"Sex Between Mother and Son" from "A History of Human Customs and Morals"

Author
: Ling Sichen
As the title suggests, this is a novel with a discussion element. When the troubling word "incest" appears repeatedly, we must have a clear understanding of it.
Remember, it's "clear understanding," not "sober understanding," because neither morality nor law can forcibly prevent it. We can only "clearly" know what it's all about, not "soberly" despise it morally—after all, the taboo against incest is ultimately not a product of morality, and who can be certain that close relatives won't experience a strong attraction?
I will begin to tell this lengthy story, using the changing ages of the mother and child to reflect the course of events.
"Sex Everywhere"
More than twenty years ago, when Mom and Dad signed a contract, they officially became a legal couple.
In other words, both parties gained the legally recognized right to engage in sexual intercourse. Mom and Dad could have "legally protected" intercourse and have children. Therefore, conversely, sexual intercourse between men and women that doesn't complete this process is "self-defeating."
That year, my mother was about 25 years old. A year later, I came into the world (ironically, we are still very curious about the specific process of our arrival, but that is not something we can know).
Ten months of pregnancy, one day of childbirth—I lived in my mother's warm belly for ten months, during which time the boy's genitals developed and tightly embraced my mother's tender uterus; it was truly a happy and blissful time. Finally, amidst my mother's screams and struggles, I left this comfortable paradise, crossed the extremely swollen vagina, and was born with a cry.
If we consider the contact between male and female genitals as sexual intercourse, then during the time of the son's birth, sexual intercourse had already occurred with the mother.
But neither my father nor my mother thought that way. They only knew that they had the continuation of life, but never considered that in the process of this new life's emergence, the mother actually had sexual contact with "two" men, not "one."
The arrival of the new life brought joy and trouble. The young father had to work twice as hard to feed his wife and son, while my mother stayed at home with me, the infant.
I often cried loudly because of hunger, so my mother would take off her top to breastfeed me. My mother's breasts were at their largest, soft and firm. She gently held me in her arms, bringing her large, white breasts to my lips. I eagerly took her swollen nipple into my mouth, greedily sucking the sweet milk, the ultimate delicacy for a baby, fresh and delicious.
My mother smiled at me like a saint, looking at her crying son in her arms, gently stroking me. I also reached out my delicate little hands to touch those beautiful mounds of flesh. We always have such respect, praise, appreciation, and longing for women's breasts, because they are a treasure bestowed upon women by the Creator to nurture humankind, so great and so alluring. A man's liking to look at a woman's breasts may not be considered impolite, but rather an uncontrollable urge towards life and a yearning for motherhood.
This was a wonderful time no less than being in the womb; I could enjoy my mother's sweet, full breasts to my heart's content. They were mine, and no one could take them away. Of course, my father and mother would also do what they wanted at night. Perhaps my father also longed for my mother's breasts. When they were together, my father would always take my mother's nipple into his mouth and suckle with all his might.
Often, I would see my mother scolding my father, "Don't be so crazy! You've drunk all the milk, what will our son do?"
My father would laugh and say, "It's okay, I'll only drink what our son leaves behind."
My mother would blush, hug me shyly, and say, "We won't give it to him, right, son? Mommy's milk is only for you."
My father would then laugh heartily.
This is an important detail that we cannot easily overlook: both the father and the young son are possessive of their mother's breasts. This can be seen in the father kissing the mother's breasts during intercourse and the baby's longing for the mother's nipple.
What does the possessiveness of the father and son towards their mother's breasts signify? For the son, is it merely a need for breastfeeding or a male's need for a woman? I have no way of knowing, nor do I want to delve deeper, otherwise those extreme "moralists" would turn me into a pariah.
At this time, I was a baby boy, and my mother put me in my own little bed. But I would always cry loudly at night because I was hungry or wet the bed, disturbing their peace. My mother had no choice but to let the three of us sleep together, and I lay between my father and mother.
But that wasn't enough for me, so I would occasionally poop and pee at the same time. Since I was often nestled in my mother's arms, my poop would end up directly on my father. What a naughty little thing! My father would grumble angrily, and then take his clothes, stained with my excrement, to wash. This way
, I could snuggle in my mother's soft arms and fall asleep contentedly in her gentle maternal embrace. Because my father anticipated the unpredictable onslaught of my poop, he kept his distance from my bottom and from my mother as well; I finally had the unique ability of a baby to enjoy my mother's love all to myself.
During this time, my arrival not only reduced my parents' sex life, but my mother's delicate postpartum body also meant she had to spend long periods at home with me.
My father was very busy with work to support three people, so my mother's hormones were likely to take effect when he wasn't home. A woman's breasts are her erogenous zones. When my mother breastfed me,
my little mouth diligently sucked on every part of her nipple—a stark
contrast to my father's sucking, where men would never suckle so carefully and for so long. I think at that moment, my mother was not only breastfeeding, but also enjoying the sexual stimulation from her breasts that her child provided. It was a very subtle feeling, known only to the mother herself, a blissful experience of this "hidden and subtle"
sexual pleasure while feeding her child.
Time flies, and six years have passed in the blink of an eye. I am six years old, and my mother is 32. As mentioned above, my mother has always treated me like a baby in her arms, showering me with love and care. My father, due to work, had been away from home for many years, just as he had been when I was a baby. I am certain that my mother's sexual needs were very strong at that time, and I can give a few examples to prove it.
1. Although children think of six as "adults," I still needed my mother to bathe me; otherwise, I would never get the parts that needed cleaning properly.
My mother placed me in a wooden tub, lathered me with soap, and also cleaned my genitals. A boy's genitals are, after all, male physiological characteristics. When a mother touches them, even if the son shows no discomfort, does the mother necessarily feel nothing?
I still remember my mother wiping my entire body with a towel, always gazing at me with infinite tenderness. It's well-known that boys like to play with their genitals; Freud called this "the earliest form of sexual desire."
When I touched my genitals, my mother would scold me repeatedly, "Don't play with your little penis! You'll get sick!"
Why could my mother touch my genitals so casually, yet be so averse to me playing with my "little penis"?
I think it's very likely that the mother wants to obtain sexual satisfaction from her son without him being aware of "sex"—this way, she can prevent her son from "going astray" and also make herself feel at ease—this deep-seated mentality is hard to understand.
2. My mother and I often played together on the bed during the day. I can't remember exactly what we played, but one thing I do remember is that my mother liked to play with me while affectionately kissing my cheeks and little mouth.
My mother would hug me and say with a loving smile, "Little rascal, come here, give Mommy a kiss."
So I would immediately pout my little mouth and kiss my mother's cheek. My mother would then say, "Good baby, give me a kiss."
And the two of us would happily kiss.
At this time, I would always ride on my mother's belly, excitedly shouting, "Giddy up! Horse, run faster!"
My mother would laugh and say, "Little one, you're making Mommy breathless!"
My mother didn't seem to care much about kissing me; in her eyes, I was just an ignorant child, and kissing was an expression of affection between mother and child. But who can prove that when my mother kissed me passionately, there wasn't a sexual expression involved?
I am a child, and I am also a male; kissing can have many meanings, and it can express affection while also providing sexual satisfaction. 　　I don't remember the specific details of
the "emergence of the Oedipus complex" at all; I'll just describe the process and the state of mind within a specific environment. 　　I think the "Oedipus complex" likely emerged during my childhood, through moments of solitude and close contact with my mother. Once this complex arose, it was difficult to shake off because the emotions involved were so deep and complex—it was hard to define whether it was familial love, attachment, romantic love, or sexual desire. 　　Six years later, I was 12 years old, and my male hormones were gradually developing. So, at this time, perhaps while still feeling attached to my mother, I also experienced a male attraction and sexual urge towards mature women. 　　My mother was 38 years old at this time, and in my eyes, she was incredibly sexy and beautiful: she wasn't tall, about 157 cm, and had a slightly plump figure with a dignified and clear face; her eyes were large and gentle, and her lips were full; her earlobes had always been my favorite feature—small, delicate, and incredibly tender; her breasts were no longer as large as before, her slender waist was gradually becoming fuller, and her thighs and hips were quite plump. 　　As you can see from this description, I had already learned to carefully observe my mother's body, a fundamental difference from my childhood: a child only knows their mother as kind and gentle, while a teenager, building upon that foundation, developed a vague understanding of "sex." 　　For a while, I could still sleep with my mother. In my dreams, I was still like a child, tightly hugging her neck. This seemed to make my mother very proud; she often happily told her friends about me: "My precious son is closest to me; he always hugs me tightly at night." 　　My mother thought I was still the same as when I was born, simply an attachment to the mother's body. I felt the same way then, without any discomfort. 　　But one time, I suddenly felt that my mother beside me was also a woman, a thought that surprised and excited me greatly. Involuntarily, I reached out and hugged my mother, gently stroking her breasts. This unconscious action made me so nervous I could hardly breathe, yet I was incredibly happy. I pressed my body against my mother's back, resting my head on her shoulder, feeling warm and gentle, and soon fell asleep. 　　In her sleep, my mother gently pushed my hand away, murmuring, "This child never grows up, still wants to nurse!" 　　My behavior was a mixture of sexual attraction and the lingering attachment of my childhood. 　　Another time, I woke up groggily in the early morning and stroked my mother beside me. It was early autumn, and my mother was wearing a vest. Her skin was delicate, and her fair, full arms were clearly visible, with a wisp of downy hair peeking out from under her armpits. My mother's face was delicate and full, and her sexy neck and breasts were clearly visible. 　　I felt very happy and hugged my mother tightly, stroking her plump, smooth arms, then holding her neck and resting my head on her chin. In her sleep, my mother also subconsciously reached out to stroke me, pulling me close to her waist, so that we were face to face. My mother's heavy breathing in her sleep excited me greatly, and I almost wanted to kiss her lips like I did as a child. 　　I lay on my side, one leg draped over my mother's well-defined hip. A possessive desire for her body filled my mind, and my penis quickly became erect, brushing against her lower abdomen several times. I pressed my face closer to hers, my forehead against her lips, and she unconsciously hugged me tighter, pressing her full cheek against mine. 　　I was so happy I almost cried out. I could estimate that our lips were only a few centimeters apart, and I really wanted to kiss her tender lips. But I didn't dare. I could only hold her soft waist and caress her small earlobe. 　　I didn't dare kiss her like I used to, which meant that while I had developed sexual awareness, I also had mental self-restraint. I remember that a year or two before I turned twelve, I would pull hard on my mother's nightgown in my sleep, trying to grab her breasts; but now I didn't dare kiss her. 　　I think this is related to my mother gradually becoming aware of my sexual maturity. She must have realized that her son had developed at least some sexual feelings and was no longer the ignorant child he once was. Therefore, my mother consciously kept her distance from me in certain ways, making me feel her rejection of my expressions of affection. This explains my timidity. 　　There's another point I almost overlooked, which, if we assume this incident hadn't happened, might have significantly diminished my desire to possess my mother. 　　I still clearly remember when I was only a few years old, I accidentally witnessed my parents playing around in bed. It seemed like a joke, but it also felt sexually stimulating. To be precise, because my parents neglected me and engaged in something resembling intercourse in front of me, I developed a desire to possess my mother's body like my father had. The long periods of solitude between mother and son further reinforced this desire. 　　We cannot underestimate children's judgment; they can understand the world with keen eyes and rich emotions, which is far superior to explaining it with words—because many things and many scenes cannot be expressed in writing. The 　　truths that children experience in their hearts, truths they cannot clearly articulate themselves, may remain forever undiscovered by us adults. 　　In general, during this period, my attempts at intimacy with my mother (or perhaps "teasing" would be more accurate) were rejected. I felt a mix of fear, excitement, and longing. Finally, I realized I was no longer a child. Trying to achieve sexual satisfaction through the same methods a child uses to express intimacy with their mother 　　was a mistake—my mother must have felt the sexual satisfaction I provided ( 　　evident in her reaction to my caresses in her sleep), but she wouldn't readily accept my blatant sexual advances. 　　In the above text, my frequent use of the word "sex" is solely based on my feelings and judgments, and may not be entirely appropriate, but it is supported by ample theoretical and illustrative examples. 　　Moralists often vehemently criticize views like mine, accusing them of being "filthy, vulgar, and desecrating the pure bond between mother and child." However, "sex" does not preclude genuine "emotions." There are many ways to express emotions, and "sex" is one of them. 　　Moreover, "sex" and "emotion" are often inseparable: 　　1. We can discuss the illicit affair between Ximen Qing and Pan Jinlian in *Water Margin*. 　　Could a man and woman so infatuated with sex truly be devoid of any romantic feelings? Pan Jinlian's marriage to Wu Dalang was unhappy, so she first pinned her hopes on Wu Song, and after being rejected, accepted Ximen Qing's advances. Of course, such extramarital affairs are condemned by traditional morality, but who can completely deny the existence of "love" in the pursuit of a man she desires?

2. Furthermore, for example, in *The Bridges of Madison County*, the female protagonist falls in love with the male journalist, and after they fall in love, they have sex. Can you separate "love" and "sex" here?
Considering these reasons, I summarize the above two parts as "ubiquitous sex" and the resulting "Oedipus complex." Below, I will further describe and analyze the changes in family marital breakdown and the emotional bond between mother and son.
"Using" sex as revenge; changes in the emotional bond between mother and son.
We take six years as a time point. Six years later, I am 18 years old, and my mother is 44.
I have the composure of an adult and richer emotions, while my mother has lost some of her youthful beauty, her face bearing the marks of time, but she has gained a mature charm and a dignified air.
In my eyes, my mother is always so beautiful; no woman has ever impressed me like her: she is intelligent, humorous, hardworking, kind, and dignified. In other words, my love for my mother had only grown stronger, but this "love" was different from before: undeniably, I still felt some attachment to her, and there was still a lot of sexual attraction, but more importantly, I was deeply captivated by the extraordinary charm of a mature woman.
This "love" underwent a significant change, a result of my gradual growth. I no longer openly "professed my love" to my mother as before, but expressed my feelings very subtly; at the same time, I became bolder and no longer afraid of my mother's rejection.
Then something very unpleasant happened: my father had an affair (note that from this point on, we changed our address for our fathers from "Dad" to "Father." This change in address signifies that the boy had become a man, no longer having the same attachment to his father, and perhaps even harboring some hostility).
I remember my mother once telling me that marriages in her generation were generally not very happy. Due to the Cultural Revolution, many people grew up in the countryside and were unable to return to the city immediately; their urgent sexual needs led many of them to hastily marry.
We can confidently conclude that marriages based solely on sexual needs are unlikely to have an emotional foundation—hence the frequent occurrence of divorces or extramarital affairs among couples in their forties. This example validates the relationship between "sex" and "emotion" mentioned earlier; forcibly separating the two will yield no results. Similarly, I do not endorse Plato's concept of "love fully armored," nor do I believe that my previous sexual advances would produce positive results. So
what exactly is "emotion"? It's a question that could be debated endlessly, and I don't want to delve into it further.
What I find amusing is that those who engage in extramarital affairs don't necessarily derive much satisfaction from the affair. Perhaps initially there's the sexual thrill of forbidden fruit and the excitement of finding "new love," but as time goes on, they discover that the other person isn't so different from their spouse. Thus, we see a cycle: marriage—extramarital affair—divorce—remarriage—
extramarital affair—divorce… until finally everyone gets fed up and decides to stop this arduous and unprofitable endeavor.
Isn't that laughable? Marriage is not something to be taken lightly, and once you have a wife (or husband), you should fulfill your responsibilities and not easily commit adultery. Conversely, those who enjoy philandering should not get married, lest everyone be unhappy.
I've seen the woman rumored to have had an affair with my father; she was a slutty, overweight nouveau riche, utterly repulsive. Unfortunately, perhaps that's just my father's taste; or perhaps he felt he couldn't compare to my elegant and proud mother, and voluntarily gave her up—so I repeatedly remind you: marriage is not something to be taken lightly.
My mother argued with my father about this for a long time; her anger and destructive power were so great that even I, an observer who "didn't participate in the fight," was deeply affected. I saw my mother in so much pain that she banged her head on the ground, and I immediately went to comfort her.
My mother leaned sadly on my shoulder, tears streaming down her face, soaking my sleeve. As I comforted my grieving mother, I cursed my father's despicable behavior and that damned slut in my heart.
I love my mother very much, so I absolutely will not allow anyone to hurt her. Although, according to Freud, the father is the son's rival in the competition for the mother, I still wouldn't allow him to be unfaithful to my mother in the slightest (originally, the son should have been happy at this time, because he could have the opportunity to have his mother all to himself).
This emotion, which I myself find perplexing, is only natural for a mother and son with a deep bond, but it also resembles the complex feelings of a love triangle.
While comforting my mother, who was crying in my arms, I experienced a bittersweet feeling, while inwardly plotting a way to get revenge on my father with immense anger. I took advantage of an opportunity when my parents were not home and forced myself on that slut (see my humble work, "The Mature Woman Who Came to My Door").
No one knew that after this act of revenge, that slut never dared to flirt with my father again and obediently left. This was the first time I used sex to get revenge on my father. Later, my mother seemed to know about it and mentioned it to me casually, but she was too frightened by my furious reaction to ask any further questions.
On one occasion, while comforting my mother, I expressed my love to her, kissing her passionately and holding her tightly in my arms.
Mom understood what I meant and pushed me away, saying, "Don't do anything rash! Are you going to bully me too?"
Looking at the glistening tears on Mom's beautiful face, I almost cried myself: "Mom, I love you! Why would you rather be bullied by him than accept me?"
Mom angrily slapped me, and seeing my reddened face, she immediately stroked me with heartache and sighed, "What do you want me to do?"
I hugged Mom again, expressing my apology with deep kisses and caresses. Mom didn't object anymore, obediently letting me comfort her, leaning against me and sobbing. She nestled gently in my arms, and from her helpless and loving eyes, I could see she was waiting for me to win her over. This time, Mom accepted me, but I couldn't bear to have her now. I sighed again, comforted her a few times, and stopped forcing her. I understood that Mom hadn't truly accepted me; she was using sex to retaliate against Father, and I had no interest in that kind of sex.
It's strange, but when our lovers betray us, our first reaction is always to retaliate with sex—just as when we see our lover having sex with someone else, we feel utterly hopeless.
Sex is selfish, love is selfish.
When what is private is not respected, people will use the same methods to compensate themselves and retaliate against others. Under pressure from my
mother
and me, my father was forced to back down and break off contact with that woman. My mother and father stopped their fighting, and everything returned to normal. But in my opinion, the rift between my mother and father was irreparable; they could never return to their former intimacy. I was very worried about their superficial harmony; I felt a suffocating atmosphere in the house, but I was powerless to do anything about it.
Time flew by, and four years passed in the blink of an eye. I was 22, and my mother was 48. My infatuation with my mother grew stronger every day, never wavering. During this time, my mother seemed to have suddenly regained the charm of a young woman, becoming radiant. She was still rather plump, but she had completely retained the vibrant spirit of youth.
I was pleasantly surprised by the changes in my mother and proud that she still maintained a youthful spirit.
My father, however, was growing distant from my mother and felt unwelcome, so he focused his attention on work and socializing. If I wasn't home, my mother would be very lonely; there was no one to talk to. As I grew more independent, it seemed there were even fewer things for us to discuss.
This was something I really didn't want to see, and I resolved to try my best to understand my mother and care for this lonely, charming, and beautiful woman. I've already referred to my mother as "a woman" here, because our relationship is more like that of adult friends, no longer a simple, childish mother and son.
I often take the initiative to chat with my mother, letting my thoughts and knowledge flow freely, engaging in rambling and imaginative discussions. My mother is delighted by my maturity and captivated by my increasingly outstanding demeanor, because I can see everything in the tender gaze she gives me.
In our spare time, we do housework together while happily chatting; the harmonious scene is indescribable, and the sentiment is something that those who constantly talk about "sentiment" but lack substance can only dream of. What is sentiment? It's a noble and elegant state of mind, a tacit and harmonious pairing, which cannot be learned without heartfelt communication and rich inner qualities; at best, it's just a superficial imitation, all show and no substance.
I happily enjoy all of this, as if I've returned to my innocent and joyful childhood. My mother was also very intelligent. She not only listened but also offered guidance. This made me even more captivated—of all the girls and women I had ever dated, none understood me or offered such guidance as my mother. Her charm was unparalleled! What reason did I have not to love such a woman?
Gradually, my mother developed a kind of spiritual dependence on me. I often noticed her lowering her head slightly, gazing at me with dreamy eyes, as if I were her whole life. A sweet smile played on her face, barely perceptible, like the shyness and tenderness of a young girl in first love facing her lover.
At this moment, I would deliberately stop and say with a smile, "Mom, what are you laughing at?"
My mother would then realize that she was completely captivated, and blushing, she would quickly say, "Nothing! Please continue."
I would look at her with a sly gaze, revealing a knowing and warm smile, and continue to share my views and do my chores. My mother would involuntarily stop again, casting her affectionate glances at me once more; her bright eyes seemed to be permanently attached to me.
This is a woman's reliance on and devotion to a man; I can express the situation so clearly.
Because of my care, thoughtfulness, and increasingly mature charm, my mother has finally experienced a completely new kind of enjoyment.
How intoxicating this is compared to those foolish courtship attempts of the past! My meticulous care in daily life and my continuous spiritual growth have made my mother feel that she has gained a man's protection and care, which is the most important pillar for a woman. Deep in their minds, every woman has a psychological dependence on men and a desire to be protected and valued. When she feels that the man beside her treats her in this way, she will give him sincere gratitude and even all her love. My care for my
mother doesn't make me expect anything in return; I just want to savor this fleeting moment of beauty—but to be honest, if my mother truly gave me everything, I would be very excited to accept her love now.
Once, I was standing on the balcony, lost in thought, when, without me noticing, my mother came to me. My mother hugged me from behind, resting her head on my shoulder, and gently chuckled, asking, "Silly boy, what are you daydreaming about?"
I felt an overwhelming tenderness, and my breathing quickened involuntarily. I took her hands and kissed them deeply, then turned and pulled her close, my arms around her soft shoulders. My body was hot; such intimate contact had become rare.
I kissed her cheeks and earlobes, and she flinched slightly, playfully scolding me, "Still so naughty!"
Looking at her shy expression, a strong desire surged through me, making me almost unable to control myself. I wanted to become one with her right then and there! Because I loved her so much! I pulled her even closer with the arms I had been holding, my hand inadvertently brushing against her armpit, feeling her full, soft breasts.
My mother didn't move, continuing to talk to me gently. I released her, took her hands in mine, and gazed at her once more.
My mother's smile is the most beautiful flower in the world. Lost in this pure and beautiful moment, I didn't want to disturb it, so I tried hard to suppress my rising desire. My mother gently asked, "What are you looking at? Silly boy? Don't you recognize your mother?"
I said earnestly, "Mom, you're so beautiful! If you went for beauty treatments and health maintenance regularly, no one would guess you're almost 50."
My mother happily chided me, "You naughty boy, such a sweet tongue! When did you learn to fawn over your mother?"
I was telling the truth, and my mother laughed heartily.
Although I didn't take the initiative, I was certain of my mother's affection for me. I often stared at my mother's beautiful and captivating body, admiring her repeatedly. She attracted me like a goddess; and she always looked at me with tender affection, her ever-present glances touching my heart. I never imagined that one day I would actually win my mother's love; something I never even dreamed of before. Our mutual care, understanding, and tacit agreement laid a solid foundation for us. All that was needed was the alluring and exciting stimulant of sex to ignite it, and then everything fell into place.
My gaze towards my mother grew increasingly intense. She seemed to sense it, appearing somewhat uncomfortable, yet also quite satisfied. Perhaps she was proud of attracting her young son, and even more so, she felt deeply captivated by his elegant and handsome appearance—a two-way connection. Driven by the gradually arousing sexual desire, our two interdependent hearts became both tense and excited, both fearful and yearning, filled with fantasies and anticipation about what was to come.
I noticed my mother's clothes becoming increasingly glamorous; she was dressing for me, enjoying the passive feeling of being stared at by my burning gaze. There was a touch of "visual rape" in this; my mother probably enjoyed this feeling of being "forced" by her beloved son, contentedly waiting for me to take her.
On a cool, mild autumn day, after noon, Mom changed her clothes: she wore a cream-colored embroidered short-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of fitted cropped casual pants. Her short, ear-length hair looked exceptionally delicate and fresh after washing. Mom went to the balcony, and I quietly came up behind her, gently embracing her full waist and kissing her neck. Mom didn't resist at all; instead, she slowly rested her head and body against my chest. I noticed Mom closed her eyes, smiling as she let me caress her. My heart pounded wildly, and my hands gradually wandered to Mom's chest, caressing her.
Mom became somewhat aroused, reaching out to turn my head and kissing my cheek. Looking at Mom's slightly red lips and smelling the fragrant orchid scent, I became even more moved. Mom was like a vibrant crabapple blossom just awakening from a deep sleep, captivating and endearing. I couldn't help but lower my head to kiss her lips. Mom offered her cherry lips with infinite tenderness, closing her eyes at the same time. When I kissed my mother's tender, red, and fiery lips, it was like holding two ripe, sweet fruits in my mouth, savoring them endlessly, unwilling to let go...
After a long while, our lips finally parted reluctantly. My mother was already intoxicated by the blissful moment, clinging tightly to me, softly humming, her face flushed, her starry eyes slightly closed. When a woman doesn't love you, she won't show any reaction to your advances; but if a woman is completely devoted to you, she will willingly offer her red lips for you to savor. I kissed my mother's fragrant lips again, this time we were incredibly excited, becoming one for a full ten minutes, unwilling to separate; we were both exploring every sensitive spot on each other's bodies in passionate love.
My mother, panting, rested her head against my chest and said breathlessly, "My dear child, I can't breathe!"
I kissed her forehead and said, "Mom, you were so excited just now! You were suffocating me."
My mother buried her face in my chest shyly... Words were superfluous at this moment, just as lovers in the throes of passion say, "Silence speaks louder than words."
Finally, after a long and passionate embrace, my mother and I, completely lost in ecstasy, stripped naked and became one! I felt as if I had waited five hundred years for this moment! Guided by my mother, I stepped back into my long-missed birthplace—my childhood Eden, a warm and safe fortress filled with boundless joy.
Returning to this familiar place filled me with immense excitement, my heart pounding with joy. My mother, infected by my happiness, also cried out with overwhelming joy, welcoming me, her wanderer, back to her homeland. I played merrily in the soft, tender embrace of my mother, scattering my love little by little into the soil that gave me birth.
With each thrust, my mother cried out, as if in pain and bliss during my childbirth, "My good child, I give you everything! Hurry!"
My love for my mother transformed into boundless passion, and I thrust even more fiercely.
I longed to possess my mother and forever protect this woman I loved so deeply; I wanted to have her!
Just as she had already completely possessed me! With a simultaneous cry from mother and son, we collapsed, leaning on each other, panting heavily. We continued our passionate lovemaking, releasing all the pent-up emotions, indistinguishable between pleasure and pain, wanting only to plunge into each other's bodies, to possess each other once and for all…
When our lovemaking was exhausted, my mother and I were completely drained. We embraced, gazing at each other with a tenderness emanating from our exhaustion. My mother, both happy and pained, burst into tears—after all, joy and sorrow are brothers born of the same mother! I held the woman I loved most in my life tightly, letting her tears fall on me. From that moment on, she was my woman, and no one could take her away from me.
Incest, adultery, brothers, mother, young woman
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