I remember when the bananas were ripe

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When I was little, like most children, I was very attached to my mother, and she loved me very much, even spoiling me. Our relationship was so close that my father was "jealous" of me. Although my mother wasn't a great beauty, she was still quite attractive, a beautiful and virtuous wife and mother. I often thought that when I grew up, I would find a wife like my mother. After starting middle school, for some reason, I gradually distanced myself from my mother. I stopped snuggling up to her, stopped playing with her, and even stopped talking to her.

But my mother continued to care for me and look after me in every way, big or small, which made me increasingly impatient and resentful. I don't remember when it started, but I began to speak harshly to my mother, sometimes even cursing at her. Even so, my mother never got angry with me for it, and never held my rudeness against me. Entering puberty, I began to experience sexual anxieties. I inexplicably learned to relieve myself with my hands, though I was relatively restrained, only doing it about three or four times a month. I have a peculiar habit: I'm attracted to women's feet. I don't know when I started this liking; it's like something I was born with. Often, during masturbation, just imagining playing with women's feet is enough to bring me to orgasm. Near the end of junior high, one Sunday was my grandmother's birthday. After finishing self-study in the afternoon, I went to her house. The front door of her house faced the door of a guest room. From the front door, I could see the foot of the bed inside. That day, as I entered, I saw a pair of very white and beautiful feet on the bed—due to the limited view, I could only see the bare calves and feet—and I felt a surge of excitement. 'Whose feet are these?' But then I realized, 'They're my mother's feet!' "Oh, what a disappointment! It turned out Mom was tired from working at Grandma's house and was sleeping on that bed in her skirt and clothes. Disappointed, my mind started racing: 'If only it weren't Mom, I could have looked at her a little longer. Why didn't I ever notice Mom's feet before…' I stopped thinking, overwhelmed with guilt. For the rest of the day, I tried my best not to look at Mom's feet, but I always felt guilty and uneasy.

That night, after going to bed, I imagined playing with a celebrity's feet while masturbating. Just as I was about to climax, Mom's feet appeared in my mind. At that moment, I completely lost control of myself, and I reached climax in extreme excitement." After the climax, I was filled with guilt, feeling like a beast, and wanted to slap myself. In the days that followed, perhaps due to the pressure of studying and my own efforts to control myself, I no longer felt any urge towards my mother's feet. My attitude towards my mother also changed significantly. Although I still didn't talk to her much, I no longer resented her concern for me, nor did I speak harshly to her. My mother quickly noticed my change and was overjoyed, becoming even more attentive to me. The more she did this, the more uneasy I felt. Two nights before the high school entrance exam, my mother brought a bowl of sweet soup into my room. I was busy doing my homework, so I asked her to put it down. She put down the sweet soup but didn't leave immediately. Instead, she sat down on my bed, watching me lovingly as I worked on my problems. My attention unconsciously shifted to my mother: before, I didn't have any concept of mature female beauty. I had always liked young, beautiful, and slender girls, but my mother was no longer young. Her beautiful face, though not showing signs of age, had lost its youthful glow, and her figure had become slightly plump. Logically, this shouldn't have caught my attention.

I'd only ever been attracted to my mother's feet, but that night, I inadvertently discovered an indescribable beauty emanating from her entire being—a beauty different from my pretty female classmates or young actresses. Suddenly, I realized this beauty was even more captivating, more alluring. Suddenly, the terrifying word "incest" flashed into my mind. I dared not think any further, quickly downing the sugar water and handing the bowl to my mother so she could leave. My mother took the bowl, looked at me with a hint of reluctance, and then left. She left. It took me a while to settle down and continue working on my problems after she left. For several days, I devoted myself entirely to the high school entrance exam. After the exam, I was completely exhausted. However, I was relieved to feel that I did quite well. That night, I decided to relax properly with my hands; I hadn't released my pent-up energy for several days. But lying in bed that night, several female celebrities and classmates I thought of didn't arouse me. Then, my mother seemed to appear in my mind naturally, and I immediately became extremely excited. After a moment of hesitation... Afterwards, I comforted myself, saying, "Just indulge myself tonight, and I won't do it again." Afterwards, I felt immense satisfaction, but also utterly disgusted.

The summer vacation after my third year of junior high was relaxing but boring. I didn't have many friends or hobbies, so I spent all my time at home, passing the time with novels. Back then, there weren't many erotic novels, and the sexual descriptions in them were only superficial, yet they still excited me immensely. My "sexual interest" grew stronger, and I masturbated more and more frequently. At first, it was only once or twice a week, but later it developed into almost daily masturbation, sometimes even two or three times a day. My mother, who was with me day and night, gradually became the main object of my sexual fantasies. My guilt gradually lessened, and I uncontrollably became infatuated with her. Every smile, every gesture, every movement of hers was captivating in my eyes; her clothes were always so appropriate. I was completely captivated by her. My behavior wasn't due to any bad influence, because at that time I hadn't heard of or read about such things in books or newspapers. A story of incest between mother and son. Looking back now, it was probably because my mother was the only woman in my life, and she was a beautiful woman. Although I had incestuous thoughts about my mother, I dared not act on them in real life. I would only secretly take my mother's underwear, socks, and shoes when no one was home to satisfy myself, but the more I did this, the more I longed to have my mother. I was tormented by my desire for her. The long summer vacation finally ended, and I started high school. I could no longer devote myself to my studies as wholeheartedly as before. I passed the exam, but fortunately, the first year of high school wasn't too stressful, and my grades were barely above average.

One evening in mid-October that year, I felt thirsty while studying in my room, so I went to the living room for a drink. When I got there, I saw my mother wearing a short-sleeved pajama top, half-reclining on the sofa, watching TV and massaging her feet. Her long, strong calves and fair, rosy feet made my heart flutter. I quickly poured myself a glass of water and stood behind her, pretending to watch TV, but greedily stealing glances at her feet. I thought to myself, how wonderful it would be to be able to play with my mother's feet to my heart's content. Suddenly, an idea struck me: I would pretend to massage my mother's feet and indulge my urge to do so! Having made up my mind, I said to my mother, "Mom, did you go down to inspect work again today?" "Yes." "That must be tiring. Let me massage your feet for you."

My mother happily agreed. So I sat down next to her, placed her feet on my thighs, and gently massaged them. I was surprised; how could I have never noticed my mother's alluring feet when I was little? Perhaps it was because my mother was an inviolable goddess in my eyes back then. When I was little, I often played and frolicked with her, and it was so easy to touch her feet. Stroking those long-desired beautiful feet made me increasingly excited; I really wanted to hug and kiss her feet to my heart's content. At first, my mother just watched me lovingly massage her feet, but then she probably sensed something, and her expression became a little unnatural. "Okay. Much better now, no need to massage anymore," she said, pulling her feet away. I had no choice but to give up and reluctantly went back to my room. Back in my room, I immediately closed the door and intensely sniffed and licked my palms—actually, they didn't smell very good—and then excitedly relieved myself with them. After that, I knew my mother had become aware of my inappropriate thoughts, so I never offered to massage her feet again. Days passed, but my desire for my mother didn't diminish at all. I often dreamed of her, and sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night, when my father wasn't home, and I really wanted to rape her without thinking. Besides my mother, there was nothing else in my life that I cared about. My grades also gradually declined. In the first semester of my first year of high school, I barely passed the midterm exams, but I only ranked in the thirties in the final exams—my worst ever.

My father gave me a severe scolding for this. While he was scolding me, my mother watched me silently, her eyes filled with the same loving kindness as before, but also with worry and a faint sadness that seemed to know everything. I couldn't help but suspect that my mother already knew about my illicit thoughts. And indeed, it seemed so; no mother is unaware of her son's feelings. During the winter vacation, my mother tried to talk to me alone several times—she had tried before—but because I felt guilty, I never gave her the chance, and I didn't even want to be alone with her. Each time, my mother left disappointed. I was afraid that one day I would lose control and do something irreparable, and that day finally came. In April of that year, I had a recurring high fever for several days and couldn't go to school. My mother also took leave to stay home and take care of me. That morning, after returning home from the hospital after getting an injection, I slept until the afternoon. In my dream, I dreamed of my mother again, and I woke up just as I was hugging her legs. When Mom found me awake, she immediately came into the room, touched my forehead, and said happily, "The fever's gone! A little more medicine and you should be fine. Oh, and I need to change your blanket." Saying this, she moved a stool, stood barefoot on it, and reached for the blanket from the top shelf of the cabinet next to my bed. Because she wanted to get it easier, her right foot landed on my pillow. At that moment, I was burning with desire and couldn't resist reaching out and grabbing her foot. Mom turned her head to look at me, but didn't say anything and continued getting the blanket. I stroked it a few times, then lowered my head and started kissing Mom's toes. Only then did Mom tense up. She stopped getting the blanket, pulled her foot away, jumped off the bed, and muttered, "Nonsense!" before leaving. I thought I'd really gotten myself into trouble. Just as I was wondering what to do, Mom brought in a bowl of medicine, her face calm. She sat down beside my bed, fed me my medicine, and then changed my blankets—this time she didn't put her feet on my bed when she took the blankets—telling me to sleep a little longer before leaving. She acted as if nothing had happened. I was incredibly excited because I had finally kissed my mother's feet! At the same time, I felt a little embarrassed by my impetuousness.

For the next few days, I felt uncomfortable whenever I was with my mother, but she didn't mention it again, treating me as before. This attitude surprised me, but it also emboldened me. I secretly resolved to kiss my mother's feet again. I knew the best time was when she was sleeping alone. About a month later, the opportunity arrived. That noon, my father didn't come home, and my mother was taking a nap alone in her room. I hesitated for a long time, but finally mustered the courage to go into my mother's room. When I arrived at her bedside, she was still asleep. She was sleeping with her face turned inwards, a thin blanket draped around her waist, her legs slightly bent and sticking out from under the blanket. Looking at my mother's smooth, alluring feet, my breathing quickened. I had originally thought she would wake up as soon as I entered the room, and I planned to take advantage of her inattention to kiss her feet. But now I changed my mind. I bent down and brought my nose close to my mother's feet to smell their fragrance. My mother had worn leather shoes all morning, but her feet only had a faint, intoxicating scent, not smelly at all.

I smelled her feet for a while before I began to kiss them. I kissed the soles and heels, and just as I was sucking on her toes, her foot twitched, and she immediately woke up. When my mother turned over and saw it was me, she didn't seem very surprised, just a little unhappy. At that moment, I felt a little embarrassed. I stood up, left the room without saying a word, grabbed my schoolbag, and went to school. Last time, I had only given my mother's feet a few quick, fleeting kisses; this time, I truly enjoyed them. I was extremely satisfied. When I returned home from school in the evening, my mother and father were already home. As usual, Mom was busy in the kitchen, and Dad was reading the newspaper in the living room. When Mom brought out the dishes, she gave me a reproachful look. Although I didn't really care, I was too embarrassed to meet her gaze. After that, just as I expected, Mom didn't pursue the matter and treated me as well as usual, only intentionally or unintentionally avoiding being alone with me. This semester, my studies still didn't improve, and my grades hovered between 30th and 40th place. Dad had scolded me several times, and I really wanted to concentrate on my studies, but my heart was completely captured by Mom. Especially after that night when I "ambushed" Mom, all I could think about was how to get satisfaction again. Dad usually went on business trips for a few days every one or two months, but he hadn't gone on any for almost three months. Later I found out it was because he was busy with a special project. This made me very anxious. Finally, in mid-July, Dad was going on a business trip for three days. I was as happy as a child celebrating the New Year.

The day Dad went on a business trip, I was absentmindedly reading a novel at home in the morning, anxiously waiting for Mom to come home from work. Time seemed to drag on forever, and I finally made it to noon when Mom came home. During lunch, I had no appetite, but I tried my best to control my emotions, not wanting Mom to notice anything. Only when Mom was clearing the dishes did I secretly stare at her bare feet in slippers, thinking that those feet would be mine again soon. After washing the dishes, Mom didn't go for her usual nap; instead, she started cleaning. I had no choice but to wait patiently, thinking that she would probably go to sleep after cleaning. But Mom didn't finish until almost 2 pm, and then she went to work. I was extremely disappointed and could only console myself that I would wait until Mom went to sleep that night.

That night, amidst my anxiety, it was finally time for bed. Mom turned off the TV and went into her room. I almost jumped for joy. But unexpectedly, Mom immediately closed the door and locked it with a "snap." I was stunned, feeling like I'd fallen into an ice cave. I didn't sleep a wink that night, my heart filled with a mixture of love and hate for my mother—a feeling akin to heartbreak. The next day at noon, I still clung to a sliver of hope. But after my mother went into her room, she slammed the door shut again, and I was utterly devastated. That night, I went to bed early, seething with anger and resentment. Around ten o'clock, my mother turned off the TV and came into my room. I glanced at her, then turned away, ignoring her. My mother stood silently by my bed for a while, seemed to sigh softly, and then left.

She sat silently in the living room for quite some time, finally returning to her room around 11 o'clock. I heard her close the door, but I didn't hear that hateful "slam." And for a long time afterward, there was no further sound. Had I simply missed the sound of the door locking, or had my mother forgotten to lock it? My heart pounded. I decided to find out. I got out of bed, put on my basketball shorts, and went out. I stood in front of my mother's bedroom door and tried to turn the lock; it was indeed unlocked. My mother had been asleep for almost half an hour, so I figured she should be asleep by now. I pushed the door open and went in. The bedside lamp was dimly lit—my mother always slept with it on when she slept alone—and in its light, I could see her face turned inwards, wearing only a blouse and underwear. Her long, black hair, her full, graceful figure, her long, white legs, and her warm, alluring feet made my blood boil. I carefully walked to my mother's bedside and stopped. Suddenly, I realized my mother wasn't asleep; she was awake. I stood there for a while, carefully observing her, and became even more certain that she was awake.

"Why isn't Mom responding to me? She's awake!" I was truly puzzled. Finally, I decided to see what would make her stop pretending to be asleep. I lifted the mosquito net, bent down, and gently held one of my mother's feet with my right hand. When I held my mother's feet, they twitched slightly, but didn't pull away. I was secretly delighted and gently massaged her soft feet. My mother let me be, ignoring me. Then, I couldn't resist any longer and lowered my head to kiss her feet. When my mother noticed me kissing her feet, she immediately tried to pull them away. But how could I let go? I held onto my mother's feet tightly, kissing and licking them indiscriminately. My mother struggled a few times but couldn't break free, so she relaxed and let me do as I pleased.

I kissed my mother's feet passionately, for what seemed like an eternity, until the skin on her feet was wrinkled from all the kisses, before finally letting go. My mother's indulgence emboldened me more than ever before. Without thinking, I threw myself on top of her and hugged her tightly. But after embracing her, I felt a little lost, just staring blankly at her face. She looked at me gently, her eyes filled with love. After a moment of awkward silence, she reached out and hugged me, gently stroking my back and head, then slowly pressing my head down so my forehead touched hers, rubbing it lightly, occasionally kissing my cheek. Suddenly, I seemed to understand what to do. I eagerly kissed her face, nose, earrings, neck, and her sweet, soft lips. The feeling of kissing was so wonderful; ignoring her struggles, I greedily kissed her again and again.

Suddenly, Mom pushed me away, then sat up and slowly took off her clothes. Seeing this, I immediately got up and took off my clothes too. Faced with Mom's naked body, I was once again at a loss. Mom had seemed a little shy as she took off her clothes, but seeing my reaction, she seemed completely relaxed. She smiled slightly and lay down calmly. "Come on up," Mom whispered; I obediently climbed on top of her. Mom hugged my head, burying it between her full, soft breasts. I immediately came to my senses, becoming excited again, constantly kneading and kissing her breasts. Under my actions, Mom also became excited, her breathing gradually becoming heavier, her cheeks flushed. I kissed my way down Mom's breasts, and just as I was about to kiss her genitals, Mom suddenly squeezed her legs together. "No there!" Mom said firmly in a low voice. But how could I agree? After some effort, I finally pried open Mom's legs. I carefully examined my mother's private parts. "So, the honey hole is just a dark red slit of flesh." I first smelled the faint fishy scent, then licked it with my tongue. My mother moaned softly as I licked her, and her body writhed slightly. Although I didn't know this was a sign of my mother's excitement, I vaguely felt it wasn't a bad thing, so I licked even more enthusiastically, finally probing my tongue into my mother's vagina. After kissing my mother's honey hole enough, I continued kissing her legs and feet. By this time, I was incredibly aroused. After I climbed back onto my mother, she kissed my face, closed her eyes, grasped my penis, and thrust her hips forward. At that moment, I realized what was about to happen, and I focused intently on feeling it: the foreskin on my penis slowly peeled away, and my penis slowly entered a warm, lubricated passage. The feeling was so wonderful! As soon as my mother released her grip, I immediately began to thrust forcefully. Each thrust was harder than the last, and Mom's vagina grew increasingly wet. Sex was truly intoxicating; I reveled in it, quickly reaching orgasm, embracing Mom and ejaculating all my semen. Afterwards, I felt completely drained, collapsing weakly onto Mom. Mom opened her eyes, reached for some tissues on the bedside table, then shifted her body to remove my penis, pushed me away, sat up, quickly cleaned herself, and went to shower. I lay alone for a while before getting up and putting on my clothes. Mom returned from her shower, now dressed in clean pajamas. We were both a little embarrassed, and I felt somewhat lost. Mom seemed much calmer; as she tidied her things, she softly told me, "Go wash up and go to bed." I listened, and hesitantly left Mom's room. That night, my mind was a mess. I couldn't believe it—I had Mom! I felt a mixture of excitement at having achieved my goal and a deep sense of guilt. Lost in thought, I don't know when I finally fell asleep.

When I woke up the next day, it was almost noon. During lunch, Mom didn't mention the previous night at all, and even chatted with me about trivial things, her face relaxed.

Seeing this, I felt a little more relaxed. When Dad came home that evening, I couldn't help but feel guilty in his presence. But Mom remained calm, and there was nothing unusual on her face.

In the following days, Mom treated me the same as before, and I gradually relaxed and stopped thinking about it. A few days into the new semester, Dad didn't come home for lunch. My sexual desire returned. After lunch, while Mom was washing the dishes, I hugged her waist from behind. Mom understood my intentions, and she said softly, "No, what if your dad comes back?" I begged her repeatedly, but Mom wouldn't agree, so I finally gave up. However, I still caressed my mother's feet that noon, which was some consolation. Two weeks later, my father went on a business trip, and that evening my mother finally agreed to have sex with me again. We did it two nights in a row that time. From then on, my mother almost always agreed to have sex with me only when my father didn't come home at night. My mother had her reasons; only when sleeping at night could she lock the door from the inside, so even if my father suddenly came home, he wouldn't be able to open the door and wouldn't suspect anything.

My mother loved me very much, but that love was just a mother's love for her son. Although my mother was always selfless and could enjoy orgasms during sex with me, I knew it was only for me; she was willing to have sex with me because she loved me so much.

One shouldn't be too selfish. After I went to university, I started dating girls and gradually stopped asking my mother for sex. Now I have my own little family, and my relationship with my mother is still very good. We have never intended to forget the past, and how could we possibly forget it? I love my mother deeply, and if she is willing, I still want to have sex with her. Because I have the love a son has for his mother, and the love a husband has for his wife. My mother is, in effect, my first wife.

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