Postscript to the Memoirs of an Oedipus Complex

Chapter 1: A New Beginning
Even though she has passed away and I am gone, she lives on forever in my heart. After years of silence, I must say that
after sharing these deepest stories, my life seems to have released some pressure. On the internet, one can
speak freely, whether true or false, no one knows. I used to write down many past events, but I knew there was no
interaction , and no one would know my story.
Several years ago, after publishing my first article about my mother on YiX, I was like
water in a reservoir, bursting forth from a breach. There was no planning, no context; I simply
wrote down that initial moment of emotion, partly to satisfy my vanity—wow, so
someone likes my writing!
After that, besides my Oedipus complex, I wrote many articles about mothers and sons, and various fantasies about mature women.
However, these were merely to satisfy my memories of women I had encountered in the past. Later, I came to sexinsex and started
writing this series on my Oedipus complex. I originally only planned to finish parts I and II, which is why there was the hot spring sex scene. Except for the sex scene, everything else in
that scene was real. I remember writing about the hot spring again in a supplementary chapter.
I couldn't help it because I was already exhausted. After finishing part II, I decided to stop writing.
I have to say that my mindset had changed a lot at that time. I started to think about the true meaning of my relationship with my mother.
Was it just simple sexual stimulation? Or the sense of conquest over mature women? Or was it the woman's identity, being a mother,
that made me feel more violated? I don't know myself, but whenever I lay in bed and recalled
that unspeakable relationship between my mother and me, I got up, plugged in my calculator, and started writing part III of my Oedipus complex.
Because I wanted to use the power of words to convey these events, in a way that was more or less true and half-false, so that people
would know someone had once had this relationship. However, the one thing I didn't expect was that I became trapped in
inescapable memories while writing. Some might notice that in Part III, there are
many constantly repeating the same thing
: my incestuous relationship with my mother. This caused me immense guilt and struggle. Therefore, in Part III, you can
see I kept hinting at something, indicating that deep down I truly knew this was wrong,
but unfortunately, I couldn't move on. So Part III was abandoned without a conclusion.
After the interruption, I started consulting a psychologist, telling them that I used writing to release stress, but I didn't expect it
to plunge me into deeper memories. Fortunately, I've only recently begun to emerge from this. One should
live for oneself, not for others. However, my attraction to mature women remains unchanged, especially with the help of my psychologist, who provided
me with much support, both psychologically and physically.
That day, as scheduled, I arrived at the quiet clinic again. It was located in a suburb of Taipei,
a private clinic recommended by a friend, and only open to VIPs by appointment. I was lucky
enough to get here because a friend knew someone there, but honestly, it didn't matter where I went. At that point, I was probably as good as dead
.
The first psychiatrist was a woman in her late 30s, with a shapely figure. I had heard from
friends that private clinics catering to the wealthy usually offered special services because rich men's
wives are strict. They would only pretend to be sick to go to the hospital; as for those who went to the hospital when they weren't sick, that was an open secret.
However, I was going to the psychological counseling department, so it didn't matter to me. The psychology department was on
the eighth floor , but the elevator pointed to the seventh floor. The psychology department had to be climbed one more flight of stairs, then across an aerial bridge to another small
outbuilding. To put it nicely, it was to protect patient privacy; I think it was an illegal addition.
My first appointment left me drenched in sweat. It started with some weird question-and-answer sessions, then
I lay in bed listening to soft music and smelling relaxing incense. The doctor would try to elicit my innermost thoughts.
This was my standard operating procedure (SOP) for two months. Honestly, it didn't help me much. I went home
still depressed, and seeing anything related to her would make me want to cry.
By the end of the fourth month, I really didn't want to go anymore, so I called to
cancel . Surprisingly, the person on the other end was quite insistent, saying I had to go. Fine, I went out,
but it started pouring rain as soon as I stepped outside. Damn it! But a promise is a promise, so I had to go anyway.
It was around that time that I met her, my new therapist.
The wind and rain outside had soaked me to the bone. As soon as I entered, a tall woman entered. She wore
a light purple knitted sweater that tightly covered her breasts, perfectly accentuating her curves. She wore
a long, narrow white skirt that reached her knees, highlighting the contours of her thighs, waist, and hips. Her face possessed
the air of a mature woman, a weathered look that came with life's experiences. Her long black hair was neatly tied in a ponytail,
with her bangs swept to the left, exposing her right ear and neck.
I paused, then asked, "Where's the doctor from before?" The new doctor said she would be handling my case.
Without much ordered me to the shower to wash myself. I put on the hospital-provided gown and came
out. I wanted to follow the standard operating procedure, but the new doctor told me to lie down on the bed—a single bed.
She pulled a chair next to me, and as I turned my head, I saw her black stockings. To my surprise, I could see bulges on her long skirt
up close . Could these be black stockings with suspenders?
Thinking about this, and remembering the "special services" my friend had mentioned, I wondered if the hospital thought I didn't want to come back
and was sending a mature woman to seduce me. Thinking this, I decided that no matter what, I wouldn't
come back next time. But no one expected that this treatment would lead to such an unexpected outcome.
After the female doctor briefly discussed my condition with me, she learned that I had come to see her because I couldn't get over my mother complex.
She assumed I would just relax by listening to music. However, I didn't expect her to ask me to masturbate in front of her.
"Huh? Excuse me, could you say that again?" I asked. The doctor replied expressionlessly, "What's wrong?
Am I not attractive enough, or do I need to do something more provocative? Like, like this?"
She then propped herself up on the bed, lifting her upper body so her face was face-to-face with mine. I could
smell her perfume and the large breasts of her purple sweater. She stuck out her tongue, her eyes half-closed and hazy.
Looking at me, she slowly licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and said, "You don't like me? Don't you like
mature women ?"
I looked at her blankly. She was very sexy, and I felt extremely lewd. My mind started to imagine certain scenes:
this sexy mature woman's psychiatrist, knowing that her psychiatric department rarely had patients, so she tried every means to keep them from leaving.
Knowing my preferences, she dressed up as a highly educated but lewd doctor, put on a long robe, and teased me in various ways.
In this small consultation room, I smelled this woman's lewd scent, and I imagined the doctor pressing her face against mine,
sticking out her tongue to lick my earlobe, chin, and neck little by little.
The doctor stretched out her right hand, and under my long robe, my naked body was like a toy. The doctor's slender
right hand caressed my chest, down to my pectoral muscles, abdominal muscles, pubic hair, and the crystal nails lightly scratching
, making my lower body even more aroused. I could clearly feel the ring on the doctor's right ring finger, and the coldness of it
stimulated me even more.
The doctor bent her right index finger and thumb into a circle, using a reverse grip, and gently encircled the base of my penis.
Through the thick pubic hair, she held the base of my penis with only her index finger and thumb, gently rotating it. Each rotation
moved the pubic hair, and gradually, my penis began to engorge with blood. While the doctor's hand rotated, she slowly
added a stroking motion, somewhat like the way they do masturbation in Western porn, only the doctor's
hand was gentler and used a reverse grip, which felt incredibly comfortable.
My penis was rock hard. I extended my right hand, pressing the back of it against the doctor's white, narrow skirt, and slid it upwards.
I could clearly feel the curve of her thighs, the soft flesh of her waist, and the fabric against her knitted sweater. As my hand moved upwards, I
felt my lower breasts being supported by her bra. Moving upwards, I pressed the back of my hand against my left breast,
tracing a clockwise circle through the sweater, lining, and bra, exciting and stimulating the doctor's nipples.
The doctor's breathing became heavier, his right hand now completely gripping my penis. His robe was completely undone. I
lay on the hospital bed. If someone walked into the examination room at this moment, would they know, even through the curtain, that the doctor was
masturbating me? My genitals trembled with the doctor's up-and-down movements. My right hand, which had been rubbing my breasts with the back of my hand, now began to knead
them kept pointing at the nipple with my index finger, pressing down hard,
and then rotating it. Every time the doctor did this, he would let out a soft moan of pleasure. And every time the doctor's left hand tried
to stop me from playing with my breasts, it was blocked by my left hand.
My left hand caressed the doctor's right earlobe, gently kneading it. Seeing the expression on her face, this mature, seductive woman,
made my mouth dry. I pressed my left hand against the back of her head, pulling
her down, and began sucking on her lips. I sucked hard, pulling and releasing her lower lip,
my tongue forcing its way through her teeth, intertwining with hers. I wondered if this wanton, mature woman was offering me sexual
services for money, and if she did the same to other wealthy men.
My right hand slipped under her sweater, reaching upwards to her warm, heavy breasts.
They were a large C, almost a D. For some reason, as I fantasized about kneading her breasts,
old memories flashed through my mind. Had I ever fantasized like this, reaching inside my mother's clothes and playing with her
breasts ?
But the image of my mother quickly vanished. I continued to fantasize about my right hand
kneading the doctor's bra. The bra had lace patterns, and my fingers squeezed between the bra and my breasts
, fully feeling the erect nipples. I longed to suckle.
As I imagined the doctor's breasts under her knitwear, her right hand moved with increasing dexterity, expertly
swaying up and down. Her warm palm held my penis gently, without applying force, showing great experience. Every time she moved up and down, the lower edge of
my glans was scraped by the base of her thumb, making the sensation even more pleasurable.
Whether it was rapid stroking or rhythmic swaying, her fingers would occasionally flick my scrotum. All these
stimulations made me realize that this mature woman truly understood the needs of young men.
The main reason I like mature women is their experience. They know how to manipulate a man's penis, unlike
typical young women who just go through the motions, at most mimicking the lewd oral sex and masturbation techniques in porn. They
don't manipulate the penis, yet they pretend to love it – it just feels fake.
The doctor's right hand, however, felt like genuine service. That queenly, manipulative nature, wanting
you to ejaculate but then slowing down just before you do, reminded me of my mother. The image of her
reluctantly masturbating me, yet shyly urging me to ejaculate when holding my penis, or
coldly helping me release my pent-up desire, holding my penis with disdain while simultaneously manipulating it with both hands.
The image of my mother overlaps with the doctor's – why? Is it because I haven't had sexual fantasies about women in a long time? Really,
after so many years, I might have even forgotten sexual fantasies. Only now do I realize that my fascination with mature women
is finally re-emerging. Am I back to that person who fantasizes about slutty women?
At this point, I really wanted to see the doctor lying on the table, her plump buttocks raised high. Her fleshy buttocks,
covered by her long, narrow white skirt, revealed the outline of her panties and suspenders. Any man would
want to hard. A mature woman's buttocks, though not perky, were full and round. If I could penetrate her from behind
, it would feel amazing.
Pulling her skirt up to her waist, my hands gripped her lower back, my penis rubbing against the seam of her panties,
the head soaked with her juices. The doctor turned and looked at me with a mournful expression, wanting me to enter, to
fill her vagina completely.
At this moment, I thought of my mother for the third time, of all the perverse things we did together on the back balcony,
circling my penis against her buttocks, continuing to do so with shame and fear of being scolded.
Why did I have such courage back then, to challenge the taboo of incest between mother and son?
If I could really have sex with the doctor? Wait, no, my reason kicked in. Why did
the doctor make me think about these things? Was it to make me miss my mother through sexual fantasies? Is that really it? Then why
did he make me masturbate? Was he just making me release my pent-up emotions? What was the doctor's purpose in making me fantasize?
On a stormy night, the doctor, disregarding moral decay, was giving patients sexual therapy. These images kept
flashing through my mind. In reality, my genitals were slowly becoming engorged with blood. In my fantasy, the doctor's right hand was moving along the tip of my penis...
The discharge increased, and the speed of my wrist's movements quickened. Finally, I forcefully
squeezed , my legs straightened and convulsed, and a sigh of pleasure escaped my throat. My semen splattered onto
my lower abdomen, while the doctor's hand was covered in thick, foul-smelling semen.
I craved this long-awaited ejaculation and wanted to have sex with the doctor. I wanted to grab her hand and
slam my head against her buttocks on the bed, watching the tender flesh tremble. The doctor's vagina sucked on my
penis; the second time my penis was engorged, it needed the lubrication of her vaginal fluids.
The doctor lay on the hospital bed in a doggy-style position. I held her right hand with my left, forcing her to support herself with only her left hand
. I placed my right hand on her waist, adjusted my penis, and thrust downwards from an angle, forcefully pushing
deep into her cervix. The doctor groaned, as if she were crying out. There was no way around it; the doctor
's clients used to be wealthy middle-aged bosses. How could a young man like me easily let
this slut go?
I licked my lips, letting my penis enjoy the contractions of her vagina. Her vaginal fluids had already soaked her
underwear while she was masturbating me. As I went faster and faster, I had only one thought: to ejaculate as deep as possible.
Of course I grabbed the doctor's ponytail with my right hand and pulled it back forcefully, causing her head to tilt back and her back to arch
into a U-shape, her buttocks sticking out even higher. I thrust all the way in, ejaculating my semen in shudders.
My left hand tightly squeezed the left side of her buttocks. After giving it a hard slap, I reluctantly opened her
vagina.
When I came to my senses, the doctor whispered in my ear, "I want to see you masturbate, is that wrong? If you
're too scared to do it in front of me, try using me as the object of your sexual fantasies." I wanted to say something, but
I couldn't. Was the doctor trying to bring me back to my original self?
The boy who got excited by his mother's plump buttocks? Back to the most primal lust? Thinking about
the thrill of having affairs with his mother?
I didn't understand why the doctor wanted me to do this. I admit the doctor is a very attractive woman. If
she took off her white doctor's coat and walked down the street, perhaps I would look at her more because of her mature and attractive appearance.
But now she's a doctor, shouldn't she be helping me?
Is it really just pure lust? Or something else? If I really follow the treatment, will I be able to escape my
nightmare? As I hesitated and prepared to leave, the doctor, hands in his coat pockets, said to me, "I
've seen many patients, most of whom can't get over their own issues, especially emotional ones. Your problem is particularly
complicated because it involves family ties—both kinship and affection—the inseparable bond with your mother, a
twisted love that society can't accept. Many people fall into this moral dilemma."
I turned to look at the doctor. The bright fluorescent lights in the examination room cast my shadow on the marble
floor . It wasn't pure black, but a blurry, subtle shadow under the strong light,
like a persistent, haunting demon.
"Doctor, I don't know if there's a solution, but I'll try what you suggest.
I'll consider the masturbation thing, thank you."
After leaving, I drove home, parked my car, and scrolled through my phone. I saw a new message: "
No one can live in the past; only by moving forward will the sunlight shine on your face."
Tears welled in my eyes, because someone had said something similar to me before.
"Son, no one can live in the past; only by moving forward can we escape sorrow." I miss you so much , Mother
.
...
**************** ... My college fantasies, fueled by imagining various scenarios of raping my mother, provided self-satisfaction. But after the first time my penis touched her buttocks, I could no longer suppress my desire for her body. Okay, if I really have to face myself, does that mean I have to relive all those memories? I went into my mother's bedroom and gently turned on the corner nightlight. It was a small yellow light, but it instantly brightened the empty room. I lay on the bed my mother used to sleep on, drifting off to sleep, which took me back to the origin of my illicit affair with her. That year, after experiencing the pleasure of touching my mother's buttocks with my penis, I became hopelessly addicted, like a poison —once tasted, I couldn't let go. With such a beautiful mother, how could I not fantasize? Why am I so attached to my mother? To be honest, it might be because my mother herself possesses an alluring aura. My childhood impressions of my parents were of my father, a soldier, always serious and rigid, while my mother was quite different. I remember her being rather lively and cheerful as a child, but as my sister and I grew up, my father became more eloquent, while my mother gradually became cold and aloof. At the time, I didn't think much about it, nor did I consider why my mother changed so much. Had I known this, would I have committed incest with her? My mother always obeyed her family's decisions. Her family was a prominent business family in the area , so I heard that a large part of her marriage to my father was for political and business connections. Was this the reason for her transformation? A beautiful young woman was forced into marriage by her parents at just eighteen, and gave birth to a . Did her longing for love vanish after marriage? From childhood, my mother selflessly dedicated herself to the family, but we, her children, were unaware of how she changed little by little with the passing years.

As a girl, I yearned for love; as a woman, I longed for marriage; as a mother, I
cherished my children. However, political and business pressures for marriage, and my husband's infidelity, caused my mother to change. And I, by a twist of fate,
began sexually harassing her.
Could it be that deep down, my mother longed for a man who could care for her as a woman?
At that time I was smug, thinking that reading stories about mother-son incest and various pornographic scenes would conquer her and allow me to enjoy
the thrill of an affair with her.
Little did I know, my mother, bound by traditional Chinese customs, the reserved and silent traditional woman, simply
condoned her son's sexual harassment. In the 21st century, could my mother also understand
what the thrill of incestuous mother-son incest is?
I've always wondered why my mother was willing to help me satisfy my sexual desires. Was it simply out of doting love?
Or was it the emptiness stemming from years of my father's indifference? Or perhaps she understood what incest was, caught between reason and pleasure,
constantly torn between them. Every time her son's penis pressed against her buttocks, his eyes would wander over her breasts. Every time she bent over
, she would wonder if her son was secretly watching her from the shadows.
She could only try her best to satisfy her son, masturbating and giving him oral sex. She always thought that was all, but she never expected that
her buttocks would drive her son so crazy. His penis would rub up and down her buttocks, and her underwear would be pulled
down into the crease, her lower body becoming wet and soaking her underwear.
She could feel the glans sliding down her buttocks, finally pressing against her vulva
through It didn't penetrate, but her thighs and vagina were wet with her own fluids. Her son thrust into her from behind,
each thrust causing her to feel the glans rubbing against her through her underwear. The more he did this, the more her vaginal fluids flowed.
On the surface, she could pretend it was to satisfy her son's preference for mature women, but
the vaginal fluids flowing down her thighs were a true physical need. Holding her son's hot penis for the first time
, she felt furious, but that night, in the throes of passion, alone in bed, her husband working in the mainland,
her free, wanting vagina hadn't been touched in so long, let alone with an erect penis. Holding it in her hand, she realized how aroused her son's penis
could be. But this was wrong, this was unacceptable. Deep down,
traditional Chinese thought told her this was incest.
What if it were an ordinary man? How long had it been since she had sex with her husband? While showering, standing naked in front of the mirror
, I could only recall the time of my young, newlywed days. My husband was much older than me, just turned eighteen.
The pain of losing my virginity that night, the sound of his panting in my ear, the smooth back-and-forth movements of his waist, my private parts
being completely filled by his penis—it hurt so much, but my husband's eyes were full of satisfaction, as if to say, "
Finally tasted this little slut."
I knew perfectly well that this political and business marriage was just a facade. I had been targeted by this man long ago
; he was the son of my father's friend, eight years older than me. That summer, the man brought his father
to our workshop. I was wearing a sleeveless thin shirt and a pair of tight-fitting shorts that exposed my thighs
, busy hanging clothes in the backyard. My breasts, slightly exposed in the scorching heat, were sweating profusely,
pooling in my cleavage. My father called me over to serve tea to the guests, and the man's eyes, as if he had just discovered something
, lingered on my body.
After that, the man came to our house more and more often. The following year, I turned eighteen and couldn't believe
the news . However, in an authoritarian family, girls have no rights.
That night, my husband brutally spread my legs, leaving me naked on the bed. His penis pressed against
my vaginal opening, and he whispered in my ear, "Finally, I have you." Immediately, a sharp pain shot
through my head, and my vagina felt like it was being torn apart. I gripped the pillow tightly, letting my husband's penis
thrust in and out. Finally, I was exhausted and sobbed, begging him to stop. He pulled out after his last thrust and told me to take it with my mouth
and lick it clean. I did as he said, and only then did he hold me contentedly and
fall asleep .
These stories about my mother's adulthood are one of the reasons why I want to understand why she is so cold. I learned about
this from my mother's sisters.
During my time in therapy, I tried to trace back my memories with my mother, but I found that
I first had to figure out why she had changed so much. So I contacted my aunt, whom I hadn't seen for many years.
Driving towards Kaohsiung, the sun shone brightly. Compared to the bustling traffic of Taipei, Kaohsiung's wide roads made me
feel much more relaxed , the view from the window overlooked the entire Kaohsiung Harbor—
white clouds in the sky, blue sea below—a truly breathtaking sight.
"Haven't seen your auntie in so long, hurry up and apologize!" a playful voice rang in my ears.
I turned around, and my auntie's face appeared right in front of me. She gently breathed on my ear, a delicate fragrance of a
young woman filling my nostrils. The long-lost allure of a mature woman once again stirred my hormones.
My maternal family has five sisters. My eldest sister is said to have had a difficult life, marrying a man who struggled a lot. My second sister, who is my mother, had a political and business
marriage, but there were other hidden reasons. My
third
sister lives in Kaohsiung; her husband was an alcoholic and gambler, and they are divorced. She is currently with a steel company owner and has a good relationship with my mother. My father spent a lot of money on his mistress, and my third sister helped him a lot with his financial problems. My fourth sister lives abroad and rarely interferes in family matters. My youngest sister, my aunt,
is the youngest and most playful, a true heiress. I had a one-night stand with her during my university years. My
previous ambiguous relationship with my aunt was a private matter, which I remember writing about before, so I won't describe it again.
During the meal, I took a closer look at my aunt. After so many years, her playful and cheerful personality hadn't changed; what had changed was
her appearance . She was now a mother of two, and the vicissitudes of life were undeniable on her face.
I tried casually asking about my mother's past, and my aunt sensed my interest. Finally, after some gentle
persuasion, she revealed that my mother got married young because of this. At that time, I asked, "With five sisters,
why Mother?" My aunt pouted and pretended to be angry, saying, "Because your mother is incredibly beautiful, but
also the most rebellious. She loved arguing with Grandpa when she was little." I had always thought my mother was a very obedient
person; it turns out she's so proud and aloof. After dinner, I picked up my car keys and told my aunt I would take her home. She looked at me with her almond-shaped eyes, giggled, and said, "Then thank you,
young master, " and hooked her left arm around my right, chatting and laughing with me.

My right arm was pressed tightly against my aunt's left breast as we walked side by side. My arm
swayed slightly back and forth with the momentum of our steps, each movement squeezing her breasts. My aunt was wearing a tight white
short-sleeved t-shirt today, and the breasts I'd played with during my student days were once again before me. The slightly low neckline revealed her cleavage,
the glimpses only adding to the allure.
My aunt's actions made me fantasize again about a woman before marriage who, out of boredom,
chatted online with her sister's son. Because it was online, she spoke freely, their conversations becoming quite explicit. Eventually, she couldn't resist
the urge and had her first one-night stand with this boy.
Even after marriage, her playful nature remained unchanged. On the surface, she was a lively and adorable woman, but
in private , she was a young married woman who enjoyed having affairs with men. For some reason, she found a special
thrill in having sex with acquaintances.
That time he came to visit, I had just finished putting the baby to sleep. I deliberately sat on the sofa, my back to him,
my buttocks sticking out high, as if anticipating something. Sure enough, he began to
thrust into my fleshy buttocks forcefully. My mind went blank; my husband would be home soon.
The fear of being discovered, the thrill of having an affair with a younger man—it was a struggle, both physically and mentally.
My juices flowed down my thighs onto the sofa, my vagina clenching tightly around his penis. Was I, deep down,
truly so wanton?
Looking at this man, now middle-aged, from a boy to a man, had his sexual skills become more
refined? Should I try to seduce him? Prove once again that I was an attractive woman, that my body could
surpass his for my mother?
Was this the thought behind my aunt's actions when she made love to me? I had no idea. Driving on the expressway, we
quickly arrived at my aunt's apartment complex. She took my hand and said, "Master isn't home, young master,
you mustn't do anything improper to Madam!" I smiled faintly and said, "You've really gone crazy from watching period dramas." But
then she took my hand again, and I remained unmoved. Through our exchange of glances,
we both understood in that instant.
It turned out that many things could never be the same again. My aunt's body was different from my mother's young body. During my student days
, I would wildly fuck this little slut in bed, and watching her serve and lick my penis gave me a
sense of superiority .
If I remember correctly, my aunt once said that she liked men to penetrate her from behind because every thrust
deeply stimulated the spot deep inside her vagina. Every time I thrust into her buttocks, watching
the ripples of her flesh, compared to my mother's fullness, my aunt's appeared more rounded and perky.
My glans was covered in vaginal fluid, and the slippery inner walls of her vagina gripped my penis tightly as she contracted her anus,
causing me to involuntarily exhale. I then placed my hands on her waist, and she lay flat on the sofa,
letting me use her buttocks to release my lust.
Now, my aunt was even more alluring, a voluptuous and lustful married woman seducing her own sister's son,
wanting to taste the long-lost penis of a young man. Just imagining this scene made my own underwear and private parts involuntarily
leak fluid.
If only my penis could fill my aunt's mouth, forcing her to give me oral sex,
holding the back of her head with my right hand, making her look at me with every swallow and spit, so that she would forever remember that
my penis had once slapped this slut's face.
My glans felt my aunt's tongue. As she grew older, she
became more Her lips sucked, saliva dripping from her mouth, the fishy-smelling secretions from the tip of my glans mixed in
. She licked the lower edge of my glans with the tip of her tongue, making me clench my fists tightly, almost ejaculating.
During the final thrust, my aunt's right hand kept stroking, her mouth sucking deeply up and down, her left hand scraping my scrotum.
I looked down at my aunt's lustful face. Was she licking and sucking so diligently hoping that I could
satisfy her cunt later?
But now, things are different. If I were still a boy who was obsessed with his mother's fleshy buttocks,
perhaps I would go into my aunt's boudoir right now, play with her mature body, let my
tongue taste every inch of her skin, and have my aunt kneel between my legs like a kitten, extending her wet, delicate tongue
to carefully suck and suck my penis, to make me feel good first, and then satisfy her cunt later.
However, a woman has entered my life—my mother, my wife—who wants my mother to be my
woman . Therefore, I need to understand everything about my mother better. Mother sexual assault, forced sexual assault of a mother—this is wrong.
To make my mother willingly become my woman, I must protect my beloved mother even more.
Soon, more than two months have passed since my last trip south to Kaohsiung. I'm alone in a coffee shop,
sipping a cup of black coffee with a rich, fruity acidity. At this point, some might ask, isn't black coffee bitter
? That's due to a dark roast, which completely masks the coffee's flavor. Only a light roast, with its precise control of heat,
the characteristics of the beans, and the brewing method, makes each cup of black coffee different.
A European-style chandelier in the corner casts a yellow halo above my head. My earphones are connected to
soft music from my iPhone. I'm scrolling through my phone, my fingertip pausing on a photograph.
That's a photo of my mother and me. The background is filled with steam. My mother is completely naked, wrapped only in a bath towel,
her head resting on me. Her eyes are half-open as she looks at the camera. Her fair skin appears even more
rosy under the hot spring water. Her haughty gaze carries a hint of shyness. I feel like a man heading into battle, on the
eve of a life-or-death situation, the woman in my arms about to give me my most beautiful night.
Looking at this photo, I think about how many storms my mother and I have weathered to reach that tender moment. My thoughts drift
back to that moment deep in my memory.
That night, I drove my mother back from her parents' home. A few days later, I took her to the hospital for a full-body checkup. I saw her
in her patient gown, a light blue striped thin top that bulged because of her breasts, and loose trousers that
still covered her shapely hips. Her long, wavy hair was tied up, revealing her delicate neck. Her
eyes were still filled with melancholy, and her pale face seemed even colder. Her long eyelashes were half-open as she looked at me, and her slightly
bloodshot lips seemed to speak of the helplessness of this world.
I took my mother's hand and let her lean on my shoulder. How long ago was it that I, who was always enamored with her hips
, was now filled with fear and uncertainty?
The entire day was spent on checkups. My mother sat alone in a corner of the health checkup center, by a large
floor-to-ceiling window As the sun set, the twilight streamed through the glass, casting her shadow on the chair. She closed her eyes, feigning sleep, her neatly styled hair falling loose. A beautiful woman, melancholy and dejected, facing the authority of her family and her husband's betrayal—what could she possibly trust anymore? I've never understood why my mother was so cold towards my father's relatives. Now , I feel like I'm becoming a stranger to them too. Finally, as darkness was about to engulf everything, I took my mother's hand in the last rays of the setting sun, as if to lead her away from all of this. "What are you doing? What's the rush?" my mother asked. I didn't answer, just quietly took her hand. " What did the doctor say? When will the report be out? Did he say why Mom's headache is so bad?" I glanced at my mother , then lowered my head again. My mother saw my look but didn't say anything. This time, she took my hand and led me away. "Mom... I ... the doctor said..." I said, trembling. My mother held my hand tightly and said, "Don't say anything more, let's talk about it when we get home ..." My iPhone vibrated, pulling me back to reality. I checked the time; it was time for my counseling session again. I massaged my temples, looked at my mother's picture on my phone one last time, then grabbed my car keys, trying to stay focused on my grief, because I knew my mother hated seeing me cry. [The End]

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Postscript to the Memoirs of an Oedipus Complex

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