Adults only (18+). By entering you confirm you are at least 18 years old.
[Experience Summary] I am a middle-aged educated woman. My husband's early death made me a single mother early on. When my son was going through the confusion of puberty, I did not choose to avoid it, but after careful consideration took the initiative to guide and enlighten him. Who would have thought that, imperceptibly, we would hand in hand step into the Garden of Eden. Later, when I learned that he had the potential to be a Dom, I again took the initiative to lower myself and serve him in the position of a sub, and after continuous adjustment and in-depth communication, we finally established a formal Dom/sub relationship. We are trying to build a strict 7/24 fully lifestyle Dom/sub relationship, completely integrated into every detail of daily life. Whenever and wherever, we both, from the depths of our hearts, recognize each other's position, making it a real way of getting along and an attitude toward life. [Purpose of Coming Here] In coming here, besides recording the bits and pieces of our time together and our emotional experiences, I have also been thinking about how to grasp my own positioning in this relationship. Although my son also likes this state, he is a near-beginner, had no practical experience before establishing the relationship with me, and is rather introverted in character, so even if he likes something he does not easily express his thoughts directly, and I can feel that he is sometimes a bit at a loss. So, as his mother-sub, how can I better manage this hard-won bond, how can I better devote the entirety of my body and soul to him? I hope to exchange and seek advice with like-minded people who have unique insights. Those seeking an M, please do not disturb, thank you! Height 167cm Weight 53kg Leo
Lin Jiang Xian · Consoling Myself Half a life of tender heart congealed into jade bones, the west wind secretly changes my prime years. Born to be a masochist, I should be pitied. Slightly tipsy, charm arises; a faint smile reveals delicate beauty. Lotus in autumn water, ice-like skin so soft, infatuation at the heart and brow tips. From afar I honor my son-Master, distant as clouds and smoke. Tonight spring waves surge, in wind and moon I cannot sleep.
Partridge Sky · Longing for My Son-Master A heaven-given bond with my son, my motherly fate, sweet voices and pretty words spread night after night. Whips and ropes wantonly ravage springtime charm, lips and tongue diligently forget the dawn chill. Joy not yet spent, dreams incomplete. Accompanying my son in socks and shoes, still hard to sleep. The red candle burns out, tears of longing for you, dripping through jade buds, the moon wanes again.
Someone asked me, my son-Master is still young, and in the future he may meet another girl and enter a relationship or get married, so how would a parent-child dominant/subordinate relationship like ours be maintained? First, as his subordinate, I have no right to interfere in his private life, and no standing to interfere with his freedom in how he disposes of me, and I have never regarded myself as his partner. Even if one day he abandons me, I will gladly accept it, as long as it is what he wants. Because the value of my existence is to make him happy, not to restrict him or bring him displeasure or burden. I have also talked with him about this topic. He said he is single now, but whether he later chooses a relationship or even marriage, he will find a girl in the scene who can accept me and approve of a diverse parent-child relationship, and no matter how they get along, I will be their shared subordinate. For me that is truly a great grace, but in reality there must be very few girls who can accept this, right? Would it be hard to meet one? I hope to exchange with sisters who have considered or already entered a relationship or marriage in the scene. Thank you!
[Is it possible here to meet a sister I can confide in?] At this moment I really hope to meet a sister in the circle who can truly understand me, even if just to chat casually about daily life, or to confide in each other about the confusion deep in our hearts. After all, becoming my son's submissive, I have taken a rebellious road transcending the secular. Although I have never regretted it, sometimes I also feel lonely, and have various confusions, and these are hard to exchange in real life with friends around me, even my closest best friend. Perhaps I feel only women understand women better, whether physically or mentally, making it easier to unload inner concerns and speak without scruples about what I think. If here I can find a pure land, meet a sister I can confide in, unrelated to interests, not counting gains and losses, chat freely about our hearts, exchange feelings, and even if necessary give each other support and advice, that would be a gift from heaven to me. After all, a taboo relationship like mine with my son is not tolerated by the secular world; even within the circle, not many understand and accept it. I do not demand heaven give me such favor, but I still hold a trace of expectation, hoping to meet her. Thank you!
Lan Ling Wang · Oath to Lock the Heart The diamond mirror is lonely, under the moon pearl curtains hang dense. Cloud hair undone, soft snow congeals fat, secretly stroking fine jade blossoming spring intent. Following fragrance, gathering sleeves, entering, kneeling, mist soaking the mat. Slightly prostrate on the ground, orchid breath exhales fragrance, wishing to become dust and frost serving my son's shoes. Still remembering first receiving abundant grace. Just as the necklace was first cold, bells trembled startling the evening. Lowering brows, holding jade, attending before the steps. Letting charming bones entwine, plain skin wrapping cleverly, after makeup again tying the concentric knot. Tender heart tied for you. Infatuated to the extreme, soul like lacquer. Even if jade cracks and fragrance vanishes, pain also becomes honey. Facing up receiving clear dew, holding a frown leaning. Vowing this body will long accompany, not refusing morning or evening. Morning light透 through curtains, gathering quilt and pillow, tidying the mess.
Shui Long Yin — Parting, Hoping for Return Jade hairpin slanting and falling, cloud hair disordered; cold moon secretly peeks at the vermilion door. Fragrant steps draw stockings, painted curtains hang to the ground, beast incense faintly passes. Wanting to fix faded makeup, yet adding clear tears, shark silk handkerchief沾 fluff. Thinking of the orchid collar after parting, the diamond mirror full of dust, who will paint for me, spring mountains charming? Still holding the mandarin-duck quilt, softly pleading: wish to again be moistened by rain and clouds morning and evening. Silver lamp illuminates the night, brocade sash turns waves, diligently and frequently caring. Willow-moon waist, how can it bear parting, several times wind and dew? Only with fixed eyes looking far away, where smoke waves are vast, recognizing my son's returning road.
Jian Zi Mu Lan Hua · Soft Fragrance Golden hook half rolled, embroidered mattress obliquely leaning, silk stockings shallow. Slender hand picks up clothes, trying to loosen the fragrant sash, flirtatious eyes low. My son laughs and twists, brocade belt lightly thrown, spring intent revealed. Lotus steps produce smoke, soft jade warm fragrance attending before your shoes.
Xing Xiang Zi · Pear and Begonia Newly blooming pear and begonia, secretly crossing dusk yellow. There are crystal curtains, candle shadows secretly hidden. Silk jacket lightly loosened, casually trying fine wine. Gradually peaks rise, tide surges, cheeks fragrant. Receiving grace, why hurry; holding a pearl must be careful. Further, spring mountains slowly sweep my son. Clove understands speech, purple jade flows fragrance. Just as the lamp peeks at down, bees peek at buds, moon peeks at window.
I am a withered branch of late autumn, already past the age of flowering, yet I insist on trying to sprout a little green in your spring courtyard. You are a young king, your gaze is an imperial edict before the throne. I bow down not to pick up lost dignity, but to kiss the dust beneath your feet. My remaining life is no more than a wisp of faint light leaking from your fingertips; if you allow it, it is my daylight; if you take it back, it is my eternal night. Let me use my last remaining tenderness to warm a pot of wine for you, and use my humble silence to pave the road ahead for you. My life is a candle you burn out, my soul is a boat for you to cross the river. When wind and waves come, please do not worry about my breaking. When your boat reaches the other shore, I am willing to sink to the bottom of the water and become, in your voyage, a silent punctuation mark known to no one.
Nan Xiang Zi · Thinking of My Son's Grace Fading stamens love the remaining spring, still before my son I offer my humble body. Going low into the depths of dust, eagerly, only to brush the road dust for your feet. This world already has no body; even if burned to ash I still hold the truth. Do not ask how much of my fading life remains; again and again, I only call Master, not grace.
Son&Mom～S&M. Life is truly so wonderful; two pairs of relationships of extreme contrast have formed a real intersection between him and me. Once he belonged to me, now I belong to him; once mother was kind and son filial, now the son is honored. From his adolescent enlightenment to intimacy transcending the secular to establishing a dominant-submissive relationship, if not for my initiative, perhaps we really would have missed this fate. I still remember his surprise the first time I explained male and female physiological knowledge to him; I still remember his shyness the first time I showed him my body without reservation; I still remember his satisfaction the first time I taught him how to release himself; I still remember his joy on his birthday when I fulfilled my promise and gave him the “coming-of-age gift”; I still remember his excitement when I knelt at his feet and recited the contract of surrender. From that moment, my life, like a phoenix's nirvana, had new meaning.
Huan Xi Sha · Intoxicated Night after night before the honored one I kneel, Yue Niang; candle flowers and whip shadows together frivolous. A whole foolish heart offered to my son. A golden plug secretly locks the tender chrysanthemum gate; imperial feet deeply gather the honey stamen's fragrance. To be intoxicated for you, what objection could there be!
How can an older, relatively more experienced submissive get along better with a younger, inexperienced dominant? For me, in getting along with my son, I will lower my posture as much as possible, feel his needs with my heart, integrate into every detail of life, and give him an experience he cannot obtain in a general relationship. I will use language or behavior to give him some hints and encouragement. I will fully exert my initiative, rather than becoming a thoughtless puppet. I will as much as possible provide him with plans, ideas, and options for him to choose, letting him dispose of me without reservation in the way he wants. At any time I will not give him a sense of frustration; I will always keep a low position, letting him slowly gain confidence in this relationship and grow continuously.
From conceiving his life to becoming his plaything, this is a road full of thorns yet full of surprises, not knowing where it leads yet able to bring endless reverie! Along the way, I have many feelings. Because my relationship with my son transcends the secular, I have also prepared myself mentally not to be accepted or recognized, even to be denied and labeled. I can fully understand some people's lack of understanding of me, but I am grateful for your respect and moved by your kindness. I also want to sincerely thank those friends who encourage and support me, communicate sincerely with me, and provide me with various constructive opinions and suggestions. You have given my lonely heart the strongest support and the warmest comfort. Thank you!
Chang Xiang Si — Waiting for My Son's Return Lamp flower trimmed, candle flower trimmed. Leaning obliquely on the west tower, sitting through the night, fragrant skin reduces the plain waist. Road far, far; thoughts far, far. Longing for my son's return, indulging in tenderness; makeup done, kneeling to play the flute.
Night Soul-Dissolving Lightly playing the silver bell, trembling mother's hill, Tender lips, powdered face, waiting for my son to pull. Washing away all mundane dirt with sacred dew, Jade stamen, spring stream, flowing toward you.
Seven-Character Regulated Verse · Devotion The character “heart” incense remains, the seal not yet faded; brow mountains lightly frown, drawn for my son. Tan throat softly sings, oriole voice charming; slender sleeves lightly raise, butterfly shadows graceful. Silk stockings, dust born, still restrain steps; Xiang curtain, moon cold, timid to lightly throw. Flowing fragrance at the purple palace, who will care for it? I give all my secluded feelings, holding the jade flute.
Shao Nian You · The Character “Heart” Tattooed for My Son Jade tower, wind and moon lock my humble body; in the cage a pretty beauty. Eyes convey autumn water, cheeks turn red waves. Peaks move, fragrant lips tremble. Thread after thread of spring stream crosses the jade gate, wordless yet soul-dissolving. The whip applies love marks, candle drips spring tears. The character “heart” is tattooed for my son.
I once was the universe that held him, his pulse once was the tide in my palm. And when one day I took the weight of “guidance” and “shelter,” together with the armor cast from years of deep intimacy, piece by piece, and quietly unloaded them into his outstretched palm. Giving, it turns out, requires more courage than holding tight. Perhaps in most people's eyes, it would probably seem absurd. But underneath that absurdity is a kind of unspeakable peace. I can finally, with relief, give myself away. To this person I brought into the world, into his young, warm palm. Bowing to him is not falling; bowing is a mother's chosen, final freedom.
Seven-Character Regulated Verse · Morning Joy Embroidered curtains not rolled, the sun is late; lazily rising to comb hair, temple shadows droop. Silk belt loosely thrown, pair of butterflies scattered; jade hairpin slanting and falling, phoenix infatuated. Clove secretly asks for pearl dew; plain hand stealthily evens brocade handkerchief silk. Asking my son how deep or shallow joyful love is, under the crabapple flowers trying a new posture.
My son is away on a business trip, not home; the house is empty like a church, and I am a believer who forgot to take herself away. Middle-aged me has long learned decorum. But decorum, before the scent he left behind, shatters to the ground. I cannot bear to touch his socks — that soft, shed night, still holding the shape of his ankle. At a touch of my fingertips, my palm first grows damp, my throat tightens, my spine feels as if gently whipped by an invisible whip, my knees bend before reason. I pick up the shoes he wore; the soles have dust, the insoles have the mountains and rivers he walked. I bury my face in them, like prostrating in the hollow of an altar. Leather, sweat, rainwater, a long road, all surge in. My breathing becomes shallow and rapid; in my body there is a tide that cannot recede, nor can it rise. I will kneel by the bed, bury my face in the pillow he pillowed on, smelling that little remaining scent and faint body heat. I will pick up the cup he drank water from, fingers against its rim, like against his lips; I will hold the shirt he changed out of in my arms, holding tighter and tighter, until the last bit of his scent on the fabric seeps into my breathing. Every item he has used is enough to make me hot; the floor he has stepped on is like a sacred object. I am not missing him, I am worshipping; this is not desire, it is famine.
Yu Mei Ren · My Lord's Grace The fading lamp flickers through the third watch's leak; in the dark I count how thick my lord's grace is. Before my knees I once promised to be dust and mud; even if I become dust and mud I will only roost toward my son. Fragrant ointment by itself loosens, silk shirt shed, left to await new scar marks. Jade skin by birth receives the purple vine branch; precisely when in pain the taste is better than when sweet.
Yu Mei Ren · Waiting for Return The empty boudoir is lonely, no one asks; alone I guard the fading lamp's ashes. My silk clothes still carry old tenderness; I endure facing the mirror stand and recognizing again how deep my son's grace is. A golden bell suddenly rings, I suspect returning steps; I hurry to look before the steps. It is only the wind moving the small curtain hook, mistakenly throwing my heart and soul again into mid-air.
The Mid-Autumn moonlight was like mercury spilled on the ground, coating the city in a gentle silver glow. I carried large and small bags following behind my son, high heels making fine sounds on the stone pavement. The shop window reflected my shadow — a forty-six-year-old woman, fine lines already at the corners of my eyes, yet still with exquisite makeup, because he likes me like this. “Tired?” He turned back to look at me, his young face especially clear in the moonlight. I shook my head, but my heart skipped a beat. The twenty-some years of age difference and the taboo between parent and child may be a chasm in others' eyes, but in my heart, it was a destination crossed over long years. Just now in the restaurant, I peeled shrimp and cut steak for him at the table, humbly serving him his meal. At that moment, I did not care about anything around me, even the strange gazes from neighboring seats; I only cared about the satisfied arc at the corner of his mouth. In the crowded mall, my son walked in front, I followed half a step behind. This distance, I had pondered over countless nights — neither so far as to fall out of sight, nor so close as to overstep propriety. Outside the fitting room, I lowered my head to tidy the clothes he had taken off, my fingers stroking the shirt still carrying his body heat, my eyes suddenly warming. This body was no longer young, yet still longed to be needed, used, possessed. Carrying shopping bags walking in the night, the moon was round and bright. I recalled just now in the plaza, my son sat on a bench, I crouched down to tie his shoelaces, my eyes only on the arc of his ankle, my heart only on the satisfaction of being needed. This is me — a middle-aged woman, when everyone else is admiring the moon and reuniting, willing to kneel and serve my moon. “What are you thinking?” He suddenly stopped. “Thinking…” I met those young eyes and softly said by his ear, “It's so good to be able to stay beside Daddy like this.” However round the Mid-Autumn moon is, it is not as fulfilling as one glance from him. I know I am no longer young, but precisely because I know, I must offer all my remaining tenderness. This desire is carved into my bones — to be used, to be needed, to be possessed by him, until the day I can no longer kneel.
Qing Yu An · Remembering the Night Candle flowers have fallen, the water clock broken; before my knees I serve, silk shirt half open. Plain hands peel an orange, fragrance secretly splashing. On my tongue I receive dew, in my brows I hide affection, low into the dust's edge. Long kneeling on the jade steps, both feet soft; loosening belts, pulling clothes, let them unroll. To repay my son's grace, I offer my body entirely. Before the lamp shadows tremble, in the curtains voices gasp, shyly asking: have you ever tired of me?
Xiang Jian Huan · Night of Parting Osmanthus fragrance still on the curtains, the moon hazy. One night's deep grace like the sea soaking the autumn sky. After my son leaves, the lamp is as before, I hate the haste. I only keep the double marks on my knees guarding the fading red.
Huan Xi Sha · For You I Pour Once, in my belly as a mother, an infant; now you have become my son above, a heroic figure. A whole humble heart pours for you. Kneeling to drink sacred liquid like immortal dew, prostrate eating leftover roasted food is better than fine soup. Grace moistens the soil, let you plow.
Qing Yu An · In the Diamond-Flower Mirror, Autumn Makeup Is Thin In the diamond-flower mirror, autumn makeup is thin. I arrange my cloud hair, pin a pearl calyx. My plain hand lightly parts the weak silk belt. The jade steps are moss-cold, embroidered shoe traces shallow, secretly entrusting my spring heart. Kneeling and bowing my head, I receive grace. Hair disordered, hairpins askew, let you tease me. Do not ask what a mother's heart is like. A trace of soft moon, half a window of flower shadows, all fall before my son.
Perhaps I am a natural submissive, born with an almost shameful sensitivity. When others' gazes fall on me, even if only a light glance, it is like fingertips with temperature, going down along my spine, making me tremble involuntarily. My body seems made for submission — every inch of skin is overly alert, every nerve overly honest, even the finest fluctuations in the air can make a damp warmth rise in my heart. On nights when my son is not home, I countless times recall myself kneeling at his feet, forehead against the cold floor, offering all my obedience in the most humble posture, stripped of all dignity, leaving only a burning body waiting to be dominated. I long for my wrists to be bound, a collar around my neck, to be commanded, used, treated as an object without will. A casual glance from my son can make my whole body go soft, and from my bones I feel a satisfaction close to trembling.
Pu Sa Man · Ice Skin and Jade Bones, Born So Ice skin and jade bones, born so; in orchid soup I first try, spring shirt soaked through. Candle shadows sway on red silk, dark fragrance floats at the slender waist. I lower my brows to receive rain and dew, until Mu's heart is given. I wish to be the servant beside the couch, attending the jade pot morning after morning.
Pu Sa Man · The Candle Dragon Holds the Moon, Peeking at the Vermilion Door The candle dragon holds the moon, peeking at the vermilion door; the jade hairpin slips askew, a fragrant shoulder exposed. Bell cords bind the slender waist, tender sounds pass through green silk. I bow my head to receive my son's spittle, my flirtatious eyes hold falling stars. Jade liquid seeps into the red lotus, my fragrant heart itself feels sweet.
[Discussion: How to view “sharing”] From the dominant's perspective, would he prefer his submissive to belong exclusively to him, absolutely forbidding others from touching her? Or would he hope one day to share her with others? How do fellow submissive sisters consider this? Although my son has not yet made a clear request of me, I understand this is a problem that will inevitably have to be faced when a dominant-submissive relationship enters deep waters, and I have thought about it seriously. For me, if in the future he has such an idea, what surges in my heart is not resistance or unease, but a heavy sense of luck at being recognized and gifted, and also a manifestation of my value. He is willing to show me to others, which means he has absolute confidence in my qualities as a submissive, because only something one is proud of would one be willing to display and share with others. This sharing is not abandonment, but another form of “being seen.” My value lies in being able to win respect and envious gazes for him. I will not panic or act coy like a little girl; I know how to receive everything with mature consideration. When others praise him because of me, that is my most glorious moment. Being shared is not losing myself, but confirming my belonging on a broader dimension. My heart is always anchored in his direction; this is also the deepest way to express loyalty.
Su Mu Zhe · Joyful Love Peonies collapse, butterflies tremble. Crawling before the steps, secretly spreading my silk skirt. Where the golden whip falls, spring waves surge. A jade body lies across; do not let the lamp flower darken. Dew condenses, cloud hair is disordered. Kneeling, I hold the jade cup, face up receiving favor. Lips and teeth hold fragrance, shyly asking about the meal. May I be allowed, Mother, to lick clean the cup beside your feet?
Song in Service to My Son Half a life of wind and rain gathers at my brow's peak; I turn straight toward my son and make a lowly bearing. It is not that my spring heart is not yet old; it is only that my intent to submit is especially strong. The lamp is dim, fragrance warm, curtains still; silk stockings soundlessly step on moonlit traces. Before you speak I first understand your intent; before receiving your command my body already bows. Kneeling, I hold a silver tray, the tea is just hot; in a low voice I call Master, my words languid. A little snow at my temples shames the emerald hairpin; the lingering waves at the corners of my eyes secretly convey respect. To loosen a belt I first warm the pair of jade pendants; to make the bed I fold again the brocade lotus. My fingertips lightly touch the ground before my knees; my forehead lowers, bowing in the downwind. I wish to be the grass below the steps of your house; let others trample, still green and lush. If you raise your eyes, Mu is glad; if you frown, Mu is afraid. Every frown and smile is a heavenly command; inch by inch my tender heart follows around your finger. Serving a cup I first taste its warmth and cold; arranging clothes I also iron folds and seams. Deep in the night I trim the candle and add incense to the beast-shaped burner; at dawn I rise to do makeup and wait for the dawn bell. I do not envy the mandarin-duck couples of the human world; I willingly am a lazy little raccoon under the curtain. Only in middle age do I know softness can be relied on; only with a lowly body do I feel love is endless. Romance is not on a rouged face, only in lowered brows and turns. If I can get light marks left on my snowy wrist, it is better than red beans carved exquisitely. I wish to pour out all my remaining warmth, in exchange for one weighty glance from your heart. Flesh, body and skeleton can all be given up; my soul delivered even more calmly. A plain ring lightly buckled receives your hand; I ask no one else about beginning or end. Even if passing years urge white hair, this body and this intent bow only to you. If you ask what I wish for in this life: to long be a red lamp beside you.
He was born from my flesh, I raised him to grow up. Once he belonged to me, and now I belong to him, and I belong more thoroughly, without reservation, without scruples. His birth, to me, was like the first ray of sunlight God gave to the world, like the first drop of rain the heavens sprinkled on parched earth. He lit up my lonely heart, he nourished my dry skin, he let me become the person I once wanted to become. As a mother, to be able to give all of myself without reservation to him in this special way is my luck; as a submissive, what dominant could bring each other such an unforgettable shock in the heart?
I was originally a mature woman past her prime; receiving my son's favor, he does not treat me as an ordinary wife, but alone wishes me to have the nature of a courtesan of Zhangtai and the bearing of Beili. Not only wanton clothing and frivolous words, but he wishes me to exude charm from my marrow, and flirtation to flow from my daily conduct. In everyday markets, in my work, in social life, to be a decadent, wanton woman. Drunk deep in the sea of desire, willing to be duckweed, letting anyone pluck me, setting no barriers; taking rottenness as sweetness, and debauchery as normal. Like a flower facing the wind, releasing its fragrance by itself; like a willow by the water, drooping its branches by itself. Moreover, my son does not like me to obey blindly; he wishes me to devise my own ways, find my own paths, verify with my heart, practice with my body. Hearing this command, my heart has no resistance, instead I feel elated, but I have no plan in mind, the details are unclear, as if looking at flowers in fog. I humbly hope that masters within the seas and like-minded worthies will not stint their pearls and jade, and show me a way across; either teach me methods of the heart, or lay out details, so I can go from shallow to deep, from outside to inside, gradually become what my son hopes for, and also become a form in which my own heart is at peace. If I receive your teaching, I will be endlessly grateful.
[About the pinned post] About the second expectation my son has of me in my pinned post: “In everyday life and social life outside, spontaneously become a depraved, dissolute slut, from the bones, from inside out, without reservation, radiating a seductive aura, at all times immersed in rotten desire, without scruples becoming a promiscuous woman available to anyone. And he hopes I can take the initiative to think and practice, rather than relying completely on his specific instructions.” I did not expect that some friends would really come to discuss this seriously with me and give me many good suggestions. I want to thank you for your sincerity. There are also friends who find such an expectation incomprehensible, or think he is not a real dominant, or think he is going to abandon me this way, and repeatedly confirm whether I really am willing to become like this. I also thank you very much for your concern. For me, a dominant-submissive relationship has no fixed pattern in itself; as long as we fit each other, that is the best state. As long as it can bring him even one bit of pleasure, I am willing without hesitation to do anything for him. Even if in the future I am really abandoned by him, as long as that is what he wants, I will gladly accept it. What makes me feel even more wonderful is that, thinking carefully, deep in my heart I have actually always buried a desire just like his expectation. I have countless times fantasized about becoming what he expects, although it was only a vague shadow, not clear, but enough to bring me endless trembling and gushing. It turns out this is not his wishful thinking; instead, in the dark, it is fulfilling me, giving me freedom for self-exploration and a chance for self-realization. This is not abandonment, but a gift to me. The reason I have stopped short and never really tried to implement his expectation is not because I hesitate out of worry and fear, nor because I resist or doubt, but because I want to do it best. For his expectation, I am mentally prepared and I yearn for it in my heart, but idealism and perfectionism, and my long-standing professional habits, make me always hope, before actual action, to think deeply, clarify my thoughts, make my goals clear, even formulate a systematic and comprehensive plan, not overlooking every detail. Especially when my son has no detailed requirements and specific instructions, for how to cut in, from which aspects, how to arrange and practice on my own, I do not yet have a clear idea in my heart. I sincerely hope to exchange with friends who have unique insights. I will seriously consider all your suggestions, but please also respect each other's positions. Thank you!
To My Son I am a red leaf of autumn, yet I insist on trying to sprout a little green in your spring courtyard. You are a young king, your gaze is an imperial edict before the throne. I bow down not to pick up lost dignity, but to kiss the dust beneath your feet. My remaining life is no more than a wisp of faint light leaking from your fingertips; if you allow it, it is my daylight; if you take it back, it is my eternal night. Let me use my last remaining tenderness to warm a pot of wine for you, and use my humble silence to pave the road ahead for you. My life is a candle burned out for you, my soul is a boat for you to cross the river. When wind and waves come, please do not worry about my breaking. When your boat reaches the other shore, I am willing to sink to the bottom of the water and become, in your voyage, a silent punctuation mark known to no one.
The faint light of early morning came through the curtains, and I woke again from a shallow sleep. My body was like a piece of iron repeatedly burned and cooled, still holding inside sparks that refused to go out. I bent down and knelt on the floor, forehead against the edge of the bed, fingers beginning to wander restlessly from collarbone to waist; when my nails scraped the skin they left shallow white marks, reddening only after a few seconds. I need pain, I need to tell myself who this body belongs to. With trembling fingertips I stroked downward; a numbing tingle ran up my spine. When I reached under the lace hem, my waist twisted uncontrollably, unconsciously arching up, my breathing growing more and more rapid, my mouth unconsciously murmuring my son's name, each sound more broken, each sound more sticky than the last, my mind surging with all kinds of images: being pressed against the wall, hair gathered, being gazed at for a long time by a pair of burning eyes. My fingertips sank into wet softness, the movements urgent and fierce, as if punishing myself. The wind outside the window stopped, and she stopped too. Sweat stuck my hair to my face; when I withdrew my fingers they carried sticky moisture. I stared at them for a long time, slowly brought them to my lips — they clearly carried that flavor that makes one fall and feel at peace…
Qingping Yue · The Night Deepens, the Water Clock Still The night deepens, the water clock is still, a lonely shadow sways by the lamp's ashes. A jade body lies across, fragrant sweat soaking in, hard to endure the spring tide and autumn flood. Thin gauze lightly covers the soft chest, tender gasps secretly pass through the curtain. I wish to be the lotus pedestal receiving dew, offering all the traces of clouds at Mount Wu.
With my son not beside me, I walked alone on the street at noon, the sunlight making every inch of skin hot. What I was wearing inside at that moment was the lace bra I had hesitated ten minutes over this morning before putting on. Thin, almost transparent, the underwire pressing against my ribs, every breath reminding me of its existence. Under my skirt it was empty — I had deliberately not worn anything before going out; when the wind drilled in, my whole body felt as if electrocuted, my knees almost giving way. The shopping mall's glass door reflected my appearance: a woman in her forties, hair neatly coiled, makeup proper, looking no different from any housewife out shopping on the weekend. But only I knew that with every step, the friction on the inside of my thighs reminded me — I am an ice cream that could melt at any moment, in the sunlight, in the crowd, in every place eyes can reach.
[Memory of my inner journey: me and my son] When he was at an age facing the confusion of youth, I noticed some things that should not have been noticed. In the sound of water, I clearly heard the bathroom door handle being gently turned; the underwear taken off in the laundry basket also bore traces he had used. I did not expose him. Instead, on a quiet afternoon, I talked with him about growing up, about the body, about shame, and about those things between men and women that no one had taught, but that sooner or later must be understood. He lowered his head, the roots of his ears red as if burned by the evening glow. I told him those thoughts were not frightening, and that panic was not a sin. A person must first learn to understand himself before he can learn to respect others. He listened, his fingertips twisted together, like a vine that did not know which way to grow. Later, I no longer deliberately avoided it. In daily life I let him see the outline of a mature woman, told him the body is not a dark room of shame, but a garden that needs to be gently understood. I also let him understand how a person gets along with himself in lonely nights, how to settle those unspeakable desires. At first he was still shy, still dared not look directly, but when I was frank first, the panic in his eyes slowly turned into trust. I began to let him know what was happening to his body, why mornings and dreams had become unfamiliar, why some reactions made him panic and excited. At first he was like someone seeing the tide for the first time — shy, at a loss, yet unable to resist drawing near. With patience and tenderness I accompanied him through that panic, letting him for the first time settle his impulses within trust. It was not only physical closeness, but also emotional traction. I found that I was changing too. Before, I was only used to confirming myself through the gazes of others; now, in the gaze of a young man, I saw again my own softness and loneliness. I began to wear more fitted dresses, no longer deliberately covering myself when walking around the house, and no longer avoiding intimate contact, letting the air hold a little imperceptible sweetness. As time went on, between us there was an unspoken ambiguity, knowing glances, pauses and jokes, embraces, caresses, lingering at the forehead and lips. Neither of us said it aloud, but both knew some things had quietly crossed the original boundary. I remember on his birthday, candlelight swaying, the sweetness of the cake mixed with the hint of alcohol. He handed me the first glass of wine after coming of age, and I gave all my unspoken love to a night that belonged only to each other. That was my coming-of-age gift to him. From then on, we became special partners who could not be named, but who understood each other. Like two vines entwining in the dark, asking not for a name, only for this moment; asking not where we came from, only briefly settling in each other's breath. Later, I accidentally discovered the secret deep in his heart on his external hard drive. In those collected images there were pulling, submission, shadows of commands and punishment. I was not alarmed, nor did I question him; only on a quiet night, I talked with him about those hidden tides. Slowly I heard that in his heart lived a beast not yet awakened. So I began to recognize him in another way. I lowered myself very much, and little by little brought those rules hidden in the dark into our intimacy: letting him lead me, letting him respond to me with light discipline from his palm, letting him, between commands and silence, hear for the first time the echo in his own heart. I also knelt at his feet and served him in the most humble posture, like serving a newly awakened king. Those objects belonging to the dark night, I brought them back one by one; those thoughts he had never spoken, I lit them up for him little by little. I still remember, the first time I voluntarily knelt at his feet and begged him to give me a punishment, the shyness and hesitation on his face. He raised his hand, then put it down, as if afraid to break something fragile. I said to him, this is love for me, please give me more. When his palm finally fell, at that moment, the satisfaction surging in his eyes was like a dark fire lit by the wind. I could not forget it for a long time.
Phoenix Terrace Memories of Flute-Playing · Night Attendance Candle shadows sway red, incense smoke curls green, deep in the night hall I attend beside my lord. Just as the jade stove's incense warms and the embroidered curtains hang low. I lightly loosen my silk skirt and kneel forward, presenting my jade body, respectfully offering it for you to taste. Where I lower my brows, my soft chest is half covered, my jade arms slightly cool. Anxious. This heart is already given; I turn all my shyness into tender devotion. Even if my body is soft and my bones weak, let you step on me as you will. I only wish every night could be like this, and not waste the warm fragrance on the pillow. As the water clock runs out, still from within the curtains comes soft speech begging her lord.
In the afternoon, alone in my office, I leaned back in my chair, took off my high heels, and propped my feet on the edge of the desk. Under my skirt, the skin on the inside of my thighs pressed directly against the leather seat, hot and sticky. Every time I shifted, that slightly cool, astringent feeling climbed up from between my legs. As a mature, middle-aged woman, I know exactly which parts of my body are most easily teased — precisely these inadvertent, faint touches of friction. I opened a drawer and took out that round metal binder clip. I held it between my index and middle fingers, aimed it at the tip of my peak, and lightly toyed with it through my thin silk blouse. Once, twice, three times — pleasure shot like an electric current from my chest straight down between my legs, which were soaking wet. The force was not strong, but there was a faint, sharp sting. The edge of the metal was hard, cold, and carried an unquestionable aggressiveness. It was not warm and smooth like fingers, nor did it have the clear shape of those toys, made only to give pleasure. I bit my lower lip, and my other hand had already unconsciously lifted my skirt. When it slid over my lower belly, over the side of my waist, and finally stopped on that slick wetness on the inside of my thigh, the sharp contrast formed by hardness and softness, cold and burning heat made me unable to stop a soft, broken moan from deep in my throat. I pressed the metal tail of the binder clip a little harder and scraped it back and forth along the wet mark on my pantyhose. Each scrape made my thigh twitch, and the papers on the desk rustled under my toes. The most secret nerve endings exploded, instantly running through all my limbs. That feeling was a spasm where extreme humiliation and extreme pleasure intertwined. The metal's edges roughly ground over the softest tissue, bringing a stimulation close to pain. I let it sink into that soft, sensitive skin. I bit my lower lip and drunkenly savored this feeling of being “invaded” by a lifeless object; the pain was soon drowned by an even greater wave. The phone suddenly rang. The shrill ring was like a basin of cold water, suddenly dragging me out of that half-dreaming, half-waking heat. But in my body, that heat did not completely recede; it only retreated, like the tide, temporarily into the depths, waiting for the next high tide.
Tianxianzi · Red Tide The sandalwood desk coldly invades the icy musk mat, the jade lock secretly hides disordered spring feelings. Through the small window the slanting sun pierces the vermilion curtain; alone I sigh, my fragrant soul broken — who shares this room's loneliness? The jade weight secretly probes beside the fragrant path, pale hands lightly rub, flower dew glistening. Suddenly footsteps sound outside the corridor; hurriedly I withdraw my wrist, shyly raise my eyes — in the mirror the red tide has not yet faded.
Playing with Stilettos at Night Night deep, sitting alone facing the empty courtyard; moon cold through the gauze window, dreams won't form. High thin heels pity my seclusion; silk stockings shift lightly, a touch startles in the dark. Not that spring hues stir my thoughts; it's the lonely quilt's years of pent-up feeling. Lotus steps pace and stop again; willow waist tosses, rising and settling. Icy skin suddenly feels a slight coolness pass through; jade toes first probe, and warmth is born. In the mirror the rosy face is not yet old; before the lamp the pale hands are clear to themselves. Ten years a dry inkstone grinds the heart's ink; one night a cold fulling block pounds the sound of desire. The shoe tip idly taps, moss marks damp; the heel knocks the stone path often, sounds clear. Dew heavy, hard to bear, the flower gradually trembles; night deepens, unaware the water clock is about to tilt. Self-pity, self-cherishing, self-annoyance too; half is shame, half is sincerity. Dawn wind and waning moon are common things; don't ask which watch tonight is.
Night falls, the curtains not fully drawn, a line of orange streetlight cuts in diagonally. This body is like a dry well, yet every night it turns damp. I open the lowest layer of the wardrobe — that pair of black stiletto heels is still there. I lift them out, the metal toe flashing in the moonlight, like some cold weapon. I sit on the floor leaning against the edge of the bed, pressing the heel against the inside of my thigh. The cool leather touches my skin; I slowly push upward, the toe lifting the hem of my nightdress. My breathing is already disordered, my fingers clutching the carpet fibers. The heel slides down along my groin. I adjust the angle — the sharpest point, aimed. Through my thin panties, I tentatively press down. A moan escapes my throat on its own. I bite my lower lip and increase the force. The heel grinds over my little nub, circling, pressing, sliding away and returning. My legs tremble, toes curling and releasing. I tilt my head back, the back of my head against the bed edge, watching the ceiling sway. I turn it around, using the thinnest section of the heel. The fabric is already wet; the touch against my flesh feels like a film of water between us. I push the heel in through my panties, shallowly poking, the rhythm growing faster, my other hand grasping my already swollen soft peak, nails digging in, fingertips grinding and rubbing the peak's tip, my lower body rising to meet the heel's rhythm, waist sinking then arching, the carpet scratched with marks by my toes. The heel presses deeper, the thin layer of panties nearly sinking in, grinding my little nub sore and swollen, a stream of water running down the crack of my butt, soaking the carpet fibers. The final grind is precise and fierce — my whole body tenses, my lower belly twitching again and again, the streetlight before my eyes shattering into pieces. I collapse on the floor, the heel sliding from between my legs, making a soft clink…
[What kind of mother am I?] I often wonder what kind of mother I am. Was my enlightenment of my son in his youth positive or negative? What influence does becoming his sub have on him? Perhaps in most people's eyes I am not a good mother, not even qualified, but as far as I am concerned, I have a clear conscience. He said I opened a window for him, letting him recognize the desire deep in his heart, experience that love which other children cannot experience, establish the philosophy of 'facing your own needs squarely, not avoiding your own desires, enjoying the whole process', letting him face life and work more confidently. Perhaps I don't deserve such an evaluation, but I didn't expect that he, young and not good at proactively expressing himself, could say such words, and it made me even more firmly believe in my original decision. Although I have never regretted it, at the moment I chose to proactively kneel at his feet, the courage and determination I paid was also unimaginable. For me, how could it not be the same? Just ask how many mothers have experienced such profound and trembling happiness. In this life I have no regrets; I only wish to use the second half of my life to bring him better experiences and more extreme happiness, and become the form he wants me to become.
I once discussed with my son his ideal romantic and married life in the future. What he wants is not marriage and children in the traditional sense, but he hopes to meet a girl in the scene who is compatible with him (he can also accept cd/ts, but she must have a female heart) to become his 'partner', willing to accept and integrate into our family; it does not necessarily have to be a substantive marriage, but at least be able to deeply integrate into each other's lives, and together establish a completely lifestyle-based real relationship within the scene. In this relationship, however they position themselves between them, I will be their sub, and they will jointly own the right of ownership and use over me. My husband was in business investment during his lifetime, relatively successful, and the wealth he left us allows us complete financial freedom. My son and I both have good jobs, and we are not lacking in any aspect. It's just that in reality, a girl who can accept a situation like ours should be very hard to meet, right? After all, a relationship like ours is not tolerated by worldly conventions. Then what about cd/ts? Also a minority within a minority — would they be more able to accept a relationship like ours? Or harder to get along with? I don't really understand the thinking of this group either. My son is quite busy with work and is rather introverted, so it may be hard for him to proactively seek a suitable partner. Then, as his sub, should I proactively seek one for him?
[Seeking Advice: Regarding my son's expectations of me, how can I do my best?] Through proactively communicating in depth with my son, I finally learned that he has two expectations of what kind of sub I should become: First, in the home, in food, clothing, housing and transport, to maintain the living state of a mother-bitch, keeping the behavior and thinking of a mother-bitch, extremely humble, unconditionally and proactively using all of my body and mind to please him and serve him, accepting any disposal from him. Second, in daily life and social life outside, to spontaneously become a depraved, wanton slut, from the bottom of my bones, inside out, without reservation exuding a seductive aura, at all times immersed in decadent desire, without scruples becoming a licentious woman available to any man. And he hopes I can proactively think and practice, rather than completely relying on his specific instructions. Regarding these two expectations of his, I have no resistance in my heart, but am instead full of anticipation. What do you think of these two expectations of his? What kind of sub do you think he wants me to become? How can I do my best? Regarding the first point, how to be a good mother-bitch at home, I think it is relatively traceable, and there are many specific practical experiences online to draw on, and I am doing so. As for the second point, it involves a broader range: from my perspective, what basic conditions do I need? What preparations to make? How specifically to implement it? Where to start? I still lack systematic thinking, especially on the details, and have no clear, definite, actionable ideas yet. I hope to have the good fortune to exchange with friends with unique insights; please do not hesitate to advise!
