God
Lin Xiulan finishes washing the dishes, dries her hands, removes her apron, and slowly walks to the living room.
She doesn't sit right away. Instead, she stands by the window, gazing at the shadows of people coming and going in the neighborhood outside.
The autumn sunlight is thin and cold, illuminating her face but failing to pierce the churning dark tides in her heart.
Suddenly, she recalls a book she read in her youth—Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Back then, she only flipped through it casually, finding the sentences wild and obscure, like thunder crashing against glass.
But now, those sentences reignite in her mind, one after another, echoing relentlessly.
"God is dead." She murmurs to herself, her lips twitching slightly.
If God is truly dead, what of the shackles of morality? What power remains in those iron chains forged from blood ties, from labels like "mother" and "son"?
She turns, leaning back against the windowsill, arms crossed over her chest as if debating herself.
From Schopenhauer's view, life is nothing but the blind impulse of the will. Desire is the essence; reason, merely its slave in illusion.
Her union with Li Ran—isn't it the raw, unstoppable eruption of that primal life force?
The taboo of blood ties is just a phantom woven by society for self-preservation.
Strip away the illusion, and what's left are two bodies, two wills, devouring and affirming each other on the most naked level.
She closes her eyes, and last night's scene floods her mind: her son buried deep inside her, thrusting to the hilt again and again, as if tearing her apart and filling her completely.
In that moment, she felt no sin—only an ultimate affirmation: of life, of desire, of herself as a woman.
What would Nietzsche say? "Become who you are." The test of eternal recurrence: if this life must repeat infinitely, would she embrace it all again?
She asks herself: If time rewound, if she could live once more, would she sneak a sniff of her son's underwear while he slept?
Would she fist herself with his little hand again?
Would she kneel in the classroom once more, taking his cock in her mouth, swallowing his cum?
The answer is yes.
And not just once.
She'd repeat it a thousand times, ten thousand.
Because it's not depravity—it's her truest self blooming.
The label of incest is mere moral opium for the weak.
The strong—those who dare face life head-on—shatter the label, trample it underfoot, and embrace the all-consuming passion in raw nudity.
From an existentialist lens, Sartre would say: Man is thrown into the world, condemned to be free, to choose his own essence.
She chose to be her biological son's woman, his whore, his cum receptacle.
Not forced, not a passive instinct—her deliberate, lucid, cruel act of self-creation.
In that instant, she told herself: "Yes, this is me. No regrets. No forgiveness sought. This is who I am."
She pushes further, invoking Foucault's power: the incest taboo itself is a product of power discourse, a disciplinary mechanism to control bodies, reproduction, lineages.
Her bond with Li Ran is the ultimate rebellion against it—not furtive, but brazen, trampling it with their bodies, mocking it, dismantling it.
She lets out a soft laugh, low but laced with liberating pleasure.
"Ranran... Mom's not crazy. Mom's just... finally living like a human."
Lin Xiulan steps away from the window, her feet light as if treading clouds.
She doesn't return to the master bedroom. Instead, she turns into Li Ran's room—that nineteen-square-meter space, sheets still fresh from her hands last night, scented with sun and faint laundry powder.
Now, another scent lingers: her son's musk, blended into a unique "forbidden" aroma only she can discern.
She shuts the door and locks it, slowly, giving herself time to brew.
Then she stands by the bed, staring down at the single mattress.
On the nightstand sits Li Ran's T-shirt from last night, tossed carelessly. She picks it up, presses it to her face, inhales deeply.
The cotton holds his warmth, his sweat, his male hormones.
The scent jolts like electricity straight to her core.
Eyes closed, she resumes the thoughts cut short at the window.
Incest brings her not post-fall emptiness, but unprecedented, pure bliss.
That bliss stems from total bare exposure.
No condom, no barriers—just his bare cock plunging into her softest, most secret depths.
Skin grinding skin, heat merging heat, cum crashing against womb— no rubber, no distance, no artificial divide.
It's biology's primal fusion, like rivers raging together without dams, eroding all societal lines.
Each thrust to the hilt sends the head shuddering against her cervix; each creampie lets her feel the hot waves battering her walls, branding her forever.
That sensation of complete possession makes her feel truly whole—not wife, not mother, but a body defined purely by desire.
Even more thrilling: this union bears the mark of "sin," yet grants unparalleled freedom.
The more she knows it's taboo, the more she knows her husband listens and watches from the door—the more aroused she grows.
Guilt acts like the fiercest aphrodisiac, amplifying her senses tenfold: nipples harder, clit more swollen, walls wetter, womb greedily clenching to suck every drop from her son.
"Mom... is just a filthy whore..." she whispers, voice tinged with laughter. "But Mom's happy... Mom's finally happy..."
With that, she tosses the T-shirt onto the bed, hands trembling as she unties her lounge pants.
They slide to her ankles; she kicks them off. Her panties' crotch is soaked, sticky strands pulling long silver threads.
She doesn't remove them. Instead, she sits on the bed's edge, legs splayed wide, hugging Li Ran's pillow to her chest, burying her face in it.
The pillowcase carries his hair scent, his saliva. She inhales deeply while slipping a hand into her panties, fingertip pressing her clit, rubbing fast.
"Ranran... Mom misses you... misses you fucking Mom raw... creampieing Mom... filling Mom's womb..."
Her fingers slide into her hole, still slick with this morning's cum, thick and warm.
She digs out the remnants with two fingers, smears them on her nipples, then licks them clean.
Her tongue tastes the familiar salty tang; her body shudders violently.
She lies back, draping the T-shirt over her face like a mask, exposing only mouth and nose.
Hands pull her panties aside, baring her lips to the air.
She grabs Li Ran's water glass from last night—bottom still holding a sip—and presses it to her pussy like a homemade toy, grinding the rim against her folds.
The cool glass makes her gasp sharply.
"Ranran... Mom's fucking herself with your glass... Mom's juices... flowing into your cup... when you come back... Mom'll make you drink... drink the slutty water Mom flowed for you..."
She speeds her fingers, three together mimicking his girth, pistoning fast inside her. The wet schlick schlick echoes loudly in the quiet room.
In her fantasy, Li Ran bursts in, sees her like this: face in his shirt, legs spread, fingers plunging wildly, tits marked with his dried cum.
He freezes a second, then pounces, flipping her over, slamming in from behind.
"Raw... creampie straight... breed Mom... make Mom's belly... carry your seed forever..."
Orgasm hits without warning.
She arches fiercely, toes curling, pussy clamping hard as hot fluid gushes out, soaking the sheets and his pillow.
She bites the T-shirt's corner to stifle her cries, but broken whimpers escape her throat.
The climax drags on; her body empties, then overflows.
Afterward, she collapses, panting hard. Fingers still buried inside, stirring gently to milk the last ripples.
She opens her eyes to the ceiling, lips curving in satisfied, twisted bliss.
"Ranran... Mom's waiting for you... Mom's pussy... still hot... still waiting for you raw... waiting for another load... a hundred more..."
Outside the door, Li Jianguo's footsteps pad softly, then halt.
She knows he's listening.
Through the deliberately loose door crack, her satisfied gasps leak out.
She lies there, waiting for the key in the lock that evening.
Waiting for him to push through the door and claim her again on this cum-soaked bed.