A recollection of a past relationship with one's mother.

I think many people have a mother complex in their childhood, just to varying degrees. Everyone's experiences are different; some families are more open-minded, while others are much more conservative. Parents' love for their children also varies, and the reasons for incest also differ. But one thing is certain: a mother's love for her children. I believe all mothers in the world cherish their children dearly. I know many might ask me, "If you know your mother loves you, how could you have a relationship with your own mother?" Honestly, I don't have a definitive answer myself. I know it's incest, it shouldn't have happened, but I know I love my mother. Everything that happened seems so natural to me, so natural that I can't find a single particularly special experience to describe. I believe that all sons deeply love their mothers, the mother who gave me life and raised me. And I, an ordinary son in reality, encountered too many unlikely events with my mother, and thus, my story with her slowly began. My mother was born into a scholarly family in the 1960s. From a young age, she studied the Four Books and Five Classics with her father, absorbing the influence of traditional culture. Later, due to her slightly higher education level than the average person, she was exposed to some open-minded ideas at university. After being assigned a job, she married my father, who only had an elementary school education. My father was not impotent or violent, nor did he beat his wife, as some erotic novels portray him, even though he only had an elementary school education. My parents came together through a traditional arranged marriage. Perhaps initially, my mother was attracted to my father because of his sunny and handsome appearance. Apart from that, my father's circumstances at the time were indeed very poor. I clearly remember that when I was as far back as I can remember, there wasn't a single light in our house, nor were there any concrete stairs. Back then, my mother would carry me up the bamboo ladder at night. Our home was incredibly simple. My family barely scraped by on my father's carpentry work and my mother's wages, but my parents' doting on me was no less than that of any parent born in the 1980s today. Aside from slightly poorer living conditions, my childhood was filled with things many children couldn't even dream of, like the snacks, toys, clothes, and shoes they had. Of course, I'm not bragging; I'm just using this as an example to illustrate my parents' excessive, overindulgent love for me. Thanks to the reform and opening up policy and my parents' hard work, our family's circumstances gradually improved. Like many people remember, we renovated our house, no longer living in a house without stairs. Soon, I left my mother's warm embrace and had to climb the sturdy, cold stairs alone. The image of me, a child, nestled in my mother's arms, my little hands clutching her breasts, watching her struggle up the bamboo ladder, is forever etched in my mind, like a brand. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why I have such a strong Oedipus complex many years later. Before I started elementary school, I still slept with my parents. I occasionally saw them having sex, but I was too young to know that it was sex.I had no evil thoughts, so my memories of those things are very vague. The only thing I remember vividly is that in winter, my mother would put my feet between her legs to keep me warm, so much so that after my father made me sleep alone, I spent several winters missing my mother's legs. Children born in the 1980s tend to be precocious, and I was no exception. In fourth grade, I was already playing pranks on the girls in my class with the mischievous boys – basically, the kind of teasing we'd develop into as adults. My elementary school wasn't far from home, only about 100 meters away. Back then, my mother loved listening to pop songs on her tape recorder. As I was nearing the end of elementary school, I often bought her tapes of popular songs. After lunch at school, I'd listen to them with her, and when she was in a good mood, she'd even hum a tune. Once, I got first place in my class on a test and brought home a certificate. While we were listening to music at lunchtime, my mother praised me, hugged me happily, kissed my forehead, and then lingered on my right cheek for three or four seconds. It was just a simple act of affection between mother and son, but I remembered it vividly because of the sweet feeling it evoked at the time. Upon entering high school, my grades weren't as outstanding as they had been in elementary school, though I was still among the top students in my class. However, my mother wasn't satisfied with my ranking and became stricter with me, significantly diminishing my image of her as a gentle mother. I remember she started asking teachers and other parents for advice, then finding suitable tutoring classes and teachers for me. Looking back, I realize how devoted parents are, but at that time, I was going through a rebellious phase and often disobeyed my mother, sometimes even being rude and talking back. One time, my mother was so exasperated that she tricked me into her room, locked the door to prevent me from escaping, and then took a broom from behind the door and started hitting my bottom with it. I don't remember how hard she hit me, but I remember being stunned, turning around, and seeing my mother hitting me; I couldn't even believe my eyes. I didn't cry, but my mother, tired of hitting and scolding me, sat down on a chair next to me and began to berate me—or rather, to motivate me to study. As she spoke, she became increasingly convinced that I wasn't living up to her expectations, and she started to cry. That was the first and only time I ever saw my mother cry. I admit I was incredibly proud at that moment, but I couldn't bear the sadness she was instilling in me, and I cried too. I don't know if I had fallen in love with my mother then, but from that moment on, I began to study even harder. Of course, I didn't neglect my hobbies. I remember first encountering erotic novels because of my cousin. In high school, a cousin of marriageable age lived with us. I don't remember exactly why, but I vaguely remember she was dating a boy, and her family objected. After she eloped with her future husband, she left behind several books, which my mother had originally hidden. Out of childish curiosity, I found them in an old, worn-out box. I believe... Many girls are lustful, because I know my cousin also likes to read these pornographic books, and her name is clearly written on them. If I could still find those books now and blackmail her, I wonder what she would think, haha. Of course, this is just wishful thinking. She's not much older than my mother, maybe only 7 or 8 years old, but she's not good at skincare, unlike my mother, who has become increasingly fond of skincare since our family's financial situation improved. The number of skincare books and medications we have at home has increased as I've grown older. But let's get back to the topic and talk about that pornographic book. Actually, looking back now, in this information age, that pornographic book is far inferior to any pornographic book available today. The illustrations in the comics either didn't show genitals or were just dark blurry images, and the dialogue was very subtle. Undeniably, for me, who was entering puberty, the impact was no less than a collision of stars. Thus, I entered puberty under the guidance of their sexual enlightenment and those leaflets about aphrodisiacs. Then, during puberty, I became very different from many others. For example, my childhood best friend told me he liked a girl a year younger than us. I told him I had a crush on our elementary school music teacher, and he didn't understand. But I didn't have a definite answer for him. One day, while browsing the internet later in life, I suddenly realized that it was a manifestation of Oedipus complex. I suddenly understood. I wondered if my childhood friend had harbored doubts, wondering if I was thinking about my mother every day. In high school, the physiology teacher didn't take it seriously at all. The science teacher at that time was a recently graduated male teacher. Based on my own life experience, I guessed he only had a superficial understanding of physiology. It wasn't until long after I graduated from university that I learned that women still bleed after childbirth and tubal ligation, and that menopause only occurs in their fifties or sixties. But I didn't know that at the time. Once, I ran out of toilet paper in my room, so I went to my parents' room. After relieving myself, I suddenly saw my mother's used sanitary napkin in the toilet paper holder. If it were me now, I probably wouldn't have any evil thoughts, but at that time, I was in puberty and full of curiosity about female physiology. Evil thoughts instantly overwhelmed me. I found my mother's underwear in my parents' bathroom. Imagining what she looked like, I gently placed the underwear on my large penis and pressed it against it. It felt very comfortable. After a while, I suddenly felt the urge to urinate. I thought that must be what the biology textbook called ejaculation. Suddenly, I had an urge to ejaculate on my mother's underwear. I wondered if my mother would get pregnant because of this, but I was still afraid of being discovered by my mother. In a hurry, I covered my penis with my hand. That's how I completed my first masturbation with my mother's underwear. (II) Honestly, while sharing my memories of the past, my account leveled up from 1 to 2! I'm so happy! Once I finish writing down all my memories—not just about my mother, but also about my wife—I think my account will become much higher-level, with more browsing privileges. I'm fantasizing again… Like I always say, people born in the 80s are all absurd, very lewd and repressedly perverted. My wife is a typical example. Yesterday, after I finished writing that small part, I showed it to my wife. Before bed, she kept teasing me. I patted her butt and said, "Your son will steal your underwear someday, just you wait." She didn't say anything, probably still fantasizing. After a while, she turned around and stroked my penis, saying, "I want it." I turned on the light and asked, "Who was just teasing me? Are they fantasizing about their own son?"My wife blushed and buried her face in my chest… Here’s a little tidbit for you guys to enjoy, and also to thank the moderator for the guidance and everyone for your support. Now, I’ll continue with my recollection from last time. Ever since I started masturbating with my mother’s underwear, it felt like I was tasting the most delicious food in the world. The stimulation and pleasure it brought me, both sensoryly and psychologically, far surpassed any game console or toy I had ever played before. It was precisely because I got such immense pleasure and satisfaction from my mother’s underwear that I would go to my parents’ bathroom almost every noon under the pretext of relieving myself. I even came up with a reason that rivaled the intelligence of an adult: I used my own toilet seat to defecate, which often splashed dirty water onto my buttocks. My mother believed me without question, and after I tearfully complained about my own toilet seat, she strongly encouraged me to go to her bathroom. My mother, of course, never imagined that a teenager would develop such a strong interest in his own mother's underwear, much less that her son was gradually approaching the castle of his life under the influence of an Oedipus complex. Thus, encouraged by my mother, I used her underwear to express my love for her. It was through these repeated masturbations that my feelings for my mother slowly began to become distorted. Gradually, what started as occasionally fantasizing about my mother's body while holding her underwear developed into the point where, no matter what arousing books or pictures I saw, the first woman I thought of was my mother. During this time, given my father's careless nature, he certainly never noticed these actions, but I'm not sure if my mother was aware of them. As the saying goes, "He who walks by the river will eventually get wet," and I wasn't always able to control my actions when I was emotionally aroused. Later, I started to enjoy using my mother's various soft clothes and bras to cover my large penis while masturbating. This inevitably caused the fluid from my penis to wet them. One afternoon, I saw a purple bra hanging on the balcony. Based on my experience of frequently entering and leaving my parents' bathroom and knowing the colors of my mother's clothes intimately, I knew it was her only purple bra, and the day before, it had been lying quietly in her laundry basket… Perhaps she was preparing to wash it and forgot to put it in the laundry tub, I comforted myself at the time. But later, I realized my mother probably noticed. The liquid was sticky; wearing it close to her, the temperature through her skin would reveal the foreign substance. An experienced woman could tell at a touch whether it was water or secretions. However, my mother never asked me, nor did she offer any warnings or hints. I never dared to tell her that I was already masturbating with her clothes at that time. She would definitely be angry with me because she had always believed it was her own fault that had led me down this path. Of course, I can't rule out her own reasons. My mother is a typical talented woman from Jiangnan, not only gentle and charming in appearance, but also with a soft and sweet voice. She also paid great attention to skincare from a young age, which certainly had a strong impact on me, a homebody with a severe Oedipus complex. However, the root cause lies with me. I'm worried that if I tell her this, she'll think she made a mistake in my upbringing, rather than the reasons she initially thought, making it difficult for her to accept. My mother is a woman with high aspirations, sometimes quite aloof. She likes to analyze and find answers in her own way, and if someone tells her her answer is wrong, she'll argue endlessly, holding a grudge for a long time. However, this is rare; most of the time, people in her social circle know this about her. (I don't know if this explanation makes sense, but my mother probably thinks that my adolescence combined with her appearance is what made me have inappropriate feelings for her, rather than because I have a severe Oedipus complex). And so, the days passed, peaceful yet turbulent. I remember one time, because I was driven by lust, I didn't care whether my penis hurt or not. Plus, I was wearing my mother's bra and didn't pay attention to how much I was pulling. After the orgasm, I pulled back my foreskin and saw that the part of my glans that was connected to the foreskin had been torn apart, exposing the entire glans, which was a little bloody and looked quite frightening, but there was no bleeding. I didn't dare tell my parents at the time. After a few days, the scar on the glans healed, and from then on, my penis started to get even bigger. Later, I could even expose the head of my penis with my mother's bra. Then, slowly, my penis got used to my mother's clothes, and it often took a long time to come out. Next, based on your years of masturbation experience, you can probably guess what happened next. When you're not satisfied with the stimulation one thing gives you, won't you start looking for something that can fascinate and excite you even more? I know the answer. To put it more elegantly, that's human nature; a person's desires can never be truly satisfied. Speaking of "level" (or "level"), I can't help but think of many, many "level" incidents in China. Today, Guo Degang's disciple assaulted a reporter again, but Guo Degang's explanation completely surprised me. He said the assailant was a temporary worker, which makes one think of certain public departments in China where the truth behind major events always seems to have astonishing coincidences: A vegetable farmer in Henan had his stall overturned and was beaten by urban management officers; the relevant department clarified that the assailant was a temporary worker; the Zhejiang Red Cross Society had 8 million yuan worth of charitable supplies in its accounts last year, but not a single item worth 800 yuan was found in the warehouse; the relevant person in charge claimed that it was a temporary cashier falsifying the accounts; the Shanghai fire was caused by temporary workers; and the Sichuan "Civilized Inspection Team"...The vandalism at the entertainment venue was done by a temporary driver from the department…and there are many, many more temporary workers involved. Doesn't that make you cringe? I do, because this excuse is so clever, far more clever than my excuse about going to my mother's bathroom. It leaves 1.3 billion people speechless. If the people who came up with this excuse weren't clever, why are they still so high and mighty, still so self-righteous… People will judge their merits and demerits, so I won't comment on their actions. Let's get back to the main point. After I was no longer satisfied with using my mother's clean clothes for molestation, I started secretly looking for places where my mother hid her personal belongings, and I also started looking for her underwear in the laundry tub on the balcony. The first time I saw my mother's underwear in the laundry tub, which she hadn't had time to wash, I felt like I had found a treasure. Because the balcony was very bright, and I was afraid someone might see me, I immediately crumpled it up and went into the bathroom. In the bathroom, I eagerly pressed it to my nose and took a deep breath, but I couldn't smell much, unlike the strong, pungent odor described in some erotic novels. Perhaps my mother changed her underwear more frequently. I unfolded it, revealing the crotch area, and I immediately became aroused. I saw my mother's discharge. I touched it with my finger; it was dry, the color slightly whitish against the black of her underwear, and under different angles of light, I could vaguely see the reflective, shiny parts. I pulled down my pants and used the crotch area of my mother's underwear to cover my large penis, imagining my mother's body, and quickly began to masturbate. After a while, I still felt unsatisfied. Looking at the peony pattern on my mother's underwear, my excitement was irrepressible, and I felt a surge of playfulness. So I took off all my pants and placed them on the toilet seat, then slowly put my mother's underwear back on. My mother's panties were so small, tightly constricting my genitals. I imagined her squeezing my large penis with her vagina, and then I ran my hand up and down along the shaft, experiencing intense psychological stimulation. Soon, I felt the urge to ejaculate, wondering if I should ejaculate on my mother's panties… At that moment, I felt incredibly wicked. So, suppressing the urge, I pulled my mother's panties down again, aligning the crotch with my urethra, and sped up. In less than half a minute, I ejaculated, sending my semen as close to my mother's penis as possible. Afterwards, I used tissues to clean up the excess semen. Although it was still quite wet, I didn't care. I thought that if the sperm's vitality was strong enough, it would carry my longing for my mother into her body, and then express my feelings and excitement of returning to the place where she gave birth to me. I put my mother's underwear back in its original place, and I even folded it exactly as I remembered it. Looking back now, I was incredibly naive. If my mother had touched it before washing it, she would have definitely noticed. But I naively thought that as long as I put it back in the same shape as before, she wouldn't notice... As for the result, of course, my mother didn't notice. Otherwise, given her attitude at the time, she would have definitely given me a good beating and then disciplined me severely in her motherly manner, and naturally, the later events wouldn't have happened. (III) Before I finish writing this, let me give you all a little appetizer and tell you the story of my wife and me. Attentive readers will notice that I'm sharing my memories with my wife. In fact, my wife knows about my relationship with my mother, which may sound hard to imagine, but it's true. My wife and I were classmates in college. The university I attended was in a small inland city. The environment, transportation, and other conditions were not very good, and the cost of living was also low. When I filled out my college application, I just randomly chose that university. My wife is actually two years older than me, which I didn't know when we started dating because she was my classmate. I assumed she was the same age as me, and she looked much younger. Later I found out she had repeated high school for two years, and I was completely fooled by her youthful appearance. My mother visited me alone when I was in university, and we took a trip together to a famous mountain in a nearby city. My wife met my mother then and told me that my mother looked very young, not like my real mother at all, but more like an older sister. We dated for two years, almost to the point where we wanted to get married immediately. My wife is a bit of a wicked woman with a taste for extreme things; we often discussed topics like wild sex and incest with each other. After returning from my trip with my mother, my wife and I had just finished making love in the hotel. She probably noticed my semen was less abundant or thinner than usual, and suddenly asked, "Honey, did you and your mom... you know...?" (She called me by name, so I'll just call her "honey" here). I was startled. This girl usually seems so oblivious, how come she's so quick-witted? I quickly lied and said, "How could you be so wicked? That's my own mother, you even fantasize about her?" Hearing this, my wife half-jokingly said, "So what if she's your own mother? She's still got some charm. I bet you fantasized about her a lot when you were little." It was a joke, but it hit the nail on the head, arousing me. I jokingly replied, "More than just fantasizing, I know exactly how many pairs of underwear she owns and what colors they are." This little devil was indeed wicked; she immediately started relentlessly demanding I tell her the story. I made up a few fabricated events to appease her, but my wife wasn't satisfied and wanted me to continue. As I was talking, I got carried away with my fantasies and started telling the truth. After I mentioned a couple more things, my wife suddenly interrupted me and asked, "You and your mother have been together, haven't you?" I don't know what I was thinking at the time, but I told her the truth. This little vixen went wild, calling me "husband" in a sweet voice, and reaching for my penis. Seeing her aroused expression, I reached down and touched her genitals, only to find that she was incredibly aroused, more aroused than ever before... I don't know how my wife could accept that her husband had been with his own mother. Maybe it's because she loves me, and what she wants most is my love for her. In the end, she still chose to marry me. A woman who gave birth to me, raised me, and poured most of her life into raising me, and a woman who will dedicate her entire future to me until old age, both deeply love me. I can say that I am the happiest person, and I also have sexual happiness... I'll stop writing about my wife here and move on to the main topic. So, last time I masturbated with my mother's unwashed underwear, and after gaining great mental satisfaction, I started tirelessly searching for other private items my mother used. The old saying my teacher often taught me was true: "Where there's a will, there's a way." Besides occasionally finding my mother's clean clothes, I also found a feminine wash brand bidet. Because of my age, when I first saw it in the small cabinet next to my mother's bed, I just thought it was something private, but I didn't know what it was for. Later, I found its instruction manual in the box next to it. After looking at the illustrations, it dawned on me that this inconspicuous thing had been inside my mother's vagina. A young man's lust comes quickly; I held it, touched and smelled it for a while, imagining it entering my mother's vagina while masturbating. Finally, I didn't forget to smear some of my remaining semen on it, hoping it would carry my "gift" to my mother. After that, I couldn't find any other tools that could arouse my lust more than these. Things like vibrators or dildos were unavailable; I didn't even know what they were. My curiosity drove me to my mother's house to look for some mysterious items, but the result was a huge disappointment. Then one day, something unexpected happened. Back then, cars were rare, and roads weren't as extensive as they are now. Many people were proud to own a Honda motorcycle. My family was better off than the average family; my father was a businessman, and my mother worked in a government institution, earning a middle-class income. My mother had a Yamaha women's motorcycle, a good size with a storage box in the back. She would occasionally pick me up from school. I didn't dare to be naughty on her motorcycle because I knew I was constantly fantasizing about her. So I would lean against the storage box, leaving about half a person's space between me, and hold onto the handrails under the seat. I had fantasized about my mother countless times, but I never considered betraying her. I knew that if she found out, the consequences would be dire. However, not thinking about it didn't mean it was impossible. The low probability of this happening made me convinced that my mother would let me succeed. It was a harvest season. The countryside back then was unlike the rural areas of today. The rivers were blue, the mountains were green, swallows roamed in spring, and wild animals roamed the deep mountains. The joy of a bountiful harvest was visible yet indescribable, unlike the current social climate where no one dares to help an elderly person who has fallen, and children are often run over if hit by a car; private business owners make money through high-interest scams, and state-owned enterprises profit through special advantages and monopolies; public servants visiting the countryside wear designer suits and have secretaries holding umbrellas, and people resisting violent demolitions are doused with gasoline and have leaders watch… It happened to be the weekend, and my mother took me to my grandmother's house to help her harvest rice. The fields stretched as far as the eye could see, a golden expanse, with people working and the wind blowing…The rustling sound of the threshing machine, the hum of the threshing floor, the green hills and clear waters, and the neat rows of telephone poles along the road created a natural movie. Seeing such a textured scene and hearing such beautiful natural melodies, my heart soared with the birds in the sky. My mother was also in a great mood. That day, she wore thin white cloth trousers and a gray long-sleeved shirt, helping my grandparents harvest rice all day. In the evening, after the harvest was finished, my grandmother invited us to stay for dinner, but my mother said she was worried my father would go hungry at home alone, so my grandmother didn't insist. As we prepared to leave on my mother's motorcycle, less than a hundred meters later, an aunt called out my mother's name. I don't remember what this aunt looked like, but I am still grateful to her. As for why I am grateful, you will find out as I continue the story. My mother stopped and waited for the aunt to come up. The aunt asked for a ride to town, and my mother readily agreed. Because I was a child, my mother was worried that my delicate skin would get bumped on the storage boxes if I sat in the back, so she let me sit in the middle. The moment the aunt got on the bus, my mother realized something was wrong, because my big penis was rock hard, pressing firmly against her buttocks and back. I was extremely ashamed at that moment, but the body of my mother, whom I had longed for, was pressed against me, and I simply couldn't control myself. Because it was the rice harvest, I was wearing very thin sweatpants, and there were only four thin layers of clothing between my buttocks and back. I couldn't feel my mother's body temperature the whole way, but she must have felt the burning heat coming from my lower body. After my mother noticed, she didn't say anything, of course, she couldn't say anything, she just moved her body forward slightly. I didn't want to leave, so I quickly moved forward as well. The aunt behind us felt that we were moving her to make room for her, and she reminded my mother at just the right time, saying, "It's not crowded in the back, it's okay, it's really hard on you two." I saw my mother's ears turn bright red, while I was secretly pleased. The village roads were paved and fairly flat, but at the village entrance, they turned into gravel roads, not exactly bumpy, but still quite jolting. I tried to grab the armrests under the seat, but my aunt's thighs were too thick, and I couldn't reach them. After groping for a while, I didn't dare continue searching for those two armrests. Occasionally, when the bumps were a little stronger, I instinctively held onto my mother's waist. Feeling safe, I naturally focused my attention on my mother's buttocks and back, my penis growing even more swollen. I used the bumps in the road to subtly move my hips, making sure my aunt wouldn't notice I was molesting my mother. When I thought of my aunt, I immediately focused my attention on my back. My aunt had large breasts, and as I leaned back slightly with each bump, I could feel the fleshy texture of her breasts, even though she was wearing a bra. Perhaps my fantasies at the time were the main factor. Just like that, my mind was filled with lust, and my penis was rock hard. I gritted my teeth and decided to go for it. I gently touched the not-too-excessive flesh around my mother's waist, and seeing her ears turn red again, I was suddenly seized by a playful impulse. While gently pressing against my mother's buttocks and back, I placed one hand on her leg and stroked it back and forth. At the time, it was just childish fun, without any flirting intent. After touching my mother's thighs enough, I moved my hand up, imagining the location of her breasts, and the feeling of ejaculation immediately surged up. The moment my hand touched my mother's breast, I ejaculated, a lot of it. The semen quickly seeped through my pants, wetting my mother's buttocks and back. I saw her ears turn red again, even redder than the previous two times. For my mother, the long and anxious journey had finally come to an end. My aunt had arrived at her destination first; she got out of the car to say goodbye, and then we turned and went home. When I turned to go home, I wasn't as bold as before. I quickly moved away from my mother's back. Maybe it was the wind, but my lower body suddenly felt cool. I'm sure my mother felt the same way, because I saw her ears turn red for the fourth time... When I got off the bus, I got off first. Under the reflection of the streetlights, I saw a small patch of light. I wondered if there was another patch of light ahead of that light. Then I ran away guiltily, leaving my mother behind. She didn't come home for about three or five minutes. I think she was probably cleaning up our first battlefield. (IV) I've written three chapters, and my wife has read them all. Last night, I asked her if she was satisfied. She told me she wasn't satisfied at all because there were very few replies on the forum. She refreshed all night and didn't see any new replies. Of course, that wasn't what I was asking about, although I was also quite concerned about whether many people supported me to continue writing. I wrote an erotic story, and my wife actually became my fan. I was quite surprised. Speaking of my wife refreshing the forum, it reminded me of the Ministry of Railways website in China. I won't comment on that here, but it's just unbelievable. Millions of dollars invested, and on average, you have to refresh 500 times to book just one ticket. I just chuckled. Back in university, I also had to take a 20-hour train ride from my hometown to the city where the university was located. I remember one time after the Spring Festival, my mother made me take a down comforter and two boxes of egg yolk pies on the train. That was the most crowded train I'd ever seen. Because my destination wasn't the final stop, and I had limited time to get off, and because there was simply no extra space on the train, the down comforter and egg yolk pies I was carrying eventually slipped from my hands in the rush. I was quite strong back then; I could do a pull-up with one hand. You can imagine how crowded the trains were during the Spring Festival travel rush. I wonder if those returning home this year are doing well. I wish them all the best. Before bed, I asked my wife again if she was satisfied. Knowing my stubborn nature, she kissed me on the forehead and said emotionally, "Feel it and you'll know if you're satisfied." I reached out and touched her forehead, secretly pleased. The answer was: extremely satisfied… My wife is now in her thirties. They say thirty is like a wolf, forty like a tiger, and it seems there's some truth to that. In college, her desire wasn't this strong, but later she discovered her little devil was getting more and more adept at sucking. Now, she needs to be fed almost every other day a week. If it happens like last night, it's almost impossible to satisfy her completely. This reminds me of my high school days; my mother was also in her thirties, not much older than my current wife. I wonder if my father also frequently "sucked" my mother back then. However, I suppose my mother must have been well-fed. My father was born into poverty and often did manual labor for the family from a young age, so he was definitely much stronger than a scholar like me. Moreover, during my childhood, my father often took me to exercise; I remember he was very good at weightlifting and long-distance running, and his strength and endurance were at least no less than mine now. Now, back to the main point… That evening after returning home, my mother didn't have a heart-to-heart talk with me. In the following days, she didn't show any intention of guiding me sexually, so I, as a child, assumed she tacitly approved of it. My wife told me that it wasn't what I imagined at all; rather, my mother didn't know how or what attitude to use to educate me. Although my mother was very strict with me regarding my studies, that was limited to academics. In daily life, as long as my grades satisfied her, she wouldn't restrict what games I played or what comics I read, much less warn me about which friends to associate with or where to go. So, now that I think about it, my mother probably had more conflicting feelings and some unspeakable anxieties. Actually, if my mother had made her stance clear then and warned me not to offend her again, I certainly wouldn't have dared to do anything bold to her in the future. At most, I would have only fantasized about her underwear, bidets, and the like, but I would never have thought of holding her and returning to the place where I was born. Although I thought my mother tacitly approved at the time, I still didn't dare to easily offend her buttocks and back. During the following high school years, especially in the days leading up to my final year of junior high, my mother would pick me up and drop me off almost every day, but I never dared to touch her lower body again. So, high school years, accompanied by my current endless nostalgia, have gradually faded away, sometimes so far that I almost can't remember the names of my friends from that time. Another thing happened during high school, and because of it, I changed my sleeping habits and later developed a liking for sleeping naked. To this day, I'm still trying to figure out my mother's psychology at the time, and I've asked her about it, but she has no recollection of it. One slightly chilly early autumn evening, high school...I always go to bed very early, never later than 9 pm. That day, my mother and father went to a friend's house for drinks. After finishing my homework, while my parents were out, I started frantically searching for my mother's clothes. I searched for a long time but couldn't find any unwashed underwear she had taken off. Disappointed and losing interest, I found a clean pair of my mother's underwear in the bathroom and started masturbating. However, I couldn't get any sensation after masturbating for a long time. Feeling nervous about my parents suddenly returning, I felt weak, so I put my mother's underwear back where it was and went back to my room to sleep. Back in my room, because I hadn't put the underwear away, I couldn't fall asleep. After resting for a while, I simply took off my own underwear and threw it aside, then lay flat under the thin blanket and masturbated. Because children are usually sleepy, I fell asleep soon after. I don't know how much time passed, but I vaguely felt the light in my room being turned on, and then I heard my mother's voice. My mother usually comes to my room to check on me while I sleep. Occasionally, if she sees I'm sleeping in an awkward position, she'll straighten me and tidy the blankets. Today, her coming to my room seemed perfectly normal to her. She didn't seem to mind disturbing me and called my name. Perhaps the blanket covering me was a little too far off the edge of the bed and might have slipped to the floor, because she pulled it up slightly, trying to move it a bit further in. Then she saw my lower body, which wasn't covered by underwear. She asked if I had wet the bed. Half-asleep, I only heard her voice and, too sleepy to answer, just mumbled "uh-huh." Seeing my underwear by the bed, my mother assumed it was wet and quickly grabbed it. She felt it and found it dry, no trace of urine. She muttered to herself, "It's not wet," and without thinking, reached under the blankets, found my penis, and squeezed it. I believe my mother had no ulterior motives beforehand; she acted solely out of concern and love for me. But when my mother's hand touched my penis, I vaguely felt her pause for a moment. Then, she gently rubbed my sparse hairs with the edge of her palm, gently pinched my penis, and finally flicked it with a little force. She then kissed my forehead, said softly, "Serves you right for being naughty again," and pulled her hand away, tucked the blanket around her, and got up to leave. When she pinched my penis, my sleepiness lessened slightly, but I was still not fully awake. If I hadn't been so sleepy that day, I believe my penis would have grown rapidly in her hands within three seconds. I know my mother had been drinking that day, but I still wonder what she was thinking when she was willing to spend more than ten seconds playing with my penis in that state. Perhaps she was naturally playful, perhaps she didn't reject such behavior, or perhaps the alcohol made her have some thoughts, whether real or imagined, about her son's penis. What's certain is that my mother has a playful spirit; she loves to have fun and is more youthful-minded than her peers. For example, she's already bought firecrackers, planning to set them off with us during the New Year, and she especially likes the skyrocket kind. I've seen at my classmates' homes that most of the people buying firecrackers are men, and it's almost always just a way to welcome the new year and bid farewell to the old. As for whether my mother is actually averse to it, I don't know. Personally, I'm conflicted. When I talk to my mother, her breath seems exactly the same as mine, and I unconsciously feel a sense of repulsion, as if trying to dispel any impure thoughts I might have about her. But there's another side to me—a strong desire to smell her scent and kiss her. I'm often caught in this internal struggle, though usually the latter wins. Perhaps my mother feels the same way I do. The words my mother said before she left haunted me like a curse: "I'll teach you to cause trouble again..." I can't recall the exact tone of her voice when she said it, but I habitually fantasize about it in a passionate tone. Whenever I think of those words at night, I absolutely cannot fall asleep without masturbating. However, this improved a lot after I met my wife. When I think of those words, I basically don't have any impure thoughts anymore, only a faint longing for my mother. The next morning at breakfast, I could still vaguely remember what happened last night, and then I stared at my mother across from me, lustfully fantasizing about her. My mother noticed, probably thinking about what happened last night, and her face turned red in an instant, which made me secretly happy. However, my mother quickly interrupted my thoughts and told me to eat quickly. I wasn't very shrewd at the time, and my impure thoughts came and went quickly, so I obediently buried my head in my food. From that time on, I slept with my pants off every night, hoping my mother would pinch me again. I would immediately wake up, hold her hand, and enjoy the feel of her touch. The habit of sleeping naked became ingrained, but my mother never came to my room to make the bed again. I was so disappointed… And so, throughout the entire high school…The middle stage passed by in countless fantasies about my mother. For someone as young as me, one time when my mother and I were both conscious, I thrust into my mother's buttocks until I ejaculated, and another time when my mother was conscious and actively played with my big penis, although it only lasted for a short period of ten seconds, this was already a huge leap between my mother and me. (V) My wife read the previous few articles and told me to write less about national affairs, because that's not what my male readers want to see. I teased her, saying, "Is it because someone doesn't want to see these things and wants to see certain things?" I exposed the little vixen's little thoughts, and she couldn't find a good reason to refute me for a moment, so she said angrily, "Make your own breakfast, I'm not serving you anymore!" The little vixen's words startled me. I suddenly remembered what my mother said to me when I was in college, "Mom won't serve you anymore." The memory was like yesterday, and compared to the time I recalled in the article, my parents had aged a lot, and a chill ran through my heart. "The tree desires stillness, but the wind never ceases; the child desires to care for his parents, but they are no longer there." I wonder how many people will remember this saying. I know I'm not noble at all; sometimes I even feel guilty towards my parents, especially my father. I've made an excuse for myself: I love my mother, but my love for her has unfortunately gone awry. I wonder if my parents consider me a filial son; I hope so. Perhaps my readers don't like this narrative, but I still want to write it down. Of course, I'm not trying to reform them; I just want them to know that a person isn't always only evil. If I only write about those evil past events, the plot might become disjointed. Everyone has two sides. I believe that many readers, when they step out of their incestuous fantasies about their mothers, also deeply love their mothers—a simple love, without any lewd connotations. I saw on the webpage that China and India would be holding border negotiations on the 17th of this month. What if Wu Dalang and Ximen Qing sat down to negotiate, discussing setting aside their disputes and jointly developing resources…? But every day, something happens in China that challenges my imagination, and I can't help but ask the same question as the Indian Ministry of Finance: "Will China still be a threat in two years?"… I felt incredibly disappointed, and my emotions were drawn to these events, making it impossible for me to concentrate on writing my next recollection, while time continued to flow… The middle school entrance exam results came out quickly, followed by filling out college applications. Perhaps it was good fortune, but I performed well on the exam that year, and coupled with my already good grades, I was guaranteed admission to the best key high school in the county. I didn't need to spend any time or energy filling out applications or comparing schools. From the middle school entrance exam in May until the high school military training at the end of August, I was free from my mother's usual control over my study time and the constraints of a normal routine. At first, I spent all my time at home glued to that game console, playing Contra, then Super Mario Bros., then Cuba Heroes, rotating between the three. I'd also occasionally go to my mother's bathroom. But anything you play every day eventually gets boring, so I started watching TV. TV is different from games; I wasn't fully focused. So, whenever I saw something on TV that even remotely reminded me of something erotic, I couldn't help but shift my attention to my mother. Gradually, I began to observe my mother's habits. She worked year-round, but always had holidays off. If even public institutions in China operate this way, it's not hard to understand why people today are so enamored with and eager to become "civil servants" (ironically, I'm one of them, someone who can't change the status quo on my own, yet hopes to do my part for those around me—but that's a story for another time). My mother had a habit of bathing on weekday evenings and weekend afternoons, but unlike what I imagined, she only bathed every other day. She did laundry the morning before work, and for larger items like bed sheets and blankets, she would go to the stream near her parents' house on weekends. That stream was large and the water was very clear; when I was little, I often caught fish and shrimp in it. My father was always home when my mother bathed at night, and even if I were incredibly bold, I wouldn't dare to peek outside their bathroom. Only during the day, when my father was away at the shop all day, did I dare to be so unrestrained. That weekend, when I finally guessed when my mother would take a bath, I was so excited that I got up early. The wait was long; the whole morning passed, then noon, and I started getting anxious, running around the house impatiently. My mother saw me and asked, "What are you doing, wandering around like a headless fly?" Feeling guilty, I vaguely said I was looking for something. She asked what it was, and I said, "You don't know!" She walked away, puzzled, and came back a while later to ask if I had found it. I said, "Never mind, I can't find it." Women are all observant, aren't they? She could roughly tell from my tone and actions that something was wrong. She patiently asked if I had any difficulties that I needed her help with. In my heart, I definitely said yes, and that only she could help, but I said to her, "No," and then walked away. A long time passed—actually, not long, just my imagination—I saw my mother come downstairs, then heard the door close, and then she went back upstairs. Here, many readers might still not know the layout of my house at that time, so I'll describe it in detail. Our first house was a single-room bungalow. When our family's financial situation improved and we needed to renovate, my father bought the house next door. Back then, houses were incredibly cheap; I heard my father paid about the same amount for the house itself as he did for the renovations. My father was a shrewd man; the design for the renovation already had the beginnings of a suite, though it seemed rather immature compared to others. The first floor was large and used for entertaining guests. On the second floor, my room was on the southwest side, my parents' room was on the southeast side, and the north side was the kitchen and TV area. The third floor was used for storage. My door faced my parents' door, and our bathrooms were outside our rooms, each separated by a wall. I pretended to sit in a chair watching TV, secretly observing my mother's every move. Soon, she put on slippers and entered the bathroom; I deduced she was going to take a shower. I tiptoed to the bathroom, listening intently to the sound of water coming from inside to determine if she was actually showering. The bathroom door had a ventilation design at the bottom, the kind that lets you see inside. I can't remember the excitement I felt as I slowly approached that ventilation panel; I only remember my heart pounding, my mouth feeling sticky and difficult to swallow. Standing, I bent over, one hand on the wall, and peered inside. Finally, I saw it, and the excitement was indescribable. My mother's skin looked so even and smooth under the incandescent light. Unfortunately, the bathroom was too humid, so I couldn't see her body clearly. Her breasts weren't large, and her buttocks weren't very perky, just slightly upturned, but her abdomen was flat, and her navel was perfectly shaped. Her hips were a bit wide, and between her legs was a dark patch, so I couldn't see anything clearly. Even so, I was still incredibly aroused, feeling a kind of dazzling sensation. Because of my posture, I got tired in less than half a minute, but the beautiful view was right in front of me, and I wasn't about to let it go so easily. I steeled myself and changed my previous position of only peeking through the exhaust vent with one eye out; I simply lay down on the ground, sticking half my head out to peek at my mother's alluring body, not caring whether she would notice this area near the doorway, or whether the dirt on the ground would stain my clothes. My mother liked to rub her breasts for quite a while, until they were slightly red under the light, before moving her hands to her lower abdomen and rubbing them back and forth. Then she carefully washed her armpits, and finally, she spent a lot of time cleaning between her legs, but not in a masturbatory way. I wondered if she would lift one foot onto a stool and insert the bidet, which carried my signal, into her genitals to clean them, but I was disappointed again, and I never saw it happen again until the end of the summer break before my middle school entrance exams. After my mother turned off the shower, I got up and left. Back in my room, I masturbated intensely, recalling the scene of her showering. In the few times I spied on her afterward, I became bolder with each passing moment, fueled by lust. First, I lay on my back, tilting my head to watch her shower, quickly pulling down my pants and masturbating on the spot. However, I dared not ejaculate directly on the wall, worried that my mother would find out someday, and the consequences would be unpleasant. But what happened later proved my worries unnecessary. Because the floor was cold and hard, lying on my back for a long time made my head and shoulders very uncomfortable. Coupled with the combined effects of tension and excitement, the sensation lasted longer than the first time. So one time, on a whim, I took a pre-cleaned mirror, waited a while after my mother went into the bathroom, pulled down my pants, sat cross-legged at the bathroom door, and placed the mirror near the exhaust vent, searching for my mother...A figure. Although the effect of a mirror is far inferior to observing directly with the eyes, sitting like this isn't tiring at all, and considering the cost-effectiveness, I still prefer the mirror. However, even my cleverness can't overcome the mysteries of science. Just as I was enjoying observing different parts of my mother's body from various angles in the mirror, masturbating with great relish, I suddenly noticed that my mother's movements stopped. I saw her not move, and then I tilted the mirror slightly upwards. The result was shocking. From the moment my mother stopped until I saw her face facing the door, it was less than 3 seconds, but it made my heart skip a beat, and my mind went blank. My mother turned off the shower and was about to do something. At this point, I could only hear. The sound of water stopping startled me awake. I immediately grabbed the mirror, pulled up my pants, and ran back to my room as fast as I could. This series of actions would probably take me half a minute normally, but at that moment, when I heard my mother call my name, I was already panting heavily on the bed. Then I reacted in a way I never expected, calmly replying to my mother, "What?"... (VI) There was a few seconds of silence on my mother's end, followed by "Nothing," and I felt a huge sense of relief. I waited anxiously in my room until my mother finished showering, expecting her to give me a good scolding, given her temper. Surprisingly, she didn't mention me peeping at her in the days that followed. It wasn't until many years later, when I graduated from high school, that my mother asked me about it. I remember that summer after graduating high school, I got into a good university, and the acceptance letter arrived early. My mother was very happy, often saying that she had finally raised me to be a decent adult and that I could make something of myself. Back then, the internet wasn't very widespread, and that summer was spent completely having fun. Because of my age, many of my classmates had already been in relationships, and some had even tasted the forbidden fruit. Influenced by this, I also got a girlfriend that summer. After getting drunk at a classmate's thank-you banquet, I stayed overnight at her house. Unfortunately, nothing passionate happened that night, but I lost a series of my "firsts": my first hug, my first holding hands, my first kiss, and my first time spending the night together. Because of the alcohol and my lack of sexual experience, we kissed for a long time, not knowing what to do next, and then fell asleep. The next morning, I felt shy in front of her, so that thing was left unfinished. Later, with my friend's guidance, I learned to buy porn from street vendors near the bridge. Being timid, I always went with my schoolbag, walked to the bushes on the riverbank to make the transaction, got a few discs, stuffed them into my bag without even looking at the content, and ran home, afraid of being arrested by the police. The more times I bought DVDs, the more bad ones I ended up with. There were some good ones, but not many. I put away the ones I liked and threw away the ones I didn't. I moved the VCD player from my mother's room to my own. Every time I bought a new one, I would watch it late at night behind closed doors. My mother would occasionally come to my room with fruit or stew. The first few times I watched porn and my mother came in, I would promptly switch the VCD channel to cable TV. Perhaps I was blinded by the joy of getting into university and accurately judged that even if my mother found out, she wouldn't do anything drastic. So, on one particular occasion, I was watching porn while masturbating. On one hand, I was afraid my mother would open the door and find me in this embarrassing situation; on the other hand, I was also really looking forward to her coming in with fruit. As I was staring at the actress's breasts swaying back and forth on the screen, making my final thrust, I saw the door open out of the corner of my eye. Because it was summer and I was wearing shorts, I could just pull them down a little while masturbating. I quickly shoved my penis into my pants, gently pulled them up, and felt a dizzying, stimulating sensation from my racing heart. My mother clearly saw it, but she just smiled and went straight in, placing the fruit on the table, leaving me unsure how to react. I looked at where the fruit was, then at my mother, and realized she wasn't looking at me at all, but directly in front of me, towards the television. I then realized I'd forgotten to change the channel, and my mother was watching what was on TV. After a few seconds, she turned to me, noticing me staring at her, and shyly averted her gaze. I was momentarily stunned, my penis hardening, pressing against my crotch. Embarrassingly, my mother noticed again when she looked back. Because I'd turned the TV volume down to the lowest setting, the room suddenly felt unnecessarily quiet. I quickly switched the channel to cable TV and grinned at my mother. My mother seemed to be infected by my mischievous expression and said, "I think you should find a girlfriend. You're not getting any younger." And so began my first ever sexual psychological conversation. She came over and saw the discs I had placed next to the VCD player. She picked them up and looked them over. After looking them over, it wasn't hard for anyone with normal intelligence to realize that I liked porn with mother-son themes. Of course, my mother noticed that too. My mother kept flipping through them, as if she was thinking about where to start. I spoke first, "Mom, stop looking. It's so embarrassing..." My mother retorted, as if getting excited, "You weren't embarrassed when you watched it yourself? I think you've lost your mind, watching this kind of thing all the time..." "I've already seen it!" I muttered and went forward to take the discs from my mother's hands. My mother was stunned. It seemed she had misunderstood. She remembered the time I peeked at her while she was showering after high school graduation. This also reflected that she still held a grudge about me peeping at her while she was showering, but she just couldn't bring herself to say it. "You actually looked! Peeping at your own mother, how shameless!" "Mom, what are you talking about! Bringing up things from when I was little, how can I face anyone if they hear that?" "Oh, you weren't ashamed when you were looking, but you're ashamed now?" Seeing my embarrassed look, my mother teased me even more, completely losing her usual serious demeanor. "I was just a kid then!" I had no way to refute. "Aren't you still a kid now? Why are you still looking at these things?" "It's only natural. You just couldn't see them back then. Even if you could, you still looked at them. My female classmates said they looked at them too!" To escape my predicament, I tried to shift the focus of the discussion to my mother. After all, she's my own mother, and I know how to handle her temper. "Get lost! Back then, Mom didn't care about these things. We were too busy eating and dressing, why would we care about these things? I'm telling you, you're always up to no good. You're about to go to college, tone it down!" "I'm not peeping anymore..." "Then come and see!" After I was caught peeping at my mother showering, she nailed a thin board to the ventilation panel, then put a layer of plastic on top of that—double protection. Since then, I haven't been able to peep on her successfully. I guess my mother has tested it countless times herself, which is why she said that with such confidence today. However, the context of my mother's words was a little awkward; she was talking about her own son. My mother realized this and laughed to cover her embarrassment. But to me, my mother's expression was full of irresistible charm and allure. Unable to suppress my excitement, I stepped forward, pulled my mother's collar out, peeked inside, and whispered in her ear, "Look, I see it..." My mother's purple bra immediately aroused my...Memories of masturbation flooded back, and my previously limp penis suddenly swelled to its fullest extent, almost wanting to press against my mother's thigh. My mother quickly slapped it away, her tone not angry, but rather playfully teasing: "Go away, you shameless thing, taking advantage of your mother!" I thought to myself that my mother was in a particularly good mood today, so I'd better take this opportunity to tease her. If I waited until another day, she might get angry, and that would be embarrassing. "Mom's tofu is rich in protein, eating it will make you fat..." Driven by lust, I reached out and pinched my mother's breast. My mother was shocked, clearly not expecting me to be so audacious. She immediately blushed and pushed my hand away with her arm. "Alright, stop pushing your luck! I'm your mother!" From my mother's tone, I could tell this was clearly not her bottom line, but I still pretended to be submissive and said, "Yes, ma'am!" My mother was amused by my reaction and tapped my head with her finger, saying, "How old are you? How can you act like this!" "I didn't do anything wrong, and besides, it's been written about in the newspapers..." "Which newspaper?" Perhaps my mother, like me, held some inexplicable expectation about it. "I've seen it but forgot. There's also the movie!" My mother then realized she had been fooled and felt embarrassed, saying, "Okay, you can watch it then. Mom's going to sleep." I wasn't about to let her go. As my mother turned to approach the door, I grabbed her and, without thinking twice, pressed my lower body tightly against her buttocks. Re-experiencing the pleasure I enjoyed as a child was so wonderful that I momentarily forgot myself, rubbing my lower body against my mother's buttocks a few times. "Mom, I need to see your..." My mother was a little annoyed this time, and she forcefully pushed me away. "You're getting more and more outrageous as you get older. If you keep making a fuss, Mom will get angry!" I finally let go of my mother and looked at her dejectedly. My mother turned around and saw my dejected look, and couldn't help but laugh. She scolded me with a smile, "What kind of behavior is this? Go find a girlfriend. Mom won't serve you..." Hearing my mother say this, I was secretly amused. "Mom, I was thinking of serving you!" My mother turned and left. I wonder if she ever thought about those words in the days that followed. From the time I was caught peeping at my mother taking a shower until the start of high school, I went to watch a few more times, but unfortunately, my mother had already modified the ventilation panel. In order to prevent my father from thinking that I was the culprit, my mother directly smashed half of the ventilation panel. As for how she explained the reason to my father, my mother later told me that the reason for smashing it was very simple. The original ventilation panel was already a bit rotten because of the water on the ground. When washing clothes, the washboard in the washbasin hit it hard and it broke. (VII) Today is my first day back at work. I wish all my fellow readers a prosperous and fulfilling new year! I've just started work and have a lot to do, so I wasn't planning on continuing to write these past few days. I wanted to get back into the swing of things and adjust to a normal work schedule. However, after reading some of your replies a couple of days ago, I realized you had questions about the plot developments above, so I'll take this opportunity to explain. The peeping incident mentioned earlier happened during the summer after I graduated high school, while the previous chapter recalled the first time my mother mentioned me peeping at her while she showered, which also happened during the summer after I graduated high school. There's a three-year gap between those two summers. Many readers may not have noticed the difference between "high school" and "high school" after reading the whole thing, which is why they felt the plot progressed too quickly. One reader even asked me not to abandon the story. You know life goes on, so I can tell you in advance that I will continue writing up to the point where we first had sex. Like you, I also enjoy reading erotic stories on forums in my spare time. I often find good articles, and sometimes even though the story is practically finished, I still hope the author will continue writing, so I always feel like it's unfinished. It's only when I start writing myself that I realize a novel, like life, doesn't have an ending. As for whether this novel will be finished by the deadline, I don't know. If it's not finished, I'll just consider it a friendly contribution; it's not really for the sake of it anyway. Let's go back to when I graduated from high school… Because of rural customs, several of us who got into top high schools had to hold a thank-you banquet for our teachers, inviting relatives and friends. One of my female classmates' mothers happened to be my mother's best friend—they're called best friends now, but back then they were called sisters. My mother and I both went. I sat with my own high school group, while my mother sat with her friends. We were all very rebellious back then. Adults usually didn't allow us to drink or smoke, but at those thank-you banquets, although we still couldn't smoke, the adults allowed us to drink beer. Because we were young and didn't know how to control our alcohol tolerance, we all drank beer with all our might, each hoping to be the best drinker at the table. After a while, everyone's stomachs were bloated and they couldn't drink anymore. I drank some too, but

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A recollection of a past relationship with one's mother.

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