Confession letter

Ever since reading the manga "Mother Disqualified? My Son and I's Messenger's NTR Revenge Drama," whenever I see you, I always feel an indescribable itch and impulse in my heart. Your hairstyle, facial features, and body proportions are almost identical to Noriko in the book, making me unable to control my imagination of you being in the context of the manga. Although I am already a freshman in college and can judge right from wrong, the high respect I have always held for you is still no match for the desire to see you fall into depravity with me and show that submissive and infatuated expression that I have never seen before.

Working at a securities firm, as you've gained seniority and age, your dark gray suit skirts have unexpectedly become shorter and shorter, even shorter than some of the newest young women in their late twenties. Your stockings have become increasingly flashy, and I've forgotten how long it's been since I've seen you go to work with your bare legs. The occasional complaints I hear are about how "no matter the age, women always need to rely on their looks to survive." I've even convinced my father that the miniskirts are just a work necessity and not because you're having an affair. Of course, it's been almost seven years since you started using your clothing to attract clients, and you've indeed behaved well and made no mistakes during that time. But ever since my perception of you has become less naive, I've started to interpret things from a different perspective.

Our commuting routes overlap, and we often part ways at your company on Bade Road. Even when you're still far from the company entrance, the security guard at the entrance can't wait to come out and chat with you, trying to bother you. He really wants you to ignore him, but since we were young, we've had a strict family hierarchy: "What elders do, juniors can't interrupt." So he can only watch helplessly as you stand by the main road, trying to maintain a friendly image, unaware that the security guard, male passersby, male students, or taxi drivers with their windows rolled down are eyeing your straight and eye-catching legs. I've wondered if I'm being overly sensitive because I have something to hide, but I'm sure the building security guard was acting strangely. He always waited until you couldn't stand in your high heels for long and then started fidgeting with your right thumb behind your hip, digging into your palm. I don't know what he was thinking, but even if I told you about this one-sided speculation, you wouldn't believe me. In the end, you'd probably just misunderstand where my dirty thoughts came from.

The line between protecting and possessing is getting increasingly blurred. But considering Dad and the good relationship between the whole family, and how you've always treated each other with respect, it's not my place to possess you, nor is it my legal right. But I still hope that you can cross that taboo line with me privately just once. Actually, it's not that I didn't consider your status. This made me feel resistant and disgusted, so I didn't dare to overstep the bounds. Otherwise, when you helped me climb the aluminum ladder to get something, I could have openly and legitimately touched your buttocks and the back of your thighs under the pretense of helping you. Since that's the case, why didn't I just stop? It's because my obsession or impulse towards you has accumulated to a certain depth. So I still chose to take things further with you. The moral constraints left by traditional education have become an obstacle that I have to try my best to overcome. Strictly speaking, this is the beginning of all of this.

So I did something, you could call it a ritual, a ritual to break through my psychological constraints. I tricked you out of the bathroom, pretending I needed to use the restroom urgently. Your still-warm skin-colored stockings, which you'd just taken off, were hanging on the laundry basket. I grabbed them and shoved the crotch area to my nose, naturally ignoring my inner protests, and took a deep sniff. Perhaps I was too excited, because I only smelled the lingering scent of Dove hand soap in the bathroom. A little disappointed, I wanted to try again.

After slowing my breathing, I unfolded the stockings, trying to find which side would absorb the most body odor. I folded them and held them to my nostrils, slowly inhaling. The first breath was still the faded hand soap scent, but the second breath was subtly different—a very faint, almost imperceptible sour, musty smell, easily masked by the nylon smell. Was it the smell of residual urine from your underwear? Or the smell of thick, sticky secretions? Whatever, just knowing that this scent is yours is enough. My lower body is already violently erect, and my whole body is trembling. I'm bursting with excitement, and I can't describe it in words. To give you an example, if you had gone into the bathroom then, we might have reached this stage much sooner.

There's cold water in the bathroom, and splashing my face really helps to calm me down. Looking at the crotch of my stockings, which is already covered with a lot of thick, jelly-like white semen from masturbation, I feel like I've released everything. I really want to tell you that just this feeling is more enjoyable than having sex with my girlfriend at the time, and it gives me an indescribable sense of satisfaction. Later, when I felt no remorse afterward, I knew very well that I had crossed that shackle without hesitation. I could say that I had achieved my goal. Do you remember that day when you asked me why I suddenly started washing clothes? It was because I was going to dispose of the body and "semen." Afterward, I also played a little trick. I tore a long, thin hole in the left calf of that stocking. Because the tear was not obvious, you didn't throw it away as a piece of trash. So, three days later, you wore it again. Before we went out that day, when we were putting on our shoes in the stairwell, I deliberately reminded you that I saw that your left stocking was torn. I was actually confirming this.

Furthermore, if I were to be completely honest, I've actually done many things to you that I shouldn't have done. One of them, as you know, is the act of secretly filming you. One day, while we were checking out at 7-Eleven, a passerby suddenly ran up to you and warned you that there was something in my tote bag on the ground that was filming you. You categorically denied it, saying, "You're overthinking it. This is my son..." I was actually quite startled, but afterwards you pulled me to a secluded corner of the sidewalk and questioned me about what happened. I showed you a motorcycle dashcam in the side pocket of my bag and explained that because the camera was facing upwards, and I was standing behind you while checking out, and you were wearing a short skirt, you were suspected. You were just annoyed and scolded me for not doing things that could cause misunderstandings again. But actually, that person wasn't wrong; the camera was on and filming at the time, and I was filming under your skirt from below. I had been doing that for almost a year.

But I only watched the videos for my own amusement, and I deleted most of them. I guess you might call me incredibly boring, or even want to slap me, but the feeling of underwear hanging on a clothes hanger is different from the feeling of wearing it on you. The latter has your soul and your charm. Besides, you wouldn't let me admire your whole body while you're only wearing underwear, would you? And you walk around the house every day in stockings and short skirts. A few times I wanted to use the excuse of massaging your feet to secretly touch you and take the opportunity to relieve my suppressed desires, but you wouldn't give me the chance. In the end, I had no choice but to use secretly filming you as a way to vent. This isn't something anyone taught me; it's something I learned from a time when we were on the escalator going up on the MRT. You were going up and I was going down when a high school student suddenly squeezed between us. He probably didn't know about our relationship. I saw his backpack on the black escalator step with a flashlight-like object clipped to the opening. It had a mirror on it, and he kept looking around and moving his backpack. I was going to expose him, but I have to say I never thought of that trick before. Before we even reached the first floor, he had already run away. Behind me, I looked at your straight, snow-white, and shapely legs in white stockings under your suit skirt. Even I was tempted, let alone an impulsive teenager. So when I first saw the video of your private parts, which looked like flower buds under your skirt, twisting and swaying as you walked, I honestly found it very exciting.

If you see this, it's understandable that you'll be angry, but I wrote it down to let you know, and it's also proof that I like you completely. Just like a guy who sees his crush on the street, if he doesn't know her, he'll probably have the urge to follow her a few more steps, right? Although my extreme actions have gone far beyond that. After this, what you most want to know but are afraid to know is what happened the night after you attended the last year-end party. At that time, your grandfather was seriously ill and hospitalized, so you and your aunt often took turns taking care of him at night. That's why you didn't go on the company trip to Japan with your dad, saying that the year-end party bonus seemed pretty good, so you decided to drag your tired body to attend. I really didn't think much of it that day, until you called me from the taxi asking me to come downstairs and help you into the house, and that's when I started having some wicked thoughts.

When I helped you up, you still smelled a bit of alcohol. You were upset about missing out on the third prize, so you drank a little too much to relieve your frustration. You even brought back the unfinished red wine. I think your grandfather's condition at the time was the main reason for your stress. You, who care a lot about your appearance, were so confused that you asked your colleague aunt to accompany you in a taxi back. Luckily, you had someone with you, otherwise you might have been easy prey for the driver with ill intentions. Moreover, the company's year-end party was held at the Wugu Industrial and Commercial Exhibition Center. With a little detour there, it wouldn't be difficult for them to take you to a secluded roadside for car sex or to a tall bush for a tryst. You might think I'm just crocodile tears after you know what happened that night. To be honest, although the whole thing was 70% intentional, it was at least 30% accidental. When you sat on the sofa, you covered your forehead and said you were dizzy. You drank a lot of water but still couldn't sober up. You vomited a few times but couldn't throw up. You originally wanted me to help you into the bathroom to wash up. You still remember that, right? But after only a few steps, you went limp, so I had to let you lie back on the sofa bed.

Seeing this, I was truly torn between two conflicting emotions. The reason I hesitated for almost an hour wasn't due to pangs of conscience or morality, but rather my indecisiveness. Firstly, I was afraid you wouldn't be able to handle it if you found out later, and secondly, I was worried that if I missed this opportunity to be alone with you with your legs wide open, I would never have another chance. In the end, what made me finally decide was that your legs suddenly started to slide. Unexpectedly, your knees bent slightly at that moment, and your legs naturally spread to the sides. From below, the posture looked like a flat M, and I even started to have the illusion of feeling warm heat emanating from under your open skirt. With such a seductive posture, given my state of mind and emotions at the time, do you think I could possibly resist?

My mind went blank, and when I came to my senses, I was already panting heavily on top of you, my knees kneeling below your buttocks, my right hand grabbing your skirt and pulling it up to your waist, exposing your bare lower body from your feet to the sheer fabric of your stockings. I used my arms to pull you up from under your thighs, creating a perfect M-shaped leg position. Even with such a violent movement, you showed no signs of waking up, so... I began. I confess I pressed my nose into your vulva and sucked hard several times. It wasn't the sour and sweet taste of lemon, but a stimulating aftertaste that made my heart itch unbearably. I touched and pinched every inch of those long legs that I usually coveted. I don't know how many times I stroked the long, curved curve of your right calf with my palm. You actually blushed at that time, although it was most likely because of the alcohol. It was at this time that the stockings at the crotch of your pants tore. In order to make the edge of your labia wet, slippery, and oily, I pulled down your underwear and vigorously dug and prodded for a while. Maybe I was too rough, because at a certain moment you, who were unconscious, suddenly made a soft "hmm...hmm..." sound. Even now, when I think about it, I really want to ask you if you were really not awake at that time? Seeing this, I had no choice but to quickly and decisively insert myself, and finally I was connected with you again. However, we used to use the umbilical cord, but this time it was the genitals. Before, you nourished me with nutrients, but this time it was me ejaculating for you to absorb.

I've written very explicitly, and there are many details you might not want to know. You might feel ashamed and angry after reading it, but since I'm writing it, I want to preserve it in great detail. Moreover, this is a fact, a major event that changed us. I didn't dare to keep any videos or photos back then, so this is the only way to handle it. Also, writing it can be a way to vent and relive my feelings for you. The excitement of writing and thinking at the same time is similar to masturbation. And if you were really unaware at the time, then letting you know the whole content is equivalent to reliving that night for me. Afterwards, I straightened and brought your white legs together, holding them against my chest. Your position resembled the letter "L." My lower body continued to engage in vigorous piston-like movements with you, the sounds of our flesh slapping filling the living room where we usually spent time together. I never dreamed that I could do it with you so easily. Ironically, it happened on the sofa where I used to lie on as a child and get spanked by you. Moreover, we did it without a condom. The folds, tightness, and lubrication of your vaginal canal made me realize that your body age should be very young. What made me even happier was that, although there was a nearly two-generation age difference between us, under the natural rules of gender—I am male and you are female—no reason created by people of seniority, status, or role could interfere with our union.

I ejaculated quite a bit, and I did it with your legs spread wide, your calves resting on my shoulders, in a normal position. I might have pressed forward a bit too much, so it went in quite deep from top to bottom. At first, it didn't flow out, but later I gently pressed your lower abdomen to help you produce my semen. After it was over, I calmed down and realized that your tattered pantyhose gave me the creeps. Even though I helped you put your skirt back on, put your underwear back on, and there was no particular strange feeling in your lower body, how could I explain those pantyhose? I couldn't think of an excuse, so I gritted my teeth and went for it. After tidying up your clothes a bit, I lay down on the sofa bed and waited for time to pass. I was a little tired but couldn't fall asleep. My memory only goes back to 2 or 3 a.m., and then it's when you woke me up in the morning. I usually only wear underwear at home, so you never thought anything of it. But when you anxiously asked me why I was only wearing underwear, I knew things were about to explode. Seeing my blank, vacant look and speechless expression was probably what made you even more panicked. I remember you touched the hem of your skirt between your legs and immediately covered your mouth with one hand, your eyes wide with shock—I'd never seen that look before. When you got up and rushed to the bathroom, were you saying "Oh my god, oh my god..." as you ran into the room in your master bedroom? Did you feel safer with two doors between you?

At that moment, I only had two thoughts: either flee back to my dorm to avoid trouble or honestly admit it and accept the consequences. Although I really wanted to choose the former, and although I thought it was impossible for you, I was still worried that you might do something stupid, so I stayed. I don't know if you were showering for those two hours. When you finally came out of the living room, I saw a pale and ashen face, even your lips were deathly white. You came and sat across from me, taking a long time to speak. Your calmness was unexpected. Looking at your face, you hadn't cried or shown any emotion; you looked like you were sulking. "The past is the past. Pretend it never happened, understand?" You could say it so coldly, word by word. That was it? A thought flashed through my mind: had you experienced something even worse? I, who had been kept in suspense, wanted to explain, but you stopped me, saying that no one was allowed to mention it again. At the time, I thought everything was over and done with, and I could just consider it a one-time satisfaction. Later, one day when I was back in my dorm, you sent me a message: "Who caused this that day?" The wording was very cryptic, and I didn't quite understand it at first. I thought you probably wanted to hold someone accountable, but Dad had gone back to China, and a few days had passed. I replied to you then: "It wasn't me."

The next time we met was in front of my grandfather's makeshift memorial hall, in front of relatives, my aunt, and family. Your attitude towards me was no different than usual; no one would guess that we had just been intimate. When we were alone, you suddenly became serious and made me swear before my grandfather that I wasn't lying. Then you asked me again about the content of the text message, and of course, you got the same answer. But you felt very guilty because after hearing it, you immediately knelt down before the ancestral tablet, as if begging for forgiveness from the spirit in heaven. It was clear that some people were still full of doubts. How could you have taken the initiative while unconscious? Did you really want to ask? That's why you told me not to bring it up too hastily, making yourself too embarrassed to ask again. But your behavior really showed that "this was the night you most wanted to know but dared not know." Honestly, something happened afterward that really scared me. Even though you didn't say anything and seemed completely nonchalant, I knew your period was almost two weeks late that time. I deduced it from the time the sanitary pads appeared in the bathroom. I admit that calculating your timing was partly malicious, but thankfully you didn't get pregnant, otherwise the truth would have come out. For

the next six months, when we were alone, we still chatted casually, but I had this cold, distant feeling about you. You only recently said it was because you didn't know how to face me at the time, but I was quite depressed about it for a while, and my girlfriend broke up with me during that period. Speaking of which, your attitude towards my dad was a bit too tense back then. Was it because of guilt? And I know you rejected his advances more than once. Your attitude and behavior really raised suspicions. Luckily, he wasn't that sensitive, but he still complained to me that you were acting strangely. Having read so much, I think I've told you pretty much everything. There's a high chance this will be deleted halfway through, but if we weren't already able to let go of worldly norms, I really wouldn't dare tell you all this.

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