The Child
Li Ran sits on the sofa, his mother's head pillowed on his thighs. The TV drones on, unwatched, its volume turned low like ambient white noise.
Lin Xiulan has her eyes closed, fingers tracing lazy circles on his lower abdomen, her breathing steady yet laced with the languid satisfaction of aftermath.
Li Ran looks down at her, his gaze sliding from her slightly swollen lips to the open collar of her blouse, where faint teeth marks linger from his earlier sucking.
His hand drifts unconsciously through her hair, fingertips twining in a strand of silver—that mark of time on her head, yet it suddenly conjures memories of her from his childhood.
Those recollections surface like shells washed up by the tide, each carrying a salty, ambiguous warmth.
He remembers: at five years old, that afternoon from his recurring dreams.
He lay sleeping on the bamboo mat, half-dozing when he felt someone straddle his legs.
His mother's skirt hiked up, the heat from her thighs pressing against him.
In his dream-state, he thought it was just a hug, but then a small, wet heat enveloped his little thing, gently drawing it in.
He let out a hum, his hips instinctively bucking forward, the whole length sliding inside.
His mother's body shuddered sharply, but she didn't pull away—instead, she rocked gently back and forth, as if lulling him back to sleep.
Half-awake, half-dreaming, he came—thin and watery, but scorching hot.
His mother let out a soft whimper, then kissed his forehead, wiped him clean, and tucked the mat over him.
The next morning, he woke remembering only a pleasant dream, his crotch a bit sticky, but he said nothing.
In first grade, his mother began bedtime stories.
She always had him lie in her arms, head pillowed on her breasts.
Her nightgown was thin; her nipples would occasionally poke through the fabric against his cheek.
He'd unconsciously latch on, suckling like a baby.
Her body would stiffen instantly, followed by the faintest sigh, her fingers threading into his hair to hold his head in place.
The harder he sucked, the more ragged her breaths grew.
Sometimes, he felt her thighs clench lightly, warm liquid seeping from between her legs to wet his pajamas.
He thought she'd wet the bed; she smiled and said, "It's nothing, Mommy just sweated." He believed her, but in dreams, he kept tasting that flavor—sweet and musky, with a hint of salt.
In third grade, his first wet dream.
He woke to a small puddle of sticky white in his underwear.
Panicked, thinking he was sick, he sneaked it to his mother.
She was chopping vegetables in the kitchen; the knife froze mid-air.
Squatting down, she examined it closely, then smiled and ruffled his hair: "Ranran's growing up. This is normal."
But her fingers trembled slightly as they touched the stain.
She took the underwear to wash but didn't toss it straight into the machine—instead, out of his sight, she pressed the fabric to her face and inhaled deeply.
Then she turned, eyes glistening, and said, "Mommy will clean it for you. Don't tell Dad, okay?" He nodded, unaware that at noon, she locked herself in the bedroom, wrapping that cloth—stained with his first emission—around her labia and masturbating to climax.
Sixth-grade summer, they went to the swimming pool together.
She wore a modest one-piece swimsuit, but in the changing room while helping him dress, her hand "accidentally" gripped his budding cock.
He could get hard by then; her palm enveloped it, stroking lightly twice. "Ranran, hair's growing here now."
His face burned, but he didn't want her to let go.
She laughed and pushed him into the shower, but in the next stall over, she fingered herself until her legs buckled.
When she emerged, she smiled: "Mommy slipped earlier—my leg hurts." He believed her, but at poolside, he noticed the dark wet patch at her crotch.
These memories link up, forming a secret chain stretching from his childhood to this very day.
He looks down at his mother. She opens her eyes, meets his gaze, and smiles. "What're you thinking about?"
Li Ran's throat bobs; his fingers slide into her hair, guiding her head downward.
"About when I was little... how you turned me into your man, step by step."
Lin Xiulan's eyes gleam. She slides obediently to her knees before the sofa, unzips his pants, and takes his already rigid cock into her mouth. Her tongue swirls around the head, savoring the most precious memory.
She mumbles around it: "Ranran... Mommy started when you were five... from your first little hard-on... Mommy knew... you'd be mine... forever Mommy's..."
Li Ran tilts his head back, eyes closing, letting those childhood scenes merge with the current pleasure.
When he comes in her mouth, he whispers, "Mom... even before I was born... I was already inside you."
Lin Xiulan swallows, then rises to kiss him, passing the lingering taste.
The living room light still glows.
Outside the door, Li Jianguo's footsteps sound softly, then fade away.
Neither pays it any mind.
Because that chain has locked all three of them together—forever.