Silent Code

When I was fourteen, I had sexual intercourse with my mother three times. During those three encounters, we rarely exchanged flirtatious words. This wasn't unusual in our family, as silence was the code I grew up with. It wasn't traditional, and no one told me. It was simply how life was in my family.

We didn't communicate, talk about our thoughts, do what we wanted, what was important or unimportant, what was right or wrong, or how we felt. In short, no one wanted to express their feelings. Resentment, anger, disappointment, joy, love, despair, even the happiness I experienced while reading—I doubted my own feelings. I had no adults to teach me.

To a large extent, I felt like I lived alone in the world. In my family, there was occasional laughter and occasional anger, but anger outweighed laughter. There was no gray area. Like most children, I thought my family was normal, just like any other family. I started learning much later in life, and indeed, 'a learned vocabulary' didn't help me much.

When I was young, I was introverted; it was my code. Before, when I felt sad, I would tell my mother about my unhappiness, and her unchanging response was: "Think of things in a positive light, and sadness will leave you."

I didn't understand what she meant until later, when that became my way of coping with life, including many misfortunes.

I was so heavily neglected in expressing my emotions that I didn't know how I felt. I thought it was because I never released my emotions; they accumulated inside, small emotional events were magnified, and in a day, I would fluctuate between frustration and elation, love and hate intertwined.

But as a child, in my young mind, with the understanding of a child, and with the normalcy of childhood in my life, pent-up emotions weren't a big problem.

I would secretly climb tree trunks, throw stones, or sing to myself to release them. Within my reach of my parents, within their hearing and sight, I didn't feel silent.

The real stress began in my adolescence, when the surge of hormones forced my pressure valves shut.

It seemed perfectly normal that it drove me to control the greatest pressure, the strongest emotion, the most forbidden expression: sex.

It was as if I were utterly ignorant. As a precocious bookworm, I would look up every swear word in the dictionary, I would read old books I found near my house, and I would read all sorts of "forbidden books"—books I would search for on the shelves of relatives and friends. I knew the difference between male and female anatomy, and I knew the general symbols of sex.

Most of my "sex education" came from the other boys in the neighborhood. I had more than half a dozen buddies. I was the youngest. When I was ten or eleven, the older ones knew how to masturbate, and they would take every opportunity to ejaculate.
They would use the lounge, or in someone's garage near a wall, or in a "bomb shelter," or in other places with high walls, as targets, pulling out their penises to see who could ejaculate the farthest. I was too young to understand that this behavior was attractive and exciting. They would urge me to join in.

"Come on, Mike," one of them taunted me, pulling out his little penis, "let's see if you can shoot farther than me."

Of course, one night, when I was twelve, almost thirteen, lying in bed struggling to sleep, I suddenly started thinking about girls, women, female genitalia, breasts. Masturbation eventually became very pleasurable for me.

My teenage penis became hard, and recalling the action of holding it and thrusting, oh my god! That pleasurable feeling. I started touching myself. From then on, I could hardly wait for bedtime. I masturbated, ejaculated, and masturbated again—ejaculated.

At that age of thirteen or fourteen, my penis would never go soft after ejaculating, and I could do it three, four, five times before I was ready to sleep.

More than once, I became so addicted to masturbation that I chafed my penis raw, causing severe pain, and had to abstain for several days until the painful wound healed and I could enjoy masturbation again.

I was an only child, with no sisters or female cousins. There were no girls nearby, no masculine girls climbing trees or wrestling, my hands never touched places I shouldn't, and I wasn't embarrassed to see private parts I shouldn't.

I never saw girls my age changing clothes, running around in their underwear, going to the bathroom, or soaking in the bathtub. The only woman around me was my mother.

And my father? At work. At company meetings or social events, playing golf, hunting, or fishing. At a men's softball league game. Due to his busy schedule and dedication, he was never home.

Although we respected each other's privacy, no one made a fuss about the occasional nudity in the house, or anyone would get angry if they were accidentally seen while changing clothes.

That was it. Like most other families, there was nothing shameful about each other. I habitually walked naked from the bedroom to the bathroom and then took a shower.

One verbally agreed-upon rule was that the bathroom door would never be locked, in case someone was sick or slipped in the bathtub and needed help. If I needed to talk to my mother while she happened to be in the bathtub, I would simply walk into the bathroom and talk to her as if she were always sitting at the kitchen table talking to me.

My mother had a very symmetrical figure. Not particularly beautiful, but not plain either. What she was most proud of was her physique. She always went to great lengths to maintain what she called "my figure." She frequently avoided desserts or made resolutions to diet.

"You know, I have to be disciplined to stay slim," she would say. So she wasn't very voluptuous.

Her figure was proportionally symmetrical, her breasts were medium-sized, and her hips never exceeded the size appropriate for her height. She always had a healthy aura and presence. When I talked to her in the bathtub, she always seemed to be relaxing in the tub, never trying to cover her private parts or breasts. She was just there, talking to me.

I looked at her, and of course, at her completely naked body, but I don't think I was staring or gazing. Her breasts, exposed to the water, looked swollen, and her pubic hair floated and drifted in the ripples.

I don't know what a little girl's genitals look like, but I know what a woman's looks like.

My mother always wore the same pajamas, the only difference being that in winter the pants reached her ankles, while in summer they only reached her knees. If it was particularly cold, she would wear a bathrobe; if it wasn't too cold, she would just wear the pajamas and move freely around the house.

The pajamas were made of nylon, and she never wore anything underneath. The lace covering her chest was opaque, the fabric stiff, obscuring the shape of her breasts and dark nipples; otherwise, she insisted that the pajamas were a second skin.

Every subtle difference in her body and movements was expressed through her clothing; her navel was sunken in the slight bloating of her stomach, and below the sunken area grew pubic hair. From behind, I could see every vertebra, the dimples on either side of the cleft in her buttocks, and the subtle indentations on the sides of her buttocks—all very sexy. And when she bent over, the shape and contour between her legs were alluring. One night

, at a time when I had developed a particular interest in the opposite sex and had experienced the pleasure of masturbation, I needed to masturbate once or twice every night to fall asleep.

That night I went into the bathroom to talk to my mother. She was sitting on the toilet seat clipping her toenails, one foot on the floor and the other heel on the toilet seat, her legs slightly apart. Her cheek was resting on her knee on the toilet seat, and she was leaning forward, concentrating on clipping her toenails.

Mom was sitting right in front of me, talking to me. She didn't look up, only raised her eyes to look at me. Her bathrobe had slipped down from her feet, which were propped on the toilet seat, to her thighs and buttocks, so her entire vulva was completely exposed to me. As I unintentionally looked down at Mom's feet, her vulva inevitably came into view.

For the first time, I not only saw the triangular pubic hair floating with blurry water droplets from not drying off after her bath, but also the two parallel folds of flesh beneath the pubic hair, and the blurry patches on those folds. All the different pieces and reports about women's genitals that I had read in books and jokes with friends suddenly came flooding back.

I realized I was seeing my mother's most intimate private parts with my own eyes, because of her sitting posture; her labia and vagina were barely open. Understanding the immense hormonal stimulation, I felt weak and powerless, my whole body hot and aching, my mouth dry. I was certain I couldn't speak; I was clearly excited, but Mom didn't try to hide it. She simply looked at me with her characteristic raised eyebrows and said, "What is it?"

Mom didn't realize her embarrassment. I didn't want her to change her posture; my attention was a little distracted. I didn't want to lose this rare opportunity; I had to remain calm and talk to Mom. Mom replied, without changing her posture, without moving her chin resting on her knees, without closing her legs, and without putting her feet down from the toilet seat.

After talking to Mom, as I left, my heart was still pounding, and the whole world seemed pink.

Back in my room, I leaned against the desk, stood for a few minutes, waiting for my breathing to catch. It might have been a simple accident. Mom might not have realized how much she had exposed herself, or perhaps, to avoid embarrassment and shame, she decided to pretend she didn't know and let it pass.

But all the images of my teenage years are deeply etched in my mind, indelible and forever unforgettable.

When I was thirteen, my father decided to move to Denver for a new job, a very long journey of about a thousand miles along the California coast from where we lived.

Of course, there was no room for discussion about the move. Dad declared his decision a done deal and then simply gave directions and the possible problems that might arise. He went to Denver first to start work, leaving Mom to discuss the route with the movers and clean the house. Of course, I stayed with Mom too.

Mom didn't like driving long distances. Driving made her a little nervous and stressed, and she tired quickly, so she decided to divide the journey into three parts; each about 300 miles. I agreed with Mom; I didn't like long journeys either. At that age, what could be more tedious than sitting idly watching car after car move by?

The first leg of our journey was across California's Central Valley, the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, before heading south into Nevada. I didn't pay much attention to the Central Valley before we passed through it. It was

incredibly humid, shrouded in a gray fog rising from the coast; in fact, the heat in the valley was unbearable. It was August, and the temperature was over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. We had all the windows down, and to me it felt like driving into a furnace.

The hot wind seemed to suck air from my lungs and moisture from my lips.

Driving on the undulating, flat concrete road hypnotized me into a drowsy state, neither fully awake nor fully asleep, drifting between fantasy and reality, a state of perception that wasn't easily distinguishable.

In that state, I started to get a little excited. I thought of my mother beside me, of her bathing, and of her sitting on the toilet seat, and I imagined her open pubic hair and vagina. I imagined us naked together, caressing each other, gently, affectionately, exploring each other.

Mom wasn't particularly lewd or lustful; in fact, Mom's reactions to me weren't especially arousing. Because I had no sexual experience, I didn't understand sex, so I didn't fantasize about making love.

We just hugged and touched, Mom was beside me, affectionately, with a motherly care... I thought more, was aware of it, but couldn't fully comprehend it.

The thought of staring intently at my mother's pubic hair was a novel experience at the time. I imagined the feeling of our pubic hair rubbing together, just feeling it was enough; anything else, like hugging, caressing, or a slight tickle, was simply impossible. My mother and I loved each other, and all I could think of was penetrating her and seeing her smile happily. I daydreamed about this extreme sexual state repeatedly for almost an hour.
I sat next to my mother, watching her lean forward slightly, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, her white knees occasionally bumping against it. My mother's legs were open, her skirt sliding back onto the seat, revealing her long, snow-white legs. Her entire right thigh was exposed before my eyes, and I couldn't return to my fantasy world, but I remember thinking that what I couldn't do, I might be able to do in the future.

We continued driving uphill through the mountains, around Tal Lake, into Nevada, and down the eastern jagged ridges of the desert. The temperature rose, the desert became hot, dry, and utterly dreary. We arrived in Austin. The first day's journey was over, in the evening. Mom found a motel in town, a small, dilapidated shack. To save money, she booked a double room, cheaper than two single beds.

After driving all day, Mom was almost driven to the brink of a nervous breakdown. With her eyes half-closed and exhausted, she said, "We'd better take a shower or a bath before we sleep; we have another whole day to go tomorrow."

So she dragged her tired feet around, packing her suitcases. As Mom prepared her toiletries and bathrobes, I sat in a rocking chair waiting, thinking of Mom in the bathroom at home, thinking of her taking a shower just a few feet away.

Once again, I remembered Mom leaning forward, propped up on the toilet seat, intently clipping her toenails, and I felt a surge of excitement.

Soon Mom returned to the room from the bathroom, wearing only a pair of short pajama bottoms. Her soiled underwear, which she had changed out of, was twisted into a ball and put into her suitcase and alcove. I took my change of clothes and pajamas, and it was my turn to shower. While showering, my penis remained erect and hard. Afraid that Mom would see me with my robe

on after I finished showering, I quickly and secretly masturbated until I ejaculated, but it still wouldn't go down. I thought about math at school, about cutting grass in the yard, and about playing baseball. I tried to ignore the hallucination of Mom's vulva on the toilet seat, and to try to avoid embarrassment with Mom when we went to sleep. After drying myself off, it was about a third softer...

Mom; lying face up on the bed, her arms on the sheets, almost asleep. When I walked to the bedside, she turned her head towards me: "Why did you take so long to shower?" Mom asked me.

I must have felt incredibly ashamed and embarrassed at that moment; thankfully, the bedside lamp was dimly lit by the 25-candlelight.

"I'm not used to showering." Although that wasn't the real reason, we do use the bathtub at home.

"I can't stay awake for long." Mom looked at me and said, "Get into bed. Sleep on your own side, quick."

After lying down on the bed, I tried to lie as close to the edge of the mattress as possible. Mom turned off the bedside lamp and said, "Goodnight..." She turned over, let out a long sigh, and immediately fell asleep.

I wasn't so lucky. I spent my days dozing off while Mom drove, the bed I slept in was strange and uncomfortable, and the room was odd too. I had never shared a bed with anyone before. Mom warned me to sleep in my own spot, but she was also worried that something would happen if I didn't follow her advice. I couldn't fall asleep.

I thought about food, about money... but no matter what I thought, I would return to my mother's breasts, pubic hair, and vulva beside me; Mom was soaking in the bathtub, sitting on the toilet seat, and I was looking at the pubic hair between her legs.

My penis was painfully hard. I couldn't go down; it felt like it was about to explode. I couldn't bring myself to masturbate like I do at home, but going to the bathroom was risky because I was afraid of waking my mother or her asking if I was sick.

Worse still, every time I tried to stay on my own mattress, I'd inadvertently drift towards my mother's side. The bed slopes inwards, and when she was asleep, she'd rolled over onto the middle of the bed.

Three or four times, I'd quietly slip down to her side, then back down. She'd turn and shush me, telling me to lie down quietly. I'd lie down, shoulder to shoulder, buttock to buttock, in utter agony. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't calm my desire to have sex with my mother, nor could I make my penis go down. In this silent agony, I lay there, suffering, hoping to slowly drift off to sleep.

But sleep didn't come. Half-asleep, half-awake, when I woke again, it was pitch black, and my glans felt warm and moist. I was completely bewildered.

In the darkness, I couldn't see my surroundings. I only realized I wasn't in my own bed at home. Then memories and realization overwhelmed me. I remembered Mom and I driving here from our place in Austin, Nevada; Mom and I sleeping in a motel bed that was sunken in the middle.

My hearing was activated, and I heard Mom's voice saying, "Oh, no... oh... no... no. How could this be? No."

What happened? I thought logically—intuitively—that while I was sleeping, I had turned over, close to Mom's back. Mom's robe, because she was asleep, had rolled up, exposing her buttocks, and my erect penis, which I had been longing for, had emerged from her loose pajama pants and naturally pressed against the cleft between her legs, where her pubic hair grew thickly. Whether

I pushed against Mom's buttocks or she pushed against me with her buttocks, I don't remember, and it doesn't matter anymore. The main thing is... the dream I wanted had come true in my half-asleep state.

Each time I tried to penetrate her, Mom would wiggle her hips to break free from my pressure. Just when I wanted to give up, she would push against me with her hips again. This happened three times. I knew things were going badly, and I helplessly lost control... I ejaculated.

As the first pulsating stream of semen shot out... Mom's hips pressed against me, her buttocks clenching tightly around my glans, holding it still. I heard her clench her teeth and take a deep breath, then remain still. Instinctively, I pressed my groin against her buttocks, pushing as far as I could. It

was an experience I'd never had before. I felt like I'd discovered heaven, entered an eternal bliss. Yet, I was also afraid I wouldn't be able to penetrate, as if I were in a state of constant ecstasy. I kept ejaculating until my buttocks started to hurt a little. Only after the last drop of semen was released did Mom exhale and relax her grip on my penis.

Afterwards, I was a little scared. My mind was in turmoil, like two opposing forces at play. On one hand, I was captivated by the intense physical contact and didn't want it to end. On the other hand, I was being told that I had committed a terrible mistake without my mother's permission and was awaiting her punishment. I knew she might turn around at any moment and ask me what I had done, demanding that I return to my original sleeping position. But then I remembered that I had truly done wrong and had to pull out of her and return to my original sleeping spot.

I wanted to turn my back to her, close my eyes, and pretend nothing had happened. Then I thought about how comfortable and warm I was, nestled against her back, wanting to hug her neck, kiss her, touch her skin, and then linger against her buttocks for a while. But then I thought she might be asleep and unaware of what I had done to her. I was afraid that if I moved, I would wake her up, and then I would be in big trouble.

After thinking for a while, I lay there, not thrusting into Mom's buttocks, not daring to move, remaining in the position I had been in after ejaculating. After a while, my penis became hard again, and Mom arched her buttocks back, slightly raising her legs, her thighs and buttocks completely relaxed, allowing me to re-enter her body. I slid in smoothly.

Mom's buttocks began to sway again, and I still wasn't sure if Mom was consciously awake or asleep.

I knew our intercourse wasn't over yet, and I matched the rhythm of Mom's buttocks. As I thrust in and out of Mom's buttocks, Mom responded with the opposite movements. I felt incredibly good, and involuntarily increased the speed of my thrusts in and out of Mom's vagina. When I thrust too fast, Mom would tighten her vagina, pressing her buttocks against my stomach, signaling me to stop, and then use the rhythm of her buttocks to indicate that I should slow down and match her thrusts, then speed up again.

Mom used her body language, and we reached a tacit understanding, achieving the speed that Mom found most comfortable.

Inside the room, on the bed, there was no light, no time, no other place, only my mother and I, joined together, swaying, vibrating…vibrating.

It was like being in an eternal realm, right here on this bed, or anywhere else. I thrust in, pulled out, thrust in, pulled out… thrust in, pulled out… My mother started swaying her hips. I held her soft belly, and I could hear her panting as if she were running… Her hips were shaking violently and clearly. I followed the momentum and thrust in very forcefully to the deepest point, pulled out, and then thrust in again. Each time I thrust in, my mother cried out, “Ah…” After four or five times, my mother’s vagina, with an abnormal force, intermittently…clamped and tightened around my penis.

I followed wave after wave of ejaculation, thrusting deep inside her. Mom's uterus contracted and twisted in response to my penetration. It felt like a tremendous force was entering my body and controlling me. I arched my body backward, pressing my lower abdomen against Mom's buttocks as hard as I could, my penis penetrating as deeply as possible. My entire soul seemed to escape through the pulsation of my penis, all the semen gushing out. Despite my changed voice, I weakly cried out

, "Oh," Mom gasped, "Oh...oh...oh..."

Mom and I lay relaxed on our sides. I held Mom's waist, panting, my penis still inside her, motionless. My penis began to soften, gradually shrinking and slipping out of her vagina. The glans clung to Mom's wet pubic hair, sliding down her thigh. Mom turned towards me, lying on her back, raising her buttocks, pulling down her robe. Without saying a word, she turned and fell asleep. I turned my back to Mom, my mind a jumbled mess of emotions—doubt, fear, hope, and desire—I couldn't make sense of it all.

I was awakened by the sound of my mother showering. The morning light, filtering through the hazy window and yellow curtains, seeped into the dim room. Staring at the ceiling, I recalled how, just hours earlier, in this dark little room, my mother and I had been frantically rubbing our genitals together. Was it real? My hand involuntarily reached down to my genitals; my penis and scrotum were still sticky, and the sparse pubic hair lay stiffly against my lower abdomen. It really happened, it was real. I had sex with my mother, and she had sex with me. We really had sex.

The bathroom door opened, and my mother came out, dressed, carrying a suitcase and a few clothes.

"Before we leave and get in the car, I think you should take a shower; it'll make you feel better,"

Mom said, looking at my genitals. "You know, it's still very hot."

Last night seemed like nothing had happened; we were back to our mother-son relationship. I'd always lived in a silent understanding with Mom, and for a long time, I'd been able to decipher her silent code, knowing what she wanted and what she wanted. It was very unusual for Mom to take a shower so early in the morning, and then want me to shower too. Our whole family always showers before bed, never in the morning. This meant Mom admitted that I had sex with her, and that's why she needed to shower.

She also wanted to confirm that she knew what had happened last night. My mind was a jumble of thoughts as I went into the bathroom to shower.

After I finished showering, Mom had finished packing and was ready to leave. I packed my change of clothes. Mom did a final check in the bathroom to make sure nothing was left behind, then put the suitcase in the car.

"I washed the bathrobe," Mom said. "Mike, keep an eye on the bathrobe behind the car seat. Let it air dry before you wear it tonight."

And so, we set off from Nevada towards Utah. I don't remember much about the journey. I was completely focused on recalling my relationship with Mom, trying to reconstruct the entire scene from last night, since all the external intentions and purposes didn't exist.

My relationship with Mom had changed overnight, and I didn't know how to cope with this change.

I realized that right and wrong were battling with my lust. I was curious about sex, how Mom felt about me, how she viewed me, how the whole thing was going. Why did I want to know?

I wanted to tell Mom I loved her. I wanted to touch her arms, pat her thighs. I wanted to make love to her again, but I wanted to say it, not do it silently, to understand each other, I wanted Mom to talk to me, I wanted to scream: "Mom, please talk to me!"

But the rule of silence between us, I knew for a long time that it wasn't allowed. I didn't dare to talk to Mom first, if necessary, Mom would start, but she rarely spoke.

On the way, as Mom had instructed, I checked if Mom's robe was dry, and every time I touched that smooth nylon fabric, I was reminded of the evidence we had made last night that Mom had washed away, recalling touching that fabric last night... and then Mom's smooth skin; the indescribable, wonderful touch inside her, an orgasm that was so incongruous with Mom, something I had never experienced before, continuous ejaculation into Mom's buttocks and vagina, Mom's long sighs.

The bathrobe was dry before noon. When we got off the bus for lunch, Mom folded it carefully and put it in her suitcase.

The town where we would be staying that night was larger and more lively than Austin. Mom asked at many motels, and I couldn't understand why she chose a more expensive one this time, more than ten dollars more expensive than the others.

Mom said we could stay in a decent, more comfortable room, but to offset the price of a comfortable room, she chose a double bed instead of two single beds.

This puzzled me, regardless of whether she used the price or any other reason to justify wanting a double bed. I guessed: Mom had planned it all. I wanted to ask why, but of course I didn't dare. Silently, I began to look forward to bedtime.

After checking into the motel, instead of going to a small restaurant near the motel, Mom drove around the town until she found a small family-run restaurant. We had a seafood feast. Mom even saved lobster and oysters for me, telling me to eat as much as I wanted, which thoroughly satisfied me.

Back in the hotel room, Mom was on the verge of exhaustion again. She needed to rest early, so she did the same routine as yesterday in the Austin hotel: a shower and then bedtime.

Compared to the rough ceilings of Austin, the room here was spacious, with closets for suitcases, two cushioned chairs with a coffee table and a table lamp, and enough room for us to move around. There were paintings on the walls, and the whole room smelled fresh and clean.

As I lay down, Mom said again, "Sleep on your own side." Before bed

, Mom's advice to sleep on my own side had a hidden meaning. The bed was brand new, didn't sag in the middle, and was very comfortable. I was glad I could completely relax without having to stay on the edge of the bed and roll towards the middle when I fell asleep.

But it also frustrated me. There was no excuse to roll close to Mom while we slept. Before bed, I considered many possibilities. My penis was painfully hard, unable to release. Mom started snoring softly. I lay beside her, silently waiting for sleep to come. As usual, I gradually fell asleep.

In the middle of the night, I dreamt of having sex with Mom. When I woke up, my hard penis was already inside her. Mom arched her buttocks against my stomach, swaying her hips. This time, instead of saying "No...no...no...", she moaned "Oh...oh...oh."

I was no longer still or afraid. I immediately matched her rhythm, creating a regular movement with Mom. I quickly ejaculated inside her. Mom suppressed her breath, clenching her vagina, biting my glans and penis tightly. My penis slowly shrank, but didn't completely soften.

We waited together. I squeezed Mom's breasts, the ones I hadn't dared to approach yesterday. Mom moaned softly, and a few minutes later, my penis was fully erect again. Mom reached out and grabbed my erect penis, squeezing and playing with it. After playing for a while, I boldly reached out and stroked Mom's pubic hair on her stomach.

As soon as I touched it, my hand immediately moved to my penis, and I started thrusting into Mom's vagina again. Suddenly, Mom turned around, and my penis, cool and exposed, was exposed. Mom faced me and whispered loudly, "Take off your pajama bottoms!"

"What?" I asked, puzzled.

"I said, take off your pajama bottoms," Mom said slightly louder, while grabbing my waistband and pulling it down.

As my pajama bottoms slid down past my heels, Mom sat up and quickly took off her nightgown.

The room was dimly lit by the outside light bulb, making colors difficult to discern, but I gradually adjusted to the darkness. Watching my mother undress from the side, I saw her breasts rise as she lifted her robe, and then sway slightly as she lowered her arm. She kicked off the sheet and lay down. I sat beside her, seeing her white skin, the white sheet, and the black triangular pubic hair. She raised her knees, spread her legs, and opened her arms, saying to me, "Come here."

I knelt between her thighs, unsure of what to do next. She gestured for me, "Get on top of me." Then she said, "Lie on top of me." I did as she said, beginning to understand the geometry of positioning myself correctly.

As I pressed my hips down against Mom's stomach, she reached out and grabbed my penis, guiding it into her vagina. When the head of my penis felt the wet opening, I pressed my hips down, and my entire penis slid smoothly inside. Whenever I pulled my penis out, Mom, afraid it would slip out, would grab my buttocks with both hands and rotate her hips on the bed. She held me tightly, her hips swaying constantly. Mom's thick pubic hair pressed against my mons pubis like sandpaper smoothing out roughness.

"Ah-hum, ah-hum, ah-hum," Mom groaned, grinding harder and faster.

For several minutes, Mom did this… nonstop, shaking her hips, holding my buttocks tightly to prevent me from moving, then clamping her legs around my knees, squeezing upwards against my abdomen, letting out a long, sharp roar: "Ah... ahhh..." followed by "Oh... oh... oh."

Even as Mom held me tightly with her hands and feet, she continued to grind her buttocks intensely and intermittently, her vagina throbbing rapidly and gripping my penis. I didn't ejaculate. It remained hard inside me, Mom having used all her strength for the beautiful climax.

Mom was panting, her whole body trembling, and after a while she finally relaxed, her breathing returning to normal. I then began to slowly, steadily, and rhythmically insert and withdraw. Mom relaxed her legs, lying there limp, almost unable to hold me

any longer. How long did I thrust calmly and rhythmically, unilaterally, inside Mom's vagina? I had no idea. I just wanted to immerse myself in it, captivated by the sensations and emotions, hoping that each thrust could last forever. Mom's vagina felt so good—but; good is indescribable by feeling. It was a combination of warmth, moisture, and slipperiness, each thrust enveloping and caressing my angular glans.

"Wet, sticky, smooth" doesn't quite capture it. The structure, shape, and size of Mom's vagina seemed perfectly designed to hold my penis. "Kissing and caressing" doesn't fully describe it either. It wasn't squeezing or tightening, nor was it grinding. There was a general friction, but it wasn't real friction.

I think the correct way to describe the feeling is like dry sex, intercourse. Here, I wondered if I could feel the wrinkles around Mom's vagina with the glans of my penis, recognizing that the satisfying treatment was in my heart, not on my glans.

Mom's hips started moving again. She lay on her back, no longer gripping my buttocks tightly or clamping my feet between her legs, so this time it wasn't a fierce, rough grinding motion. It was like a taming undulation, like swimming together, swimming freely and leisurely.

"Mike?" Just as I was lost in the sensation inside Mom, she called me: "Mike?"

"Hmm... Mom?"

"Get up."...

Disappointed, Mom wanted me to separate from her. Just as I was about to lift my buttocks and pull out of Mom's vagina,

she said, "No..." Mom hugged my buttocks tightly and said, "Not your buttocks, your body. Kneel on either side of my thighs with your knees, and leave your penis inside me."

Of course, I obeyed Mom's request and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Mom didn't want me to stop having sex with her. Mom lifted her legs and hooked her knees around my elbows: "Okay, lie down forward," she whispered.

As I leaned down, Mom's back was curved upwards, so her vagina couldn't open wide and was facing the ceiling. The penetration was deeper than usual, and I could feel one of my testicles squeezed into Mom's wet labia.

"Okay," Mom whispered, "Like this. Deeper. Thrust harder."

After a few practice sessions, I was able to support Mom's calves with my elbows, preventing her back from getting hurt, and I hovered above her, thrusting in and out. I would go deep inside, pause for a moment, then quickly pull out until the head of my penis was almost at the entrance of her vagina, then slowly insert it again... downwards... filling her entire vagina, at which point Mom would sway her hips from side to side.

Through the impact of the head of my penis, I could feel Mom's uterus sliding inside. I experienced the collision between the head of my penis and her uterus; after deep insertion, I could feel Mom's uterus sliding after a while. When I pulled out, before re-inserting at the vaginal opening, I would pause between her labia and tease her, then insert deeply again, rotating my hips to let my pubic hair rub against the small buds on Mom's labia. Insert, pull out, grind, and rotate—we were very in sync, and Mom seemed to enjoy it too.

After grinding for a while, I felt I was about to come. Not from my penis or scrotum, but from somewhere far away; what would happen if I ejaculated, and how would it end?

My tapping quickened. An unseen force compelled me to stop. I was driven by a instinct I'd never known before. We were intertwined, Mom moving in sync with me, everything we did was perfectly synchronized. I thrust excitedly, each stroke more powerful, each amplitude greater, until I was almost about to explode.

We slowly climbed to our peak, entwined, trying to reach climax together. We began to collide and thrust, faster and faster… In just a moment, as I thrust in, I was about to ejaculate!

Mom began to spasm. I pressed tightly against her wildly writhing body, my penis deeply inserted into her vagina, trying to hold it in. The depths of Mom's vagina contracted incessantly, causing her entire body to convulse. Her spasms gradually subsided. I felt an intense heat deep within Mom's body, filled with semen. With intermittent vaginal contractions, the semen was squeezed out, dripping down my scrotum.

I lay frozen on top of my mother for a while, then relaxed, panting, my breath hot as if I'd just run a 100-meter dash. Her legs dangled loosely from my elbows. Gently and slowly, I laid her legs flat on the bed.

I pressed myself against her, supporting myself with my elbows. Her naked body trembled in waves, her vagina contracting repeatedly before finally stopping. But I didn't thrust; my penis had gone limp. With the final contraction of the trembling, her vagina naturally pushed my limp, shrunken glans out. I rolled over and lay flat on the bed with her, holding her hand and quietly staring at the ceiling, so exhausted I fell asleep.

The next morning, when I woke up, my mother and I were lying in the same supine position as after our pre-sleep intercourse, only this time, she wasn't holding my hand. The room was quite bright; clearly, we'd overslept. I turned to look at her. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling.

Of course, when I wake up in the morning, my penis will definitely be erect, pushing up the blanket covering my stomach. If it were the night before, I would have bent my legs so Mom wouldn't notice my "erection."

Now, there's no need. I'll just quietly let it tent up, waiting for Mom to call me to get up and shower. After a while, Mom still hasn't moved. I wonder what she's thinking.

Mom knows I'm awake, turns her head, reaches out and grabs my erect penis, squeezing and playing with it. After playing for a while, I boldly reach out and stroke Mom's pubic hair, my fingers touching the clitoris between the folds. Just that touch, and the tendrils of my hand immediately travel to my penis. Mom is lying on her back with her legs open. I lift Mom's thighs and put her feet back on my shoulders. Mom's eyes are closed, her face flushed.

Grasping my penis, aiming at the entrance, I take a breath, thrust forward, and it's in. With a few more thrusts, my entire penis is inside.

I heard my mother let out a soft, coquettish moan. I didn't dare move rashly; she was my mother, and I was still a little afraid of her. I only inserted my penis inside her, staring at her without moving.

My mother stared back at me, as if waiting to see what was about to happen between us.

I embraced her, my penis pressed against her vagina, reaching deep into her uterus, letting her wetness and warmth envelop me.

In an instant, I witnessed something I had never seen before. I reached her cervix, and her whole body began to tremble and sway uncontrollably, as if she couldn't breathe, as if she were about to exhale her last breath.

Watching my mother pressed beneath me, staring at each other like this, my mother said, "I've come."

The one who caused her to do this was me, her son. The responsibility lay with my penis. Thinking of this, I couldn't hold back any longer and ejaculated inside her without even thrusting.

This was my third time having sex with my mother, and it was also our last.

We don't need to touch, we don't need to thrust. As long as we connect the socket, the taboo between mother and son can be

overcome through mental imagination, allowing us to simultaneously release and ejaculate, reaching the desired climax. We were both finished, and I looked at Mom. She was covered in sweat, but her face was no longer tense; she looked relaxed, as if all the problems had been solved.

I was still half-erect inside Mom, so I lowered her legs and pressed myself on top of her, our fingers intertwined. I felt her breasts pressing against my chest, rising and falling. Mom's legs were wrapped around me, trying to suck me in, keeping my entire penis inside her, the deeper the better.

I thought Mom might like this. So, I was on top of Mom, relying on my remaining hardness, gently thrusting in and out, and surprisingly, I still felt it was very tight. I was amazed at the optimal elasticity of Mom's vagina. Mom put her mouth to my ear and whispered, "Don't stop."

I kissed Mom's lips, searching for her tongue. She kissed me back, her tongue pressing against mine. We kissed passionately, finding the rhythm of lovemaking. We slowed down, unhurriedly savoring each movement, creating a sweet and beautiful sexual exchange.

Finally, it was all over. In the afterglow of satisfaction, we embraced, motionless. Semen, vaginal fluid, and sweat made us both sticky, slowly dripping onto the sheets. I felt a ticklish sensation.

A few minutes later, my penis was still inside her, and I began to soften. Finally, just as I was about to completely withdraw from her, Mom placed her hands flat on my chest and kissed my forehead.

"We'd better take a shower and then head home," she said.

With that, she got off the bed and went into the bathroom. When I sat up, her fluids and my semen glistened on my penis and pubic hair, the air thick with the scent of sex.

I lay back down, lost in my own reverie, waiting for Mom to finish showering so it would be my turn.

After breakfast, we returned to our hotel room, unpacked our suitcases and bags, used the bathroom one last time, and did a final check to make sure we hadn't left anything behind. Then we put our bags in the trunk and got in the car.

Mom, sitting in the driver's seat, turned around and looked at me. She gently stroked my cheek with her fingers, cupping my chin, and said, "Mike, it's time to go home."

Her chin trembled slightly, and she bit her lip tightly. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She turned to look ahead and began to drive.

The End.

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