Like a Dream
Sunlight filters through the gaps in the old curtains the next morning, spilling onto the living room sofa.
That sofa was soaked through with sweat and bodily fluids last night, but now a clean towel covers the cushion, making everything look perfectly normal.
Lin Xiulan rises first.
She wears the same pale pink silk robe from last night, but with the belt tied tight and the neckline pulled up to her collarbone, as if nothing ever happened.
She busies herself in the kitchen, and soon the aroma of frying eggs fills the air.
The steady, rhythmic clatter of the spatula against the pan drowns out any memory of last night's screams and moans—like they were all just a dream.
Li Ran emerges from his room, dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers, hair neatly combed. He steps into the kitchen, his voice calm as ever: "Morning, Mom."
Lin Xiulan turns, her face lit with her usual gentle smile, though a faint flush lingers in her eyes. She plates the fried eggs and hands it to him: "Morning. Sleep well last night?"
"Yeah." Li Ran takes the plate, his fingertip "accidentally" brushing the back of her hand.
For that instant, they both pause—but neither says a word.
He sits at the dining table and eats his breakfast, just like a normal son.
Li Jianguo comes out of the master bedroom last.
He's in loose gray sweats, hair a mess, faint dark circles under his eyes—he stood outside the door too long last night, arms aching, knees weak, and barely slept a wink.
He clears his throat and shuffles into the kitchen, voice hoarse: "Nice weather today."
"It is." Lin Xiulan responds, serving him another plate of breakfast.
The couple exchanges a glance—hers calm as still water, his dropping immediately to avoid her eyes.
The sliver of light through the door crack last night, his wife's wanton cries, his son's heavy grunts... those images burn into his mind like a branding iron. Just seeing her now conjures the sight of her on her knees between their son's legs, mouth full of semen as she kisses him.
But his face betrays nothing. He simply sits and shovels food into his mouth mechanically.
The three of them sit around the table, and no one mentions last night.
Li Ran finishes, puts his bowl in the sink, and says casually: "I'm heading to the company this morning. Back after work."
"Okay." Lin Xiulan nods, her tone soft and seamless. "Drive safe."
Li Jianguo suddenly speaks up, his voice a touch unnatural: "Ranran, come home early tonight. Mom says she's making your favorite twice-cooked pork."
Li Ran pauses, glancing back at his father.
That look carries a tangle of emotions—he was so lost in his mother's body last night, he never noticed his father return.
But now, seeing his father's aged face with that strange hint of satisfaction, a flicker of unease stirs in his chest.
"Sure." He replies, then heads out the door.
The moment it clicks shut, silence blankets the living room.
Lin Xiulan stands with her back to Li Jianguo, washing dishes, water rushing steadily.
She knows he's watching her, knows how long he watched last night, knows exactly what's swirling in his head.
But she doesn't turn. She only says softly: "Old Li, you heading back early today too?"
Li Jianguo's throat bobs, his voice barely audible: "Mm."
He stands, steps behind her, hesitates—his hand rises, then falls. In the end, he just pats her shoulder, so lightly it's like he's afraid to wake something.
Lin Xiulan's hands pause under the faucet. She turns suddenly, her wet fingers grazing his chin, voice tender: "Last night... you were out on that walk for quite a while."
Li Jianguo stiffens, face flushing crimson.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
His eyes meet hers, complex with humiliation, longing, self-loathing—and a spark of undeniable excitement he can't hide.
Lin Xiulan smiles, letting it drop. She rises on tiptoe, brushes her lips against his—light as a dragonfly skimming water. Then she turns back to the dishes, her silhouette swaying gracefully, as if truly nothing happened.
Li Jianguo stands frozen, breathing ragged.
His mind replays last night: his wife riding their son, moaning wildly; licking his semen from her lips; confessing in that filthy tone...
His groin stirs again, weak and futile. He leans against the wall, eyes shut, drawing deep breaths.
And Lin Xiulan, scrubbing dishes, lets her lips curve upward just a touch.
She knows her husband was at the door last night, heard everything, and that those new, twisted desires are budding in him now.
She can even picture it: him fantasizing about kneeling to lick his son's semen off her body, joining in...
But she says nothing.
Li Ran walks to the company, phone buzzing with a group message.
He opens it, but his mind is filled with his mother's body last night—that tight inner grip, her tearful confessions, twenty years of perverse memories.
His cock hardens again. He adjusts his pants, takes a deep breath.
At his cubicle, the screen shows unread reports and emails, but his eyes fix on a blank Word doc, fingers idle.
Ten-thirty a.m., office AC humming, colleagues murmuring about projects, coffee scent mingling with printer ink.
But Li Ran's world is sealed off, replaying last night in vivid loops like a high-def film.
He closes his eyes, inhales—but it sharpens the details.
His mother straddling his lap, silk robe slipping to her waist, breasts swaying toward his face, nipples hard as ripe cherries.
He remembers sucking one; her whimper like an electric jolt, body shuddering, walls clenching to pull him deeper.
"Ranran... Mommy's tits... I've wanted to feed you since you were little..." she'd gasped, fingers in his hair, pressing his face to her chest.
Li Ran shifts in his seat, cock throbbing painfully. He clamps his thighs, pretends to scan the screen, hand sneaking under the desk to press his thigh root, easing the ache.
The flashback rolls on.
Her riding him, voice breaking as she recounts middle school perversions: kneeling in the locked classroom, math formulas on the board, his cock down her throat, tongue swirling the ridge, slurping noisily.
He'd cum in her mouth; she swallowed half, held the rest to kiss him, passing semen mouth-to-mouth like a taboo rite.
"Ranran... Mommy wanted back then... for you to fuck me pregnant... for your dad to watch... watch his son swell my belly..."
Li Ran's throat tightens hard.
He opens his eyes; across the aisle, a female colleague bends for something, skirt taut over her thighs.
But his mind swaps her face for his mother's—her bending to suck him, ass high, robe hiked to her waist, panties soaked.
He grits his teeth, drags focus to work. The harder he fights, the fiercer the images flood.
He wonders what she's doing at home.
Washing dishes in the kitchen? Sneaking into his room to rifle his underwear? Pressing his dirty socks to her face? Lying on his bed, grinding his pillow between her thighs?
His fingers type a few keys, then delete them all.
Suddenly, her final confession echoes: "Mommy's womb... only recognizes your semen forever..."
Her orgasmic spasms, pussy milking him like countless tiny hands, wringing every drop.
He'd thrust so deep, semen battering her cervix; she pressed her belly, murmuring: "Cum inside... knock Mommy up... let Mommy carry your baby..."
Li Ran bolts up, chair screeching. A coworker glances over: "You okay?"
"Fine, bathroom break." Voice strained, he hurries to the restroom.
In the stall, door locked, he slumps against the wall, gasping. His cock strains purple in his pants. He unzips, grips it, strokes furiously.
His mind's full of her face—licking his cum with dazed eyes; riding him, tits bouncing, begging for more; trembling through those sick tales with twisted bliss.
"Mom... Mom..." he mutters, pace quickening.
He pictures her waiting outside the company, kneeling the moment he gets home, unzipping him, sucking like in that classroom.
"Ranran... Mommy can't wait... Mommy's pussy is wet again..."
In the fantasy, he pins her to the entry shoe cabinet, slams in from behind; she screams in welcome, ass slapping his belly.
He cums.
Semen splatters the toilet wall, thick ropes hot and heavy. He bites down, silent, but her swallowing throat haunts him.
Afterglow leaves him slumped, legs shaky.
He knows tonight, it all continues.
On the surface, dinner and chat like normal.
But he can't wait.
He wants home, wants to pin her to the sofa, fill her depths again.
Wants more of those perverse tales.
Wants her utterly his woman.
He cleans up, straightens his clothes, breathes deep, and steps out.
Face calm once more.
But deep in his eyes, that fire burns hotter.