Chapter 8: When Mom stood up from the water, I almost died by my own hand.
Because all teachers in the senior year were attending district-level teaching and research training starting from the third period in the afternoon, the senior year students were dismissed an hour and a half early.
This kind of thing happens two or three times a semester. For senior high school students who are drowning in a sea of questions every day, it’s like a sudden rain in the desert—not heavy, but enough to invigorate them.
The school gate was crowded with students pouring out, who dispersed in twos and threes in various directions. Some went to bubble tea shops, some to internet cafes, and some ran straight to the bus stop.
Lin Mo walked very fast.
He was alone, carrying a black backpack, with earphones in his ears, head down, and walking with large, hurried steps, as if rushing to do something important.
Actually, nothing was wrong with him—he just wanted to get home as soon as possible.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and glanced at it; it was a WeChat message from Zhao Yong.
Zhao Yong: [Isn’t it great that Mo-ge got out of school early?]
Zhao Yong: [Whether we stay or leave, a few of us from Class 3 have made plans to play pool at Wanda Plaza.]
Zhao Yong: [Li Hao, that bastard, said he’d treat us to a meal after losing last time, and today he’s finally fulfilling his promise.]
Lin Mo typed with one hand, without slowing down his walking speed:
Lin Mo: [I’m not going, I’m going home]
Zhao Yong’s reply was sent almost instantly:
Zhao Yong: [???]
Zhao Yong: [Back home again???]
Zhao Yong: [Lin Mo, how many times have you rejected me this week? Count them yourself.]
Zhao Yong: [I’m not going to the lunch appointment on Monday]
Zhao Yong: [Not going to the basketball game on Tuesday afternoon]
Zhao Yong: [I’m not going to the game I invited you to play on Wednesday night]
Zhao Yong: [He’s not going to the pool game we arranged today.]
Zhao Yong: [You rejected me four times in a row, do you have a grudge against me?]
Lin Mo looked at the barrage of messages from Zhao Yong on the screen, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
He could imagine Zhao Yong’s expression when he sent those messages—a furrowed brow, pouting lips, and a wronged look on his face as if to say, “Don’t you consider me a brother?”
Lin Mo: [No, I just want to go home earlier lately.]
Zhao Yong: [Why? What’s going on?]
Zhao Yong: [Are you dating someone behind my back?]
Zhao Yong: [No, if you were in a relationship, you probably wouldn’t want to go home even more.]
Zhao Yong: [Unless… your partner is at your house???]
Zhao Yong: [Holy crap, no way!]
Lin Mo stared at the words “Your partner is at your home,” his finger hovering above the screen for a second.
An absurd thought flashed through his mind: Zhao Yong was right. His “partner” was indeed at home. It was just that the “partner” was his mother.
The thought disgusted him—but at the same time, a surge of heat rushed up from his lower abdomen, burning his way down his spine to the back of his head.
Lin Mo: [What are you thinking? It’s just that my mom’s cooking has been really good lately, and I want to go back and eat her cooking.]
Zhao Yong: […]
Zhao Yong: [Lin Mo, I’m saying it again, you’re a mama’s boy.]
Zhao Yong: [Fine, I’m not going to bother with you anymore. I’m going to play pool. You stay home and eat your mom’s cooking, you mama’s boy.]
Zhao Yong: [By the way, what delicious food did your mom make today? Take a picture so I can’t resist!]
Lin Mo: [Get lost]
Zhao Yong: [Hahahahahaha]
Zhao Yong sent a dog emoji and then didn’t reply. He’s probably already met up with the people from Class 3.
Lin Mo stuffed his phone back into his pocket and quickened his pace.
The walk from school to home takes about twenty minutes.
He was walking along a path that passed through a residential area, with rows of plane trees on both sides. In mid-September, the leaves were still dark green, and the dense canopy of the trees formed a green tunnel overhead, cutting the afternoon sunlight into fragments and scattering them on the ground.
He walked very fast, almost jogging.
He didn’t know why he was in such a hurry.
No, he knows.
He was in a hurry to get home. He was eager to see her.
His condition has been deteriorating these past two days—ever since Tuesday’s English class.
He was distracted in math class on Wednesday morning and was called on by the math teacher to answer a question. This time he couldn’t answer and stood there for five seconds before he realized what the teacher was asking.
During PE class on Wednesday afternoon, he sat on the bleachers without moving. Zhao Yong asked him what was wrong, and he said his knees were uncomfortable.
On Wednesday evening, he was doing his homework at home when his mother brought in a glass of milk and placed it on his desk. As she bent over, the neckline of her pajamas drooped down, and he saw—not cleavage, but something deeper—the smooth, white curve above her breasts, like the slope of a snow-capped mountain, extending into a depth he could not see.
His penis became fully erect within three seconds, so hard that it made a muffled thud as it hit the bottom of the table.
His mother straightened up and asked him, “What’s wrong?” He replied, “My leg bumped into the table.”
After his mother left, he locked the door and masturbated twice before he went limp.
Today is Thursday.
Today, he was supposed to stay up until 5 o’clock after school, then walk home in 20 minutes. By the time he got home at 5:20, his mother should already be in the kitchen preparing dinner.
He would put down his schoolbag, change into his pajamas, walk to the kitchen doorway, lean against the doorframe, and watch her chop vegetables, stir-fry dishes, and bend down to take things out of the refrigerator.
But fate rewarded him with an hour and a half earlier.
School ends at 4:50, and I can get home by 5:10.
It arrived more than an hour early.
He had no idea what this hour-long “reward” meant.
He instinctively quickened his pace, like a wild beast that had caught the scent of its prey, the muscles in his limbs taut beneath his skin, his breathing shallow and rapid.
At 5:08, he arrived at the front of his villa.
He took out his key, opened the door, and went inside.
The entryway light was off.
The living room lights were off.
The entire first floor was unusually quiet—usually at this time, if my mother were home, there would be some noise in the kitchen: the sound of chopping vegetables, the sizzling of oil in the pan, or at least the sound of running water from the tap.
But now there’s nothing.
”Mom?” he called out from the entrance hall.
There was no response.
”Mom, I’m home.” He changed into slippers and walked into the living room.
There has still been no response.
On the coffee table in the living room was a half-finished cup of floral tea, with condensation still clinging to the sides—indicating that someone had been sitting there not long ago.
There was an open book on the sofa, placed face down on the cushion, cover up—”One Hundred Years of Solitude,” which my mother had been rereading recently.
She is at home, but not on the first floor.
Lin Mo subconsciously looked towards the stairs—the second floor? Bedroom? Bathroom?
Then he heard a voice.
It was very light, very far away, coming from behind the house.
The sound of water.
It wasn’t the sound of a tap, nor the sound of a shower. It was a more expansive, resonant sound of water—splashing, splashing—as if something was moving across a large expanse of water.
Swimming pool.
The backyard of the Lin family villa has a standard home swimming pool, which is 12 meters long, 6 meters wide, and 1.5 to 1.8 meters deep.
This was something Lin Jianguo insisted on building three years ago during renovations—”Swimming is the best exercise, it’s good for the spine,” was his reason at the time.
But Lin Mo later realized that his father himself almost never swam.
My mother, on the other hand, swims at least three to four times a week without fail.
Lin Mo stood in the living room, facing the floor-to-ceiling glass sliding door leading to the backyard.
The curtains were half-drawn—sheer curtains, white and as thin as a cicada’s wing. When sunlight shone through, you could see the outline of the outside, but the details were blurred.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
Through the gauze curtain, he saw the surface of the backyard pool shimmering like scattered gold in the sunlight, and a blurry, moving figure on the water.
His hand reached towards the edge of the gauze curtain.
Then he stopped.
His hand hovered over the edge of the gauze curtain, his fingertips less than two centimeters from the fabric.
He could feel his heart racing—not from nervousness, but from something more primal, more instinctive.
His brain performed a lightning-fast calculation in that single second:
If he pulls back the curtain and goes outside, his mother will see him.
She would stop, pop her upper body out of the water, and say with a smile, “Why are you back so early?”
Then they would talk face to face—she in the water, he on the shore—separated by a distance of several meters and the reflection of the water.
He will see her.
But she will see him too.
She will see the look in his eyes when he looks at her.
He wasn’t sure he could control that look in his eyes.
He withdrew his hand from the edge of the gauze curtain.
He turned around, walked towards the stairs, and went upstairs.
The footsteps were light—not deliberately light, but instinctively, unconsciously light. Like a cat, like a hunter, like someone who doesn’t want to be discovered by their prey—
Voyeur.
He said the word to himself.
Voyeur.
The word made him feel a strong sense of shame—but beneath that shame lay something thicker, heavier, and more undeniable.
excited.
He went upstairs to his bedroom, closed the door—unlocked, because the sound of locking the door might reach the backyard—and then went to the window.
His bedroom was on the second floor, on the east side, with the window facing the backyard.
From this vantage point, the entire pool is laid out before you – a rectangular expanse of blue water, white non-slip tiles surrounding it, poolside lounge chairs, parasols, and a stone path leading from the back door to the poolside.
The curtains were blackout curtains, made of thick, dark gray fabric. He didn’t pull the curtains open—he simply pinched the edge of the curtains with his fingers and gently pulled them open a crack.
A gap approximately five centimeters wide.
Enough for one eye to see out.
Then he saw it.
——
Gu Xueqing is swimming in the pool.
Freestyle swimming.
Her swimming style is very standard—a foundation she built during her university swimming team days.
The arms alternately stroke the water, the body rolls in a streamlined shape on the water surface, and the legs kick the water rhythmically and powerfully.
With each stroke, her hand sliced the water in a clean arc, the splashing water turning into golden fragments in the sunset light.
She was wearing a dark blue one-piece swimsuit.
Not a bikini—a woman with Gu Xueqing’s personality wouldn’t wear a bikini, even in her own backyard, when there are no outsiders around.
She chose a sporty one-piece swimsuit that looked “proper”—high neckline, wide shoulder straps, and a hem that reached the upper thigh—designed to cover and protect, so that the wearer would look like a serious swimmer rather than a model showing off her body.
But the problem is—
This swimsuit is made of Lycra.
Lycra is a highly elastic synthetic fiber that has a certain thickness and opacity when dry, but once it is soaked in water, it becomes as thin as a cicada’s wing, clinging tightly to the skin like a second layer of epidermis.
It faithfully and without reservation replicates every inch of the wearer’s body contours—every curve, every bulge, every depression, all exposed without reservation.
Gu Xueqing’s body is precisely the kind of body where “every inch of its contours is enough to be fatal.”
Lin Mo’s eyes were pressed against the five-centimeter gap in the curtains, his pupils dilated to the limit.
He saw his mother swim to the shallow end of the pool, put her hands on the pool wall, and stand up from the water.
Water poured down her body.
It wasn’t “dripping,” it was “pouring out”—a torrent of water gushed down from her hair, shoulders, and arms, like a statue that had just risen from the seabed, still covered in seawater residue.
Her long, black hair was completely soaked, clinging to her back and hanging down from her shoulder blades to her waist like a wet black silk.
Then she turned around to face the direction Lin Mo was in—though she didn’t know someone was watching her.
Lin Mo stopped breathing.
The soaked, dark blue Lycra fabric clung tightly to her body, from her neck to her thighs, without a single wrinkle or gap.
It was like a layer of deep blue liquid metal, poured onto her body, faithfully replicating every curve—
First, the chest.
Her enormous breasts, with their full cup size, revealed a complete, three-dimensional, and breathtaking shape beneath her soaked swimsuit.
Not the artificially enhanced shape supported by a bra—but a natural, gravity-driven, authentic shape.
Her two large breasts sagged slightly under the swimsuit, but thanks to the support of her pectoral muscles developed from years of swimming, the sag was minimal, and they remained remarkably full and perky.
The outline of her breasts began to expand from below the shoulder straps, like two side-by-side hills, forming a deep cleavage on her chest—even through the swimsuit fabric, the cleavage was still clearly visible, so deep it seemed to draw the eye in.
The most lethal part is the nipple.
Perhaps it was because the pool water was a bit cold—in mid-September, the outdoor pool water temperature was around 24 or 25 degrees Celsius—that her nipples became fully erect from the stimulation of the cold water.
Two raised, hard dots, their outlines were shockingly clear through the soaked Lycra fabric.
The one on the left is slightly higher, and the one on the right is slightly lower—this asymmetrical detail actually makes them look more realistic and more erotic.
The dark blue fabric created two small tents at the nipple protrusions, stretching the fabric texture and making the color half a shade lighter, transforming from dark blue into an ambiguous hue between blue and gray.
Lin Mo’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
His gaze continued downwards—
waist.
The transition from the chest to the waist is a breathtaking curve—the bottom arc of the huge breasts tapers below the ribs, and then the waist narrows abruptly, as if it were being gripped by a pair of invisible hands from both sides.
Her slender waist appeared even more delicate under her soaked swimsuit. The fabric of the swimsuit showed slight wrinkles at the indentation on her side, as it lost the support of her body—the only wrinkles, because the rest of her body stretched the swimsuit to its fullest extent.
And then—
Hips.
The transition from the waist to the hips is not a “gradual” change, but an “explosion”.
The waist maintains a distance of about ten centimeters at its narrowest point, and then the width of the pelvis suddenly explodes—the hip bones on both sides expand outward, causing the muscles and fat of the buttocks to expand backward and sideways, forming an exaggerated, almost unreal hourglass curve.
From the front, her waist-to-hip ratio is approximately 0.6—meaning her hip circumference is almost 70% larger than her waist circumference.
But Lin Mo wasn’t seeing the front at that moment.
After Gu Xueqing stood up, she bent down to pick up her swimming cap, which was placed by the poolside. She had taken off her swimming cap halfway through the swim and casually placed it by the poolside. This bending motion caused her buttocks to face Lin Mo.
The soaked, dark blue Lycra fabric clung tightly to the two round, plump buttocks, faithfully revealing every curve.
At the hip seam, the fabric is deeply recessed, forming a vertical dark line that divides the two halves of the buttocks into two perfect hemispheres.
At the junction of the buttocks and the upper thighs, the arc-shaped crease known as the “buttock line” is clearly visible—the soaked swimsuit is slightly rolled up at that point, revealing a small section of fair skin beneath the buttocks—only one centimeter, perhaps less than one centimeter—but that one centimeter of exposed skin is more lethal than any image of complete nudity.
Because it implies “something that can be seen with just one more centimeter.”
Lin Mo’s penis got hard inside his school uniform pants.
Not a slow, gradual erection—it’s an instantaneous, explosive erection, going from zero to one hundred.
Like a spring that has been compressed to its limit and then suddenly released, the 23-centimeter penis sprang from a flaccid state to a full erection in a fraction of a second, the glans hard against the inside of his thigh, and through his underwear and school uniform pants, he could feel every blood vessel on the surface of the glans throbbing.
His right hand left the edge of the curtain.
His right hand reached towards his waistband.
His fingers hooked the elastic band at the waistband of his pants and pulled it down.
He did this very slowly.
It wasn’t because of hesitation—hesitation died the moment his fingers touched his waistband—but because he was savoring it.
Savor the meaning contained in this action itself: He is standing behind his bedroom window, looking through the gap in the curtains at his biological mother, who is wearing a soaking wet swimsuit and bending down to pick something up. Then he is going to take off his pants, grasp his penis, and masturbate in front of her.
This is no longer a “passive physiological response”.
This is no longer an “uncontrollable impulse”.
This is a choice.
A conscious, proactive, and deliberate choice.
He chose to spy.
He chose to masturbate in front of his mother’s body.
He made this choice without any internal struggle.
—No. There was a struggle. But the duration of that struggle shortened from a dozen minutes on September 15th to a few seconds on September 17th, and then further to the present—
zero.
The school uniform pants and underwear were pulled down to the knees.
The 23-centimeter penis sprang out, trembling slightly in the air.
The veins on the pillar bulged out, like purple earthworms coiled on the scalding hot flesh.
The glans penis was large, like a purplish-red mushroom, with a layer of glistening prostatic fluid seeping from its surface, shimmering with a lewd sheen in the sunlight streaming through the window.
His right hand gripped the middle of the penis.
His five fingers could barely close together—his hands weren’t small, but the thickness of the penis prevented his fingers from fully gripping it; there was still about a centimeter of space between his thumb and middle finger.
His left hand gripped the edge of the curtain again, maintaining that five-centimeter gap.
His left eye was pressed against the slit.
The right hand started to move.
——
At the poolside, Gu Xueqing picked up her swimming cap, but instead of putting it back on, she casually placed it on a lounge chair.
She gathered her wet, long hair from both sides of her face to the back of her head with both hands, twisted it, and squeezed out a large amount of water—the water dripped from the ends of her hair onto her shoulders, flowed along the groove of her collarbone to her chest, and disappeared into the depths of her cleavage.
Then she walked to a small table by the pool, picked up a bottle of mineral water, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip.
The tilt of her head back fully exposed her neck—a long, swan-like neck with fair and delicate skin, and a shallow indentation at the position of her Adam’s apple that rolled up and down with each swallow.
Water flowed into her mouth from the bottle opening, but a small amount didn’t get swallowed and spilled from the corner of her mouth, sliding down the curve of her chin and dripping onto her chest—dripping onto the two G-cup breasts that were covered by her soaked swimsuit.
Lin Mo’s right hand quickened its pace.
The glans moved in and out of his palm. With each upward stroke, the foreskin would be pulled down to the coronal sulcus, exposing the entire purplish-red glans. With each downward stroke, the foreskin would cover it again, making a soft, sticky “tsk tsk” sound as it was lubricated by the prostatic fluid.
He bit his lower lip to keep himself from making a sound.
His eyes never left the figure outside the gap in the curtains.
Gu Xueqing finished her water and put the bottle back on the table. Then she did something that almost made Lin Mo ejaculate on the spot—
She stretched.
Raise both arms overhead, interlace your fingers, and stretch your body upwards.
This movement made her whole body resemble a fully drawn bow—her back straight, her abdomen tightened, and her chest lifted upwards as her arms were raised, causing her two large breasts to shift slightly upwards inside her swimsuit, making her cleavage deeper, narrower, and more alluring.
The soaked, dark blue fabric stretched like a drum across her stretched torso—the muscle lines of her abdomen were faintly visible, not the six-pack abs developed in the gym, but the soft, graceful curves unique to women, somewhere between flat and slightly bulging.
At the navel area, the swimsuit fabric has a small, round indentation, like an inviting entrance.
As her waist stretched to its limit, it bent slightly backward—this caused her buttocks to stick out, making the curve between her waist and hips more exaggerated, more unreal, and more like a fantasy product of some erotic artist than a real human body.
But she is real.
She was there. By the pool. In the sunset. Fifteen meters from his window.
She is his mother.
Unbeknownst to her, her son was standing behind the curtains on the second floor, his pants pulled down to his knees, gripping a 23-centimeter-long, rock-hard, vein-bulging penis, and frantically masturbating against her body.
Lin Mo’s right hand moved faster and faster.
The prostatic fluid had reached an uncontrollable level—clear, sticky fluid kept seeping from the urethral opening of the glans, making his entire palm and the shaft of his penis wet, and each stroke produced a “gurgling” sound.
He had to cover his mouth with his other hand, forcing back the gasps that were about to escape his throat.
Through the gap in the curtains, Gu Xueqing finished stretching, lowered her arms, and walked to the edge of the pool.
She stood by the pool for a while, seemingly hesitating whether to swim a few more laps.
The setting sun shone down from above the western wall, bathing her body in a golden light—the soaked, dark blue swimsuit took on an almost black hue under the golden light, while her exposed skin—arms, calves, and neck—was tinged with a warm honey color by the sunlight, smooth as if coated with oil.
She decided to stop swimming.
She walked to the pool’s ladder—a three-step stainless steel staircase extending from inside the pool to the outside—to get out.
She first turned her back to Lin Mo and gripped the escalator handrail with both hands.
Then she started climbing.
The first step. She stepped on it with her right foot, lifting her body upwards. The water receded from her waist to below her hips.
The second step. Her left foot followed, and her body continued to rise. The water level dropped to mid-thigh.
The entire buttocks were completely out of the water.
Water cascaded down her hips like a waterfall flowing from two side-by-side round hills.
The soaked, dark blue Lycra fabric clung tightly to the two round, plump buttocks, faithfully displaying every curve, every arc, and every undulation of the muscles—
At that moment, her gluteal muscles were contracting as she climbed the escalator.
When the left foot steps onto the step, the left gluteal muscle tightens, and the muscle lines of the left buttock bulge clearly under the swimsuit, like a piece of dough being kneaded and deformed under the palm of the hand; at the same time, the right gluteal muscle relaxes, and the right buttock droops slightly, presenting a soft, fleshy curve.
Then step forward with your right foot, and switch sides—tighten and bulge your right gluteal muscles, while relaxing and letting your left gluteal muscles droop.
Tight and loose. Hard and soft. Contraction and release.
The two buttocks contracted and relaxed alternately during the climbing motion, like two living, breathing creatures, making some kind of primal, instinctive, sexual rhythm under the deep blue Lycra shell.
Lin Mo’s eyes remained fixed.
His right hand has stopped moving.
It wasn’t because he didn’t want to continue—it was because he was afraid of ejaculating.
He was on the verge of it all—his testicles were clenching, his perineal muscles were spasming, and his semen was already welling up at the entrance of his urethra—but he didn’t want to ejaculate.
I don’t want to yet.
He wanted to watch a little longer.
Watch for just one more second.
Let’s look at it one more time—
Gu Xueqing climbed to the edge of the pool.
She stood by the pool, her back to him, and bent down to grab a towel draped over the lounge chair.
The bending motion caused her buttocks to stick up high again—the two plump buttocks, covered by the soaked swimsuit, glistened in the sunset, and the fabric at the cleft of her buttocks sank deep, outlining a crazy vertical line.
She picked up a bath towel, straightened up, and draped it over her shoulders.
Then she turned around, facing the direction of the villa—facing Lin Mo’s window—and looked up at the second floor.
Lin Mo’s heart clenched.
He instinctively took half a step back, and the gap in the curtains closed almost completely as his fingers loosened. But his eyes remained fixed on the gap that was now only two centimeters wide—
The mother’s gaze swept across the second-floor window without lingering.
She just glanced at it out of habit—perhaps to check if the light in her son’s room was on, or perhaps it was just a casual glance.
Her expression was calm, natural, and completely unaware.
Then she lowered her head, wiped the water off her face with a towel, turned and walked towards the back door, preparing to go inside.
Lin Mo stood behind the curtains, his pants pulled down to his knees, his penis as hard as a red-hot iron rod, the glans swollen and turning purple, the entire shaft wet with pre-ejaculate, gleaming with a lewd light in the dim light of the setting sun filtering through the curtains.
His hand gripped the penis again.
But he didn’t start masturbating immediately.
He closed his eyes and replayed the image in his mind—the image of his mother climbing up the pool ladder.
One step, two steps, three steps.
Contract and relax your gluteal muscles.
The left buttock is tight, while the right buttock is soft.
The right buttock is tight, while the left buttock is soft.
Water poured down from his buttocks.
Dark blue Lycra.
The protrusion of the nipple.
Waist and hip curves.
The dark lines along the cleft of the buttocks.
That one centimeter of fair skin that was exposed when bending over—
He opened his eyes.
He didn’t look out the window—his mother had already gone inside, and all that remained outside was the empty swimming pool and the shimmering golden water.
He was looking at the thing in his hand.
23 centimeters. Hard as an iron rod. Protruding veins. Glans penis purplish-red.
This thing doesn’t want his hand.
He knew.
His hand began to stroke.
It’s very fast.
The force was significant.
Each upward thrust carries an almost violent force—it’s not masturbation, it’s more like punishment.
Punish this disobedient, perpetually hard, and perpetually yearning thing for its mother.
The sound of the back door opening came from downstairs. Then came the sound of slippers on the floor. Then came my mother’s voice—
Xiao Mo? Are you back?
She found his shoes in the entryway.
Lin Mo’s hand paused for a second.
He opened his mouth, the sound squeezed out of his throat, and he tried his best to make it sound normal:
Hmm… I’m back… upstairs.
”So early?” The mother’s voice came from downstairs, filled with surprise and joy. “Why did school let out early today?”
”Teacher…training.” His voice trembled. His hand was still gripping the penis. The glans was still throbbing. Pre-ejaculate was still seeping out.
Oh, that’s perfect. Mom just finished swimming, she’s going to take a shower first, then she’ll make you some food. What would you like to eat?
Anything is fine…
”How about Mom makes you braised pork ribs? Isn’t that your favorite?”
good.
Okay, then you do your homework for a while, Mom is going to take a shower.
The footsteps moved toward the bathroom.
The bathroom door was closed.
The sound of water could be heard.
The sound of running water in the shower.
She is taking a shower.
Directly below him. Separated by a floor.
She was taking off her soaking wet, dark blue one-piece swimsuit.
She was pulling her swimsuit down from her shoulders, down her chest, down her waist, down her hips, down her thighs, down her calves, down her ankles—
She is naked now.
Hot water sprayed from the showerhead, drenching her naked body—drenching her G-cup breasts, her slender waist, and her round, plump buttocks—
Lin Mo’s right hand began to stroke again.
This time he didn’t control his speed.
His hand moved rapidly back and forth on the penis like a runaway machine, the prostatic fluid and sweat mixing together, making his palm and penis slippery.
The gurgling sound of water was exceptionally clear in the quiet bedroom, but he didn’t care anymore—the sound of the shower downstairs was enough to cover everything.
The image of the swimming pool was no longer the only thing on his mind.
The images of the swimming pool and the imagined bathroom intertwine, forming a more complete and deadly picture—
The mother stood up from the pool, her soaking wet swimsuit clinging to her body.
Then she took off her swimsuit.
Her G-cup breasts bounced out from under her swimsuit, the flesh white and smooth like solidified cream, the nipples erect and turning into deep pink dots from the cold water.
Then she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Hot water was poured over her, steam rose, and her skin turned pink—
He shot.
Semen spurted from the urethral opening of the glans penis, the first stream flying nearly a meter away, hitting the inside of the curtains and leaving a trail of cloudy white semen that slowly slid down the dark gray blackout fabric.
The second strand was slightly shorter and landed on the windowsill.
The third, the fourth, the fifth—his body was like a gun with its trigger pulled, shooting out thick, hot semen one spurt after another, each spurt accompanied by an electric-like pleasure that shot from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
He bit his left hand, choking back all his groans. His teeth left deep marks on the back of his hand, almost breaking the skin.
Ejaculation lasted approximately fifteen seconds.
Afterwards, his legs went weak, he took two steps back, leaned against the bedroom wall, and then slowly slid down the wall to sit on the floor.
His pants were still down to his knees, his penis was still half-erect, and there was residual semen on the shaft, which slowly became sticky in the light of the setting sun.
He looked down at his hands—his right palm was covered in a mixture of semen and prostatic fluid, sticky, slippery, and with a salty, fishy smell.
There was a row of deep teeth marks on the back of my left hand, which was red and swollen, with a little bit of blood seeping out.
His breathing hadn’t calmed down yet. His chest heaved violently, as if he had just run a kilometer.
The sound of water running from the bathroom downstairs continued.
My mother is still taking a bath.
She didn’t know.
She knows nothing.
She had no idea that her son had just stood behind the curtains on the second floor and masturbated in front of her soaking wet swimsuit.
She was unaware that her son’s semen had been ejaculated on the curtains, windowsill, and floor.
She didn’t know that when her son ejaculated, he was thinking about her taking off her swimsuit and standing naked under the shower.
She knows nothing.
All she knew was that her son had come home early and she was going to make him braised pork ribs.
Lin Mo sat on the ground with his eyes closed and the back of his head against the wall.
That scene was still replaying in his mind.
Not the panoramic view of the pool, not the details of the swimsuit, not the protrusion of the nipples, not the depth of the cleavage—
It’s the dynamic contraction of the gluteal muscles as the mother climbs up the pool ladder.
Step one. Tighten your left hip. Relax your right hip.
Step two. Tighten your right hip. Relax your left hip.
Three steps.
Water poured down from his buttocks.
Dark blue Lycra.
The muscles rolled beneath the fabric.
This image was recorded by his brain at a precision of sixty frames per second and stored in the folder named “Mother”—placed alongside images of her bending over in the kitchen, emerging from the bathrobe, and wearing a V-neck loungewear, becoming the newest, highest-resolution, and most insane frame for him.
He knew he would ejaculate at least twice more tonight.
And every time, this image would play in his mind.
The mother climbed out of the water.
Gluteal muscle contraction.
One moment tight, the next loose.
One moment tight, the next loose.