip, his movements elegant and polite, never making me feel awkward. Our bodies maintained a subtle distance, smaller than a typical mother and child, but slightly more than a couple deeply in love. I would unconsciously hook my arm around his, letting him take me wherever he wanted. This closeness, this conversation, this knowing smile between us, revealed a tacit understanding between us. Why do we like being together? Because he can help me relieve stress, and he can forget the pain of heartbreak. He told me many stories, about the friends he'd made since high school, and the things he'd done. I'd been too busy with my career and neglected him. I realized how much he'd grown; he knew just as much as I did. Then we often came to that restaurant, drawn by its romantic ambiance, hoping it would help us relax. All evening, at the table, from the moment we sat down, he gazed at me, his eyes sweeping over me with a peculiar intensity, trying to entice me. When our eyes met, I would avert them. In business, I'm used to looking directly into the other person's eyes when I speak. Why was I afraid of his eyes? Because there was so much unspoken in them. I felt I understood, yet I didn't want to hear it. Suddenly, I heard someone call my name. A gentle hand reached out, lifted my face, and said, "Shiya, do you mind if I call your name?" I thought, if the waiter heard me say "You're a mother," our secret would be exposed. Besides, I feel a sense of intimacy when I call your name; it makes us feel closer… He had been calling me "my dearest," "the one I miss," "the one I love deeply" in his letters for some time now, intentionally and skillfully omitting "mother." Without realizing it, I had accepted his affectionate terms. But when it became a voice calling my name, my heart raced. There was nowhere to hide; it felt like a defense had suddenly crumbled. He pressed on, "Shiya, did you hear me? Don't you mind?" I lowered my head, nodded, and gave a perfunctory response. I dared not raise my head again, swirling the wine glass and watching the candlelight reflected in the swirling red wine. >The little slut is all wet, high-H nipple video. "Shiya...are you listening to me?" I kept hearing him call my name. I was distracted and couldn't remember what he said. His hand reached over again, under the table, placed on my knee, pressed, gently rubbed, and gently circled. My whole body stiffened, as if I had been acupunctured, and everything froze. Then I heard him say, "After dinner, shall we go to the disco for a drink and dance?" Not wanting to linger in crowded places tonight, I told him, "Discos are too noisy, and I don't want to dance. I'd rather take a walk on the beach near our house." "Okay, if you don't mind the sea breeze." We went home, walking along the pale yellow streetlights. He took my hand and led me along the path to the beach. When we came to this place, we always didn't know what to say. Actually, nothing needed to be said. What lover in the world hasn't heard the whispers of the waves and the night sky? I can't remember how he first took my hand, or how I let him. Anyway, in quiet places, he would take my hand, naturally and affectionately. Walking and talking hand in hand with my son, without any impure thoughts. When I needed a man's company, his sweaty, warm hand was there, taking my cold one in his. Our fingers intertwined, and an energy flowed from my heart and hands to him, healing his broken heart. And from his warm palm, I found the reliance that every woman desires. "Shiya…Shiya…" My son's affectionate call echoed in my ears, a call directed at me. It was as if he had awakened a part of me that had been dormant for years. The man I had longed for for so many years had not yet appeared. It couldn't be him, and it couldn't be. He was too young, and besides, he was my son. But he was always by my side, accompanying me, filling that void perfectly. "What's wrong? If you don't want me to call you by your name, if you think it's not the right time, I won't force you." "Oh, no. I mean, I don't mind." "You know, it's hard to call you by your name. But I feel an urge to call you by your name when I'm with you. Shiya is such a beautiful name. If it weren't tonight, I would have called you Shiya someday. Whether it's appropriate or not." "Call me whatever you like. Let's talk about something else." "Why do we have to talk? Let's hear what the sky and the sea have to say tonight." We sat on the chairs by the sea, watching the waves surge onto the beach and then recede.I let myself indulge in this feeling of being loved and admired, even by someone unsuitable. When things reached a certain point, given the right time and atmosphere, certain more intimate actions would be taken, tentatively testing the increasingly blurred boundaries, just like when he called my name. For example, how should one distinguish the touch of lips between a mother and son? We were absolutely intimate like lovers; his hand rested on my rounded shoulder, pulling down the thin strap and caressing it gently. I only saw his mouth moving; his voice was too soft, drowned out by the sound of the waves. One of his hands brushed my hair, gently stroking my face. His arms encircled my waist, and I went limp, collapsing into his embrace. He leaned down, called my name, "My Shiya," and then said, "I love you," before trying to kiss me. I said, "No," half-startled, and turned my face away. I hadn't expected my son to say he loved me, and I was even more caught off guard by his kiss—a passionate kiss that I couldn't accept. But he turned my face back and kissed my lips. I pushed him away, but he wouldn't let go, holding me tightly with his arms. I understood why—my heart had been pounding since morning—as his lips intertwined with mine. His hands, free from my control, landed beneath my skirt, caressing the flesh of my snow-white thigh above my stockings, diving deep inside. I said, "Why are you doing this? We shouldn't." He said, "I've wanted to kiss you for a long time; my lips have an irresistible attraction to me. I just didn't dare, afraid that kissing me would be inappropriate and ruin something beautiful." Tonight, he felt we were all in a good mood, that we were close, that we could get a little closer, so… I said, “I’m so scared, my son will turn out like this.” He said, “Don’t be afraid, everything has changed. You’re my girlfriend now.” “Can you not do this?” I was referring to his kiss, and then his overly intimate caresses, his unrestrained exploration of my breasts, his playing with my nipples. These things had already crossed the line of intimacy between mother and son, but he said, "Shiya, it's too late, it's not possible. Because the spell has been broken. I called your name, and you responded. Be brave and accept me. Don't be afraid, and let's not deceive ourselves anymore, pretending that nothing has happened between us." "Son, what happened between us?" "It's called love. I've fallen in love with you, for a long time." "Impossible." "Denial is useless; it happened, it's been going on for a long time, it's just that we haven't acknowledged its existence." "But, I'm your mother, how can I become your girlfriend?" "You can, you've already become my Shiya, you already are. When you let me kiss you, you acknowledged this fact. From your kiss, I felt that we were indeed in love." He didn't allow me to speak, hugged me in his arms, and put my lips in his mouth again, proving the love he said. I no longer struggle because I can't find a reason to refuse to give him love for me. He had taken the initiative from the beginning, occupying all important parts of my body, and controlled my emotions with his passionate caresses. Under the skirt, he grasped the central point and twisted my private parts provocatively. He doesn't have to prove it, I can't stop him. How am I doing? My underwear is soaked, my clitoris is swollen, my nipples are raised and erect, and my whole body is hot... How can I bear to be in such a mess at the hands of a young man? If I say now that I don't need him, he won't believe it, and even I won't believe it myself. "Shimin, accept me, accept my love." He kissed me, already slipping inside my clothes, and unceremoniously unhooked my bra, covering my breasts with his palms, my hard nipples pressed against his hands, gently kneading them. He managed to pull down my panties and stockings together. I took off my high heels, raised my legs, and let him roll up my panties and stockings, pulling them out from between my bent legs. He sniffed them, then put them in his suit pocket. My mind went blank; there was nothing under my skirt. Only his fingers, stroking my damp pubic hair, rubbing my labia, then slipping inside, searching for my clitoris. I trembled uncontrollably, like leaves in the wind. I rubbed my inner thigh against his fingers, unable to stop, unwilling to, because the feeling was just too good. If he didn't insert his fingers now, I would do it in my sleep, using them to relieve my desire. He could give me more than just his fingers; there was something else on his body that could bring me real pleasure. When he tried to lift my skirt, I said, "No, not here. I'm cold." My legs felt like they didn't belong to me; I followed him, step by step, home. My thighs felt empty, yearning for something to fill them. He held me tightly, and I nestled against his shoulder. My heart pounded even harder; I was about to cross the barrier with him, embarking on a path of no return. As soon as we entered the house, we embraced and kissed passionately. I felt like a puppet, completely at my son's beck and call. He caressed me, calling my name, and began to undress me. I helped him, pulling down the thin straps and zipper of my dress. He removed my clothes and bra, laying me bare before him. Standing there for my son to see, with a potential man in my sight, maintaining this position, I wondered if he found me acceptable. To hide my embarrassment, I crossed my arms over my chest. I lowered my head, unable to meet my son's naked gaze. My son, too, completely undressed, standing naked beside me, and demanded that I look up at him. His posture laid bare his forbidden flesh and its desires. Could it be that the person I've waited for all these years is him? His hand gently caressed my face, calling my name, and he drew closer, enveloping my nakedness in his equally naked embrace. "Shiya, what are you afraid of? What's there to be ashamed of in showing me your body? We don't need to hide anything anymore," he asked. I buried my head in his open chest, unable to look directly at the person embracing me naked, my son turned lover. Forbidden love, yet inescapable. His hand gently patted my back, down my neck and up my hips, caressing me incessantly. He said, "Shiya, your body is beautiful, even more beautiful than I imagined through your clothes." "Don't say that, I already feel ashamed." "Don't? Ashamed of your beautiful body. My mother had such a captivating figure, and I was proud of it. Please trust me, give yourself to me, I will love you well. I know you are a woman, you need someone to love you and cherish you." Hearing him ask me to give myself to him, I trembled all over, my knees buckled, and I collapsed into his arms. He gently embraced me, supported me, and kissed me. I couldn't resist his kisses; he used them to make me submit to him, to subdue him. I must have given in, because he picked me up and took me to his bed. He comforted me relentlessly, telling me not to be afraid, and that I was so beautiful. As he spoke, he lay on top of me, kissing every part of my body until I was completely at his command. "Shiya, open your legs, let me see if your lower lips are as vibrant as your upper ones." "No. Don't embarrass me." I closed my thighs. "Shiya, don't hesitate any longer, open your legs, there's a beautiful place there, and we'll do wonderful things there." My thighs obeyed; he opened them, letting him part my labia, where he admired and kissed me. I heard his praise, more beautiful than beautiful; it was the first time I'd heard him appreciate my private parts so intimately. He was closer to it than I could, seeing every detail. I trusted him. And he absorbed his desire for my body into me. That long-lost touch awakened my senses. Desire and flesh met and merged in our two naked, intertwined bodies. "Oh..." It was a sigh of pleasure. "Shiya, I don't believe it, our bodies are completely united. You know, do you know how it feels when I'm inside you? You have to believe me, it's the most sensual place I've ever been!" "You bad boy, I shouldn't have let you in there." "I'm sorry, you can't control me. Now that I'm here, you can't get rid of me." "Tell me, when did you get these impure thoughts about me?" "Don't ask. Let's make love first, then talk. My dear, I'll tell you later, okay?" He didn't answer, but began to caress my breasts, gently thrusting in and out. I rose and fell with his movements. He was right, I am a woman too, I deserve to be loved, even though the one who gives me that love is my son. I will accept him. He is young, but he knows how to please me better than anyone else. Beneath him, I reclaimed the sexual pleasure I deserved. Tonight, our two bodies intertwined as one; in truth, we were originally one. That hard thing beneath him connected us, giving a woman the happiness she craved. Every woman desires something like that. I want to hold onto it; I cannot live without him. "Mommy, I know you're not a casual woman. I'm not looking for a one-night stand, but for a lifetime. So, please agree to marry me." He supported his upper body with his elbows, gently thrusting as he told me the words I had been waiting for.I'd never been so moved during sex, even to the point of tears. But his words brought tears to my eyes. I couldn't speak, I just held the man who loved me tightly. Seeing me cry, he comforted me like a child, saying, "I can support you now. If you can give up your career and live with me from now on, focusing on being a woman, you can enjoy a peaceful life. You won't have to be busy; we can live happily together." I cried even harder, and I would agree to anything he asked. Yes, with each thrust inside me, my mind went blank a little more. After dozens of deep and shallow thrusts, I became a brainless, foolish woman in bed, no longer the career woman I once was. I was willing to do anything for this son I had fallen in love with. With each push, he made a request, and I agreed to them all, only able to say "yes" aloud. At the climax, I agreed to everything. I wanted to be his woman, his home-bride, to do his laundry, cook for him, be the mother of his children, the grandmother of his children's children, and to be with him for life. An unforgettable love; my lover held me with boundless tenderness, and after the flush subsided, his caresses and gentle kisses preserved the lingering warmth. I was a little dazed, like in a dream. He said to me, "Shiya, have you agreed?" "Darling, I agree to everything," I murmured. Whatever my son wanted, I would agree to, I would give him everything. "Now I'll tell you how I fell in love with you. During the time I was heartbroken, you cared about me a lot. That day, you asked me to talk to you at a bar. That night, we both drank a little and had a good time. My head was spinning, and I couldn't hear what you were saying. I only saw you sitting on the sofa, your thin skirt covering your thighs, and you seemed unsure where to put your legs. Suddenly, I saw your thigh flash under your skirt, and my soul was captured. From that night on, my eyes couldn't leave your beautiful thighs. I thought about you all day long, and just thinking about you would give me an erection." "You said I seduced you." "No, I seduced you. Because you made me yearn for a new beginning, I started to see you as someone to pursue, and before I knew it, I had fallen in love with you." "I never imagined my son was so bad, harboring ill intentions towards me all this time. I always thought we were just..." "My Shiya, my mommy, you make me hard every day, what other choice do I have? I can only pursue you relentlessly and win your heart. Now, you can't escape, you've already agreed, you're my woman from now on. I don't need to run laps on the beach anymore, I can save my energy to make love to you." As he spoke, he caressed me, stroking my entire body, making my nipples hard and unbearably sensitive. How could he arouse me so quickly? With kisses, touches, and sweet words, he added fuel to the fire of our previous lovemaking, making me want to make love again. Until the repeated thrusting and ejaculation made my private parts feel like they didn't belong to me anymore, over-excited and somewhat numb. Tomorrow, when Winnie sees me looking sleep-deprived but radiant, she'll definitely ask if I slept with him. I'll confidently declare, "We made love last night." She'll ask, "What did you think?" I'll honestly say, "He was great." That nosy girl will definitely ask about every detail of what we did in bed. I won't tell her, leaving her to guess and only able to envy. She also won't believe that even at the very beginning of our first love, I decided I couldn't leave him. We're a match made in heaven. He's my son, and I know his personality and nature perfectly well. And he was so considerate during our lovemaking, his thrusts were perfectly timed, and we were completely in sync. Especially his natural, all-encompassing thrusts, sending the most wonderful sensations in the world into my body. I was certain then that he was the man I loved, and I couldn't let this good man slip away again. I never imagined my "Platonic love" would end like this. Serves me right. But, it's alright. "Mommy." In my sleep, someone patted my bare bottom, kissing my breasts and genitals, trying to wake me. "Are you calling me?" "Yes, were you asleep? This is our first night together, can we make love again?" "No, I need to sleep, I have to go to work tomorrow." "Just one more time. One more..." Call me Shiya, when you want to make love. How many times have we done this tonight?

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Platonic mother-son relationship

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