My name is Lin An, and I just started my senior year of high school this year.
My dad is named Lin Jianguo. He's forty-five and a senior executive at a company in Qingyuan City.
He's always busy, spending at least two or three weeks out of every month on business trips.
Even when he's home, he always shuts himself in his study, facing his computer and documents, his brow tightly furrowed.
My dad is about 1.75 meters tall, of average build. Years of desk work have left his short hair somewhat sparse, even revealing his scalp in places.
His facial features are sharp, but his eyes always carry a lingering weariness.
He's very strict with me, doesn't talk much. When he occasionally asks about my studies, it's always the same line: "Work hard, get into a good university."
It seems like he pours all his energy and passion into his work. For this family, it's more a silent sense of duty than warm affection.
This means I spend a lot of time with my mom.
My mom is named Su Yuqing. She's forty-two and runs a small flower shop on a quiet street not far from our home.
She and my dad are practically opposites.
She has a gentle personality, always smiling at everyone. She's warm and attentive when running the flower shop, and the neighbors and regular customers all like her very much.
She takes extremely good care of me—reminding me to wear more when it's cold, ensuring I eat nutritious food, keeping track of my studies—almost nothing escapes her notice.
But I can sense that sometimes she'll just stare out the window by herself, a flicker of loneliness passing through her eyes.
Especially after Dad drags his suitcase out the door again, that faint, elusive melancholy seems to settle over her like a thin mist, though she quickly dispels it with her cheerful smile.
Deep in my heart, I've always harbored a secret I can't tell anyone—I think my mom is exceptionally beautiful, more beautiful than any girl my age I've ever seen, even more beautiful than celebrities on TV.
This thought makes me feel ashamed, yet I can't control it.
I often can't help but steal glances at her figure, then late at night, in the quiet, fantasize about doing things with her that shouldn't happen.
My mom has very fair skin, as smooth and delicate as fine porcelain.
Long, straight hair falls over her shoulders, accentuating her delicate oval face.
She has large eyes that look very sweet when she smiles. She likes to wear simple dresses and has maintained her figure very well.
She's about 1.65 meters tall and weighs around 110 pounds, but the weight is distributed perfectly, forming the kind of heart-racing, full curves that only a mature woman possesses.
Her chest is extremely full, an impressive E-cup, plump and perky. But after all, she's forty-two, so there's a natural, just-right plumpness to their curve. They tremble slightly when she walks.
The neckline of her dresses sometimes faintly reveals a deep cleavage, like a hidden valley, drawing my gaze involuntarily into its depths.
Her waist, however, is incredibly slender, truly describable as "a handful," as soft and supple as a water snake.
Her lower abdomen is a bit soft, with a slight paunch, but it's not cumbersome. Instead, it adds a touch of mature charm.
But what I truly can't tear my eyes away from is her buttocks.
They have the shape of a truly ripe peach—full, round, and pert.
When she wears tight pants or a wrap-style skirt, that perfect curve is clearly outlined. When she walks, waves of motion ripple through her buttocks, filled with a deadly allure.
Her legs are long and straight, her calves well-proportioned, her thighs full and fleshy. Beneath her fair skin, you can almost see the faint blue-green traces of veins. Overall, she exudes a kind of fleshly tension that makes your mouth go dry.
Her figure isn't the thin, slender type of a young girl, but a completely mature, full, juicy plumpness. For a boy my age, it's simply an irresistible impact.
After entering my senior year, the pressure of studying suddenly increased a lot.
The classmates around me are all pushing themselves desperately, with test papers and exercise books piled up like mountains.
My grades are only average. It's not because I'm stupid; I know where the problem lies. I often can't concentrate.
While the teacher is analyzing difficult math problems on the podium, my mind is filled with images of my mom—thinking about her full chest trembling slightly as she walks, and those soul-stealing ripples of her buttocks.
I know this is wrong, but I can't control it.
Mom often worries about my grades too, gently asking from time to time if I've encountered any difficulties.
Seeing the concern in her eyes fills me with guilt, but how could I possibly tell her the real reason?
That night, I finally finished the mountain of homework. The clock on the wall already pointed past eleven.
I pricked up my ears and listened outside. It was completely silent, only the occasional chirping of insects from outside the window.
I thought Mom must have already gone to sleep.
So, I gently closed my door, then sat back down at my computer, somewhat impatiently opening that website I often secretly visited.
My heart was full of guilty thoughts, and I tried to move as quietly as possible.
I didn't turn on the light. Only the light from the computer screen flickered on my face.
I glanced guiltily at the door, feeling uneasy. I thought to myself, it's safe.
Then, I skillfully entered keywords and found a film about mother-son incest.
The plot was roughly about a Japanese program finding a mother and son having an affair at home, agreeing that as long as the father didn't find out, they'd get ten thousand yen for every time he ejaculated.
The plot was absurd, but it was stimulating.
The video started playing. My right hand controlled the mouse, quickly dragging the progress bar, skipping the boring foreplay, searching for the directly stimulating scenes.
My left hand had already grabbed a few tissues, pulled my pants down to my knees, wrapped them around my already rock-hard penis, and started stroking quickly.
On the computer screen, the male and female leads were entangled, making blushing sounds.
But in my eyes, the woman's face gradually transformed into my mom, Su Yuqing's, face, wearing a coquettish and wanton expression I had never seen before.
My breathing grew more and more rapid. My eyes were fixed on the screen, but my mind was filled with images of Mom—the perfect shape of her buttocks outlined by her skirt when she bent over to arrange flowers; that expanse of snowy white and deep valley revealed from her neckline when she leaned over to hand me milk; the trembling waves of her breasts and the rippling motion of her buttocks when she walked around the house in her nightgown.
"Mom... Mom..."
I moaned softly, unconsciously, completely immersed in my own filthy fantasy. I didn't notice at all that my bedroom door wasn't completely closed. It had quietly slid open a crack.
And at that very moment, outside the door, Mom, Su Yuqing, was standing there, holding a cup of warm milk.
She had originally seen the light still on in my room and wanted to bring me some milk, urging me to sleep early.
But through that crack in the door, she saw me in my most unsightly state—the stimulating images on the screen, my pants down to my knees, my left hand moving vigorously, and the suppressed, longing cries of "Mom" from my mouth.
Her feet seemed nailed to the spot, motionless.
Her eyes were wide open, her face filled with shock, panic, and a trace of... an indescribable, complex emotion of disbelief.
Her body was frozen, as if under a spell.
Mom hadn't had sex in a long time.
Dad's frequent business trips had almost made her forget what it felt like to be held by a man.
Yet now, watching her own son in his room, watching incest-themed pornography, calling out "Mom" while masturbating... this intense visual and psychological impact left her mind blank.
She felt her heart beating wildly. A surge of heat, uncontrollable, rushed from her lower abdomen down to her private parts. Her intimate area actually began to moisten, secreting long-forgotten arousal fluids.
This feeling filled her with overwhelming shame.
She watched for a few more seconds, which felt like an eternity.
Finally, her remaining rationality snapped her back to reality. Her cheeks instantly became burning hot.
She didn't dare stay any longer. Like she was fleeing, she turned and left in a flustered, tiptoeing manner.
She even forgot her original intention of bringing me the milk.
The next morning, I was woken up by the alarm clock as usual.
After washing up and going to the dining room, I found the dining table empty. There was no steaming breakfast laid out as usual.
"Mom?"
I called out. The house was quiet, with no response.
I thought she was probably just too tired. It was good to let her sleep a bit more.
Taking care of this family, taking care of me, is indeed quite tiring for her.
I didn't know that Mom had suffered from insomnia last night.
As soon as she closed her eyes, she saw me sitting at the computer, pants down, face full of obsession, stroking my lower body, calling out her name.
This image played on a loop in her mind until she finally fell into a fitful sleep in the early hours of the morning.
I walked to her bedroom door and gently pushed it open.
Mom was still sound asleep, the covers pulled up to her stomach, wearing a beige silk spaghetti-strap nightgown.
The material of the nightgown was very soft, clinging to and outlining the soft contours of her body.
The chest of the gown was cut very low, revealing a large expanse of fair, smooth skin. That deep cleavage looked especially tempting in the morning light.
Somehow, the hem of the nightgown had ridden up to her stomach, revealing the black lace panties she was wearing. That small piece of fabric couldn't possibly contain her full private area; instead, it added to the temptation.
My gaze involuntarily lingered on her body, from that exposed chest to her slender waist, to the edge of the black lace and her smooth thighs revealed by the raised hem of the nightgown.
I subconsciously swallowed hard, feeling the stirrings of an erection in my crotch.
I quickly averted my eyes, quietly backed out, and gently closed the door.
I didn't dare look any longer, afraid I wouldn't be able to control myself.
Since Mom hadn't made breakfast, I had to grab something to eat on the way to school.
When I got to the classroom, my deskmate Liu Hao, as usual, excitedly boasted to me about how he got a pentakill with Yasuo in League of Legends last night.
But I had no mind to listen.
My head was completely filled with the images from the morning: Mom's defenseless appearance in her sleep, the smooth sheen of the silk nightgown against her skin, that expanse of snowy white on her chest, and the full outline contained by the black panties.
I mumbled vague responses. I was distracted all morning.
The teacher's lecture went in one ear and out the other. Even when the teacher called on me to answer a question, it was Liu Hao whispering the answer to me that got me through.
During break, Liu Hao leaned over and asked, "Lin An, what's wrong with you? You're so distracted. What did you do last night?"
I had to brush it off: "Nothing, just didn't sleep well last night."
After school, I returned home.
Mom wasn't back yet. She was probably still busy at the flower shop.
I put down my backpack, looked around the overly quiet house, then silently walked into my room, ready to start on my homework.
It was almost seven in the evening when I finally heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.
Mom was back, carrying roast goose and a few marinated dishes bought from the deli at the entrance of our residential complex.
Her face wore an apologetic expression. Seeing me sitting on the living room sofa, she immediately said softly, "An'an, you're back? I'm so sorry, Mom overslept today and didn't even make you breakfast."
I quickly stood up and walked over, wanting to take the things from her hands: "It's okay, Mom. You work hard taking care of me. Sleep a bit more, get some proper rest."
She gently avoided my hand and headed straight for the kitchen: "You go study. Mom will make dinner right away. It'll be ready soon."
I noticed her eyes were somewhat evasive, as if she didn't quite dare meet my gaze. Also, today she was wearing a beige high-neck sweater, a housecoat over it, and loose casual pants on the bottom—bundling herself up tightly. This was completely different from the fitted dresses or comfortable but slightly clingy house clothes she usually wore at home.
Mom's actions were indeed quick. Before long, the dining table was set with the reheated roast goose, marinated dishes, a plate of stir-fried broccoli, and a bowl of seaweed egg drop soup.
The aroma of the food filled the air, but it inexplicably made me feel an indescribable sense of oppression.
"Time to eat, An'an," Mom called to me.
We sat facing each other and silently began to eat. Only the faint sounds of bowls and chopsticks clinking could be heard at the table.
After a while, Mom, as if trying hard to find a topic, asked, "Lately... how are your studies? Is the pressure in senior year especially heavy?"
My mind wasn't on studying at all.
My attention was completely captured by Mom. Even though she was dressed more conservatively than usual, the high-neck sweater still outlined the full contours of her chest. Her body leaning slightly forward when picking up food, the few strands of hair falling down when she lowered her head to eat... all acted like magnets drawing my gaze.
I kept my head down, shoveling food into my mouth, mumbling vague responses: "Mhm... okay... same as usual..."
Mom clearly noticed my absent-mindedness and flustered state. She paused for a moment, didn't press further, just sighed softly and said, "Eat slowly, don't choke," then fell silent.
This meal was eaten in an unusually heavy silence, the air thick with a tacit, awkward understanding.
I could feel Mom consciously maintaining distance. This sense of distance left me feeling both disappointed and agitated by an indescribable restlessness.
In the days that followed, this subtle atmosphere persisted.
Mom was still extremely caring towards me, but that care now carried a deliberate sense of boundaries.
Her attire at home became increasingly conservative, almost never wearing anything that could reveal her figure anymore. Even her nightgowns were swapped for long-sleeved, long-pants styles.
When she spoke to me, her gaze was always evasive, carefully avoiding direct eye contact.
Yet, the more she acted this way, the more restless the beast inside me grew.
In class, in textbooks, in dreams—her image was everywhere: the curve of her hips when she bent over, the glimpse of fair skin at her chest, that faint, pleasant scent of laundry detergent mixed with floral fragrance on her.
That forbidden thought grew like a rampant vine, tightly entwining my heart, making it hard to breathe.
Guilt, shame, longing, impulse... all these emotions intertwined, almost tearing me apart.
I knew this was wrong, incorrect, against morality.
But I couldn't control myself. That impulse to get closer to her, touch her, release the surging pressure and desire within me ultimately overwhelmed all reason.
Finally, on a seemingly ordinary evening, after dinner, Mom was in the kitchen tidying up the dishes.
Summoning the greatest courage of my life, I walked to the kitchen doorway. My voice was dry and trembling from nervousness: "Mom... tonight... can you come to my room? I... have something I want to say to you."
Mom's hands, washing dishes, froze. The water continued to run loudly.
Her back was to me; I couldn't see her expression, but I could feel her body stiffen for an instant.
Several seconds passed before she turned off the faucet and turned around. She forced a seemingly natural smile on her face, but the panic in her eyes wasn't fully concealed: "Okay, An'an. It's been a long time since you've had a good chat with Mom. Wait for Mom to finish cleaning up and take a shower, then I'll come over. You finish your homework first."
"Mm."
I responded softly, almost fleeing back to my room.
The waiting time became unbearably long. I sat in the chair at my desk, my heart pounding like a drum, "thump-thump-thump," almost bursting out of my chest.
My palms were sweaty, my mind a chaotic mess. One moment I wondered if Mom would come, the next how I should start when she arrived, and the next I felt immense shame and fear for my own thoughts.
Various terrifying consequences and Mom's possible reactions churned in my mind. Several times I even wanted to rush out and tell Mom not to come, to pretend nothing had been said.
But in the end, I remained stiffly seated there, awaiting the arrival of the judgment.
"Click."
A soft sound. The door was pushed open.
---------------
Thank you everyone for reading and if you enjoy this story then please leave a comment.