Mother-son sexual desire

"You say, it's impossible to ask a woman not to love? God created her to love and to
sustain this world." — Bing Xin

"Only when a man sees me as a source of sexual desire does he truly feel his own existence." — Jane Fonda
(

I) Longing Makes One Grow Old

What mother in the world could have given me over twenty years of love like that of husband and wife, before her life
ended peacefully in her sleep?

She seemed to have a premonition, knowing her days were numbered, and wrote me a letter, telling me:

"I am very weak. If you are passing by, please come back and see me."

She rarely asked anything of me, but upon receiving the letter, she immediately dropped everything and took the earliest flight from
Canada back to Hong Kong.

When I saw my mother lying in bed, her sickly face, my heart ached terribly. For the past two or three years, I hadn't been able
to take care of her often.

She asked me to help her get up, and at the dressing table, she combed her hair and applied light makeup. Her hand holding the eyebrow pencil
trembled . Tears streamed down my face at her haggard reflection in the mirror. I still remember her long, flowing hair
, so smooth and shiny, shimmering. I leaned against the bed, watching her quietly comb her hair; it was a
truly beautiful sight.

"Do I look better?" she asked me.

"Mom, you look beautiful."

"I didn't expect you to come back so soon. I didn't have time to dye my hair, and now you see me looking so haggard."

"No need. You look beautiful like this."

"Looking at me like this, you won't want to make love to me anymore. These past few years, you've rarely come back, and when you do
, you don't make love to me. I'm old, you don't need me anymore." She looked at herself in the mirror, lost in thought.

"Mom… don't say that. Actually, I… I'm old too."

It's hard to admit you're old in front of your mother. I remember wanting her to spend the rest of her life with me, recalling
Browning's romantic lines, "Growing old together," but I didn't dare say it. After all, we're both old now. I
stroked my mother's hair and said to her, I don't care about your gray hair, and I don't care about mine; I only
care about the days we've spent together. Twenty years have passed. I've certainly traveled a lot, and I'm a little tired.

I nestled against her back, embracing her frail body, resting my chin on her shoulder, my
face close to hers. Her thin frame leaned back against me, and she raised her hand to gently stroke my face. Her fingertips were cool,
gliding across my face like snakes.

"How long has it been since we made love?"

"As long as I've been back in Canada."

"Almost two years."

"Mom, I'm sorry, business in Canada is very busy, I can't leave. And business here..."

"I understand, I just miss you. Your success is enough for me."

"That's not an excuse. You've spent your whole life thinking about what you can do for me, and I haven't been able to repay you properly." "

You've been so good to me, I'm just annoyed that I can no longer serve you. If you don't mind that I'm old, or
sick, I think we should make love, like before."

I was moved to tears, and she shed tears too.

"Mom, how could I dislike you? I'm just afraid your body can't handle it. Can we wait until you're feeling better?"

"Come on, my good son. I only have this one breath left. Carry me to bed."

I held back my tears, picked her up, and carried her to the bed. Standing in front of her bed, I took off my clothes.

She lay there, her eyes fixed on me as I undressed. I took off my underwear, and she stretched out her long,
slender, arms, letting me take her hand and sit beside her.

"Let me see you clearly. You've gained weight, and when did you go bald?"

My mother's words made me feel ashamed. Middle age brings many sorrows; I understand that I am no longer young and
am old, let alone my mother.

Through the thin fabric, I caressed her thighs. She wasn't tall, but she had a pair of quite attractive legs.

She always kept her beautiful thighs well hidden in her trousers until that night, when I pulled down her
trousers and I discovered her slender waist and beautiful legs.

She also had a pair of lovely little breasts. Before I began to unbutton her nightgown, I held each one in my hand, gently kneading
and pinching them. Then I unbuttoned the front of her robe one button at a time, but didn't take it off completely; I simply let it fall open,
exposing her breasts. My mother, of course, was willing to be completely naked for me; her body had once captivated me. And from her nakedness,
I received all the sweetness of love. But this nakedness was enough for me.

I longed for her body, but I longed even more to see her face. Her face during tender moments, her dreamy expression,
were the most unforgettable. I brushed her soft, silky hair back, revealing her forehead, face, and
ears . Her breasts had never been the full, firm kind, but at this age, they still maintained their
original shape, just as they were when I first exposed them.

She took my hand and placed it on her small breasts, imprinting her skin and contours on my palm.

These are my mother's breasts, which conceived me, nurtured me, and
nourished me with their love during my lonely days. I will never forget their warmth and their undulating lines.

Mom's eyelids were slightly closed, and tears rolled down the creases at the corners of her eyes. Several wrinkles on her forehead were the marks left by time on
a woman's face. When I left two years ago, I hadn't noticed how old she had become. My mother is kind-hearted, so
she ages more gracefully than other women. However, today, the makeup on her face could no longer conceal her
weakness and pallor.

I closed my eyes and kissed her slightly trembling lips. I still remember the warmth of her lips
and her kind and understanding face when we first made love. For me, she willingly gave her body, allowing me
to satisfy my youthful desires.

She pointed to the bedside table, indicating where the lubricant was. It was always there, next to the bedside lamp, always
ready. Even when I wasn't by her side, it was there, waiting for me to come back and use it when needed
.

I dipped my fingers in some cool lubricant and applied it to my mother's private parts under her skirt, probing deep inside. She
trembled , which convinced me that she was still just as sensitive to sexual touch. For the past twenty years, during the days I was away on business,
it was my mother's selfless dedication that allowed me to have the sexual
life .

I held her slender shoulders, lifted her chin, and kissed her repeatedly. She frowned slightly, accepting my
kisses . I moistened her lips with my saliva, and her hands rested on my shoulders, gently stroking the back of my neck.

From the open front of her robe, my hands slipped inside, reaching behind her back,
caressing her cool back, her slender waist, and her cool buttocks. Her frail body, barely breathing,
felt like a piece of soft silk in my hands. I embraced her; my mother had melted in my arms.

My chest pressed gently against her breasts, and she nuzzled my nipples. Her slender arms and
thighs pressed against my body, forming a position of intercourse. My mother was below, I was above—our long-standing
sexual position, unchanged for twenty years. She pulled down her panties under her skirt
, bent her knees, and took them off, searching for my burning desire below my waist. She found them and held them in
her hand.

I hardened in her grasp, a knowing smile playing on my lips, guiding it between her legs. I lifted her hips; she,
weak and unable to support me, arched her back. Her thighs, thin and lacking their former elasticity, could no longer bear my
weight. I didn't mind at all, speaking intimately, but feeling my mother's deep affection for me, I felt even more tenderness and love.

I gently lifted her delicate body, letting her guide me, softly penetrating, slowly pushing in, afraid that
too much force would crush her, until I was fully inside, sinking down, we were completely pressed together.

Inside her was a love that surrounded me from all sides, a place forever open to me,
always unconditionally accepting me whenever I needed it, no matter the circumstances. This feeling of being loved was something I couldn't find in
any other woman. I'm describing the unique experience of a mother and son truly in love, a love that transcends
age , generation, appearance, and physique—the purest and truest love in the world.

I gently stroked her breast, and her small nipple hardened. With difficulty, she lifted her head, letting me lick away
the tears on her face. I took her trembling lips into my mouth and suckled, as if sucking on her nipple.

She opened her eyes, her warm gaze radiating a light like the winter sun. With her remaining
strength, my mother tightly wrapped her legs around me. I opened my arms, pulling my mother into my embrace, holding
her close, rising and falling with her in the waves of desire. Then, I moved eagerly,
urged on by her. And then, from her throat, I heard her uncontrollably utter soft moans and words of love.

"Mom, did I hurt you?"

Tears streamed down my mother's face. Afraid she couldn't take it, I slowed my thrusts slightly, and just as I was about to stop, she put her arm around 　　my
shoulder and said, "I can take it, don't stop. Don't worry about anything else, just love me according to your feelings. 　　" "Mom? Really?" 　　"Don't talk, just love me." She said breathlessly. 　　"I know, Mom, let me love you, love you forever..." 　　I said, holding her tightly, gently caressing her nipples, thrusting in and out with varying depths. Scenes of the beautiful times we first met, and the many twists and turns we went through. It wasn't a chance encounter, but an eternal promise. She is my good mother, and also my beloved wife, and the mother of my children. We have had unparalleled pleasure in bed, something hard-won. Thinking of how intimate and multifaceted our relationship was, I was even more afraid of losing her, and I couldn't control myself, ejaculating inside her. 　　My mother closed her eyes, as if trying to memorize every pulsation of my ejaculation, to preserve it in her memory. I supported her hips, holding her body, our bodies intertwined, connected, until my penis gradually softened and withdrew. Not being able to stay inside her, even for a moment longer, made me feel guilty. 　　However, seeing my mother's frail body lying helplessly in my arms, like a little girl, with a peaceful and content expression after making love, I felt relieved. I reached under the pillow and felt for a small towel. I used it to clean myself, and she would use it between her legs, like a sanitary napkin, to absorb the semen flowing back from her vagina. 　　On the days I wasn't home, the small towel remained under her pillow, waiting. I recognized it—the one we used to use, the one we used two years ago, the night before we parted, after a sleepless night of making love. She had washed it and kept it. Over twenty years, how many times have we exchanged bodily fluids? How large a vessel would it take to collect them all ? The sticky fluids from our lovemaking on her mons pubis, mixed together, made it impossible to distinguish which was hers and which was mine. 　　It wasn't a particularly intense lovemaking session, but when my dew touched her thighs and pubic hair again, her body seemed to awaken, and spring bloomed again on her weathered face. I ran my fingers through her thin pubic hair; a few strands fell off as we rubbed together, sticking to my fingers. I realized then that my mother's pubic hair was thinner than before, like the strands of hair falling out of my hair. 　　"I'm useless now. I can no longer make love to you properly," my mother said, looking up at me. 　　"Mom, what did you say? You did a great job. I'm useless now, I'm not as strong as I used to be, I can't get hard." 　　"Looking at me like this, how can you get hard?" 　　"Mom, don't be like that. Believe me, I've never met any other woman in bed who can make me so passionate , so obsessed." I was telling the truth. I haven't slept with many women, but they were all quite good in bed. Only my mother could bring the passion to its peak. 　　I gave her a deep kiss, and she closed her eyes and accepted it. She chose to believe me. She had met more men than women, and she had been abandoned before, so she hoped to become the most important woman in a man's life. 　　I sincerely expressed my feelings. In this vast world, it's rare for a person to form a mother-son and husband-wife bond with the same woman in one lifetime, half a lifetime as husband and wife. What I regret is that my mother has to share my love with another woman. However, my mother never cares about her own gains or losses, only about giving. The happiness I get from her is her happiness. She became my wife on this side of the ocean without complaint, guarding me and raising our two children. 　　She couldn't have all of me, but she knew I loved her. And I knew how much she missed me. Her longing for me was greater than a mother's longing for her wandering son. I must confess, I didn't know how to love from the beginning.

She, because I didn't understand what it was. By the time I finally understood, it was too late.

These past few years, I haven't been by her side, failing to fulfill my duty to take care of her, causing her to worry about me. She never complained
, afraid that I would be distracted and affect my family and career. However, I could see that my absence
had made her haggard; lovesickness ages one, and she aged because of my longing.

Oh God, could I have ten more years to be by my mother's side, to treat her well, and to make up for all
the wrongs I have done to her? My mother lived her whole life only for me and our children. In fact, she herself also needed someone to pamper her and love
her.

(II) In those thin spring clothes,

I let my mother rest her head on my shoulder, and she fell asleep. I dared not move her lying position, lest I
disturb her. A moment later, she opened her eyes and said,

"What? I fell asleep?"

"Yes! You fell asleep after making love. You slept so sweetly and beautifully."

"What time is it?"

"Around five o'clock."

"Hurry up and get dressed, they'll be back soon."

They were my mother's two children. Both were in high school, and my son was about to enter university. My mother was
right; I had just finished dressing when I heard voices outside. They didn't knock, but pushed the door open and
froze when they saw me.

"Dad's back, hurry up and call him Dad," my mother said.

They hadn't called me Dad in a long time. Three years had passed since we last met, and they hadn't expected to see me, and
they were a little shy around me. My son looked exactly like me, and my daughter resembled my mother. To break down the barrier,
I spoke first:

"Children, how are you? Dad often thinks of you, and I'm so happy to see you."

They still kept their lips pursed and didn't speak. Perhaps because they needed to get past me before greeting my mother, they bowed
respectfully to me, like schoolchildren greeting their teacher, then walked around me to my mother's
bedside. Seeing the natural affection between the three of them, I felt like an outsider, standing to the side. In
their hearts, I, the brother and sister, didn't exist as their father. I felt a pang of envy.

My mother spoke to them for a while, and only then did they turn around and call me "Dad."

I was so moved that tears welled up in my eyes. They knew that as soon as I, their rarely home father, came home, my mother
would take over. I knew my mother kept our secret, but they probably knew more about me and
were bothered by me. When I was in my mother's bedroom, they would always tactfully leave. Actually, how I
wished they could stay a little longer, so the four of us could enjoy a family time together.

"They are still young; you must guide them in the future," my mother instructed me.

"Mom, they are my children, how could I not take care of them? Seeing them is like seeing
myself back then."

"Actually, you were even more stubborn and headstrong than they were back then."

My mother was right, I really was like that. Back then, when I saw my father, I also refused to call him "Dad."

There really is cause and effect in this world, we are all governed by the karma we have created. I saw my frail mother lying
in bed, having just made love with me, and then she took my hand, giving me advice for our two children. I
couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow and emotion, recalling the events of more than thirty years ago.

"Mom, do you remember back then? When you sent me to Southeast Asia, I was younger than Guoqiang and Lijuan
."

My mother looked at an old photo of us on the dressing table, taken at a photo studio before I left. She thought that she
didn't know when she would see me again, just like with her husband.

Who knew that when I returned more than ten years later, I would become her husband? Back

then, I left Hong Kong and my mother with great reluctance, crossing the ocean to go to a foreign land. My father was an overseas Chinese from Southeast Asia.
He went abroad to work at a young age, returned home to marry, and had me. He went back to Southeast Asia, and my mother took me to settle in Hong Kong.

My understanding of my father came from my mother and uncles from my hometown. My father used to work hard in
a rubber . Later, a wealthy young lady fell in love with him, didn't mind his poverty, and married him. Thus, he became wealthy.

He always kept his existing family in his hometown a secret from her.

My mother never complained. For my sake, she upheld her so-called wifely virtues and didn't remarry,
hoping that one day I would make a name for myself in Southeast Asia like my father.

My father's wife in Southeast Asia had several daughters but no sons. Only then did he dare to reveal
the secret . So she brought me over to inherit his business.

My mother sent me there, relying on my status as the eldest son, hoping to get some benefits. In that environment, and given
her experience, it was the best way out for me.

Even though my mother didn't mind that my father abandoned her, I couldn't forgive his infidelity towards my mother, nor could I accept
that woman taking my father away. I had long ago decided not to rely on my unfamiliar father.

After a short time in Southeast Asia, we couldn't get along. What was originally an arranged marriage for my first wife became, in the eyes of
the locals my mistress. What was the point of my status as the eldest son? I was ostracized by my sister and
scorned by others. I inadvertently caused trouble, prompting my father to hastily send me to study in Canada. I longed for a home of my own.
After graduating from university, I quickly married a classmate, had children, and settled there.

Life in Canada was so idyllic that I forgot all about home. I worked tirelessly to build my career, quickly
climbing to a high position and gaining the trust of my foreign boss. But I almost forgot about my mother and my hometown. However, things didn't go as planned,
and I eventually returned to Hong Kong, a place I didn't particularly like.

If I had accepted the simple life in Canada, my illicit
affair would never have begun. A boss's appointment sent me on my way to open the company's Asia-Pacific office in Hong Kong.

When I returned, it was the plum rain season. My mother, whom I hadn't seen for ten years, opened the door to welcome me.

"Mom, I'm back," I said.

"You're finally back."

Our sleeping quarters were exactly the same as before: a bunk bed, me on the top bunk, her on the bottom, just like it
had been since little. Looking at the familiar furniture brought back memories of my childhood. Looking at my mother, her clothes
and appearance were exactly the same as always, unchanged, just like when she waved goodbye to me at the airport.

"We can live like before now," I said. Those were the days when my mother and I depended on each other,
living a carefree life…

For years, she still lived in that dilapidated house, as if trying to hold onto something. I followed my mother into our
room; the old wooden bed and bedding were still there. Seeing our sleeping quarters, I suddenly understood
that my mother had never expected my father to return to her side, or to share a bed with her.

How much marital affection had she experienced? I don't know. She never mentioned it, but in all my memory,
my father had never returned home. In those days, a woman's husband became the purpose of her life after marriage. My mother was worse off
without a husband; how did she endure those lonely nights?

When I left home, I felt three parts respect and seven parts resentment towards her, sending me to Southeast Asia for her sake. When I returned,
I was older, understood more about life, and felt only deep affection for her.

She ran around, busy cooking for me. I had so much to say to her, yet I didn't know where to begin. After the meal,
she brought me a cup of hot tea. I looked up, our eyes met, and I saw a pitiful woman. I
never understood my mother; I always looked up to her with awe. Even in middle school, when I made mistakes, I was still punished by her.

To a child, my mother was always the same; I never saw her as a woman. Actually,
my mother was beautiful; I was half her age, but she still retained her charm. She was a little thin,
without the typical middle-aged weight gain of a woman

. When we met again, I was no longer the young boy I had left home. I had traveled to Southeast Asia, received a Western education,
experienced many things, and started a family—I was a completely different person. She treated me with an unexpected
attitude , serving me in a different capacity.

I could feel a
freshness . I left early and returned late, and we didn't talk much. However, in our daily lives, subtle things and
small actions gradually drew me into my mother's closed-off world...

How we, mother and son, overcame the walls of propriety, allowing my mother to meet me naked in that small room,
and to spread her legs on the bed to welcome me into her arms—it all seemed unbelievable, yet also as if it were destiny,
preordained.

One night, or perhaps any night, my pent-up desire overflowed, and I climbed onto
the bed of my mother who had borne me and nurtured me. I vividly remember every detail of our first time making love. My mother's oily, sweaty
skin , her unique fragrance, and her deep breaths. It was like standing on a precipice, about to fall into a bottomless,
dark abyss.

We nestled together, trembling, swaying. Her body was tense, and I was lost in passion. I
slipped and slid down, and she held me even tighter, weightless, suspended in the silent night. The primal
allure of desire, lust, greed, and anger, like a tidal wave, swept over us, engulfing us in the turbulent sea of desire…

That night, like many nights, I couldn't sleep, and neither could my mother. I tossed and turned,
and so did my mother. The old wooden bed creaked as we shook it. Soon after, our bodies,
intertwined, writhed and shook the bed, making the same sound.

She asked if I couldn't sleep because I missed home. I said yes. She said, "Is this the first time you've been away from home for so long since you got married?" I said
yes, I missed my wife and children.

She said, "It's hard on you, and it's hard on her too. A man can't be away from his wife for too long. Have you been
seeing other women? If you're having an affair, she'll be very upset."

I said I hadn't. You know I come home to sleep every night.

"I believe you, but it's easy for a man to have an affair when he's alone outside."

I suddenly thought of my mother and my wife. After my father returned to his hometown to get married, he left my mother behind and went back to work
in Southeast Asia . After that, he had other women.

"Mom, what about you? How have you been all these years? Dad's doing so well in Southeast Asia,
leaving you all alone here suffering..."

Silence fell over the lower bunk; my mother didn't answer. I spoke again, but there was still no response.

She thought she was asleep. I climbed down from the upper bunk to use the restroom. I saw my mother facing the wall, sobbing. I
sat beside her, wanting to comfort her, and asked,

"Mom, you're crying. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she said.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought up those old things. Do you still worry about Dad?"

she said. "I don't worry about anyone, only you. I know you hate me for sending you to Dad's, so you
never came back. Forgive me, it was all for your sake. Everything I've done all these years has been for you
alone. You're all I have left, the one I worry about. And you haven't even sent a single message back.

" "Mom, I'm sorry..." I said.

"Alright. You're finally back."

"Yes, I'm back. We can be like before."

She turned around, looking at me with teary eyes, and gently patted the edge of her bed, gesturing for me
to lie down . She said, "Promise me you won't see other women. You're married now; don't let down
the person who's been waiting for you at home."

"Mom, I know, I understand, but... I..."

"Don't say that. Mom knows men have needs. You toss and turn in bed, thinking about women all the time."

"Mom... I won't think about it anymore."

"What man doesn't want women? If you can't sleep, sleep with me downstairs."

"I..."

My heart was pounding, like thunder. I, this coward, this weakling, was sweating profusely,
trembling , like the nervousness of someone hiring a prostitute for the first time. I've played the field, even taking a woman with me when doing business
.

My mother's words sent a chill down my spine. What did she mean? What was I afraid of? Was it being seen by
acquaintances , being gossiped about? Or was it simply a lack of courage to fall in love? Sleeping beside her, imagining myself sleeping with my wife, I no longer felt
lonely. The woman lying on the bed wasn't a prostitute, but my mother. We used to sleep in the same
bed like this, but now I was afraid…

Until that time, I had never thought of having sex with my mother. She was always sacred and inviolable, and she
wasn't young anymore; I wouldn't fantasize about her. There are some women who can easily arouse a man's desire,
but not my mother.

I'm a man with a healthy body and a healthy sex drive, and I admit I've had inappropriate thoughts about my mother.

When I'm in bed, burning with lust and masturbating, I fantasize about other women, not my wife.

One night I saw her lying on the bed, her thighs exposed through her shorts. I didn't resist them; instead,
I indulged myself, becoming lost in them. My mother's thighs kept me awake, tossing and turning in bed,
fantasizing about making love with those thighs.

I lay on my back, eyes up. I smelled her fragrance, heard her breath, and sensed the
rise and fall of her body beneath her clothes. I thought of how close I was to my mother when I was a child, and how angry I was that she sent me to Southeast Asia. Now, all I
could think about was her snow-white thighs.

Lying side by side with my mother in bed like this, sleeping together, felt strange. The night was deep, eerily quiet. My
heart pounded.

I saw two snow-white thighs beside me. Regardless of whose thighs they were, I glimpsed them and became erect.

She was my mother; I shouldn't have impure thoughts about her. But even if I shouldn't, I still shouldn't—my underwear
was bulging. She had aroused my desire; I had to find a solution with her.

I lifted one leg, moved it to her side, and pressed it against her thigh. She didn't move away. I tried to get closer to
her with my arm, pressing it against her bare arm exposed by the sleeve of her short-sleeved shirt, rubbing against her. She didn't protest. I quietly took off my panties
, and my penis rose, swaying in the air. My mother couldn't have been unaware of my action of taking off my pants, but she didn't object
at all .

Finally, I took a deep breath and turned to face my mother. Her eyes were closed, but I knew she wasn't
asleep , but pretending. I pressed my penis against the outside of her thigh, tightly. She didn't protest. I felt
my penis was throbbing, about to explode, and I knew I would ejaculate after a few more rubs.

I couldn't control the surging desire in my heart, and I rolled over and climbed on top of her. When I was about to take off her pants, she
arched her back and lifted her legs, making it easier for me to pull off her shorts. My mother's two snow-white, plump
thighs were completely exposed, allowing me to spread them apart and see the woman's fleshy cleft between her thighs. I pressed down on her, treating my mother as my
wife, and inserted my penis into her, crossing the boundary of mother-son incest.

I understand, and I am grateful, to my mother who is supporting my body beneath me, accepting my penis,
offering her pure and innocent body as an object of her son's sexual desire. My mother probably imagines that if I,
like my father, had another woman, my family and wife would be ruined.

As I rise and fall, in the shimmering neon lights outside the window, I see my mother
with her eyes closed , her arms covering her face, silently enduring everything I do to her. Her self-sacrificing noble
sentiment makes me feel despicable and shameful.

I must understand that our bodies can only be united temporarily, even if it's just a fleeting
passion . The smell of the old furniture in the room, my mother's scent, the movement of her body, and the real and
wonderful feeling from my penis make me forget who I am.

On my mother's bed, I embrace her. As I ejaculate, I sink down, pressing her down, making it hard for her
to breathe . My mother suppresses her climax, not letting it surge, but I notice the movement of her body and the rhythm of her breathing.

After the climax, the rhythm of our bodies slowed, our heartbeats mingling.

I held my penis inside her, refusing to soften, and with its remaining hardness,
thrust deeply once more. My mother brought me to the most beautiful, safe, and comfortable place. I received
the satisfaction and pleasure a man can get from a woman.

Sex is the union of two bodies, with a soothing effect on both body and mind. I thrust all the way in,
filling . My mother's face showed peace, her body melting in my arms. Her slender waist became even more
supple, and I held her tighter, wanting to hold onto the love we had just shared.

After making love, I stroked her face, too excited to speak. My mother preferred me to be silent during sex;
it made her feel better. After our lovemaking, there was only embarrassment and shame. How could we overcome this?

Our breathing became shallow, and my mother pushed me away, her two bare thighs wet with my semen.

My penis, still erect, grazed before her eyes as I withdrew.

I wanted to gently kiss my mother's lips, a tender
gesture I could make after making love. But she turned her head away, preventing me from kissing her, as if to say, "Don't kiss me like you would your lover;
we haven't reached that point yet. Because I am your mother…"

How could I express my love and remorse for violating her body? But
what should I say to her after making love? Thank you? You did a good job? I couldn't say anything; none of it seemed
appropriate. So, I mumbled,

"Mom, I… I've made things difficult for you. Did I force you?"

"Don't mention it. Go to sleep. And don't let your wife know, otherwise my sins will be even greater."

There's a famous line in the book "Love Story": "Love never needs to say sorry." But how deep must
love be to so selflessly give oneself away, willing to risk a sin?

It happened, and I was restless, unsure how to face her. It was strange that my mother could
pretend nothing had happened. During the day, we were mother and son as usual. When I felt lonely at night and needed a woman's comfort, I would
climb down, and she would always be there, waiting for me. She would make room for me, and I would lie down beside her. My trembling
hands pulled down my mother's pants, and she buried her head tightly in my chest. A pair of loving hands found my
poor little thing, held it in their hands, and brought it back to my mother's embrace, where all its troubles were resolved.

I knew I was living in sin, yet I enjoyed the pleasure of living in sin. I could only follow
the instincts of my penis, which, ever since it had been inside my mother's vagina, frequently
became erect . My penis and my mother's thighs were pressed tightly together, and as wave after wave of semen shot
deep into my mother's body, I reached my climax. The most direct and straightforward sex, without regard for details, was
allowed to happen when needed, as if it were the natural order of things.

On chilly spring nights, I would return home without turning on the light.
I would take off , and hide naked beside her. Her bed was warm and cozy, making me feel
incredibly . My mother exuded a unique, delicate fragrance, and my hands slowly roamed over her body.
Then, we made love, our genitals meeting in the most primal way. The son thrust in and out gently, and the mother
yielded, satisfying his desires.

How many such tender nights had I spent in my mother's arms? In my dreams, I forget I'm in Hong Kong, with her beside me as I sleep.
It wasn't my wife.

I, heartless as I am, thought my mother, at her age, would have lost her sexual desire. She
had endured so many years without a man, and each time we made love, she was so calm and composed, so indifferent to my fervor and
impulsiveness . When my mother and I were together in bed, who did she see herself as? Who did I see as her? I never
pondered this. She was always my mother; this sexual relationship was merely a temporary measure, not intended to last. Therefore, whether she had
orgasms or not didn't matter; it wouldn't affect our relationship or our sex life.

In the months that followed, in the fervor of our intimate union, my desire for my mother grew stronger, and
our sex life became more active than during our honeymoon.

I spent the most difficult days of leaving home in the throes of lovemaking with my mother. My mother was in my arms, pressed
tightly . During lovemaking, she was silent; in the darkness, I couldn't see her face or her body. Her soft, cotton-like
body followed my every urging, wriggling, swaying, rising and falling, contracting. In the darkness and silence, I groped for
the woman's body beside me. She never refused, nor did she make any demands. My hands teased her thighs, and she opened her legs.
I entered her, and she accommodated me, writhing and thrusting in that warm, moist place.

I couldn't imagine my mother's body; beneath those loose clothes, her figure wasn't fully revealed.
So , I imagined my wife's body, with her exquisite, curvaceous figure, naked and approaching me. She lay
beneath me, her arms wrapped around my neck, entwined with me in a passionate embrace, tender and affectionate. She called my name softly,
tightly gripping my penis, moaning, asking for more, more…

When the raging tide of desire subsided, I collapsed onto her, and the face I saw became my mother's,
lying softly, her chest rising and falling slightly, pulling up the sheet to cover her naked genitals.

From the very first time we made love, my mother had set the tone, quickly finding my treasure, inserting it
into her body, waiting for me to finish. Why should there be a difference in physical intimacy with one's mother? Why only expose her lower body, instead of
her entire body? I felt that since I was allowed to take off her pants, I could strip her completely naked.

Seeing one's mother completely naked is perhaps every boy's most primal desire. I didn't know what right I had
to demand that my mother undress and have sex with me. After all, she was my mother;
wasn't it enough that I had already penetrated her? She wasn't my wife, or perhaps that was the difference between a mother and a wife, I told myself
.

The night I decided to strip my mother naked for sex, I put extra effort into foreplay, caressing her and focusing on her
sensitive areas. Then I straddled her lap; she was naked from the waist down. As I
unbuttoned her blouse, I saw the utter reluctance and shame on her face.

"No! Please!" she pleaded, pushing my hands away.

I ignored her and forcibly stripped her naked.

"When it comes to sex, what woman doesn't want her breasts exposed? Take off your clothes and let me see your
naked body . It's just a formality of sex, what's the big deal? Anyway, there's nothing to see when you're naked," I
said.

These heartless words pierced my mother's heart. My mother had comforted me with her body after leaving my wife
, and you had satisfied her sexual desires—what a great self-sacrifice! Yet you forced her to do what she couldn't, demanding she
have sex with you naked, and then said her body wasn't attractive, to ridicule her. You completely disregarded her
dignity and feelings.

"If you say there's nothing to see, why did you touch me? Don't touch me again!" she said sharply, breaking free from my grasp
. Long, long ago, when I committed a crime, she scolded me in this tone.

Her breasts were like two peaches, slightly raised on her chest, white and translucent, with two small nipples
standing erect in the center. A woman in her forties or fifties, yet her body resembled that of a young girl just beginning to develop. Was this the excuse
my father used to take another wife? Was it because she didn't want to expose herself to me? My wife has well-developed
breasts, but sex and breast size are two different things.

When I make love with my mother, I don't feel inferior to her. Touching her small breasts through her clothes, I see
two cute little mounds, just as beautiful. Why could I say there was nothing to see
?

My mother covered her chest with one hand and her genitals with the other, her legs tightly closed, refusing to have sex with me for the first time.

And I knew I had said the wrong thing.

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