My young husband is actually my biological son.

I'm a 37-year-old mature woman, currently preparing for my wedding. What should have been a happy occasion has been marred by my ignorance and recklessness twenty years ago, adding an unprecedented and unforgettable twist to my marriage.
I am now mature, intelligent, beautiful, and intellectually pleasing—a stark contrast to who I was twenty years ago. At fourteen, I was a pretty young girl, brimming with sexual energy. My body was well-developed, and my libido arose

early. I had already learned to masturbate by crossing my legs during class and secretly masturbating at home, constantly experiencing unfulfilled desires. Despite this, I excelled academically, considered an excellent student. However, I had to drop out of school because I became pregnant. The school had no idea why I was leaving, lying that I had transferred to my aunt's school, which I actually did. I became pregnant after being seduced by a senior in my second year of high school. Back then, I was innocent and naive, brimming with desire.

He seduced me, and we had trysts, sex, and more sex, resulting in my pregnancy.
My dad was threatening to beat me to death with a belt, and my mom was so angry she was foaming at the mouth. I ran away from home to my aunt's for help. My aunt called and persuaded my parents for a long time before they finally let me go. After giving birth at my aunt's house for a year, I continued my studies there. I don't know who my aunt gave the baby to, but I know it was a

boy. I saw a large, bright red birthmark on the baby's back. Although I was a little sad to part with the little rascal, I couldn't raise him myself; someone else would have to.
Then, I followed the usual path: high school, university, and eventually, after some hard work, I became a high-level white-collar worker in a large company. Before I knew it, I was over thirty. My parents were always talking about marriage, but as an old maid,

it wasn't so easy for me to resolve. I basically gave up and spent my free time browsing dating websites and hooking up with casual sex partners
to satisfy physical needs. Unexpectedly, a young man more than ten years younger than me took a liking to me and pursued me for a long time. I was genuinely moved by him. Then we exchanged photos on WeChat. The guy was quite handsome, and he seemed to really appreciate my looks. After that, we started being affectionate on the phone. Then we started showing off our bodies. He

sent me a picture of his large penis—it was quite big and thick, and white, unlike most men's dark ones. I sent him pictures of my large breasts and genitals. We kept fewer and fewer secrets from each other, and the psychological distance between us grew closer. Finally, one day, we both suggested meeting in person—it was as simple as water flowing into the sky. We arranged to meet at a high-end hotel; I'm not short of money. When we met, I was surprised. He was a tall, clean-cut

young man, really handsome. I was practically drooling. We sat in the restaurant, ordered coffee, and chatted, exchanging glances. I asked him why he was interested in someone like me, a woman who was considered mature. He said he didn't have a mother, was a mother-fixator, and was attracted to older women. This guy seemed quite pitiful. My son seems to be about his age; he must be in a similarly pitiful situation. We embraced and went to the room. My maternal instincts kicked in, and I used him as a shield for

my son . We fell onto the bed and kissed passionately, caressing each other wildly. Then, our desire flared, and we naturally undressed. I straddled him, offering advice on lovemaking as an experienced woman. Accompanying our passion was intense intercourse, and we both reached orgasm soon after. He said like a sweet kitten, "Sister, you're so beautiful." His feelings seemed genuine. I said, "Brother, don't you regret messing around with me?"

Actually, while asking him if he regretted it was one thing, I also had my doubts. I thought I saw a red birthmark on his back. I remembered my own baby, who was covered in red marks and had a similar birthmark. My heart pounded. Could it really be my poor little baby? If so, things would get interesting.

He said he didn't regret it. We were both very satisfied with our first date. I felt like my prince charming from my distant dreams had finally arrived. He felt that I perfectly fulfilled his psychological need for a partner who was both mother and wife. And so, we fell deeply in love, dating for over six months straight. Then he asked if we could get married. He proposed, bringing a ring with him. I gave him a serious warning, asking if he was truly determined and wouldn't regret it. He said he would never regret it.

After scrutinizing him for a moment, I said, "I accept your proposal, but you can tell me anytime you regret it. Let's make a promise; I won't blame you." He immediately hugged me and kissed me passionately. The next day, we happily went to get our marriage certificate, officially becoming husband and wife. I took him to my home. After all, we were quite mismatched in age; I wouldn't have brought him home if we weren't married. Now that we were husband and wife, we didn't care about the neighbors' judgmental looks. After we entered, I handed him

slippers like a wife would, and then I said to him, "Let's take a bath together." He was overjoyed. He quickly threw off his clothes and ran to the bathroom. I followed him in, but the red birthmark on his back shocked me. Good heavens! How could it be the same as my son's plum blossom-shaped birthmark? This has me completely distraught. I quickly washed up and ran out, feeling incredibly uneasy. When he came out, unaware of my inner turmoil, he held me

tightly I let him do as he pleased, feeling no lust or passion whatsoever. I couldn't hold back any longer and asked him to stop, saying I had something to ask. He noticed my unusual behavior. He looked up. What was it? I thoroughly researched his hometown. My goodness, wasn't that my hometown? I held his chin in my hand and examined him closely. He really looked like my senior from school, especially his high nose, and those double eyelids and big eyes were so much like mine. Thinking of this

, tears streamed down my face. A surge of mixed emotions—bitter joy and maternal love—overwhelmed me. I hugged him tightly, naked, and kissed him passionately. "My son!" I cried out in anguish. My husband was startled and stunned. I ignored him and burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. When I stopped crying, he asked what happened. "How could I be your son?" I hugged my son, who was also my young husband, and

recounted my affair from twenty years ago in detail, completely disregarding my shame. I said I saw the birthmark on his back; I saw it clearly when I gave birth to him—a plum blossom shape, no doubt about it. My son, who was also my young husband, sensed something was amiss and calmed down. He solemnly raised his head: "Should I call you 'sister' or 'Mom'?" I hugged him. "Of course, 'Mom.' You're flesh of my flesh. Everything else can be changed, but this is something I can't." Tears streamed down his face.

Men don't easily shed tears, but this time he was truly overcome with grief. After more than twenty years of loneliness, he cried out "Mom!" and threw himself into my arms. I stroked my son's broad back, touched the bright red birthmark, and suddenly felt so happy. My son and I had found our family in this way—absolutely unprecedented and unparalleled. After enjoying the happiness of a mother holding her son for a while, I realized I hadn't made dinner yet. I told my son to try a meal cooked by

his mother . Half an hour later, without any fancy preparations or inclination, I simply prepared a few small dishes and grabbed a bottle of wine. I wanted to savor the joy of mother and son eating together. My son was happy too; we were no longer alone and could rely on each other. Soon, we returned to bed, slightly drunk. My son nestled in my arms, touching my breasts. "Mom," he asked, "what should we

do now? We're mother and son, and we've made love. What's the most appropriate way for us to see each other?" I thought for a moment and said, "First, our biggest advantage is that no one knows you're my son, right? Second, even if we end our current relationship, our past marriages are indelible. Besides, you've tasted my body; can you really let go? We'll decide after you answer." My son smelled my fragrance and mumbled, "I can't bear to," looking

a little embarrassed. I said, "Since that's the case, let's pretend we're still husband and wife, and then deceive the world by not letting them know we're mother and son. I'll take on the role of both mother and wife, and you, our son and husband, will play both roles. We'll live like this for the rest of our lives. However, we can't have any more children, because we're afraid they might be deformed." My son hugged my neck, like he was being affectionate. "I'll listen to my mother."

With my inner knot untied and my mind at peace, my son and I naturally relaxed. He pounced on me again, pinning me to the bed. We'd done this countless times; my son, who's also my little husband, is adept at arousing my desire. But this time, it was more intense than ever, mixed with a mother's love for her son and a son's attachment to his mother. With his vigorous yet gentle, profound yet not frivolous movements, a deep pleasure

welled strong desire to melt and devour my son, who's also my little husband. My legs clung tightly to him—no, not my little husband—I could no longer discern who he truly was; I was convinced he was my love. His actions caused the core of my passion and desire to rapidly expand like gas, swelling until I wanted to shout, to erupt, to release, to soar.
Good son, good husband, you've brought me to heaven!
(The End)

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