Daily Life
The alarm clock rings precisely at eight-thirty. Li Ran reaches over to turn it off, rubs his eyes, and sits up.
The room still lingers with a faint scent from last night—probably traces left by his mother after she masturbated on his bed yesterday afternoon.
He throws back the covers and spots a corner of an envelope peeking out from under the pillow, with just a single character scrawled on it: “Ran.”
He pauses for a moment, doesn't pull it out right away, and heads to the bathroom to wash up instead.
Nothing happened last night. After a simple dinner chat, everyone retreated to their rooms.
The mood between mother and son hangs subtly charged.
Now, in the living room, Lin Xiulan has breakfast laid out: plain congee, salted duck eggs, side dishes, and a plate of freshly fried sunny-side-up eggs.
She's dressed in a light gray, form-fitting house dress, her hair casually pinned up behind her head—looking no different from any other day.
She turns as her son emerges and smiles. “Up already? The congee's just right—don't burn yourself.”
Li Ran grunts an “Mm,” and takes a seat at the table.
Li Jianguo emerges from the master bedroom, coughs once, and sits down, his voice hoarse. “Nice weather today.”
“Yeah.” Lin Xiulan ladles congee for him. The couple exchanges a glance—hers calm, his quickly averted as he drops his gaze to his bowl, slurping away like he's afraid she'll see right through him.
The three of them cluster around the dining table. On the surface, everything's as normal as can be: the son finishes breakfast and says, “I'm off”; the mother warns, “Be careful on the road”; the father nods with a quiet “Mm, come back early.”
Just like any family's daily routine. Before heading out, Li Ran glances back at his mother. She stands in the entryway, waving with a smile—like any ordinary mom.
At the company, Li Ran sits at his desk, computer screen glowing, inbox overflowing with emails.
But he stares blankly at the desktop.
The envelope's in his bag, but its words are burned into his brain: “Incest isn't a sin—it's our highest tribute to life.”
“No condom... shoot straight inside... let my womb carry your scent forever.”
His cock stirs again. He shifts in his seat, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to open a report.
But his mind replays the scene of his mother on his bed yesterday afternoon: face buried in his T-shirt, grinding against his pillow, sobbing his name as she came.
At noon, Lin Xiulan tidies the house.
She strips Li Ran's bedsheet, hugs it close, inhales deeply, and her lips curve upward.
Then she folds the cum-soaked sheet neatly and tosses it into the washer—but doesn't start the machine.
She perches on the bed's edge, eyes closed, reciting every word she wrote in that letter.
She doesn't regret penning it, isn't afraid of discovery. She even anticipates it a little—hopes her son will read it, pin her down, and answer every filthy line with his body.
Li Jianguo spends the morning strolling the park, smoking on a bench.
Amid the curling haze, his mind loops last night's eavesdropping: his wife's gasps from their son's room, the bed's faint creaks, that muffled “Ranran... Mom's waiting for you...”
His groin twitches softly, but he still can't get hard.
He stubs out the cigarette, gives a wry smile.
“Old man... this is all you'll ever do—watch the show.”
He's not angry. A perverse satisfaction settles in.
He even fantasizes: if his son ever catches him lurking outside the door, will he drag him in? Make him kneel and lap up the cum dripping from his wife's thighs? Give him a taste of that young, vigorous cock too...?
In the evening, Li Ran rides the subway home, the car swaying, tunnel lights flashing past like a heartbeat.
He leans on the handrail, phone screen dark—no urge to scroll.
His mind's filled with that letter—every deliberate stroke of his mother's pen, searing his chest like a brand.
“Incest isn't a sin—it's our highest tribute to life.”
He mouths the words silently, lips twitching into a grin before he forces it down.
Around him, people murmur softly, wear headphones, tap at phones—but he feels stripped bare in the crowd's midst, invisible to them, only he knows the fire raging inside.
He admits it: those words make him rock-hard.
Not just a physical twitch, but something deeper—a thrill of total understanding, total acceptance.
His mother didn't whimper “sorry” or “we're wrong.” She hoisted the taboo like a banner: This is my choice. This is what I want.
Her brazenness makes him feel not like a criminal, but a participant in a ritual only they comprehend.
He craves the feel of pinning her to the sofa.
No condom, thrusting straight in—that raw contact: her walls hot, slick, hungry, like countless tiny hands tugging him deeper; her cervix quivering against his tip, like a kiss begging deeper.
When he creampies her, she cries—not from pain, but release at finally being filled.
She even presses her palm to her belly, whispering, “Ranran... Mom feels it... your seed... swimming inside Mom...”
Thinking of it, Li Ran's cock throbs painfully. He clutches his bag to his lap, hiding the bulge. The train stops; the crowd surges. He follows, legs unsteady.
On the walk home, wilder thoughts churn.
From now on, every fuck—he'll make her recite the letter's words.
While pounding her: “Mom's your whore... Mom's womb only takes your cum...” He'll record it, save it on his phone, play it anytime; make her write more letters, stuffing his drawer like diaries, love notes, a pornographic bible.
He'll let his father know—not yet, but someday, when it all flows naturally.
Dad kneeling bedside, eyes bloodshot, limp as ever, watching his son fuck Mom to ecstasy, watching her lick up the creampie, then turn tear-streaked to Dad: “Old Li, see? This is what your son gives me... what you never could.”
The idea marks him twisted, but thrills him beyond measure.
Not mere cuckoldry—a pinnacle power play: claiming Mom's body, stripping Dad's dignity by proxy.
He's the true patriarch, redefining blood with cock and cum.
But what accelerates his pulse most: her letter's close: “Make me die and live again, or knock me up with your child—I'm willing for it all.”
He halts under a streetlamp, inhales sharply.
Pregnant... actually pregnant. What then?
A child of his blood, birthed from Mom's womb.
Will it call him Dad and her Grandma? Or will the three of them lie, raise it as an “oops”?
Every glance at the kid growing up—a living testament to the seed he pumped into Mom's womb, their incest made flesh.
The thought's pitch-black, intoxicating; he nearly creams himself right there on the street.
He breaks into a near-run, charges into the complex, up the stairs—hand shaking as he jams the key in the lock.
The door swings open to savory dinner aromas.
Lin Xiulan pokes her head from the kitchen, smiling. “Back? Wash up—dinner's ready.”
Li Ran says nothing, slams the door locked, strides over, pins her against the entryway wall.
His hand's already under her clothes, voice a guttural rasp: “Mom... I read your letter.”
Lin Xiulan melts instantly, tilts her head for a kiss, voice trembling. “And... what do you think?”
Li Ran doesn't answer—just scoops her up, heads for the sofa.
The dining room light glows. Li Jianguo sits at the table, pretending to read the paper, hands faintly quivering.
Li Ran lays his mother on the sofa, looms over her, grinds against her through their clothes.
He murmurs in her ear: “I want... to raw-dog you every day. Creampie your womb deep. Knock you up. Make this family our three-person secret forever.”
Tears spill from Lin Xiulan's eyes, but she nods, smiling. “Yes... Mom's all yours... everything for you...”
Li Ran glances at his father by the table.
Dad doesn't look up, just turns a page, voice faint: “Dinner... reheat if it cools.”
In that instant, Li Ran knows Dad heard.
He says nothing, just dips to kiss his mother, starts stripping her clothes.
Another everyday night begins—just like that.
Surface normalcy, but rotten to the core in the sweetest abyss.
And Li Ran sinks deeper into it, reveling harder with every plunge.