My gaze returned to Mom and Sam. Sam's hands, which had been sliding with his thumbs, now gripped Mom's slender waist with all ten fingers, slowly kneading her lower back before gradually pressing upward beneath her white shirt. Those dark hands were slowly disappearing into the fabric of the shirt.
"Ah… Sam… you…" Mom lifted her head, turning to look back at Sam. What was Sam doing?
Mom seemed a bit angry. "Mom… sorry…" Sam whispered something, leaning against her back. With this movement, the scene between Mom and Sam felt even more peculiar. It looked as though Mom was lying on the floor with her buttocks raised, and Sam was holding her from behind—like a mother monkey carrying her baby on her back.
"No… Sam… be good…" Mom shook her head, saying something to Sam. I strained to listen but couldn't make out their words. I really wanted to pull open the window and surprise Mom and Sam.
"..." I saw Sam's arms moving a few times inside Mom's loose short-sleeved shirt. Mom buried her face into her fair, tender arms again.
Originally, Mom's hands were supporting her body, but after Sam moved those few times, her snow-white arms went limp and collapsed, causing her entire upper body to slump onto the carpet. Sam was wearing his loose red basketball shorts and a black tank top, his two dark hands still inside Mom's white short-sleeved shirt, not yet withdrawn. It looked as though he was pressing down on Mom's back.
"Alright, Mom, you're really great," I saw Sam say with a satisfied grin. Then, those two dark hands slowly wrapped around Mom's stomach. After that, Sam made a move that completely shocked me—he actually picked Mom up. Mom seemed exhausted, limp and powerless in Sam's embrace, offering no resistance at all.
Then, she plopped right onto Sam's lap, where he wore those loose red basketball shorts. At that moment, I finally saw Mom's face—eyes closed, cheeks flushed, her hands weakly resting backward against Sam's chest. Mom really is something—so tired, yet still loves doing yoga. I really wanted to stop Sam right then and there; he has no idea how to consider Mom's feelings.
Wait, why couldn't I see Sam's two dark hands? Seeing Mom being picked up by him, I subconsciously assumed he would use both hands to lift her. Could it be that Sam's hands were still inside Mom's short-sleeved shirt?
To get a clearer look, I slowly rose again, lifting my body higher. Wasn't that Sam's arm wrapped around Mom's waist?
No, wait—why was there the imprint of a dark hand on the chest of Mom's white short-sleeved shirt? Was Sam just holding Mom?
I don't know why, but my breathing gradually grew heavier, my heart started beating faster and faster, and I realized my palms had begun to sweat at some point.
"Mom, you're tired. Lie down on the sofa, and I'll give you a massage to help you relax," Sam said without letting Mom speak. He picked her up and stood. I have to say, Sam is really strong. Mom is 1.75 meters tall, and although she's slender, she still weighs over 100 pounds.
Just as Sam lifted Mom, I saw two large dark hands encircling her stomach, lifting her up. Could it be that I had mistaken the handprint on Mom's chest earlier?
Thinking about it, that must be the case. Why would Mom let Sam hold her chest? I think the most she would allow is for Sam to hold her waist.
"Hmm... don't..." Mom lightly slapped Sam's hands, which were holding her stomach, but Sam didn't let go. Instead, he started walking while holding her, and with each step, Mom was pushed forward slightly. "Ah... you... Sam... don't..." Mom seemed to be refusing Sam's offer to massage her. But doesn't Mom always enjoy Sam's massages?
Not just Mom—Dad and I like them too.
Sam carried Mom over to the sofa pressed against the corner of the wall, which immediately limited my view from outside where I was peeking. "Thud, ah..." The sound of Mom and Sam pressing onto the sofa, followed by a cry from Mom. Then, I could only see two slender legs in gray-blue yoga pants and fair, delicate feet being pressed down by two dark brown calves. "Slap... no..." Mom whispered, refusing something. "Mom, it feels really good... it's not like we haven't done this before..." Sam's voice sounded somewhat anxious. What was happening?
I'm going crazy. I want to move to the center of the window, but there's no curtain covering that spot. If I stick my head in there to look, Sam or Mom will definitely see me peeking. If they really catch me, I won't be able to explain myself.
"Hmm..." Just as I was considering whether to take the risk and move to the center of the windowsill, Mom let out a moan that sent shivers down my spine. "Mom, does that feel good? Hehe," Sam's voice came from the corner, sounding breathless and relieved. "No... ah, hmm..." Mom tried to say something else, but then another spine-tingling moan escaped her lips. No?
What does she mean, no?
Mom is acting so strange, and that sound—even though I've heard it before when Sam massaged her, this time it feels... different somehow.
Is Sam bullying Mom? I'm on the verge of tears. I need to go back inside and see what's happening.
"Mom, relax. It feels better when I massage here. See, you're trembling with pleasure," Sam's rough voice came again. Mom didn't reply.
Is it just a massage? What was Mom trying to say? It seems like I'm worrying over nothing again.
My racing heart slowly calmed down. I cautiously peeked through the gap in the curtains again, but my view was still limited to just a corner of the sofa in front of the wall. Mom's exposed calves were stretched out straight, her jade-like feet curling strangely.
Sam's dark calves were moving slowly, as if he were leaning forward, his hands kneading Mom's body.
"Hmm..." Mom's moan finally drifted from the corner again, faint and barely audible, as if she were holding back or something.
Is it really that pleasurable? I thought to myself. When Sam massaged me earlier, his technique was good, but it hurt like hell. The relief only came after the massage was over.
"Sam... you..." Outside the wall, I heard Mom whispering something again. "Mom, this area must have been really sore these past few days, right?" Sam's voice was louder, so I could hear him clearly. "..." Mom didn't reply, or her reply was too soft for me to hear. "This is the most comfortable massage technique. Too bad Dad and Zihan can't experience it," Sam said with a hint of pride, which I could clearly detect.
Dad and I can't experience it? What does that mean? Mom must be really enjoying it if she agreed to let Sam massage her. If she weren't satisfied, she'd have scolded him mercilessly.
The thought of Mom's fierce temper reassured me. How could Sam possibly bully her?
After Sam finished speaking, I didn't hear them talk anymore. All I could see was Sam's calves stretching out straight alongside Mom's, his legs pressing down on her calves clad in gray-blue leggings, moving slowly.
Sam usually massages us like this too, so it didn't strike me as odd. The only thing that puzzled me was how Mom's delicate, pale feet were curling, both the soles and toes.
When I've seen Mom getting massaged by Sam before, her feet and toes never curled like that. Maybe she was just too tired from earlier. She looked completely exhausted, leaning heavily on Sam.
I pressed my ear against the crack in the window, trying to hear something from the corner.
"Hmm..." Another moan, louder than before, reached my ears. I glanced back at the sofa—Mom's exposed leg from earlier was gone, and Sam's dark leg had vanished too. But with my ear pressed against the window crack, a heavy, labored breathing seeped through. "Huff... huff..." I couldn't tell if it was Sam's or Mom's, but it sounded exhausted.
"Hmm... huff... Sam..." Mom's voice came again, weak and strained. "Mom, does it hurt? I'm sorry, I'll go lighter," Sam's breathing grew rougher. Mom didn't reply, only that heavy breathing continued to drift into my ears. Sam really was something—Mom was clearly worn out from whatever he was doing to her. Couldn't he let her rest?
"Pat..." A faint slapping sound followed. "Mmm... hmm... no... can't..." Accompanied by even heavier breathing than before, Mom seemed to be resisting something again. My curiosity was killing me—I desperately wanted to know what Sam and Mom were up to.
I thought about opening the window, but that would be impossible to explain.
"...Squelch... mmm... ah... mmm..." Mom sounded like she was stifling her mouth, and there was something like the sound of... water?
This is so strange. Mom and Sam's behavior today is really strange. I need to go home and see what Sam is doing to Mom. Sam has gone too far—Mom sounds like she's in so much pain, yet Sam still hasn't let her rest.
I slowly back away from the wall, then make a loud noise opening the door so Mom and Sam know I've just come home.
"Sam, I'm back," I call out, quickly take off my shoes, close the door, and head straight for the living room.
I want to see what Mom and Sam are doing.
"Zihan, you're back. I missed you so much," Sam says before I even reach the living room. He walks over from there, his thick, pale lips parted in a wide grin, revealing two rows of gleaming white teeth. He looks at me with a simple, honest expression, arms spread wide as he moves in for a hug.
As Sam approaches, I glance at him. He's still wearing that black tank top and red basketball shorts, and nothing seems out of the ordinary.
Wait—as Sam walks, something rod-like sways faintly inside his red basketball shorts. Looking at the spot where it moves, a small patch of the red fabric is noticeably darker and damp. It must have gotten wet from sweat while he was giving Mom a massage earlier.
"Haha, Sam, okay, I'm not into that," I say as Sam wraps his two large, dark hands tightly around me, hugging me so hard I can barely breathe.
While Sam holds me, I catch a whiff of a very fragrant scent on him. This smell, this fragrance, feels familiar, but I can't quite remember where I've encountered it before.
"Hehe, Zihan, I was teaching Mom yoga. She's getting better and better," Sam says, releasing me as we walk toward the living room.
While Sam is speaking, my eyes are already fixed on Mom.
Standing in the corner of the room, Mom's delicate, fair face now looks unusually flushed.
Her eyes are closed, and she's wearing a loose, pure white short-sleeved shirt, pressed tightly against the wall. Her buttocks are slightly lowered, her long legs pressed together and stretched forward a little. Her smooth, jade-like arms are pressed against the wall, and beneath her gray-blue yoga pants, her fair, tender feet are firmly planted, supporting her body as she leans back against the wall.
So Mom was practicing yoga in the corner—no wonder I couldn't see her or Sam from outside the window earlier.
My anxious heart finally relaxes. Sam really was teaching Mom yoga.
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