The Story of Beautiful Mom Wang Yan

Chapter 1

"Yang Yang, what time is it? Get up! Hurry up! You'll be late if you don't get up soon!" I put the soy milk and fried dough sticks I just bought on the dining table, knocked on my son's bedroom door, and urged him to get up quickly. This kid is really something! He

's almost 18 years old, and I still have to urge him to get up every day. He's such a worry.

"I know! What time is it!"

my son asked impatiently from his room.

"It's almost 6:30! If you don't get up soon, you'll be late for school!"

I set out the breakfast and went to my bedroom to wake up my husband, who was still fast asleep: "Old Yang! Get up quickly too! Aren't you taking the train to Nanjing this morning? Get up quickly!" "Hmm...hmm..."

My husband opened his sleepy eyes and hummed a couple of times. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand, pulled me down next to him, and started kissing me passionately.

"Stop it! What if the child sees this again! I hate it!"

I struggled in his arms, whining and kissing him a few times before breaking free from his hand that was trying to lift my skirt. I stood up and got out of bed, straightening my wrinkled suit dress as I complained, "You're so annoying! Weren't you done last night? It's so early in the morning, our son's already up. What will he think if he sees this! Get up and eat!" My husband smiled but didn't say anything. He started getting dressed and washing up. When he finished, he was getting impatient because his son's bedroom door was still closed. He knocked hard on his son's door, "Yang Yang! Aren't you getting up? How many times has your mother called you? If you don't get up, you're not going to school! Do you hear me? Get up now!" "Okay! So annoying, can't I even sleep a little longer?"

My son muttered under his breath as he got dressed and opened the door. My husband and I felt a little sorry for our son, seeing his distressed expression. Next year he'll be taking the college entrance exam, and the immense pressure of studying leaves him with almost no time to play. He often doesn't get enough sleep, and we worry about his health seeing him so listless every day.

But there's nothing we can do; he still has to go to school and take the college entrance exam. All we parents can do is try to meet his material needs to find some comfort.

After washing up, the three of us gathered at the table for breakfast.

"This week's allowance!"

I took out 100 yuan and handed it to my son.

While drinking soy milk, he took the money and asked my husband, "Dad! How many days are you going on this business trip?" "Three or four days if it's quick, a week if it's slow. Listen to your mother at home, and don't talk back, okay?" my husband sternly admonished our son. "

You always say that when you go on business trips, as if I'm so disobedient! Alright! Go ahead and relax!" my son retorted, wiping the oil off his hands with a tissue.

"You'll listen? If you were obedient, would your father need to remind you every time?" I saw that the father and son had finished eating, so I started clearing the table. I do all the housework every day; they're used to it and don't help. My son went to get his schoolbag, my husband turned on the TV to watch the morning news, and by the time I finished, it was time for me to go to work.

My name is Wang Yan, I'm 40 years old, and I work at a bank. This morning was no different from any other. Over ten years of marriage have been like this. At home, I'm a typical virtuous wife and loving mother; at the bank, I'm the most honest and dutiful employee, somewhat weak-willed and lacking in assertiveness.

My husband, Lao Yang, however, has a fiery temper, is decisive, and I always feel very safe with him. He's a salesman for a construction company and often travels for work. At first, I wasn't used to it, but after so many years, I've gotten used to it.

My son, Yangyang, is in high school. When he was little, his personality was a lot like mine—a bit timid. My husband often got angry with him because of this, feeling he lacked manliness. Every time my husband glared at him, he was too scared to speak. But as he's gotten older and entered his rebellious adolescence, he sometimes dares to talk back to his father. Most of the time, however, he's a well-behaved boy, just a little mischievous.

"Mom! Hurry! The bus is here!"

My son dashed towards the bus stop. Wearing high heels and a tight-fitting suit skirt, I couldn't keep up with him at all, and could only manage a hurried pace. Luckily, there were many people waiting for the bus, and although I walked slowly, I still managed to catch up with my son before the doors closed. We boarded the No. 27 bus one after the other. The

No. 27 bus runs north-south through my small city. The bank where I work and the school my son attends are both along this route, so every morning, without exception, my son and I have to leave for the bus together.

Over the past ten years, through thick and thin, from when my son was a docile child, I held his hand and led him to school, to now, my son is in high school, much taller than me, and reluctant to take the bus with me every day. The changes have been so rapid. The only things that haven't changed are the crowded No. 27 bus and the terrible road conditions.

It's late spring, early summer, and the various flowers and plants planted in the city's roadside green belts are in full bloom. The warm morning breeze carries the fragrance of flowers and plants from the open windows, somewhat easing my anxiety caused by the crowded bus. The bus is like a human can, people packed tightly together.

I'm fortunate to have a window seat, where I can at least feel some cool breeze and avoid getting too hot.

My son wasn't so lucky; he was pushed to the front by the crowd and sandwiched between two migrant workers, looking like he was struggling uncomfortably.

"Yang Yang, come here! It's spacious here, stand over here!"

Hearing my call, my son shook his shoulders and struggled out from between two migrant workers, pushing through the crowded throng as he walked towards me, apologizing profusely to the disgruntled people around him.

"Ouch! I'm so crowded! There are so many people today! I'm all sweaty!" Finally reaching me, I laboriously shifted back to make room for him by the window. He adjusted his backpack, grumbling as he stuck his head out the window to get some fresh air.

"Hey kid in the back! Pull your head back in! Are you crazy?!"

the bus driver yelled! Startled, my son quickly pulled his head back out of the window.

As I pulled out tissues to wipe the sweat from my son's brow, I grumbled, "Are you stupid?! The driver's driving! If you stick your head out, what if another car passes by? Your head'll fall off! This kid's so naughty! I'll tell your dad when we get home!" "Mom! You're so nagging!"

My son impatiently pushed away my hand wiping his sweat, turned his face to the window, and ignored me. I stood behind him, shaking my head helplessly, and put the tissues away again. Because of my son's tall frame blocking my view, the wind from the window couldn't reach me anymore, making me feel a little stuffy again.

After two stops, the road started to get rough; it was a section of road under repair. Construction had been going on for several days and it still wasn't finished. The road surface was full of potholes, and the bus bounced violently as it drove over them.

I was jostled against my son, and with the crowded bus, I involuntarily pressed my breasts tightly against his back. This sudden situation made me incredibly embarrassed, but there was no way to get away; the space created by my swaying was immediately taken! I could only let my 85C breasts sway irregularly against my son's back, rising and falling with the bus's jolts.

Because it was getting warm, the bank required female employees to wear long skirts and white silk blouses, and my son had already changed into a short-sleeved t-shirt. There was very little clothing between us, and I could almost feel his body heat through my breasts.

Embarrassed, I tried to shift my position, but the people behind me were squeezing me tightly, and I couldn't move at all. Instead, this futile struggle only made my breasts rub against my son's back even more intensely.

Although my bra had padding, I could still feel a discomfort that made me, as a woman, very uncomfortable; my nipples were hard… and this physiological reaction was actually being triggered by my son! The thought made my face flush slightly.

"I'm his mother! What's wrong with being so close to him? Besides, he's still young, what could he possibly be thinking?" I reassured myself, while trying to observe my son. He was looking out the window, seemingly oblivious to my awkward situation. I let out a sigh of relief, inwardly scolding myself for overthinking.

But standing like this wasn't a solution! How could I, as a mother, keep rubbing my breasts against my son's back like this? I gritted my teeth and called to my son, "Yangyang! Come here! Let's switch places. You stand behind me; it's too crowded here. You're tall, you can block me out." My son turned around, said "Oh," looking rather awkward, his face slightly flushed, perhaps embarrassed by the friction from his mother's body. Anyway, it took quite a bit of effort for him to switch places with me, letting me stand inside near the window while he stood behind me, holding onto the handrail.

This was much better; near the window, with no one in front of me, avoiding the suffocating feeling and the awkwardness between us. I breathed a sigh of relief.

What was that?

Just as I was enjoying the brief moment of comfort, I felt something hard suddenly pressing against my buttocks. Something was very wrong. That thing seemed to be trying to get away from me, but just like when I struggled to keep my breasts from pressing against my son, the more it struggled, the stronger the friction against my buttocks became. And what was initially just a little hard, as it pressed closer and closer to my buttocks, and with the increased friction from the bus's bumps, it seemed to be growing larger and harder, making it even harder to escape my body.

"Oh my god! It's a man's penis!"

Having been married for many years, I certainly wouldn't be as shocked as a little girl. Being plump and fairly pretty, I'd experienced being sexually harassed by lewd men on buses before.

I should have been used to it, but now I instinctively covered my gaping mouth with my hand. The owner of that penis, erect from rubbing against my buttocks, was undoubtedly my son! He was actually having a physical reaction to his mother's body on the bus! What should I do?

My breathing became rapid, and I didn't dare look back at my son. From his evasive manner, I knew he hadn't done it on purpose. Just like how his back had rubbed against my nipples, causing a slight physical reaction, how could I blame him? He's a teenager, after all; erections caused by external stimulation from a woman's body are perfectly normal, no need to make a fuss.

I thought to myself, glancing at my son behind me in the reflection of the car window. Just as I expected, his embarrassed and awkward expression was almost adorable. I felt a little embarrassed by my initial unease; I, as a mother, had overreacted. Since my son wasn't doing it on purpose and was just as embarrassed as I was, I should be understanding. If I had acted rashly, I don't know how much of a negative psychological impact it would have on him. It seemed that pretending nothing was wrong was the best option.

But having my son with an erection pressed against my buttocks was clearly more embarrassing than my previous situation. I had to find a way to change my posture. I moved forward with difficulty and turned around—and that was it! My son and I stood side by side, finally avoiding indecent contact between mother and son, and I breathed a sigh of relief. At the same time, I felt my son, sitting right next to me, seemed to relax a bit.

"It's so crowded! Mom, turn around, it's a little easier now!"

I tried to break the awkward silence by making conversation with him.

"Yeah, it's definitely a bit more spacious..."

my son replied, head down, and another awkward silence ensued.

Clearly, he was feeling embarrassed too.

Finally, the bus arrived at the bank stop! I told my son, "Come home early after school tonight! Don't play around." I turned and got off the bus. In that instant, I noticed a slightly strange look in my son's eyes, but I didn't think much of it and just hurried towards the bank.

Chapter 2

No job is more tedious than being a bank teller. Every day, facing long queues and processing hundreds of transactions, with no room for error in the accounts, the pressure is immense. And today's workload was exceptionally high; even I, a veteran employee of over ten years, felt overwhelmed. The stuffy air in the bank quickly turned me into a sweaty mess. I couldn't wait to get off work, take a hot shower, and relax.

Finally, after checking the last account, I was overjoyed to be off work, only to find it was rush hour. I had to squeeze onto a crowded bus to get home, and by the time I was almost there, I was exhausted and drenched in sweat. I really didn't want to cook anything complicated today, so I just bought two pounds of noodles at the main kitchen on my way home, thinking I'd make do with a simple meal with my son.

"So tired!"

I wearily tossed my bag aside, sat on the sofa, and unbuttoned my shirt to cool off. A cool breeze caressed my delicate breasts, encased in a flesh-colored bra, and I felt a wave of comfort. I sipped water while keeping an eye on the wall clock.

"It's six o'clock now, and my son won't be home until seven. I'll take a shower first. After I'm done, I'll make him his favorite braised noodles. By then, he should be home, and we can eat right when he walks in." I secretly planned. As a wife and mother, I revolve around my husband and son like the earth revolves around the sun. Everything I do must consider them first, then myself. No wonder, they are the people I love most!

After making up my mind, I changed into slippers and started taking off my clothes.

I took off my shirt and uniform skirt and threw them in the washing machine to wash after dinner. I carried my stockings, bra, and underwear into the bathroom. I planned to wash my underwear while showering, a habit I've developed over the years. Underwear should be hand-washed with soap so it's drier and fresher to wear.

I first soaked the underwear in warm water in the washbasin. Then I turned on the water heater and began to slowly enjoy the hot bath I'd been longing for all day. I love taking hot showers. When the scalding water washes away my sweat, I feel incredibly relaxed, as if all the day's fatigue has been washed away with the sweat, and I feel refreshed.

As I lathered myself with soap, I looked at my white cotton underwear in the washbasin, secretly amused by the obvious yellow stain on the crotch.

Probably because he was going on a business trip, my husband and I had sex three times last night. That jerk not only exhausted me, but he also used up all the tissues to wipe his cum without even going to the storage room. He just used my underwear to wipe his penis. This morning, I was still half asleep and didn't think to change my underwear, so I went to work all day wearing this dirty thing. I only discovered it when I went to the toilet during my lunch break. It was disgusting.

Thinking about it, my face flushed. My husband and I aren't young anymore, so why are we still so eager for sex? I rinsed off the soap suds and looked down at my body. Although I was forty years old, my skin was still fair and delicate, my breasts were still full and high without any signs of sagging, and my legs were still long. However, my nipples and areolas were no longer as pink as a young girl's, but instead showed a mature dark brown.

My lower abdomen is slightly protruding, so my waist doesn't seem as slender as before. Especially the irreparable scar from my C-section, which I still find hard to look at, but overall I don't feel bad about myself. Plus, I'm quite confident in my appearance, which easily explains why my husband is always so sexually aroused after undressing me.

But what about my husband?

Thinking of him makes me sigh.

He's very good to me, and he's my most important support. Our love is obvious to everyone.

There's just one small flaw that people have been making fun of since we started dating. Although it didn't become an obstacle in our relationship, and we eventually got married and had children, and after marriage I became his wife whom he can't live without, this small flaw still lingers in my heart.

My husband is a bit ugly! Not terribly ugly, but at least when we go out together, it's led to comments like "a beautiful flower stuck in cow dung." Sometimes I compare my appearance with my husband's and realize that there's definitely a reason why people don't think we're a good match in terms of looks.

First, there's the height difference. I'm 1.65 meters tall, which is considered quite tall for a woman, while my husband is a measly 1.6 meters. I'm taller than him even without heels. Second, my husband is dark-skinned, while I'm fair-skinned. I was naturally dark-skinned, and because of my husband's years of work in construction, his tan is beyond imagination. Every time we make love, I often think of an American porn movie we used to secretly watch together, a scene where a black man violently fucks a white woman, which often makes me inexplicably laugh out loud while we're having sex.

Finally, there's his appearance. My husband comes from the countryside and wasn't good-looking to begin with. In recent years, because he's earned more money and eats better, he's gained weight, almost reaching 220 pounds. You can imagine how disgusting a woman would feel if a dark, fat, ugly man were in heat. Add to that his rough nature, ingrained by his work and background, and sleeping with him is a nightmare.

Of course, compared to his love and care for me, these are minor issues. I chose to marry him because I valued his reliability and diligence more than his inner qualities; these outward appearances are insignificant compared to his inner qualities. These are just some minor complaints I made when I was lonely at home alone.

Similarly, even though seeing him naked is like a nightmare, I still can't bear to give up having sex with him. My husband's performance in bed, like his other aspects, cannot be judged by his appearance. I do dislike seeing his ugly body and his face, which becomes even uglier due to his contortions during sex, but he seems to have an extraordinary talent for satisfying women.

I'm a naturally sensitive woman, and in all the time we've been married, he's almost always brought me to the peak of pleasure during our intimate moments. I've lost count of how many times I've fainted from pleasure during sex, which is a hidden reason why I'm so attached to him. However, as I've gotten older, I've come to enjoy the pleasure he brings me with my eyes closed, while fantasizing that a handsome young man from a movie is riding on top of me.

Of course, I only have these thoughts of infidelity when I'm having sex with my husband, due to the intense physical pleasure and the stark contrast with reality. Normally, I'm an extremely conservative and virtuous wife and mother. In real life, I've never had any improper thoughts about men other than my husband. Not even a fleeting thought.

Every time I shower, when my hands brush against my sensitive areas, I always have these wild thoughts about intimate things between husband and wife. Today was no exception. I didn't realize I'd been showering for a long time until the water from the water heater cooled down.

I quickly turned off the shower, dried myself with a towel, and squatted down to wash my underwear. The semen stains my husband left on my underwear were hard to remove; I had to use soap twice to get my underwear and stockings clean.

After washing them, I carried the washbasin out of the bathroom. Since no one was home, and we live on the top floor, I confidently went to the balcony to hang my underwear to dry. Although I knew the building across the street couldn't see our house, I still tried to hang the clothes up as quickly as possible. Standing naked on the balcony hanging clothes made me feel a little guilty.

I quickly hung up my underwear, and just as I was about to rush back to the bedroom to change and cook for my son, the door opened, and my son came home.

I froze, startled. My son casually closed the door and was about to walk into the living room when we met face-to-face, and he was also stunned.

Worse still, because I was so startled by his sudden return, I didn't think to cover my private parts with my hands, and I didn't have time to turn around, exposing all my feminine privacy to my son.

"Ah!"

After a moment of stunned silence, I finally reacted, quickly squeezing my legs together, covering my private parts with my hands, and turning away. My son let out a startled cry and ran into his room as if fleeing. I

was left alone in the living room, my face flushed and completely at a loss.

"Mom, what are you doing? Why aren't you in your room? How am I supposed to go to the living room?" my son called out from his room

, clearly annoyed. "Even if no one's home, don't you know to wrap yourself in a towel after your shower?" He sounded as if I'd done something wrong. My face flushed as he berated me through the door. Ashamed, I didn't know what to say, so I went back to my own bedroom to find some clean underwear and a dress to put on.

After changing, I called out to my son, "Come out! Mom's changed." Then I started preparing noodles.

When my son came out, he didn't say anything, just turned on the TV and waited for dinner. I glanced at him and noticed he was also secretly looking at me, appearing extremely uncomfortable. Wanting to comfort him, I adopted a motherly demeanor, pretending to be nonchalant, and said, "Why are you so nervous? You're my child, we're mother and son, what's there to be embarrassed about? Okay, Mommy will be more careful next time. You rest for a while, and Mommy will make you dinner. I'll make your favorite braised noodles, okay?" My son nodded noncommittally, without saying anything. His handsome little face was flushed, very cute. Thankfully, my son looks more like me—fair-skinned, tall, and handsome, a real catch. This is one reason why my husband and I dote on him so much. It's just that he's so introverted. My husband and I are busy with work and rarely really communicate with him, so he's always been well-behaved yet reserved in our presence, always seeming somewhat distant.

Oh well, it's all in the past now. Just like I comforted my son, he's my own son, what's the big deal about his mother being seen naked once? Besides, my son had always bathed with me until he was five. Even though he's grown into a young man, he's still the son I used to bathe with! Why should I be nervous?

I reassured myself as I quickly prepared dinner. During that dinner, my son and I barely spoke.

Although I tried to hide it, a vague shadow remained between us.

Chapter 3

After dinner, my son locked himself in his bedroom, diligently studying, leaving me bored and sitting alone on the sofa in the living room, watching my favorite show with the remote: a boring Korean drama!

The plot was nothing more than a typical Cinderella and Prince Charming story; the drama itself held no appeal for me. The only reason I watched this utterly boring drama so intently was because the male lead was incredibly handsome!

Perhaps it was because my husband's personality and appearance were too ugly and vulgar. Our marriage was far from the kind of perfect match I had often fantasized about in my youth. Therefore, I have always harbored some regret in my heart. Although this regret is unrelated to our marital relationship and life after marriage, it has always left me with a latent restlessness: whenever I see a handsome and well-behaved man, I feel an inexplicable impulse.

This subconscious impulse may just prove the old saying that young girls don't have romantic feelings.

As the years have passed, the young girl who once had romantic feelings has now entered middle age and is already a mother. Logically, that restless feeling in my heart should have been submerged in the mundane life of daily chores, but quite the opposite is true. With the increase in age and the intensity and frequency of our marital sex life, the shyness that was unique to me when I was a young girl has indeed disappeared. In its place is a middle-aged woman who has become accustomed to the pleasures of the bedroom and is strangely obsessed with carnal desire.

This complete transformation in me from naive to repressedly sexual, ultimately stems from my husband's vigorous and virile sexual prowess. His superior performance in bed and boundless energy provided me, at an age when women are typically very sexually active, with complete physical satisfaction.

I didn't lack physical needs,

but psychological satisfaction was another matter entirely.

Whenever I saw my husband's dark, overweight, and unattractive appearance, I would comfort myself with the promise of marital love, even deceiving myself at times, genuinely believing that appearance didn't matter. As time passed, I gradually adapted to his ugly face and began to accept it as part of my life.

This at least meant accepting my husband's appearance.

But it was merely a matter of no longer rejecting him.

My inner longing for handsome and charming men didn't diminish despite the satisfaction of my sexual desires. Even if my husband was incredibly capable in bed, able to bring me to multiple orgasms... I still can't shake this lingering regret, and the stark contrast between the intense physical satisfaction and the profound inner disappointment leaves me incredibly melancholic. What

makes me feel most guilty towards my husband is that after a passionate encounter, after my exhilarating climax, seeing my dark-skinned, unattractive, obese husband huddled in a ridiculous, panting position fills me with an extreme sense of disgust. This disgust, which I know I shouldn't feel but can't control, makes me feel incredibly ashamed towards him.

Because I can't hide this disgust, for a period after our marriage, I would inexplicably lash out at my husband after every sexual encounter. My loving husband would always try his best to cheer me up, which only resulted in my outward expression of joy turning into deep self-reproach.

As time went on in our marriage, this feeling of extreme guilt towards my husband grew stronger and stronger. By chance, I tried another way to release my pent-up emotions: remembering the handsome male leads in TV shows and movies I'd watched, and fantasizing about those handsome young men on top of me during sex with my husband, using self-deception to give myself double pleasure. Books call this "fantasy."

Although it's embarrassing to talk about, it's very effective. Especially when we're having sex with my husband in the dark, I fantasize that it's not my rough, clumsy husband riding me, but some handsome, fair-skinned young man. Along with the intense physical satisfaction my husband gives me, my guilty thoughts are also released along with my physical orgasm, bringing immense comfort.

In my view, emotional infidelity is harmless to marital sex life. The result is that after sex, feeling double pleasure, I present a completely different wife to my husband: gentle, alluring, and both seductive and coquettish. My oblivious husband initially didn't notice my changes. Even when he did, he didn't find anything strange about me, simply assuming I'd become more romantic and appreciative. He was quite pleased with my lingering affection after sex. At

first, I felt a pang of shame for my slightly perverse fantasies, even a deep sense of guilt, believing that this emotional infidelity was more shameful than despising my husband's supposed ugliness. But as time went on, I became enamored with this ambiguous union of mind and body, the extraordinary sensory stimulation of our sex life. Considering I wasn't harming anyone and hadn't actually done anything to betray my husband, I let go of my psychological burden.

I buried this secret deep within my heart, my greatest privacy, never mentioning it to anyone. Gradually, I became accustomed to it. Even when my husband wasn't home, late at night, lying in bed, I would secretly masturbate, fantasizing about handsome young men as my partners, while my husband, whom I should have longed for, never appeared in my fantasies.

Speaking of my fantasies, I like young, well-behaved boys. My initial sexual fantasy object was Alec Su from the Little Tigers. But as the wrinkles on Alec Su's face gradually increased, my sexual interest in him was gradually replaced by the ever-increasing number of Korean male stars. Although I've heard that these Koreans are all handsome men and beautiful women created through plastic surgery, the allure of the boys' handsome faces is indeed too great. Anyway, they're just tools for my fantasies, so I don't care too much.

Recently, I've become fond of the lead actor in this idol drama: a young Korean man surnamed Zhang.

In his early twenties, he's incredibly handsome, especially his sunny smile. Just to see him, I've been watching this trashy idol drama for several days in a row, just to remember his face.

On TV, the male lead takes the female lead to a beautiful forest, and after some dialogue, the two start kissing.

I stare blankly at the female lead on the screen, who also looks very pure and beautiful after plastic surgery, enjoying the boy's passionate kiss with her eyes closed, and I even feel a little jealous. How I longed to be the one kissing that handsome young man!

A sudden dryness gripped my mouth, and the man and woman on TV blurred. Before my eyes, it seemed I was being held in that young man's arms, passionately kissing him. In the dim woods, the handsome boy smiled at me. I licked my dry lips, a girlish blush rising to my cheeks. Even in my middle age, the thought of being intimate with such a handsome young boy still stirred a flutter in my heart.

I tried to take the boy's hand and slip it under my skirt, murmuring, "Come on! Touch me! Darling!" The boy blushed too, shyly letting me put his hand inside my damp underwear, his hands groping awkwardly at my genitals, his shy expression utterly adorable!

"Ah! Keep going, keep touching me! Little one! Don't be shy! Auntie loves you so much!" This sexual fantasy of disciplining a young boy made me incredibly excited. I could almost feel the handsome boy's shy expression and gentle caresses. I was so intoxicated that I lost all control.

After a moment of dazed disorientation, I snapped back to reality. Watching the changing images on the TV, everything remained the same—it was all just a fantasy. A deep sense of melancholy washed over me, and I couldn't help but sigh softly. Just then,

my son suddenly came out of his room, stood beside me, glanced at the TV, and noticed I was watching a romantic drama. He looked completely absorbed, and I couldn't help but scoff.

"Mom! You're watching this again? It's so rubbish! Those Korean bastards just make up ridiculous love stories to make middle-aged women cry. You actually fell for it!" My son grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the table, took a bite, and said.

"Ugh, don't block my view. Sit down. I'm old enough to watch a drama; it won't bother you!" I waved my hand dismissively, ignoring his annoyance. Little did he know how I felt.

"You watch then, I'm going to take a shower,"

my son said, finishing the apple in a few bites, tossing the core aside, and starting to undress.

Although my son was unhappy this afternoon because he saw me naked after showering, he never seemed to care about me. He never tries to hide his clothes from me when he showers or changes, and I'm used to it. After all, he's my own flesh and blood; what's the big deal? A few years ago, before we had air conditioning, he would wander around the house in just his underwear during summer vacation, and I never thought anything of it.

Today was no different. My son was taking a shower and was taking off his clothes next to me. I didn't pay much attention at first when he threw his clothes on the sofa I was sitting on. But when I smelled the strong masculine scent emanating from his shorts and vest, I couldn't help but take a closer look at him.

He's a bit thin, but strong. His fair skin is a result of my genes, and I'm glad he didn't inherit that from his father. He's also very handsome, which is naturally due to my good looks. They say boys resemble their mothers, and it seems that's absolutely true.

He also inherited some of his father's physique. Although my husband always felt our son was weak-willed and not physically strong enough, I felt he was much gentler and more considerate than him. And while our son's physical condition wasn't as good as my husband's, it was at least healthy for his age.

Just because we were mother and son, I never realized how perfectly my growing son matched my subconscious sexual fantasies: handsome, sunny, gentle, and shy. In that instant, I felt a little strange looking at my son as he undressed.

He stripped down to only his underwear, oblivious to my slightly surprised expression, and without saying much, went into the bathroom alone in his slippers.

Watching his retreating figure, the wicked feeling I had been indulging in surged up. The handsome man I had just fantasized about was suddenly replaced by my son's appearance.

"No! This is my son! How could I have any thoughts about him! It's so perverted!" I tried my best to suppress my sinful thoughts, but I still stared at my son's strong back until he closed the bathroom door. My heart started pounding.

"My son is so handsome now... How come I never noticed... No! I can't think like that! Not even a thought!" I rested my head on my hand, conflicted. Suddenly, a faint smell of a man's sweat wafted into my nose. It was my son's shorts and vest that he had taken off. I couldn't help but stare at his shorts, feeling an urge to secretly take them and smell them.

"What am I thinking?"

I tried to control my impulse, my face burning. How could I, as a mother, suddenly have such indescribable thoughts about my son? Was it the stimulation of his masculine scent? Or was it the impulse left from being suddenly interrupted from my sexual fantasy about a handsome young man? Whatever it was, how could I do something so shameful!

Despite my struggle against the inexplicable evil desires welling up within me, my mind suddenly replayed the day's events like a movie: the unspeakable embarrassment of my ample breasts pressed tightly against my son's back on the crowded bus, and the silent shame of his erect penis rubbing against my buttocks because of my physical stimulation—all these intertwined within me. Recalling them now was incredibly arousing.

The image of me standing naked before my son that evening, filled with boundless shame, aroused by his scent and fueled by the burning desire I'd just witnessed while watching television, even led me to fantasize about an even more erotic scene of a man and woman facing each other, the face of the man in my fantasy gradually shifting from the surgically enhanced handsome man to my son's pretty face.

"Ah! What...what's wrong with me?"

After the initial surge subsided, my mind cooled, and I murmured to myself. My face flushed crimson, and I realized I'd unknowingly been clutching and playing with my son's shorts.

How utterly indecent! I was already aware of this; if my son saw me in this ridiculous state, the consequences would be unimaginable! I desperately forced myself to throw the shorts aside. I stood up, tidied my disheveled hair, and tried to calm myself. But no matter what, the wicked thought that had suddenly arisen in my mind regarding my son wouldn't go away.

Even though the vague thought was only fleeting, I still felt incredibly ashamed. But the smell of sweat on my son's clothes seemed to have a magical power, making me somewhat reluctant to let go of this feeling. I couldn't help but secretly pick up his shorts again, hold them up to my face, and take a deep sniff. It was a strong, sweaty smell, but why was it so alluring to me?

When my son emerged from the bathroom, dripping wet from his shower, I sat up straight, adopting the most dignified posture possible, pretending to ignore him as I watched TV. But out of the corner of my eye, I couldn't help but steal glances at his strong physique and handsome face. When my gaze lingered on the adorable mound of flesh tightly encased in his dark blue briefs, my slightly trembling lips instantly became even drier than when I'd had a brief sexual fantasy, to the point that I unconsciously licked my dry upper lip.

My son, oblivious to my inner turmoil and the discordant act I was trying to conceal, stood beside me, glanced at the boring TV show I was still watching, and muttered dismissively, "Boring!" before turning and going back to his room.

After he left, my tense nerves finally relaxed!

Naturally prone to daydreaming, I was suddenly seized by a strange, inexplicable urge to fantasize about my son. My heart pounded wildly, terrified he'd discover my dirty secret—the smell of his shorts. Luckily, he was rather oblivious and didn't notice the change in the placement of

his dirty clothes. Now that he's in his room asleep, I finally breathed a sigh of relief. I turned off the TV and took his dirty clothes to the bathroom with the other clothes to wash tomorrow. Holding his clothes, inhaling his scent, my heart pounded wildly. I struggled to resist the urge to sniff him again.

This fascination with the scent of a man was something I'd never experienced before. The complex mix of tension, shame, and fear I felt because the object of my affections was my own son—a feeling akin to being a thief—was incredibly thrilling. At the same time, the first time I used a handsome young man around me as the object of my fantasies, the real feeling, including his naked body and the strong smell of sweat, was far more real than my unrealistic fantasies about teen idols.

However, I still couldn't quite accept my inappropriate thoughts about my own son, no matter how tempting they were. After all, we live in reality, and the responsibilities of being a mother, a wife, and a woman's morality restrained me. This restraint, coupled with reason, led me into deep self-reproach after my emotions were completely under control.

The self-reproach was only temporary; as the night wore on, what followed was the loneliness and emptiness unique to middle-aged women left alone in their empty house because their husbands were away on business.

I lost all interest in watching TV. I went back to my bedroom, closed the door, turned on the computer, and logged onto an online video website that my husband and I often watched, wanting to completely vent my inner frustration.

It was a pornographic website, offering paid online adult movies.

My husband and I are both quite open to new things, and we share the same open-minded view on sex. Therefore, in order to add some fun to our sex life, we secretly watched pornographic videos together back in the days of VCRs. With the progress of society, VCDs and DVDs have been constantly updated, and now we live in the internet age. This bad habit has accompanied us from being a shy and naive newlywed couple to our current period of vigorous sexual desire in middle age.

Countless nights we watched porn and enthusiastically imitated the wild sex scenes. Countless nights my husband was away on business trips, or during my period, one of us would masturbate to relieve our desires. These countless nights made porn an inescapable source of sustenance for me.

Perhaps it's due to my own upbringing and temperament, though I admit I might be a wanton woman at heart.

But in my daily interactions, no one knows this inner indulgence. Only my husband knows just how slutty I am in bed. And he's happy that I take the initiative and go wild in bed, so he can enjoy a more perfect sex life.

In short, in my husband's eyes, I'm the perfect woman: a housewife at home, a lady in public, and a wanton woman in bed. From an outward perspective, this assessment is quite accurate. But in reality, he still hasn't grasped my true inner thoughts. The reason I act so wantonly and seductive in bed is simply because I always close my eyes and fantasize about him as my ideal handsome young man.

The entire pornographic video website contains nearly ten thousand adult films of different styles, making its resources incredibly comprehensive.

My husband and I are both rather straightforward people; we only like to watch uncensored porn. We've always looked down on films with mosaic censorship, believing that censored films are more likely to be fake, lack visual stimulation, and have dragging plots—they're just more finely categorized, so we rarely watch them. However, today, I inexplicably entered the censored section, cautiously searching for the category I was looking for.

Incest series! Found it!

Seeing these four words made me blush even more than if I had actually watched porn, and my heart started racing again. But I still chose a Japanese censored porn film with a good-looking cover description, put on the headset we had specially bought to avoid our son discovering that we were watching porn, and clicked play.

An old woman, at least fifty years old, was screaming in pain, while a man who looked to be at least 45 years old with a lewd face, dressed in a Japanese school uniform, was licking the old woman's labia. Thick mosaics completely obscured the man's stubble chin and the old woman's darkened genitals!

This was awful!

I had been driven by a vague sense of unease, a surge of impulse and longing, hoping to find some spiritual satisfaction online, but instead I encountered this garbage. It was truly a blow! I closed the video.

This time, I didn't bother looking at the cover description and randomly opened another one.

This one was completely different from the poorly made trash I'd just watched. A plump middle-aged woman, about my age, was hanging her washed underwear to dry in the yard, while a thin, fair-skinned boy peeked from a corner. Although he also looked lewd, at least the male and female leads actually looked like mother and son.

I sat hunched over my computer, chin in hand, watching intently. The plot had unfolded: the seemingly dignified single mother knew her son coveted her beauty and subtly tempted him. Finally, in a moment of impulse, the teenage son raped her. Yet, the seemingly rapist sex act was portrayed with unparalleled beauty.

I replayed the scene repeatedly, especially the one where the boy was penetrating his mother from behind on the sofa, his hands around her breasts, while they shared a wet kiss.

My underwear was even a little wet! I took off my nightgown, spread my legs, sat in front of the computer, and started masturbating.

My husband is often away on business trips, so masturbation is a regular occurrence for me, given my high sex drive. Because I know my sensitive spots perfectly, I can usually bring myself to the peak of pleasure with just a light touch on my clitoris. A short while of pleasure is enough to satisfy me. But watching the porn I've repeatedly watched depicting mother and son incest, today, no matter how much I stroked my smooth clitoral head exposed outside my foreskin, I couldn't feel satisfied. What I desperately craved was the feeling of a man's penis truly penetrating me!

Ah! I tried inserting my index finger into my wet vagina, stimulating my G-spot, and finally, I felt something. I let out a soft moan, just like the mother in the porn, but I tried my best to control myself, keeping my voice as low as it could go. I was afraid my son next door would hear, so when I almost screamed, I covered my mouth with my other hand. Waves of pleasure, growing stronger with each passing moment, combined with the joyful intercourse between mother and son in the porn, unconsciously transformed my desire for a man into a longing for my son.

At this moment, a lewd image flashed through my mind: as I knelt on the ground, using every trick in the book to play with the erect penis before me, the owner of the penis, his naked white body, was gradually revealed, until the man's face, tinged with an embarrassed smile, was shown. And the boy, with a shy expression and his penis erect, letting me manipulate him, was my son: Yang Yang… I climaxed! I climaxed! The sounds of a man and woman making love in my earpiece, the sexual fantasies before my eyes, and the wild masturbation finally brought me to the peak of pleasure. A large amount of vaginal fluid gushed out, completely soaking my cotton panties.

My body went limp, and I licked my wet fingers, still feeling unsatisfied, watching another round of mother-son intercourse on the screen, feeling a mix of emotions. Was it disappointment? Was it satisfaction? Or was it desire? I couldn't say for sure.

I only remember that I couldn't sleep that night. My son's tall figure kept flashing through my mind, and I felt a burning desire whenever I looked at his image. On the other hand, my conscience was also deeply condemning me: a great mother, actually fantasizing about her son and masturbating—how shameful! Shame and desire tormented me, keeping me awake for a long time, constantly wavering between reason and fantasy. It wasn't until dawn that I finally drifted off to sleep, exhausted.

That night I had a dream. I dreamt that the three of us were happily eating breakfast around the table. My husband was reading the newspaper while eating, and my son, as always, was absent-minded. I sat among them, chatting and laughing, a scene of immense warmth.

Chapter 4

Half-asleep, I was woken by the alarm clock. Still sleepy, I habitually put on my nightgown, yawned, and got out of bed to wash my face. Perhaps because I hadn't slept well due to the dream, my head was still groggy when I woke up.

Last night's random thoughts were unconsciously forgotten as the busy morning began.

After washing up, I hurriedly made breakfast for my son and put it on the table, calling him to get up and eat while I went back to my room to change and get ready for work.

Having worn my bank uniform for over ten years, I felt a bit aesthetically fatigued. Because the branch of the bank I work at is so small that employees don't even have their own changing rooms, I have to wear my uniform to and from work every day. As a result, although I've bought many beautiful clothes, I haven't had much of a chance to wear them; they just sit in the closet. This makes me feel somewhat helpless and dissatisfied with life, but that's life. What can an ordinary person do?

I took off my nightgown and looked down at myself, discovering that the filth left from last night's masturbation had left a dirty stain on my recently changed underwear, making it almost unwearable. I frowned and gently pulled down my panties, then changed into a clean pair of white silk panties. Feeling much fresher, I slowly began to dress.

The weather was getting hotter.

I found a pure white cotton bra without padding and put it on. My 85C breasts felt very relaxed and comfortable without the pressure of the padding, though they did show slight signs of sagging. However, because my breasts were very symmetrical, this slight sagging, outlined by the thin bra, accentuated the unique charm of a mature woman—a seductive beauty unique to young women.

I unconsciously took two steps back in front of the mirror, and the two full peaks, tightly encased in the white bra, rose and fell with the rhythm of my movement, making me feel even more that being a woman was "pretty" good.

I tugged at the bra straps, adjusting it to the most comfortable position, and gently touched my large, soft breasts—the ones my husband adored. They felt heavy and yielding. After so many years of marriage, I still couldn't understand why men were so drawn to women's breasts, even more so than their genitals, in my husband's sexual expressions. I didn't dislike his caresses; in fact, I enjoyed them myself. But as a mother, my breasts held a sacred purpose for me.

They were the tools a mother uses to breastfeed her child. When Yangyang was born, the excitement I felt when the little guy first put his mouth to my nipple and greedily suckled was unforgettable. The joy of becoming a mother for the first time was indescribable. Before that, my nipples had only experienced the erotic pleasure of being teased by my husband's hands and tongue. But the moment my son suckled my nipple, I felt an unprecedented sense of happiness.

The contrast was like heaven and earth, utterly incomparable. Therefore, whenever I hear men around me making lewd comments about women's breasts, I don't take it seriously, and I even feel indignant. But as a woman, I can't argue with those trashy men who enjoy telling dirty jokes to harass female colleagues, so I can only keep these feelings to myself.

Speaking of which, Yangyang was very well-behaved when he was little. After each feeding, he would quietly fall asleep in my arms, gently patted, without crying or fussing, sleeping soundly until dawn. When he woke up, his little face was rosy and he was very cute.

Especially his laughter, clear and loud, made me happy every day to hear my son's laughter. So I tried everything to make him happy, and I almost always went along with him.

As my child grew older, my husband often had to travel for work. At that time, I took care of my son alone. The bond between my son and me was the closest we had before he started elementary school. Back then, my son often acted spoiled towards me, and his favorite thing to do was to grab my breasts tightly with both hands and bury his head in my chest.

He would affectionately call out "Mommy! Mommy!"

Every time he did this, it hurt me, but seeing his adorable face, I couldn't scold him. I would just hug him tightly, kiss his little face, and make him happy.

At night, when I was putting him to sleep, he would always hold my breast before falling asleep. Occasionally, when he was happy, he would shout, "Mommy, I want to nurse!" and then press himself against me, sucking and biting my nipple. Although I had long since stopped producing milk, seeing my son's mischievous behavior showing his attachment to his mother made me, as a mother, incredibly happy. I let him do whatever he wanted, coaxing him until he was tired before patting him back to sleep.

Thinking about how awkward my son looked when I pressed my chest against him on the bus, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself.

This child is growing up, and he's becoming more and more distant from his mother. However, since my son started school and had his own bedroom, no longer sleeping in the same bed as his parents, these intimate gestures between us have gradually disappeared.

Like all parents, my husband and I have become preoccupied with his academic performance and daily life. As for his inner world, with our increasingly busy work schedules and our son's growing rebellious tendencies as he enters adolescence, it's as if an invisible barrier has formed between us, making genuine communication impossible.

The respect and care between mother and son, father and son, in daily life feels like that of neighbors in the city: outwardly harmonious, but inwardly unfathomable. This feeling is vastly different from the heartfelt connection I felt when I first became a mother, holding my son who couldn't speak. Back then, even though he couldn't speak, his attachment to his mother was far greater than what he shows now, often ignoring me or even arguing with me.

Time not only ages us, but it also erodes everything, including family bonds.

After admiring myself in the mirror for a while, I took out a brand new pair of flesh-colored pantyhose and slowly put them on.

I like flesh-colored stockings and pantyhose; the texture of flesh, to me, is far more down-to-earth than other flashy colors. Wearing the bank uniform skirt year-round without stockings feels incredibly uncomfortable. Plus, I'm quite voluptuous and tall, making me perfectly suited to wearing high heels with stockings.

The lines of my full, alluring thighs appear even more defined and elongated in stockings than in reality, and the unique flesh-colored texture of my snow-white legs shrouded in semi-transparent stockings sparks endless fantasies.

Although I have no intention of seducing other men, every summer I feel the lustful gazes of men, both familiar and unfamiliar, fixed on the half of my thighs that inevitably peek out from under my uniform skirt. I always feel genuine disgust and shame, yet amidst this dissatisfaction with their rudeness, there's a strange sense of pride.

It's a secret delight and pride in still retaining my charm and allure despite being middle-aged. Therefore, I feel a mixture of disgust and a desire to attract more attention—a contradictory psychology I don't know when I developed.

After putting on the stockings, I began to put on my uniform skirt and shirt. That damn bank! It's like they're using us female employees as bait to attract depositors. The black woolen uniform skirts they issue are so short they don't even cover the knees. Every female employee walks around the office area with half her thighs exposed, making the atmosphere incredibly suggestive. The white long-sleeved shirts are practically transparent, revealing the underwear underneath.

While I'm working, I often hear lewd men whispering about the color and style of a particular female employee's underwear, making us female employees extremely embarrassed. But no matter how unwilling we are, we still have to wear them; it's a strict rule.

After tidying up my clothes, I put on the matching black high heels, bent down in front of the dressing table, roughly applied lipstick, and drew my eyebrows. Then I turned around, grabbed my handbag, opened the door, and quickly walked out of the bedroom, putting my long hair up in a bun.

At the dining table in the living room, Yang Yang was wolfing down his breakfast.

This kid is in his growth spurt. "A half-grown boy can eat his father alive," that's no exaggeration. Four slices of bread, two eggs, and a glass of milk were gone in no time; he'd practically finished them all. Seeing me come out, he mumbled a greeting while chewing, "Mom! Aren't you going to eat?" I felt unwell that morning, so I only prepared breakfast for my son, not mine. When he asked, I replied, "Mom's not hungry, you eat. Hurry up and you'll be late. You have a test today! Be careful during the test, don't be so careless. You'll be taking the college entrance exam next year..." "I know! Aren't you tired? So much nonsense every day!"

my son grumbled, cutting me off. I could only watch him finish his breakfast, then silently clean up the dishes, and we continued on our way to catch the bus to work.

Everything was the same as always—the daily rush, the routine of nagging, even his impatient replies remained unchanged.

These past few days since my husband left have been uneventful, as usual. If anything is different, it's that whenever my son and I have physical contact while on a crowded bus, I feel a strange unease. Especially now that I've seen him grow into such a handsome and sunny young man, every time I steal a glance at him, I feel a long-lost flutter in my heart, like a deer trapped in my chest. It's as if I can no longer simply see him as a child.

I've even found myself, on several occasions on the bus, in less crowded conditions, deliberately pressing my breasts—wearing only a bra without padding—against his half-exposed arm that was gripping the handrail. Even though it was just an unconscious action, I still feel uneasy after realizing my inappropriate behavior. Fortunately, my son doesn't seem to notice, which puts me slightly at ease. I silently remind myself to control my emotions and not embarrass myself as a mother again.

Thankfully, the heavy workload each day pulls me back to reality from the blissful reverie I share with my son on the bus. Each day, as I sit in my office chair and begin my tedious work, those fleeting moments of excitement are swept away by the harshness of life.

Sometimes, when I can't sleep at night, I try to rationally analyze the almost distorted psychology within my yearning for a sunny, youthful man. After calm reflection, I realize that age, work pressure, and the gradual accumulation of dissatisfaction with certain aspects of my husband's life are the three factors that have contributed to my current state of heightened libido and vivid fantasies.

But like a drug addict who knows the drugs are harmful yet cannot quit, I know that my inner self is far from the dignified and chaste person I am in reality. But since the various moral constraints of reality prevent me from indulging, what is there to blame for indulging in a little self-destruction in my own private inner world?

So even though I know the root of the problem, having found reasons to convince myself, I continue to maintain a near-separation of body and mind when releasing my physical desires. It's just that because my husband is away on business, my actual sexual partner has changed from his penis to my fingers.

When my husband isn't around, masturbation isn't a big deal for me; it's even an open secret between my husband and me. But recently, the sexual partner I repeatedly crave in my mind is my son, whom I've been trying so hard to avoid. The guilt of this thought is unbearable, yet I can't shake it off. I can't escape the embarrassment around my son, nor can I escape fantasizing about him.

These agonizing days pass by one after another.

Every morning, unintentional physical contact with my son—the immense work pressure after work, forcing myself to suppress myself—the solitary release at night.

This vicious cycle repeats itself every day, and the repressed emotions and desires can no longer be relieved by the usual outbursts.

Even if my inner self is completely different from my real life, I don't want to consciously use my son as the target of my fantasies. Like a man visiting a prostitute, images of various handsome male celebrities flashed through my mind, adding much color to my married life with my husband. Why is it that only my son's image can't be shaken off now? Even though I've been trying to restrain myself, his image still frequently appears before my eyes when I masturbate alone late at night. This sinful thought is what I least want to bear right now.

But even the hardest days have an end, and in the blink of an eye, the week is almost up. The day my husband is supposed to return from his business trip is fast approaching. Perhaps his return will change me, so I eagerly await that day. At the same time, the loneliness and depression of the past few days have made me yearn for my husband's caresses.

But all these hopes were shattered the day before my husband was supposed to return from his business trip.

That afternoon, I was impatiently dealing with the long line of depositors at the window when suddenly the duty manager called me to answer the phone. (Our bank rules prohibit using mobile phones during working hours.

The call was from my son's PE teacher.

My son had fallen while running during PE class and fractured his right arm. He was in the hospital with a cast on, and the teacher told me to bring money to the hospital immediately.

My heart sank. Oh my god! A fracture? My son is my husband's and my lifeblood; he's never suffered such a serious injury before. I can't imagine how much pain he's in. I immediately asked the duty manager for leave, hailed a taxi, and rushed to the hospital.

When I got out of the taxi, I ran straight to the orthopedics department. My son's homeroom teacher, Ms. Liu, was pacing back and forth in front of the treatment room, frowning helplessly. I had just walked over to greet her when I heard my son scream from inside the treatment room.)

"Ouch! It hurts! Be gentle! Ah!"

His screams, mixed with my son's sobs, broke my heart, and I couldn't help but cry.

I cried out anxiously, "Yangyang! What's wrong? Mom's here!" Teacher Liu looked up and saw me, quickly coming over to help me sit down on a chair and comforting me, "Yangyang's mother, don't worry, the doctor is setting Yangyang's bones, correcting the fracture, and then they'll put a cast. Don't be so nervous!" "Teacher Liu, what... what happened? Yangyang was fine when he went to school this morning..." Hearing my son's incessant screams, my heart was breaking. I was very dissatisfied with the teacher's tone. It seems she's not worried if it weren't for her son!

"Here's what happened. During PE class this afternoon, Yangyang tripped and fell while running. When he tried to get up, he used his hand to brace himself, and perhaps the force and angle were just right, fracturing his right arm bone. Our PE teacher quickly contacted me to bring him here for treatment. Fortunately, it's not a serious problem. After the bone is set and he rests for a week or two, he can go back to school. It won't interfere with his studies too much." It was clear that this accident had nothing to do with the school's management, and Ms. Liu spoke to me with remarkable ease.

"But! Will he suffer any permanent disability?"

I was still a little worried and quickly asked.

"It shouldn't be, right? I asked the doctor when he went in for treatment, and he said it was just a minor issue. But it takes a hundred days to recover from a broken bone, so some rest is definitely needed." Just then, my son came out of the treatment room, his right arm in a cast, tears welling in his eyes.

Seeing me, he couldn't help but cry out, calling, "Mom...Mom!" and then buried his

face in my arms. Although he's already a head taller than me, he cried like a child who had been wronged. Looking at his sling arm, my heart ached, and a few tears fell from my eyes. I quickly patted his strong back with one hand and took out a tissue to wipe his tears with the other. He was in so much pain that tears and snot streamed down his face. I really don't know how much suffering he's endured.

At that moment, it felt like I was back when my son was a child, and I felt his deep affection for me once again.

"Alright! Alright! You always talk back to me, always act like an adult. I really thought you were a little man! Crying like this over such a small injury, aren't you ashamed? Don't cry, son, it's okay, does it still hurt?" I comforted my son while, without waiting for his answer, I quickly asked the doctor, "Doctor, is my son's hand alright? Will he be disabled?" The doctor was an elderly man in his fifties. He handed me the X-ray image of my son, briefly explained the condition, and told me that Yang Yang's hand was only slightly fractured. After it healed, he shouldn't do any strenuous exercise, and the cast could be removed in about a month. Then he wrote a two-week sick leave note for Teacher Liu and signaled that we could leave.

As we walked out of the hospital, I learned that Teacher Liu had paid Yang Yang's medical expenses in advance, so I quickly took out the money to return it to her. She didn't refuse, put it away, and told Yang Yang to take good care of himself and not to miss his studies during the recovery period. My son and I thanked her again before parting ways.

"Yang Yang, stop hugging me like that!"

After Teacher Liu left, Yang Yang and I walked towards the bus stop. Along the way, Yang Yang insisted on putting his uninjured left hand around my shoulder as we walked. I couldn't stand my son's sudden display of affection and tried to break free from his embrace.

His actions made me so uncomfortable! On the street, my son wasn't a child anymore; he was taller than me and quite strong. What would strangers think if they saw him like this? Besides, I had some unspeakable feelings for him, though he didn't know them. Because of this, I was extremely wary of his affectionate gestures—not towards my child, but towards myself!

"Mom! What's wrong! Didn't I always hug you like this when I was little? Even now that I'm grown up, I'm still your son! Today, when that old doctor was setting my bones, it hurt so much! I just wanted Mom to hug me! But you came so late!" My son choked up, as if he was about to cry again.

No matter how much he argues with me, he's still a child, and as my husband said, our son is indeed very weak-willed. He can't handle even this little bit of suffering and desperately needs comfort.

I shook my head with a wry smile, no longer refusing my son's arm around my shoulder, and obediently walked slowly with him in his arms, even though he's much taller than me, and to others it looked like I was being hugged. But the bond between mother and son made me deeply feel that at this moment, my son was still so young and needed protection; the one being hugged and cared for was actually my son himself.

"Give me your phone! Yangyang! Mom left in a hurry and forgot my phone at the bank. I need to call your dad! You've had such a big incident, and your dad doesn't even know! I wonder how angry he'll be when he gets back!" "It's in my backpack! Mom, you can get it yourself!"

Yangyang said, stopping in his tracks.

My son stopped, and I turned around to face him, looking down at his backpack for his phone. Because my son's schoolbag was full of textbooks and I couldn't find them right away, I couldn't help but mutter a complaint under my breath about how messy it was. He quietly apologized, still holding me tightly with one arm.

Night was falling, but the streetlights weren't on yet. In the dim evening light, many passersby cast curious glances. They probably hadn't seen a tall boy in a high school uniform, carrying a schoolbag and with one arm in a sling, so openly embracing a middle-aged woman in business attire, seemingly whispering sweet nothings. The middle-aged woman, nestled in the boy's arms, whispered something while burying her head in his chest, appearing quite tender.

Perhaps because I'm in good shape, my back view was rather attractive. Although passersby could clearly see that I was much older than my son, none of them seemed to realize I was this boy's mother. The way they looked at us was like watching an overly affectionate couple flirting openly in the street—a mixture of curiosity and lewdness, as if they hoped to see us do something exciting to satisfy their curiosity.

I suddenly felt these ambiguous gazes from those around me and looked around. Some pedestrians quickly turned their heads away, pretending not to notice, while others hurried away. But I had already sensed something was wrong. After finding my son's phone, I firmly broke free from his embrace, preparing to call my husband while gesturing for my son to continue towards the bus stop.

The call had just connected, and I had barely called out "Husband" when, before he could answer, my son's healthy hand reached out and pulled me along. I hesitated for a moment, but didn't resist, letting my son hold my hand as we talked to my husband and walked towards a bus that was about to leave the station.

"Look at you! How can you be so clumsy? You even trip and fall while running! What can you do at your age?" My husband berated our son on the phone, his voice so loud it seemed everyone on the bus could hear him. I sat next to my son, and seeing how tense he looked because of his father's scolding, I couldn't bear it. I squeezed his cold hand to comfort him, then took the phone from him and tried to calm my husband down by not yelling at our son.

"Old Yang! Stop yelling at the child like that, okay? He didn't want to fall. Do you know how painful a broken arm is? You just start scolding him out of nowhere, scaring him even more. He's already upset!" Before I could finish, my husband interrupted, "Yanzi, stop protecting him. Look at how you've spoiled him! A grown man, acting like a delicate girl. Who will want a child like that when he goes to college and looks for a job? Every time I scold him, you take his side. You just keep indulging him. It's good that he broke his arm! It lets him know that his parents can't always take his place." I was a little annoyed too, and said irritably, "Fine, fine, I can't talk to you about this. What time will you be home tomorrow? What do you want me to prepare in advance?" "Dumplings." "I'm so tired of eating takeout every day while I'm on this business trip!" My husband's tone softened considerably when he mentioned going home. "My train will arrive this morning, but the company wants me to go to headquarters as soon as I get back, so I probably won't be back by noon. You'll have to prepare dinner." "Okay."

I glanced at my son beside me, who looked unhappy but dared not retaliate after being scolded, and whispered to my husband, "Don't be so harsh with Yangyang when you get back. Our son has never suffered such injustice before. Don't always have such a stern face towards him." "I just think he's too weak. Never mind, we'll talk about the child's issues later. Tell him to take good care of his injury, study more, and not let this little thing interfere with his studies! I bought him a pair of Nike shoes. I'll tell him when I get back. Don't say anything more!" My husband is always tough on the outside but soft on the inside.

I couldn't help but smile slightly and agreed, asking him if he wanted to say anything more to our son. My husband said no, and our son kept shaking his head at me, indicating that he didn't want to listen to his father's nagging anymore. I shook my head and hung up the phone.

This father and son are so incompatible; nobody can do anything about them.

[The End]

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The Story of Beautiful Mom Wang Yan

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