Good dreams are hard to come true

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(May 12, 2014, 12:06 PM): Only about 20,000 words per post are allowed. Edit within 3 days. If it exceeds 3 days, I will edit or delete it. Thank you! A Dream Hard to Fulfill (Revised) Author: Unknown Word Count: 41,597 -------------------------------------------------------------- This is a classic messy piece I read before. I forgot the original title, so I'm giving it a new name. The original used "Peiyun" to refer to the mother, which didn't feel right, so I changed "Peiyun" to "mother" throughout the text. I hope the original author won't mind. -------------------------------------------------------------- The story of the prince and princess living happily ever after is a fairy tale, not a love story. Great love stories are usually full of twists and turns, and dreams are hard to fulfill. The more deeply a love is etched in one's heart, the more difficult it is to achieve. Fate

often plays tricks on lovers; those who love each other may not be compatible, and the one you love most may not be with you. Such love gives people a profound and intense feeling.

Sometimes, in pursuit of true love, one must transcend worldly norms and common sense. The following story, which takes place on a certain day, in a certain place, is an unusual, even impossible, forbidden love.

Safraden said, "If a person loves someone madly, then all his sins should be forgiven. However, those who are loving madly do not need anyone's forgiveness."

(I) The Old Place

After passing through continuous glaciers and traversing the coniferous forests of high mountains, fine snow was falling, covering the sky and the earth. Occasionally, a car would pass by, kicking up snow and leaving tire tracks on the snow.

My mother and I were enclosed in the car, driving along the winding mountain road, heading into the silent and colorless depths of white snow and clouds. The snow-covered road was slippery, so we were extra careful. The remaining snow on the branches was blown down by the wind and melted immediately when it landed on the windshield. The snow covered the road signs, so we relied on experience to feel our way forward. On one side of the road was a hillside, and on the other, a sheer cliff with a frozen river below. In this white world, there was tranquility, a desolate stillness, a sense of directionlessness, and a feeling of timelessness.

At the start of the journey, my mother sat upright beside me, her chin resting on her hand, silent. Only when the car left the city and entered the expressway did she allow me to gently place her soft hand in mine. With her other hand on the steering wheel, I carefully drove along the snowy road, determined to reach our destination—Lakeview Villa—before sunset.

We had been here several times, always during the off-season, and the receptionists all recognized us. Only we chose to visit this summer resort in the snowy winter. "Sir, Madam, welcome back." A warm smile bloomed behind the counter.

I smiled back, but Pei Yun looked around, pretending not to hear.

"Honey, welcome!" I pulled her stiff body into my arms, and she reluctantly nodded. At the same time, she gave me a wink, pulled me aside, and tried to soften her voice. Almost a whisper, but with a firm tone, she said,

"What are you doing? Don't you think I feel guilty enough?

I'm sorry, I just want you to be more natural and relaxed. This isn't our first time here. Everyone knows us.

Actually, we came here because we didn't want anyone to recognize us. But over time, we became regulars, and with the conveniences offered by regulars, we didn't want to go anywhere else.

The memory of our first time here is vivid, like it was yesterday. And all these years, the lobby decor hasn't changed. Back then, I stood awkwardly at the counter, and she waited outside the lobby door, afraid to accompany me to the counter to register, lest someone question our background. Our furtive expressions made it clear to everyone that we were here for an affair.

A couple with an age gap, a mismatched pair, whatever they did would always attract attention and suspicion.

Actually, no one would ask about our background. Even if we were here for an affair, what business is it of anyone's?

In a place like a hotel, respecting guests' privacy is essential. Everyone is just a passerby." There's a story behind each one. Checking in only requires providing the most basic information; it's not that anyone's interested in who's who or what their relationship is, but rather it's for police requirements.

We're another couple coming and going from the hotel every day, a pair of infatuated lovers. The hotel is where these things happen.

The staff can't just call a guest's female companion "Madam"; they're professionally trained, unless the guest admits it or they have a good grasp of their information. My mother's identification document states her husband's surname, and mine is Di. My mother

, don't be embarrassed; that's what you are. You, like me, have taken another man's surname. This isn't the first time we've appeared together in this setting; when will I be able to stop letting those fluctuating feelings come over me?

I gently put my arm around her shoulder, making just the right amount of affection to ease the suddenly tense atmosphere. I showed the clerk behind the counter, confirming that my mother was indeed my wife, even though she was someone else's. The fact that

she was willing to stand openly with me in front of the counter meant she had overcome a significant psychological barrier.

"Will there come a day when we can meet without hiding it from others, without feeling guilty?" I wondered.

Frankly, we were doing this for the thrill. Like eating chili peppers, if they weren't spicy, they wouldn't taste good.

In this season, in this place, without worrying about running into acquaintances, we could be carefree, experiencing a sense of release and liberation. The woman, being a woman, remained reserved, standing beside me watching me fill out the registration form, afraid I might make a mistake that would reveal our relationship.

Her concerns were unnecessary; the surnames on our identity cards proved everything. She was indeed a "wife" with the same surname as me, even though she was someone else's wife. The clerk didn't even look at it before returning our ID cards. We were already regular customers.

"You want the usual place? No problem, you've already booked. I'll still give you the regular customer discount." The ever-smiling face said tactfully.

We specifically wanted a private house by the lake, with a fireplace, bar, and jacuzzi. The bedroom had a skylight, which, when covered by snow, became a mirror hanging on the ceiling. It was the off-season, but Mom was still worried and called early in the morning to make the reservation. We had wonderful memories in that house and held a special affection for it.

Our large luggage had already been delivered to our house by car while I was filling out the check-in form. The waiter arrived early and lit the fireplace for us.

Without needing the waiter to guide us, we carried our light travel bags and walked along the lakeside handrails.

The fresh snow covered the ground, leaving our footprints deep in the snow. We had taken many detours to get here, and we treated this place like a fragile object, handling it with utmost care. On the path of love, we tread carefully, allowing no room for error.

Wisps of smoke rise gently from the chimney of our house, and rows of icicles, glistening and translucent, hang from the eaves and windows. This is our temporary home. At the door, I eagerly embrace and kiss my mother, but she only allows me a light kiss on her cheek and lips before turning her face away. Our breath frosts over our hair, the brim of our hats, and my glasses.

I cradled her warm, winter-sun-like smile, and with my soft, warm lips, brushed away the frost from her eyes. Fine snowflakes drifted down, landing on our shoulders. The mountains, embracing the frozen lake, opened their arms to welcome us, a pair of migratory birds of love.

The fireplace warmed our hearts. My mother took off her thick, long snow coat, revealing her graceful figure before me. The door closed; no one would intrude into our world. Our world was too small; though the world was vast, the only place that could accommodate us was our two hearts beating in unison.

She smoothed her hair, went to the bar, and mixed two gin martinis. I watched her focused and graceful movements as she cranked the bartender, as skilled as a professional bartender, yet with an added thoughtfulness that others couldn't match. She had mastered the perfect balance, intoxicating me even before I tasted it—it was that irreplaceable warmth, the comfort brewed in every smile and gesture of hers.

She opened the small freezer, picked out a lime, cut it open, put it in a glass, added an ice cube, inserted a plastic stirrer, and brought it over to sit beside me.

We sat around the fire, watching the sparks dance. I pulled her close, and she nestled softly against me, leaning against me.

Now, stripped of worldly trappings, we were like lovers.

Our sorrows of separation needed no words. Her brow relaxed, her eyes brimming with longing and adoration.

The fire burned brighter, hotter and warmer, and desire, like moths drawn to a flame, fluttered wildly. I felt my winter clothes were a burden.

I shed my thick, sweaty clothes, revealing my broad chest, proclaiming my masculine charm.

A blush rose on her face; I brushed it with the back of my hand, burning hot. She turned her head away, then, like a little girl, buried her face in my chest. I never thought that a mature woman showing such girlish shyness to the man she loved was coy or affected. A woman's nature is gentle, and this isn't a derogatory term. Softness can overcome hardness! Love can make a strong mother revert to her childlike nature, demanding the tenderness and care she deserves.

I reached into her collar, feeling her warm body, massaging her smooth neck, where a woman's fragrance wafted. I inhaled deeply, holding her close, wanting to absorb her scent.

Every time we made love, I carried that scent. With my eyes closed, I could recognize my mother by that scent, feel her presence. Before, this scent was called motherly love; now, it is my love. Separation

is the price of love, and we will compensate each other with the most passionate lovemaking. I'm not in a hurry to unpack this package of love that has already been delivered to my hands. Opening it immediately would certainly be pleasurable. However, I intend to flirt a bit, thaw things out, and get her body and emotions into a state of peak arousal. Some days, she's eager for sex; she'll tell me she wants it.

We've loved each other so deeply, to this point, that she's given me her body and soul without reservation. So, on other days, although we have plenty of opportunities to meet, due to circumstances, we must interact with each other under different identities and relationships. This not only fails to soothe our longing but also creates long-term repression, which I can't bear; I fear that one day, I might develop a split personality.

I don't need to immediately feast my eyes on my lover's naked body, because I will undress her and be able to see her body through her clothes. The curves of her body, the softness of her breasts, and the contours of her nipples are all precisely etched in my memory.

I suddenly have a thought to test her feelings, to see who among us will succumb to desire first? Who misses whom more? Who needs whom more?

All along, my mother has intentionally tormented me. There's always a hint of seductiveness in her eyes and brows, and at her age, she deliberately flaunts her curves, including the arc of her large breasts under her low-cut dresses and the depth of her cleavage, swaying them at the angle most advantageous for me to spy on her. But if a third party is present, she immediately conceals it.

An outsider, someone completely unfamiliar with us, would see that this mother, despite her restraint, still can't resist flirting in front of her son, her eyes brimming with desire. The son, on the other hand, is very close to his mother, treating her with gentlemanly manners and meticulous care. What would they think? Would they suspect our relationship might be unusual? Those around us, however, remain unconcerned. Our close relationship facilitates our affair, such as visiting relatives together or traveling together.

A woman's heart is like a mystery at the bottom of the sea; her intentions are meant to be guessed, never explicitly stated. You have to guess correctly before you can take the next step. But if you misjudge, you're in deep trouble. I pondered for a long, long time, and seemed to have a clue, but I dared not take that step. No son would think of love and sex in that way; I even hated having such dirty thoughts about my mother. I went to a priest for confession and poured cold water on myself to calm my desires. But she still haunted me like a ghost, day and night, impossible to shake off. It wasn't until I could follow my instincts and drive my impulses that we finally met on the same track.

My mother, unable to bear the heat of the stove any longer, wiped a layer of sweat from her forehead, sat up, lifted her sweater, and revealed a section of long-lost snow-white skin and delicate, rounded wrists before my eyes. A woman doesn't need to show all three points to be alluring. Of course, I would be a gentleman and help her undress. Her arms, clad only in a bra, were raised without any guard, revealing her armpit hair. After I ripped off her sweater, her arms fell naturally, and the bra straps slipped down one after the other. Her hair was disheveled, messily covering her lips, giving her a sexy, mustache-like appearance.

A deep, long cleavage, nestled between two seamless demi-cup bras, held the love I longed for. The exposed rims of most of her breasts formed a pair of misaligned brackets, one arch against the other, while the other bracket peeked out from the other end of the cup. Her breasts, unrestrained, pressed against the soft silk, bursting forth. The drooping straps weren't pulled up, giving the illusion that her bra might fall off at any moment.

In truth, she was a woman with refined manners, privately trained in traditional ways. You haven't seen her elegance in a cheongsam; she's even more graceful than Maggie Cheung in one in Wong Kar-wai's "In the Mood for Love." If I were a painter, I would definitely use her as a model for a painting of a lady. However, I would paint her nude, because there are no paintings of naked ladies in China; those paintings of nude women are called erotic paintings.

Mom stirred her martini with plastic, took a sip, and savored the taste.

I raised my glass to her, offering a toast and a salute.

"Mom, thank you. I admire your courage in acknowledging our love and accepting my love. My unrequited love has finally found its place." This was the "dialogue" I had prepared for her. I

raised my glass, opened it, but couldn't find the words, and paused.

Mom raised her glass to clink with mine, her breasts simultaneously thrusting forward. Her bra, without shoulder straps, slipped down, and a faint nipple inadvertently appeared first.

"Let's drink tonight. Cheers!

Our forearms are intertwined, we tilt our heads back and drink it all in one gulp.

We can't escape the past, and we have no tomorrow. Only today, this moment, she belongs to me. I belong to her too. In love, we are not afraid, we are not afraid to love, to love each other without hesitation, and we are not even afraid of what we still have—fear.

For tonight, let us cherish it.

I pulled my mother into my arms again and kissed her hard, and she obediently accepted. I put my fingers into the bra cups that were almost completely pressed against her skin, groping in the soft, narrow space, crackling slightly, igniting the spark of desire.

(II) A Sin

When my mother let me kiss her lips like a lover for the first time, she said in a thick Shanghai accent, "A sin!"

This was a sin!

The deeper my love for my mother, the heavier my guilt. Because besides my wife, I also had to face someone else, my mother's husband, my father.

Dating my mother was extremely unusual. I respected my father; although he wasn't good at expressing his love, he fulfilled his duties as a father. I loved him too. But to secretly flirt with and sleep with another woman—if he found out, he'd be furious. I was truly rebellious! If I were my father, I would have expected my mother to have an affair, because there was never any chemistry between them, never any spark. Among their generation, this wasn't a big deal. But a lonely wife is easily stolen by a man who cares for her. He would never have imagined that his wife's "affair" was with their son.

But my mother wasn't like other women who lived their lives with or without love. She wasn't satisfied with the status quo and wanted to find life outside her lifeless marriage.

Using her son as a guinea pig to test her attractiveness seemed immoral, but it was the most convenient method for her. I was the second man closest to her. A son can be an ideal lover shaped by a mother according to her own needs and demands.

Truly, I was too foolish, oblivious to her constant hints. Because I dared not even consider that possibility, never deluding myself into things beyond my reach. I can't blame her for not letting me see her heart sooner, for making me unjustly flee from her eyes burning with desire, as if fleeing the fires of hell.

So, I found a girl who was devoted to me and married her. At the time, I had no shortage of men willing to marry me. On the wedding day, my parents came and stayed at my new home.

At the wedding banquet, my mother opened my eyes to what true beauty and elegance were; the Shanghai beauties described by Pai Hsien-yung and Eileen Chang came alive before my eyes. She wore a dark red floral brocade cheongsam with a mandarin collar, made by the most famous Shanghai tailor in Chinatown. The cheongsam's slit was high, revealing her thighs, and she wore red high heels and an embroidered shawl, attracting the attention of all the Chinese and foreign guests, stealing the spotlight even from the bride in her low-cut wedding dress. She was unusually excited, drank a lot of wine, and flitted around the room—it's supposed to be a happy occasion to get a wife. However, she didn't even glance at the bride.

On our wedding night, late at night, my bride was asleep. I heard someone moving around in the house. I got up to check and saw Peixue's lonely figure in the living room, wearing a bathrobe, sitting on the sofa, holding a wine bottle, humming an old tune.

"It's late, why aren't you asleep?" I sat down beside her and realized she was sobbing.

She didn't answer me and continued to drink. I took the bottle from her, forbidding her to drink anymore.

"Don't drink anymore, you've already drunk too much today.

" She said, "Don't worry about me. Go back to your wedding night."

"Mom, are you alright?" I comforted her gently.

"I'm fine, I don't need your fake concern." She cried even harder.

"Why are you crying? Who broke your heart?" I stretched out my arm and placed it on her bare shoulder, gently and tenderly comforting her.

"It's you, you made me cry." "What...did I do wrong?"

"You're playing dumb."

"I really don't know."

"You've ignored me. Why are you so cold to me? I wander around all day, all for you!"

"Mom, what did you say? You..."

"Don't you understand? Do you want me to say it out loud?"

"Mom, I..."

"You heartless stone, you don't care about me as your mother anymore." Her head rested on my shoulder, her sweet voice captivating, making me dizzy.

A strange atmosphere filled the air, my heart pounded, and I held a burning desire in my arms, gentle yet intense, slowly melting me. Unable to resist, I reached out to her, my comforting hand on her arm transforming into a hand of desire, sliding down, down, caressing the soft curves of her waist. That wasn't enough to satisfy my hand's lust; it moved further and further down, inch by inch, between her soft, warm thighs, until it reached the place on her body that I most fantasized about, overflowing with desire like a flood. My manhood, brimming with an astonishing power, stood erect, pointing high towards her… "Oh my God, we shouldn't…"

She lowered her head, silent, not stopping my unrestrained hands from roaming her body.

"Stop me! I know you will…"

Her warm, soft body pressed against my chest, filled with boundless grievance, as she poured out her heart to me.

She said, "You make me cry. Tonight is your happy night, but it makes me feel lonely and desolate. I need a chest to lean on, someone to tell me they love me. This is a special day; everyone else is asleep, just the two of us in this living room." Whatever you want to do, I'll do it, because I'm just a little woman, and sometimes I need comfort...

To this day, I still don't know where I got the audacity—or rather, the audacity of lust—to dare to flirt with my own mother like that, unbuttoning her nightgown and revealing her cleavage. There, a fragrance stronger than wine wafted over. I was terrified, grabbed the bottle from her hand, tilted my head back, and gulped it down. I silently prayed to God to forgive my sins, and then went to commit that heinous crime, to make love with my mother on my wedding night.

What a sin!

Does anyone have any sense of morality or shame?

I must admit, not long ago, in our bridal chamber, the person I imagined making love with her had already melted solidly into my arms, everything unfolding before me, completely begging for my love.

My lips pressed against her bare arm, wandering over her most sensitive and sensual shoulder, the crook of her neck, and behind her ear. I found her warm, soft, slightly trembling lips.

She parted her lips, revealing her teeth, allowing me to find the "sin" on her warm tongue.

In a dreamlike state, she lay quietly on the sofa, trembling as she surrendered to me. My hand, guided by its touch, went to where it craved, unbuttoning her robe. Then, slowly and carefully, I pulled off her silk panties, more fragrant and sexy than the ones my bride wore on our wedding night, down to her feet. This was a banner she had hung in my heart, something she often intentionally left in the bathroom, or unintentionally exposed, so I could peek, discover, and smell her femininity.

I looked at her, capturing every change in her eyes, and she looked at me too. We didn't look at each other's bodies, only exploring each other with our hands. I touched her smooth, sweaty shoulders and back, then moved down to her buttocks, reaching her firm, rounded bottom. As I suckled her incredibly firm breasts, I kneaded her inner thighs, parting her legs. She was more willing to part for me than my bride. The path opened, unobstructed, leading straight to my destination.

When I entered her, she trembled. In her eyes, I saw my long-suppressed desire and our mutual fear. Then, she lowered her eyes, pressing her flesh against mine, her body stiffening to entwine me, seeking her own satisfaction. In her warm, safe haven, I swelled, swelled, thrusting and penetrating deep within her, forgetting the passage of time in that swirling, sensual vortex. A

muffled moan escaped from beneath me, from the boundless darkness of the night—the cry of a woman of flesh and blood. I had made this woman, my mother, my lover, a thought that filled me with dread and trembling.

My mother's eyes and her kisses never left me. Every glance, every change in her expression, every movement and reaction of her body during sex is clearly etched into my heart. Did she, when making love with my father, or during childbirth, furrow her brow, bite her lower lip, and moan and groan like that?

And I couldn't even remember if my bride had experienced an orgasm with me on her first night. Even her image was blurred in my mind.

3) Perhaps it was only

after making love with my mother that I was certain it was something I should have done.

In the deepest moment of the night, my body sheltered my mother, sowing the seeds of love within her. We shouldn't have loved each other, much less have become one naked and vulnerable. Once I stepped across that threshold, it was a doomsday, a point of no return.

As dawn broke, the grave mistake was made, and I suddenly realized who my true love was. Without her, my love was gone.

My lover, limp beneath me, sweetly whispered,

"I think you just gave me an orgasm."

Those words captivated me; I knew loving her was the purpose of my life, because if I didn't love her, no one else would.

And so, we became lovers, as if we had loved each other for eternity. She began to tell me many things, about herself, about her love, about her sex life. She said how much she missed me and longed for my attention. Even a glance from me, or my ignoring her and walking away, would fill her with unease and restlessness. What else could these be but sweet nothings? Perhaps no one but me would have ever heard my mother say these things to him.

Love is such an inexplicable thing; affection knows no age limits, and generational distinctions cannot extinguish love.

The simultaneous occurrence of loving and being loved generates sexual arousal, and orgasm is a product of this chain reaction. The sexual climaxes she experienced, and the taste of being loved, all came from me—how absurd it sounds, yet it's the truth. Her sex life with her husband was always routine; they even had children, but it was all unremarkable. Over time, she came to believe that this was the essence of life, and it could cause a woman to lose all hope for sex.

She said I gave her hope for love. Loving her might not be easy. Because she wouldn't stop hoping, and those who have hope never grow old. My mother's love, sometimes like a teenager's infatuation, demanded that I devote all my energy to her, especially in bed, where she wanted my complete utmost.

A man's prowess, when used on a woman, requires her cooperation and appreciation. Whenever my mother compared my father's and my sexual prowess, I felt a sense of vanity; what my father couldn't do, I could. I became even more convinced that what I was doing was right, that only I could make my mother happy. We had to constantly find more reasons to support ourselves, to convince ourselves. Only then could we live, for each other.

"You know better in lovemaking than Dad. If only you could be her coach," she said.

I practically felt like a hero, rescuing my mother from her misery. My penis immediately became erect again, begging my clueless father to pay off all the debts he owed my mother. Those debts would never be repaid; from that moment on, we were mired in an illicit affair. During our honeymoon, we planned a trip with my mother. After returning, I found an excuse to come to this resort for a unique honeymoon.

Only in this snow-covered resort could we make love freely.

These memories flashed through my mind like a rapidly searching image. I didn't notice that my mother's nipples were hard and swollen from being twisted by two fingers, as if they would be ripped off with another twist. "You've been touching me here for too long, it's making me numb and sore," she reminded me, pulling me back from my reverie to her side.

"Oh, really? I'm sorry." I kissed her again.

The kiss was light, the tongue was warm, the love was intense. She returned a kiss, a kiss on her red buttocks, and I knew she couldn't wait any longer.

She pulled my hand out from under her bra and placed it between her thighs; she needed caresses there too. My erection, throbbing with barely suppressed urges, was about to explode.

I would let my mother know what she felt for me, down to my waist. Because I didn't need to hold back, it would boost her confidence. She had complained about why her husband wasn't interested in her. Whose fault was it that he was so slow to react? I gave her the affirmation a woman needs—that a man younger than her could still be captivated by her.

Long-suppressed desire burned like embers in a furnace. My mother made no secret of her need and longing for me, kissing my manhood incessantly. We had both been anticipating this moment, this moment when we could indulge in physical pleasure. "Love me," came the completely liberated Pei-yun, a stark contrast to the reserved, neurotic woman who had stood before the counter. I could only stammer, because I wanted to hear more explicit words, from my mother, directly saying to me:

"Fuck me! Crush me!"

To get the love she wanted, she would even utter such vulgar words. She humbled herself so much in front of her son, seeking pleasure; it evoked pity in me, how could I bear to mistreat her?

However, I still followed a fixed routine, paying attention to every detail, like social etiquette, when making love with her. After all, the woman I was having this physical relationship with was my mother, and she deserved different treatment.

Women constantly want men to tell them they love them. And every time she asked me to tell her I loved her, I proved it with my actions. Actually, our love cannot be spoken, nor does it need to be! For her, loving her mother as a woman, telling her I love her, telling her I want to make love with her, is actually harder to say than to do. Even she herself admits it.

Lover and mother, mother and lover—a dual identity, naked before me without any concealment—should absolutely not be taken for granted. In the older generation, some couples made love while clothed, feeling ashamed even to be naked in front of their spouse. When she and her father made love, were they both naked? I never asked her, but in my imagination, they slept in their pajamas and made love while fully clothed. But how could they do it while clothed? I couldn't imagine. Now, my mother and I are making love. She's a mother, shouldn't I leave something for her? When we're having sex in bed, should I consider her different from other women and leave her with some clothing? After all, a woman is a woman. When she's having sex with you in bed, she's no different from any other woman. It's not that she won't do it, but if she's going to, it's real and not half-hearted.

It's just that some women are impatient, taking off their clothes and rushing at you for love. My mother isn't like that. She always waits for me to undress her, whether I undress her completely is up to me.

Then she can say:

"You took off my clothes!"

"You wanted to have sex with me!"

"It's all your fault!" This is the psychological defense mechanism of a mother having sex with her son. It makes her feel better psychologically, as if it lessens the guilt of betraying her husband and committing incest.

I'm happy to admit this mistake, it's like taking credit for myself. I've never achieved anything, never done anything meaningful, and putting this blame on me feels like a crown, a halo. For me, being able to unbutton every button of her clothes, to remove her garments one by one, even the most intimate clothing, to personally peel away the last thing covering her body with my own hands, is just as thrilling as making love itself.

Regarding undressing women, I'm not particular. After undressing women hundreds of times, it's all the same: as long as they're naked, that's enough. Where to start, how to undress—it no longer arouses my desire.

I'm talking about undressing other women. Undressing my mother, however, evokes a perpetually complex and exciting feeling. I can't be careless; my fingers must be extra nimble.

Which garment would be easiest to remove from her most intimate clothing? Intuitively, I envisioned her bra, letting her expose her breasts first, getting used to my gaze and caresses. This is a woman's first psychological hurdle. Then come the stockings and panties, and finally, only the panties covering her private parts—that's what's called the private parts, arguably a woman's most mysterious, beautiful, and alluring place. A body with its private parts exposed is called nudity.

This logical reasoning forms a ritual before our lovemaking, like a social etiquette. Sometimes, I want to test her. Now that we've made love many times, and we're a straightforward couple, will she succumb to the burning desire and hastily undress, like many other lovers' rendezvous?

She won't, she simply won't; I know her best. And this package of love, opening it, fully possessing its joy—I won't let it slip away. The entire process, including removing her clothes, possessing her body, and sharing sexual pleasure with her, every step is important. Because the gift itself is her.

But I could try something new. The thought of taking off her panties first flashed through my mind. I'd save the bra for last, to see her with it on and her bottom bare. Would she cover her genitals with her hands? Like when I unhooked her bra first, her arms, with nowhere to go, would cross over her chest, trying to hide her breasts. Or perhaps, I could simply pull down her panties and have sex—that's another way of having sex, why not give it a try?

Actually, if a woman is willing to have sex with you, she won't mind where you want to undress her, just as she wouldn't mind you undressing her, even if your mother became your woman.

Nothing more, I just wanted to slowly reveal her nakedness, inch by inch. Because I don't often have the opportunity to have sex with her outside, leisurely and unhurriedly. I don't have the right to enjoy her body, so I cherish every detail, making it all a memory. (IV) The wildness calls

outside. Dusk falls, the snow falls heavier, and the firewood in the fireplace is stirred, sparks fly, and the fire burns brightly. The room is filled with the scent of pine resin, the scent that brought us to this mountain fir forest, the scent associated with making love with Peiyun.

Sex can be different, extraordinary, just like us, single-minded, earth-shattering, reckless, loving until the end of time, until the seas dry up and the rocks crumble. Every time we make love, it's like the last love before the end of the world—love on the rug by the fireplace, love on the windowsill with a lake view, love between wine glasses, love in a king-size bed. To love Mom is to give your all, to exhaust the last bit of energy in your body to love her. When I make love with her, there's never a dull moment, I never disappoint her, and that makes me content. The gentle, beautiful consciousness within her withdrew, leaving me soft and weak, as I lay prone on top of her. She shifted her body, freeing herself from my weight, and sat up, smoothing her hair with her hands, her breasts trembling slightly. My mother, after making love, wore a satisfied smile, gently kissing my lips, her red nipples brushing against my face, still hard.

She got up, swinging her long legs, and walked towards the window overlooking the lake. We used to stroll along this lake, boating and fishing on it in the summer, and ice skating and enjoying the snow in the winter. Her beauty, so fresh and radiant, was different from the beauty before lovemaking. It was exhilarating, relaxed, carefree, confident, and uninhibited. A pair of flawless, beautiful buttocks faced me, my kisses etched on her neck and shoulders. She gazed out the window at the falling snowflakes, swirling wildly in the streetlights. Suddenly, she turned to me, a glint of an idea in her eyes, and said,

"It's snowing! Go out and see! If you're a coward, don't come with me!"

Completely naked, she opened the door, calling to me, and ran out.

Outside, snowflakes fell, but my mother didn't stop. I hesitated for a moment, then quickly got up, put on slippers, grabbed a blanket, and chased after her. I saw my mother's pointed breasts swaying with every movement of her body. In the hazy, dim light, white snowflakes landed on her dark hair and her naked body, white as jade and cream. She thrust her breasts towards the falling snow, waving her arms, offering her entire body to me without reservation. I smiled at her, and she smiled back, waving at me. Joyfully, barefoot, panting and shivering, she danced lightly in the snow, kicking up snowflakes. Just as I was about to catch up with her, she bent down, scooped up the fresh snow with both hands, gathered it into a snowball, and threw it at me. I returned the favor, making an even bigger snowball.

Braving the snowball onslaught, I rushed forward, caught her, and held her naked, nearly frozen body tightly. She cried out and threw herself into my arms. I wrapped her in the sheet, embracing her passionately, caressing her, kissing her, drawing out her red tongue, and engaging in a tongue-and-lip battle instead of a snowball fight. Her cold yet soft flesh instantly heated up as our skin touched.

I could no longer withstand the chill that threatened to freeze us into icicles, and was about to take her back inside when she gave an innocent, silly laugh and said,

"Remember? There seems to be a hot spring behind the house. I want to go there and soak in it."

"The snow is so heavy, aren't you afraid of the cold?"

"A hot spring? I'm not afraid of the cold," she said. I picked her up and carried her across the thick snow. After rounding a bend, where the mist rose, we found the natural hot spring pool.

The pool was only about the size of a regular bathtub, and the hot spring water gushed up from the ground, bubbling and gurgling, reaching chest-deep. All around us was a vast expanse of white snow, and the biting wind whipped up thousands of snowflakes, rushing and crashing towards us, only to melt into raindrops by the warmth of the hot spring at the edge of the pool.

My mother soaked in the water, her breasts above the surface, bobbing up and down in the hazy snow and mist. In the vast expanse of the earth, only my mother and I were there, naked, bathing in the river of love. We seemed to return to the most primal place of our nature, discovering our true selves in each other's eyes—so this is how it is. I had nothing to hide from my mother; I was bone of her bones, and she shouldn't hold anything back from me; she was flesh of my flesh. In love, there was no fear, no guilt. Besides her, who else could share with me the most utter nakedness and intimacy between us?

On the deep, desolate snow, there was a destined rendezvous. At a specific juncture, mother and child had to become one, merging with heaven and earth, breaking a spell. Mother returned to herself. Her alluring body transformed into a young doe, trembling with the stirrings of spring, emitting the scent of courtship, awaiting that stag, whether son or brother, as long as he was strong, sharing her lust, riding upon her, fulfilling the eternal law of nature. She needed the wild, untamed lust of a beast, the simple, direct, and untamed union of the forest and the plains.

With my bare arms, I embraced her equally bare, soft waist. Chest to back, lips to face, legs intertwined, hearts locked. My palms covered her breasts, gently kneading them, washing away the dust of the world. Her small hands wandered to the juncture of her buttocks and my thighs, finding what she needed. My mother's hands, familiar and gentle, caressed and teased my scrotum. My perineum immediately received the signal, obeying her call, rising again towards her upturned buttocks, thrusting deep from behind. Snowflakes fell like snow, and my mother and I fused violently and rapidly, like wild beasts, primal and shameless.

"Fuck me, take me, completely take me!" she cried out.

She grabbed my hand, biting it between her teeth, enduring the pain of the violent thrusts amidst the pleasure.

"Ugh...oh..."

She let out a long, wolf-like howl, echoing across the silent, boundless lake, resonating in my heart. It was the cry of her long-suppressed desire, a sudden burst of untamed wildness. For a woman who has achieved sexual liberation, anything is possible.

My mother and I were determined to be together; no amount of propriety or morality could stop our love. And we, the two of us, actually became lovers, sharing many moments of passion. And now, I encountered a mother I had never met before. That fearless, trusting love finally unleashed her wildness. It was a cry of liberation, a declaration of her sexual climax!

This is love! It is a complete surrender in love. I have never been so moved. She was more persistent than I was; now, she pursues her love and happiness with even greater freedom. I grasped her breasts, our bodies intertwined, gazing up at the sky. Heaven above, may this love bear witness, may it be worshipped. She followed me, taking my hand, as we climbed up the rocky spring. The shimmering female body emerging from the mist and water seemed like someone else entirely, someone I'd never seen before.

Like two playful children, hand in hand, we ran back into the house. A little longer outside, and we'd freeze into icicles. We stoked the fire, facing each other, still breathless. I looked at her, this newly discovered body; I felt an even stronger attachment to her, an inability to leave her forever. I asked her to stand, took a large bath towel, and began to dry her from head to toe. She stood motionless, letting me do the drying. She seemed as delicate and alluring as a little girl, now revealing her innocent, wild side to me. Her breathing grew softer, her breasts rose and fell, her face flushed, her body radiant, her legs slightly parted, her buttocks firm and round, like a boy's. Her pubic hair, soaked and dripping wet, clung to her mons pubis, looking sparser than usual... I felt a little embarrassed by her gaze. I walked to the mirror, carefully examined my naked body, then turned away from the large mirror, staring at my back and buttocks, utterly bewildered.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Haven't you seen me before? What's so interesting?" she asked, continuing to search her body from all angles.

Only I had the right to look at her body however I pleased, whether she was clothed or not. I saw all her flaws. However, beauty is in the eye of the beholder; imperfections are seen as perfection, and beauty is what the lover sees. If she were willing to be beautiful for me, I could have her wear things to suit my taste, to accentuate certain aspects of her figure... It would be wonderful if I could have my way! In truth, a son's taste is cultivated from a young age by the person most influential in his life—his mother.

"You are beautiful, but I just caught a glimpse of your stunning figure from one angle."

"Tell me what it was?"

"I was just trying to find that angle."

I held her arms, making her lift them up and support them behind her head. This way, her breasts were high and exposed, her abdominal muscles were tucked in, and her armpit hair and pubic hair formed a triangular shape.

She became impatient, or her hands felt heavy, and she tried to let them fall. I gestured for her to stay in the position.

"What are you doing? Aren't you hungry? You want something to eat."

"Wait. Just like that, don't move. You look beautiful to me like this. I want to give you a little something."

"What little something?" she asked.

"Don't ask, you'll find out soon enough."

I took her silk scarf, folded it several times, and blindfolded her.

"What are you doing?"

"Listen to me, don't ask, close your eyes, don't look, I'm going to give you a surprise."

I tightened the silk scarf and blindfolded her. She was told to stand, her arms crossed over her chest, gently supporting her breasts, waiting for something to happen. I had prepared a gift for my lover: a pair of precious little scallop nipple shields inlaid with gemstones, connected by a thin chain. A matching girdle was also present. I didn't know if it could be called underwear, because I imagined it as an ornament, something worn on the outside. That is to say, its design concept was to be the only ornament covering the lower body. Wearing it under underwear would render it useless. It was a precious little scallop strung on two small chains; its large opening certainly couldn't cover her mons pubis, or any woman's mons pubis. A string of matching gemstones hung from the little shell, perpendicularly matching the lower end of the triangle formed by the nipple shields. I saw these two items three years ago during my honeymoon in Hawaii. I was delighted at first sight, secretly bought them, and hid them for my mother. I don't know why I had that thought back then; it was an extremely impractical and unsuitable souvenir for my mother. However, I kept it, carrying it with me every time I met my mother, hoping that one day the right opportunity would come and I could put it on her.

I believed that the time I was waiting for had arrived.

I used the small scallop shells to cover her nipples, the concave part of the shell perfectly nestling her bulging nipples. After adjusting the length of the chain connected to the scallop shells and fastening it behind her back, the two small shells became ornaments set on her breasts, making her exposed breasts appear even more proud and high.

As for the G-string chain, the tightness had to be adjusted according to the width of her waist and the depth from her waist to her groin. The chain had no elasticity, and it constricted her crotch, the G-string part, requiring individual adjustments to ensure that the small shells just covered Peiyun's pubic hair. My mother's pubic hair wasn't very thick, and the small shells only allowed a few strands to escape. The intersection of the three curved lines on her lower body formed the visual focus. Throughout the dressing process, she stood quietly, her posture fixed, like a mannequin in a shop window, completely at my mercy. I led her to the mirror; the small shell and G-string chain between her thighs, nestled in the crease between her buttocks and labia, became an obstacle to her walking, the gemstone pendants dangling with her movements. She had to walk with her legs slightly apart than usual, and more lightly, to avoid the chain and gemstone pendants rubbing against her genitals and thighs, so her gait was a little awkward and unnatural. But I found her graceful and incredibly sexy.

Blindfolded by the satin strip, wearing this small shell ornament with three points attached, it didn't restrain my mother's wildness; instead, it seemed to liberate her body from all constraints and taboos. The body of my mother presented before me was vibrant and alluring, transformed into Venus born from the water, my worshipped goddess of love!

I untied the satin band covering her eyes. She rubbed her eyes and, seeing her most primal, instinctive beauty reflected in the mirror, gasped in surprise. Like a woman in a wedding dress, she struck different poses in front of the mirror, caressing her cheeks, shoulders, breasts, and thighs, almost self-pityingly, indulging in her reflection. Natural beauty is hard to ignore; how could such a beautiful and alluring body not be admired by adoring eyes and touched by gentle hands?

"So? Do you like it?" Seeing that she seemed to appreciate her appearance, she said confidently.

"Thank you, I've never seen underwear made of seashells before."

"It's not underwear, it's jewelry, body ornaments, like earrings, necklaces, nipple rings, and the like."

"So, am I considered dressed? Should I wear panties?"

"You can't wear panties, you can't wear a bra, you can't cover it up."

"Can these things be worn as clothes?"

"The original intention was for you to wear them only, without wearing anything else."

"Do you think I look good like this?"

"Absolutely beautiful. Come closer, let me see more clearly."

I opened my arms to her, and she leaned in, letting me shelter her entire body under my protection, receiving my gentle caresses. I felt this was our most intimate moment, a feeling I had never experienced before, loving her and possessing her like this. Full of confidence, and taking a great risk, I whispered in her ear,

"Mommy, oh! My mommy..."

5) Who knows if there will be a tomorrow?

If there is still a barrier between us, this is it. Even now, I still don't dare call her by her name. She lets me kiss her, lets me caress her most private parts, lets me see her naked body, and makes love to her in various positions, but she won't let me call her name. The name Pei-yun can only be uttered by my father and her elders, by her peers. Upon seeing her, her name gets stuck in my throat, unable to be uttered, as if I'm unworthy to call her by her name. What kind of psychological barrier is that? Is it the difference in generation?

In the vast restaurant lobby, there were only the two of us. The waiter told us we had brought a blizzard. The roads were piled high with snow, and several avalanches blocked the way, preventing other guests who had booked rooms or were coming for dinner from arriving.

The pianist, regardless of whether there were guests, played one romantic piece after another on the Steinway grand piano. Sometimes, he sang along, occasionally humming a few love songs.

I felt that everything was arranged for us, including this terrible weather. I will remember this heavy snow for the rest of my life.

I stretched my hands across the table, holding my mother's, silently, foolishly gazing at her. The waiter, who had been waiting for a long time, smiled knowingly as he watched our affectionate gaze. "

Are you envious of us?" I wondered.

The food didn't need to be special; the chef's recommendations would suffice. However, to celebrate our three years of love, I would personally select a bottle of aged wine from the cellar—it had to be exquisite enough to match my beauty.

The large fireplace in the restaurant had just been lit, releasing the aroma of pine resin, a scent that reminded me of the passionate lovemaking with my mother. She would occasionally lower her hand under the table, tugging at the chain inside her skirt, adjusting the shells and chain that had shifted with her changing position. I must have fastened them too tightly, constricting her lower body; I should loosen them for her. I imagined making love with her, without unfastening the chain—how? There were shells in front, but I could enter from behind. This was her favorite position because I could penetrate very, very deeply.

Her seemingly ticklish gesture was quite unrefined, but no one saw; we were the only two guests. The pianist, head bowed, played and sang. Only I saw her, and I didn't think she was being disrespectful. A lover can accept his lover doing the most private things in front of him.

I had explained to her the origin and purpose of the three shells—they weren't underwear, but ornaments, worn on the outside, not underneath—but she insisted on wearing a skirt; she couldn't go to the restaurant naked. The restaurant was a refined place with requirements for guests' attire.

I could have just booked the whole restaurant, and no one would have cared what she wore. Now, no customers come, it's almost the same as if we had booked it.

She said, "It's all your fault for this weird idea, it's made me so itchy down there."

"Tonight, you'll make love to me while you're dressed."

"That's enough. Today, you came really deep and hard several times, maybe you taught me to have your child."

"Am I really that good? Is that how women know if they're pregnant?" I momentarily lost in thought and moved to her side, knelt down, and touched her belly.

"It's a woman's sixth sense, it's very accurate."

Under the tablecloth, I saw her sitting with her legs spread apart. Her thighs were shapely, long, and spread open. Under her skirt was a deep, unfathomable tunnel, at the end of which was a small scallop pulled from the deep sea. She couldn't close her legs or fold them, otherwise the small scallop, the G-string chain, and the gemstone pendant would rub against her labia.

I gently stroked her exposed, round knees, then brought them back together. She moved my hand away, spread her legs, and said,

"Ugh, sit up straight, it's not good if someone sees us."

"What are you afraid of? There's no one else here." The waiters all discreetly moved away.

"You're going to be a father, and you're still not serious."

"Yes, I'm going to be a father, that's great!"

"But, how are you going to explain to your father where this child came from?"

"Go back and sleep with him right away..." I rushed out, but before I could finish, I regretted it.

"Will he believe it? He doesn't even believe it himself."

"We can't do that. I mean, this is my child. I can't call him a younger brother or sister. We can go somewhere, to Mexico, get married there, and have him..."

"I won't go to Mexico. How will we survive there?"

"There's always a way. I'm willing to do anything, even hard labor."

"I don't want to be exiled, wandering in a foreign land. And what about your wife? What about your father? Haven't you thought about that?"

"Mom, they're not important. Haven't you thought about it? Who do you love most? Who do you want to be with forever? Who can't you live without? Think about it, we'll have our own home, and our child, and live happily ever after..."

"...................."

"Tell me."

"I don't know."

"What will you do with our child?"

"Don't say these things anymore. Maybe you didn't get me pregnant. If I did have a child, it's my child, and I'll find a way..." "It's our child."

"It's mine."

Her tone became stubborn, and then she stopped speaking, and so did I. The intimate, loving, and romantic atmosphere we'd cultivated all day suddenly vanished like a bursting bubble.

I was instantly bewildered...

Romance and reality can't be coexisted. Or perhaps, what is romance is subjective. I thought it would be incredibly romantic to have my mother's lover pregnant with my child and then travel the world with her, living a carefree life. She, however, didn't think so.

I've realized it now, my mother and I have no tomorrow...

Tomorrow holds too many unknowns. My mother might get pregnant; we might break up.

Tomorrow... what will become of us? Will the snowstorm block our return?

Or will there be no tomorrow at all...?

The whole world is a vast expanse of white, still snowing heavily, the snow covering the earth, covering the skylight of the room.

The lights are off, the room is dark, the fireplace is dying down, and the room is filled with the smell of pine resin.

On the king-size bed, Peiyun holds me tightly, her warm, soft body pressed against me—a familiar feeling, a feeling of home. My mind is blurring; am I drunk? Or was it all a dream? In the dream, I didn't know where I was? Was I in a mountain resort? Or in Mexico? Or back home...?

I remember when we went to bed, we didn't speak, didn't give each other a kiss before bed, and unusually, we didn't make love. Did I ask her for sex and she refused? Or did she want to seize the opportunity to make love more, and I rejected her out of spite? I can't remember anymore, and it doesn't matter.

In the next moment, in the darkness, I touched her half-naked breasts, still wearing the precious seashell nipple shield I had given her as a gift to her lover. Her eyes were closed, silent. Her waist was still so slender, bound by a thin chain, and the small seashell covering her modesty, and the fine, smooth pubic hair that the shell couldn't conceal.

Unable to sleep, I lay half-reclined, silently watching her, pondering. What would happen if she were pregnant with my child? I had no answer.

Strangely, I seemed never to have truly looked at her before, never truly seen her face—was it a taboo, or a self-deceptive thought, a fear that if I saw her clearly, I wouldn't be able to forget her appearance, and would fall in love with her? A small face, white as jade, a pointed chin, broad eyebrows, clear eyes, cherry lips—the very image of a beauty from a painting. In my memory, my mother always looked like this, never aging. I want to remember her beautiful face, though no longer young, yet still youthful, so that my lover will always be beautiful and never grow old.

How could she be my mother? How could she become my lover? What does it matter

if loving someone means they age early because they were born young, and the duration of love is short? As long as the heart remains young, the difference in age and generation will not cast a shadow on love, and will instead make many love stories sensational.

I promised her that one day, when she is old, I will also grow old in a mess. Although we cannot be young together, like some childhood sweethearts, we can grow old together.

She smiled without speaking; was she happy or was she thinking something else?

"Holding your hand, growing old together." In the famous line from the Book of Songs, could the word "子" be interpreted as "son"?

Will she hold her son's hand, with the son she bore for him, and grow old with him?

I gently stroked her eternally youthful face, using my tongue as a paintbrush to draw her eyebrows, caress her nose, outline her lips, and kiss her small mouth. She didn't want to open her eyes, burying her head in my chest, avoiding my touch and kisses. Her hair, recently straightened with ion, cascaded down my chest, making her look ten years younger, even more so than I did.

I inhaled the fragrance of her hair, gently kissing her lips and the back of her neck, licking and licking the back of her ear, her most sensitive spot. Suddenly, she cried out, her voice sweet and coquettish, "I'm tired. We've been making love all day, and my whole body is sore. Even if you don't want to, I need to sleep too. Don't bother me."

Her hands resisted me, not allowing me to roam her most sensitive areas. I pushed her hands away, gripping them firmly, preventing her from supporting herself. In bed, she was usually very cooperative, but when she wasn't, I had a way of dealing with it: I used the blindfold to tie her wrists, forcing her snow-white arms up behind her head. Her breasts hardened, her legs parted, and she opened herself completely to me. But she still kept her eyes half-closed, seemingly asleep. I used my tongue as a paintbrush, sketching a picture of a naked woman, starting with her eyebrows, slowly and gently moving to her lips, outlining them. Her tongue emerged, giving me a light taste of her unique sweetness. Then, I sketched the outline of her breasts. The coolness of the chain covering her nipples held my tongue, lingering between her breasts and cleavage, connected by the chain. Then it slid down to her navel. She couldn't resist the tickle and giggled, but remained lazily lying there, letting me do as I pleased. My tongue circled the chain around her waist, sliding down, only to be blocked by the small scallop covering her private parts. I didn't untie the chain; I wanted her to make love to me while wearing the scallop—this was what I had decided to do. I turned her over, and from her back, tracing her spine, I slid down. Peiyun's buttocks, though she had given birth, were still firm, without much excess fat. Deep between the two soft mounds of flesh lay that G-string chain; I slipped my tongue inside… a wonderful fragrance wafted up!

I heard a few soft moans and soft Wu dialect.

She said, "What a sin!" and those whispered murmurs. But what she said, I only vaguely understood.

When I was young, she spoke to me in these same tones; that should be considered my mother tongue. I couldn't understand them, but I didn't need to—it was my mother's murmur. Now, it sounds like something from a distant past, yet infinitely familiar. She spoke these same accents with my father. How many more of these pillow-side whispers will we two have?

My mother trembled slightly beneath me, her buttocks twisting, her upper body supported by my bound hands. My gun was fully loaded; I had to fire again. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulled on the chain around her waist, and gently lifted her buttocks, kissing her two smooth mounds of flesh incessantly, like jeweled pendulums swinging. The small scallop shells blocked my path, but behind me was only the G-string chain binding her anus and vulva. Pulling it open even a little wouldn't prevent me from entering my paradise to commit my wicked deeds.

I remembered there, the many sins I had committed, and perhaps unformed embryos. I believed I had never penetrated so deeply, ejaculated so forcefully. She said that as long as the force was enough, and the ejaculation deep enough, she would become pregnant. I believed her without a doubt, vowing to ensure that my sperm reached her uterus, that she would bear my child, for only then could our relationship be complete. I finally understood that even if she was willing to sleep with me, to be naked and unrestrained in front of me without shame, even to wear a shell-shaped nipple bra, it was all superficial. Unless the seed I planted within her, inside her body, bears fruit, and she carries my child, she will not truly be my woman.

With each deep, shallow thrust, my hands cupped her breasts, her nipples becoming tiny shells. Her buttocks pressed against my thighs, swaying to my rhythm, her back glistening with sweat, her straight hair cascading over her shoulders, the jeweled pendants clicking against her nipples, growing faster, her breath quickening. Then, I heard our wild cries, smelled the incense of pine resin.

"Love me, I want your love, deeper, deeper still."

"My mother, I will always love you."

Forgetting the frozen mountains and rivers outside, the utterly silent world. At this moment, mother and I were making love, intertwined as one, a love that would last forever, who cared about tomorrow!

The End

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