The Sichuan Tang Clan's Mother-Son Relationship (1)
The young master of the Sichuan Tang Clan, Dang Hyo-bong, was twenty-one this year. All his life he had been treated like an unwanted guest within the clan. Because he was not of the Tang bloodline, disputes constantly erupted between his stepmother Geum-dan and the elders. His mother's indifference, the elders' and clansmen's whispered gossip, and the strange anxiety that came whenever the elders sided with them—only for his mother to slip out of her quarters every night—gnawed at him.
Even to his own eyes, his thin, frail frame bore no resemblance to the robust, commanding figure of the father he had glimpsed in childhood. He knew his mother had sacrificed for him to some degree, yet after his father's disappearance her obsession with power inside the clan had grown fiercer by the day, and her interest in her son had cooled in equal measure. By the time he turned fifteen, even the morning greetings he once offered were rejected from her side.
Caught between his mother's tyranny, the elders' checks, and his own ambiguous position as an illegitimate young master, Dang Hyo-bong's gradual isolation within the Sichuan Tang Clan was only a matter of time. While he languished in his quarters, drowning in humiliation and loneliness, a peculiar secret hobby took root in him the year he turned twenty.
It began on his twentieth birthday, a day no one celebrated and no feast was even imagined. The only people he could call peers were distant cousins from branch families near the main Tang estate, yet even they had been pressured by their own households to keep their distance as he grew older. That evening, after wandering near their homes and once again tasting the sting of solitude, he was heading back to the main house at dusk when it happened.
"Spring pictures, cheap! Bargain sale! Two coins each!"
In a dim back-alley stall of the market in Dangga-ta, untouched by the setting sun, Dang Hyo-bong's eyes fell upon a single worn, thick volume lying among cheap erotic prints. Its title read: Geum-dan's Inner Ejaculation.
"!!!"
At first glance the characters could be misread as "the unspeakable secret inside Geum-dan" or "the forbidden private matter," but any grown man of the Central Plains who examined them closely would understand the true meaning at once. "Geum-dan" was not the word for prohibition; it was the personal name of his stepmother. That alone marked the book as something dangerously seditious. The following characters—"inside" and "ejaculation"—combined with her name produced a meaning so obscene that it made his blood run cold.
"Seed inside Mother… seed inside Stepmother…"
Shaken to the core, Dang Hyo-bong bought the volume without even glancing at its contents and hurried back to the main house. Fortunately, no one saw him.
— Swish
Unlike ordinary cheap spring books that opened with immediate nudity, the first page bore a long, elegantly written preface.
This volume is the masterpiece of a painter once employed by the imperial palace. For three months, from the first day of a certain month to the last, he purchased the highest-ranking private courtesan in Chengdu—Geum-dan—for fifteen taels of gold and recorded every coupling in exhaustive, realistic detail. Readers should note…
The dates matched exactly with the year and month his mother had entered the Tang household. Trembling, Dang Hyo-bong turned the page.
The first illustration, labeled "Day One," depicted his mother in her youth—completely naked from head to toe.
Her youthful cheeks carried an inexplicable flush as she glared at the viewer. Her breasts, still firm and only slightly smaller than he remembered, displayed pink peaks that stirred a strange nostalgia in him. Between her legs—smooth and hairless—her intimate place was plump and tightly closed, forming a perfect vertical line. Her flawless skin, graceful hips, and slender waist combined into the image of a perfect female body.
— Gulp!
Without realizing it, Dang Hyo-bong had already lowered his trousers to his knees and was stroking himself. The second illustration, labeled "Day Two," showed a man's hand—elegant yet unmistakably male—cupping her breast. The third, "Day Three," showed the same hand kneading her most private place.
Dang Hyo-bong paused, lifted his own hand, and stared at it. "Why does it look exactly the same?" The length and thickness of the fingers, the spacing between them, even the shape of the nails—everything matched his own hand as though the artist had copied it directly. Meanwhile, the member he had been stroking had swollen far beyond its usual size, easily seven inches long and over two inches thick.
Yet there was no time for further thought. To neglect himself while gazing at his mother's youthful form would be the height of unfilial behavior. He gripped himself again and turned the page.
"Hah!"
The fourth illustration showed his mother with her intimate place overflowing with a man's seed. Page after page followed—Day Five, Six, Seven, and beyond—each depicting the same act in a different position. Every single one was unique; the former palace painter had never repeated a pose.
— Swish, swish-swish!
— Swish, swish-swish-swish!
Dang Hyo-bong kept turning pages, mesmerized by the variety. Instead of using her mouth, breasts, or rear, the man in the pictures focused solely on impregnation, mechanically filling her with his release again and again.
— Shhhrrrrrr!
More than sixty pages passed in this manner.
Yet as the days progressed, the expression in his mother's eyes grew softer, almost affectionate—something he had never seen in real life. When he reached Day Sixty-Four, he froze.
"Her belly… her belly is swelling…!"
— Throb! Spurt!
His engorged member erupted violently, nearly soiling the book. He barely managed to avert disaster. Forgetting the sticky fluid on his hand, he wiped his face with a dry palm, then carefully cleaned himself on his own robes before daring to turn to Day Seventy-Five.
"!!!"
Unlike before, his mother was no longer filled. Instead, she had plugged herself with a small talisman commonly used by pregnant women in the marketplace. Behind her slightly rounded belly stood a small drinking table, and sprawled across it was a thick-bodied man, dead drunk. Dang Hyo-bong recognized that face from childhood memories and from the portrait hanging in the clan head's quarters—the man he had always believed to be his father: Clan Head Dang Mu-jin.
"Ah!"
In that instant, Dang Hyo-bong became certain that the painter who had created this book was his true father. Though retired and of no great standing, the man had given his seed a position no ordinary person could dream of—the heir to a great clan. A father overflowing with paternal love.
— Swish! Swish!
Examining the earlier illustrations again, he noticed the painter's shadow falling across his mother's naked body. The shape of the head in that shadow was identical to his own.
"The skull… the skull is exactly the same!"
"Huuuuh…!"
That night, moved beyond words by his real father's boundless affection, Dang Hyo-bong wept until dawn. From then on he hid the extraordinary book in a secret place protected by multiple safeguards, returning to it whenever he could to relieve himself while replaying its scenes.
Nearly a year later, on an ordinary day, he was once again sneaking toward his mother's quarters to steal one of her undergarments when he witnessed something strange: his mother, who knew nothing of martial arts, was carefully slipping out of the main house alone and heading toward the guest hall. Without the slightest hesitation, Dang Hyo-bong followed her.
He had no idea that this path would change his entire life.