Left eye, right eye, forehead, cheek, nose—every spurt moved an inch. Ye Fei painted his mother's face like it was canvas: a thick, white stripe across each eyelid, a rope over her parted lips, a final splatter on the tip of her chin.

Only when her famous features were completely glazed did he stop coming. Still straddling her, he dragged his half-soft crown through the mess, spreading cum into a glistening mask.

Liu Yiru never flinched. She knelt beneath him, spine straight, letting her son mark her. On any other woman it would've looked degrading; on Mom it felt like worship. Each slippery pass of his cock-head sent sparks straight to her pussy—by the time he finished she was soaked through her panties, arousal pooling on the sheets.

When the last drop was smeared, he leaned in, voice husky. "Like the skin-care mask I made you, Mom?"

She couldn't let him see how turned on she was. She forced a scowl. "Brat—defiling your own mother."

"I love you, Mom. I'd never defile you." He pouted. "You said it's good for the complexion—just trying to take care of you."

"And your excuses get wilder every time." She tried to open her eyes wider, but cum immediately ran into them, stinging. Cursing under her breath, she scrambled up, pajamas flapping, and hurried to the bathroom.

Cold water splashed over her face; streaks of white swirled down the drain. When she looked up, the mirror showed a stranger—cheeks flushed, pupils blown, lips bee-stung. She almost never wore makeup and rarely studied her reflection; tonight she looked… alive. She pushed the thought away and focused on the real problem.

Ten minutes ago I was scolding myself for dirty thoughts. One crook of his finger and I'm playing cum-target. The more she told herself He's your son, the hotter the fire burned. She hated the loss of control, even feared it. She stood there dripping, arousal and shame warring, for almost half an hour before she trudged back to the bedroom.

Ye Fei was still awake, propped on an elbow. "Couldn't sleep without you," he whispered. "Mom, you look wiped. What happened?"

"Just… some annoying thoughts," she muttered.

He pressed, gentle. "About me?"

"No. Nothing you need to worry about." She managed a tired smile. "Go to sleep."

He lay back, staring at the ceiling. "Bad thoughts are normal, right? Like—sometimes I imagine punching the kids who cut in line at school. Doesn't mean I'll do it. Can't arrest me for thinking."

Instantly her maternal radar blared. "Someone's bullying you?" Her eyes narrowed, cold murder flashing behind the mascara-smudged lashes.

"No, no one's bullying me," Ye Fei said quickly, feeling the fierce rush of his mother's protectiveness and loving every second of it. "Yunqi's with me every day—nobody would dare."

Liu Yiru exhaled, the murderous glint in her eyes softening back into maternal worry. "That's true," she murmured, letting the subject drop—too distracted to notice how neatly he'd just hijacked her conscience.

Bad thoughts, he'd said, but I didn't act on them—so no crime. The words echoed inside her like a key turning in a lock. She followed the logic, step by step, eyes growing brighter as the weight slid off her shoulders.

He's right. They're only thoughts. If I never speak them, no one can judge them. And as long as we don't cross the final line, I'm not technically committing incest—I'm just… helping him. Enjoying myself while I do it isn't a sin either.

She never stopped to ask why her nineteen-year-old son had zeroed in on "evil impulses" when she'd never specified what her "bad thoughts" were. Her mind was too busy celebrating its new loophole.

With a soft sigh of relief she climbed back onto the bed, curled into the bare, warm wall of his chest, and ignored the fact that he wore only a pair of cotton boxers. "Thank you, baby. You're right—I've decided not to worry anymore."

Ye Fei's answering squeeze was gentle, reverent, his arms wrapping her tight without a single grope. For a long minute they simply held each other—mother and son, sharing a warmth that hovered right on the razor's edge between familial love and something far more electric—both of them content, for now, to let the fire smolder rather than blaze.

A long stretch of quiet passed; Liu Yiru was almost asleep when her son's voice drifted through the dark.

"Hey, Mom… did you finish just now?"

"No," she murmured, half-dreaming and honest.

Ye Fei's answer came out small and disappointed. "Then I messed up. I felt good and forgot about you. Sorry."

The apology warmed her chest. She smoothed a thumb across his cheek. "Silly, it's not your fault. Rubbing my breasts felt nice, but that spot isn't where women climax most of the time. It's rarely enough on its own."

"So where is the spot?" he asked at once.

Liu Yiru almost blurted it out, then caught herself. She had drawn a mental line: help with hands and mouth was one thing; guiding him deeper could yank them past the point of no return. A faint flush colored her face. "Little kids don't need that map."

"I'm not a kid," he whined, hugging her tighter and rocking gently. "Tell me, please. I want you to feel what I feel."

The rocking dragged her sensitive nipples across his hard chest; each pass sent a fresh pulse of heat between her thighs. The idea of letting him push her over the edge—of shaking in his arms while he watched—sounded heavenly. Her breath hitched, but she kept her voice level. "You're still young. Some lessons wait."

"You said I'm big," he protested.

She laughed under her breath. "I meant your age, not your… equipment. And sixteen is still teenager territory. Plenty of grown men don't know how to please a woman. You've got time."

He pouted. "Back in the old days I'd already be a dad. Half my classmates are sneaking around. I don't even know how to make a girl come. Embarrassing."

She refused to hand him the manual tonight, but his constant nudging wore her down. "Fine," she sighed, exasperated. "Behave yourself, and when we're home I'll explain. Deal?"

"Deal," he grumbled, then added in mock fierceness, "And when that day comes I'll make you come so hard you squirt like a fountain."

The crude promise fluttered through her belly; for a second she almost invited him to try right now. She pictured liquid heat racing down her thighs while he stared, awestruck. The image faded quickly—she was sure only men "shot," and women simply got wetter—but the flutter lingered.

They left the topic there, drifting into safer small talk until their breathing slowed and sleep pulled them under, bodies still tangled, the unspoken promise pulsing quietly between them.