I love my son, from forty to fifty.

Author: From Forty to Fifty
Date: December 13, 2007
Word Count: 16008
Let me first tell you about my son and me. My son is 181 cm tall and weighs 73 kg. He likes sports and is good at calligraphy and violin. I'm confident that he's very excellent, smart, and talented; his writing is better than mine. I'm 165 cm tall and weigh 58 kg. I like to sing, and my son and I both sing quite well (I'll post some pictures if I have the chance). I'm also good at piano; the piano in my bedroom was bought with my savings years ago, and I still practice it every day. My son is deeply influenced by me; our personalities are very similar. We're both kind, simple, and not very strong. My son loves sports, and I also pay attention to exercising, but it's more about purpose than enjoyment. I want to maintain my figure and health. Besides exercising, I also pay attention to skincare and follow beauty and health information. I'm not superstitious about cosmetics; clean skin and a little makeup are enough. A woman's beauty is mainly about her inner self. I firmly believe that women of every age have their unique beauty, and I can be beautiful too. As long as one's heart is kind and peaceful, beauty will radiate from within. A young male teacher in my office said I was elegant and resembled Zhao Yazhi (a famous Chinese actress). I replied that while we might not look alike, my pursuit was to be as noble, elegant, and eternally youthful as her. Of course, not everyone in the workplace liked me. Once, while showering in the company bathhouse, a female teacher of similar age—well, being in the same bathhouse as me meant I was definitely female—said that my high hips were unattractive and affected how my clothes looked, and that I had excess fat on my lower abdomen, listing many other flaws. I was momentarily speechless. In truth, she was far less attractive than me; short, plump, lacking curves, and with a dull complexion. I wanted to say that she didn't have excess fat on her lower abdomen and that her chest and abdomen were flat, but I immediately felt guilty, thinking my words were too harsh, so I just laughed it off. Although I'm not very confident, I have a clear understanding of myself. I'm quite satisfied with my breasts and hips. Women should have feminine curves and characteristics, but the size of breasts and hips largely depends on genetics. Exercise can only change things within the limits of genetics. I'm very grateful to my mother for the body she gave me. When I was in middle school, I weighed around 100 pounds, but my breasts were already quite developed. However, back then, nobody paid attention to it. I never saw any girl with well-developed breasts walking with her chest out. I was the same way; I thought it was fine as long as I was flat like other girls and didn't attract attention. But later, as I matured, everyone's thinking became more open. It felt really good to see men staring at my breasts, and I still do that now. Those looks give me confidence. At my age, it's really hard to completely eliminate belly fat. I've been exercising, but I can't completely get rid of it, though it's not much better than many women my age who don't exercise. Like I said, you should maintain and strive for a good figure, but you should strive even more for a peaceful mindset.
I don't know where to begin or how much detail to go into, so I'll start with college. My first love was in college. I'll talk about some memorable things, and I won't mention the memories that have faded with time.
The era I lived in and the family and school education I received instilled in me a complete lack of awareness about dating before university. In fact, I was quite terrified of it, thinking that having a relationship was immoral. If someone wrote me a letter confessing their love or showed me affection, I would definitely stay far away from them. However, this mindset gradually changed when I entered university. Because there were many couples around me, and I was also getting older and had emotional needs, I realized that dating was not a shameful thing. My ex-husband and I met in college, which marked the beginning of my first love. He was in the same major as me and from the same city. There weren't many people in our major, and most of us in the classes knew each other. Men are very popular in teacher's colleges, and he was quite outstanding at the time—tall, good-looking, and talented. We all had good things to say about him when we chatted in our dorm. We had a lot of contact and got to know each other better during several college activities, and things just naturally progressed. He never even confessed to me, and I had no experience. I thought that was what dating was all about. I didn't dare to hold hands for a long time. He was the one who initiated the first time we held hands, and he was also the one who initiated the first kiss. There was a long gap between holding hands and kissing. We had no experience with our first kiss; our lips just touched, but it was exciting enough. I still remember that feeling vividly. Later, he learned to suck on my tongue, and the pleasure was even stronger. It made my whole body feel like it was on fire, and I got wet down there. To be honest, I had never masturbated before college and had no sexual needs whatsoever. But ever since I kissed him, I've had that desire, a desire I absolutely dared not express. Those were far less open-minded than they are now; I guess most people's first time was on their wedding night, and he and I were no exception. After graduating from university, I worked at the affiliated high school, while he went to another high school in the city that was almost the best. Back then, it was easy to find a job after graduating from teacher's college, unlike now, although now it's difficult for any major. We got married less than a year after we started working. Because our homes and jobs were in the same city, and both sets of parents were satisfied, everything went smoothly.
Our first time was on our wedding day; it was probably past eleven o'clock. On my wedding day, I was so busy and exhausted that I was completely disoriented. I just did whatever people told me to do; it seems like wedding procedures have always been so complicated. When he took off my clothes, my face burned; it was the first time I'd ever been naked in front of a man. He kissed my entire body passionately, his hands caressing my genitals. His fervor ignited my own passion, and I inevitably became aroused. He thrust inside me, and I gasped, my mouth agape, too afraid to scream… My first experience of sex was truly wonderful; I was overwhelmed with pleasure. Thinking back, it's been almost twenty years since my first time, yet I still remember it vividly, down to every detail, because I've relived that scene countless times in my memory. When we first got married, we had sex very frequently, but gradually it decreased, and the pleasure wasn't as intense as before. Perhaps the physical pleasure remained, but the psychological novelty had worn off. Only when he was away on business trips, away for extended periods of study and research, could I experience a strong surge of desire. I would mimic his movements with my fingers, imitating him, and look at his wedding photo on the wall, imagining him on top of me. Absence truly makes the heart grow fonder; when he returned, we made love freely, and it felt much better than usual.
After having a child, we experienced the joy and sense of accomplishment of being parents. I would often glance at my son and then at him, and my heart would fill with sweetness. Our child was the crystallization of our love, bearing the characteristics of both of us; the feeling was magical and blissful. For the first few years, our relationship was wonderful, but marriage truly couldn't escape the seven-year itch. It really did start in the seventh year. He became distant, spoke less to me, and his sexual desire decreased significantly. I was terrified, not knowing what I had done wrong. When I asked him, he wouldn't say. I tried my best to be gentle with him and diligently did housework, but nothing worked; he only grew increasingly distant. My heart gradually cooled, and I knew his heart belonged to someone else. Our marriage, after more than nine years, came to an end. He was the one who initiated the divorce, and all I could do was helplessly agree. I knew I couldn't win back his heart. I got custody of the child, and he gave me the house and most of the assets; he left with almost nothing. Less than a year after the divorce, he remarried, to someone from his workplace. At the time, I couldn't understand what I was lacking, what made me inferior to him. I did everything a wife should do, treating his parents with the same filial piety as my own, and regarding his brother's children as my own, giving them lucky money and buying them clothes every Chinese New Year. How could this be the result? Those two years were truly frustrating; my life was bleak. Later, I thought that for my child's sake, I couldn't stay like that forever; I had to move on. Being from a single-parent family, if I were also melancholic, it would be detrimental to my child's development. Many relatives and friends introduced me to potential partners, but I initially had no interest. Later, wanting to give my child a complete family, I tried dating, but my child reacted very strongly, treating any man who came to our home as an enemy. I didn't want to upset my child, and besides, I was somewhat afraid of marriage and lacked confidence, so I stopped trying. After that, no one introduced me to anyone.
I feel guilty towards my son; I haven't been a successful parent, even though I studied education, including early childhood education, in school. But when it comes to my own child, I can't bear to toughen him up. I always try my best to provide him with a comfortable environment and prepare everything for him, never giving him any opportunity to be independent. As a result, he has very poor self-care skills and is too dependent on me. Even now that I understand this, I still can't bear to let him go and develop his abilities. When he first entered high school, some teachers suggested that I let him live at school, but I wasn't comfortable with that. I said, "Why spend the money on accommodation when we live so close?" Some teachers, to save themselves trouble and to give their children experience, let their children live at school. To my delight, my son is very smart, has excellent grades, and is tall and handsome.
Life is incredibly difficult for a woman raising a child alone, not just financially, but also emotionally and environmentally. When my child was young, there were things I couldn't talk to him about, like work frustrations—he wouldn't understand. Many people around me didn't understand me either. Living alone, without a man to rely on, I had to do everything myself. I carried rice and flour upstairs myself, never asking for help or hiring anyone. I didn't want anyone to know I didn't have a man, not even strangers. My body was exhausted, but my heart was even more bitter, and I couldn't even cry. Back then, a young man in the same building always stared at me with those kinds of eyes. I was terrified, finally understanding what a malicious gaze meant. If I had a husband, I would feel much more secure, but I didn't. I was always afraid he would break into my house one day, so I would always check behind me before opening the door and lock it quickly after entering. Looking back, it was all a deep-seated sense of inferiority. Later, I stopped seeing the young man; he probably moved away. Over the years, my mindset has gradually calmed down. My son has grown tall and strong; having a man in the house makes all the difference.
The loneliness of the nights after the divorce is unbearable. During those days of intense sexual desire, I desperately wish a man could comfort and satisfy me, but that's impossible. Only my own hands can satisfy me. The wedding photo on the wall has long been taken down. My fantasies start with my ex-husband. Although I can't say whether it's love or resentment, I once believed I belonged to him for life and that I could only have sex with him. Gradually, his image faded from my mind. But no matter who it is, the sadness and loss after masturbation are always there. Especially later, when I fantasize about my son. But the next time, I can't help but fantasize again; my son's image lingers until after orgasm, when my mind goes blank. After a while, I feel not only sadness but also deep self-reproach. I don't want to, but the only man I can rely on in the long run is my son. In fact, we depend on each other. Sometimes when he lies in my arms, I feel maternal love; sometimes I lie on his chest, in his arms, and I feel like a little woman. Having someone to rely on brings a sense of security and happiness, as if my son is my man. At my age, I understand the道理 (principles/reasons), but I'm powerless to change anything. For example, when I stare at my son's muscular physique and bulging lower body, I know that infatuated look is wrong, but I can't take my eyes off him. Thoughts are one thing, actions are another. If actions were entirely guided by thoughts, there would be far fewer mistakes in the world. Mistakes are often mistakes of ignorance. My son and I have lived alone for a long time, yet we are intimately close. We both have needs and desires for each other—this is undeniable. I think we understand ourselves and each other's feelings, but neither of us has brought it up. Even now, after this incident, we rarely discuss it verbally. Back then, we were both cautiously probing, wanting to take things further but feeling uneasy, each hoping the other would make the first move. My son often comes to my room and sleeps in the same bed. Before, I always chased him back to his own room, but gradually I stopped. His actions have become bolder than before; before, he was afraid to touch me with his lower body. Many people might not believe it, and I wouldn't have believed it before either. But as it gradually became a reality, it felt so natural, so irresistible, so unstoppable. I don't know exactly when I became interested in my son's body. I've been single for almost ten years and haven't had sex, except recently when some special things happened that I won't go into details about. The only man I've ever been in contact with is my son. We don't have any taboos like other mothers and sons do. Maybe it's because I've always treated him like he was when he was little. Even though he's grown up now, I still worry about him and take care of him meticulously, giving him all sorts of instructions. As a result, his self-care ability is very poor. I want to let go and let him develop, but I'm too worried and can't bear to. He also can't live without me—in life, emotionally, and physically. Because mothers and sons are naturally close, especially after so much time alone together, he's attached to his mother, and I'm attached to my son.
I don't know when it started, but the way my son looked at me changed. Even when I was behind him, I could feel that gaze—focused and intense. When I turned around, I would quickly look away. Actually, I knew I looked at him the same way. He exercises often and has a very fit physique; that youthful energy is really attractive. Every time he walked around the house shirtless in his underwear, I couldn't help but stare at him. His chest muscles were very attractive, but what tempted me most was his bulging lower body. Seeing that made my legs go weak. Maybe women have a kind of male genital worship; I even wanted to kneel down and worship it, really. Haha, I usually thought he was useless, but back then I felt he was a powerful and tall man. When he was little, my son always... He used to sleep next to me, and he only felt safe and could fall asleep when he was touching me. Later, when he got older and needed to study, I let him have his own room, but he would still come to my room and sleep in my bed from time to time. He always had a lot of excuses, saying that he had a nightmare and was scared, that it was cold when he was hungry, and that my double bed would prevent him from falling off. But when he came to my bed, he wouldn't go to sleep right away. He would always hug me, just like when he was a baby, with one nipple in his mouth and his hand touching the other breast. The difference was that when he was a baby, he would just suckle, but now he would lick it with his tongue. It really aroused me. I asked him, "Son, are you thinking about when you were a baby?" He was still sucking on the nipple and mumbled something I couldn't understand. I didn't know whether I wanted to hear him say yes or no. If he said yes, I would feel at ease: this behavior is nothing, it's just mother and son reliving the past. I don't know if it's because I get excited or have a lot of imagination. I've always been a very contradictory person, conflicted in my feelings and in my decisions. Actually, I was really aroused at that time, and I really hoped that something would fill it, like his fingers or his... but I didn't dare. For a long time, we found satisfaction in this borderline behavior. It was satisfying, but it was also torture. Neither of us dared to cross that line. We didn't touch each other's... with our hands. Once, I was really sleepy and asked him to go back to his room, but he wouldn't listen. So I turned my back to him, and he hugged me and touched my breasts. His... was also rubbing against my buttocks from time to time. Even through two layers of underwear, I could feel its heat. I was wet right then and there. My heart was in my throat. I really hoped that he would take off my underwear and fill me up there, but I still didn't move. After a while, he went back to his room, and I couldn't wait to masturbate. I thought my son must have masturbated when he went back to his room too. But most of the time, after we touched each other, he would sleep on my bed. I didn't dare to masturbate anymore because I was afraid of making a sound and waking him up. He must have been afraid too.
However, when his desire was too strong, he was fearless. Once, I woke up after a nap and found my son's penis above my face; he was masturbating. I almost screamed when I opened my eyes, but I held it in because I was afraid it would be embarrassing. It was quite dark, and he didn't see me open my eyes. He continued to rub his penis, which was not far from my face. I wondered what would happen if he ejaculated. What if he ejaculated on my face? Should I keep pretending to be asleep with my eyes half-closed? His movements became faster and faster. Fortunately, when he ejaculated, he reached out his left hand and caught it. After going to the bathroom, he went back to his room. I lay in the same position as before, masturbating while reminiscing.
When I couldn't resist, I held his head tightly against my breasts. The pressure brought me pleasure, but he soon broke free and started gasping for breath because his mouth and nose were covered and he was suffocating. I wanted to put my hand down there to relieve the itch, but I didn't dare. Besides, our bodies were pressed together and there was no space. I couldn't hold back any longer and reached my hand inside from behind. I couldn't reach all the way in from behind. The power of lust is truly terrifying. My left hand even pretended to slip casually from my son's chest to his penis. I was so excited that I tried to control my excitement. My right hand moved gently inside my vagina, while my left hand just rested on his penis without moving, and he didn't move either. I didn't dare move my arms for fear that my son would notice if I moved too much. I could only bend and straighten my fingers, and I tried my best not to move my body. I still remember that feeling of pleasure that was both suppressed and exciting. With one hand touching my son's penis and the other inside my vagina, it felt like my two hands could merge into one, and I imagined that my fingers were my son's penis.
I knew that day would eventually come, but I never expected it would be me who initiated it. But thinking about it, it makes sense; my son is always shy, and I'm never as proactive as him. That night, I was naked after showering. A little while later, my son came into my room and, before I could react, crawled into my bed. Afraid he'd find me naked without underwear, I faced him and stuck my butt out. He touched and kissed my breasts as usual. I guess I was in my monthly arousal period, and my reaction was very strong. My hand involuntarily went to his genitals, and this time, my other hand went into his vagina from the front. He was lying on his back at first, then suddenly grabbed my hand and rubbed his penis. Then he pulled down his underwear a little so my hand could directly touch his penis. I was so excited! I didn't care if the movements were too big. I vigorously masturbated both of us, and he must have been very comfortable, moaning softly. I don't know where I got the courage; I was pushing my luck. I had dreamed of this before, but at that moment, I felt it still wasn't enough. So I got up and straddled him. He positioned his penis against my opening, then sat down and went all the way in. Because there was so much fluid, my opening was wide open, and the pleasure was so intense that I collapsed onto my son. He cried out and his body jerked violently. I sat up and moved up and down, but after a few movements, my body went limp and I involuntarily collapsed. Perhaps my son wasn't satisfied with my speed, so he rolled over, pinned me beneath him, and began moving rapidly. That must have been his first time. He ejaculated very quickly; I could feel how hot it was. But I didn't go limp, and he didn't pull out; he continued moving inside me. Oh God, I was going crazy. Words are so inadequate in the face of such intense pleasure. His second time lasted a long time; he only ejaculated after I had climaxed, and then he lay there and quickly fell asleep. I feel that the light of daytime is a kind of constraint—is it the gaze of the world? We rarely touch each other's bodies during the day, but when it's dark at night, it's as if we don't belong to this world anymore. No one can restrain us, and our behavior truly descends into unbridled madness. As for what will happen in the future, I really don't want to think about it.
Writing these words and recalling those events gives me a sense of exciting satisfaction, and I'm wet down there again.
The hardest part was the first time. After that, it wasn't so difficult. My son and I had sex very frequently, just like when I first got married. Our sexual desire made us seem so greedy when we were together. I greedily sucked on my son's penis, which seemed like a reward for him. He looked up at me, as if he hadn't expected me to be so proactive for him. He made a very loud, pleasurable sound. I think the psychological pleasure probably stimulated him more. I also felt happy watching his performance and seeing how excited he was. We usually don't have sex during the day, but there are exceptions. One time, he didn't have evening self-study. After all, the second year of high school isn't as stressful as the third year I teach. That time, I was proctoring the monthly exam for the class I taught. The exam was at 6 pm, and my son called me around 5 pm saying he was hungry and wanted me to come home and cook for him. I said, "You can cook some instant noodles first and I'll make more when I get home tonight." He refused and insisted on eating hand-pulled noodles. I couldn't persuade him otherwise, and thinking that we lived nearby, I could come over after cooking. I went home and quickly started cooking. As soon as I put the cutting board on, my son hugged me tightly from behind. I said, "Stop it for a while." Even though we were running late, he wouldn't let up. I was wearing the school-issued work uniform skirt, and he lifted it up and started touching me inside. I guess I'm just a sensitive person; I become weak and defenseless when touched. Even when a stranger I don't like touches me, I feel the same way. He took off my clothes and rubbed his hard penis against my genitals, which immediately became wet. My son slowly inserted himself. I suddenly remembered that if we were late, several classes of students wouldn't be able to take the exam, and the papers were still with me. So I got up and said, "No, don't do it." But my son grabbed me and continued to penetrate me. I had no choice but to call my class representative and ask him to come to my office to get the papers. This would basically mean the questions were leaked, but there was nothing I could do. My son wouldn't leave me; he wouldn't even pull his penis out. He insisted on going to the living room with me to get my phone. While I was explaining to the student, my son was still moving vigorously behind me. I was afraid the noise would be too loud and could be heard on the phone, and I was also afraid I would make a sound. But he was holding my waist with both hands, and I couldn't push him away, so I had to use my hands to cover my buttocks. After I explained everything, I quickly hung up the phone and told him to hurry up and go to the bedroom. He refused and insisted on going to the kitchen. I was forced to walk with my back bent. As soon as I put my hand on the counter, he sped up, and my body slowly slumped down until my upper body was on the counter, my legs so weak I almost knelt. My son hugged my waist and lifted me up, slamming into me hard. That time it lasted a long time. After he finished, he told me he didn't want noodles anymore and that he could just cook instant noodles himself, and that I should hurry up and go to work. I was both angry and loving. When I got to the classroom, the students who were answering questions with their heads down all looked up at me. I was startled, thinking they seemed to know what I had just done, but after calming down, I realized that was impossible.
Actually, we just had a special relationship, and the way we did it wasn't anything special, it was just like that, everyone knows that. What impressed me was what was different from usual, like during the day.
It was a Sunday afternoon. My son was watching TV on the sofa in the living room. I was doing housework, but for some reason, I suddenly felt a strong urge. However, he was glued to the TV and completely ignored me. I felt it would be inappropriate and unromantic to directly ask for it, so I took the mop and started mopping the floor. In the living room, he rubbed against the TV, even though the floor was already very clean and shiny. The house was hot; the heating company was providing ample warmth, and we were all dressed lightly. I was wearing tight shorts and a loose, short-sleeved shirt. I deliberately swayed my head towards him, thinking his gaze should shift from the TV to me. Sure enough, when I turned around, he got up and hugged me from behind, his hands reaching inside my clothes to grasp my breasts. Even though it was just my breasts being grasped, I felt warm, as if my whole body was enveloped. I felt his movements weren't enough; he started kneading them in his hands, and he immediately kneaded them faster. As he grasped and kneaded my nipples, his fingers also flicked at them. I felt a surge of heat and excitement coursing through my body, involuntarily twisting my hips to rub against his hardness. Our breathing became rapid. He practically dragged me into my bedroom. Because we were both scantily clad, he quickly stripped us naked. Then he made me lie face down on the bed with my buttocks raised—his favorite position.
My favorite position, the most ordinary one, is with me lying on my back and him on top of me. I find this position advantageous in many ways. It allows me to clearly feel that my son belongs to me at that moment. We can make eye contact, and I can see his expression. Moreover, when I feel helpless with excitement, I can hold onto his body for a sense of belonging and security. However, neither my ex-husband nor my current son particularly likes this position. My son prefers me lying face down behind him, grabbing my hips or breasts and moving around. He says he likes the visual impact of my buttocks, and that his breasts, when they sag, can be filled with his hand. My son is an introverted but humorous person, but I can't stand his humor at times like that. Once, I did as he asked and stuck my butt out. He looked from behind and said, "Mom, your butt is sticking out so high it's practically reaching the clouds." This made me laugh so hard I was shaking. Even a withered flower branch can shake. I felt like my sense of self-control vanished and my desire diminished. But then he suddenly thrust in all the way in. I immediately stopped laughing, and the shaking of my body turned into a different kind of shaking—a shaking caused by the sudden and intense pleasure. Our preferred method is for me to kiss his penis. I like to suddenly take it all into my mouth and suck on it while it's still soft, feeling it grow bigger in my mouth until it's pressed tightly against my throat, only able to take in half. Even when it gets hard, the head is still very tender and has a great texture. My usual method is to lick it all over first, then hold the head and rotate my tongue around it. I can only take in about half, but my son always holds my head and tries to push it deeper. At this point, I easily gag and cough. Initially, I didn't swallow my saliva, so after a while, my mouth would be full of saliva and a little of his secretions. I would spit it out and continue kissing. Later, I started swallowing, but I still don't swallow his semen. My son really enjoys oral sex, always looking down at me, his constant moans seeming to give him more satisfaction than intercourse. We also like to call each other "Mom" and "Son" when we're about to climax. This is very exciting, probably because calling each other like this reinforces our mother-son relationship and makes the incestuous feeling stronger, even though we've never mentioned the word "incest."
It's a bit far off, let's get back to that Sunday afternoon. After he penetrated me, he started to move slowly. I initially supported myself on the bed with both hands, but my wrists got sore, so I leaned my shoulders against the bed, grabbed the pillow, and buried my head in it. The pleasure made me make sounds, but I didn't dare to be loud and had to suppress them. Suddenly, the fullness in my vagina disappeared, and I felt empty. I looked up and saw that my son had gone to the living room. He turned the TV volume up very loud, and then came back and continued to move inside me. I understood what he meant, and I could speak more freely. I felt like I had never screamed so loudly, so unrestrainedly, even a little exaggeratedly. His speed increased and his movements became rougher, which drove me a little crazy. This intense pleasure also made women tired easily, and my screams became hoarse. I couldn't take it so intensely and reached orgasm. I couldn't maintain that position anymore, and my body sank down. I had told my son that if I continued to move after orgasm, my pleasure would decrease or even become very uncomfortable, so he stopped too. He turned my limp body over and then straddled my abdomen to masturbate, rubbing my breasts with his left hand. After a while, he sat up on my chest again. I watched as his hand gripped his penis and moved it back and forth rapidly. He would occasionally thrust forward, bringing his penis to my lips and rubbing it against mine. I stuck out my tongue, and he would use his hand to manipulate it, even inserting the head into my mouth and stroking the back. Then he would take it out, repeating this process. Gradually, his movements became faster and his breathing became more rapid. I knew he was about to ejaculate, so I turned my head to one side. I seemed terrified of the violent ejaculation, but he turned my head back and began to knead my face. He was now sitting on my shoulders and neck, and my arms were pinned under his legs, unable to move. Finally, with a long, deep groan, he ejaculated onto my face and lips. I kept my mouth tightly shut, not letting any of it go in. It was so hot it felt like it could burn my face, but it cooled down quickly too. Actually, I didn't want my son to ejaculate on my face; it made me feel humiliated, like he didn't care about my dignity. But when I saw him quickly get off me, carefully wiping the semen from my face and lips with a tissue, looking at me with trepidation as if he'd done something wrong, I felt relieved. He still cared about my feelings; he was just overwhelmed by lust.
I once told myself I was willing to give everything for my son, including my life and dignity—what did that matter? My only fear was that my son wouldn't love me or care about me. I didn't want him to have a girlfriend either; he's outstanding, and there are plenty of girls around him at school. I know I can't keep him like this for too long; he'll eventually settle down and leave me. The thought of him no longer belonging to me, of him making love with other women, fills me with sadness. I can only cherish what I have while I can. I asked his homeroom teacher if he had a girlfriend, and when I heard he didn't, I was relieved and told the teacher to keep a close eye on him and prevent him from dating too early. Who knows my selfish motives? I'm really selfish, but I truly love my son so much. I'd do anything as long as I hear him say he loves me.
A few days ago, he had a fever. Fever reducers and anti-inflammatory drugs weren't working. I skipped my evening study session to take him to the hospital. My son said he could go by himself since the hospital wasn't far, but I worried about him lying there alone while he got an IV drip, and I couldn't leave him alone. The small hospital near our house was short-staffed at night, and their efficiency was terrible. We'd already bought the medicine, and we were still waiting on the hospital bed. Seeing my son so feverish and silent broke my heart. I wanted to yell at the doctors, but we couldn't even find anyone. I was scolded, but finally someone came and gave him the injection. My son has always been afraid of needles. I've always been by his side whenever he gets a shot, and I can never bear to watch the needle go in. After the injection, he said his stomach felt very uncomfortable, so I quickly went to ask the doctor. The doctor said the medicine was very irritating to the stomach and that eating something would help. I wanted to go out to buy some things, but my son wouldn't let me go and wanted me to stay with him. He's always so well-behaved and childlike when he's sick, like he's a child again, and he's very dependent on me. I told him I'd be back soon, and only then did he let me go. I bought him drinks, oranges, and cookies—all his favorites. Back in the ward, I washed my hands, peeled an orange, and fed it to him. The orange peel was very hard, and my nails hurt, but seeing my son's satisfied expression made me happy. After he finished eating, I talked to him, and he smiled a little. But I kept touching his forehead and his fever still hadn't gone down. After a while, he got sleepy, so I held his hand and sat down next to him. The IV drip was very slow and didn't finish until after nine o'clock. When we got home, he got into bed and started sweating. He wanted to lift the covers, but I quickly stopped him. Although it was hot in the room, we still had to listen to the doctor and keep him warm. He obediently stayed still, and I kept wiping his face and head covered in sweat. He said he wanted water, so I fed him spoonful by spoonful. After a while, he said he wanted rice porridge, his stomach seemed both hungry and full, so I made him some porridge, cooled it down to lukewarm, and then slowly fed it to him. He kept making various requests, and I thought maybe he was just too hot and irritable, so this was to ease his mind. Finally, he calmed down, looked at me intently, his eyes shining, and said something that moved me deeply: "Mom, I love you." Hearing this, I immediately burst into tears. He had never said he loved me before; this was the first time. Whether it was the love between a mother and son or the love between lovers, as long as he said he loved me, that was enough. I didn't sleep well all night, constantly checking to see if his fever had gone down, until his temperature returned to normal the next morning. When he woke up in the morning, I was looking into his eyes. He looked at me, blinked, and said, "Mom, I'm better," and then kissed my lips… That day, which had filled me with anxiety, also made me incredibly happy.
I recalled an unpleasant experience before that. That time, there was no evening self-study session, and my son came to my office to wait for me to go home together. A young male teacher who usually liked to joke with me, who praised me as being like Ya-zhi (a famous Chinese actress), said that I was not even 30 years old. He made an inappropriate joke, which was quite subtle, but the gist of it was that he wanted to marry me and become my son's stepfather. I retorted that he should show me the divorce papers he wrote to his wife before he would marry me. As soon as I said that, I regretted that I shouldn't have said that. My son's face darkened. He didn't say anything, but I knew that he was unhappy with the male teacher's joke and also unhappy with my words. Sure enough, he was silent the whole way home, and even after we got home, he remained silent. When I asked him anything, he would just give me curt replies like "okay," "it's fine," or "no need." I was terrified, afraid that my son would never speak to me again. I knew his anger would eventually subside, but the panic I felt at that moment was uncontrollable and impossible to hide. I ran to him and asked what he wanted to eat for dinner. He coldly replied that anything was fine. Disappointed, I went to the kitchen to cook his favorite dishes. He stood on the balcony next to the kitchen, looking out, seemingly lost in thought. I tried to make conversation, and at first he would reply with a word or two, but then he fell silent. I didn't dare ask any more questions, and tears streamed down my face. I went behind him and hugged him tightly, terrified that he would stop loving me and leave me. His cold attitude was causing me so much pain. Yes, I know it's my fault today, not his. I'm angry, but if he doesn't love me, I'll lose all hope in life. He struggled a couple of times and then stopped. I kissed his back, then turned to face him and kissed his chest. I slowly kissed my way down, kissing his penis through his underwear. I was afraid he would push me away, so I was very careful. When he didn't react, I gently pulled down his underwear and took his penis inside. It always gets bigger quickly, but this time it got bigger very slowly, probably because my son was really angry and had no mood. I kissed and sucked his penis to please him. I felt very lewd at that moment. Suddenly, he grabbed my head and started moving back and forth. He reacted, and I was very happy. He thrust in very deep, and I tried my best to hold back my cough.
He pulled me up, made me bend over with my hands on the balcony windowsill, lifted my skirt—I remember the long cotton skirt I was wearing that day—then took off my underwear and thrust inside me. I kissed his penis, which aroused me, and I became very wet, so it went all the way in smoothly. My legs immediately went weak. He lifted my skirt very high, reached out and grabbed my breasts, kneading them. The building across the street could see us. So I told my son I was going to the bedroom and to put on a condom because I wasn't in my safe period these past few days. He didn't say anything, just kept moving vigorously. I then said I should turn off the kitchen light, but he still... There was no answer, only more violent thrusting. His hands tightened, making me feel extremely uncomfortable. My moans, which had been aroused by pleasure, turned into pain. I told him, "Son, be gentle, it hurts," but he ignored me. He pinched my nipples with his fingers and grabbed my breasts, kneading them vigorously. Unlike the buttocks, which don't hurt much when rubbed or even slapped, breasts are very delicate and can't withstand too much force. So I kept saying, "Son, be gentle," my tone almost pleading, but my body could only silently endure it. My son was venting his frustration on my body; he had never been so rough before. He straightened up, grabbed my hips, and thrust even more violently, constantly calling out "Mommy." Hearing this, I was overjoyed and felt relieved, thinking he had forgiven me. I endured the pain and responded to him as gently as possible, "Son, son." Finally, he thrust hard and ejaculated inside me. I didn't care anymore; I'd take the birth control pill. My son released all his frustration and his semen into my body. He lay on top of me and hugged me. Even though my legs were weak and limp, I tried my best to stand…
I've posted this monologue before on similar forums. I don't understand my own feelings. Why do I so desperately want to confide in you, making me post these things again and again? Is there something wrong with my mind? Why do I have to publicize such shameful things? Perhaps it's because the reality I'm hiding is too repressive, so I want to shout it out in a place where no one knows me. The things have already been done, and there's no going back. I know I'm deliberately numbing myself and forgetting, afraid to think about it, only able to comfort myself with escape, numbness, and forgetting. Posting what I've written is a form of venting, a form of solace and remembrance, a commemoration of the pure mother-son relationship that can never be returned. Those causes and consequences, those past lives and present lives, was that my original intention? Would a woman with a complete and happy life do that? The road is indeed one I've walked myself, even if it's a detour. But from which step did the detour begin? The road of no return is also a step-by-step detour. Perhaps it was wrong from the beginning, but I'm still powerless. This is not an excuse for my actions, but rather the innate personalities of my son and me. Both of our personalities have flaws, a severe interdependence, and a desire to possess each other to the greatest extent possible. Initially, I did want to find another man. Many people introduced me to potential partners, but no matter who it was, no matter how hard they tried to gain my son's approval, he never accepted them. His rejection meant I couldn't accept him either. So, I decided to remain single for ten years. How many decades in a lifetime can I afford to endure loneliness? From then on, my son and I relied on each other, both physically and emotionally. Character determines destiny; perhaps this was our fate. I endured countless accusations. Some people said they could understand my actions, but in reality, no one could. Who has experienced over ten years of loneliness, both emotionally and physically? Who has felt tormented by desire and morality when having physical intimacy with their beloved son? Who has imagined the immense psychological pressure they carried afterward? Did I really think it was like in novels, where mother and son could engage in unrestrained sexual intercourse? Can guilt breed pleasure? Guilt will always be there. No matter how intense the pleasure of breaking taboos, it cannot mask the guilt. The world is supposed to be fair and balanced, isn't it? While it brings us physical pleasure, it also burdens us with mental shackles. Even if the relationship ends later, I'll never be able to shake it off. Isn't that cruel? Even if it is cruel, it's still a balance, and I can't blame anyone.
I remember first posting these words on a now-closed forum called the Silver Girl Entertainment Forum. My username at the time was "From Confusion to Fate," but I was confused and left to fate. Many other incidents occurred during that time, which I won't go into detail about. At the time, all I heard was support, saying I was a great mother worthy of respect. I was confused. Is it so easy for this to gain public approval? Is society really that accepting of incest between mother and son? Besides, even if it is, it doesn't necessarily equate to greatness or respect. Later, I understood. The people browsing that kind of forum were people who longed for their mothers and had a deep Oedipus complex, but couldn't achieve it in reality. My outrageous behavior satisfied their fantasies, so naturally they supported me. At the time, I was truly numb, ignoring rational advice and being drowned out by the overwhelming voices of support. I've said before that I'm a conflicted person, always conflicted, always hesitant and caught in a dilemma. At my age, how could I not understand the principles of life? But does simply understanding prevent mistakes? If so, there would be no such thing as knowingly committing a wrong. Sometimes I know something is wrong, but my willpower succumbs to temptation, and I still do it. After tasting the sweetness of temptation, I also bear the heavy pain of guilt. My weak will and overwhelming pleasure prevent me from stopping. I can't give up, so I can only escape, afraid to reflect on myself. Whenever I think about it, I force myself to think of something else to distract myself.
I hide behind the internet, finding solace in words, hoping to comfort myself with the encouragement of others. But I didn't realize that those who encouraged me actually needed saving, just like me. I ignored the truly helpful advice, deliberately disregarding it, thinking that ignoring it would bury the fear deep within my heart. Knowing the fear is still there, knowing it's self-deception, I continue to deceive myself. Who can save me? Someone who has given up on self-redemption and chosen self-exile is probably beyond redemption. Sometimes I truly hate myself, so much. Why can I understand yet remain unrepentant? This is the most painful thing, like how a person with sensitive nerves feels pain most acutely when traumatized. So, it might as well be a life of blissful ignorance, only knowing the pleasures of mother and child. Sometimes I even think it would be better to be an animal; they have no moral constraints, no mental shackles. Who cares who is the mother and who is the son? They are all just tools for each other's sexual gratification. Such thoughts flash through my mind, followed by deep self-reproach. I actually want to give up being human, to abandon all human moral principles, to escape all human responsibilities. My thoughts are so chaotic, so very chaotic. I
will always be a person tormented by contradictions; this is my destiny. Recounting those blush-inducing sex stories online is like reliving those moments that made me feel lost, intoxicated, and on the verge of life and death. Seeing others excited by my stories makes me excited too. Having my deepest secrets heard gives me a thrill, a feeling of my soul being pierced. On this level, I feel like an exhibitionist. They enjoy showing off their bodies, and I enjoy revealing my innermost thoughts—those monologues that no one in the real world can confide in. Speaking them out feels like reliving those experiences, and that pleasure is equally addictive.
I don't know what will be said about me this time. I think I'm numb precisely because I'm not numb, so every harsh accusation and insult pierces my heart. Perhaps you're all right, but please consider what I've been through. You're dealing with a woman with a tragic fate, and this isn't me wallowing in self-pity.
So, thank you.
Before it happened, I felt a strong desire but lacked the courage. I didn't even dare to dream of having sex with my son, but I realized that if we both longed for it so much, we would eventually have sex. It's actually a very simple action that could lead to a breakthrough, but that one action was heavy and difficult. Countless times I was on the verge of desire, my whole body, especially my vagina, itching unbearably. Being in that state without being fully satisfied was torture. I really wanted to spread my legs, wrap them around him, and let him penetrate me all the way in, to stop the unbearable itching, but I didn't dare. I endured it time and time again. There was a very close one time. I woke up in the middle of the night, and he was lying next to me, also awake. I reached out and touched him; he felt a little warm, even though he didn't actually have a fever. Everyone's body temperature is different, and as long as it's within a certain range, it's fine. I don't know if I was bewitched or what, but I said to him, "Can I touch your genitals to see if they're hot?" He seemed to be half-asleep and grunted in response. I felt like I'd received a royal decree, and my heart started racing. I slipped my hand inside his underwear and touched his testicles. Oh my god, they felt so good! The two balls were wrapped in soft skin, and they were even moving when I gently squeezed them. I really didn't want to take my hand back, but I couldn't keep touching them. So I said, "It's okay, they're not hot, it's fine," and slowly pulled my hand back. When I touched his penis, I shuddered. It was normal before, but now it was incredibly hard, so big and long. I couldn't help but grab it. It stimulated my hand, making me linger and not want to let go. My son hummed. I knew that not only did I feel pleasure, but he did too. I hoped that holding his hand like this would continue, and I was sure he felt the same way. If I massaged him further, he would feel even more pleasure. But even though we both wanted this, I pulled my hand back. The action I had just taken was already too far, and I dared not go any further. I still carefully maintained that last bit of distance, preserving our last pure mother-son relationship. After pulling my hand back, my heart couldn't calm down. I was still savoring the dreamlike moment, savoring the comfortable feeling. I clenched my fist, but my empty hand felt empty.
Before, I would lick my son's penis as a reward. He would beg and plead with me before I would give it to him, and I would watch his satisfied expression as I sucked. Now, giving him oral sex has become a favor he bestows upon me. I've told him his penis has a wonderful taste and feel, and he can tell that I enjoy and am fully engaged when I give him oral sex, so he no longer asks for it. Instead, I'm impatient. Every time I'm on top of him, I unconsciously crawl down and kneel between his legs to taste it. I start by gently touching it with the tip of my tongue, then circling it around the head, as if I'm whetting our appetites, until we're both at our most aroused. When he put it in his mouth, I thought it was a delicious thing and wanted to eat it. So I swallowed repeatedly, only able to put half in and not the whole thing in my mouth. He would groan and touch my head every time. Sometimes he would tease me. When my mouth was in great need of stimulation, he would grab his penis with his hand to prevent me from kissing it. Although I knew it was just a game, I would breathe rapidly and lick his hand and the small part of his penis that was exposed. The moment he let go, I felt like I had been thirsting for rain. The actual taste of that rain was not as sweet as candy. After a while, my tongue would go numb, but I still enjoyed it. My precious son is in front of me, his treasure in my hands. I carefully hold this happiness, his penis in my hand, his testicles in my mouth. They are so cute, flowing in my mouth as they are teased by my tongue. That feeling makes me greedily want to take both testicles in at the same time, but I can't, so I can only take them in alternately. Actually, I kissed him here when he was a baby. Back then, his penis and testicles were so small that I could have taken them both in my mouth at once, but I was afraid that my teeth would damage them. The kisses back then had a completely different meaning than now. Back then, it was a kind of pampering, an infinite love for the new life I created. Of course, I still have that now, but it is more about desire and physical domination. Although I am always in a rather humble position, I think as long as we both like it, it doesn't matter who is superior or inferior. In fact, that lewd position of kissing in front and sticking out the back brings both a sense of humility and pleasure. I can't explain why, but it is a real feeling. Our roles also switched. My son also leaned down and kissed my genitals. At first, I stopped him from doing that because I felt that my genitals had been through too much and were no longer pure. But he didn't mind. He buried his head between my legs and licked my genitals with his tongue. He used his lips to pinch my labia and tried his best to stick his tongue into my vagina. Although he couldn't go too deep, its softness and his feelings moved me. The huge psychological and physiological pleasure made me squeeze his head between my legs and then open and close them repeatedly. He looked up and I saw the fluid from my tears on his nose and cheeks. My heart ached as I hugged him, thinking I'd never let him do that for me again. But each time, he resolutely refused to listen to my objections, and the thought of that pleasure and happiness left me powerless to object. Words are the most inadequate language; they cannot describe the feeling. The joy in my heart goes without saying; I often sighed with quiet contentment. His tongue gently glided over my skin, a soft, gentle pleasure spreading from my genitals throughout my body. His tongue quickened its pace and increased its force, and my body writhed more violently. My vagina widened, making it feel empty inside, and the flow of fluid made the itch even more unbearable. His tongue couldn't reach inside to relieve this itch. I began to desperately need something to fill my vagina, perhaps this was the most effective prelude. The fluid in my vagina could overflow to my buttocks. I couldn't bear it and demanded intercourse, using words that used to make me blush. But my son only inserted his penis shallowly, repeatedly going in and out without going deep. This teasing was almost torture. I wrapped my legs around his buttocks and pulled back forcefully, finally inserting it all the way in. The pleasure instantly drove away the itching inside. I breathed a sigh of relief, a feeling of calm and no longer needing to struggle. However, the dust was far from settled; this was only the beginning. His hot penis went in and out of my vagina, seemingly making it even hotter from the friction. He said that mine was also very hot, and I wondered whose was hotter.
At first, my son and I rarely talked about sex. We just acted on it tacitly. After getting used to it in our actions, we gradually became accustomed to it and took it for granted. Our conversations started to include sex. We talked about our feelings before it happened, the sensations during sex, our favorite ways, and so on, without much reservation. It's impossible to remember everything we've done or talked about completely; we can only recall the most memorable fragments—that's always been my belief. I once told my son: "Cherish your youth. It's best to be young, in your prime, full of vitality. I feel quite old and faded now, but I'm still one of the more confident and qualified among my peers. If I feel this way, what about others?" My son said that in his eyes, I still have charm and am still very young. I smiled helplessly and said, "Because I'm your mother. Sons all over the world think their mothers are beautiful." My son said, "Not only him, but my classmates used to have a good impression of me too." I said, "That's because—" I paused, knowing the psychology of young boys, many of whom have an Oedipus complex; I've experienced it myself. My son pressed, "Because why?" I answered, "Because I might really be charming." We both laughed at the same time. I think my son actually knew this; he's so smart, he should be able to empathize with others and understand what his peers think. But his telling me about his middle school experience was something I hadn't expected, even though he wanted to use it to show that I was still attractive to his peers. He said that in junior high school, he sat in the third-to-last row of the classroom because he was tall. In junior high school, seating was based on grades, but because of his height, his son would block the view of many people if he sat in the front row. Behind him were students who did not study all day. It was his homeroom teacher who asked me to let him go. The teachers in his class were all good teachers, but the students in the class were polarized. There were many students who ranked at the top of the grade, and there were also quite a few who were the worst in the grade. They chatted at the back of the school every day. My son said their conversations were vulgar and often involved me. I was curious why they were talking about me. He said those bad students always fantasized about the mothers of their classmates, mostly the prettier mothers of the boys. Everyone ignored them. It was embarrassing to have someone's mother mentioned, but no one would argue with them because that would be tantamount to admitting it. So they all pretended not to hear and ignored it with disdain, even though they were all disgusted and angry inside. I was shocked. How could middle school kids be like this? I asked them what they were saying about me. My son said the things they said were very vulgar. They were discussing how to have sex with other people's mothers and even arguing about who would be the first to imagine it. I was speechless. They really were just kids, as if they wanted to be the first to try it out.
My son said their language was very vulgar. When they mentioned my body parts, they always added a big word before them—big butt, big breasts, everything was "big," and the descriptions were very gruesome, like they could fit my arms and legs inside. My son said he was furious at the time, even though he knew they were talking about me, but they only mentioned my name vaguely. I told him not to be angry, it's been so long, and they never told me that back then. My son said he was embarrassed and afraid I'd be angry. I teased him, "Weren't you trying to tell me I'm still voluptuous? I'm happy to know, why are you still angry? Besides, it's not my fault they added 'big' before; those places are naturally big, aren't they?" I think I do have a sense of humor sometimes, haha. I don't know what kind of person I am, whether I'm naturally optimistic or pessimistic. Sometimes I find joy in hardship, in small moments of happiness; other times I'm worried about improbable dangers.

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I love my son, from forty to fifty.

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