A Talented and Beautiful Mother - Incest Novel

.Subconsciously, I also want to share my thoughts and processes. Having my deepest secrets heard gives me a thrill, a kind of soul-piercing pleasure. On this level, I feel like exhibitionists; they enjoy showing their bodies, and I enjoy revealing my innermost thoughts. Those monologues that no one in the real world can confide in—speaking them feels like reliving those experiences, and that pleasure is equally captivating. Let me tell you about my son and me. He's 181cm tall and weighs 73kg. He likes sports and is good at calligraphy and violin. I'm confident I can say he's excellent, smart, and talented; his writing is better than mine. I'm 165cm tall and weigh 58kg. I like to sing, and my son and I both sing quite well (I'll post pictures sometime). I'm also good at piano; the piano in my bedroom was bought with my savings years ago, and I still practice it daily. My son is deeply influenced by me; our personalities are very similar—both are kind, simple, and not very strong. My son loves sports, and I also pay attention to exercising, but it's more about purpose than enjoyment. I want to maintain my figure and health. Besides exercising, I also pay attention to skincare and follow information on beauty and wellness. I'm not superstitious about cosmetics; clean skin and a light touch of makeup are enough. For a woman to be beautiful, the most important thing is her inner self. I firmly believe that women of every age have their unique beauty, and I can be beautiful too. As long as one's heart is kind and peaceful, beauty will radiate from within. A young male teacher in my office said I'm elegant and resemble Zhao Yazhi. I said that while we may not look alike, my pursuit is to be as noble, elegant, and eternally youthful as her. Of course, not everyone at work liked me. Once, while showering in the company bathhouse, a female teacher about my age—well, if I was in the same bathhouse, I was definitely a woman—said that my high hips didn't look good and affected how my clothes looked. She also said I had excess fat on my lower abdomen and pointed out many other flaws. I didn't know how to respond. Actually, she was far less attractive than me; short, plump, without any curves, and with a dull complexion. I wanted to say that she didn't have excess fat on her lower abdomen and that her chest and abdomen were flat, but I immediately felt guilty, thinking that my words were too malicious, so I just laughed it off. Although I'm not very confident, I still have a clear understanding of myself. I'm quite satisfied with my breasts and hips. Women should have feminine curves and characteristics, but the size of breasts and hips is largely determined by genetics. Postnatal exercise can only change things within the range determined by genetics. I'm very grateful to my mother for the body she gave me. When I was in middle school, I weighed around 100 pounds, but my breasts were already quite well-developed. However, back then, no one paid attention to this. I never saw any girl with well-developed breasts walking with her chest out. I was the same way; I thought it was fine as long as I was flat like other girls and didn't attract attention. But later, as we matured and people became more open-minded, I felt really good when men stared at my chest. I still feel that way now; those looks give me confidence. At my age, it's incredibly difficult to completely eliminate belly fat. Even with consistent exercise, I can't completely get rid of it, but it's not much better than women my age who don't exercise. Like I said, maintaining and pursuing a good figure is important, but pursuing a peaceful mindset is even more crucial. I don't know where to begin or how in detail to go, so I'll start with university. My first love was in university. I'll talk about some memorable things, and I won't mention the hazy memories faded by time. The era I lived in and the family and school education I received meant that I had no concept of dating before university. In fact, I was quite terrified of it, thinking that dating was immoral. If someone wrote me a letter confessing their love or got close to me, I would definitely stay far away. But this mindset gradually changed in university. There were many couples around me, and I was older and had emotional needs. I realized that dating wasn't shameful. My ex-husband and I met in college, which marked the beginning of my first love. He was in the same major as me and from the same city. There weren't many people in our major, and most of us in the classes knew each other. Men are very popular in teacher's colleges, and he was quite outstanding at the time—tall, good-looking, and talented. We all had good things to say about him when we chatted in our dorm. We had a lot of contact and got to know each other better during several college activities, and things just naturally progressed. He never even confessed to me, and I had no experience. I thought that was what dating was all about. I didn't dare to hold hands for a long time. He was the one who initiated the first time we held hands, and he was also the one who initiated the first kiss. There was a long gap between holding hands and kissing. We had no experience with our first kiss; our lips just touched, but it was exciting enough. I still remember that feeling vividly. Later, he learned to suck on my tongue, and the pleasure was even stronger. It made my whole body feel like it was on fire, and I got wet down there. To be honest, I had never masturbated before college and had no sexual needs whatsoever. But ever since I kissed him, I've had that desire, a desire I absolutely dared not express. Those were far less open-minded than they are now; I guess most people's first time was on their wedding night, and he and I were no exception. After graduating from university, I worked at the affiliated high school, while he went to another high school in the city that was almost the best. Back then, it was easy to find a job after graduating from teacher's college, unlike now, although now it's difficult for any major. We got married less than a year after we started working. Because our families and jobs were in the same city, and both sets of parents were satisfied, everything went smoothly. Our first time was on our wedding day; it was probably past eleven o'clock. On my wedding day, I was so busy and tired I was completely disoriented. I just did whatever people told me to do; it seems like wedding procedures have always been so complicated. When he took off my clothes, my face burned; it was the first time I'd ever been naked in front of a man. He kissed my entire body passionately, his hands caressing my genitals. His fervor ignited my own passion, and I inevitably became aroused. He thrust inside me, and I gasped, my mouth agape, too afraid to scream… My first experience of sex was truly wonderful; I was overwhelmed with pleasure. Even now, almost twenty years later, I remember it vividly, down to every detail, because I've relived that scene countless times in my memory. When we first got married, we had sex very frequently, but gradually it decreased, and the pleasure wasn't as intense as before. Perhaps the physical pleasure remained, but the psychological novelty had worn off. Only when he was away on business trips, away for extended periods of study and research, could I experience a strong surge of desire. I would mimic his movements with my fingers, imitating him, and look at his wedding photo on the wall, imagining him on top of me. Absence truly makes the heart grow fonder; when he returned, we made love freely, and it felt much better than usual. After having a child, we experienced the joy and sense of accomplishment of being parents. I would often glance at my son and then at him, and my heart would fill with sweetness. Our child was the crystallization of our love, bearing the characteristics of both of us; the feeling was magical and blissful. For the first few years, our relationship was wonderful, but marriage truly couldn't escape the seven-year itch. It really did start in the seventh year. He became distant, spoke less to me, and his sexual desire decreased significantly. I was terrified, not knowing what I had done wrong. When I asked him, he wouldn't say. I tried my best to be gentle with him and diligently did housework, but nothing worked; he only grew increasingly distant. My heart gradually cooled, and I knew his heart belonged to someone else. Our marriage, after more than nine years, came to an end. He was the one who initiated the divorce, and all I could do was helplessly agree. I knew I couldn't win back his heart. I got custody of the child, and he gave me the house and most of the assets; he left with almost nothing. Less than a year after the divorce, he remarried, to someone from his workplace. At the time, I couldn't understand what I was lacking, what made me inferior to him. I did everything a wife should do, treating his parents with the same filial piety as my own, and regarding his brother's children as my own, giving them lucky money and buying them clothes every Chinese New Year. How could this be the result? Those two years were truly disheartening; my life was bleak. Later, I thought that for my child's sake, I couldn't stay like that forever; I had to move on. Being from a single-parent family, if I were also melancholic, it would be detrimental to my child's development. Many relatives and friends introduced me to potential partners, but I initially had no interest. Later, wanting to give my child a complete family, I tried dating, but my child reacted very strongly, treating any man who came to our home as an enemy. I didn't want to upset my child, and besides, I was somewhat afraid of marriage and lacked confidence, so I stopped trying. After that, no one introduced me to anyone. I feel guilty towards my son; I haven't been a successful parent, even though I studied education, including early childhood education, in school. But when it comes to my own child, I can't bear to toughen him up. I always try my best to provide him with a comfortable environment and prepare everything for him, never giving him any opportunity to be independent. As a result, he has very poor self-care skills and is too dependent on me. Even now that I understand this, I still can't bear to let him go and develop his abilities. When he first entered high school, some teachers suggested that I let him live at school, but I wasn't comfortable with that. I said, "Why spend the money on accommodation when we live so close?" Some teachers, to save themselves trouble and to give their children experience, let their children live at school. To my relief, my son is very smart, has excellent grades, and is tall and handsome.Life is incredibly difficult for a woman raising a child alone, not just financially, but also emotionally and environmentally. When my child was young, there were things I couldn't talk to him about, like work frustrations—he wouldn't understand. Many people around me didn't understand me either. Living alone, without a man to rely on, I had to do everything myself. I carried rice and flour upstairs myself, never asking for help or hiring anyone. I didn't want anyone to know I didn't have a man, not even strangers. My body was exhausted, but my heart was even more bitter, and I couldn't even cry. Back then, a young man in the same building always stared at me with those kinds of eyes. I was terrified, realizing what a malicious gaze truly meant. If I had a husband, I would feel much more secure, but I didn't. I was always afraid he would break into my house one day, so I would always check behind me before opening the door and lock it immediately after entering. Looking back, it was all a deep-seated sense of inferiority. Later, I stopped seeing the young man; he probably moved away. Over the years, my mindset has gradually calmed down. My son has grown tall and strong; having a man in the house makes all the difference. The loneliness of the nights after the divorce is unbearable. During those days of intense sexual desire, I desperately wish a man could comfort and satisfy me, but that's impossible. Only my own hands can satisfy me. The wedding photo on the wall has long been taken down. My fantasies start with my ex-husband. Although I can't say whether it's love or resentment, I once believed I belonged to him for life and that I could only have sex with him. Gradually, his image faded from my mind. But no matter who it is, the sadness and loss after masturbation are always there. Especially later, when I fantasize about my son. But the next time, I can't help but fantasize again; my son's image lingers until after orgasm, my mind goes blank, and after a while, I feel not only sadness but also deep self-reproach. I don't want to, but the only man I can rely on in the long run is my son. In fact, we depend on each other. Sometimes when he lies in my arms, I feel a maternal tenderness; sometimes I lie on his chest, in his arms, and I feel like a little woman. Having someone to rely on brings a sense of secure happiness; it's as if my son is my man. The only man I've ever been in contact with is my son. Unlike other mothers and sons, we don't have any taboos. Perhaps it's because I've always treated him like he was when he was little. Even though he's grown up now, I still worry about him a lot, taking meticulous care of him and giving him countless instructions. As a result, his self-care abilities are very poor. I want to let go and let him develop, but I'm too worried and can't bear to. He also can't live without me—in daily life, emotionally, and physically. Because mothers and sons are naturally close, especially after so much time spent alone together, he's attached to his mother, and I'm attached to my son. At my age, I understand the道理 (principles/reasons), but I'm powerless to change anything. Like when I stare at my son's muscular physique and bulging lower body, I know that dazed look is wrong, but I can't take my eyes off him. Thoughts are one thing, actions are another. If actions were entirely guided by thoughts, there would be far fewer mistakes in the world. Mistakes are often mistakes of ignorance. My son and I have lived alone for a long time, intimately, and we both have needs and desires for each other—that's undeniable. I think we understand ourselves and each other's feelings, but neither of us has brought it up. Even now, after this incident, we rarely discuss it verbally. Back then, we were both cautiously probing, wanting to take things further but feeling uneasy, each hoping the other would make the first move. I don't know when it started, but the way my son looks at me has changed. Even when I'm behind him, I can feel that gaze—focused and intense. When I turn around, I quickly look away. Actually, I know that's how I look at him too. He exercises often and has a great physique; that youthful energy is really attractive. Every time he walks around the house shirtless in his underwear without any inhibitions, I can't help but stare at him. His chest muscles are very attractive, but what tempts me the most is his bulging lower body. Just seeing that makes my legs go weak. Maybe women have a kind of male genital worship? I even wanted to kneel down and worship it. Haha, I usually think he can't do anything, but at that moment, I felt he was a powerful and great man. When he was little, my son always slept next to me. He needed to touch me to feel safe and fall asleep. Later, as he grew older and needed to study, I let him have his own room. But he still comes to my room and sleeps in my bed from time to time. He always has a lot of excuses, saying he had a scary dream, that it was cold when he was hungry, or that my double bed wouldn't fall off. But when he comes to my bed, he doesn't go to sleep right away. He always hugs me, just like when he was little, with one nipple in his mouth and his hand touching the other breast. The difference is that when he was little, he would just suckle, but now he licks it with his tongue. It really arouses me. I asked him, "Son, are you thinking about when you were little?" He was still sucking on the nipple and mumbled something I couldn't understand. I didn't know whether I wanted to hear him say yes or no. If he said yes, I would feel at ease: this behavior is nothing, it's just mother and son reliving the past. I don't know if it's because I get excited or have a lot of imagination. I've always been a very contradictory person, conflicted in my feelings and in my decisions. Actually, I was really aroused at that time, and I really hoped that something would fill it, like his fingers or his... but I didn't dare. For a long time, we found satisfaction in this borderline behavior. It was satisfying, but it was also torture. Neither of us dared to cross that line. We didn't touch each other's... with our hands. Once, I was really sleepy and asked him to go back to his room, but he wouldn't listen. So I turned my back to him, and he hugged me and touched my breasts. His... was also rubbing against my buttocks from time to time. Even through two layers of underwear, I could feel its heat. I was wet right then and there. My heart was in my throat. I really hoped that he would take off my underwear and fill me up there, but I still didn't move. After a while, he went back to his room, and I couldn't wait to masturbate. I thought my son must have masturbated when he went back to his room too. But most of the time, after we touched each other, he would sleep on my bed. I didn't dare to masturbate anymore because I was afraid of making a sound and waking him up. He must have been afraid too. However, when his desire was too strong, he was fearless. Once, I woke up after a nap and found my son's penis above my face; he was masturbating. I almost screamed when I opened my eyes, but I held it in because I was afraid of the embarrassment. It was quite dark, and he didn't see me open my eyes. He continued to rub his penis, which was not far from my face. I wondered what would happen if he ejaculated. What if he ejaculated on my face? Should I keep pretending to be asleep with my eyes half-closed? His movements became faster and faster. Fortunately, when he ejaculated, he reached out his left hand and caught it. After going to the bathroom, he went back to his room. I lay in the same position as before, masturbating while reminiscing. When I couldn't resist, I held his head tightly against my breasts. The pressure brought me pleasure, but he soon broke free and gasped for breath, as he was suffocating with his mouth and nose covered. I wanted to put my hand down there to relieve the itch, but I didn't dare. Besides, our bodies were pressed together, and there was no space. I couldn't hold back any longer and reached my hand inside from behind. I couldn't reach all the way in from behind. The power of lust is truly terrifying. My left hand, seemingly casually, slid from my son's chest to his penis. I hadn't touched his penis with my hand for over ten years. I was so excited that I tried to control my excitement. My right hand moved gently inside my vagina, while my left hand just rested on his penis without moving, and he didn't move either. I didn't dare move my arms for fear of making too much noise and attracting my son's attention. I could only bend and straighten my fingers, and I tried to keep my body as still as possible. I still remember that feeling of pleasure, both suppressed and excited. With one hand touching my son's penis and the other inside my vagina, it felt like my two hands could merge into one, and I imagined my fingers were my son's penis. Before it happened, I felt a strong desire but lacked the courage. I didn't even dare to dream of having sex with my son, but I realized that if we both longed for it so much, we would eventually have sex. It's actually a very simple action that could lead to a breakthrough, but that one action was heavy and difficult. Countless times I was on the verge of desire, my whole body, especially my vagina, itching unbearably. Being in that state without being fully satisfied was torture. I really wanted to spread my legs, wrap my arms around him, and let him penetrate me all the way in, to stop the unbearable itching, but I didn't dare. I endured it time and time again. There was a very close one time. I woke up in the middle of the night, and he was lying next to me, also awake. I reached out and touched him; he felt a little warm, even though he didn't actually have a fever. Everyone's body temperature is different, and as long as it's within a certain range, it's fine. I don't know if I was bewitched or what, but I said to him, "Can I touch your genitals to see if they're hot?" He seemed to be just waking up and mumbled an "Mmm" in his sleep. I felt like I'd received a royal decree, and my heart started racing. I put my hand inside his underwear and touched his testicles. Oh my god, they felt so good! The two balls were wrapped in soft skin, and they were even moving when I gently squeezed them. I really didn't want to take my hand back, but I couldn't keep touching them. So I said, "It's okay, they're not hot, it's fine," and slowly pulled my hand back. When I touched his penis, I shuddered. It was normal before, but now it was incredibly hard, so big and long. I couldn't help but grab it. It stimulated my hand, making me linger and not want to let go.My son hummed softly. I knew he felt pleasure, not just as I did. I hoped to hold his hand forever, and I knew he would too. If I massaged him further, he would feel even more pleasure. Even though we both wanted this, I pulled my hand back. My actions had already crossed the line, and I dared not go any further. I carefully maintained that last bit of distance, preserving our last vestige of pure mother-son relationship. After pulling my hand back, my heart couldn't calm down. I savored the dreamlike moment, the comfortable feel of his touch. My empty hand felt empty. I knew that day would eventually come, but I never expected it would be me who initiated it. But thinking about it, it makes sense. My son is always shy; I'm never as proactive as him. That night, I was naked after showering. Soon after, my son came into my room and, before I could react, crawled into my bed. I was afraid he would find me naked without underwear. I faced him, sticking my butt out. He touched and kissed my breasts as usual. I was probably in my monthly arousal period those days, and my reaction was very strong. My hand involuntarily went to his penis, and this time I put my other hand inside my vagina from the front. At first, he lay on his back, but then suddenly grabbed my hand and rubbed his penis. Then he pulled down his underwear a little so my hand could directly touch his penis. I was so excited at that moment. I didn't care if the movements were too big. I vigorously masturbated myself and my son with both hands. He must have felt very comfortable, moaning softly. I really don't know where I got the courage at that time. I was pushing my luck. I had dreamed of doing this before, but at that moment I felt that this was still not enough. So I got up, straddled him, positioned his penis against my vagina, and sat down until he was fully inside me. Because there was so much water and my mouth was wide open, the pleasure was so intense that I collapsed onto my son. He cried out and his body jerked. I sat up and moved up and down, but after a few movements, my body went limp and I involuntarily collapsed back down. My son was probably not satisfied with my speed, so he rolled over and pinned me beneath him, then started moving quickly. That must have been his first time. He ejaculated very quickly; I could feel how hot it was. But he didn't go limp, and he didn't pull out; he kept moving inside me. Oh God, I was going crazy. Words are so inadequate in the face of such intense pleasure. His second time lasted a long time; he only ejaculated after I had climaxed, and then he lay there and quickly fell asleep. I feel that the light of daytime is a kind of constraint on people—is it the gaze of the world? We rarely touch each other's bodies during the day, but when it's dark at night, it's as if we don't belong to this world anymore. No one can restrain us, and our behavior truly descends into unbridled madness. As for what will happen in the future, I really don't want to think about it. The hardest part is the first time; once you get past that hurdle, it's not so difficult anymore. My son and I have sex very frequently, just like when I first got married. Our sexual desire makes us seem so greedy when we're together. I greedily sucked on my son's penis; it seemed like a reward for him. He looked up at me, as if he hadn't expected me to be so proactive for him. He made a very loud, pleasurable sound. I think the psychological pleasure probably stimulated him more. Watching his performance and seeing his excitement made me feel happy too. Normally, we... I don't cook during the day, but there are exceptions. Once, he didn't have evening self-study. After all, the second year of high school isn't as stressful as the third year I teach. That time, I was proctoring the monthly exam for the class I taught. The exam was at 6 PM, and around 5 PM, my son called me saying he was hungry and wanted me to come home and cook for him. I told him to cook some instant noodles first and I'd make more when I got home, but he insisted on eating hand-pulled noodles. I couldn't persuade him otherwise, and thinking that we lived nearby, I figured I could make more later. So I rushed home and started cooking. As soon as I put the cutting board on the table, my son hugged me tightly from behind. I told him to stop, or we'd run out of time, but he wouldn't give in. I was wearing the school-issued work uniform skirt at the time. He lifted my skirt and touched me inside. I guess I'm just a sensitive person; I become weak and defenseless when touched. Even when a stranger I don't like touches me, I feel the same way. He took off my clothes and rubbed my genitals with his hard penis. I immediately got wet. My son slowly inserted himself. I suddenly remembered that if I was late, several classes of students wouldn't be able to take the exam, and the papers were still with me. So I got up and said no, don't do it. But my son grabbed me and inserted himself again. I had no choice but to call my class representative and ask him to come to my office to get the papers. This basically meant the questions had been leaked, but there was nothing I could do. My son wouldn't leave me, and he wouldn't even take his penis out. He insisted on going to the living room with me to get my phone. While I was explaining to the student, my son was still moving vigorously behind me. I was afraid the noise would be too loud and could be heard on the phone, and I was also afraid I would make a sound. But he was holding my waist with both hands, and I couldn't push him away, so I had to use my hands to cover my buttocks. After I explained everything, I quickly hung up the phone and told him to hurry up and go to the bedroom. He refused and insisted on going to the kitchen. I was forced to walk with my back bent. As soon as I put my hand on the counter, he sped up, and my body slowly slumped down until my upper body was on the counter, my legs so weak I almost knelt. My son hugged my waist and lifted me up, thrusting into me hard. That time it lasted a long time. After he ejaculated, he told me he didn't want noodles anymore and that he could just cook instant noodles himself, and that I should hurry up and go to work. I was both angry and loving. When I got to the classroom, the students who were answering questions with their heads down all looked up at me. I was startled, thinking they seemed to know what I had just done, but after calming down, I realized that was impossible. Writing these words and recalling those things gives me a very exciting sense of satisfaction, and I'm wet again. --------- Actually, our relationship is just special. The way we do things is nothing special, just like everyone knows. What impressed me most was what was different from usual, like during the day. It was a Sunday afternoon. My son was watching TV on the sofa in the living room. I was doing housework, but for some reason, I suddenly felt a strong urge. However, he was glued to the TV and completely ignored me. I felt it would be inappropriate and unromantic to directly ask for it, so I took the mop and started mopping the floor. In the living room, he rubbed against the TV, even though the floor was already very clean and shiny. The house was hot; the heating company was providing ample warmth, and we were all dressed lightly. I was wearing tight shorts and a loose, short-sleeved shirt. I deliberately swayed my head towards him, thinking his gaze should shift from the TV to me. Sure enough, when I turned around, he got up and hugged me from behind, his hands reaching inside my clothes to grasp my breasts. Even though it was just my breasts being grasped, I felt warm, as if my whole body was enveloped. I felt his movements weren't enough; he started kneading them in his hands, and he immediately kneaded them faster. As he grasped and kneaded my nipples, his fingers also flicked at them. I felt a surge of heat and excitement coursing through my body, involuntarily twisting my hips to rub against his hardness. Our breathing quickened, and he practically dragged me into my bedroom. Because we were both scantily clad, he quickly stripped us naked. Then he made me lie face down on the bed with my buttocks raised—his favorite position. It was my favorite position, the most ordinary one, with me lying on my back and him on top of me. I felt this position had many advantages. It allowed me to clearly feel that my son belonged to me at that moment, we could make eye contact, and I could see his expression. Moreover, when I felt helpless with excitement, I could hold onto his body for a sense of belonging and security. However, neither my ex-husband nor my current son liked this position. My son preferred me lying face down behind him, grabbing my hips or breasts and moving around. He said he liked the visual impact of my buttocks, and that my breasts, when they sagged, could be filled with his hand. My son is an introverted but humorous person, but I can't stand his humor at times like that. Once, I did as he asked and stuck my butt out. He looked from behind and said, "Mom, your butt is sticking out so high it's practically reaching the clouds." This made me laugh so hard I was shaking. Even a withered flower branch can tremble. I felt like my sense of wonder vanished and my desire diminished considerably. But then he suddenly thrust in all the way in. I immediately stopped laughing, and the trembling in my body turned into a different kind of trembling—a trembling caused by the sudden and intense pleasure. Our preferred method is for me to kiss his penis. I like to suddenly take it all into my mouth and suck on it while it's still soft, feeling it grow bigger in my mouth until it's pressed tightly against my throat, only able to take in half. Even when it gets hard, the head is still very tender and has a great texture. My usual method is to lick it all over first, then hold the head and rotate my tongue around it. I can only take in about half, but my son always holds my head and tries to push it deeper. At this point, I easily gag and cough. Initially, I didn't swallow my saliva, so after a while, my mouth would be full of saliva and a little of his secretions. I would spit it out and continue kissing. Later, I started swallowing, but I still didn't swallow his semen. My son really enjoys oral sex, always looking down at me, moaning as if it's more satisfying than intercourse. We also like to call each other "Mom" and "Son" when we're about to climax. It's very exciting, probably because calling each other like this reinforces our mother-son relationship and makes the incestuous feeling stronger, even though we've never mentioned the word "incest."It's a bit far off, let's get back to that Sunday afternoon. After he penetrated me, he started to slowly thrust in and out. I initially braced myself on the bed with both hands, but my wrists got sore, so I leaned my shoulders against the bed, grabbed the pillow, and buried my head in it. The pleasure made me make sounds, but I didn't dare to be loud and had to suppress them. Suddenly, the fullness in my vagina disappeared, leaving an emptiness. I looked up and saw that my son had gone to the living room. He turned the TV volume up very loud, and then came back and continued thrusting inside me. I understood what he meant, and I could finally speak freely. I felt like I had never screamed so loudly, so unrestrainedly, even a little exaggeratedly. His speed increased, and his movements became rougher, which drove me a little crazy. This intense pleasure also made women easily tired, and my screams became hoarse. I couldn't take it so hard and reached orgasm. I couldn't maintain that position anymore, and my body sank downwards. I had told my son that if I continued thrusting after orgasm, my pleasure would decrease or even become very uncomfortable, so he stopped too. He turned my limp body over and then straddled my abdomen to masturbate, rubbing my breasts with his left hand. After a while, he sat up on my chest again. I watched as his hand gripped his penis and moved it back and forth rapidly. He would occasionally thrust forward, bringing his penis to my lips and rubbing it against mine. I stuck out my tongue, and he used his hand to move his penis around, teasing my tongue. He would also put the head into my mouth and stroke the back part. Then he would take it out, repeating this process. Gradually, the speed of his hand movements increased, and his breathing became more and more rapid. I knew he was about to ejaculate, so I turned my head to one side. I seemed to be afraid of the violent ejaculation, but he turned my head back and began to knead my face. He was now sitting on my shoulders and neck, and my arms were pinned under his legs, unable to move. Finally, after a long and deep groan, he ejaculated all over my face and lips. I kept my mouth tightly closed, not letting any of it go into my mouth. It was so hot that it felt like it could burn my face, but it cooled down very quickly. Actually, I didn't want my son to ejaculate on my face; it made me feel humiliated, like he didn't care about my dignity. But when I saw him quickly get off me, carefully wiping the semen from my face and lips with a tissue, looking at me with trepidation as if he'd done something wrong, I felt relieved. He still cared about my feelings; he was just overwhelmed by lust. I once told myself I was willing to give everything for my son, including my life and dignity—what did that matter? My only fear was that my son wouldn't love me or care about me. I didn't want him to have a girlfriend either; he's outstanding, and there are plenty of girls around him at school. I know I can't keep him like this for too long; he'll eventually settle down and leave me. The thought of him no longer belonging to me, of him making love with other women, fills me with sadness. I can only cherish what I have while I can. I asked his homeroom teacher if he had a girlfriend, and when I heard he didn't, I was relieved and told the teacher to keep a close eye on him and prevent him from dating too early. Who knows my selfish motives? I'm really selfish, but I truly love my son so much. I'd do anything as long as I hear him say he loves me. A few days ago, he had a fever. Fever reducers and anti-inflammatory drugs weren't working. I skipped my evening study session to take him to the hospital. My son said he could go by himself since the hospital wasn't far, but I worried about him lying there alone while he got an IV drip, and I couldn't leave him alone. The small hospital near our house was short-staffed at night, and their efficiency was terrible. We'd already bought the medicine, and we were still waiting on the hospital bed. Seeing my son so feverish and silent broke my heart. I wanted to yell at the doctors, but we couldn't even find anyone. I was scolded, but finally someone came and gave him the injection. My son has always been afraid of needles. I've always been by his side whenever he gets a shot, and I can never bear to watch the needle go in. After the injection, he said his stomach felt very uncomfortable, so I quickly went to ask the doctor. The doctor said the medicine was very irritating to the stomach and that eating something would help. I wanted to go out to buy some things, but my son wouldn't let me go and wanted me to stay with him. He's always so well-behaved and childlike when he's sick, like he's a child again, and he's very dependent on me. I told him I'd be back soon, and only then did he let me go. I bought him drinks, oranges, and cookies—all his favorites. Back in the ward, I washed my hands, peeled an orange, and fed it to him. The orange peel was very hard, and my nails hurt, but seeing my son's satisfied expression made me happy. After he finished eating, I talked to him, and he smiled a little. But I kept touching his forehead and his fever still hadn't gone down. After a while, he got sleepy, so I held his hand and sat down next to him. The IV drip was very slow and didn't finish until after nine o'clock. When we got home, he got into bed and started sweating. He wanted to lift the covers, but I quickly stopped him. Although it was hot in the room, we still had to listen to the doctor and keep him warm. He obediently stayed still, and I kept wiping his face and head covered in sweat. He said he wanted water, so I fed him spoonful by spoonful. After a while, he said he wanted rice porridge, his stomach seemed both hungry and full, so I made him some porridge, cooled it down to lukewarm, and then slowly fed it to him. He kept making various requests, and I thought maybe he was just too hot and irritable, so this was to ease his mind. Finally, he calmed down, looked at me intently, his eyes shining, and said something that moved me deeply: "Mom, I love you." Hearing this, I immediately burst into tears. He had never said he loved me before; this was the first time. Whether it was the love between a mother and son or the love between lovers, as long as he said he loved me, that was enough. I didn't sleep well all night, constantly checking to see if his fever had gone down, until his temperature returned to normal the next morning. When he woke up in the morning, I was looking into his eyes. He looked at me, blinked, and said, "Mom, I'm better," and then kissed my lips… That day, which had filled me with anxiety, also made me incredibly happy. I recalled an unpleasant experience before that. That time, there was no evening self-study session, and my son came to my office to wait for me to go home together. A young male teacher who usually liked to joke with me, the one who praised me as being like Angie Chiu, seemed to be under 30 years old. He made an inappropriate joke, which was quite subtle, but the gist of it was that he wanted to marry me and become my son's stepfather. I retorted, "Then show me the divorce papers you wrote to your wife before I'll be with you." As soon as I said that, I regretted that I shouldn't have said that. My son's face darkened. He didn't say anything, but I knew he was unhappy with the male teacher's joke and also unhappy with what I said. Sure enough, he was silent the whole way home. Even after we got home, he remained silent. When I asked him anything, he would just give me curt replies like "okay," "it's fine," or "no need." I was terrified, afraid my son would never speak to me again. I knew his anger would eventually subside, but the panic I felt at that moment was impossible to stop or hide. I ran to him and asked what he wanted to eat for dinner. He coldly replied that anything was fine. Disappointed, I went to the kitchen to cook his favorite dishes. He stood on the balcony next to the kitchen, looking out, seemingly lost in thought. I tried to make conversation, and at first he would answer with a word or two, but then he fell silent. I didn't dare ask anymore, and tears streamed down my face. I went behind him and hugged him tightly. I was terrified he would stop loving me and leave me. His cold attitude was causing me so much pain. I knew it was my fault today, not his, but if he didn't love me, I would lose all hope in life. He struggled a couple of times and then stopped. I kissed his back, then turned to face him and kissed his chest. I slowly kissed my way down, kissing his penis through his underwear. I was afraid he would push me away, so I was very careful. When he didn't react, I gently pulled down his underwear and took his penis inside. It always gets hard quickly, but this time it got hard very slowly, probably because my son was really angry and had no mood. I kissed and sucked his penis with all my might to please him. I even felt that I looked very lewd. Suddenly, he grabbed my head and started moving back and forth. He reacted, and I was so happy. He thrust in very deep, and I tried my best to hold back my cough. He pulled me up, made me bend over with my hands on the balcony windowsill, lifted my skirt—I still remember the long cotton skirt I was wearing that day—then took off my underwear and thrust inside me. I kissed his penis, which aroused me, and I became wet, so it went in smoothly all the way in. My legs immediately went weak. He lifted my skirt high, grabbed my breasts, and started kneading them. The building across the street could see us. So I told my son I'd go to the bedroom and put on a condom because it wasn't my safe period. He didn't say anything, just kept moving forcefully. I then said I'd turn off the kitchen light, but he still didn't answer, just thrusting even more violently, his hands applying more pressure, making me feel very uncomfortable. My moans turned from pleasure into pain. I told my son to be gentle, it hurt, but he ignored me. He pinched my nipples with his fingers and grabbed my breasts, kneading them vigorously. Breasts aren't like buttocks; when your buttocks are rubbed or even slapped, you don't feel much pain. But breasts are very delicate and can't withstand too much force. So I kept saying, "Son, be gentle," my tone almost pleading, but my body could only silently endure it. My son was venting his frustration on my body. He'd never been so rough before. He straightened up, grabbed my hips, and moved even more violently, starting to call out "Mommy" repeatedly. I was happy to hear that; I felt relieved, thinking he had forgiven me. I endured the pain and responded to him as gently as possible, "Son, son." Finally, he thrust hard and ejaculated inside me. I didn't care anymore; I'd take the birth control pill. My son...His semen was all released inside me. He lay on top of me and hugged me, and even though my legs were weak and limp, I tried my best to stand... I've posted this monologue before, on similar forums. I don't understand why I so desperately want to confide in someone, why I keep posting these things. Is something wrong with me? Why do I have to publicize something shameful? Maybe it's because I'm too repressed by the things I hide in reality, so I want to shout them out in a place where no one knows me. Those things have already been done, and there's no going back. I know I'm deliberately numbing myself and trying to forget. I don't dare to think about it, so I can only comfort myself with escape, numbness, and forgetting. Posting what I've written is a form of venting, a kind of consolation and commemoration, a memorial to the pure mother-son relationship that can never be returned. All those causes and consequences, all those past lives and present lives—was that my initial intention? Would a woman with a complete and happy life do that? The path is indeed one I forged myself, even if it was a winding one. But from which step did the winding begin? A path of no return is also a series of wrong turns, perhaps it was wrong from the start, but I was still powerless. This isn't an excuse for my actions; it's due to my and my son's inherent personalities. Both of our personalities have flaws, a severe mutual dependence, a desire to possess each other to the fullest extent. Initially, I certainly wanted to find another man; many people introduced me to potential partners. But no matter who it was, no matter how hard they tried to gain my son's approval, he never accepted them. His refusal meant I couldn't accept them either. So later, I resolved to remain single for ten years. How many decades in life can I afford to be lonely? From then on, my son and I relied on each other, both physically and emotionally. Personality determines destiny; perhaps this was destined in our lives. I've endured countless accusations. Some people said they could understand my actions, but in reality, no one could. Who has experienced over a decade of loneliness, both emotional and physical? Who has felt tormented by desire and morality when intimate with their beloved son? Who has imagined the immense psychological pressure they carried afterward? To think it was truly like in novels, where mother and son indulged in unrestrained sexual pleasure—can guilt really breed pleasure? Guilt will always be there. No matter how intense the pleasure of breaking taboos, it cannot mask the guilt. The world is supposed to be fair and balanced, isn't it? While giving us physical pleasure, it also burdens us with mental shackles. Even if the relationship ends, I will never be able to shake them off. Isn't that cruel? Even if it is cruel, it's still a balance, and I can't blame anyone. I remember first posting these words on a now-closed forum called xx (ps: due to forum rules, this is crossed out) entertainment forum. My username then was "From Confusion to Fate," but I am confused and resigned to fate. Many other incidents also occurred during this time, which I won't go into detail about here. At the time, all I heard was support, saying I was a great mother worthy of respect. This confused me. Could something like this really gain public approval so easily? Could society really be so accepting of incest between mother and son? And even if it were, would it be considered great or respectable? Later I understood: the people browsing those forums were people with a deep longing for their mothers, with a strong Oedipus complex, but unable to achieve it in reality. My outrageous behavior satisfied their fantasies, so naturally they supported me. At the time, I was truly numb, ignoring rational advice and being drowned out by the overwhelming support. I've said before that I'm a conflicted person, always conflicted, always hesitant and caught in a dilemma. How could I, at my age, not understand the principles of being a good person? But does simply understanding prevent mistakes? If so, there would be no such thing as knowingly committing a wrong. There are things I know are wrong, but my willpower can't resist the temptation, and I still do them. After tasting the sweetness of temptation, I'm also burdened with the pain of heavy guilt. But my weak will and supreme pleasure make it impossible for me to stop. I can't give up, so I can only escape, afraid to reflect on myself. Whenever my thoughts turn to this, I immediately force myself to think about other things to distract myself. I hide behind the internet, pouring my emotions into words, trying to comfort myself with the encouragement of others. But I didn't realize that those who encouraged me actually needed to be saved, just like me. I ignored the advice that was truly helpful to me, deliberately disregarding it, thinking that ignoring it would bury the fear deep in my heart. I know the fear is still there, I know this is self-deception, yet I continue to deceive myself. Who can save me? A person who has given up on self-redemption and chosen self-exile is probably beyond redemption. Sometimes I truly hate myself, so much. Why can I understand yet remain unrepentant? This is the most painful thing, like how a person with sensitive nerves feels pain most acutely when traumatized. So, it might as well be a life of blissful ignorance, only knowing the pleasures of mother and child. Sometimes I even think it would be better to be an animal; they have no moral constraints, no mental shackles. Who cares who is the mother and who is the son? They are all just tools for each other's sexual gratification. Such thoughts flash through my mind, followed by deep self-reproach. I actually want to give up being human, to abandon all human moral principles, to escape all human responsibilities. My thoughts are so chaotic, so very chaotic. I will always be a person tormented by contradictions; this is my destiny. Recounting those blush-inducing sex stories online is like reliving those moments that made me feel lost, intoxicated, and on the verge of life and death. Seeing others excited by my stories makes me excited too. Having my deepest secrets heard gives me a thrill, a feeling of my soul being pierced. On this level, I feel like exhibitionists. They enjoy showing off their bodies, and I enjoy revealing my innermost thoughts—those monologues that no one in the real world can confide in. Speaking them out feels like reliving those experiences, and that pleasure is equally addictive. I don't know what will be said about me this time. I think I'm numb precisely because I'm not numb, so every harsh accusation and insult pierces my heart. Perhaps you're all right, but please consider what I've been through. You're dealing with a woman with a tragic fate, and this isn't me wallowing in self-pity. So, thank you. [The End]Could the level of acceptance be that high? Besides, even if it were, it wouldn't be considered greatness or respect. Later I understood: the people browsing those forums were people with a deep longing for their mothers and a strong Oedipus complex, but unable to achieve it in reality. My unconventional behavior satisfied their fantasies, so naturally they supported me. At the time, I was truly numb, ignoring rational advice and being drowned out by the overwhelming voices of support. I've said before that I'm a conflicted person, always conflicted, hesitant and indecisive. At my age, how could I not understand the principles of being a good person? But does simply understanding prevent mistakes? If so, there would be no such thing as knowingly committing a wrong. Sometimes I know something is wrong, but my willpower can't resist the temptation, and I still do it. After tasting the sweetness of temptation, I also bear the heavy pain of guilt. But my weak will and supreme pleasure make it impossible for me to stop, impossible to give up, so I can only escape, afraid to reflect on myself. Whenever I think about this, I immediately force myself to think about other things to distract myself. I hid behind the internet, pouring my emotions into words, hoping to comfort myself with the encouragement of others. Little did I know that those who encouraged me also needed salvation. I ignored the truly helpful advice, deliberately disregarding it, thinking that ignoring it would bury the fear deep within my heart. Knowing the fear remained, knowing it was self-deception, I continued to deceive myself. Who could save me? Someone who has given up on self-redemption and chosen self-exile is probably beyond redemption. Sometimes I truly hate myself, so much so. Why can I understand yet remain unrepentant? This is the most painful thing, like a person with sensitive nerves experiencing the most intense pain after trauma. So, perhaps it would be better to live a life of blissful ignorance, only knowing the pleasures of mother and child. Sometimes I even think it would be better to be a beast; they have no moral constraints, no mental shackles. Who cares who is mother and who is son? They are all tools for each other's sexual gratification. Such thoughts flash by, followed by deep self-reproach. I actually wanted to give up being human, to abandon all human moral principles, to escape all human responsibility. My thoughts are a jumbled mess. I will always be a person suffering in contradiction; this is my destiny. Recounting my blush-inducing lovemaking experiences online feels like reliving those moments of ecstasy and suicidal intensity. Seeing others excited by my stories gives me a shared thrill. The pleasure of having my deepest secrets heard is like having my soul pierced. In this sense, I'm like exhibitionists; they enjoy displaying their bodies, and I enjoy revealing my innermost thoughts—monologues I can't share in the real world. Speaking them feels like reliving those experiences, and that same pleasure is captivating. I don't know what will be said about me this time. I want to be numb, but because I'm not numb, every harsh accusation and insult pierces my heart. Perhaps you're right, but please consider my past. You're dealing with a woman with a tragic fate, and this isn't self-pity. So, thank you. [The End]Could the level of acceptance be that high? Besides, even if it were, it wouldn't be considered greatness or respect. Later I understood: the people browsing those forums were people with a deep longing for their mothers and a strong Oedipus complex, but unable to achieve it in reality. My unconventional behavior satisfied their fantasies, so naturally they supported me. At the time, I was truly numb, ignoring rational advice and being drowned out by the overwhelming voices of support. I've said before that I'm a conflicted person, always conflicted, hesitant and indecisive. At my age, how could I not understand the principles of being a good person? But does simply understanding prevent mistakes? If so, there would be no such thing as knowingly committing a wrong. Sometimes I know something is wrong, but my willpower can't resist the temptation, and I still do it. After tasting the sweetness of temptation, I also bear the heavy pain of guilt. But my weak will and supreme pleasure make it impossible for me to stop, impossible to give up, so I can only escape, afraid to reflect on myself. Whenever I think about this, I immediately force myself to think about other things to distract myself. I hid behind the internet, pouring my emotions into words, hoping to comfort myself with the encouragement of others. Little did I know that those who encouraged me also needed salvation. I ignored the truly helpful advice, deliberately disregarding it, thinking that ignoring it would bury the fear deep within my heart. Knowing the fear remained, knowing it was self-deception, I continued to deceive myself. Who could save me? Someone who has given up on self-redemption and chosen self-exile is probably beyond redemption. Sometimes I truly hate myself, so much so. Why can I understand yet remain unrepentant? This is the most painful thing, like a person with sensitive nerves experiencing the most intense pain after trauma. So, perhaps it would be better to live a life of blissful ignorance, only knowing the pleasures of mother and child. Sometimes I even think it would be better to be a beast; they have no moral constraints, no mental shackles. Who cares who is mother and who is son? They are all tools for each other's sexual gratification. Such thoughts flash by, followed by deep self-reproach. I actually wanted to give up being human, to abandon all human moral principles, to escape all human responsibility. My thoughts are a jumbled mess. I will always be a person suffering in contradiction; this is my destiny. Recounting my blush-inducing lovemaking experiences online feels like reliving those moments of ecstasy and suicidal intensity. Seeing others excited by my stories gives me a shared thrill. The pleasure of having my deepest secrets heard is like having my soul pierced. In this sense, I'm like exhibitionists; they enjoy displaying their bodies, and I enjoy revealing my innermost thoughts—monologues I can't share in the real world. Speaking them feels like reliving those experiences, and that same pleasure is captivating. I don't know what will be said about me this time. I want to be numb, but because I'm not numb, every harsh accusation and insult pierces my heart. Perhaps you're right, but please consider my past. You're dealing with a woman with a tragic fate, and this isn't self-pity. So, thank you. [The End]

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A Talented and Beautiful Mother - Incest Novel

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