Mother's 20-year secret

With a few brief beeps and vibrations, I picked up my phone from my computer. That
all-too-familiar WeChat profile picture immediately sent a barrage of messages.

But unlike the usual incessant barrage of questions, this time
the chat window was completely blank; the dozen or so messages were all images.

I knew exactly what those images would contain, assuming nothing too serious had happened.
And these dozen or so unopened images directly proved that nothing untoward had occurred
.

I thought I'd become quite detached after everything I'd been through. But when it came
down , I found I couldn't be as nonchalant as I thought.

A persistent tension and excitement spread through every nerve in my body;
the feeling of my heart pounding and my breath catching in my throat was like being transported back to the first time I touched my first love's youthful, vibrant body.

I don't know why, but I enjoy this feeling of my heart pounding, this feeling of being swept through my mind by all sorts of
dark inexplicable emotions, constantly assaulting and eroding my body and mind. Perhaps the reason is that only
in moments like these can I clearly feel these multifaceted emotions within me. No longer the usual person, indifferent to
everything , living a numb and mundane life.

With a snap, I lit a lighter, watching the flickering flame, which seemed to mirror
the desires that were now surging within me. Usually, they were quietly hidden within their container, but when that switch was pressed, they would
instantly rise from their hidden corners, constantly devouring everything around them, and in doing so, consuming me
completely.

I slowly exhaled smoke rings into the room, watching the sunlight streaming through the bright glass of the window. The bright sunlight
couldn't soothe the palpitations in my heart. My fingers, holding the cigarette, trembled uncontrollably. After
a moment's , I finally gently tapped on the other person's profile picture.

The pictures that appeared before my eyes were indeed much as I had expected. An unnamed lust instantly
surged from the deepest part of my heart, driving me to eagerly click on the images.

The first one, which was also the last one the other party sent, showed a voluptuous
woman , lying on the bed with her beautiful legs, encased in tattered black stockings, raised.

A large, padded bra with white lace trim hung loosely around her neck, and
her purplish-red nipples, clearly from breastfeeding, stood proudly on her full, limp breasts.
The clearly visible stretch marks on her fair, flat abdomen further indicated that she was definitely a mature woman who had given birth.

The sheer black stockings covering her round, peach
- alluring. The crotch of her white thong
was pulled up to the side of the woman's bulging mons pubis, already wrinkled into a thin rope at the base of her thighs.

Slightly thick, black pubic hair was curled and tangled at the top of her vulva, glistening with moisture in the dim light
. A thick stream of white semen
flowed reddish-brown labia were covered in glistening, lustful fluids, mixed with the thick, milky-white
semen, sliding down her buttocks until it reached a dark corner unseen in the photograph.

Although the photo didn't capture her face, from her figure and the glimpse of her chin, I could still be
100% certain that this woman lying on the bed, her vagina still slowly leaking semen, was my mother—the one who had raised me
for over twenty years, who had taught me with such care and respect, the
one I should know intimately yet had never truly understood!

I zoomed in on every detail of the photo, not wanting to miss a single thing, until the cigarette butt burned
my fingers, snapping me back to reality.

Feeling lost and disillusioned, I lit another cigarette. I didn't know if what I was
doing I couldn't find any other way to understand
what had happened to my mother over the past twenty years. Her experiences, her thoughts, and her true feelings
had tormented my unsettled mind day and night for the past decade, like ants gnawing at it.

Because I had never been able to fully understand my mother's secrets, I had always longed to
one day truly understand her, to unravel the doubts and speculations that had been suppressed in my heart for over a decade.

And now, everything was proceeding smoothly according to plan, even halfway to success in my expectations
. All that remained was for the man in the photo, who had just ejaculated inside my mother's mature body, to
follow my instructions step by step to conquer her heart, and those questions that had plagued me for over a decade
would finally be gradually answered.

But at this moment, as I puffed on my cigarette, I felt no
joy of impending success. Looking at the photo of my beautiful mother, whom I had longed for and adored for over twenty years, lying on the bed with her
long , tattered black stockings spread, her vagina filled with the thick semen of a young man I had personally chosen,
I felt only endless bewilderment.

I had fantasized about this scene countless
times , imagining myself filling her mysterious, wanton vagina with my own semen. Unfortunately, fantasies are just
fantasies; no one dares to actually do this to their own mother, and I was no exception.

In the second and third photos, my mother was still in the same position on the bed. After finishing another cigarette
and comparing the photos again and again, I confirmed that he had taken
these three photos very quickly, risking being discovered by my mother. Because apart from the slight difference in the clarity of the photos and the thick white semen flowing from my mother's vagina
, there were no other changes.

It wasn't until the fourth photo that my mother's posture changed. He must have taken the photo while he was having sex with her from behind
, but the photo was a bit blurry. You could only make out that my mother was kneeling on the bed, but that was my
favorite most longed-for position, so I couldn't resist zooming in to look closely.

My mother's snow-white, alabaster-like back was completely naked. Her white bra, unhooked, fell loosely onto
the bright red sheets. Her strong, white hands were firmly planted on the bed, and her ample breasts hung down in front of her chest.
She still looked quite full.

Her long, smooth, black hair cascaded over her shoulders and snow-white back, and the curve of her waist made it
impossible that she was already a woman in her mid-forties.

A dark, fleshy penis was hidden between her upturned buttocks, and tattered black stockings
stubbornly clung to her beautiful, alluring, rounded buttocks, covered by a man's large hand. Judging from the man's
outstretched fingers, he was probably kneading her firm, elastic buttocks.

The fifth photo was almost identical to the fourth, but significantly clearer. You could clearly
see the small mole on her snow-white back, a mole that held countless memories and fantasies for me, a mole I had tickled since I was a child
...

From as far back as I can remember, the part of my mother's body I touched most was her snow-white, smooth back. It
's strange, but the area around the small mole on the right side of my mother's back is always itchy. This led to
me being asked to scratch it for her from a

young age, and it became a habit that continues to
this She often asks me to scratch it while she's talking to me.

I think we Chinese really aren't good at expressing our feelings. Romantic relationships are relatively easier, but the
problem is with family relationships. We rarely say "I love you" to our parents or children,
especially the older generation. Thousands of years of traditional culture have
ingrained this reserved and introverted nature in our blood and bones.

My mother and I are both like this; we have feelings but don't express them verbally. We only express our emotions through actions
. This was especially true during my rebellious teenage years, when I completely disobeyed my
mother 's discipline and refused to listen to her nagging.

Only when she turned her back to me, crossed her arms, and lifted her clothes to let me scratch her exposed, snowy back
would I patiently listen to her nagging while randomly
digging —there was that little mole right there. No matter how angry she was before, she would
smile after this brief exchange. This was one of the few ways my mother's generation expressed their love for their children—deep,
restrained, and unwavering.

I admit that back then, I often had impure thoughts. Whenever I saw my mother's
snowy white back, the curves gathering at her waist and then surging along her hips, I
couldn't help but let my mind wander. Add to that her long, slender, white legs in the summer—these
parts that accentuated her femininity gave me countless fantasies during my naive youth,
and after I fully understood matters of the heart, they brought me endless restlessness.

Like most women, my mother's youthful beauty has faded with age. Not only have
crow's feet appeared around her eyes, but her once delicate and radiant face has also been somewhat dulled by time and life.

However, no matter how much time changes, the skin below her neck remains fair and smooth.
Apart from slightly soft breasts, there are almost no other signs of aging.

Perhaps it's a case of beauty being in the eye of the beholder, but in my eyes, my mother's figure is almost perfect
. I've never seen her out of shape from childhood to adulthood. Even at an age when she should be gaining weight,
she still maintains the same figure I remember from her youth.

It's a little embarrassing to admit, but aside from her desire for beauty, my mother's biggest motivation for exercising is
her fear of getting sick and spending money. After all, for a family like ours that has lost its breadwinner, we simply can't afford to get sick.
Especially as I grow older and reach the age where I need to consider buying a house, a car, and getting married, we can't afford to spend
any more money on hospital visits.

Therefore, she has always paid special attention to exercising. Going for a run every night has long been a must
, and she also often does simple yoga poses at home, learned from her phone. Thanks to this, my mother
has always been very healthy, and her figure is always curvaceous, exuding a sexy and alluring charm.
Every time I'm infatuated with her, I suffer the agonizing struggle between desire and reason.

The person who sent me the photos was completely
captivated . To quote him, if my mother's face were covered, she would be no less stunning than those so-called "perfect
women," and having sex with her would be incredibly pleasurable, not to mention the many taboo and stimulating psychological
factors .

The man who successfully had sex with my mother as planned, the one I hesitated over again and again before
finally deciding to let him try, is actually only twenty-two years old, a year younger than me,
and half the age of my forty-five-year-old mother.

How we met was several years ago. And why things turned out
this way, well, that goes back a long time.

When I was little, I can't remember exactly how old, but I'm sure it was before I was seven.
My family moved to an apartment building after I turned seven, but the scene in my memory clearly
happened before we moved, when we were still renting a courtyard house in a nearby rural area. I don't remember many of the specific details because I was young
, but I'm certain of where we lived.

It's because of this that I can estimate the approximate time; otherwise, my childhood
memories would have been a complete mess. This is also my biggest question about my mother,
the first question I most want to know: did she secretly have an affair behind my father's back then?

Before I was ten, I lived a carefree and happy life. Sometimes I even think that
the childhood of those born in the 90s must have been the happiest and most complete.

Our childhood included the countryside, rivers, arcades, and later, the internet cafes that
sprang up . The food and clothing we had were countless times better than those born in the 80s. Compared to those born in the 2000s, although our material conditions
weren't as good, we had the added joy of rural life that they can no longer experience. Sometimes I even feel sorry for
future generations, that they will never experience the innocence and naturalness of rural life.

Every time I reminisce, my mind starts to wander. Perhaps it's just me...
I've always been a particularly imaginative person, or perhaps it's because I'm unwilling to touch upon those unpleasant memories from
the past . Especially after experiencing so much, I've long since become accustomed to selective forgetting to prevent myself
from recalling those dark and painful memories.

Whenever I think about them, I always tell myself not to think about them, but to think more about the happy
memories. Over time, this has become a habit of my mind always wandering, a habit
I control.

Let's go back to that scene in my memory. At that time, my family didn't have our own house. Initially, my father
took over my uncle's demobilization and transfer quota, coming from our rural hometown to work in the city. We couldn't afford
a house. The person who arranged the job for my father was my uncle, who worked at the Civil Affairs Bureau, although the two families weren't
related by marriage at that time.

Later, through the opportunity my uncle arranged the job for my father, they got to know each other. My uncle thought my father was a good person, and since we were
from the same village, he developed feelings for him. Because my mother was still in our hometown at the time, and she was of marriageable
age in the countryside, after my father secured a job, she proactively spoke with my eldest uncle to find a matchmaker to introduce them
.

In those days, it wasn't really a matter of free love, but if a blind date didn't work out and the couple truly didn't want to be together,
the family wouldn't force it and cause a huge uproar; there was still some choice. Everyone was an ordinary person,
and if they felt it was good enough, they'd get married. There weren't the dramatic, passionate romances depicted on TV.

At that time, thanks to my eldest uncle's connections, my father became a permanent employee of a large state-owned enterprise in the city. Although the family was poor, it
was considered very good in our rural hometown, so both families, especially my eldest uncle, were very willing to arrange the
marriage.

My mother was only eighteen or nineteen then, and hadn't thought much about it; she just thought my father had a good job. Plus, with
her family constantly urging her, she married my father somewhat haphazardly.

According to my mother, she was truly penniless after her marriage. With three older brothers and one younger brother
, she had virtually no dowry. My grandfather's family was extremely poor; if it weren't for my eldest uncle supporting them, the whole family would often
go hungry . Moreover, because my father had a lot of acne and looked rather unattractive,
she was homesick on her wedding night and sat there crying, feeling wronged.

However, if my father hadn't passed away later, compared to other girls her age in the village, she would have married very
well. But fate is so unfair. When I was not yet twelve, my father, whom I always thought was hardworking, kind, and gentle to
everyone passed away from illness. Cancer; from the time he was diagnosed until his death, only
six months passed.

This led to my eldest uncle feeling guilty towards my mother after my father's passing. It was only after I
drank too much with him that I realized that my usually stern, unapproachable, and seemingly aloof uncle had
such a soft and tender side.

Because he was the one who favored my father and strongly supported the marriage, he always felt that he had ruined
his sister's life and made her suffer for the rest of her life. At the time, I wondered
what his reaction would be if he knew what happened after my father passed away.

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Mother's 20-year secret

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