A story with my son on a spring night

A cramped, confined space.
A dim, ambiguous light fills the room from head to toe.
Curves and shadows.
Fingers entwined and separated.
Strands of hair playfully bitten at the corners of the lips.
Eyes weakly open, closed with a faint, sweet anticipation, a hint of painful anxiety.
Lover, sweetheart, family?
Who are you?
Why are you kneeling at my feet?
Your hair rubs against the hard skin of my kneecaps, until that hardness softens.
Your hands embrace a pair of unsteady, trembling legs—are you giving strength or drawing strength?
You look up.
Innocent eyes.
Gentle expression.
Are you waiting for me to capture you or for me to submit?
In the cold, dimly lit room, I dare not let you hold me like this, for my legs would refuse without hesitation.
In the cramped bathroom, cornered by you, scrutinized by the cold light, my heart is churning with conflicting emotions. For a moment, your embrace, your kneeling embrace, evokes tenderness and affection.
My chest heaves.
I long for your hands to invade more…
Your lips, your moist lips, your soft lips, why do they fall upon the defenseless inner thighs? The skin there is so delicate and tender, how can it withstand your warm breath, and the sweetness it carries? How can it withstand the intrusion of kinship and love intertwined?
I run my hands through your short, black hair, the ends like fallen awns of wheat, rising and falling layer by layer between my fingers. I want to grab your hair, to save my fallen soul, but I can't grasp it. It seems I am slowly tolerating your exploration.
I stand in the cramped space, leaning against the washbasin, the cold surface licking my back. My head is tilted back, a powerless, desperate tilt, my hair hanging loosely. I weakly open my eyes—and see my flushed cheeks blooming in the mirror, a decadent vibrancy.
I long for you to stand up, to hold me tight, to keep me balanced, to give me something to lean on, to hold my wildly beating heart firmly in your embrace, to offer profound comfort from body to soul… In moments of passion,
you sometimes bury yourself deep within, sometimes peek out, questioning my vulnerability.
Finally, unable to bear the emptiness in my heart, I take your hand, letting you face me at absolute height, embrace me, engulf me.
I hold your moist lips tightly, unwilling to let go for a moment.
My waist is pressed against your body, my head still tilted back, your strength always so compelling that I cannot resist…
I fear most your breath on my ear, most fear your teeth gently biting my earlobe, most fear your lips roughly rubbing back and forth on my neck, all my intoxication is to be given to you in that moment… Do whatever you want, I will give you everything you desire.
Yes. I will give you everything you desire.
After a moment of confusion, enchanting flowers bloomed in this cramped space, flowers destined to blossom in a larger space… Then, you swept me up in your arms, and my weight vanished. I knew this illusory body would forever float in the sky you gave me.
Your urgent, soothing, thunderous yet gentle, long yet short, warm yet icy giving, your unreasonable invasion, your profound exploration, your complete surge… how could I not warm you? Soothe you? Release you?
Your several bursts of essence filled the crevices of my body, drowning my desires. That was your love, your courage, your return—how could I not embrace you? You're sweating, aren't you? In this slightly chilly spring night.
Your sweat clung to my hair, infinitely intimately inseparable.
Your face finally pressed against mine, the slippery contact slowly cooling. We both began to awaken, opening our eyes. I felt you, carrying me gently down from the top of the clouds. I saw the ceiling, the flat, four-cornered room, the bed beneath me, lying securely on the floor. You, limp on top of me, utterly powerless. All of this confirmed I hadn't stepped out of a dream. Everything, including the bedside lamp, switched off and reduced to a single, faint light, undeniably confirmed I was here, my soul hadn't drifted away.
I stroked your short hair, my fingers enjoying its smoothness, its coolness, its slight firmness. Then I watched it slowly flatten or slip away, the process of going from possession to loss so beautiful and gentle, warmer than quicksand in my hands—yes, a warm loss…
Many people can't experience the thrill and freedom of touching boundaries, but I love this process. It's completely different from when I was initially filled by you until you limply leaned against me.
This is a detailed recollection in the darkness of night; you don't want to leave me, and I don't want to leave you. I even wonder, if it weren't just the two of us in the room, and your father were there too, how would this scene have ended?! A romantic spring night's story leaves its mark here.

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A story with my son on a spring night

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