Yang Haoran felt a twinge of guilt, but he kept up his aggressive front. “What’s there to be afraid of? Afraid I won’t fuck you? Mom’s the same—all women are made for men to fuck.”
“Mm, that’s the domineering attitude I like, my little Master,” Shen Qing said, barely holding back her laughter. “If Ruoxi resists, Aunt will hold her down for you so you can fuck her hard.”
Aunt Shen’s lewd words sent a jolt straight to Yang Haoran’s crotch, his cock stiffening at once. Just imagining the scene was enough to make him unbearably aroused.
“Tonight, Aunt has a surprise prepared for you~” Shen Qing added teasingly.
“What surprise?” Yang Haoran asked, his curiosity piqued.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Hmph,” she huffed, acting like a petulant little girl.
That enchanting, flirtatious display was impossible to resist. Yang Haoran was both curious and full of admiration for Aunt Shen. He knew it was all an act, but it still set his heart racing with desire.
What could the surprise be…?
When they got home, Shen Qing told Yang Haoran to wait in her bedroom while she made dinner. Shiwen would be back soon.
Tonight was special for her—a complete farewell to her old, mundane life. And part of the reason she was cooking herself was a touch of guilt toward Shiwen.
She hadn’t been a good mother.
As time passed, Zhou Shiwen returned home.
The moment he stepped through the door, he noticed his mother bustling about. She was carrying steaming platters of delicious dishes from the kitchen to the dining table, each one fresh off the stove.
“Mom, is it some kind of holiday today? Why are you cooking yourself?” Zhou Shiwen asked curiously as he walked over to inspect the feast on the table.
His mother rarely cooked these days; she usually just ordered from a hotel. Over the years, unless it was a major holiday, her hands never touched so much as a drop of water for chores.
“It’s a holiday~ Let me think up a good excuse,” Shen Qing said playfully as she set down the final dish, pretending to ponder.
Zhou Shiwen: “…”
“Sit down and eat.”
After setting out the bowls and chopsticks and serving the rice, Shen Qing called to her son.
Zhou Shiwen took his seat and glanced at the table, puzzled. Why were there three bowls of rice? Before he could ask, he saw his mother take an empty plate and pile it high with food from the various dishes.
“Mom, who are you dishing that up for? Do we have a guest coming?” Zhou Shiwen couldn’t help asking as she picked up the overflowing plate and a bowl of rice, preparing to leave.
“Haipeng’s staying over tonight. He hasn’t eaten yet, and he’s not used to eating with us. Mom’s taking some food up to him,” Shen Qing explained, pausing at his question.
“Ah?” Zhou Shiwen was stunned. When did that guy get here? And where would he sleep? Not with Mom, right? “Where’s he sleeping, then?” A sudden wave of unease surged in his heart.
Shen Qing rolled her eyes at her son. “We have plenty of rooms in this house. No need to worry about that.”
Zhou Shiwen let out a sigh of relief. But then his mother’s next words left him frozen in shock.
“Tonight, Haipeng’s sleeping with Mom. Behave yourself and don’t disturb him.”
After giving her son that warning, Shen Qing carried the food upstairs toward the second-floor staircase.
She was afraid he might barge into her room unannounced, so she made sure to tell him first.
Watching his mother’s graceful figure disappear up the stairs, Zhou Shiwen felt a storm of conflicting emotions—like knocking over a bottle of five-spice seasoning. Right now, she looked just like the devoted wife and mother he’d dreamed of as a child, dutifully bringing food upstairs.
But why wasn’t it for him?
Staring at the lavish spread on the table, Zhou Shiwen suddenly lost his appetite. A bitter smile crossed his face.
…
When Shen Qing returned, mother and son sat down at the table. She couldn’t help noticing Zhou Shiwen’s low mood. With a sigh, she picked up a piece of braised pork and placed it in his bowl. “Eat up. Mom won’t do anything with him tonight—just sleep. Don’t overthink it.”
“Mm.”
Zhou Shiwen wasn’t sure what he felt anymore. His chest felt stuffy and tight, but he didn’t want to show it in front of his mother. He picked up the braised pork and bit into it savagely, the juices flooding his mouth.
He ate the meal without savoring it. Once full, he retreated to his own room alone.
His heart was in turmoil.
He knew he harbored that twisted, perverted cuckold fetish for his mother. But years of moral education screamed that it was wrong.
Yet he couldn’t deny how thrilling the fantasies were—irresistible. Reason and desire clashed within him, but it had never been this intense before.
Now, his mother was actually going to sleep with someone else—someone his own age. The conflict exploded like a bomb with a lit fuse, catching him completely off guard and leaving him torn between agony and excitement.
…
After clearing the table and dishes, Shen Qing went to take a bath.
She had no idea about her son’s complicated feelings and assumed he was just a bit upset, so she didn’t dwell on it.
…
A little past eight, in the master bedroom on the second floor.
The spacious, luxurious room was immaculate. Outside the window, night had fallen completely. A massive soft bed, big enough for three, dominated the center.
Yang Haoran lounged on it, legs crossed, bored out of his mind as he waited.
Aunt Shen had said she’d come after her shower, but he’d been waiting nearly an hour. His cock had gone from standing at attention to hanging limp in defeat. The one he was waiting for still hadn’t arrived.
“Good brother, we can’t let you suffer tonight. Just hang in there a bit longer.”
Yang Haoran muttered to his crotch, staring down idly.
Was Aunt Shen doing this on purpose? Good things are worth the wait, huh? As his mind wandered, the door creaked open.
Yang Haoran perked up instantly. He looked over—and his jaw dropped.
There stood Aunt Shen in an ink-purple, semi-transparent erotic qipao that set his blood boiling. Her fiery, sensual figure glimmered teasingly beneath the sheer fabric, revealing tantalizing glimpses.
Her makeup was exquisite and subtle: a face radiant as an autumn moon, hair cascading like a waterfall, brows fine and arched like distant mountains. Her eyes were seductive pools of autumn water, clear and sparkling with starlight like a galaxy in motion—eyes like the legendary Medusa’s, brimming with irresistible allure. Black eyeliner and soft brown shadow accentuated their mesmerizing charm.
That flawless oval face, peerlessly beautiful without a single imperfection, bore a faint blush like a crescent moon haloed in pink, dazzling to behold. Her ruby lips gleamed with poppy-like temptation, her elegant and seductive nobility making one feel unworthy even to look.
The ink-purple erotic qipao was adorned with clusters of blue flowers linking across the satin surface. Beneath the slightly transparent fabric, it was like a blooming sea of flowers embracing her voluptuous, ripe body.
Aunt Shen’s slender, swan-like neck led down to crisscrossing straps. Twin peaks rose majestically, tracing a breathtaking curve that stole the breath away. Her enormous breasts strained against the tight qipao, quivering on the verge of bursting free.
The chest featured a semicircular opening, exposing a seductive hint of cleavage—snow-white, massive orbs peeking out.
The slightly parted collar couldn’t contain their grandeur. Her creamy skin glowed like polished jade, so smooth and delicate that one could sense its silken texture with eyes alone.
A deep, bottomless chasm ran between the twin summits, the cleavage radiating hypnotic power that drew the gaze inexorably in.
The semi-sheer ink-purple fabric was thin as a cicada’s wing, its deep hue like black gauze. Beneath it, two tender nipples faintly appeared, elusive phantoms tenting the qipao with lewd points.
From her slender waist curved an exaggerated flare to her hips—like a massive, juicy peach or a towering hill, rolling and voluptuous.
The semi-transparent skirt and stockings clung to her plump rear, squeezing out a tight, profound cleft.
Under the hazy “black gauze,” it looked slicked with black oil—glossy, ripe, and utterly erotic.
The qipao’s sides were open, held only by thin straps across her lower back, baring the snowy skin of her waist and hips. Exposed yet tantalizing, the design screamed erotic intent.
The ink-purple hem draped straight down from her crotch. Through the light, a hazy pussy-shaped mound emerged—plump, full, and doughy. Even visually, one could feel its soft, tender give.
Above it, a thick patch of black curls added to the wanton display.
Her lush legs were long and shapely, encased in sheer black stockings so thin they revealed the pale flesh beneath.
With each graceful step in her black high heels, her stockinged legs swayed hypnotically. She glided toward him like a walking aphrodisiac, exuding soul-snatching allure. The crisp click of her heels on the tile floor struck Yang Haoran’s heart like drumbeats, one after another. His eyes burned red, primal lust surging.
