In the quiet chaos of my final year of high school, I found myself trapped in a storm of conflicting emotions. The relentless pressure of the upcoming college entrance examinations hung over me like a dark cloud, but it was nothing compared to the forbidden desires that had begun to consume my every waking thought. For as long as I could remember, my feelings toward my mother had been a tangled mix of deep affection and fleeting, guilty impulses. Lately, those impulses had grown into something far more dangerous. I would occasionally slip into her laundry and take her used stockings or undergarments, driven by an addiction I barely understood. She was my mother—the woman who had raised me with unwavering care and strength—yet I had started seeing her as a beautiful, mature woman whose presence ignited something deep and reckless within me.
I fantasized about her constantly: passionate, reckless encounters unfolding in every corner of our home. These vivid thoughts terrified me because they felt so profoundly wrong. The more stressed and exhausted I became from my intense study sessions, the stronger those urges grew. To cope, I seized small, stolen moments—lingering glances at her graceful figure, accidental brushes against her in the hallway, or retreating to my room with her belongings for private indulgence. Each time, waves of intense pleasure crashed over me, only to be followed by crushing guilt. After all, she was my beloved mother.
I had long since dismissed my earlier suspicions about my father possibly cheating. He was an honest, somewhat timid man who visibly feared my mother's sharp temper. The notion of him having an affair with a high school girl seemed ridiculous, nothing more than a fleeting, absurd fantasy born from my own overactive imagination.
For over a month, I had been fighting a two-front war: battling through endless review papers and mock exams while struggling to contain my inner demons. Life had become a hazy, exhausting blur of textbooks, anxiety, and secret shame.
One afternoon after school, I walked out of the campus gates with a few close friends. My eyes were drawn to a beautiful girl standing just a short distance away. She was petite, with a delicate, heart-shaped face that radiated an endearing charm. Her large, expressive eyes and soft, small mouth were framed by two neat braids. She wore a stylish red-and-white baseball jersey, loose cropped pants, and simple canvas shoes—a perfect blend of street fashion that felt both chic and full of youthful energy.
The girl stared directly at our group. She looked vaguely familiar, though I could not quite place her. My friend Jasper leaned in and whispered, “That girl is really pretty. I haven’t seen her around before.”
“She’s not from our school,” another classmate added quietly.
“Why is she staring at us like that? Does anyone know her?” someone asked.
Her gaze followed us as we moved along, but none of us recognized her. We shrugged it off and continued on our way, the incident quickly fading into casual conversation.
The next day, she appeared again after school, standing in the same spot and watching us with the same intensity. Jasper chuckled. “Looks like she’s got a crush on one of us.”
“Who do you think it is?” another friend teased.
“The most handsome one, obviously,” Jasper shot back, sparking a round of playful banter among the group.
I remained quiet, still bothered by how familiar she seemed. On the fourth day, she was there once more. Growing impatient, Jasper suggested someone go talk to her. To my surprise, the group unanimously chose me, citing my outgoing nature and thick skin.
Though a bit hesitant, curiosity won out. I approached her. As I drew near, she suddenly turned and walked away. Watching her retreating figure, the memory finally clicked into place: she was the young girl I had seen shopping arm-in-arm with my father a few weeks earlier. According to him, she was the daughter of one of his colleagues.
If that was true, why was she here, watching me from a distance without ever speaking? The situation felt strange and unsettling.
That evening, after dinner, my father sat on the sofa watching television while my mother tidied up in the kitchen. I sat beside him and whispered, “Dad, remember last month when you visited your colleague’s house to discuss her daughter’s college entrance exam?”
Dad tensed immediately, his expression tightening. He glanced at me with suspicion. “Why are you asking about that?”
“I was just curious. What’s her name? Do I know her?”
“She’s my colleague’s daughter. How would you know her?” he replied cautiously.
After a pause, I pressed further. “Dad, that day at noon, I saw you walking on the street with a young girl, holding hands. Was that her—the colleague’s daughter?”
Dad looked startled. He hesitated before nodding quickly. “Yes, yes, it was her. I took her to buy textbooks that day.”
Doubt lingered in my mind. My father was usually laid-back, almost neglectful when it came to my own exam preparations. Why would he go out of his way to help a colleague’s daughter like that?
Sensing his discomfort, I stayed silent for a moment. Then Dad asked in a low voice, “Does your mother know about this?”
“No, she doesn’t.”
He sighed with evident relief. “Good. Don’t mention it to her. Your mother can be quite suspicious, and I don’t want any misunderstandings. One less problem is better.”
I nodded, then smiled slyly. “Alright, I won’t say anything. But… my pocket money this month is a bit tight.”
Dad grumbled under his breath. “You little rascal, always thinking of ways to get more. How much?”
I held up two fingers. He sighed. “Fine. I’ll leave it behind the TV for you tomorrow morning. But save it wisely—our family’s money doesn’t grow on trees.”
“Of course, Dad. I’m very thrifty,” I replied with mock innocence.
Just then, Mom emerged from the kitchen. We both straightened up, pretending to be absorbed in the television. She glanced at us suspiciously, then flicked my forehead playfully before crooking her finger, signaling me to follow her.
Dad shot me a warning look, and I gave him a thumbs-up in reassurance.
I followed Mom into their bedroom. She closed the door behind us and turned to face me, her eyes sharp and penetrating.
A bad feeling washed over me. I forced a grin. “Mom, I just remembered I have some practice papers left to finish. I should get back to my room.”
She narrowed her elegant eyes and stared at me silently for what felt like an eternity, making my scalp tingle. Finally, she spoke. “Let me ask you something. Did you steal my stockings again?”
My mind went blank for a second. I feigned confusion. “Huh? What are you talking about?”
“My stockings! You didn’t take them?”
“No, I have no idea what you mean.”
“Say that again,” she demanded, her gaze piercing.
“I really didn’t take them! Why would I want your stockings?” I protested, trying to sound bewildered.
Mom nodded with a cold smile. “You won’t admit it until you see the evidence, huh?”
She had me cornered. By now, she clearly suspected the truth. Admitting everything outright was too humiliating, so I danced around it.
After a tense exchange, I finally confessed, “Yes… I took a pair.”
“Just one?” she pressed, eyes narrowing.
“Three pairs,” I admitted reluctantly.
“What did you do with them?”
“I… gave them to Lily,” I lied weakly.
Mom scoffed. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
She knew the real reason—mothers were rarely fooled about such things—but she did not force me to spell it out, sparing me further embarrassment. Instead, she sat at her dressing table and motioned for me to come closer. Her expression turned serious.
“Tell me the truth. Besides stealing my stockings, have you taken anything else from others? Or done anything inappropriate outside the house?”
I raised my hand solemnly. “No, absolutely not. I swear. Your son has boundaries. Taking your things is just a family matter—you can punish me for that. But stealing from strangers? That’s illegal. I’d end up in jail.”
She gave a wry smile. “You’ve thought this through quite thoroughly. If only you’d put this much effort into your studies, I’d worry a lot less.”
“I promise I’ll study harder,” I said quickly.
“Go back to your room. Remember what I said. Next time, I won’t go easy on you.”
As I left the bedroom, I exhaled deeply, my back drenched in cold sweat. Mom had made her point clear: she understood my actions but chose to preserve my dignity. Her final warning lingered heavily in my mind.
Back in my room, I retrieved a pair of black silk tights from the hidden compartment in my bookshelf drawer—the last one I had taken from her laundry basket over two weeks ago. I ran the soft, smooth fabric gently across my face, savoring the forbidden thrill. The delicate scent still clung to them, stirring a rush of heat through my body. Stealing more was now out of the question, so I resolved to cherish this final piece, letting the silky material linger against my skin as waves of guilty pleasure coursed through me.
In the following days, the mysterious girl stopped appearing at the school gates. When I subtly asked Dad about her, he grew evasive and warned me to stay away.
I assumed the strange chapter was closed.
Then, one weekend afternoon, I secretly met Lily at the bookstore, slipping away without telling our mothers. She had insisted we take different buses and meet there. At the bus stop, crowded with people, a familiar figure suddenly appeared beside me. It was the girl—Dad’s colleague’s daughter.
She wore two neat braids, a loose sports jacket, and jeans. Light makeup accentuated her large, bright eyes and long lashes. She looked at me with a helpless, almost pitiful expression, like a lost kitten.
I grinned. “Beauty, do you have a crush on me?”
She slipped her hands into her pockets and stared blankly. “Who are you?” Her voice was soft, slightly husky, and adorably cute.
“You don’t know me? I’m the handsome guy from the other day,” I teased.
She rolled her eyes and ignored me. Undeterred, I continued chatting. We discovered we were both heading to the same bookstore. When the bus arrived, we boarded together into the packed interior.
“Are you looking for me? Need help with something?” I asked.
She remained silent.
I persisted, trying to draw her out, even asking her age. “Fifteen,” she replied.
The bus jolted to another stop. Passengers shifted, and a young woman in a floral skirt and black silk leggings took the spot in front of me. My gaze drifted instinctively to her legs. Though not as captivating as my mother’s elegant, toned legs wrapped in sheer black stockings, they still held some allure.
I felt the girl’s eyes on me. Suddenly, she grabbed my right wrist and pressed my hand firmly onto the young woman’s thigh.
The woman cried out in shock and slapped me hard across the face. Chaos erupted. Passengers accused me of being a pervert. I was dragged to the police station, protesting my innocence the entire way. The girl had vanished.
At the station, no one believed my explanation that I had been framed. They were furious—a young man molesting a woman in public? The victim scratched and kicked me in anger. I was a victim too, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. They agreed not to involve the school because of the looming exams, but they insisted on calling my parents.
I dreaded my mother finding out. As I sat anxiously in the inquiry room, a commotion arose outside.
A drunk middle-aged man was pushed in, babbling excuses. The policewoman handling him was in her forties, tall and slim in her navy uniform, with a commanding presence. I recognized her instantly—Sophia Hayes, Lily’s mother, my future mother-in-law.
I tried to hide my face, but she spotted me. “Ethan Reed?”
I smiled weakly. “Aunt Sophia, what a coincidence. When did you transfer here?”
She questioned me sternly. When she learned the charges, I tried desperately to explain. I begged her to take me home instead of calling my mother.
Aunt Sophia smirked. “Still afraid of your mom finding out? You deserve whatever’s coming.”
About half an hour later, the sharp click of high heels echoed down the corridor. My heart sank.
Mom burst into the room, still dressed in her professional gray suit skirt, black velvet stockings, and pointed high heels—clearly summoned straight from work. Her eyes blazed with fury as she stormed toward me.
“Ethan Reed! What have you done this time?!” she roared, swinging her handbag at me.
I ducked, shielding my head. “Mom, listen! It’s a misunderstanding! Please, just hear me out!”
She chased me around the room, striking me repeatedly in her anger. Auntie Sophia stood by the door, hands in her pockets, watching the scene with an amused expression