[A Good Dream Is Hard to Fulfill] (Revised) Author: Unknown - Incest Novel

A Dream Hard to Fulfill (Revised) Author: Unknown Word Count: 9421 -------------------------------------------------------------- This is a classic piece of random writing I read before. I've forgotten the original title, so I'm giving it a new one here. The original used "Peiyun" to refer to the mother, which didn't feel right, so I changed "Peiyun" to "Mama" throughout the text. I hope the original author won't mind. -------------------------------------------------------------- The story of the prince and princess living happily ever after is a fairy tale, not a love story. Great love stories are usually filled with setbacks, twists and turns, and dreams that are hard to fulfill. The more deeply a love is etched in one's heart, the more difficult it is to achieve. Fate often plays tricks on lovers; those who love each other may not be a good match, and the one you love most may not be with you. Such love gives people a profound and intense feeling. Sometimes, in order to pursue true love, one must transcend worldly norms and common sense. The following story takes place on a certain day in a certain place; it is an unusual, even impossible, forbidden love. Safran said, "If a person loves another madly, then all his sins should be forgiven. However, those who are loving madly do not need anyone's forgiveness." (I) The Old Place
Passing through endless glaciers and traversing high-altitude coniferous forests, fine snow swirled and blanketed the landscape. Occasionally, an oncoming car would pass, kicking up snow and leaving tire tracks in the snow. My mother and I, enclosed in our small car, drove along the winding mountain road, heading into the silent, colorless depths of white snow and clouds. The snow-covered road was slippery, requiring extra caution. Loose snow clinging to branches drifted down, melting instantly upon hitting the windshield. The snow obscured the road signs, forcing us to feel our way forward. On one side of the road was a mountainside, on the other a sheer cliff, below which flowed a frozen river. In this white world, there was stillness, a chilling stillness, a sense of directionlessness, and a loss of time. At the start of the journey, my mother sat upright beside me, her chin resting on her hand, silent. Only when the car left the city and entered the expressway did she allow me to gently place her soft hand in mine. With one hand on the steering wheel, I carefully drove along the snowy road, determined to reach our destination—Lakeview Villa—before sunset. We'd been here several times before, always during the off-season, and the receptionists all recognized us. Only we would choose to visit this summer resort in the snowy winter.
"Sir, Madam, welcome back again." A warm smile bloomed on my face from behind the counter.
I responded with a smile, but Pei Yun glanced around, pretending not to hear. "Honey, welcome!" I pulled her stiff body into my arms, and she reluctantly nodded. At the same time, she gave me a wink, pulled me aside, and said in a soft voice, almost a whisper, but with a firm tone: "What are you doing? Don't you think I feel guilty enough?" "I'm sorry, I just wanted you to be more natural and relaxed. This isn't our first time here. People all recognize us. Actually, we came here because we didn't want anyone to recognize us. But over time, we became regulars, and with the conveniences of regulars, we didn't want to go anywhere else. The memory of our first time here is vivid, as if it were yesterday. And all those years, the lobby's decor hasn't changed. Back then, I stood awkwardly at the counter, and she waited outside the lobby door, afraid to accompany me to the counter to register, lest someone question our background. Our furtive expressions made it clear to everyone that we were here for an affair." A couple with an age gap, a mismatched pair, will always attract attention and suspicion no matter what they do. Actually, no one will pry into our backgrounds. Even if we're here for an affair, what business is it of theirs? In a hotel, respecting guests' privacy is essential. Everyone is a passerby, with their own story. Check-in only requires providing basic information; it's not that anyone is interested in who is who or what their relationship is, but rather it's for police requirements. We are another couple of lovelorn lovers coming and going from the hotel every day. Every couple may have an ambiguous relationship, and the hotel is where these things happen. The staff can't casually call a guest's female companion "Madam"; they are professionally trained, unless the guest admits it themselves, or they have a good grasp of their information. My mother's identification document states her husband's surname, and mine is Di.
My dear mother, there's no need to be embarrassed. You are, after all. You, like me, bear another man's surname. This isn't the first time we've appeared together in this setting; when will I be able to stop letting your fluctuating emotions linger? I gently put my arm around her shoulder, offering just the right amount of affection to ease the sudden tension, to show the lady behind the counter, to confirm to her that my mother is indeed my wife, even if she's just borrowed. The fact that she's willing to stand openly with me at the counter shows she's overcome a tremendous psychological barrier. "Will there come a day when we can meet without hiding it from others, without feeling guilty? I wonder. To be honest, we do this for the thrill. Just like eating chili peppers, if they're not spicy, they're not good. In this season, in this place, we don't have to worry about running into acquaintances; we can do whatever we want, there's a sense of release and relaxation. The woman, being a woman, was still reserved, standing beside me, watching me fill out the registration form, afraid that I might make a mistake and reveal our relationship that we didn't want anyone to know. Her worries were unnecessary; the surnames on our identity cards proved everything. She was indeed a 'madam' with the same surname as me, even though she was someone else's wife. The waiter didn't even look at it before returning our ID cards. We were already regulars. 'You want the usual place? No problem, you've made a reservation. I'll still give you the regular customer discount,' the always smiling face said tactfully. We specifically requested a detached house by the lake, with a fireplace, a small bar, and a jacuzzi. The bedroom had a skylight, which, when covered by snow, became a mirror hanging on the ceiling. It was the off-season." My mother was still worried and called early in the morning to make a reservation. We had created wonderful memories in that house and held a special place in our hearts. Our large luggage had already been delivered to our house by car while I was filling out the registration form. The waiter arrived early and lit the fireplace for us. Without needing the waiter's guidance, we carried our light travel bags and walked hand in hand along the lakeside path. The fresh snow covered the ground, leaving our footprints deep in the slush. We had taken many wrong turns to get here; we treated this relationship like a fragile object, handling it with utmost care, treading carefully on the path of love, not allowing the slightest misstep.
Wisps of smoke rose gently from the chimney of our house, and rows of icicles, glistening and translucent, hung from the eaves and windows. This was our temporary home. At the door, I eagerly embraced and kissed my mother. She only allowed me a light kiss on her cheek and lips before turning her face away. Our breath frosted over our hair, the brim of our hats, and my glasses. I cradled her warm, winter-like smile in my hands and gently brushed the frost from her eyes with my warm, soft lips. Fine snowflakes drifted down, landing on our shoulders. The mountains, embracing the frozen lake, opened their arms to welcome us, a pair of migratory birds in love.
The fireplace warmed our hearts. Mother took off her thick, long snow coat, revealing her graceful figure before me. The door closed; no one would intrude into our world. Our world was too small; though the world was vast, the only place that could accommodate us was our two hearts beating in sync.
She smoothed her hair, walked to the bar, and ordered two gin martinis. I watched her focused and graceful movements as she cranked the cocktail shaker, as skilled as a professional bartender, but with an added thoughtfulness that others couldn't match. She had the perfect amount, enough to make me intoxicated even before I took a sip—it was that irreplaceable feeling, that warmth that emanated from her every smile and gesture.
She opened the small freezer, picked out a lime, cut it into small pieces, put it in a wine glass, added an ice cube, inserted a plastic stirrer, brought it over, and sat down next to me.
We sat around the fire, watching the sparks dance. I pulled her close, and she nestled against me, her body limp and soft.
Now that we've shed our worldly trappings, we truly resemble a couple.
Our sorrow at parting needs no words. Her brow gradually relaxed, her eyes brimming with longing and adoration. The fire burned ever brighter, hot and scorching, and desire, like two moths drawn to a flame, fluttered wildly. I felt my thick winter clothes were a burden. Shedding my heavy, sweaty clothes, I opened my broad chest, proclaiming my masculine charm. A blush rose on her face; I brushed it with the back of my hand, feeling its fiery heat. She turned her head away, then, like a little girl, buried her face in my chest. I never considered it coy or affected for a mature woman to show such girlish shyness to the man she loved. A woman's nature is gentle—this is not a derogatory term. Softness can overcome hardness! Love can make a strong mother revert to her childlike nature, demanding the tenderness and care she deserves.
I reached into her collar, feeling her warm body, and massaged her smooth neck, where a woman's sweet fragrance wafted. I inhaled deeply, pulling her close, wanting to inhale her scent. Every time we made love, she left this smell on me. With my eyes closed, I could recognize my mother by that scent, feel her presence. Before, this scent was called maternal love; now, it is my love. Separation is the price of love, and we will compensate each other with the most passionate lovemaking. I'm not in a hurry to unwrap this package of love that has already been delivered to my hands. Opening her up immediately would certainly be pleasurable. However, I plan to tease her, thaw things out, and train her body and emotions to the most excited state. Some days, she's eager for love; she'll tell me she wants it. We've loved each other so deeply, to this point, that her body and soul have been given to me without reservation. Therefore, on other days, although we have many opportunities to meet, due to circumstances, we must interact with each other under different identities and relationships. This not only fails to soothe our longing but also creates long-term repression, which I cannot bear. I fear that one day, I might develop a split personality. I don't need to immediately feast my eyes on my lover's naked body, because I will have to remove her clothes and see her body through them. The curves of her body, the softness of her breasts, and the contours of her nipples are all precisely etched in my memory. I suddenly have a thought to test her feelings, to see who among us will succumb to desire first? Who misses whom more? Who needs whom more? My mother has always intentionally tormented me, always displaying a hint of allure in her eyes and brows. At her age, she deliberately reveals her curves, including the curves of her large breasts under her low-cut dress and the depth of her cleavage, swaying them at the angle most advantageous for my voyeurism. With a third party present, she immediately conceals it. An outsider, someone completely unfamiliar with us, would see that although the mother has restrained herself, she still can't resist flirting with her son, her eyes and brows brimming with desire. The son, on the other hand, is very close to his mother, treating her with gentlemanly manners and meticulous care. What would they think? Would they suspect our relationship might be unusual? Those around us, however, wouldn't care. Our close relationship makes it convenient for us to have affairs, such as visiting relatives together or traveling together. A woman's heart is like a mystery at the bottom of the sea; her intentions are like a riddle to be solved, never explicitly stated. You have to guess correctly before you can take the next step. But if you misjudge, you're doomed. I've been guessing for a long, long time, and I think I'm starting to understand, but I still don't dare take that step. No son would ever think of me in the context of romantic love. I even hate having such dirty thoughts about my mother. I once went to a priest for confession and poured cold water on myself to calm my desires. But she still haunted me day and night like a ghost, impossible to shake off. It wasn't until I could follow my instincts and drive my impulses that we finally met on the same path. My mother, unable to bear the heat of the stove any longer, wiped a thin layer of sweat from her brow, sat up, lifted her sweater, and revealed a long-lost expanse of snow-white skin and delicate, rounded wrists before me. A woman doesn't need to show all three points to be alluring. Of course, I would be a gentleman and help her undress. Her arms, clad only in a bra, were raised without any guard, revealing her armpit hair. After I pulled off her sweater, her arms fell naturally, and the bra straps slipped down one after the other. Her hair was disheveled, messily covering her lips, as sexy as if she had grown a mustache. A deep, long cleavage, between a pair of seamless half-cups, held the love I sought. The exposed edge of most of her breast formed a pair of misaligned brackets, one curved against the other, while the other bracket peeked out from the other end of the bra cup. Her breasts, unrestrained, pressed against the soft silk, bursting forth. The drooping shoulder straps were not pulled up, giving her the illusion that her bra might fall down at any moment. In reality, she was a woman with refined manners, privately trained in traditional ways. You haven't seen her elegance in a cheongsam; she's even more graceful than Maggie Cheung in one in Wong Kar-wai's "In the Mood for Love." If I were a painter, I would definitely use her as a model for a painting of a lady. However, I would paint her nude, because there are no paintings of naked ladies in China; those paintings of nude women are called erotic paintings. Mom stirred her martini with a plastic stick, took a small sip, and tasted the wine. I raised my glass to her, offering a toast and a savoring. "Mom, thank you. I admire your courage in acknowledging our love and accepting my love. My unrequited love has finally found its place." This was the "dialogue" I had prepared for her. I raised my glass, opened my mouth, but couldn't find the words, and paused. Mom raised her glass to clink with mine, her breasts simultaneously thrusting forward. Her bra, without straps, slipped down, and a faint nipple inadvertently appeared first. "Tonight, let's drink to this. Cheers!"
Our forearms intertwined, we tilted our heads back, and drank it all in one gulp. We cannot escape the past, nor can we escape tomorrow. Only today, this moment, she belongs. And I belong to her. In love, we are not afraid, we are not afraid to love, to love without hesitation, and we are not even afraid of what we still have—fear. For this night, let us cherish it. I pulled my mother into my arms again and kissed her hard, and she obediently accepted. I slipped my fingers into the bra cups that were almost completely pressed against her skin, groping in the soft, narrow space, the electricity crackling softly, igniting the spark of desire. (II) A Sin When my mother let me kiss her lips for the first time like a lover, she said in a thick Shanghai accent, "A sin!"
This is a terrible sin! The deeper my love for my mother, the heavier my guilt. Because besides my wife, I also have to face someone else—my mother's husband, my father. Dating my mother is extremely unusual. And I respect my father; although he's not good at expressing his love, he's fulfilled his duties as a father. I love him too. But to secretly flirt with and sleep with another woman—if he found out, he'd be furious. I've truly committed a heinous act!
If I were the father, I would have known long ago that the mother would have an affair, because there was never any chemistry between them, never any spark. Among their generation, this wasn't a big deal. But a lonely wife is easily stolen by a man who cares for her. He would never have imagined that his wife's "affair" was with their son. But the mother wasn't like other women who simply lived their lives with or without love. She wasn't satisfied with the status quo and wanted to find life outside her stagnant marriage. Using her son as a guinea pig to test her own attractiveness seemed immoral, but it was perhaps the most convenient method for her. I was the second man closest to her. A son can be an ideal lover molded by a mother according to her own needs and demands. Truly, I was too foolish, oblivious to her constant hints. Because I dared not even think about it; I never fantasized about things beyond my reach. I can't blame her for not letting me see through her heart sooner, for making me unjustly and desperately try to escape her eyes burning with desire, as if escaping the fires of hell. So, I found a girl who was devoted to me and married her. At the time, I had no shortage of men willing to marry me. On the wedding day, my parents came and stayed at my new home. At the wedding banquet, my mother opened my eyes to what true beauty was; the Shanghai beauties described by Pai Hsien-yung and Eileen Chang came alive before my eyes. She wore a dark red floral brocade cheongsam with a mandarin collar, made by the most famous Shanghai tailor in Chinatown. The cheongsam had a high slit, revealing her thighs, and she wore red high heels and an embroidered shawl, attracting the attention of all the guests, both Chinese and foreign, and stealing the spotlight from the bride in her low-cut wedding dress. She was unusually excited, drank a lot of wine, and flitted around the room—she should be happy to get a wife, after all. However, she didn't even glance at the bride. On our wedding night, in the dead of night, my bride was asleep. I heard someone moving around in the house. I got up to check and saw Peixue, a lonely figure in her nightgown, sitting on the sofa in the living room, holding a wine bottle and humming an old tune. "It's late, why aren't you asleep yet?" I sat down beside her and realized she was sobbing. She didn't answer me and continued to drink. I took the bottle from her, forbidding her to drink anymore. "Don't drink anymore, you've already drunk too much today." She said, "Don't worry about me. Go back to your wedding night." "Mom, are you alright?" I comforted her gently. "I'm fine, I don't need your fake concern." She cried even harder. "Why are you crying? Who broke your heart?" I stretched out my arm and put it on her bare shoulder, asking tenderly and gently. "It's you, you made me cry."
"What...did I do wrong?" "You're playing dumb." "I really don't know." "You've ignored me. Why are you so cold to me? I wander around all day for you!" "Mom, what did you say? You..." "Don't you understand? Do you want me to say it out loud?" "Mom, I..." "You heartless stone, you don't care about me anymore." Her head rested on my shoulder, her sweet voice captivating, making me dizzy. A strange atmosphere filled the air, my heart pounded, and I held a burning desire within me, gentle yet intense, slowly melting me. I couldn't help but reach for her, my comforting hand on her arm transforming into a hand of lust, sliding down, down, caressing the soft curves of her waist. That wasn't enough to satisfy my desires; it moved lower and lower, inch by inch, between her soft, warm thighs, until it reached the place on her body that fueled my wildest fantasies, overflowing with desire like a flood. My own member, filled with an astonishing power, stood erect, pointing high towards her...
"Oh my God, we shouldn't..." She lowered her head, silent, not stopping my unrestrained hands from roaming her body. "Stop me! I know you will..." Her warm, soft body pressed against my chest, filled with endless grievances, as she poured out her heart to me. She said, "You make me cry. Tonight is your happy night, but it makes me feel lonely and desolate. I need a chest to lean on, someone to tell me they love me. This is a special day. Everyone else is asleep, just the two of us in this living room. Whatever you want to do, I'll do it, because I'm a little woman, and sometimes I need comfort..." To this day, I still don't know where I got the audacity, or rather, the lust, to dare to flirt with my own mother like this, unbuttoning her nightgown, revealing her cleavage. There, a fragrance stronger than wine wafted over. I was terrified, grabbed the bottle from her hand, tilted my head back, and gulped it down. I silently prayed to God to forgive my sins, and then I committed that heinous crime, on my wedding night, with my mother, we made love. What a terrible sin! Does humanity even have a sense of morality and shame? I must admit, not long ago, in our bridal chamber, the person I imagined making love with had melted solidly into my arms, everything unfolding before me, completely begging for my love. My lips pressed against her bare arm, wandering over her most sensitive and sensual shoulder, the back of her neck, and behind her ear. I found her warm, soft, slightly trembling lips. She parted her lips, revealing her teeth, allowing me to find the mark of "misdeed" on her warm tongue. In a dreamlike state, she lay quietly on the sofa, trembling as she surrendered to me. My hand, guided by its touch, went to where it longed for, and untied her robe. Then, slowly and carefully, I pulled off her silk panties—more alluring and sexy than the ones my bride wore on our wedding night—down to her feet. This was a vibrant banner she had hung in my heart, something she often intentionally left in the bathroom, or unintentionally exposed, so I could peek, discover, and smell her femininity. I looked at her, capturing every change in her gaze, and she looked at me too. We didn't look at each other's bodies, exploring each other only with our hands. I touched her smooth, sweaty shoulders and back, then moved down to her buttocks, reaching her firm, rounded bottom. While sucking on her incredibly elastic breasts, I kneaded her inner thighs, parting her legs—she was more willing to part for me than my bride. The path opened, unobstructed, leading straight to my destination. When I entered her, she trembled, and in her eyes I saw my long-suppressed desire and our mutual fear. Then, she lowered her eyes, pressed her skin against mine, and wrapped her firm body around me, seeking her own satisfaction. In her warm, safe cavern, I swelled, swelled, thrusting and penetrating deep within her, forgetting the passage of time in that swirling, sensual vortex. A muffled moan escaped from beneath me, from the boundless darkness of the night—the cry of a woman of flesh and blood. The thought that I had made this woman, my mother, my lover filled me with dread and trembling. My mother's eyes and her kisses never left me. Every glance, every change in expression, every movement and reaction of her body during lovemaking was clearly etched into my heart. Did she, when making love with my father, or during childbirth, furrow her brow, bite her lower lip, and moan and cry out like that? And I couldn't even remember if my bride had experienced an orgasm with me on her first night. Even her image was blurred in my mind. 3) Perhaps it wasn't until after making love with my mother that I was certain it was something I should do. In the deepest moment of the night, my body sheltered my mother, sowing the seeds of love within her. We shouldn't have loved each other, much less have become one naked and vulnerable. Once I stepped across that threshold, it was a doomsday, a point of no return. As dawn broke, the grave mistake was made, and I suddenly realized who my true love was. Without her, my love was gone too. My lover, limp beneath me, sweetly whispered, "I think you just gave me an orgasm." Those words captivated me, and I became convinced that loving her was the purpose of my life, because if I didn't love her, no one else would. And so, we became lovers, as if we had loved each other for eternity. She began to tell me many things, about herself, about her love, about her sex life. She said how much she missed me, how much she longed for my attention. If I glanced at her or ignored her and walked away, it would fill her with unease and restlessness. What else could these be but sweet nothings? Perhaps no one but me would have ever heard my mother say these things to him. Love is such an inexplicable thing; affection transcends age, and generational distinctions cannot extinguish it. The simultaneous occurrence of loving and being loved generates sexual arousal, and orgasm is a product of this chain reaction. The sexual climaxes she experienced, and the taste of being loved, all came from me—how absurd it sounds, yet it's the truth. Her sex life with her husband was always routine; they even had children, but it was all unremarkable. Over time, she came to believe that this was the essence of life, and it could cause a woman to lose all hope for sex. She said I gave her hope for love. Loving her might not be easy. Because she wouldn't stop hoping, and those who have hope never grow old. My mother's love, sometimes like a teenager's infatuation, demands that you devote all your energy to her, especially in bed, where she expects my full commitment. A man's prowess, when used on a woman, requires her cooperation and appreciation. Whenever my mother compares my father's sexual prowess to mine, I feel a sense of vanity; what my father can't do, I can. I'm even more convinced that what I'm doing is right, that only I can make my mother happy. We must constantly find more reasons to support ourselves, to convince ourselves. Only then can we live, for each other. "You know more about sex than Dad; it would be great if you could be her coach," she says. I almost feel like a hero, rescuing my mother from her misery. My penis immediately becomes erect again, begging my clueless father to repay what he owes my mother all at once.
Those debts will never be repaid. From that moment on, we were mired in an illicit affair. During our honeymoon, we planned a trip with my mother, and after returning, we found an excuse to come to this resort for an unconventional honeymoon. Only in this snow-covered resort could we make love freely. These memories flashed through my mind like rapidly searching through images. I didn't notice that my mother's nipples were hard and swollen under the manipulation of two fingers, as if they would be ripped off with another twist.
"You've been touching me here for too long, it's making me numb and sore," she reminded me, pulling me back from my reverie to her side. "Oh, really? I'm sorry." I kissed her again. The kiss was light, the tongue was warm, the love was intense. She returned the kiss, a kiss on her red buttocks; I knew she couldn't wait any longer. She pulled my hand out from under her bra and placed it between her thighs; she needed caresses there too. My erection was also in a state of extreme arousal; if I didn't let it out to breathe, it would explode. I would let Mom know what she could do to me from the waist down. Because I didn't need to hold back, it would boost her confidence. She had complained about why her husband wasn't interested in her. Whose fault was it that he was so slow to react? I gave her the affirmation a woman needed, that a man younger than her could still be captivated by her. Long-suppressed desire burned like firewood in a furnace. Mom made no secret of her need and longing for me, kissing my manhood incessantly. We all look forward to this moment when we can fully indulge in physical pleasure.
"Love me." These were the words Pei-Yun said to me when she was completely liberated, a stark contrast to the reserved, neurotic woman who had just stood in front of the counter.
I could only stammer, because I wanted to hear more explicit words, from my mother's mouth, directly saying to me: "Fuck me! Crush me!" To get the love she wanted, she would even say such vulgar things. She was so humble in front of her son, seeking pleasure; it pitied me, how could I bear to mistreat her? However, I still followed a fixed routine, paying attention to every detail, like social etiquette, when making love with her. After all, the woman I was having this physical relationship with was my mother, and she deserved different treatment. Women constantly want men to tell them they love them. And every time she wanted me to tell her I loved her, I proved it with my actions. Actually, our love couldn't be said, nor did it need to be! For her, loving her as a woman, telling her I loved her, telling her I wanted to make love to her, was actually harder to say than to do. Even she herself admitted it. Lover and mother, mother and lover—a dual identity, nakedly exposed to me, it absolutely shouldn't be taken for granted. In the older generation, some couples felt ashamed to be naked in front of their spouses, even while wearing clothes during sex. When she and her father made love, were they both naked? I never asked her, but I imagine they slept in their pajamas and made love while dressed. But how could they do it dressed? I can't imagine. Now, when my mother and I make love, she's a mother, shouldn't I leave her something out? In bed, should I consider her different from other women, and leave her with some clothing? After all, a woman is a woman. When she's making love with you in bed, she's no different from any other woman; if she's going to do it, she should be serious and not half-hearted. It's just that some women are impatient, taking off their clothes and rushing at you. My mother isn't like that; she always waits for me to undress her, whether I undress her completely is up to me. Then she can say: "You took off my clothes!" "You wanted to make love with me!" "It's all your fault!" This is the psychological defense mechanism of a mother making love with her son. It would feel better psychologically, as if it could lessen the guilt of betraying my husband and committing incest. I am happy to admit this mistake, which is to take credit for myself. I have never achieved anything or done anything meaningful. Putting this blame on me is like wearing a laurel wreath or a halo.

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[A Good Dream Is Hard to Fulfill] (Revised) Author: Unknown - Incest Novel

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