First time being molested

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-23

As everyone knows, physical education (PE) is worth 60 points and contributes to the overall high school entrance exam score. The PE exam is usually held in the second year of junior high, and if you fail, you have a chance to retake it in the third year. Most people get full marks in PE, but I, despite excelling in all my other subjects, failed every single PE exam, scoring only 36 points. That 24-point difference was enough to knock me off the narrow bridge of the high school entrance exam. Therefore, my father spent money to hire a coach from the city's sports school to give me intensive training during the summer vacation, hoping I could get a satisfactory score on the retake.

Every morning, my father drove me to the sports school and picked me up after work. We ate lunch at a nearby restaurant. The huge sports school was almost deserted during the summer vacation, except for the security guards and cleaning ladies. My training included physical fitness, running, long jump, high jump, shot put, and gymnastics. [Additionally, because I was young, I didn't start wearing a bra until high school; in junior high, I mostly wore tank tops or bras.] The training

took place in the indoor training hall of the sports institute. There was no one else there besides my teacher and me. The teacher was a man in his thirties, who claimed to be a graduate of Peking University and a former provincial athlete. The first few days went well; my gymnastics movements were standard and everything was normal. But when it came to running, high jump, and long jump training, because of my full breasts and the fact that I wasn't wearing a bra, my breasts bounced quite a bit—no, very a lot. I felt something was off; I kept feeling like the teacher's gaze was burning into my chest, but I wasn't sure. However, whenever the teacher corrected my posture, his arm would often touch my chest, and because I trusted him, I didn't think much of it. It was just that he corrected me a lot each day. Aside from that, there were no other inappropriate actions.

The last event was shot put, a technical event where posture, force, and angle had to be coordinated to achieve the ideal distance. For some reason, I couldn't throw well. Getting anxious was useless; my movements had been corrected countless times, and of course, my chest had been touched countless times. Because my mind was focused on training, I didn't feel much even when I was touched. Several days passed, and the training showed no results. Finally, the instructor told me, "Your posture is too stiff. You need to train your flexibility and suppleness, but that's not within my training scope. I'll tell your father that our training is over, and you don't need to come tomorrow." I was stunned. Thinking of my father's disappointed eyes, and the thought of starting from the very beginning before even taking the exam, tears welled up uncontrollably. I called my father, crying, and he rushed over. After negotiation and paying more money, the instructor agreed to continue training. My father urged me to cooperate with the instructor, do well in the training, and get into a top high school.

Unprepared, the humiliating training nightmare began. Training flexibility and suppleness mostly involved posing in various positions and repeating embarrassing movements. The instructor's hands were practically always on my body during training, ostensibly to prevent accidental injury. So, his hands would frequently appear on my chest, buttocks, and thighs. His fingertips would occasionally brush against my nipples through my bra, and through my gym shorts, he would intentionally or unintentionally scratch my genitals. The unparalleled stimulation overwhelmed my brain; fear, panic, pleasure—indescribable feelings. My mind was out of control; my movements became distorted, my posture even more incorrect. The teacher patiently corrected me until my father came to pick me up. I was secretly relieved that the teacher's hands hadn't gone inside my clothes. For some reason, I didn't feel repulsed by what the teacher was doing; instead, I felt a faint sense of satisfaction. On the way home, I had my father stop the car in a secluded spot, lay in his arms, and clung to him, satisfying myself. [For my relationship with my father, see my forum post "Is this incest?"]. This training continued for three days, and the teacher corrected me through my clothes for three days, but his hands lingered on my breasts and genitals for longer and longer periods. He would also occasionally use his fingers, through my clothes, to rub and pinch my nipples, which were hard from the stimulation. Through my shorts, he touched my already wet genitals a few times. Because of shyness, the strange stimulation, and the fear that he wouldn't train me again, I didn't resist.

As it turned out, the training was effective; I met the standard for shot put, although I discovered that the technique for throwing the shot put later was somewhat different from what he initially taught me.

Today was the last day of training; we did all the events once, and the coach assured me I would get a perfect score in physical education. At noon, the coach asked me to have lunch for the first time. At his repeated encouragement, I drank a bottle of sweet rice wine. It was sweet and delicious, but afterwards, my head was very dizzy (now I know that although sweet rice wine tastes good, it still has a certain alcohol content, 8 degrees, and a strong aftereffect). He took me back to the training field, put me on the sofa in the rest room, and I drifted off to sleep. I had a dream where my father lifted my bra and took off my shorts. My father gently kissed me, his hands exploring my breasts and genitals. Lips and tongues sucked on my nipples and clitoris, a wave of blissful pleasure washing over me, engulfing me. I don't know when, but I felt something like a stick randomly thrusting into my vagina, trying to penetrate me. It wasn't my father; my consciousness told me he wouldn't do this to me. I struggled, murmuring that I would tell my father. The stick stopped, no longer pushing in, but rubbing against my genitals. Another wave of pleasure washed over me, and I was overwhelmed again. I don't know how much time passed, but suddenly, a blast of icy water was poured onto my face. I jolted, sitting up abruptly. Ouch! A sharp pain shot through my genitals. I reached down and felt a badminton racket pressing against my crotch… Seeing my teacher holding a bottle of ice water, grinning mischievously, I quickly ran to the bathroom, washed my face, and tried to recall the dream. I glanced at my teacher outside, everything seemed normal, then at the badminton racket on the sofa, and touched my still slightly strange genitals. Was it really just a dream?

Amidst my father's grateful words, I said goodbye to my teacher and never saw her again. Back home, I touched my slightly sore nipples and felt a distinct, unusual sensation in my genitals, deeply doubting the dream. Thankfully, there was no bleeding, and my hymen was still intact. I buried this incident deep in my heart, never telling anyone.

This was my first time being molested, happening during the summer vacation before I was 16 and about to enter my final year of junior high. Because it was the first time, the memory is vivid; recalling it feels like it happened yesterday.

I haven't written any erotic stories, nor do I intend to use overly explicit descriptions. What I've written is simply to reveal to strangers a secret I've kept hidden in my heart for many years, a secret I couldn't tell anyone else. After writing this, I feel a sense of relief. I hope my friends won't mind my writing style, and there won't be overly explicit descriptions in future stories. I simply want to truthfully present my feelings and inner thoughts at the time. I hope that through my narration, everyone can better understand the female mind.

[The End]

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