Remembering My Teacher 1-3

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Remembering My Teacher

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Chapter 1: The First stirrings of a young heart

Ms. Luo was my homeroom teacher in junior high school, and also my English teacher.

She wasn't exceptionally beautiful, but she possessed a noble air, a kind of aristocratic air, if China had aristocrats.

In the summer, Ms. Luo liked to wear a white suit with a knee-length skirt, revealing a section of her fair calves.

At that time, I especially liked to steal glances at Ms. Luo's calves and her cute little feet. Whenever Ms. Luo wasn't wearing socks, my heart would flutter even more. Her snow-white little feet were perhaps the most profound impression Ms. Luo left on me.

In my youth, I was always prone to daydreaming, and I also had a vague longing for women.

At that time, I always hoped to see the mysterious parts beneath a woman's clothes, and the noble and elegant Ms. Luo became the most perfect woman in the eyes of the boys in our class. And I was no exception; whenever it was Ms. Luo's class, the boys were always the quietest. Ms. Luo was teaching diligently, while I was secretly daydreaming, my eyes always glancing at her intentionally or unintentionally before quickly looking away.

Thinking back on that youthful innocence, it's quite laughable now. At that time, my admiration for Ms. Luo was deeply ingrained in my heart. I knew that no matter who I met in the future, I would never forget Ms. Luo.

Until one day, a small incident occurred that sparked some almost wicked thoughts in me about Ms. Luo, and I still clearly remember the scene.

That day, Ms. Luo was wearing all white. The pristine white skirt couldn't conceal her snow-white skin; instead, it made her skin appear an alluring pink. The slightly knee-length skirt couldn't hide her full thighs, and the shape of her underwear was vaguely visible.

The hazy glimpse of her panties was so tempting. Ms. Luo wasn't wearing socks that day; her fair feet were clad in women's sandals with heels about 3 centimeters high, making her feet form an "arch" shape. If you look closely, you'll see how adorable Teacher Luo's toes are.

When I saw Teacher Luo's clothes, I suddenly had an urge to hug her, but the shyness and rationality of youth prevented me from doing so. Looking back now, it wasn't a big deal; just some youthful passion or blushing fantasies. If I hadn't suppressed those thoughts, perhaps none of what followed would have happened.

Now, I don't know whether to feel joy or a strange feeling.

Teacher Luo's voice was soft and melodious, and I thought of a rather cliché phrase—"a lark in a secluded valley." Perhaps Teacher Luo really was a lark. I secretly thought, yes, that's true. What adjectives could a young boy use to describe the emotion in his heart? However, something even more unsettling happened.

After class, Teacher Luo rested at the podium. Through the wooden lectern, I saw a scene I will never forget. (The lectern was made of wood, quite old, with cracks of varying sizes where the planks met due to its age; older readers will understand.)

On the other side of the lectern, Ms. Luo sat with her legs apart. Perhaps she felt safe knowing there was a wooden table, and since it was class, she relaxed. Although it was just a blurry glimpse of white, I was certain it was Ms. Luo's private area. Because if I looked further down the crack, I could vaguely see one of her snow-white thighs.

I strained my eyes, staring intently at the crack in the lectern. In that instant, I was lost in my unintentional discovery. Needless to say, at that time I knew nothing, lacking any adult impulses, only the excitement of a teenager. Though it was blurry, I trusted my eyes.

From then on, I gradually became addicted to this voyeuristic pleasure. No, back then, there was no concept of voyeurism. I also especially loved summer, loved it when teachers wore skirts to class. Sometimes, even during occasional quizzes, I'd casually glance around, hoping to discover something more interesting.

And in my heart, besides genuine respect and love for Teacher Luo, there was also something called desire. In

my third year of junior high, I went astray—no, perhaps it should be called maturing. I didn't have any bad habits like smoking or drinking; I simply became obsessed with pornography and adult pictures. What

I loved most to observe were the mysterious triangles of the women in those pictures or films. And at that time, I also learned what beautiful legs were, what a married woman was, what desire was, and what fetishism was.

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