Mother's Self-Healing

One day, I woke up from my afternoon nap, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed looking at me. I groggily opened my eyes and asked, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"I don't know how to say it."

"Son, don't keep things bottled up. Mom cares about you, tell me...

" "To be honest, I'm still thinking about women. Mom, you won't be angry if I tell you, will you?"

"As long as it's good for you, I promise you..."

I will always remember what I promised him: "I know you love me, care about me, and I hope... I hope we can be as intimate as lovers."

"You mean, have sex? The two of us?" I asked, sitting up in bed after a moment of silence.

"Mom, you don't need to make a fuss. No one will know, and it won't hurt anyone. We're both adults. No one will know, and no one will be hurt. Mom, I can't find a girlfriend, and I really want a woman to vent to. Mom, please don't be angry. If you don't want to, we can still be as close as mother and son. Don't hate me."

One thing that's deeply etched in my memory is what he said: that physical contact between us, if it involves sex, would positively impact our relationship, and he emphasized that I should recall the situation before and after we had sex. This gave me some comfort.

He also said that he was lonely and truly needed maternal love, not just for sex; he repeatedly reminded me of these things for many days. Finally, I could only say to him, "Mom! I understand you. I won't hate you for my physical desires, but let me think about it for a few days before I answer you, okay?"

"Mom, promise me you won't hate me for making this embarrassing request."

"Don't worry, son, I won't hate you." Even though I said that, I couldn't sleep that night. I thought a lot. I'd only ever had sex with his father in my life, and I couldn't imagine what it would feel like for my son to be inside me.

The next day at dinner, the three of us were at the table. My son had his head down, looking very embarrassed. I was also distracted at work, unable to concentrate. I struggled internally about whether I should agree to his request. I genuinely wanted to relieve his pain, and there was no other way but to use my body. But I had no sexual desire. Conflictedly, out of love for him and to satisfy his sexual needs, I decided to agree to his request.

As usual, he worked the night shift. I drove to the factory to pick him up. I dropped off his colleagues along the way, so we didn't have a chance to talk until we got home. We sat in the living room, and my son asked me, "Mom! Do you think I'm being indecent?"

"No, Mom will never hate you. I love you." Looking at my son's tired and thirsty face, I felt he really needed my comfort. "Mom loves you. If you need anything, Mom will give it to you. You know Mom has your father and doesn't lack sex, but Mom has thought about this decision for a long time. Mom loves you and has decided to give it to you. You have to respect my decision whenever I want to end this relationship."

"Mom, I will respect your decision." My son happily pulled me to my feet, faced me, and hugged my buttocks tightly, kissing my cheeks. He didn't care that his increasingly swollen penis was pressing against my stomach. And that's how our relationship began.

He pulled me into the room. At first, we were both a little awkward. We took off our clothes together, but there was no rush to hug or kiss. We sat on the bed. My son pulled my hand to his chest and said, "Mom! You're so beautiful."

I said, "Your body is also very fit and strong..."

I really didn't know how to handle what was about to happen. Looking at his erect penis, I knew he was eager for me. I could only lie down, slightly spreading my legs, waiting for him to penetrate me. To be honest, although I was reluctant, I wasn't so nervous as to clench my teeth or fists, waiting for him to rape me.

I closed my eyes, turned my head to one side, and honestly, I didn't do anything. I lay on the bed blankly, letting him thrust his hot penis in and out of my vagina. I wanted to cry, not wanting him to feel guilty or burdened, so I held back.

The first few days were like this. One time, on my way to work alone, I thought about it and cried. My son kept reminding me that our sex wouldn't hurt anyone or let anyone know, which gave me a little comfort. I thought a lot about the possible outcomes.

My conclusion was that this was only temporary, and it would end once I found him a girlfriend. I didn't want him to feel guilty because of my refusal, so I had to agree.

I had to take this step and face it with enthusiasm. I tried to think about the behavior of prostitutes in movies or high-class socialites. What I would do from now on was: every morning when I woke up, I would wait for my son to come home from his night shift. After everything was ready, we would take off our clothes, stand up and hug him, and lead him to bed to make love. When he entered me, I would say, "You were great today."

When he ejaculated inside me, I would say, "That was good; that felt so good!"

But none of this was my true feeling. I just wanted him to feel good; I didn't feel good myself. I think he also felt somewhat ashamed.

Once, when he was having sex with me, he was thrusting very fast, and I asked him, "Why are you so fast and vigorous?"

"I think you might not like doing this kind of thing, and I want to finish quickly." Hearing this made me very uncomfortable, and I told him,
"Take it slow. I love the intimacy between our bodies. I enjoy it when you're having sex with me. Take it slow..."

He accepted my whisper and slowed down. We rubbed our genitals together for about ten minutes before I ejaculated.

For the sake of my pride, I didn't tell him that I wanted him to slowly penetrate and withdraw because I enjoyed having sex with him, and that lasting longer was the time I could orgasm. I didn't want him to know that he was sexually very capable, that I was no longer averse to sex, that he needed me, and that I was willing to provide him with special services.

This sounds unbelievable, but I remember a time when his father had three days off, and his son couldn't have sex with me. He was flushed, had difficulty breathing, and his hands were trembling uncontrollably.

This kind of sexual relationship lasted for more than two months. I was his sanctuary, his obligatory outlet for desire. In short, our sexual relationship had grown well. Usually, we get enough sleep when his father is home on weekends.

Occasionally, other things prevent us from doing so. We work night shifts on Sundays, and by Monday morning we're exhausted, at which point my son asks for sex.

In a slightly hallucinatory or half-asleep state, he enters me. I'm having sex with my own son, but internally, I feel a man's strong penis thrusting into my vagina with extraordinary force. Even with the constant friction against the vaginal walls, I can't reach orgasm.

When I come to my senses and realize it's my son, I ejaculate with great excitement. My son keeps making piston-like movements, and since I didn't hold him tightly during my orgasm, he didn't feel it.

After he ejaculates in my vagina, he lies on top of me, and I pat his back and say, "You're so strong!" But I don't reveal that I enjoy the sex he gives me. I have an orgasm about once a week.

I've become addicted to having sex with my son and started anticipating his requests. To get him to have sex with me, I started using some roundabout techniques.

Every day I would lie in bed waiting. When he entered the bedroom, before I was fully undressed, he would say he wanted to have sex. I would say okay, and then I would start undressing. I wanted him to feel that he wanted me. I never honestly told him that I actually looked forward to him coming to me for sex. I felt a little guilty towards him; he risked being rejected, while I enjoyed the benefits he gave me. I did feel indebted to

him in this respect. Sometimes, when I got home from a night shift in the morning, we would look at each other and, as if by unspoken agreement, take off our work clothes, shower together, and then go straight to bed to have sex. After that, our son would want to admire my body and wouldn't let me put my clothes back on, so we would go straight to the kitchen to eat breakfast, and then go back to bed to have sex again.

Or, while I was washing dishes, he would make me spread my legs, slap my buttocks a few times, and then penetrate me from behind. He would squeeze my breasts with both hands, his penis thrusting in and out repeatedly. My whole body would tremble, my hands supporting me on the sink, forgetting to wash the dishes, until he ejaculated inside me.

Occasionally, when my son woke up from his afternoon nap, he would ask me to call his father's company to ask when he would get off work. At this time, he was awake and had a strong sexual desire, and I would secretly encourage him, but

I would make an excuse, saying, "I can't take it anymore being fucked by you two or three times a day, but for your sake, I know you need it, so I have to give in." Then I would spread my legs and let him penetrate me. Afterwards, I still felt guilty for making him believe that I agreed to it for his own good. I had sex with my own son, and then used his body to satisfy myself, and then made him fear being rejected by me for sex. Each time this cycle happened, it deepened my guilt.

The End.

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