Special liniment

Time passed at a leisurely pace, and before I knew it, it was mid-May. These past few days, I'd been applying liniment to my son every evening. The bruises on his back were slowly fading, but I still habitually applied it every night. I noticed that since the last time I cried in front of him, his attitude towards me had softened. As soon as he finished eating, he would go to the bathroom to shower, then, wearing his basketball shorts and shirtless, lie on the sofa waiting for me to finish washing the dishes. What pleased me even more was that my son would proactively talk to me about school, something that had never happened before. I took this opportunity to learn more about my son.

After learning more, I realized how much damage it had done to him by leaving him at home when he was very young, depriving him of maternal love. It made me realize that I was truly not a good mother.

That evening, as usual, my son lay shirtless on the sofa. I came from the kitchen to the living room to apply the liniment to him. Looking at his increasingly broad back and strong waist, a feeling of happiness welled up inside me. My hands roamed over my son's bruises, then over his shoulders—this kid, ever since our relationship improved, has started making demands of me; every time I apply liniment to him, he wants to use me as a masseuse.

Just as I was getting into the swing of things, his phone rang from his room.

He tried to sit up, but then seemed to remember something, lay back down, and turned to me, saying, "Mom, go get the phone for me, see who's calling." I lifted my hands

from his back, held them up, and said, "My hands are covered in liniment, how can I get it for you? Get up and get it yourself." My

son seemed to have something he couldn't say, and still refused to get up, letting the phone ring. I couldn't persuade him otherwise, so I grabbed two tissues, wiped my hands roughly, went to his room, and got the phone for him. It turned out to be a call from his friend. Listening to him chatting on the phone, I started to wonder why my son wouldn't get his phone himself. Thinking back, I realized that every time I applied the liniment to his back, he insisted I take a shower first, otherwise he wouldn't get up. And every time I finished showering, his bedroom door would close.

A little while later, my son hung up and said, "A classmate called, asking if I wanted to go out with him this Sunday."

I hummed in agreement, then continued working on my son's back. My fingers danced across his increasingly broad back. The countryside night was quiet, and it was just my son and me in the living room, so I could hear him occasionally let out a comfortable "hmm."

After I finished applying the ointment, I called him to get up, but he still wouldn't. Frustrated, I went to the kitchen to wash my hands. As I went, I thought to myself, my son always refuses to get up in front of me, even when he was on the phone just now. I wondered what he was up to. I stopped at the door between the kitchen and the living room, intending to see why he wouldn't get up.

On the sofa, my son heard my footsteps and quickly stood up. Only then did I understand why he wouldn't get up in front of me. His lower body had a large tent bulging, his loose basketball shorts were out of shape. I was shocked. My son is growing up; he's at that age where he's starting to feel sexually aroused. Perhaps it was because I applied the ointment that he reacted. I thought to myself that his injury was healed now, and I shouldn't apply it to him anymore, lest he feel so uncomfortable. Just as I turned to wash my hands, I saw my son squatting in front of the sofa, his face buried in it, seemingly sniffing something intensely. He glanced at me after a few seconds, but thankfully I dodged in time. Yes, he was sniffing the spot where I had just been sitting. I peeked out again and saw him lick the sofa with his tongue. Judging from his lips, he seemed to mumble "Mommy" a few times before standing up and going back to his room, his large erection prominently displayed.

I was stunned.

After washing my hands, I gathered my clothes, quickly showered, and returned to my room. Lying on the empty bed, my thoughts were a jumbled mess. I didn't know how to interpret my son's behavior. Perhaps he was just at that age where he was experiencing sexual urges, and it was normal for him to be curious about his mother. But my son's behavior clearly couldn't be explained by curiosity. His erection, the way he licked the sofa I'd sat on—just because of my warmth or scent—what was he trying to do with that bulging thing? That bulge was something he didn't want me to see. And it seemed like he wasn't wearing underwear—what was I thinking? What a despicable child! Why was I thinking about such useless things? The most important thing now was how to properly guide my son, to give him a proper understanding of sex, and to get him a girlfriend? No, no, he's still so young. Our relationship has only just started to improve. I can't bear to give him away to someone else. Besides, judging from that little tent, his penis must be very big and long. A girl his age definitely wouldn't be able to handle it—"Slap!" I slapped myself hard, feeling utterly despicable for thinking about such things. I'm such a failed mother. —Wait, if my son's reaction just now was accurate, then the semen on my underwear must have been his. Good heavens, he actually molested my underwear and ejaculated so much semen on it! And then I remember, I just grabbed this very underwear to change into, and now it's covering my round buttocks and private area.

The thought of my son ejaculating so much semen on this underwear, and me wearing it now, makes me feel strange. It's not the disgust I felt when I first saw the semen, it's just a strange feeling—worry, fear, and a mix of anticipation and unease. Slowly, it feels like a million ants are crawling all over my body. I want to take off this underwear, this underwear that my son ejaculated on. But when my hand touched the waistband, I felt a pang of regret. This is the underwear my son ejaculated on, and I'm wearing it. So, does that mean I've indirectly merged with my son? Ugh, ugh, ugh, how could I think like that? It's just underwear, and it's clean now. My son is still young, he doesn't understand, these behaviors are understandable. My son is still young, but his... well, it seems like he's not small at all... In my head, it's like countless little people are talking, arguing and contradicting each other.

It's past two in the morning, and I still can't clear my mind, my thoughts are a mess, I'm not even wearing my pajamas. I wonder what my son is doing right now, his genitals are so swollen every day, how does he relieve himself, what is he thinking when he does? Thinking about this, my hand involuntarily reaches for my lace panties, and when it touches my crotch, I'm surprised to find that the panties are already soaked with secretions. My fingers feel sticky and slippery on them. I didn't even realize when I became so wet. My mind was so chaotic, I hadn't noticed the changes in my body. I'm such a bad mother, thinking about my son while my body is so depraved.

My fingers press against my soaked vulva through the thin panties, and I realize my desire. Yes, at this moment, my body and mind are empty, I really want a man. For a woman my age, wanting a man isn't shameful. But what shames me is that all I can think about is my son, his every move, his erection. Finally, I have to convince myself that I'm just thinking about him; after all, he's a part of me, a part of me from over ten years ago, so it's normal for me to think about him. And so, in this self-deception, I take out the eggplant I'd chosen and washed the day before yesterday from the drawer. That curved thing—my son's must be much better than this.

I took off my underwear and smelled it against my face. It was covered in the fishy smell of my own vaginal fluid, but I still tried to smell something different. In my imagination, I smelled a strong scent of a young man—my son's scent. I fantasized that when my son was using my underwear to masturbate on his huge penis, he was definitely thinking of his mother, me. Yes, he was definitely thinking of me. If that were true, then Mom would be very happy… After three or four minutes of masturbation, I reached orgasm. This time was different from before; it was more pleasurable than any masturbation I had ever done. Just as I was about to ejaculate, an image appeared in my mind: my son holding me, thrusting into me forcefully, again and again… After ejaculation, the pleasure disappeared. I savored the pleasant moment, but soon guilt replaced the pleasure. I am such a despicable woman, and such a despicable mother. Masturbating is one thing, but to masturbate while thinking of my son is another. How did I become such a person? When did I become such a person?

Tormented by guilt and remorse, I still couldn't sleep. I pulled out my phone and opened WeChat, hoping to find answers. I searched for "mother and son," and many mothers' or sons' accounts appeared. Some were troubled, some resisted, and some accepted it after resisting—there were all sorts of stories. It's true, the world is full of wonders. Thinking about it this way, compared to those who forcibly assault their mothers, a son masturbating in front of my underwear isn't that heinous.

After clicking around randomly, I entered a public account called "Red Beauty in Autumn," a rather strange name. It was full of photos of women around my age, some of whom looked particularly ugly, but the likes and comments were numerous, praising them as "beautiful" and "good-looking." I really don't understand people's aesthetic sense these days. Liking mature women is one thing, but liking such ugly ones is another. If this is considered beautiful, then am I considered a national beauty?

Leaving the tedious "Autumn Fades of Beauty" WeChat official account, I watched some funny videos, which improved my mood considerably, and the guilt I felt before gradually dissipated. Perhaps, there's always some kind of bond between a mother and son; after all, a son is a piece of his mother's flesh, so thinking about it this way is indeed normal.

When I woke up the next day, the sun was already high in the sky. I glanced at the wall clock and muttered to myself, "Oh no," I'd forgotten to get up early to make breakfast for my son. I quickly dressed and went out. I saw my son's bedroom door open, already tidied up inside. He must have already gone to school. Then I thought, his bedroom door seems like his heart; before, he would always close it when he left, not allowing me to enter. Now, it seems to always be open.

On the coffee table, in a conspicuous place, was a note left by my son. I picked it up and saw it scrawled: "Mom, I'm going to school. Buy your own breakfast." I muttered to myself, "He's in middle school now, and his handwriting is still so ugly." But a warm feeling welled up inside me. It seems my son's attitude towards me is getting better and better. Before, he would never tell me what he was going to do, let alone leave a note.

I washed up, put on light makeup, cooked something simple, and then, feeling utterly bored, went to visit Aunt Liu. They had a rare group of people playing mahjong together that day. I watched for a while, but since I didn't understand it, I felt bored and went home to watch TV. After a simple lunch, I took a short nap, but woke up quickly. Feeling like I had nothing to do, I went to weed the vegetable patch in front of the house… All day long, I felt restless. It wasn't until I saw my son come home that I understood why I was so restless and found everything uninteresting. I was surprised to realize how much I clung to him, wanting to see him constantly and feel his presence.

After dinner, as usual, I applied liniment to his skin. Looking at his back, feeling the warmth of his body in my palm, my heart stirred. I tried to control myself and finished quickly. While he was still wanting more, I took a deep breath and said with great determination, "Son, Mom won't apply it for you anymore. Look, you're all better now."

My son didn't say anything, just a soft "Oh." I got up to wash my hands in the kitchen, feeling a pang of sadness. I had no choice but to do this. Looking at my son's vibrant body, my heart was filled with unease. I feared that if this continued, he would become even more obsessed with my touches, and I would become even more infatuated with him, which would only harm him.

When I came out of the kitchen, my son was no longer on the sofa; his bedroom door was closed. I thought he might be sad or resentful, but what could I do? I had to be a good mother, to consider his feelings. At this impulsive age, I had to guide him and prevent him from going astray.

The next day, I felt a little dejected. Thinking about how my son hadn't spoken to me at breakfast that morning felt like a replay in time. My heart ached, and I regretted the words I'd spoken to him the night before. I thought that giving him a simple back rub wasn't a big deal; I would do anything for him if he wanted. But words spoken are like water spilled; I figured my son would be cold towards me for a while longer.

My son didn't return home until six o'clock in the evening. Before that, I had been anxiously waiting for him. I watched him stagger into the house, his clothes ripped open, his pants and shirt covered in mud. Clearly, he had been in a fight again. I rushed over, furious, and demanded, "Why are you fighting again? Can't you just leave me alone?" Without

turning around, he said, "I don't care. You don't want to bother me anyway."

I angrily retorted, "How can I not care about you? Huh?"

He looked up at me and said, "You even complained about putting liniment on me, so don't interfere in my affairs anymore."

Looking at his feigned stubbornness, I felt a pang of hurt. I knew he was a quiet child, sulking. I reached out to pull at his dirty clothes. He tried to pull away, but seeing my red eyes, he couldn't bear it and let me. Sure enough, there was a deep bruise on my son's back. I immediately understood, and choked out, "You really wanted Mom to apply the liniment so badly that you went to fight with someone?"

My son tried to go to his room, but I pulled him back. He protested, "No, no, I didn't! I just didn't like them, so I went to beat them up." His agitation betrayed him. I felt both angry and pleased. I was angry that my son had foolishly gone to fight just to get me to continue applying the liniment, but pleased that he cared about me so much.

I calmed myself down and said, "Don't say anything more. Go take a shower and lie down quietly while Mom applies the liniment."

My son said, "No way! I don't want you to interfere anymore," but his tone was no longer as forceful as before.

I let go of him, sat on the sofa and watched TV. He went to shower and eat, and by then it was already 7:30. He went back to his room and closed the door, making me furious. His stubbornness was so much like mine. I went over, knocked on the door, and said, "Liu Xiangsu, don't push your luck."

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