That last grind snapped Liu Yiru back to reality. She shot her hand behind her, wormed it under the waistband of his briefs, and clamped her fingers around the thick, blazing shaft that was turning her brain to mush. Stop this before it goes nuclear, she told herself.

"Easy, sweetheart," she panted. "Let Mom finish you off again—quick and clean."

Ye Fei's answer was a growl. "No." He upped the pressure on her breast and kept rocking, sliding his cock through her fist and along the cleft of her ass at the same time. It felt—God help her—like he was already inside her.

The motion scrambled her last working brain cell. She tightened her grip, desperate to end the stand-off. "Fine. If you don't want my hand, I'm done helping—ever."

The threat hit like a bucket of ice-water. He froze, hands off her tits, hips still. "Okay, okay—whatever you say, Mom."

The sudden loss of heat left her dizzy. She sat up, raked her hair back, and tried to look stern instead of starving. "Listen, brat. I've used my mouth and both hands on you. How many mothers on planet Earth do that for their kid? Zero."

"Maybe," he answered, eyes shining. "But none of them look like a goddess either. Only you, Mom."

The compliment landed straight between her legs. She rolled her eyes, but the pleased flush gave her away.

"Flattery won't get you extra credit."

Still, the praise sped her pulse and her movements. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxer-briefs and yanked.

The fabric fought back. His cock—harder than steel and thicker than the designer had planned—jammed the shorts halfway down. She tugged harder; the elastic snapped free and the monster sprang up, slapping her under the chin with a wet thwack.

She burst out laughing. "Unfilial son—hitting your mother with that?"

"Let it apologize," he grinned, flexing so the head nuzzled her jaw in slow, obscene kisses.

Every brush of velvety skin sent a shot of static down her spine, pooling hot and liquid in her core. She realized, dazed, that any contact with his cock—chin, cheek, even the curve of her neck—lit her up like a switch. Either she was born hyper-sexual, or she was wired only for her son. The second idea should've horrified her. It didn't.

To shut the thought up, she wrapped her right hand around him and pumped, slow to fast. Her left cupped his balls, rolling them gently. On impulse she bent, popped one testicle into her mouth, and sucked, warm and wet, tongue swirling.

She heard his soft sigh.

Pulling off, she asked, "Too much?"

"Too perfect," he groaned. "That's the problem."

She lifted her head. "Explain."

"I'm feeling fantastic—and you're not. It's not fair. If you had a cock you'd know how insane this feels."

Laughter bubbled out of her. "Honey, women get their own brand of fireworks." She tapped her clit through her panties. "Different wiring, same blast."

He propped himself on an elbow, eyes wide. "Show me where. I want you to feel what I'm feeling."

"Lots of places, baby. You just played with Mom's breasts—those already feel amazing." Liu Yiru answered as if they were discussing a recipe.

Part of her knew a mother shouldn't be coaching her son on how to get her off, yet the words rolled out naturally. She still drew a line: she only mentioned the spot he'd already explored.

Ye Fei sat up instantly, trapping her wrist so she couldn't stroke his cock any longer. "Mom, lie back. Your turn to feel good."

She glanced at the angry-red erection jutting up like a flagpole. "Won't that leave you hurting?"

"So what? You've made me come twice already. I want to give you one." His voice carried the stubborn sincerity only a nineteen-year-old can manage.

She almost warned him that most women don't climax from breast-play alone, but his eager face stopped her. Why crush his generosity? She settled against the pillows. "All right, show me."

Ye Fei swung one leg over her hips, knees bracketing her ribs, and began undoing the tiny pearl buttons of her silk pajama top. The fabric parted, and her breasts spilled free—heavy, proud, not a hint of sag despite their size.

Years of Xuan Yin Art and daily maintenance kept them sculpted: creamy domes with pinky-sized areolae and nipples no bigger than peanuts, stiff now and flushed rose. Lit by the bedside lamp they looked almost sculpted—half Madonna, half centerfold.

He'd handled them dozens of times since her memory reset, yet the sight still punched the air from his lungs. He cupped them reverently, thumbs gliding across the satin skin. "Mom… like this?"

Her lashes fluttered shut—half bliss, half bashfulness. "Mm-hmm. Feels wonderful, baby."

He circled closer, index fingers flicking the rigid buds. "And this?"

A soft moan leaked out before she could stop it. "Even better… don't stop."

Encouraged, he experimented: kneading, lifting, letting them drop and jiggle; tracing the underside veins; rolling each nipple between thumb and forefinger until she whimpered.

Then he bent and drew the left one into his mouth, tongue swirling around the tip while he suckled gently, cheeks hollowing.

The moment her nipple slid into that wet, velvet heat, Liu Yiru's eyes fluttered open. There he was—her little boy, now a grown man—suckling at her breast like he had all those years ago. The memory hit like a tidal wave: the twins born less than an hour apart, her milk supply barely enough for one.

Because Ye Fei had been so fragile, every drop had gone to him; poor Yunqi had lived on formula. She'd held him exactly like this—tiny fist curled against her skin, cheeks working furiously—while his sister cried in the bassinet.

The image should have been pure, maternal, sacred. Instead the last ember of lust flared, fed by the very thought she tried to smother: He's my son, my flesh, and he's nursing me again. Each deliberate swirl of his tongue felt like a match struck against dry tinder. The more she reminded herself it was wrong, the hotter the blaze became.

Her fingers found his hair on their own, cradling his head the way she had when he'd weighed six pounds and smelled of milk and baby powder.

Back then the gesture had been about comfort; now it was pure accelerant. She threaded through the thicker, darker strands, pressing him closer, urging that wicked mouth to pull harder.

A low, shameless whimper slipped out—half lullaby, half moan—echoing around the quiet room.