Mother's mature body

In 1949, my mother was born into an ordinary rural family in northern Jiangsu. She was the youngest and only daughter among her maternal grandfather's six
children . In rural China during the 1950s, there was no such thing
as wealth disparity; the only difference was the number of work points earned for each family's labor. Because she had five
older brothers, the family didn't need her as a laborer, so she didn't have to
drop out of school early like her five uncles.

After graduating from high school in 1967, my mother was considered an intellectual and, through connections,
found a job as an accountant in a unit under the Nanjing Municipal Bureau of Materials. Later, through an introduction, she met my father, a fellow villager who also
worked , and they married. During the factional struggles of the Cultural Revolution, no one knew their fate.
Tragically, my father took the wrong side in that chaotic period and was dismissed from his job and sent back to the countryside. The ensuing
violent fighting directly led to my father's lifelong disability and mental breakdown. To avoid implicating my mother, my paternal grandfather's family requested
a divorce, but this was strongly opposed by my maternal grandfather and uncles, as my mother was already
two months pregnant at the time. This sudden change determined the future of my mother and me in her womb, and it
is also the reason why I am writing these words.

I believe most children start to remember things around the age of seven or eight, and my memories begin from that time as well. Among the fragmented memories of my

childhood

, the ones that left the deepest impression on me were the alarm clock ringing in the morning and the clanging of my mother's
bicycle . Being a heavy sleeper is probably a common trait among children. It seems like there's never enough sleep, so
the alarm clock is the sound I hate the most. Every three to five minutes after the alarm goes off, I rub my sleepy eyes
and yell for my mom. My mom always sits down by my bedside when I yell, and then
reluctantly puts on the clothes she has prepared, amidst her countless scoldings. I can never forget the
moment I'm dressed, when she gently pats the back of my head and says, "Hurry up, dinner's ready." A

school day quickly passes by in a mix of seriousness and playfulness. Every child waits for
their . I always stand on tiptoe among the other children, craning my neck to look at my mom's figure in the distance.
It's almost a tacit understanding formed over a long period of time. My mom is always not far from the school gate,
where she can see me and I can see her. She gives me a look, and I can rush out of the crowd and walk towards her under her protective gaze.
Usually, when I sat on the back of my mother's bicycle, I liked to hug her waist, close my eyes, and silently calculate the time for the next
turn . So, I often used the bicycle bell as she turned to check if my calculations were correct.
If I was right, I would lean back, hook my arms around her waist, tilt my head back, and let out a joyful "oh oh!" If I was wrong, I would press my head against her
back without making a sound. Sometimes, my mother would smile knowingly and join in this little game. The naive boy, innocent and unaware of the world's
ways, spent his days in this routine and carefree way.

Two.

That year, I was 15 years old. This was a year that brought about significant changes for my mother and our family.
The wave of reform had rapidly transformed our city. My mother, unable to resist the persuasion of her colleagues
, resigned from her small job at the materials bureau and started a plywood business through connections with former colleagues. Being a boarding student,
I naturally didn't know how my mother ran her business, but from the updated furniture and my mother's
reduced control over my allowance, I realized that our family was slowly becoming wealthier. Our home became more
lively and vibrant, and we received more visits from relatives back home.

One summer during my first year of high school, my maternal grandfather, who rarely came to the city, unexpectedly knocked on our
door. My mother was delighted that my father had come all this way, so she invited me to sit with
him . My grandfather asked about my mother and me, then suddenly fell silent,
looking troubled. My mother asked, "Dad, is something wrong? If you need money, just say so."

My grandfather coughed and said, "Nothing, nothing, as long as you're doing well." Then he lowered his head again,
but my mother and I knew he must have something on his mind. So my mother asked, "Is it something else?" My grandfather gave me a
noncommittal look, as if there was something he couldn't tell me. My mother then gestured for me to leave
and told me to close the door behind me. Actually, my mother and I could guess what my grandfather was going to say; he was going to touch on
the thing we least wanted to talk about—my father. I stood quietly outside the door, sensing
what .

My maternal grandfather said, "I think you know that nothing's wrong with our family, and your brothers are all doing well. But
we can't just ignore what's going on on their side. You and the children haven't been back for over ten years. We
know and we haven't forced you, but they still treat us like family. The children's grandfather and uncles often come to
our house to say hello and ask about you. I heard a couple of days ago that the children's grandfather is quite ill. I think you should take the children
back to see him, so they won't laugh at us for being unreasonable. After all, you haven't divorced. Why don't you take some time
to go back?"

My mother didn't say anything, and the two of them remained silent in the room. Finally, my maternal grandfather said, "I know
I shouldn't have opposed your divorce back then, but things have already come to this. Let's save face, after all, in the countryside, people value these things
. I won't say anything more. I'm going to catch the train back now." After seeing my maternal grandfather off, my mother didn't speak for a long time, sitting blankly
in the room. Seeing my mother's hesitant look, I felt very sad. I went over to my mother and said, "Mom,
go back . I'll go with you. We'll be back in a day." My mother looked up at
me with a very helpless expression. After

informing

our hometown, my mother and I packed our bags and boarded the bus home a few days later. It was
a completely unfamiliar road, a road I had never traveled before, from birth until I was 16. In 1986,
rural northern Jiangsu was still very poor. Through the bus window, I saw dilapidated villages on both sides and a bumpy, dusty road.
My mother held my hand tightly the whole way, and I could feel her nervousness. After a bumpy 200-kilometer journey, we arrived
at the town where my grandfather's village was located. As soon as we got off the bus, my uncle came running
towards : "Sister-in-law, you're back! Get in the car, everyone's waiting." My mother nodded without saying anything and
pulled me onto the tractor, which had already been laid out with a cotton mattress.

Clearly, my grandfather's family had made preparations; many relatives had gathered in the courtyard. I didn't know if it was to
welcome my mother and me or to show off the family's strength. Because I didn't recognize anyone there...
No one greeted us, and my mother and I stood blankly in the yard, enduring everyone's scrutinizing gazes. Finally
, my uncle came over and said, "Sister-in-law, come inside. Actually, Dad's fine, just coughing. My brother is much better than
before ; although he doesn't recognize people, he can eat and relieve himself without any problems. It's alright." My mother
took my hand and followed my uncle into the house.

It was a typical farmhouse in northern Jiangsu. In the center of the room was a large square table
, with two wooden chairs on either side. I could guess that the old man sitting in the chair was my grandfather.
He had the face of an ordinary old farmer, his hands on his knees, his back hunched, looking up at my mother and me.
The middle-aged man on the small stool next to him didn't look at us. He was tilting his head, muttering something to himself, his eyes
sometimes unfocused and sometimes focused, as if staring at something. I clung tightly to my mother's side, unable to believe
my eyes, unable to believe that this was my father. Just then, Grandma came in, wiping her hands, and said, "Help your
sister-in-law sit down." Then she started chatting with Mom. Uncle pulled over a chair and said, "
Sister-in-law, sit down. Let the children go out and play." He then grabbed my hand and pulled me outside. As

someone

born in the 1970s, I received a lot of traditional education, so I've always despised and
disdained erotic descriptions. But here, in this piece recounting an important part of my life, I must
elaborate on those things I once despised, and the subject is none other than my mother, because it
touches the deepest and most authentic corner of human nature. Its real existence is irresistible. There is no pornography here, only
an analysis and exploration of human nature. Let the story begin when my uncle pulled me into the yard.

The people who were originally in the yard hadn't left; they were gathered in small groups, whispering amongst themselves.

"This is the wife my eldest son married when he was in the city. It's been over ten years."

"She hasn't come back since she got married?"

"No, something happened, and she's been raising the child alone in the city."

"She must be over 100 years old by now."

"About that."

"My goodness, she's five or six years older than me, but she looks younger than me."

"Of course city women look younger than us. What do they eat and drink?"

"Yeah, look at her figure, unlike yours, which is as thick as a barrel."

"You're not much better than me, hahaha."

"At this age, and so beautiful, with all the bad men in the city, there's bound to be some."

"Of course, how many can keep their way?"

I didn't know when Grandma had appeared beside me, and she took my hand, saying, "Be careful of gossip."

Then she pulled me into the house. That night, I went to sleep in my uncle's room, and my mother went with Grandma. Perhaps because
I was at someone else's house, I woke up very early the next day. My uncle was still asleep, so I quietly got up and wandered around the yard
. As I wandered, I suddenly heard voices coming from my grandmother's room. I went over and saw my mother and grandmother
talking .

"Are you going back today?" my grandmother asked.

"Yes, there are still things to do there," my mother said.

"Bring the children back more often when you have time. We don't want anything from you, just let people know that we are still a family."

"Okay."

"It's not easy for a woman to be out there. The atmosphere outside is not as good as in our village. We are a respectable family."

"Who's not respectable?" my mother was a little angry.

"Never mind, I'm just reminding you that there are people gossiping outside."

"What are they saying?"

"Nothing, never mind, I'll go make breakfast."

My mother and I didn't eat breakfast. We just left some money and set off on our journey back to Nanjing.
My mother didn't say a word the whole way, and I could sense her low spirits. When

Wu

arrived in Nanjing, it was already nearly 3 PM. Mom went straight to her room, and I
sat alone on the living room sofa, feeling utterly lost. The house was very quiet, save for the monotonous ticking of the wall clock
. Suddenly, a soft sobbing sound came from Mom's room. Ah, Mom was crying! This was the first time I'd heard Mom cry since I
was born until I was 16. It was a suppressed sound, a sound of grievance,
a sound of release. This crying made me uneasy. I stood helplessly at the door of Mom's room,
unsure what to say to comfort her. Suddenly, I couldn't control myself and started crying too. Mom opened the door
, patted my head, and said, "Go back to your room and rest for a while. Mom's okay."

"Mom, don't cry. It hurts me to hear you cry."

"Okay, Mom's okay now. I won't cry anymore." Then she closed the door again.

Perhaps the two-day trip had truly exhausted me, and I drifted off to sleep as soon as I got back to my room.
When I woke up, it was nearly evening, and I could hear the chopping sounds coming from the kitchen; Mom must be
preparing dinner. As I got up to open the door, I found a note slipped under the door. Its contents
will stay with me forever.

"My dear, this is the first time Mom has talked to you about family matters as an adult
, even though you're only 16. You heard Mom cry, and you probably want to know why. It's not because of Grandpa and your father's
illness ; Mom is crying for herself. Mom feels wronged and stifled. From the day your father left us
, Mom has been working tirelessly to keep this family afloat. I have no complaints, nor do I resent your grandfather's attempts
to stop me from divorcing, because it was my choice. You've seen the situation at home, which is why I
didn't want to bring you home. I didn't want you to see your father's condition and feel any psychological
burden. I hope you understand. Your father and I have been estranged for so many years; the feelings we shared back then
have long since been used to raise you and toil day and night for this family." The process might fade, even be forgotten, but Mom knows
she still carries the unbroken engagement, so I've done my best to keep the family together. But
Mom is a woman, and she's so tired. I can bear the physical exhaustion, but who can share my emotional burden?
Who can defend me against the gossip and misunderstandings from my family? Today, Mom
cried , and feels relieved. She doesn't feel like she owes anyone anything, and she no longer feels burdened, because she
has done right by them. Life goes on, right? I believe you understand and support Mom.”

After reading Mom's message, I cried again. This was the first time Mom had so formally considered me part of the family.
A member of the family talked to me, and in her heart, I had become a sensible child, a
child she could confide in and who could understand.

I leaned against the kitchen doorway, quietly watching my mother busy preparing dinner. For the first time, this familiar
figure felt so warm and dear, yet suddenly it felt so unfamiliar. I felt that this was no longer the mother who busied herself with my
daily needs, but a woman who had endured more than ten years of suffering. This woman
longed for understanding and needed comfort.

I stood there silently, watching my mother's every move, not missing a single subtle action.
The afterglow of the setting sun slanted in through the small kitchen window, illuminating my mother. I could clearly see the fine, glistening beads of sweat on her slender, white
neck . The light shone through her floral chiffon dress
, clearly revealing the outline of her body beneath from behind. It was a hazy beauty, and I must admit it was a
beauty that could stir the primal instincts of a 16-year-old boy.

Realizing my presence, Mom suddenly turned and stared at me, who was standing there dumbfounded. I still can't quite describe
what that look was like. I only remember frantically telling her in a timid voice that I had read her
message and then looking back at her with a gaze I had never felt before. Mom gripped the edge of the kitchen counter with both hands,
leaned back slightly, tilted her head back, and stared blankly at the ceiling. Suddenly, her breathing turned
into sobs, and two streams of tears slid down her cheeks. I understood that this was another release for her, a release that came
from facing her son who could understand her, which would make her completely relieved. I could no longer control my emotions
and rushed over to hug my crying mother. I believe this was extremely rare in the family education environment of the 1980s.
In my heart, this was an embrace that broke down communication barriers between my mother and me, an
embrace that removed the awkwardness between mother and son, so it was a reassuring and warm sweetness.

But as mentioned earlier, this embrace brought me, a 16-year-old boy, much more than that.
A primal instinct erupted from my subconscious. I clearly remember my body trembling, my mind
a complete mess. The only direct sensation was the intense, faint fragrance emanating from my mother
, strongly stimulating my sense of smell. My chest pressed tightly against her rising and falling breasts. There were no words, no movements,
no eye contact. After her breathing calmed, my mother gently pushed me away and continued her unfinished dinner.
I went to the table and sat down alone.

That night, I had my first nocturnal emission.

I believe in destiny. I've
often had thoughts about certain things, but they were just thoughts, especially about things that society avoids.

The days that followed were uneventful. I was completely able to control myself from doing or even thinking about it
. I thought that perhaps that scene would be forever buried deep within, never to resurface. But as mentioned before, fate's
brush is destined to leave a longer and deeper mark on your life, one that we cannot resist. One day, my mother suddenly
said that she needed to renovate the interior of her old house, which was over ten years old, and that we needed to move to her colleague's house temporarily for about
a week . Actually, the old house of that aunt was not spacious either. The aunt's father gave up his original
master bedroom for my mother and me, and the old man moved to another small bedroom. The old man did ask if it was
inconvenient, and if it was, he would go back to the countryside to stay for a few days. But considering that it was someone else's house after all, it was better for one of them
to stay , so he said, "It's okay, it's just a few days, we can make do,
no need to trouble yourself."

I clearly remember that day was August 3, 1986. It was the first time I
had slept in the same bed with my mother since I can remember. It was a sweltering night. We gave the only electric fan in the aunt's house to
the old man . The house was built in the 1960s and there were no bathing facilities in the bathroom. Most people
still went to the public bathhouse to take a bath, and in the summer, they could only wash themselves in the house. My mother and I sat on the bed, chatting idly
while hoping for the impossible coolness to arrive. Eventually, drowsiness overcame everything. My mother told me to get the only bottle of hot water in
the kitchen . I knew what she was going to do,
so I slipped out into the hallway. Listening to the sounds of my mother washing up inside, the suppressed memories of days ago flooded back into my mind. My heart pounded
, and my blood surged through every corner of my body. Suddenly, I heard
my mother knocking on the door.

"Put the rest of the water back in; Grandpa might need it. You can come back and wash up too; the water's still warm," my mother said, handing me the thermos through
the crack in the door. I suppressed my excitement and softly hummed in agreement. The moment my mother opened
the bedroom door , my instinctive shyness and already excited heart prevented me from meeting her gaze
. While drying her hair, she said, "Just use that water to dry yourself off before bed, it's getting late."

"Okay."

"After you're done washing, hang your clothes on the rack on the bed. I'll wash them tomorrow," she
said, continuing to dry her hair.

"Okay."

On the bed were the clothes my mother and I had changed out of after our shower. But as I hung them up, my mother's close-fitting underwear
stirred my body, which had calmed slightly from the shower. In 1986, a bra was considered extremely revealing by most Chinese
women ; only women with open minds dared to wear it,
yet they still had to endure gossip and accusations of being immoral. I remember it was a now-extinct "Aihua
" brand bra with a side clasp, simple floral embroidery on the cups, no padding, no underwire, and certainly no lace,
but it was enough to make me tremble at that time.

"After you're done washing, turn off the light and go to sleep," my mother said softly.

My mother lay on one side of the bed, and I lay on the other. That night, I had another nocturnal emission in my dream.

If the excitement of the first night finally subsided in the darkness and quiet, then the second
night was as if heaven had completely shattered the barriers I could resist. The heat was still
unbearable the excitement returned, my mother and I lay on opposite sides, and I gradually calmed down in the darkness.
However, the thunder and lightning in the middle of the night pushed my mother and me, like a plot from a novel, into that
corner of human relations and social taboos. It seemed that heaven was using this weather to foreshadow everything that was about to happen, and my
heart was etched with a deep scar, just like the sky that was struck by lightning that night.

I don't know what time it was, but a sudden gust of wind and torrential rain rushed into the house, waking my mother and me.
We got up together, closed all the windows, and lay back down. The closed windows kept the rain and wind out,
but the house felt stuffy and hot, like a sealed can. The dazzling lightning and deafening thunder made it impossible
to fall asleep. My mother and I, who had been sleeping on opposite sides, kept tossing and turning, getting closer and closer, and we inadvertently
made physical contact. Neither of us avoided it; it all felt so natural. Finally, my mother
spoke.

"Can't sleep? Are you hot?" she asked, reaching for a palm-leaf fan from the bedside table.

"Yes, it feels so stuffy," I replied.

"Yes, come closer, and I'll fan you."

"Okay," I moved closer.

"Feeling any better?" Mom asked.

"Yes."

"Just bear with it for a few days. Once the house is all sorted out, we'll go back, and then we'll have an electric fan," Mom
said, continuing to fan herself.

"Let me fan you for a bit, Mom. Are you tired?" I said.

"It's okay, I used to fan you to sleep like this when you were little, Mom's used to it," Mom said.

Although she said that, I could feel her fanning frequency slowing down; Mom was tired.
I raised my arm and grasped her smooth, white wrist.

"Stop fanning, Mom," I said.

"It's okay," Mom said.

Although she said that, Mom didn't insist. She let my hand rest on her wrist, and that brief
skin-to-skin contact instantly made my blood rush, that unstoppable force taking over my brain again. I hugged
Mom.

"Aren't you hot?" Mom said, pulling away slightly.

I didn't say anything, just held Mom like that, preventing her from strongly pulling away. Mom stopped
moving, and we were almost face-to-face, facing each other, able to feel each other's breath. At that moment,
the fragrance of Mom's body strongly stimulated my sense of smell again. It was an irresistible force. Without
inner struggle, without fierce judgment, that force pressed my lips to my mother's soft lips. I
didn't want to relinquish the burning sensation of our lips meeting, but my tongue involuntarily darted out to explore the depths of my mother's body.
I vividly remember my mother's lips opening and closing hesitantly and slowly.
When my tongue touched the tip of hers, the unique maternal scent emanating from her mouth intoxicated me. I sucked, licked, and swallowed
, while my mother accepted me with complete passivity and tacit acceptance.

In that state, one is lost and confused, so I don't know how my hands slipped inside my mother's
clothes and grasped her breasts. My frail mother possessed a pair of full and elastic breasts.
When I held them, they felt smooth and moist. I could clearly feel the erect nipples in my palms; gently
pinching them felt like kneading water and cotton, making me hesitant to caress them. I could only gently cherish my mother
's delicate breasts with my equally tender fingers. Unlike touching my mother's breasts, I was fully aware of
how her panties had slipped off her body. To be honest, I had absolutely no courage or boldness to touch my mother's most private parts.
But lovers in the throes of passion are always oblivious to everything else. My burning desire to enter her made me entwine my entire
body around hers.

I didn't know how to get close to my mother to extinguish and release my energy. Sometimes I would lie on top of her body,
passing her warmth, and
sometimes I would tightly embrace her slender waist, feeling her softness. Clinging to my mother like glue, I never stopped stretching and wriggling, continuously rubbing and pulling. But it wasn't until her soft yet
slightly prickly pubic hair tickled my lower abdomen that I realized her panties had slipped down to her ankles. My mother's slender, white
legs were naturally and obediently spread apart. I believe that any
boy without sexual experience would never forget the sight of her private parts exposed to the light. Thick, triangular pubic hair covered her entire mons pubis, and
her dark red labia were slightly parted, revealing the pink flesh inside. Her clitoris, like a bud or calyx, was tightly wrapped between the
labia, and silky secretions dripped slowly from her vaginal opening.

My mother was 37 years old that year, the same age as my current partner.
Of course , especially since my mother had been divorced for over ten years. I reiterate that my description above is my genuine
feeling at the time, and contains no disrespect or lewdness towards my mother whatsoever. I entered my mother's body. I cannot
describe the feeling at that moment. It was like you, who were burning up, plunging into a clear spring, like you, who were extremely thirsty, taking your
first sip of iced drink, like you, who were about to freeze, being placed in a warm embrace, like parched and cracked fields encountering
sweet dew. My mother and I, or more precisely, a 16-year-old boy and a 37-year-old woman, possessed each other.

Throughout the entire process, my mother didn't make a sound. Even the moment I entered her body, she
only furrowed her brow slightly. I now fully understand my mother's feelings at that time. She was conflicted,
nervous, and confused, but she also needed it. As I vigorously enjoyed the silky smoothness inside my mother's vagina,
the "plop" sounds caused by repeated thrusting embarrassed her. She tried her best to raise her waist to reduce my
room to move in and out, or she tightly hooked her legs around my buttocks to prevent me from moving too much. I believe that she didn't want to see
any of her son's movements on her body at that time. She seemed to prefer the grinding of my penis inside her vagina. This is the contradictory combination of my mother and a 37-year-old woman, because I also felt the pleasant expression on her face and the writhing deep inside her vagina
when my hot and huge penis filled her vagina. Amidst the cacophony of thunder and lightning outside, my mother and I completed our first union. After I ejaculated entirely into her vagina and uterus, she simply reached for a few pieces of toilet paper to cover her private parts. She didn't want to get up ; she didn't want anyone to see any unnecessary movements that signaled the end of our lovemaking. She had lowered the last line of defense for a 37-year-old woman, yet she still upheld her dignity and reserve as a mother. I understood and respected her. The lust of a 16-year-old boy is as fierce as a flood. At The rain had stopped, and the morning sun weakly streamed into the room. Perhaps this light alerted my mother; she suddenly pulled the sheet over her chest and tried to slip off me , but my lust was already high, and I clung tightly to her buttocks, refusing to let her go.

Seeing the strange look in my mother's eyes—a mixture of regret and shame—I stopped moving, panting as I lay on top of her. My
engorged penis was still completely enveloped by her vagina. I turned my head away, unable to meet
her breathing calmed, I withdrew from her body. I lay quietly on one side of the bed, listening to
the rustling sounds of my mother dressing.

"Get up and wash your face. We'll go downstairs for dinner later," my mother said softly as she dressed.

"Okay," I replied.

The moment I got off the bed, my mother lifted the sheet and quickly rolled it up. I knew she didn't want
to see the mess; she wanted to clean up any trace of last night. In the bright sunlight, she was still a mother
.

When my mother and I went out, the old man from that house was already pacing in the hallway. He waved when he saw us
.

"You two must not have slept well last night; you were quite noisy," he said, laughing heartily.

I knew he was referring to the weather last night, but my mother's face flushed instantly.
She seemed to have touched a nerve. "Hmm, it's alright," she replied, quickly walking towards the door.

I don't need to elaborate on the following days; the days spent in the rented room ended with our heavy breathing every night
. Back in my own newly decorated home, sleeping in a separate room from my mother, things returned to
normal. On the surface, my mother didn't show the ambiguity I had anticipated; instead, I was the one who couldn't look
her in the eye and seemed a little awkward. Perhaps this interlude was over, that's what I thought at the time.
But having already experienced the body of a mature woman, I always fantasized about my mother at night.
The restlessness of adolescence prevented me from being at peace, but respecting my mother's wishes still took precedence, allowing me to
suppress my terrible desires.

Time quickly passed, and the summer vacation was coming to an end. Next semester, I would be a first-year high school student, and I
was preparing diligently. However, the visit of two children from my grandmother's hometown once again disrupted
the atmosphere . Back then, city high schools could select outstanding junior high school graduates from various counties within the province to enroll. Two
boys one a year older than me and the other two years older, were sent from my mother's hometown in advance to prepare for enrollment,
so they stayed at my house for a few days. According to the generational system in my hometown, I should call them "brother," and they should call my mother "aunt."

Although they came from the countryside, we were classmates, so we had some common ground and didn't
feel awkward. Meals were fine, just a matter of having two extra pairs of chopsticks. But when it came to bed at night,
how to divide the four of us into two rooms? My mother, of course, wouldn't allow the two boys to go to her room, but to be considerate of our guests, she arranged for
them to squeeze onto my small bed, and then let me sleep on the sofa in the living room. I didn't say anything, but the
two brothers insisted on sleeping in the living room so I could continue sleeping in my room. My mother, of course, wouldn't agree to let guests sleep on the sofa, so in the end
, I stayed in the living room as she wished. I looked at my mother with a face full of grievance, but I was met with her scolding gaze. Although I was a hundred times unwilling, I still understood my mother; she couldn't let herself sleep in the same bed with her 16-year-old son
in front of outsiders . It was late at night, but I couldn't fall asleep. My eyes were glued to my mother's bedroom door, a surge of impulse rising . What would happen if I pushed open that door? Would my mother scold me? Would she even slap me? My mind raced with these wild thoughts. In the dim light, a figure seemed to approach me. My eyes widened, and a slender , delicate silhouette became increasingly clear. That familiar scent filled my nostrils. I watched silently as that figure stood beside me. The darkness accentuated her fair skin, her disheveled hair partially obscuring her handsome face, and her thin nightgown unable to conceal her alluring curves. My blood began to rush through my veins, instantly activating my primal instincts. I almost trembled as I stood up, facing my mother. "Mom, I don't want to sleep in the living room. I can't sleep," I said in a barely audible voice. My mother smoothed her hair from her forehead, still looking at me without speaking. I took her hand. "Mom, let me sleep in your room," I pleaded. My mother tried to pull her hand away, but I held it firmly. "Come on, Mom, let's go to your room, okay?" I said, pushing my mother towards her room. Her steps were passive, yet seemingly compliant. The moment we entered her room, my excitement reached its peak. I hugged her from behind, inhaling her alluring scent. Through her thin nightgown, my hands roamed over her body—her fair thighs, slender waist, smooth back—finally resting on her firm, full breasts. I caressed, kneaded, and squeezed them with ecstasy. Her nipples quickly hardened, and her desire surged within her. We both collapsed onto her soft bed. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. I couldn't discern her expression, only hear her short breaths. Instinctively, she tried to block me with her frail arms to maintain her maternal dignity, but this resistance was futile and unwilling, as a fierce lust was engulfing her. Finally, as my mother futilely twisted and turned to avoid me , her thin undergarment was stripped off. What a body she was! I don't know what beautiful words to use to describe it. Even though I've been with many women, my current lover can't compare to my mother back then. Looking back now, she was like a flawless piece of white jade, exquisitely crafted by a master craftsman, crystal clear , every curve perfectly proportioned. I'll make no secret of the fact that my 37-year-old mother was a rare beauty. Completely enveloped by desire, she lay panting on the soft bed, letting me kiss every inch . When my lips met hers on her beautiful cheek, she accepted my tongue very slowly, as always. She never kissed me deeply, never actively sucked, only lightly touched my tongue. I think this was her very instinctive reaction, because she knew there was no romantic love between us, only the love between mother and son . During lovemaking, a woman's genitals are always what a man most urgently wants to explore. Following my mother's smooth thighs , my tongue wandered closer to her most private area. Her panties weren't yet off, and my mother instinctively gripped the waistband tightly with both hands, protecting her last line of defense with a woman's innate shyness. I stopped, staring intently at my mother's genitals with burning eyes. Unlike most other women in 1986, whose views...

My mother, now more open-minded, dared to wear close-fitting panties. I remember they were a light pink, low-rise cotton
pair, the small fabric tightly hugging her curving hips. Through the gap between her slightly parted legs, I could clearly
see damp patches of saliva soaking into the crotch. The tight cut couldn't completely cover her thick
pubic hair; the tightness accentuated the outline of her vulva. I reached out to grab her
wrist, trying to pull away her protective gear, but she stubbornly resisted with her weak arms.

I knew she was doing this to express her inner
helplessness and struggle as both a mother and a woman. She also knew it was ultimately futile; she was destined to expose
herself and accept her son. As the panties that covered the woman's entire secret were slowly
slid off, my mother covered herself with her crossed hands, revealing her feminine instincts once again, as if telling me that I
could stop. My mother hesitated and was uncertain, but I clearly saw her abundant secretions dripping uncontrollably from her
dark red vulva. At that moment, my excitement reached an uncontrollable point, and my engorged penis swelled to its limit. More
than ten days later, I entered my mother's body again. My urgent thrusting made my mother uncomfortable. She didn't want
her son to release his sexual desire on her so roughly. What she wanted was a slow, unassuming intercourse, without giving her
any awareness of her being sexually active. Perhaps only in this way could she reconcile the contradictory
feelings of being both a mother and a woman.

I slowed down the pace, pushing in slowly each time. This allowed my sensitive glans to savor
every detail of my mother's vagina. I always like to compare my current lover with my mother. Both have soft
genitals, but my mother's is tighter and gives me a more gripping feeling. Perhaps it's because my mother is relatively tall
; I can barely touch the so-called clitoris at the bottom of her vagina. I gently lifted my mother's waist with my arm, signaling
her to raise her hips to accommodate my penetration, but my mother pushed my hand away, telling me nonverbally
that she was averse to having sex with her son in that way. Helplessly, I withdrew my hand, but my inner
longing for my mother's clitoris made me anxious. I lifted my mother's slender legs and tried this position for the first time to
explore the depth I desired.

My mother naturally knew my intentions. As mentioned before, she couldn't accept
having sex with her son in any "lewd" way. So, she used her soft thighs to press down on my shoulders, trying to separate us.
But I had already blocked any of her movements, and my swollen glans was already pressed against
the entrance of her wet and slippery vagina. Without a moment's pause, I thrust into her body with all my might. It was another unforgettable penetration. I
reached the depth I wanted, and my glans touched my mother's flower core. A tingling sensation flowed from my glans to my whole body,
as if it were another mouth of my mother's, sucking and licking my eager glans. At the moment of contact,
my mother's body began to tremble violently, and she let out an "ah." This was the only time my mother made a sound during our many
sexual encounters.

The sound was a mixture of extreme physical stimulation and extreme mental tension.
The sounds made during intimate contact with her son were unacceptable to the mother. She tried again to break free from my grasp, but her frail
body was controlled by my outstretched arms. Helpless, she bit her lip to suppress
the sounds she felt shouldn't be making. However, the intense, electric shock-like stimulation made it impossible for her to control the spasms in her body.
With each thrust to her clitoris, she tried to lower her hips to avoid the almost unbearable tingling and itching. Her
hands gripped the sheets beneath her helplessly, trying to maintain her composure. She refused to
show her pleasure in front of her son to preserve her dignity as a mother. Perhaps she could still maintain her
posture and not reveal too much, but she couldn't control her hormones. Mucus seeped from the inner walls of her vagina,
flowing out with each thrust of my penis. My penis felt as if it were coated with a layer of white cream, incredibly smooth. A "sizzling"
sound appeared rhythmically with the rise and fall of my body.

I kept increasing my pace because I was really enjoying
the full . Suddenly, my mother's hands, which were tightly gripping the sheets, loosened and then quickly tightened again, making a pulling motion.
Every time I thrust in and out, I felt like I was going to pull back and dodge, but my mother's buttocks suddenly lifted up. This sudden
movement made my glans press firmly against my mother's clitoris. My mother's body trembled violently, and her buttocks began
to move vigorously to meet my insertion, as if to completely swallow my penis. I was startled by this sudden change and
looked up at my mother. At this moment, my mother's cheeks were flushed, and fine beads of sweat were seeping from the tip of her nose. Her brows were furrowed and relaxed, and her rapid
breathing became panting. I started to get nervous and didn't know what was going on. I stopped moving and released
my mother's legs that were on my shoulders, but my mother did not stop. She actively moved her plump buttocks up and down, stroking my
penis that was still in her tender vagina, and the stroking motion became faster and faster.

Suddenly, Mom's slightly bent legs straightened and kicked out, then quickly pulled back and wrapped around my
waist, hooking me tightly between her fair, soft thighs. My glans could clearly feel Mom's
vagina contracting and relaxing rapidly and rhythmically. A warm, gush of fluid gushed from
deep within , moistening my glans. Accompanying this gush, Mom's body convulsed rhythmically. I watched
this unprecedented movement, my entire body stiff except for my penis inside Mom's vagina. This
was the first time in my life I had witnessed a female orgasm. As Mom's trembling subsided, she relaxed completely,
lying there quietly until my semen once again flowed into the womb that had nurtured me. After an orgasm, a woman is exhausted. When my penis withdrew from Mom's vagina, she did not wipe her genitals
as before . Instead, she remained motionless in that position, her spread thighs exposing her entire vulva, letting the mixture of vaginal fluid and semen flow freely. Her labia, engorged from friction, remained pressed together as they had during intercourse , revealing the tender flesh beneath. Her once soft and thick pubic hair, now soaked, clung haphazardly to her lips. Looking at a feeling I still can't quite describe—was it pleasure? Satisfaction? Guilt? I truly don't know. At 16, I naturally didn't understand any sexual techniques, but simply repeating that monotonous action...

This was enough to bring extreme pleasure to my mother, who hadn't experienced lovemaking for over a decade. I lay on my side, nestled in
her arm , my cheek pressed against her breast. Because of nephritis during her pregnancy, my mother had never breastfed me, and
as a result, her breasts still retained their youthful shape—white, soft, yet firm and perky. I couldn't help but
open my mouth and suckle her nipple to compensate for my childhood lack. My mother seemed to sense my desire and naturally put
her arm around my neck, pulling me into her embrace. Although our sex made her truly
a woman , throughout the process, my mother felt repressed, restrained, and unable to fully open herself up.
Compared to sex, she seemed more willing to accept me snuggling in her arms and suckling her nipple. Although physiologically
it was sexual contact, from her perspective, she considered it motherly love, and she could openly
enjoy my caresses. Neither my mother nor I cleaned ourselves after sex; instead, we lay there embracing each other
on the messy bed. That night, it was the first time since birth that I fell asleep with my mother's nipple in my mouth.

When my mother and I woke up, the sun was already high in the sky. My mother gently pushed me away from her embrace and started getting ready
, while I lazily remained in bed.

"Get up and go wash up," my mother said softly, wrapping herself in a piece of the bed.

"I want to sleep a little longer," I replied.

"Go wash up first, then go back to sleep. I'll tidy up the bed."

"Okay, are you going to wash up, Mom?"

"Bring me a basin of warm water when you're done."

"Okay."

When I finished showering and brought the water to my mother, the room had already been cleaned, and she was sitting on
the edge of the bed waiting for my water.

"Mom, why didn't you just go to the bathroom to wash?" I asked.

"The bathroom door has glass, so people outside can see in. There are strangers in the house, so it's not convenient," my mother said.

"Oh." Still sleepy, I lay back down in bed.

"Go outside for a while, Mom will wash up," my mother said.

At the time, I truly didn't understand why my mother would let me go out after we had already been so intimate.
Looking back, it might have been due to a woman's innate shyness, but more likely, it was because my mother wanted to maintain her image as a mother.
At night, she could use the cover of darkness to reveal her deepest female instincts, but she simply couldn't accept the daytime light illuminating
every . I don't think my mother was deceiving herself;
she was purifying our sexual relationship, keeping it far removed from promiscuity, so that her conflicted heart could find relief and
comfort .

Lying in bed, I suddenly thought of my two older brothers from the countryside who lived with us.
What would they think if they got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and found I wasn't sleeping in the living room? I was sure they wouldn't sleep in
the same bed as their mother. As teenagers, what would they think of her? Do all kids
at the age always observe women from a sexual perspective, like I did? Sure enough, a few days later,
their whispered conversation confirmed my suspicions. Just before dawn, my mother and I finished our second sexual encounter that night.
As usual, she asked me to get her some hot water to wash her genitals. As I passed through the living room, I noticed my bedroom light was on
and I could hear them whispering. I quietly stood at the door and overheard their conversation.

"School starts in a few days, and I'll be eating at the school cafeteria again," the older brother said.

"Yeah, the food at the school cafeteria is definitely not as good as Auntie's cooking," the older brother said.

"Of course, Auntie is not only a great cook, but she's also quite beautiful, don't you think?" the younger brother said.

"Hmm, compared to other women her age in our village, Auntie is definitely more beautiful, and her temperament is a hundred times stronger,"

the older brother said.

"Hmm, I really like listening to her talk; her voice is so sweet and gentle, it seems like she'll never get angry," the younger
brother said.

"Haha, of course, you think they're all like your mother, yelling at you at the drop of a hat?" the older
brother said.

"Of course, the village women can't compare to the city women," the younger brother said.

"What do you think is beautiful about her?" the older brother asked.

"Every part of her is beautiful," the younger brother said.

"Beautiful in every way? You talk like you've seen something before," the older brother said.

"Hehe," the younger brother laughed.

"What are you laughing at? Did you really see something?" the older brother said.

"You're the worst one, I think you're the one who loves staring at Auntie the most, don't think I don't know,"

the younger brother said.

"Hehe, I like her calves, so slender and white, I really want to touch them," the older brother said.

"Hmm, have you noticed something about Auntie that's different from other rural women? I mean, what she wears," the younger
brother said.

"Of course it's different, it's more fashionable," the older brother said.

"I'm not talking about that. Didn't you notice that Auntie has a few clothes that women in our village don't use anymore?" the younger brother
said.

"I didn't pay much attention. What?" the older brother said.

"I only recently learned what it was from a book," the younger brother said.

"What is it? Tell me," the older brother said.

"Actually, I noticed it as soon as we arrived. That day, Auntie was wearing a thin white gauze blouse," the younger brother
said.

"Yeah, what's so strange about that?" the older brother said.

"I'm not talking about the blouse. Through the blouse, there was something that looked like a woman's vest but wasn't a vest," the younger
brother said.

"Oh, what? I didn't look closely," the older brother said.

"It's the two narrow straps hanging from her shoulders, which occasionally peek out from her shoulders," the younger brother said.

"Oh, maybe it's some kind of vest," the older brother said.

"No, I found it later among the clothes she hung out to dry. It wasn't a vest at all," the younger brother said

. "Then what is it?" the older brother said.

"The book says it's called a bra, also known as a bra or brag, and it's a close-fitting garment to prevent women's breasts from sagging," the younger brother said.

"Oh, the women in the village never wear them?" the older brother asked. "

No, I've never seen one, not even a young woman in her twenties who cares about her appearance," the younger brother said. "You know quite a lot," the older brother said. "I just found out too, hehe," the younger brother said. "But I heard from the villagers that my aunt didn't seem to breastfeed; she had some kind of illness that prevented her from doing so," the older brother said.

"Oh, no wonder those breasts are so perky and full, they've never been breastfed before," the younger brother said.

"Yeah, especially when she wears that white shirt, her breasts are so swollen that the buttons on her chest can barely be fastened
," the older brother said.

"Yeah, they're so tight, I feel so uncomfortable for her, haha," the younger brother said.

"I heard that breasts that haven't been breastfed have pink nipples," the older brother said.

"How would I know? I've never seen them. The women in the village who breastfeed are all dark-skinned, they don't look good,"

the younger brother said.

"Hey, Auntie is so fair-skinned, and she's never breastfed, so her nipples must be pink," the older brother said.

"What's wrong with you? You want to breastfeed your wife someday, haha," the younger brother said.

"You don't want to? Let's not talk about who's who, we're all about the same age, it's not normal not to want to," the older brother said
.

"Speaking of which, I just remembered, have you noticed our little brother?" the younger brother said.

"What's wrong, what did you find out this time?" the older brother said.

"I've found him missing from the living room several times when I woke up in the morning," the younger brother said.

"Where did he go?" the older brother asked.

"Where else could he go? To his aunt's room, of course," the younger brother said.

"You mean he slept with his aunt?" the older brother asked.

"Maybe," the younger brother said.

"Oh, really? He's so old," the older brother said.

"Kids in the city are all spoiled, who knows?" the younger brother said.

"Hmm, then do you think he might…?" the older brother asked.

"Hehe, we're thinking the same thing," the younger brother said.

"If it were me sleeping with a woman like my aunt, I definitely couldn't stand it," the older brother said.

"Who could stand it? I couldn't stand it either," the younger brother said.

"Don't talk about that, it's not good to gossip about someone you're staying with," the older brother said.

"Hmm," the younger brother said.

After hearing all this, my head was a mess. I lay on my bed all day thinking about what they said. My mother probably
sensed something was wrong and asked me what was wrong. I said nothing was wrong. I knew what kind of blow these words would
cause her if I told her. The reason I wrote the above dialogue is simply to tell everyone that everyone
has a dark side. I am the kind of person who thinks and acts on my thoughts, but from a human nature perspective, we
cannot simply use worldly methods to divide good and bad people.

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Six

High school is different from junior high school. The interval between each public holiday is one month. My mother's business is getting busier and busier and she
can't find time to go to school to see me, so we rarely have the chance to meet. As for the affair, based on the above text, I think everyone
understands that my mother was always hesitant and worried about my relationship with her. She would never actively pursue or
indulge my desires. Of course, I admit that if I strongly insisted, I believe my mother would have yielded. However, every time I went home, I
saw my mother's busy and tired figure, so I controlled myself, even though it was painful and agonizing.

I don't know exactly when my mother went through with the divorce proceedings with my father, and this didn't
affect me much. After all, I have little memory of my father; he only played a virtual role in the family
.

My mother's remarriage was also arranged by my maternal grandfather, through an acquaintance. The man was from Fujian
, two years older than my mother. He came to Jiangsu with my mother when he was very young but had never married. He used to work in
a before resigning. I didn't find out until the wedding was about to take place. My mother asked an aunt to explain to me
, saying that she was mainly worried about affecting my studies and that my mother was very tired from running the business alone. She also said that after the wedding, my mother would live with
me, etc. The wedding was held on the 16th day of the first lunar month in 1987, which was also
the last . Because the groom's ancestral home was too far away, the ceremony was held at
my maternal grandfather's house, essentially meaning my grandfather had taken in a son-in-law. Since it was his second wedding, the only guests that day were the families of my five uncles. There wasn't
a formal ceremony; everyone had a reunion dinner to acknowledge the new family member. The not-too-lively day passed
quickly and my five uncles returned to their respective homes. After dinner, my grandfather,
exhausted from a long day, invited me to rest with him. Deep down, I couldn't accept my mother going
into . I stammered that I wasn't sleepy. My mother, sensing my hesitation, stood up and said,

"Dad, this child is always busy at night, don't let him disturb your rest. Let him stay with me."

She then gave the man a meaningful look, and he agreed.

"It's alright, Dad, I'll sleep in your room. Let the child stay with his mother,"

my mother said to the man, without saying anything as my grandfather got up and went back to his room.

"You should go early too. Keep an eye on Dad if anything happens tonight."

"Okay." The man then followed Grandpa into the house.

Mom and I sat quietly at the dining table, neither of us speaking. The air in the room seemed to freeze. I
'm sure my face was filled with hurt and a longing for Mom's comfort. Finally, Mom stood up and said,

"Want to sleep? If not, Mom will stay with you a little longer."

I knew Mom was giving me an out, so I understood and changed the subject.

"Mom, it's so cold in the countryside. Won't we get cold tonight?"

"It's okay, we'll warm up under the covers. Come on, let's go to sleep."

I followed my mother into another bedroom—or rather, her new room. It was an old house that had
just been painted, and the furnishings were all newly made tables and chairs. The bright red "double happiness" character above the bed
was particularly eye-catching under the light. The gossipy aunties had already made the bed during the day. The bright red double quilt and
pillows seemed to foreshadow everything that was about to happen. My mother reached under the covers and took out a hot water bottle, handing it to me.
"Give it to me," she said. "Take this to warm your hands." I paced around
the room "Are you feeling better?" Mom asked. I nodded, still shivering. Mom said again, "Go to bed quickly
, just cover yourself with the blanket."

I remember each time I took off a piece of clothing, the biting cold made me shiver.
It wasn't until I was snuggled into the warm blankets that I slowly recovered. I looked at Mom from under the covers and said, "You should sleep too, Mom." "Yes, sleep,"
Mom said, walking to the wall and turning off the light. Although the light was off, the room wasn't dark because
the bright moonlight of the 16th of the first lunar month pierced the room. Mom seemed to... Noticing this, after removing her heavy outer
coat, my mother, dressed only in thermal underwear, crawled into bed. I stared intently at her every move. I
wondered if my mother, who always slept in her pajamas, would really sleep fully clothed like this. Sure enough, after only
a few minutes, she fumbled under the covers and took off her thermal underwear. The moment she pulled the clothes out
of the covers , my heart suddenly started racing. The desire that had been dormant for almost half a year began
to surge within me again. My mother, wearing only a bra and panties, released a large amount of her unique body scent, especially in this closed and
warm bed.

Overwhelmed with excitement, I found myself trembling uncontrollably. My trembling alerted my mother, who reached
out touched me, asking, "Still cold?" I nodded and shook my head helplessly. Seeing that I was alright, she
withdrew her arm and said, "Go to sleep." How could I possibly fall asleep peacefully? I lay motionless in my
usual . I admit I had the urge to pounce on my mother and hug her, but
it had been six months since our last sexual encounter. In those six months, I had suppressed that urge countless times, and my mother seemed
to be subtly implying in her calm tone that she could refrain from doing so again, and that she didn't expect her sexual needs to be met in
any way. So I dared not make any rash moves. But primal desires drove me wild,
repeatedly assaulting my already fragile mental state. The winter in the rural north of Jiangsu was quiet, with only the occasional
bark of a dog No one knew that in this new house, on the same bed, wrapped in the same blanket, lay
a nearly naked mother and son.

"Mom," I uttered in a pitiful tone.

"Hmm, still not asleep," Mom replied, her back to me.

"Mom," I said uncontrollably, using the tone I used as a child.

Perhaps this tone stirred the maternal love in Mom's heart, for she turned around and said in a gentle voice,

"What is it?" She then reached out and stroked my head again.

"I want... to eat for a while, okay, Mom," I pleaded, my voice almost a sob.

Mom didn't remove her arm from my neck; it remained there. My heart pounded with a mixture of
nervous excitement and anticipation for her answer. I could feel her hand trembling slightly on my neck,
and I knew she was also struggling internally. Finally, desire once again took over our
world, and Mom's fragrant body pressed against my already burning body.

As I mentioned before, what Mom could most readily accept was me suckling her breast; perhaps
it was a kind of compensation for my childhood. My mother's hand pulled me closer, and she gently pressed my
shoulder, signaling me to bury my head under the covers. I naturally complied. In the darkness, I felt
her other hand lift her bra. There were still those full, firm breasts, still those incredibly sensitive
nipples . I opened my still-parched lips and took them in completely. My wet tongue glided around the nipple,
savoring every tiny bump on the areola. My mother's nipple quickly hardened, and I
couldn't help but gently nibble at it. My mother's arm, which was wrapped around mine, trembled slightly with my nibbling.

I think all men are the same; during sex, they won't abandon either breast. My hand
rubbed and squeezed my mother's other breast, and the full, swollen breast yielded to the changes in my hand's movements. As
my lips left my mother's breast and moved downwards, she realized that the memory she didn't want to recall was about to
unfold again. She tried to stop me by tightening her grip on my arm, but I ignored her attempt, as she too was about to be
melted . Finally, under my persistence, she released her already
delicate and weak arms, and instead, she gently placed her hands
on my head, which I was searching for, as if guiding me to touch all her sensitive areas. I kissed almost every inch of her
skin , even leaving faint teeth marks on any of her tender spots.

My mother's body undulated gently in the warm bed, fully enjoying every pleasure her son brought her
. Unlike last time, this time when I pulled down her underwear, she was compliant, because she knew in her heart that
the outcome was already predetermined, so let it happen; she had completely lost control. Many novels
use the words "fragrant" or "scented" to describe the smell of a woman's genitals, but that's
just . In reality, a healthy woman's genitals have a slightly sour, fishy smell; at least I know my mother's
smells like that. Although I had penetrated my mother's body through that area several times before, this was the first time I was
experiencing it with my lips and tongue. I pressed my face, nose, and tongue almost simultaneously against my mother's already moist and
slippery vulva, wanting to use all my senses to experience the
vulva of the mother who gave me life.

I didn't say that part emitted an intoxicating scent, but I dare say that scent could
rapidly arouse a male. My mother, already aroused and her desires were high, couldn't control the abundant
secretions of her 38-year-old body. Streams of viscous fluid kept overflowing from her vaginal opening, no matter how much my lips and tongue sucked, my
mouth was filled with the slippery juices from inside my mother's body. I nibbled at my mother's most tender parts. Her originally
not-so-thick, crescent-shaped labia, engorged with blood, parted slightly under the stimulation of my tongue. After several sexual encounters, I knew,
of course that a woman's most sensitive areas shouldn't be touched directly. So, I only
lightly touched my mother's clitoris with the tip of my soft tongue. But even this extremely light touch caused my mother's entire body to tremble violently. Instinctively,
she pushed my head away, letting me know she couldn't withstand such direct stimulation.

I slowly straightened my body and pressed myself against my mother's curvaceous, tender, and warm flesh. My mother
knew what she was about to receive. She opened her arms and pulled me into her embrace, naturally placing her legs...
With her legs slightly parted, unlike before, this time Mom actively adjusted the position of her hips,
moving her honeypot to the point where my glans could easily penetrate with a simple thrust. I knew that Mom's desire for penetration
had reached its peak. As I entered her completely, Mom's arms wrapped around me tightly, her legs
hooking and pressing against my waist. She seemed unwilling for me to pull out; she wanted to fully enjoy the feeling of being
filled and satisfied.

I waited until Mom's hips lifted slightly and her legs relaxed their hold on me.
Like began my frenzied thrusting. The movements at that moment could be described as rough and even savage, because my lust
had raged at that moment. I no longer cared whether Mom could withstand my onslaught; I only remembered the loud
slapping sounds of our abdomens pressing together. That night, Mom's vagina was tighter, warmer, and more lubricated than ever before
. Mom did not stop my unbridled advances, letting my swollen glans scrape and experience the wetness inside her vagina
.

As my movements gradually calmed down, Mom hugged me again, her hands gently
sliding across my back, as if telling me not to have such violent intercourse. She needed as much
tender ,
Mom's limbs gradually relaxed from their initial stiffness, and she even pressed my head against her chest, letting
me suckle her nipples. Because of the slow rhythm, that intimate moment lasted a long time, and Mom didn't show any tension or discomfort during that
process . Even after I ejaculated, Mom held me close, not letting me
withdraw from her body so quickly.

When I woke up in the middle of the night, Mom was still fast asleep, holding me. Thinking about how Mom had remarried and how I wouldn't see her again for a long time after
returning home and going back to school , I climbed onto Mom again. Sleepy-eyed, Mom
let me do as I pleased.

Although my mother had no desire at this moment, the residual vaginal secretions and semen from the previous night still made it
easy for me to penetrate her again. When I penetrated her, she didn't open her eyes, only gave a soft "hmm"
and then placed her hand on my buttocks. I knew what she meant. I didn't move, just let my
penis remain quietly inside her, enjoying and remembering that tight grip and warm wetness.

Until the next morning when my grandfather knocked on the door, my mother and I were still in our warm bed, not yet awake. We
opened our eyes almost simultaneously. My mother knew my thick penis was still inside her, but she didn't immediately push me away.
Instead, she brought her full breasts to my mouth. After a few minutes, she gently patted my back
a few times and then gently pushed my buttocks away. I looked up at my mother, and she looked at me too. When I
pulled my penis out of her vagina, her gaze remained unchanged. Her eyes told me
that she loved and cared for me. She knew that now that she had remarried, she might never be able to be so intimate with me again. In the morning light,
I watched my mother fasten her red bra, a symbol of her new marriage, and put on her red underwear.

Whether

my mother's married life was happy or not, I have no way of knowing. But that man was just a
fleeting figure in her life. Ten days after their marriage, he died in a famous fire in Nanjing.
There was no affection between them, so it didn't cause my mother much pain. At most, she just sighed that she would have to
face everything alone again. However, her period didn't come on time that month, which greatly troubled her. The doctor clearly
told her that she was pregnant. Of course, my mother could choose to have an abortion, but some busybodies had already
revealed to the man's mother. Later, I heard from my mother's friend that the old woman had knelt down and begged my mother to continue her family
line. My mother was caught in a painful choice. For her, traditional thinking still dominated. She knew that as a wife,
she had already shouldered the responsibility of carrying on the family line. If it weren't for our passionate wedding night, I don't think
my mother would have let a 70-year-old woman beg her so desperately. Helpless, the old woman eventually went to my maternal grandfather.
Under the persuasion and pressure of the two elders, my kind-hearted mother reluctantly agreed to the marriage. Her only request was that the child
would take her surname after birth.

When God created all things, He quietly allowed this seemingly complex natural world to follow certain inevitable laws,
which even thinking humans cannot defy. Sexual activity is the only
way . Although it is the only way, it does not restrict the identities of men and women involved, and as long as the conditions
are met, the formation of new life is permitted. As a member of nature, a mother, of course, cannot control or prevent the embryo from
forming in her body, nor can she choose which man's sperm her egg will combine with. What worries a mother is precisely that
she cannot determine whose flesh and blood the child in her womb is.

I was completely unaware of my mother's pregnancy at first. Anyone with children knows that a woman's body doesn't change much in the first
four months In addition, the weather wasn't very warm during those months, and I wore thick clothes
, so even though I went home once a month, I didn't notice anything. I remember in June, when my homeroom
teacher informed me that I had to participate in a math competition and therefore couldn't go home, I asked someone to send a message to my mother asking her
to send me my allowance for the following month. I wasn't in the dorm when my mom arrived. After I rushed back, my best friend
handed me the money my mom had brought and told me that she left before I put the money down. While he was saying
this I noticed that another roommate had a mysterious smile on his face. I
asked him, a little annoyed, what he was smiling about. He said nothing, but the smile that puzzled and angered me remained. Then
my best friend pulled me aside in the corner of the hallway and explained,

"Your auntie probably suspected something. Her belly is a little protruding. Her smile didn't mean anything by it. Maybe she felt
embarrassed that we're both 17 and her mom is pregnant again, so she wanted to smile when she saw you."

I remember pushing my best friend away, yelling at him for talking nonsense, and
storming back to the classroom. In the following days, although I was busy preparing for my senior year final exams
, my classmate's words kept flashing through my mind.

I will never forget the moment I opened the door to my mother when I came home for vacation. A light blue tank
top covered the body of the young woman before me, and beneath the knee-length skirt were her slender, white legs.
Her nipples, unbraced, stood erect on her full, swollen breasts, which were stretched taut by the thin fabric. Her already noticeably protruding belly told me…
My 38-year-old mother was carrying a new life. She slightly raised her head, her beautiful face
calm, as if she were fully prepared to meet her son's gaze. I stepped aside, past her
in the hallway, and rushed into my room without saying a word. I sobbed,
smashing everything in the room with my schoolbag, tearing at my hair. It was
n't so much as a punishment for my own resentment and anger. It was hard to pinpoint who was at fault, but the pain
was silently borne by my frail mother alone. My frenzy subsided with my mother's soft sobs,
bringing me back to my senses. Did I really need my most wounded mother to comfort me?

For the next few days, I didn't cause any more trouble, but I also didn't communicate with my mother at all. The atmosphere in the house was stagnant and stifling
.

One day, there was a sudden knock on the door, which startled me. My mother had a key. When I
opened the door, I saw my mother's pale face, bloodless and lifeless, her frail body
trembling as she was supported by an aunt. The aunt settled my mother in the room and, as she left, said to me with a tone of
pity and helplessness, "Take good care of your mother. We just got back from the hospital; your mother had an induced
abortion." Watching her leave, my heart ached as if pierced by needles. Guilt and self-reproach
slapped me hard across the face. I stared timidly at my mother's door, unsure how to push it open.

More than a month passed in the blink of an eye. In that month, I experienced the tedium of housework. My frail
mother, under my less-than-attentive care, slowly recovered. Seeing her complexion becoming rosier day by day
brought me some comfort.

I remember it was late afternoon in August, near dusk, and I was sitting alone in the living room reading. Seeing
Mom push open the door and gently walk out, I thought, "I'm going downstairs for a walk." This was
the first time in over a month that Mom had spoken to me on her own initiative, and I was startled and unsure what to do. "Oh,
" I quickly replied.

"Mom, let me come with you," she said, nodding slightly without answering.
As Mom didn't offer to help me, so I could only follow behind, a little timidly. The summer
evening sun had become weak and gentle, and a light breeze carried the air.
Small groups chatted, but Mom and I strolled along, occasionally
nodding to acquaintances we passed. Mom seemed to enjoy this slow walk, and
we didn't return home until nightfall.

"Mom, sit down, I'll cook," I said quickly as soon as I entered the house. "I'll do it," Mom said. "
You rest, Mom," I said again. "I'm fine, it's alright," Mom said, already heading into
the kitchen . To be honest, I didn't really enjoy that dinner. I felt uneasy,
a feeling I couldn't quite describe. While eating, I sat on the sofa
, absentmindedly staring at the words in a book. My mother, who had finished clearing the table, came over and sat beside me. My heart
pounded I felt more nervous than ever before. My mother noticed all of this. She picked up
a fan from the sofa and gently fanned herself. The breeze, carrying her scent, filled my nostrils—
a scent I knew so well. "Catch up on your studies later. You haven't had time to study lately," she
said softly, fanning herself. As she said this, a wave of sadness washed over me, and a few tears fell onto
the pages of my book.

My mother reached out and patted my head in comfort. I sobbed even harder. Perhaps it was
the triggered her maternal instincts; she pulled me into her arms and gently patted my
back.

When I calmed down in my mother's arms, she gently pushed me away and said, "Go to sleep early
." Hearing this, I immediately threw myself into her arms again and said in a spoiled tone, "No, Mom, hold
me a little longer." "Then why don't you rest?" my mother said. "Mom, I'll sleep with you tonight." I really don't know
where got the courage to say those words. As soon as I said them, I suddenly realized that the atmosphere in the room had frozen instantly
. My mother also suddenly stopped patting my hand. I really didn't know what my mother would do at that moment.
I was nervous and even a little scared. "Go wash up. You're all sweaty." A few seconds later, my mother's soft
words dispelled the awkwardness. The male desire in my heart made me understand that this was a kind of tacit consent unique to women, even though
I was only 17 years old at the time.

When I hurriedly washed myself and went into my mother's room, my mother was bending over to tidy up the clothes on the bed.
I stood at the door watching my mother. People say that induced labor is more harmful to a woman's body than postpartum confinement. It is indeed true
. My mother's movements were not as nimble as before. It seemed that every movement took a lot of
effort for her. In the dim light of the room, her frail figure was slightly thinner than before her pregnancy, but her hips,
encased in a sky-blue sundress, appeared so full and rounded. Her calves, peeking out from under the hem,
were as smooth as ever. The armpit hair she inadvertently revealed when she raised her arm looked
so dark and alluring against her fair arms. The biggest change was in her breasts; five months of pregnancy had
given them ample nutrition, making them even firmer than before, and her nipples were particularly prominent under the thin nightgown
.

"Go to sleep," Mom glanced back at me, then picked up the folded clothes and walked away.

"Okay," I replied, lying down on one side of the bed, quietly waiting for the impending storm
. Suddenly, the lights in the room snapped off, and my heart clenched with that sound. In the darkness, I
listened to Mom's footsteps approaching the bed.

The moment my mother's body slipped under the blanket, my blood surged through my veins
, and I felt my cheeks slowly warming. It had been six months since my last sexual encounter with my mother, and in that time,
my testosterone levels had reached their peak, seemingly preparing for tonight's explosion. My hand
slowly approached my mother's body under the blanket until it touched her soft abdomen. My mother didn't avoid my
touch but allowed it to roam over her body. I gently turned her to face me with my arm around her waist
, pressing my head and face against her chest, while simultaneously pulling her body tightly against mine
.

I looked up to find my mother's lips and tongue. As our tongues intertwined, the desire within her began
to slowly rise. My mouth gently traced her cheek, down her smooth neck, and lingered on her full,
firm breasts. Under the teasing of my tongue and the kneading of my hands, her nipples quickly hardened.
Naturally, my other hand lifted her skirt and reached for her most intimate area. A woman's shyness couldn't withstand
the teasing of my fingers. My mother's tightly closed thighs gradually parted, and I placed my entire hand on her protruding mons pubis. My free
middle finger could freely and wantonly touch her genitals. Even through her underwear, I could still feel
the warmth and moisture there. As my fingers rubbed and pressed, the wetness became more and more obvious until saliva overflowed and soaked through her
underwear.

I knew that at this moment, my mother's last line of defense had been completely broken. When her last garment was removed, and her
entire warm body, exuding a captivating aura, was fully exposed before me, I rolled over and straddled her.
An impatient heart urged me to enter my mother's body. I twisted my hips, using my already hot and hard
penis with bulging veins to find the entrance to my mother's jade hole. Just as the head of my penis touched my mother's labia,
my mother be electrocuted and pulled her hips up, pushing my lower abdomen hard with her hand. Just as I was surprised by my mother's actions,
her other hand, which she had been holding, handed me a piece of plastic. At that time, I didn't know anything about condoms , nor did I understand why my mother had that thing. Of course, I now know that it was a family planning product that
my mother received when she remarried . I remember my mother almost twisting her head, closing her eyes, and blushing as she helped me put on the condom. Although we had already had sex three times before, this was the first time she had touched my penis with her hand. Perhaps she was ashamed of such an initiative, but she had no choice. I enjoyed the way my mother's delicate fingers played with my penis. When she was sure I could insert it safely, my mother slowly lay down and guided me with her hand, which was already holding my penis, to her slightly parted vulva. I clearly remember the "plop" sound. With that sound, my thick, hard penis slid in to the root. My mother's head tilted back slightly as I entered, as if she couldn't the sudden fullness in her lower body. The following attack on my mother's body was fierce and unrestrained. I almost exhausted all my strength, rubbing my hard, hot penis against the tender . My mother's legs were tightly wrapped around my waist, enveloping my entire body in her warm inner thighs. I still couldn't help but look down at her genitals. With each thrust, her labia would open and close, her clitoris, erect with excitement, peeking out from beneath her labia minora, a delicate pink. I couldn't help but squeeze it with my hand. This sudden, direct stimulation almost made my mother cry out; her whole body trembled, but she immediately used her hand to stop my teasing, clearly unable to bear it. I must admit that condoms in the 1980s greatly reduced the sensitivity of my glans, because I couldn't feel the gentle nibbling inside my mother's vagina or the smooth, moist sensation from the vaginal walls . I tried different pressures and positions, but still couldn't achieve the pleasure I craved. Even when I collapsed, panting, on my mother's soft body, biting her nipples, I still felt no urge to ejaculate. My mother was also exhausted, but she could only lie there obediently, waiting for my next attack. Exhausted, I could no longer repeat the previous vigorous thrusts , opting instead for slow, gentle movements, though my penis remained hard. I wondered how my mother felt, whether she too was reluctant to continue this exhausting sex that I couldn't finish. She began to support her body with her arms, adopting a semi- arched posture to accommodate my penetration. Seeing this, I simply lifted her body, placing her buttocks on my thighs, and wrapped my arms around her waist, assuming a cross-legged position for intercourse. Throughout the changes in position, my mother never let my penis leave her body, adjusting naturally , perhaps because this made it more comfortable for her. The changed position allowed me to admire my mother's plump, white breasts, and it also made it easier for to use my arms to hook her buttocks. My mother was also able to respond more flexibly to my every move. I buried my head between my mother's two soft breasts and alternately licked her nipples, while my mother gently wrapped her arms around my neck. As time went on, the stimulation made me more sensitive. Although the hymen prevented me from clearly discerning all the changes inside my mother's vagina, I could still clearly feel the slippery wetness during the thrusting process. As the insertion became smoother and the squelching sound gradually increased, I knew that my mother's fluids were beginning to overflow in large quantities, and her orgasm was approaching. I looked up at my mother's face, but she had already tilted her head back, her eyes tightly closed, her arms wrapped around my head, which was resting on her breast. I felt her hips begin to move involuntarily, as if searching for a suitable point of contact between my glans and the inside of her vagina. The movements were becoming increasingly larger and deeper. I stopped in surprise, but my mother ignored me and continued her movements. I knew this was her instinct or unconscious reaction as she approached orgasm. She had forgotten the dignity and restraint she had always upheld as a mother. An irresistible flood of pleasure overwhelmed her. As before, her vagina began to contract rhythmically, and with each contraction, thick, copious amounts of vaginal discharge slowly trickled down between her vagina and my penis. My mother climaxed. But she didn't utter a single moan. From her tightly clenched lips, I knew she was trying hard to control herself. As for me, I really wanted her to make a sound so I could fully enjoy a perfect sexual experience. But from my mother's perspective, I could accept and understand that she still couldn't fully release . After her climax, my mother's body went limp and collapsed onto the bed, allowing me, who hadn't yet ejaculated, to release my pent-up desires on her body. When I finally climaxed, my mother didn't react; she simply touched my head , a strange expression flashing across her face—a mixture of relief, affection, and perhaps some kind of ending… I couldn't decipher it. This was the last time I had sex with my mother. Although I asked her several times afterward, she always firmly refused. I admit I used a lot of erotic descriptions in the above text, but as I said at the beginning, I don't like pornography and even find it disgusting. However, the reason I did this, and the object of my affection was my mother, was…

Because this is a true story that happened when I was a teenager, it will
leave the deepest mark on my life. My mother and I are both upright and cultured normal people, but this
is how it happened. It's an exploration of human nature, a glimpse into the most authentic and profound aspects of humanity.

(The End)

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