Chapter 9 He stared at the white stain on the curtain, his eyes reddening.

The semen slid down the curtains.

It’s very slow.

The dark gray blackout fabric does not absorb water, and the cloudy white liquid hangs on the surface of the fabric, dragged down at an almost stagnant speed by gravity.

Its trajectory wasn’t a straight line—because the curtain fabric had tiny folds and textures, and the semen was redirected by these folds as it slid down, leaving a winding trail, like the path left by a snail.

White. Viscous. In the small beam of sunlight that pierced through the gaps in the curtains at sunset, it shimmered with a translucent, pearly luster.

Lin Mo sat on the floor, his back against the bedroom wall, his pants pulled down to his knees, and his legs slightly apart.

His penis had begun to slowly recede from a fully erect state, but it was not yet completely limp—it remained semi-erect, with a mixture of residual semen and pre-ejaculate clinging to its shaft, giving it a wet, lewd sheen in the natural light.

The color of the glans penis gradually faded from the deep purplish-red of orgasm to dark pink, but there was still a ring of semen around the coronal sulcus that had not been completely drained, like a white necklace hanging at the base of the glans penis.

His breathing had not yet completely calmed down.

My chest was rising and falling, but the frequency had changed from the rapid rhythm of the climax to a heavy, slow rhythm—like an engine that was cooling down after being overloaded.

His eyes were fixed on the white mark on the curtain.

Staring without moving.

The semen had already slid down about fifteen centimeters.

The top part started to dry, turning from white to a translucent pale yellow, like a thin layer of glue.

The liquid continued to slide down, but the speed gradually decreased, and the tail of the liquid became thinner and thinner, like a river that was drying up.

He stared at it.

Staring at what he shot out.

Watch it as it hangs on the curtain, slowly slides down, and gradually dries.

Then he closed his eyes.

——

The moment I closed my eyes, the images in my mind started playing automatically.

It wasn’t something he wanted to play—it played itself.

Like a projector set to automatically loop, as soon as he closes his eyes, the image will appear on his mental screen on time, in high definition, in slow motion, with every detail.

The mother is stretching by the pool.

It wasn’t the same standing stretch she did before—it was a different movement. It was one of a series of stretches she did after climbing out of the pool and walking to the open space by the pool.

She braced her hands on the white non-slip floor tiles, arms outstretched, upper body lowered, waist arched downwards, and hips raised high—a common variation of the “downward-facing dog” pose in yoga, used to stretch the muscles of the lower back and the back of the legs.

In any fitness tutorial video, this is just an ordinary stretching exercise.

But the person who did this action was Gu Xueqing.

The person doing this is wearing a soaking wet, clinging, dark blue Lycra one-piece swimsuit.

The person who does this pose has G-cup breasts and an hourglass figure with a waist-to-hip ratio of 0.6.

When her waist arched downwards to its limit and her buttocks were raised to their highest point—

The fabric of the swimsuit left a deep indentation at the cleft of her buttocks.

It’s not “fitted” or “tight” in the usual sense—it’s “tight”.

The fabric is squeezed from both sides by the two outward-expanding buttocks, forcing it to sink deeper into the middle of the buttocks crease, deeper and deeper, until the fabric is tightly and seamlessly embedded in that crease, presenting the outline of the two buttocks completely, three-dimensionally, and mercilessly.

The two plump buttocks swelled outwards under the swimsuit, like two inflated balloons—no, more textured than balloons—like two doughs kneaded to perfection, smooth, full, and elastic on the surface, but every inch of muscle and fat inside was exerting tremendous pressure outwards, as if it could tear the thin Lycra fabric at any moment.

The fabric was stretched to its limit at the fullest part of the hips—the color changed from dark blue to light blue, and the fiber texture became sparse during the stretching, so that you could almost see the skin underneath—white.

Milky white.

That pure, almost glowing white that only intimate areas that have never been exposed to direct sunlight possess.

And the indentation at the buttocks—that deep, vertical indentation that divides the two halves of the buttocks in two—becomes more pronounced than ever when the body is arched and the buttocks are raised.

The fabric was tucked into the buttocks crease to a depth of at least two or three centimeters, outlining the gap between the two buttocks into a clear, dark, shadowed line.

The upper part of this line disappears under the swimsuit fabric at the waist.

Bottom end —

The lower end extends between the legs.

At that spot, the fabric wasn’t just “fitting”—it was practically sucked in. Along the inner thighs, the swimsuit fabric clung tightly to the skin, outlining a—

An outline.

An outline he shouldn’t have seen.

An image he could never erase from his mind once he saw it.

——

Lin Mo’s eyes snapped open.

His pupils were dilated to their limit in the dimly lit bedroom, like two black holes.

His breathing became rapid again—not from physical excitement, but because something deeper, more essential, and more terrifying was swelling in his chest.

He looked down at his right hand.

My palms were covered in dried semen—the white liquid had solidified into a translucent film in the grooves of my palm, and in some places it was peeling and curling up, like a layer of snakeskin detaching from its skin.

His five fingers were slightly curled, and his knuckles were a little red from the forceful stroking he had just done.

A small red scratch appeared on the skin between the thumb and forefinger, where the shaft of the penis had been repeatedly rubbed against the skin.

He stared at the hand.

This was the hand that had just been holding his penis and stroking his mother’s body for almost twenty minutes.

The temperature of this hand is 36.5 degrees Celsius. The same as body temperature.

The feel of this hand is—skin, bones, tendons. Hard. Dry. Rough.

The pleasure this hand gives him is friction.

Friction at a purely mechanical, physical level.

The friction between the glans and the palm, the lubrication of the prostatic fluid, and the psychological boost from visual stimulation—that’s all he gets.

all.

That’s all his right hand can give him.

How many times has he used this hand to masturbate?

From September 15th to today, September 19th, five days.

How many times did he masturbate in those five days?

He did the math.

September 15th, three times. Once in the bedroom in the afternoon, once in the bathroom after dinner, and once in bed before sleeping.

September 16th, twice. Once in bed before getting out of bed in the morning, and once while showering in the evening.

September 17th, three times. Once during break time in a toilet stall (that time was very dangerous, Zhao Yong almost knocked on the door), once after school, and once before bed.

September 18th, three times. Once in the morning, once in the afternoon, and once before bed.

September 19th—today—so far, once. Just now.

Five days, twelve times.

Twelve times of masturbation. Twelve times of ejaculation. Each time, the same woman’s body played in my mind.

His mother.

Gu Xueqing.

Thirty-nine years old.

Associate Professor, Faculty of Arts, Bincheng University.

His biological mother.

The woman who gets up at 6:30 every morning to make him breakfast, brings him a cup of warm milk to his room at 10 pm every night, and always dresses elegantly and sits in the front row at parent-teacher meetings.

He masturbated on her body twelve times.

Twelve times.

And the satisfaction these twelve times brought him—he was now sitting on the floor, semen hanging on the curtains, his penis dangling between his legs—

It is zero.

It’s not “very little”. It’s not “not enough”. It’s not “almost”.

It is zero.

It is a complete, absolute, and unreserved zero.

The pleasure he felt from his right hand evaporated the instant his ejaculation ended.

Like a cup of water being poured onto a red-hot iron plate—with a “hiss,” steam rises, and then nothing is left.

The iron plate was still hot.

The water is gone.

He was still thirsty.

——

Xiao Mo —

My mother’s voice came up from downstairs.

Separated by a floor, a staircase, and two doors, her voice became somewhat muffled, but her unique, soft tone with a slight nasal quality remained clearly discernible.

Mom’s going to cook. What kind of soup would you like? Pork rib soup or tomato and egg drop soup?

He opened his mouth. His throat was dry. His vocal cords felt rusty.

”Pork rib soup,” he said, his voice hoarser than he had expected.

Okay—Mom will start stewing it first, it should be ready in about an hour. You do your homework first!

Um.

Footsteps.

The sound of slippers pattering on the wooden floor on the first floor.

Then came the sound from the kitchen – the faucet was turned on, and the sound of water rushing against the stainless steel sink.

The sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing.

The cutting board was placed on the counter with a “thud”.

She’s cooking.

After taking a shower, changing her clothes, and drying her hair, she went into the kitchen, tied on an apron, and began to cook dinner for him.

Braised pork ribs. Pork rib soup.

His mother was downstairs making his favorite braised pork ribs.

He sat on the floor upstairs, his pants down to his knees, semen hanging on the curtains, and his penis still bearing the pre-ejaculate from when he masturbated in front of her.

The absurdity of the scene struck him like a hammer blow to the chest.

But what terrified him was not the sense of absurdity.

What terrified him was that he didn’t find it absurd.

He must have found it absurd.

He should feel disgusted.

He should feel ashamed.

He should be overwhelmed by guilt and self-loathing during this “post-ejaculation slumber,” then swear “this is the last time,” and then wash his hands, wipe the curtains, change his pants, and pretend nothing happened.

That was indeed the case the first few times.

On September 15th, after his first masturbation, he retched for three minutes in front of the mirror in the bathroom after ejaculating.

On September 15th, after ejaculating for the second time, he pinched the inside of his thigh with his fingernails, leaving a red mark. The pain made him gasp, but it did temporarily suppress the image of his mother in his mind.

On September 16th, after ejaculating, he took out his phone, opened a regular pornographic website, and tried to replace his mother’s image with that of another woman.

He watched for twenty minutes—Japanese, European and American, domestic—all types, all positions, all body types.

None of them could make him get hard.

Not a single one.

Those women’s bodies were like plastic mannequins in his eyes—they had shape, but no warmth, no smell, no fatal attraction that made him burn from the depths of his bones.

He shut down the website, closed his eyes, and the image of his mother bending over to take something from the refrigerator, her tight skirt clinging to her shapely buttocks, flashed through his mind—three seconds later, he was fully erect.

From then on, he stopped trying to replace her with other women.

It’s useless.

Nothing works.

His sexual desire was fixated on one person. Someone who shouldn’t have been fixated on. Someone he called “Mom.”

And now—on September 19th, after his twelfth act of masturbation—he discovered a fact even more terrifying than the “target”:

Masturbation alone is no longer enough.

——

His eyes were red.

It wasn’t the kind of red that “brings tears”—it was the kind of red that “the blood vessels inside the eyeballs are congested.” It was as if something was swelling, squeezing, and trying to burst out from deep inside his eye socket.

He wiped the corner of his eye with the back of his left hand—the same hand he had bitten himself so hard that it left teeth marks.

No tears.

Her eyes were red, but there were no tears.

He wasn’t crying.

Or rather—he wasn’t crying because of “guilt”.

If someone could read his mind at this moment, they would be surprised to find that deep in the consciousness of this eighteen-year-old boy, the moral anguish caused by the fact that “she is my mother” is shrinking at an alarming rate.

It hasn’t disappeared—it’s still there, like the last clump of grass that hasn’t been trampled flat on a patch of mud that’s been repeatedly trampled—but its area is shrinking, its voice is weakening, and its binding force on his behavior is being diluted day by day, time by time, tube by tube of semen.

Five days ago, the thought “she is my mother” could make him hesitate for more than ten minutes before masturbating.

Three days ago, it was shortened to a few seconds.

Today—zero.

The moment he saw his mother’s swimsuit-clad body through the gap in the curtains, he pulled down his pants.

Without hesitation.

There was no struggle.

No little figure standing in his head holding a sign that says “She’s your mother” jumped out to stop him.

That little man is either dead or locked in some basement that even he himself can’t find.

So his eyes were red not because he felt guilty.

Why is that?

He asked himself.

He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, his pants down to his knees, semen hanging on the curtains, his penis half-erect, his right palm covered in dried semen—in this extremely disheveled state, he earnestly, honestly, and without reservation examined his own heart, trying to find the real reason that made his eyes red.

Then he found it.

——

His right hand.

He lowered his head and looked at his right hand again.

The temperature of the palm of this hand is 36.5 degrees Celsius.

The grip strength of this hand is approximately forty kilograms.

The five fingers of this hand can encircle most of his 23-centimeter penis, and with the lubrication of prostatic fluid, they make reciprocating movements at a frequency of two to three times per second, producing sexual pleasure by rubbing the sensitive areas of the glans and coronal sulcus, and finally triggering the ejaculation reflex.

That’s all his right hand can do.

friction.

Dry, monotonous, mechanical friction.

Even with the lubrication of prostatic fluid, the palm still feels hard.

The hardness of the bones and tendons was transmitted through the skin to the penis, completely different from the sensation he had imagined, craved, and almost desperately wanted to obtain.

What kind of tactile sensation does he want?

He didn’t know.

He has never truly experienced it.

He was a virgin—in his eighteen years of life, the closest physical contact he had with a woman was when he was a child and his mother held him in her arms, and the brief touch of their arms as they passed each other in the hallway last week when his mother came out of the bathroom.

He has never slept with any woman.

He didn’t know what it felt like inside a vagina.

But his body knows.

His body—his penis, his testicles, his prostate, his entire reproductive system—has, through eighteen years of genetic coding and hormonal drive, developed a complete, precise, and irresistible set of “demand specifications”:

Temperature: 37 to 38 degrees Celsius. One to two degrees higher than the palm of your hand.

Humidity: Completely moist. Not the thin, constantly replenishing moisture of prostatic fluid—it is continuous, spontaneous, and inexhaustible moisture.

Tightness: It can wrap around every inch of the penis from all directions at the same time – not like the palm of your hand which only has one direction of contact, but a 360-degree, no dead angles, and airtight wrap.

Texture: Soft and elastic. Every inch of the inner wall is covered with fine folds and protrusions, providing a comprehensive massage and stimulation to the glans and shaft during penetration.

Feedback: It will contract. It will suck. The internal pressure and temperature will change with the depth and speed of insertion. It will spasm and tighten during orgasm—

His penis got hard again.

Less than five minutes after ejaculation, under purely psychological stimulation, the 23-centimeter penis that had just ejaculated a large amount of semen began to swell and become engorged with blood again.

The veins on the shaft bulged again, and the color of the glans changed from dark pink back to deep red. The entire penis, like a re-inflated column of air, slowly and firmly rose between his legs.

He looked down at it.

Looking at this tireless, perpetually thirsty, and utterly out of control thing.

”What the hell do you want?” he said to himself.

It didn’t answer. It just remained hard. Stiffly, pointing towards the ceiling, the urethral opening on the glans slightly parted, like a mouth, as if to say—

You know what I want.

You know that.

——

The sounds downstairs have changed.

The tap is off.

The sound of chopping vegetables, “thump thump thump,” came from the cutting board—a fast and even rhythm, the sound of my mother chopping ribs.

She was very skilled at cutting ribs; the sound of the back of the knife striking the bone was crisp and clean, and each cut landed precisely in the gap between the joints.

Then the chopping sound stopped.

The sound of oil sizzling in the pan—a “sizzle”—was the sound of ribs being added to the pot.

Then came the sound of a spatula stirring, the crisp sound of metal colliding with cast iron, mixed with the crackling sound of ribs frying in hot oil.

Then–

She started humming a song.

A very soft humming.

The melody was indistinct, and I couldn’t make out what song it was, but the tune was gentle, soothing, and had a lighthearted quality that comes with a good mood.

She had probably just finished swimming, taking a shower, and changing into clean, comfortable loungewear, and was in a relaxed and happy state—then she was in the kitchen, humming a song as she fried ribs, making her son’s favorite dish since he had come home early.

This is a mother.

An ordinary, gentle mother who loves her son.

She was cooking downstairs.

He was getting hard upstairs.

This comparison—

This fucking comparison—

Lin Mo clenched his right hand into a fist.

It’s not the kind of grip that involves holding a penis—it’s a pure, angry grip, with nails digging into the palm.

The fingernail left four crescent-shaped white indentations in the flesh of the palm, which then quickly turned red and oozed a slight stinging sensation.

He didn’t know what he was angry about.

Angry that your penis won’t obey? Angry that your brain has been hijacked by desire? Angry that fate made him reincarnated as this woman’s son instead of hers—

His train of thought came to an abrupt halt at this point.

It was like a car traveling at high speed suddenly slamming on the brakes; the tires screeched on the asphalt, and the car shuddered violently. But the inertia was too great; the car didn’t stop, it just slowed down.

Not her man.

The thought still came to mind.

He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and felt the veins throbbing in his temples.

My phone vibrated on the desk.

He didn’t move.

It shook again.

He still didn’t move.

It shook three times in a row.

He opened his eyes, stood up from the floor—his legs were a little weak, and his thigh muscles trembled when he bent his knees—pulled his pants up from his knees, straightened them, and walked to his desk to pick up his phone.

Zhao Yong’s WeChat.

Zhao Yong: [Brother Mo]

Zhao Yong: [As expected, Li Hao reneged on his debt after the pool game, saying he’d treat us next time.]

Zhao Yong: [Damn it, next time, next time, every single time it’s next time!]

Zhao Yong: [What are you doing at home?]

Lin Mo stared at the screen.

The light from the screen shone on his face, making his features appear deathly pale.

His eyes were still a little red—not noticeable unless you looked closely, but he could feel a slight throbbing pain inside his eye sockets.

He typed:

Lin Mo: [Doing homework]

Zhao Yong: [Pfft, you’re just being boring.]

Zhao Yong: [By the way, have you had dinner yet?]

Lin Mo: [My mom isn’t doing it yet.]

Zhao Yong: [Was it your mom who cooked again?]

Zhao Yong: [Your mom cooks for you every day, you must be so lucky!]

Zhao Yong: [My mom never cooks for me; it’s either takeout every day or my dad’s culinary disasters.]

Zhao Yong: [Sometimes I’m actually quite envious of you.]

Zhao Yong: [He has a beautiful mother who can cook, lives in a big villa, and has good grades.]

Zhao Yong: [Mo Ge, what a winner in life!]

Lin Mo looked at the words “has a beautiful mother who can cook,” and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. It wasn’t a smile—it was an expression more complex than a smile, one that even he couldn’t define.

Lin Mo: [It’s not as good as you say.]

Zhao Yong: [Be modest my foot!]

Zhao Yong: [Honestly, Brother Mo, your mom is the most beautiful parent I’ve ever seen, bar none.]

Zhao Yong: [Zhang Wei, who sat in the row behind me at the last parent-teacher meeting, told me that he saw your mom read the entire lesson notes but didn’t take a single word.]

Zhao Yong: [Hahahaha, Zhang Wei, that pervert!]

Lin Mo’s finger hovered above the screen for three seconds.

Zhang Wei.

He knows this person.

He was a student in Class 7 of Senior Three, sitting in the middle of the classroom. He had average grades, an ordinary appearance, and was not very noticeable.

But Lin Mo now remembers the name.

It wasn’t because Zhang Wei did anything—it was because Zhang Wei “watched his mother for the entire class.”

A whole class period.

Forty-five minutes.

He stared at his mother for forty-five minutes.

What are you looking at?

Look at her face?

Look at her figure?

Look at the way she sits with her legs crossed.

Look at her long, jet-black hair hanging down as she takes notes.

Look at the profile of her face when she looks up to listen to the teacher.

Look at her—

A sour, burning, and aggressive feeling rose from his stomach and filled his entire chest.

It’s not anger.

It’s jealousy.

Pure, primal, and irrational jealousy.

He was jealous that Zhang Wei could openly look at his mother at the parent-teacher meeting.

He was jealous that Zhang Wei could sit behind her and smell the gardenia-scented shower gel on her up close.

He was jealous that Zhang Wei could appreciate a beautiful woman with the eyes of a normal person, without guilt—something he couldn’t do.

He could only hide behind the curtains, like a mouse, secretly watching, secretly masturbating, secretly ejaculating, and then secretly erasing the evidence.

He’s not even as good as Zhang Wei.

At least Zhang Wei doesn’t have to feel like a pervert when he looks at her.

Lin Mo: [Stop talking nonsense and go do your homework]

Zhao Yong: [Oh, are you angry?]

Zhao Yong: [You’re not happy that I said your mom is beautiful?]

Zhao Yong: [Okay, okay, I won’t say anymore.]

Zhao Yong: [By the way, tomorrow is Friday after school, are we going to eat barbecue at that newly opened place? They said they have crayfish.]

Lin Mo: [Let’s talk about it later]

Zhao Yong: [Again, I’m asking what’s wrong with you lately? You seem so absent-minded every day.]

Zhao Yong: [Is the academic pressure too much? Should I ask for the counselor’s number for you?]

Zhao Yong: [Just kidding, haha]

Zhao Yong: [Okay, I won’t bother you anymore. I’m going to eat. Bye, mama’s boy!]

Zhao Yong sent a waving emoji.

Lin Mo placed his phone face down on the table.

He stood in front of the desk, head down, hands on the table, shoulders slightly hunched.

The bedroom was quiet.

The curtains were drawn tightly shut, with only a sliver of the setting sun letting in through the gaps at the edges.

A faint, salty, fishy smell filled the air—the smell of semen.

The white stain on the curtain had mostly dried, turning into a semi-transparent, slightly yellowish mark that was almost invisible unless you looked closely.

But he knew it was there.

He knew there were some on the windowsill too.

There were some on the floor too.

He also had them on his palms.

There was some in his underwear too—when he pulled up his pants earlier, the remaining semen from his penis rubbed onto the cotton fabric of his underwear, and it was now sticking to the inside of his thigh, sticky and slightly cool.

They’re everywhere.

His semen was everywhere.

On curtains, windowsills, floors, underwear, and palms.

It’s just not where it should be.

——

His eyes reddened again.

This time it’s more serious than before.

It’s not the red of bloodshot eyes—it’s the kind of red where the capillaries on the surface of the eyeballs dilate, swell, and are about to burst under the impact of emotions.

His lower eyelids trembled slightly, and his eyelashes cast dappled shadows as they trembled.

He didn’t cry.

No tears flowed.

But his eyes were red, his nose was sore, and his throat was tight—all the signs of crying were there, but the final step didn’t happen.

It’s like all the conditions for a storm are in place—dark clouds gather, air pressure drops sharply, and the wind starts to blow—but the rain just won’t fall.

Because he didn’t want to cry because he was sad.

He didn’t want to cry because of guilt.

He wasn’t crying because of “how could I have sexual desire for my own mother?”

He was because—

not enough.

The word echoed in his mind like a bell being struck repeatedly, each strike heavier, louder, and deeper into his bones than the last.

Not enough. Not enough hands. Not enough eyes. Not enough imagination. Not enough masturbation.

He saw her body—through the gap in the curtains, fifteen meters away, through a soaking wet Lycra swimsuit.

He saw her large breasts, her slender waist, her plump hips, and her long legs.

He saw the nipples protruding under the swimsuit, the indentation in the fabric at the buttocks, and the dynamic movement of the gluteal muscles contracting.

He saw everything.

But he didn’t touch anything.

All his hands touched was his own penis.

His penis only touched his own palm.

His semen hit the curtains—a damn dark gray blackout curtain.

Not her body. Not her skin. Not her—

He slammed his right fist on the desk.

He didn’t use much force—he deliberately controlled the force because his mother downstairs would hear.

But when that punch landed, his entire arm was trembling.

It wasn’t because of the pain—it was because of that suppressed, unreleased force that was about to explode his chest.

He wanted to touch her.

This idea did not exist in his mind as a “thought”—it was not an abstract, vague concept that could be rationally analyzed and refuted.

It is a concrete, physical entity that can be almost touched—like a nail.

A nail.

Rusty, rough, sharp-pointed nails.

It was driven into the top of his head by an invisible hammer.

First blow: He tried to touch her hand.

Those fair and slender hands—the hands that chop vegetables, the hands that turn pages in a book, the hands that bring him milk, the hands that were just paddling in the pool.

He wanted to hold those hands, to feel the warmth and touch of her fingers in his palms—soft, delicate, a touch completely different from his rough hands.

The nail went in one centimeter.

The second blow: He tried to touch her waist.

That slender waist that could be encircled with one hand—the area where the swimsuit wrinkles at the waist is the only part of her body that is “not full enough,” because her breasts and hips are so large that her waist appears even thinner.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her waist, to feel the slenderness and suppleness of her waist in his arms—his hands should be able to close easily, perhaps even his thumb and middle finger could touch.

The nail went in two centimeters.

The third blow: He tried to touch her breasts.

Those G-cup breasts—giant breasts swaying under the swimsuit, with protruding nipples and a deep cleavage.

He wanted to cradle them in his palms, to feel their weight—they must be heavy, each one at least a pound—to feel the flesh overflowing between his fingers, like holding two warm, elastic mounds that would change shape as he kneaded them—

The nail went in three centimeters.

The fourth blow: He wanted to touch her buttocks.

Those two round, plump buttocks—their buttocks that alternately contract and relax as they climb up the pool ladder, that stick up high when they bend over, and that leave deep indentations in the cleft of their swimsuits.

He wanted to knead those two buttocks with both hands, feeling their elasticity and warmth under his palms—they should be firmer and more elastic than breasts, because the buttocks have a higher muscle content—

The nail went in four centimeters.

The fifth hammer blow—

He wanted to insert his penis.

This hammer blow was the heaviest.

The force of the hammer blow was so great that his entire brain vibrated—like a small earthquake. All his thoughts, memories, reason, morality, ethics, laws, social norms, blood ties—all these things shook violently in the shockwave of that hammer blow. Some fell, some cracked, and some were still standing but were already crooked.

He wanted to insert his 23-centimeter-long, rock-hard, veiny penis into his mother’s body.

Inserted between the legs—a shape he could only see outline of, encased in a dark blue Lycra swimsuit—

The nail was driven all the way in.

The nail pierced his skull, cerebral cortex, hippocampus, and amygdala, reaching all the way to the brainstem—the area that controls the most primal instincts, evolved over millions of years, and is not governed by reason.

The nail was hammered in.

It can’t be pulled out.

——

Xiao Mo—Dinner’s ready—come down and eat!

The mother’s voice came from downstairs. Gentle. With a smile. With the unique, everyday, and simple happiness of a mother calling her son to eat.

Lin Mo stood in front of the desk, his hands supporting him on the tabletop, his shoulders trembling slightly.

He took a deep breath.

Then he took another deep breath.

He went to the wardrobe and changed into a clean pair of underwear and a pair of loose sweatpants.

He crumpled up the underwear that had been taken off and was stained with semen and stuffed it into the bottom of the closet.

I walked up to the curtains and wiped away the dried semen stains with a tissue—I wiped them three times to make sure there was nothing wrong with them.

I also wiped the windowsill and floor.

He stuffed all the used tissues into a plastic bag in his desk drawer—a bag he had prepared three days earlier to hold “evidence.”

He went to the bathroom and washed his hands. He scrubbed them twice with hand sanitizer. He also carefully cleaned the semen residue from under his fingernails.

He looked at his face in the mirror.

There was still a little redness at the corner of her eye.

He splashed cold water on his face, and the redness faded considerably.

He practiced an expression on his face in front of the mirror—a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, relaxed eyebrows, and calm eyes—the normal, everyday expression an eighteen-year-old boy should have when his mother calls him downstairs for dinner.

After practicing three times, he felt he had almost mastered it.

He walked out of the restroom and to the stairwell.

”He’s here,” he said, his voice steady and his tone normal.

He started to go downstairs.

With each step, the nail driven into his brain vibrates.

It doesn’t hurt.

Just here.

It’s there. It will always be there.

He wanted to touch her.

Not through a gap in the curtains. Not through a distance of fifteen meters. Not through a Lycra swimsuit. Not with the eyes. Not with the imagination. Not with the right hand.

He wanted to touch that body real, directly, skin to skin.

He wanted to put his hands on her waist. He wanted to bury his face in her chest. He wanted to insert his penis into her body.

This idea was like a nail.

It was nailed to his mind.

It can’t be pulled out.