Chapter 7: The Hard, Painful Thing Under the Desk
Classroom of Grade 12 (7) at Bincheng Experimental Middle School, sixth period, English.
The classroom was air-conditioned, set to 24 degrees Celsius, but the mid-September sunlight still stubbornly shone through the curtains.
Chalk dust seeped in through the gaps, casting streaks of golden light across the desks. The air was thick with the smell of chalk dust.
The air was dry, musty, and filled with the drowsy smell of over forty senior high school students after lunch.
English teacher Zhou Min stood on the podium, a middle-aged woman in her early forties with short, ear-length hair and wearing black-rimmed glasses.
The glasses, the voice neither too loud nor too soft, the rhythm neither too fast nor too slow, like a pre-programmed broadcasting machine:
”…Therefore, in relative clauses, when the antecedent is a person, we can use who or to.”
”Hat” can be used to introduce a verb. However, if the antecedent is a thing, only “which” or “that” can be used.
Turn to page 47 of the textbook and look at example sentence three—The book which I bo
ught yesterday was very interesting……
Note that “which” here introduces “—Lin Mo?”
Lin Mo did not react.
”Lin Mo?”
Zhao Yong, who was sitting to his right, nudged him with his elbow.
”Hmm?” Lin Mo looked up.
His eyes went blank for a moment—the kind of blankness that comes from being forcibly dragged from one world to another.
A look of bewilderment. His pupils took about half a second to refocus, from a distant, solitary point…
The screen I could see switched to the face of the person wearing black-rimmed glasses on the podium.
”Lin Mo, could you please answer this: what kind of clause is introduced by ‘which’ in example sentence three?” Zhou
Min pushed up her glasses, her tone not stern, but carrying a hint that “I know you’re daydreaming.”
”A relative clause,” Lin Mo said. His voice was steady, his answer precise, almost like a reflex. “wh”
”ich” functions as the object of “bought” in the subordinate clause, so it can be omitted.
Zhou Min was taken aback, clearly not expecting a distracted student to answer so decisively. She nodded.
Head: “Correct answer. But Lin Mo, you need to concentrate in class and not let your mind wander.”
”Okay, teacher. I’m sorry.”
Zhou Min turned back to continue writing example sentences on the blackboard. Lin Mo lowered his head and turned his gaze back to the open blackboard in front of him.
English textbooks.
The textbook is turned to page 47. Black text on white paper, printed in Times New Roman style.
The font is ‘n’, with 1.5 line spacing. Every English word is clearly printed there—The b
ook which I bought yesterday is ver
That’s interesting.
He couldn’t concentrate on reading a single word.
Because his brain is playing another program.
——
Last night. September 16th. Around 9:40 PM.
He was doing a math test in his room. The door was ajar—he deliberately left it open because it was his mother’s bedroom.
Across the hallway, at the end, was the bathroom. The door was ajar, and he could hear the sound of running water, and know his mother…
When will you be finished showering?
He didn’t know when he had developed this habit. Maybe it was last week, maybe it was even earlier.
Perhaps from the first time he had that thought about his mother, he was unconsciously doing this—tracking.
She moved around the house in every direction. If she was in the kitchen, he’d find an excuse to go to the living room. If she was watching TV in the living room, he’d…
She sat at the dining table “doing her homework.” When she went to the bathroom to shower, he opened the door a crack.
It wasn’t for peeping.
At least that’s what he told himself.
He just… wanted to know where she was. He wanted to confirm her presence. He wanted to hear her footsteps, the door opening and closing.
The sounds of the hairdryer and the hum of the hair dryer both reassured and unsettled him. He felt reassured because…
”She’s there,” the anxiety stems from “She’s there, but I can’t touch her.”
He remembered it clearly—9:52 p.m. last night—because he subconsciously glanced at the time on his phone.
The bathroom door opened.
Water vapor emerged first.
Hot, fragrant steam billowed from the bathroom door, mingling with the cool air of the hallway.
A thin layer of white mist quickly condensed in the air. Then, the mother’s figure emerged from the mist.
She was wearing a white cotton bathrobe.
Not the thick bathrobes you get in hotels, but a thin, short bathrobe for home use that only reaches above the knee.
The belt was tied, but loosely—perhaps because the body was still wet from the shower, and the fabric clung to the skin.
She wasn’t feeling very comfortable, so she didn’t fasten it tightly.
The neckline of the bathrobe opened naturally due to the loose waistband, forming a deep V-shape.
From that V-shape, Lin Mo saw—
Collarbone. A delicate, well-defined collarbone, with a few water droplets still clinging to it, on the corridor ceiling.
It shimmered faintly in the lamplight.
Below the collarbone was a patch of smooth, almost glowing white skin on her chest. Not her breasts—it was the neckline of her bathrobe.
It hasn’t opened up to that extent yet—but it’s “above” the breasts. That area extends from the collarbone to the beginning of the cleavage.
The skin in that area was delicate and smooth, with a faint pinkish hue from just having taken a hot shower, like the finest…
A lamp was lit inside the mutton fat jade.
And cleavage—
Her G-cup breasts were loosely draped in the bathrobe, without the restraint of a bra, revealing two large mounds of flesh.
The bathrobe swayed gently with each step, the fabric pressing against each other and creating a deep slit at the bottom of the V-neckline.
A bottomless ravine. That cleavage was like a black hole, sucking his gaze in and making it impossible for him to pull it out.
Her hair was wet.
Her long, black hair wasn’t dried with a hairdryer; it clung damply to the sides of her neck and shoulders, with a few strands…
The water droplets cascaded down to her chest, the ends sliding slowly down the fabric of the bathrobe, leaving dark stains on the white cotton.
A streak of hair clung to the side of her left neck, stretching from behind her ear down to her collarbone, like a black…
The snake coiled on the jade-like skin.
Her face was slightly flushed from the hot water. She was bare-faced, without any makeup, but her face was more beautiful than any carefully made-up face.
Her face looked a million times better with makeup—her amber-colored peach blossom eyes were slightly misty from the steam, and there were still some clinging to her eyelashes.
Tiny water droplets, as if she had just been crying. Her cherry blossom pink lips appeared even fuller from being soaked in the hot water.
Moist, slightly open, exhaling a breath of warm, watery air.
She emerged from the bathroom, her bare feet stepping onto the wooden floor of the hallway—small, delicate feet, size 35, her toes…
Round and pink, the soles of her feet turned a light pink from the hot water—she walked towards the bedroom.
She paused as she passed Lin Mo’s half-open door.
”Xiao Mo?” She peeked inside. “Still doing your homework?”
”Mmm.” His voice was forced out of his throat, dry and rough, like sandpaper scraping against glass. He didn’t look up.
He dared not look up. Because he knew that if he did, his gaze would inevitably fall on that…
On the open neckline—on that patch of smooth, white skin—on that deep, unfathomable cleavage—
”Don’t stay up too late, you have to get up early tomorrow.” Her voice came from the doorway, soft and gentle.
The unique feeling of languor and relaxation after a bath. “Mom’s going to dry her hair first.”
”Um.”
The footsteps faded into the distance.
The bedroom door was closed.
The sound of a hairdryer started.
Lin Mo stared at the math test paper in front of him; the function graphs and formulas on it appeared distorted and deformed in his vision.
It melted, turning into a meaningless blot of ink. His hand held the pen, but the nib had already stopped on the paper.
There was no movement for at least thirty seconds.
He got an erection.
A 23-centimeter penis swelled, rose, and erected a staggering tent inside his house shorts. The glans…
It was as large as a fist; its outline was visible even through two layers of fabric. Veins throbbed on the pillar, pulsating with his acceleration.
Their heartbeats are synchronized.
He put down his pen, walked to the door, closed it, and locked it.
Then he sat back in his chair, pulled down his pants, grasped the huge, hot, hard-as-iron penis, and closed…
Apply to the eyes.
Images played automatically in my mind: wet hair, an open bathrobe collar, smooth white collarbones, deep…
A bottomless cleavage, bare, delicate feet—
He ejaculated in less than five minutes. His semen gushed out with astonishing force; the first spurt splashed directly onto…
On the math exam paper, a blotchy white stain was left at the vertex of the function graph.
After ejaculating, he stared at the math exam paper stained with his semen, only one thought in his mind:
This test paper is due tomorrow.
He had to make a new one.
——
This is what happened last night.
And now, at 2:10 PM on September 17th, he sat in the last row of the classroom, by the window, facing…
His English textbook lay open, his ears filled with Teacher Zhou Min’s explanation of relative clauses, but his brain was working on its own.
The video from last night is playing on a loop.
Her wet hair clung to her neck.
The collar of the bathrobe was open.
Water droplets on the collarbone.
A fair and smooth chest.
A cleavage that seems bottomless.
Pink and bare feet.
A lazy voice: “Don’t stay up too late.”
cycle.
Recycle.
Recycle.
His penis began to swell inside his school uniform pants.
It’s not an instantaneous erection, but a slow, gradual, and irreversible process—like a…
A dormant python slowly awoke in his crotch, stretching and raising its head. He could feel that thing moving inch by inch.
It became harder, thicker, and longer, extending down the inside of the thigh from the left leg of the school uniform pants, with the glans at the…
Mid-thigh, through the double layers of fabric of underwear and school uniform pants, a noticeable bulge was formed.
The outline.
His first reaction was to adjust his posture.
He leaned forward, his chest almost touching the desk, trying to use the edge of the desk to cover his crotch.
Something’s off. But this posture is so unnatural—a 1.81-meter-tall boy slumped over his desk looks like…
He was sleeping, and Teacher Zhou Min had just called his name.
His second reaction was to take his backpack off the back of the chair and place it on his lap.
His black backpack was bulging, filled with textbooks, workbooks, a water bottle, and a pencil case.
The backpack lay across his lap, covering his crotch. The weight of the backpack pressed down on his erect penis, producing…
A subtle sense of oppression—not pain, but a irritating, indirect stimulation, rather than…
It made him even harder.
He cursed under his breath.
Hold.
This was the first time he’d ever had an erection this strong at school. It wasn’t unprecedented—it wasn’t something an eighteen-year-old boy hadn’t experienced before.
With high hormone levels, it’s perfectly normal to get an erection when you’re daydreaming in class. But my previous erections were…
”Normal” things—seeing a girl’s legs in class, or having a video clip from last night flash through your mind.
—The kind of erection that goes down quickly and can be suppressed by adjusting one’s focus.
But this time it’s different.
This erection was caused by “mother.” And the word “mother” itself is something that cannot be “discussed.”
The existence that “dissipates all attention”—because she is not a video that can be turned off, not something that can be swiped away.
The picture wasn’t of a stranger he could forget. She was his mother. She was there every day. Every morning.
I make him breakfast, ask him every night if he’s finished his homework, and walk past his room every day after I shower.
Door–
every day.
Every day.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Just like he can’t “not breathe”.
A note slid over from the right and landed on his English textbook.
He glanced down. Zhao Yong’s handwriting—so messy it looked like it was written with his feet—but he was used to it.
The font is easily recognizable:
”Let’s go to the basketball court after class? Class 3 has booked half a game.”
Lin Mo picked up a pen and wrote one word on the back of the note: “No”.
The note slid back.
Three seconds later, the note slid back. Zhao Yong added a line below:
”Why? You didn’t go last week. Did you break your leg?”
Lin Mo wrote: “Not in the mood.”
The note slides back. It slides back five seconds later:
”Not in the mood? You, Lin Mo, actually have times when you’re not in the mood? The sun must have risen in the west. What’s wrong? Heartbroken?”
”You have to experience love before you can experience loss, bro.”
Lin Mo looked at Zhao Yong’s crooked handwriting on the note, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly—not a smile, but…
A subtle expression that falls between helplessness and bitterness.
He wrote: “I just don’t want to move. Go ahead, don’t worry about me.”
The note slid back. This time it took about ten seconds to slide back, and Zhao Yong had written a long paragraph:
”Mo-ge, you’ve been acting strange lately. You were daydreaming during the second period yesterday morning, and the math teacher called you back.”
You paused for three seconds before reacting to the question. You didn’t say much during lunch either. In the afternoon PE class…
You just sat there in the stands and didn’t move. Now you’re daydreaming in English class again. Is something wrong? Tell me, bro.
After reading this passage, Lin Mo felt a complex mix of emotions.
Zhao Yong may have a big mouth and speak a bit roughly, but he truly cares about his friends. He…
Noticing Lin Mo’s unusual behavior these past two days—his absent-mindedness, silence, refusal to exercise, and decreased appetite—these details…
Even Lin Mo himself was unaware of the changes, but Zhao Yongquan saw them all.
But what could he say?
He could say, “Lately, all I can think about is what my mom looks like after she takes a shower. I keep thinking about her breasts during class.”
”Is your crotch as hard as an iron rod?”
He wrote: “It’s nothing. I just haven’t been sleeping well lately, and I’m a little tired.”
The note slid back. Zhao Yong glanced at it, then turned to look at him.
Zhao Yong’s eyes held a hint of “I don’t quite believe it, but I won’t press you.” He opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to…
He said something, but in the end he only muttered something under his breath:
”If you can’t sleep well, go to bed early. Don’t stay up late scrolling through your phone.”
”Mm.” Lin Mo nodded.
Zhao Yong turned back to face the front, picked up his pen, and began drawing little figures in his textbook. His drawing skills and…
His handwriting was equally worrisome—a stick figure, big head, limbs like noodles. But he was very engrossed in drawing, his tongue…
The head is slightly sticking out and resting against the upper lip, like a kindergarten child.
Lin Mo withdrew his gaze and looked back at the English textbook in front of him.
The book which I bought yesterday
It is very interesting.
He stared at the sentence, trying to get his mind back on English relative clauses.
The word “ch” introduces a relative clause modifying the antecedent “the book,” and functions as “bought” in the clause.
The object can be omitted.
It’s useless.
His brain refused to process this information. It was like a computer’s CPU being overloaded by a background program.
Similarly, all his computing resources were consumed by that image—wet hair, bathrobe collar, water droplets on his collarbone.
A fair, smooth chest, a deep cleavage, and delicate, bare feet—this scene is like a looping program, constantly running…
The process of running, outputting, refreshing, and then running again pushes all other processes to the background.
And the thing in his crotch is the most direct output of this program.
It’s still hard.
No, it’s not just hard. It’s throbbing. Every few seconds, the shaft of the penis twitches on its own.
It was like a second heart, independent of his body. The glans pressed against his inner thigh, through the fabric of his underwear.
He could feel a layer of slippery liquid seeping from the surface of his glans—prostatic fluid, the kind that oozes out when fully erect.
A clear, stringy liquid that was automatically secreted under certain conditions. It was slowly soaking his underwear.
He pressed the backpack down further to make sure it covered him properly. Then he pinched the large…
I pinched a small piece of flesh on the inside of my thigh hard.
pain.
A sharp pain shot from my thigh to my brain, like a bucket of cold water poured over that vicious cycle of programming. (Image paused)
There was a pause—the wet hair froze, the bathrobe collar froze, the cleavage froze—then the pain subsided, and the scene continued.
Continue playing.
It didn’t work. The old trick of pinching his thigh used to work, but it doesn’t anymore. The images that used to haunt him…
It was vague, fragmented, and easily interrupted by external stimuli. But now it’s different—after September 1st…
The multiple enhancements that afternoon and evening of the 5th, along with the high-definition supplementation of the bathrobe scene last night, in his mind…
The database of material about the mother’s body has reached a critical point. Every image is high-definition and incredibly detailed.
Rich in tactile and olfactory memories—he not only “saw” those images, he also “smelled” them.
He smelled the gardenia-scented shower gel and “felt” the warm, moist sensation she left behind as she passed by his room.
Air currents carrying body temperature—
”…Therefore, in non-restrictive relative clauses, ‘that’ cannot be used to replace ‘which.'”
”Pay attention to this difference—” Teacher Zhou Min’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, as if separated by a layer of water.
Blurry and unclear.
Lin Mo reached his left hand under his schoolbag and pressed it against the throbbing penis through his school uniform pants, attempting to use the object…
He tried to suppress its throbbing with pressure. But the moment his palm touched it, the penis throbbed even more violently.
It was like a wild animal trapped in a cage, sensing its owner’s hand and thinking that its owner had come to release it.
And so it became even more excited and rammed against the cage wall.
He quickly pulled his hand back.
Don’t touch it. Touching it will only make things worse.
He placed his hands on the desk, his fingers interlaced, knuckles white. He stared at the English sentences in his textbook, his mouth…
His lips moved slightly, as if he were reading silently—but in reality, he was repeating a sentence over and over in his mind:
Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. She’s your mother. She’s your mother. She’s your mother.
It’s useless.
The phrase “She’s your mother” did not have a cooling effect; instead, it was like pouring a bucket of steam on a fire.
Oil—the word “Mom” itself is a trigger. It makes him think of “Mom,” and then of “Mom.”
I think of Gu Xueqing, and when I think of Gu Xueqing, I think of that exquisitely beautiful face, those amber eyes that hold a hint of allure.
Her alluring peach blossom eyes, those massive G-cup breasts, that slender waist that could be encircled with one hand, that plump and perky…
Hips
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Once. Twice. Three times.
It’s useless.
My penis was still hard. So hard it hurt. The glans was constricted by the fabric of my underwear, engorged with blood to its limit, like a…
A crimson bomb that could explode at any moment.
He opened his eyes and looked out the window.
Outside the window was the playground. The September sun made the rubber track scorching hot, and heat rose from the ground.
The silhouette of the distant school building was distorted. Several first-year high school students were running on the playground—it was physical education class, and they were wearing…
The white school uniforms scurried slowly under the scorching sun, like a flock of sheep being herded.
He looked out the window, trying to use these insignificant images to cover up the images in his mind. The playground.
Running track. Sunlight. High school freshmen like sheep. Basketball hoop. Flagpole. Wall. Road outside the wall. Horse.
Cars on the road. People inside the cars. The place they’re going—
Home.
This word was like a bullet, piercing through all his defenses and hitting the bullseye.
Home.
She is at home.
It’s a little past 2 PM on Tuesday. His mother doesn’t have class today—he remembers her saying that she doesn’t have class on Tuesday afternoons.
She has classes scheduled, so she prepares lessons or does housework at home. Therefore, she should be at home right now. Perhaps in her study…
Perhaps she’s typing a paper on her computer, reading a book on the sofa in the living room, or preparing ingredients for dinner in the kitchen—
Maybe she’s wearing that white T-shirt again. Or that V-neck loungewear. Or—if it’s hot.
Words—a tank top.
What does she wear when she’s home alone?
This question was like a key, unlocking a completely new room in his mind—a room he had never entered before.
A room filled with unknown possibilities.
When she’s home alone, does she dress more casually? Does she just wear a loose nightgown, with…
Wearing absolutely nothing? Would it be like last night after showering, just wrapped in a bathrobe, in an empty house?
Walking around inside?
When she’s home alone, does she—
Zhao Yong handed over another slip of paper.
”Your face is flushed. Do you have a fever?”
Lin Mo subconsciously reached out and touched his face.
It’s hot.
His face was indeed burning. Not from a fever, but from congestion. The same principle as the congestion of his manhood.
Exactly the same—the blood rushed to where it shouldn’t have.
He wrote on the note: “The air conditioning is too hot.”
The note slid back. Zhao Yong glanced at it, then looked up at the air conditioning vents on the classroom ceiling, and then looked again…
She glanced at Lin Mo and mumbled something, but her voice was too soft for Lin Mo to hear.
Then Zhao Yong did something—he reached for his mineral water bottle on the table, unscrewed the cap, and…
He handed it to Lin Mo through the aisle.
”Have some water,” he said softly. “Your face is so red, don’t get heatstroke.”
Lin Mo took the water bottle and took a sip. The room-temperature mineral water slid down his throat, a cool sensation spreading to his stomach.
It slightly relieved the burning sensation in my chest.
”Thanks.” He returned the water bottle to Zhao Yong.
”Don’t mention it.” Zhao Yong took the water bottle, screwed on the cap, and muttered softly, “Brother Mo, you really…”
Are you alright? You haven’t been looking well these past few days. How about I go with you to the school clinic after school?
”No need. It’s really nothing.”
”Alright then.” Zhao Yong stopped asking questions and turned back to continue drawing his stick figures.
Lin Mo turned his gaze back to the textbook.
The book which I bought yesterday
It is very interesting.
His gaze lingered on the word “interesting” for three seconds, then…
Then it pierced through the paper, through the desks, through the classroom floor, all the way down—down—down—
—It landed somewhere that doesn’t exist in this classroom.
It was left at home.
It fell on the mother.
He wanted to go home.
I don’t want to go home to eat, do my homework, or sleep.
He wanted to go home to see her.
Even just a glimpse of her from afar, across the living room, watching her sit on the sofa flipping through a book.
I watched her back as she chopped vegetables in the kitchen, and saw the shadows cast on her cheeks by her eyelashes as she looked down at her phone.
Just one glance.
He wanted to see her.
The thought was so strong, so urgent, so undeniable that he felt from now until the end of school…
Every minute and every second felt like torture. Time seemed to be weighed down with lead, so heavy it almost stood still. The clock…
Each tick of the second hand on the watch felt like a dull knife cutting a gash in his patience.
He glanced at the clock on the back wall of the classroom.
2:18.
There are still two hours and forty-two minutes until school ends.
He pressed the backpack down on his lap again—his penis was still hard, showing no sign of softening.
Then he picked up a pen and wrote a number in the blank space of his English textbook:
162.
One hundred and sixty-two minutes.
He started counting down.
Teacher Zhou Min’s voice continued to echo in the classroom: “…non-restrictive relative clauses are usually separated by commas.”
Separate the main clause from the main clause; everyone must remember this, it’s frequently tested in exams…
Zhao Yong handed Lin Mo another note. Lin Mo glanced down at it:
”By the way, Mo-ge, are you walking home after school today? My mom asked me to go to the supermarket to buy some things, can we go together?”
Lin Mo wrote: “No, I want to go home early today.”
The note slid back. Zhao Yong glanced at it, then wrote another line and it slid back:
”Going home early? Aren’t you always the last one to leave? What’s wrong today?”
Lin Mo looked at the line of text, hesitated for a second, and then wrote:
”I want to go back and eat my mom’s cooking.”
That’s the truth.
That’s not the truth either.
He did want to go back and eat his mother’s cooking. But what he wanted even more was to see his mother cooking—wearing an apron, standing…
As she chopped vegetables sideways in front of the stove, her waist swayed slightly; as she turned to grab seasonings, her large breasts jiggled with the movements.
—
The note slid back. Zhao Yong had only written three words, followed by an emoji he had drawn himself—a picture.
A grinning face:
”Mama’s boy”.
Lin Mo looked at these three words and the corners of his mouth curled up slightly.
Mama’s boy.
If Zhao Yong knew what the “baby” in his “mama’s boy” nickname meant, he would probably be so shocked he’d jump off his chair.
He fell down.
He folded the note, stuffed it into his textbook, and looked out the window again.
Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, illuminating his textbook. The band of light moved slowly, like an invisible hand…
He turned the pages of time. His penis, after nearly twenty minutes of full erection, finally began to slow down.
He slowly and reluctantly softened—not because he had successfully controlled his thoughts, but because of his…
After a prolonged period of intense fantasizing, the brain temporarily enters a period of fatigue and blankness, much like an overheated machine.
It’s like a computer automatically reducing its clock speed.
But he knew it was only temporary.
As long as there is a trigger point—a sound, a picture, a word, or even a gust of wind—
That scent—that program will restart, that beast will awaken again, that thing will return.
Get tough.
The biggest trigger was waiting for him at home.
Every day.
Wearing pajamas and an apron, she smiled and asked him, “What do you want to eat today?”
He lowered his head and wrote another number next to the “162” in the blank space of the textbook:
148.
One hundred and forty-eight minutes.
He continued counting down.
Teacher Zhou Min flipped to a new slide on the podium and began explaining a new example sentence. Zhao Yong yawned beside her.
Qian closed the textbook covered in stick figures and shifted his position, lying face down on the desk. Someone in the classroom was whispering.
Some people are passing notes, some are secretly eating snacks, and some are sleeping.
Everything is normal.
A typical English class on a Tuesday afternoon for senior high school students.
No one knew that the quiet, well-mannered boy in the last row by the window had just experienced something under his desk.
A nearly out-of-control erection that lasted twenty minutes and was triggered by the biological mother.
No one knows that right now, his mind isn’t filled with relative clauses, the college entrance exam, university, or anything else.
It is the future—
He just wanted to wait until school was over.
go home.
Even just a glimpse of her from afar.