Three times a week, usually after homework was finished, in the dead of night.
Sometimes it was me, hesitantly knocking on her door; sometimes it was her, seeing my restless fidgeting, letting out a soft sigh, and taking the initiative to walk into my room.
The pattern became fixed. The initial panic and shame were gradually replaced by a bizarre "habit."
Yet, beneath this "habit," undercurrents never ceased to surge.
In those first few times, I still fell apart completely.
The moment my mother's unpracticed, cool hand first grasped me, the intense stimulation made my lower back go numb. I often couldn't last more than a few minutes before erupting messily into her hand, leaving her hand and clothes in disarray.
Each time, her face flushed, she would shoot me a reproachful glare, then hurriedly go to the bathroom to clean up.
But at some point, perhaps because my body adapted to this stimulation, or perhaps because subconsciously I wanted to prolong this wonderful moment, the time I could last grew longer and longer.
From a few minutes, to over ten minutes, until later, my mother needed to stroke continuously for nearly half an hour before I could reach the peak.
Her palm went from slightly cool to scalding hot, her delicate skin rubbing against me, the rhythm sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Her fingertips occasionally and unconsciously scraped over the most sensitive slit at the tip, sending shivers through me.
I could feel her strain.
Several times, she had to stop midway, gently shaking her sore wrist. Her fair face flushed with the exertion, breathing somewhat rapid, her full chest rising and falling with it.
Her eyes, always gentle and smiling, in these moments often glazed over with a haze of confusion, not daring to meet my gaze, staring fixedly at the "working" part as if it were the world's most complex and difficult problem.
One Friday night, it was "appointment" time again.
A light drizzle fell outside the window. Only a desk lamp was on in the room, the light dim and ambiguous.
Mother sat by my bed, having been moving continuously for over twenty minutes.
My breathing was heavy, fine sweat beading on my temples, yet there was still no sign of release.
Her wrist was clearly sore and weak, her movements slowing down, forced.
Fine beads of sweat also covered the tip of her nose and neck. The collar of her lavender nightgown was dampened by sweat in a small patch, the color darkening, clinging tightly to her skin.
"Mmm... Mom... almost there... a little... a little harder..."
I urged hoarsely, my hips uncontrollably thrusting upward, meeting the enclosure of her palm.
Mother bit her lip, trying to speed up a bit, but after a few strokes, her wrist went weak, the strength fading.
She stopped, breathing lightly, using her other hand to rub her sore right wrist. Her eyes showed a hint of helplessness and faint reproach, her voice carrying a slight pant from exertion and a barely perceptible coquettish tone: "You... why are you lasting longer and longer... my hand is so sore..."
It was at this moment, looking at her flushed cheeks, moist eyes, slightly parted lips, and that small, tired, dependent gesture of rubbing her wrist, that a bolder, more transgressive thought, like a venomous snake, suddenly burrowed into my mind and took root.
This thought had actually been growing over the past few weeks; I just hadn't dared to voice it.
But now, perhaps the sustained pleasure lowered my defenses, perhaps my mother's rare display of fatigue, almost like a pout, gave me an illusory courage.
I swallowed, my throat painfully dry.
I reached out, gently covering the hand she was using to rub her wrist, stopping her motion.
Mother was startled, raising her misty eyes to look at me, somewhat confused.
My heart pounded like thunder, my voice trembling violently with tension and desire, almost breaking into fragments:
"Mom... if your hand is sore... how about... changing the method?"
My hand still rested on the back of her hand rubbing her wrist; I could feel the subtle tremors beneath her skin.
Su Yuqing clearly froze for a moment, raising those misty eyes to look at me, her gaze filled with utter confusion and a hint of uncomprehending bewilderment: "...Change the method? What do you mean?"
Her direct question caught me off guard.
That impulse was already at my throat; there was no taking it back.
I swallowed a non-existent mouthful of saliva, my throat dry as sandpaper, my voice lowered to a whisper, trembling with a desperate resolve:
"Just... use... use your mouth... is that okay?"
The words startled even myself, let alone my mother.
"Mouth?!"
Su Yuqing's voice suddenly rose sharply, piercingly clear in the quiet rainy night.
She seemed scalded by those two words, abruptly trying to pull her hand back, her cheeks instantly flushing crimson, even her earlobes and neck tinged with a shameful rose-red.
It's over.
My heart sank, my mind buzzing, anticipating that the next second might bring a torrent of angry curses, even a slap.
I almost closed my eyes, ready to endure.
But... it didn't happen.
The expected fury did not descend.
Mother's hand, halfway withdrawn, stopped.
Her gaze, from my face, slowly, uncontrollably, shifted to the space between us—there, my penis still stood erect, veins coiling, the tip glistening wet from the sustained stimulation, appearing especially large and menacing under the dim desk lamp.
She just looked, eyes wide open, the shape of the object reflected in her pupils.
What made my heart race even more—her right hand, which had originally stopped, whether forgotten or due to some inertia or other ineffable reason, actually... slowly, somewhat stiffly, grasped it again, even unconsciously, very lightly, stroking up and down once.
That light rub sent a thrill through my scalp, but I gritted my teeth, holding back a moan.
Mother's breathing became rapid and heavy, her chest heaving violently.
She didn't scold me, didn't immediately refuse, just lowered her head, staring fixedly at the organ in her hand, belonging to her own son, her eyes struggling fiercely as if engaged in a silent, intense war.
There's a chance!
This realization shot through my body like an electric current, making my sunken heart beat wildly again, with a despicable, secret delight.
I seized the moment, softening my voice further, adopting the sticky, pleading tone of an eighteen-year-old boy deliberately whining, my fingers gently shaking her hand:
"Okay? Mom... please... I really just feel bad that your hand is sore, look, your wrist is red..."
I twisted the meaning, packaging the sordid desire as considerate concern.
"And... Mom, since you've been helping me, I've really improved a lot lately, I can focus in class, I don't daydream as much... just think of it... as continuing to help me release pressure, okay?"
I watched her expression, seeing the struggle in her eyes intensify.
I knew she was soft-hearted, knew that my recent changes were the result she was most pleased and willing to see.
On one side of the scale in her heart was her concern for me and the recognition of that twisted "therapeutic effect"; on the other side was the heavy shackles of morality and the taboo of ethics.
And another side, perhaps one she herself didn't dare examine closely, was the long-barren emptiness deep within her body, brought on by her husband's prolonged absence.
That emptiness was being constantly stirred by the young, vigorous, aggressive male symbol before her, emitting a craving moan that made her feel ashamed.
Time passed second by second, with only the sound of the drizzling rain outside and our heavy, interwoven breathing.
Mother's hand still moved unconsciously, slowly, her fingertips occasionally brushing over my sensitive tip, sending shivers through me.
Finally, as if using all her strength, she raised her head extremely slowly, her cheeks crimson as blood, shooting me a complex glare.
That look held shame and anger, helplessness, a compromise after struggle, and even a hint of... resigned reproach.
With annoyance, in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, she uttered a few words:
"...Just this once. Next time... don't even think about it."
"Okay! Okay! Just this once! Thank you, Mom! Mom is the best!"
I nodded repeatedly in wild joy, agreeing quickly, but a voice inside me crowed triumphantly: With the first time, who's afraid there won't be a second, a third?
Mother shot me another glare, soft and powerless.
She took a deep breath, as if about to dive into deep water, her gaze falling back onto the menacing object so close at hand.
At this close distance, the strong scent of my penis, mixed with sweat and male hormones, rushed straight into her nostrils.
It was a strange yet familiar smell that made her heart flutter and legs weak.
She saw that her son seemed to have swollen another size, the purplish-red glans standing proudly and angrily, a transparent sticky fluid seeping from the slit, stretching into a thin silvery thread.
She opened her mouth, then closed it, seeming at a loss, as if unsure how to proceed.
Her full breasts rose and fell with her nervous breathing, the collar of her lavender nightgown opening slightly, revealing a dazzling expanse of white flesh and deep shadow.
Finally, as if making her final decision, she closed her eyes, then slowly opened them.
Then, she slowly lowered her head, leaning toward that fiery source.
First, her warm hair, carrying the fresh scent of shampoo, brushed over my lower abdomen, bringing a tingling itch.
Then, I felt two exceptionally soft, slightly cool lips, trembling faintly, tentatively, gently pressing against my burning glans.
"Hiss—"
I sharply inhaled, a numbness shooting through my lower back. A pleasure ten, a hundred times more intense than with her hand instantly exploded, shooting up my spine to the crown of my head!
Heavens... Mom's mouth... how can it feel so good!
That soft touch, the warm enclosure, was completely different from the caress of her fingers—it was a more intimate, deeper, more maddening stimulation.
I looked down. Mother had her eyes closed, her thick eyelashes trembling violently like startled butterfly wings.
Her lips held the front part of my glans, then, seemingly unsure what to do next, she just held it stiffly, her warm mouth tightly enveloping my most sensitive part.
"Mom... move... back and forth... mmm... move your head..." I panted heavily, relying on vague memories from those videos, hoarsely instructing.
Mother, as if receiving an order, made a vague whimper in her throat, then actually began to try.
She moved her head back and forth, awkwardly, extremely slowly.
But, doing this for the first time, she had no skill whatsoever. During one backward movement, her teeth accidentally scraped against my sensitive shaft.
"Ah! That hurts!" I couldn't help crying out in pain, my body flinching.
Mother immediately stopped, looking up at me in panic, her lips still wet and shiny, her eyes like a frightened fawn.
"S-sorry... Mom didn't mean to..." she apologized hastily, her voice muffled.
"It's... it's okay." I endured the sting, more afraid she'd retreat, and quickly said, "Mom, you... open your mouth wider, don't... don't let your teeth touch..."
Mother obediently nodded. When she lowered her head again, she tried to open her mouth as wide as possible.
Her crimson lips stretched open, forming a tempting O shape, slowly swallowing more of me.
Glistening saliva uncontrollably overflowed from the corners of her mouth she couldn't close, stretching into long, thin silvery threads, dripping onto the floor with a faint "plop."
She began trying to take me in and out again. This time, she carefully avoided her teeth, using her soft lips and tongue to envelop me.
Though still awkward, the sensation of being completely enveloped—warm, wet, tight—already sent my soul flying to the heavens.
I leaned against the headboard, tilting my head back, breathing heavily, my fingers unconsciously threading into her loose, long hair, feeling its silky smoothness.
Soon, I was no longer satisfied with her slow rhythm.
My hips began to thrust upward involuntarily, matching her movements, seeking deeper penetration and faster stimulation.
"Mmm... yes... Mom... just like that... faster... a little faster..."
I urged hoarsely, my hand applying slight pressure, guiding her rhythm.
Mother seemed to gradually get a bit of a feel for it, or rather, was led by me, the speed of her movements slowly increasing.
In the quiet room, only the increasingly loud, blush-inducing "sucking" sounds, my heavy panting, and the suppressed, sob-like muffled groans from her nose remained.
Amid this extreme sensory storm, I suddenly noticed that Mother's other hand, her free left hand, had at some point quietly slipped beneath the hem of her own nightgown.
She was sitting sideways on the edge of the bed, the hem of her nightgown riding up, exposing most of her plump, snow-white thigh.
And her hand, in the shadowy space between that expanse of white and the root of her thigh, was moving rapidly, with small, urgent motions.
She was...
This discovery made my blood boil, and the pleasure skyrocketed exponentially.
But I had no time to dwell on it, because the intense premonition of ejaculation was already crashing over me like a tidal wave.
"Mom... Mom! I... I can't hold on... I'm going to come... quick... take it out!"
I cried out in a panic, my hands instinctively pushing against her head.
But Mom's movements paused for a moment.
She didn't pull away immediately. Instead... in that instant, her mouth sucked even more forcefully, her tongue brushing over my sensitive tip.
That was it!
"Ugh—!"
My mind went blank, my defenses utterly breached. My hips bucked violently upward, and jets of hot, thick semen erupted fiercely, shooting deep into the warm recesses of Mom's mouth!
"Mmph! Hngh...!"
Mom's body stiffened abruptly, a choked, muffled sob escaping her throat.
Her body trembled violently, and the hand beneath her skirt instantly sped up its movements, her fingertips digging deep into the soft flesh of her inner thigh.
I came copiously and urgently, wave after wave, lasting a good seven or eight seconds.
I could clearly feel the hot liquid surging into her throat, being swallowed down unconsciously, her Adam's apple bobbing up and down before my eyes.
Only after the final weak trickle had spilled out did I collapse, utterly spent, gasping for breath, my whole body slick with sweat.
It was then that Mom slowly, as if using the last of her strength, withdrew my now somewhat limp but still slick penis from her mouth.
A soft, wet *pop* sounded, startlingly clear in the silent room.
A few curly pubic hairs were stuck to the wet, reddened corner of her mouth.
She lifted her head. Her gaze was unfocused, veiled by a thick layer of moisture. The flush on her cheeks hadn't faded, her lips were red and swollen, slightly parted as she took small, panting breaths. A trace of milky-white fluid she hadn't swallowed remained at the corner of her mouth and on her chin, slowly trickling down the delicate line of her jaw.
She looked at me with that utterly ravished, licentious yet pitiful expression, her eyes vacant.
After a few seconds, she suddenly snapped back to reality, as if scalded by the sight before her. The color drained from her face instantly, then rushed back in a deep blush.
She flusteredly wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. Then, without a word, without even looking at me again, she scrambled off the bed like a startled rabbit, staggered out of my room, and even forgot to close the door.
I lay sprawled on the bed, listening to her hurried footsteps fade down the hallway, followed by the dull thud of a door being slammed shut.
The afterglow of my climax and extreme exhaustion enveloped me, but my mind was unusually clear, even exhilarated.
I lay there for quite a while before I could muster the strength to prop up my aching, weak body and pull up the pants that had slid to my ankles.
Just as I was about to get up and tidy up, my gaze inadvertently fell on the spot on the floor where Mom had been sitting.
There, on the ground, was a small, distinct patch of dampness, glinting faintly in the lamplight.
I froze for a moment, then slowly moved over, crouched down, and extended my index finger to cautiously touch it.
My fingertip met a slick, slightly sticky sensation.
I raised my finger to my nose and caught a faint, unique, sweetly musky scent belonging to a mature woman.
This is...
It hit me suddenly, and my heart began pounding wildly again.
It was Mom's love juices.
Her hand was under her skirt just now...
This discovery was like a shot of adrenaline, making my already restless thoughts even more active.
A feeling mixing pride, excitement, and bolder ambition swelled in my chest.
So Mom wasn't completely unaffected after all.
So her body was much more honest than her words.
Maybe... there really was a chance...
I suppressed my churning thoughts, knowing now wasn't the time for daydreaming.
The most crucial step was to soothe Mom, consolidate tonight's "achievement," and pave the way for the next opportunity.
I took several deep breaths to calm my appearance, then got up and quietly walked out of my room.
The door to the master bedroom was tightly shut, with no sound from within.
I walked to the door, hesitated for a moment, then raised my hand and knocked very lightly.
"Mom?"
Dead silence from inside.
"Mom... are you okay?" I lowered my voice, filling it with worry and remorse. "I'm sorry... I was... was I too much just now? Please don't be angry..."
Still no sound.
But I could sense someone was behind the door.
Leaning against the door panel, I spoke in my most sincere tone, softly, "Mom, thank you... I know I shouldn't have asked for that... you only did it for my own good... I'll definitely study hard from now on, so you won't worry..."
"You... stop talking."
Finally, Mom's voice came from behind the door, terribly hoarse and thick with a nasal tone.
"Go to sleep. It's very late."
"Mom, are you alright?" Hearing the strangeness in her voice, my heart tightened.
"...I'm fine. Just a bit tired."
She paused, her voice dropping lower. "What happened tonight... forget it. From now on... focus on your studies."
"Yeah, I know."
I agreed obediently, but my mind was thinking the exact opposite.
After another few seconds of silence, I heard the faint sound of footsteps inside, heading towards the bathroom.
Facing the closed door, I said softly but clearly:
"Goodnight, Mom."
There was no reply from within.
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