The First Morning
The brilliant sunlight began to dye the sky in vivid hues. The moment Mother caught sight of it, she snapped awake as if a switch had flipped—but would she have stirred so easily after the magistrate's brutal ravishment last night? I'm skeptical. No matter how upright and disciplined her daily life, that was just routine. So I took my time preparing her ablutions. I boiled several basins of water and gathered stacks of cloths for wiping her body.
Breakfast can wait. Let's wash her first. Even though dawn had broken, not a single guard lingered near the cell. Whether the magistrate had deliberately pulled them off or simply saw no need to watch, it was a boon for me. Killing my footsteps, I slipped inside. There lay Mother, still limp and sprawled.
Last night's violation would have been a shattering blow, even for her. “Hngh…” A faint, fragile whimper escaped her lips. I ducked out of sight. Freshly roused, she struggled to rise, her body stiff from the night's ordeal. For a dazed moment, she stared blankly, as if clueless why she was here—then wrinkled her nose with a sharp sniff, like she'd caught a foul, fishy reek.
Her hand twitched toward her face instinctively, only to realize it was bound. Reality crashed in. “Ah…” It was so unlike Mother, who always preached against haste lest one botch things, yet here she was, frantically gauging the sun's height. “Already this late…!”
As if sensing I'd burst in any second, she glanced down at herself in panic. Her disheveled robes—torn open by the magistrate—revealed glimpses of intimate flesh here and there. Worst was the semen stench wafting from her face. Even from afar, I could see the crusted flakes clinging like filth, dried overnight.
“Wh-what should I do…” Hands bound, she couldn't wipe it herself—a desperate bind. She scanned the cell wildly, found nothing suitable, and blanched bone-white. Meaning she'd have to face her son like this. “No, I can't. Not that…!”
In a frenzy to erase the humiliation, she ground her face into the straw bedding. Futile, of course. Time to go in. Left alone, she'd scourge her skin raw. So I deliberately stomped, arms laden with my preparations, and entered.
“…!!!” She jolted upright, horrified, posture ramrod straight in a flash. Too ashamed to face me, she kept her back turned, head bowed deep, hair veiling the shameful crusts.
“Mother. Did you rest well through the night?” Playing the dutiful son oblivious to all, I offered morning greetings and stepped into the cell.
“Y-yes. Y-you came quickly.” Her voice quavered, but I feigned ignorance and pressed on. “You told me yesterday to come leisurely, so I arrived later than usual. Yet how could I slumber easy while you suffer in this cell?”
“Wh-what hardship? Just sitting here—go home and fetch water for your mother to wash…? Oh, you've already brought it…”
“Yes. Thinking of you alone here all night tore at my heart, so I prepared warm water.” She'd meant to shoo me off to boil water, but my full readiness crushed that hope—I felt her despair.
“Mother? Why do you keep your back to me?” Though set for her toilet, I called out her oddity. She flinched like a blade's prick, trembling, at a loss.
“Mother?” At my second call, Jeong Hyang bit her lip hard, forcing down her turmoil. How, how to escape this… She agonized inwardly, but no answer came. Resigned, she stayed turned, head low.
How will she play this? I feigned shock at her rumpled attire. “Mother? Y-your clothes, how…?”
Bound hands couldn't have loosened her jacket ties, and the faint whiskey whiff screamed something had happened—even a dullard would sense it.
“I-I tossed all night! That's how it got like this.”
“……”
She spat a laughable excuse, desperate. So that's your angle? Curious how she'd spin it once she showed her cum-crusted face, I played along. “I-is that so? Being bound must have made rest uneasy.”
Reading her desperation, I acted the son turning blind eye, soaking a cloth in hot water. “Well then, Mother, let's wash your face first. With your head down like that, I can't reach.”
“……” She fell silent, as if the inevitable had arrived, then slowly lifted her head.
Through her tousled raven hair, her face emerged: defiled by the night's fluids and semen, crusted and pathetic, misery plastered thick. “…!”
I gaped wordlessly in feigned horror. Her weary eyes hardened with resolve. Jeong Hyang, if you're truly a mother, you can't yield like this. Facing her stunned son's gaze snapped strength back into her—maternal instinct, defiance forged against life's storms. A child is ever a babe in parents' eyes, no matter the age. Seeing the fruit of her womb in pain steels any parent, ailments be damned.
“It's s-sweat!” The absurd lie burst out unbidden. I nearly yelped at my own gall but doubled down shamelessly. “The magistrate— that beast who devoured…! No, he held your mother in high regard and had them stoke the fire too hot overnight. Th-that's why I sweated so much.”
She'd nearly cursed her ravisher, then patched the slip clumsily. Desperate, narrow-minded—the best her panic could muster. Do you really think I'd buy that?
Her swollen lips from forced sucking and licking, the blatant non-sweat fluids caked on her face, disheveled garb, lingering booze—shameful proofs that would sober any man. Yet her pleading face stirred a urge to play along. Let's pretend just for today. That promised more fun. The magistrate would sense our twisted bond and ravish her fiercer; tomorrow's despair would hit harder. I craved that final mask of hopelessness when hiding failed.
I sealed my lips straight, feigning torment in heavy silence. A year-like second stretched between us.
“Mother.” My low voice made her lips tremble, awaiting judgment.
“Mother, you couldn't sleep soundly. Your face looks so weary. This filthy, dank cell—how could your fair features endure unscathed?”
Climbing aboard her lie lit her face with fleeting joy, then deeper despair: guilt for a one-day deception, dread of horrors ahead. I brought the steaming, dripping cloth to her face. She flinched! “St-stop…! I'll wash myself, so you just…” No way she'd let her son wipe another man's—her ravisher's—leavings. She cried out desperately.
“Mother.” At my solemn call, she halted mid-lunge toward the basin.
“……” I simply stared, wordless—a gaze worth a thousand lectures.
“Mother. How far will you brand me an unfilial wretch?”
“……” Unfilial? Never—her deep devotion was the poison here. This humiliation outstripped even the magistrate's assaults. But that was my joy. Curse the heavens that cloaked a beast like me in a son's skin.
She squeezed her eyes shut like one surrendered, straightening. Her pitiful state sharpened into focus: semen trails stark at her mouth, whiskey rising from her cleavage—traces screaming her night's ordeal, laid bare before her son.
“Tell me if it's too hot.” With that, I pressed the hot, wet cloth to her face.
At my touch, her mouth clamped tight, stifling a sob. I wiped her lovely features meticulously, tenderly. Up close like this, she's stunning. Her mature beauty, rushing toward forty yet unbelievingly ripe, held the peak allure of women this age.
Not a strand of straw-tangled hair escaped; soon she was her prim self again.
“Hoo…” As my hand withdrew, she exhaled softly, as if surfacing from held breath.
“Now, Mother, let's clean your body. So much sweat—you must feel sticky.”
“Wh-what?!” Fresh from sighing off her emotions, she popped her eyes wide in horror.
“Mother. As I said yesterday, I'm here to tend you. The false charge will clear someday, but who knows when?”
“Th-that's absurd! H-how could you… how…!”
“The magistrate stressed: tend as you will, but never release the bonds.”
She quaked at his cunning trap. No unbinding meant her son must wipe her body. Meaning tonight's shameful traces, too, by filial hands.