The female teacher controlled by lust

On a quiet night in April 4, 2018

, during my "Appreciation of Classical Novels" class, I happened to see a copy of "Xiaolin Guangji" on a student's desk. I flipped through it for a while, and a limerick using the phrase "male masturbation" to mock someone with the surname "Ni" caught my attention. It read:

"There's an old poem about firing a hand cannon, mocking someone surnamed Ni. I've included it for a laugh: '

Sitting alone in my study, my hands make a wife; this feeling is unknown to outsiders.

If I switch from my left hand to my right, it's like abandoning my wife and remarrying.

One stroke, one stroke, and another, my whole body itches, my bones feel numb.

Drops fall to the ground, and my descendants will all bear the surname Ni (mud).'"

My cheeks flushed, and I chuckled. The student probably guessed I'd seen some dirty joke in the book and smiled shyly, flustered. I put the book down and gently comforted him, saying, "This book is very good. It records many of the ancient people's interests and jokes. Reading it after class can really soothe your mood. I like it too."

He took the book and stuffed it into his desk, his face red. I nodded, still somewhat unable to recall her name, but gazing at her handsome, delicate face, I felt a genuine sense of familiarity. The sunny, healthy, youthful yet artistic aura she exuded seemed to transport me back to those happy, unforgettable times from over a decade ago… I turned and walked back to the podium. That familiar feeling of pride and secret delight at being stared at from behind with excited, even hungry, eyes washed over me again. I was certain that, apart from that boy from before, every other boy's gaze was fixed on my lower body: my rounded hips encased in a black, tight-fitting mini-skirt, my long, firm calves, paired with sheer, slightly glossy flesh-colored stockings.

The rhythmic "tap-tap" of her high heels, like a jarring alarm clock, jolted the dazed boys awake: wake up! The mature allure before you is fleeting; quickly focus and savor this captivating sexiness. I'm increasingly enjoying this feeling that men call "voyeurism." It has a soothing, delicate stimulation that sex lacks. Every pore, every inch of skin, every erogenous zone on my body is on high alert, tense, afraid of disappointing a pair of hungry eyes.

My tone remains unchanged—elegant, approachable, professional, and serious—but every movement seems like a carefully staged photo, sometimes noble, sometimes ambiguous. The students' eyes follow, sometimes dreamy, sometimes yearning. To me, every glance is an invisible penis, forcefully penetrating my even more thirsty pores. The originally serious and elegant classroom is always filled with the scent of lust because of me. But this lust is something only freshmen experiencing the stirrings of puberty and me, a young woman teacher deeply immersed in a sea of desire, can truly understand.

Every time I step out of the classroom, a sudden heat rises from my groin, and a gush of fluid spurts out, watering the delicate peony on my underwear. Rain or shine, heat or cold, this heat has been constant since the moment I became a teacher at this school.

Now, the underwear with the peony on it lies to the side. Dragging my limp body after the orgasm, I wipe away the splattered fluid, especially a stain on my diary, which has perfectly soaked

the poem from *Xiaolin Guangji* (a collection of humorous anecdotes). I silently recite it again, and suddenly inspiration strikes. I try to write a limerick about female masturbation. Since boys call it "hitting a hand," then we girls will call it "watering flowers." Okay, let's tease girls about masturbation.

Here's a poem about watering flowers, mocking female masturbation, recorded for your amusement:

Alone in my empty chamber, my hand becomes my husband; what is the meaning of this hidden feeling?

Left hand reaches in, right hand thrusts, like a penis going in and out.

Touch, rub, thrust, a wave of pleasure washes over me, an itch that seeps into my bones.

Suddenly my body trembles like a sieve, hot, lustful fluids splattering everywhere.

In this quiet night without my husband by my side, this enormous artificial penis is my "husband." It's cold and hard, but it has given me countless warm nights. I'll stop writing now, I'll hold it and go to sleep, waiting for tomorrow for the "real penis" that can replace it, the one that haunts my dreams!

April 5th, 2018, after dinner, reminiscing about

the drizzling rain, my lustful thoughts swell. A corner of her apricot-yellow long trench coat fluttered slightly in the wind, momentarily revealing a glimpse of her rounded buttocks encased in a red tight-fitting dress. This added a touch of ambiguous brightness to the gloomy street. Male passersby jogging to avoid the rain occasionally glanced back furtively. I thought that no one could bear to miss a beautiful, slender young woman on such a dreary rainy day. I was once again immersed in the secret pleasure of being watched, and I quickened my pace. The swaying of my hips became even more alluring. The hissing sound of my black stockings rubbing against my thighs and the light tapping of my high heels were like the moan of a cat in heat, arousing the lust of every male cat that passed me.

As I turned the corner to enter the hotel, two workers who had been seeking shelter from the rain stared at me with gritted teeth and fierce eyes, like two hungry wolves ready to pounce on a lamb. If we weren't in a busy downtown area, I think they would have been unable to restrain themselves and rushed over to gang rape and ravage me. Thinking of this, I felt a surge of excitement.

I folded my umbrella, glancing sideways at their lecherous stares. Then, smiling, I brushed the few raindrops from my chest and, like playing a guitar, plucked at my firm breasts. The slight sway of my large breasts seemed to drop a bombshell on the two workers' hearts. They swallowed hard, their hands frantically scratching at their chests, their erections rising. I glanced at them again, offering a triumphant laugh, then quickly walked into the hotel. I felt my lust spiraling out of control. If it weren't for my partner waiting to "rape" me in the room upstairs, I fear I would have lost control and let those two workers rape me.

Reaching the room door, I took a deep breath, trying my best to immerse myself in the "role" my partner had requested, to perform this seductive act well. Anticipation and excitement made my body tingle and flush. I took out my room key and trembled as I opened the door.

The room was dimly lit, with only a few rays of light streaming in from the window, creating a soft, diffused area of light on the carpet. I hung up my trench coat and stood in that light, peering out the window towards the hotel entrance, excitedly and anxiously awaiting the appearance of that figure. After a moment of blank staring, I listlessly drew the curtains, making the room even darker, the atmosphere quiet and somewhat oppressive. Just as I was about to sit down, a soft "snap" broke the silence from inside the suite. A small fire flickered, and behind the flame, a serious, cold face appeared and disappeared, his eyes piercingly fixed on me.

I gasped softly, leaning against the windowsill, trying to calm myself. A slow, gentle smile appeared on my face as I looked at him without speaking. We stared at each other like that, like a hunter and prey locked in a standoff.

He took two deep drags on his cigarette, then opened his pack and gestured for me to smoke. I adjusted my tight skirt and walked over with stiff but slightly provocative steps.

I gently pulled my short skirt up a little, then straddled his crossed legs, my soft buttocks pressing against his thighs, rubbing back and forth. I reached for his half-smoked cigarette, lightly touching the butt to my lips, leaving a red lip print. I stuck out my tongue and licked and caressed the cigarette butt, still carrying his wild scent. I could feel him, like a balloon inflated to several inches, bulging and ready to burst.

The muscles in his thighs contracted and trembled rhythmically, making my buttocks quiver from side to side.

He suddenly reached out and wrapped his right arm around my slender waist, his left hand gripping my fleshy buttocks tightly. He stood up, pressing his strong chest against my breasts, then looked down at me with an unyielding gaze, intimidating this "lamb," and growled in a low voice, "Is it that hard?!"

I threw away my cigarette, shaking my head to avoid his forceful lips, and hurriedly replied,

"Do you like this? Sit down."

Hearing my words, he paused for a moment. I gently pressed my hand on his shoulder and softly said again:

"Sit down."

He slowly sat down again, his breathing heavy, his face still bearing that stern and cold expression. I turned and walked to the sofa by the window, sweeping my long hair to one side, leaning lightly against the armrest, my legs crossed. The red, tight-fitting dress I wore was like a paintbrush, outlining my already voluptuous and mature body even more alluringly. The dark, deep opening at the hem of the short skirt was the most subtle blank space in this watercolor painting of me.

My eyes never left him. I knew exactly how to seduce a man with my gaze—a look that was both affectionate and seductive. After years of navigating the seas of desire, I was too adept at using this kind of gaze.

Then, I grasped my ankles with both hands and slid them down my thighs. The short skirt was pushed up to my buttocks, creating layers of wrinkles that formed a striking visual contrast with my smooth, shapely buttocks encased in black stockings.

I slightly lifted my buttocks, continuing to push my skirt up to my waist. Then, I used my hands to hold the edges of my stockings, slowly and steadily pulling them down. My pale purple, narrow-brimmed lace panties were gradually exposed to the suffocating, erotic air, like a lit fuse, finally igniting his lust all at once. Just as I pulled the stockings down to my buttocks, the man I had thoroughly "enraged" rushed over.

With a scream from me, he roughly grabbed my hair and shoved me against the opposite wall. Before I could turn around to beg for mercy, he used his left hand to firmly hold down my neck to prevent me from turning around, while his right hand tore at my stockings like a hungry wolf tearing at rotting flesh, loud "ripping...ripping" sounds echoing throughout the room.

I felt my stockings were already torn to shreds, hanging precariously in mid-air. Then, he suddenly reached under my crotch, grabbed the strap of my panties covering my private parts, and yanked it outwards with a sharp "snap." The panties were ripped in half, becoming two tattered strips hanging from my waist. I immediately felt a chill in my groin, my vagina tightened sharply, and a small stream of heat involuntarily flowed out. His large hand roughly rubbed and kneaded there, and soon my entire private area was covered in vaginal fluid. I instinctively gasped twice, which only reignited his lust.

He grabbed my shoulders, dragged me to the bed, and then shoved me hard, sending me crashing onto the bed. I felt gusts of cool air sweep across my buttocks and genitals, my head buzzing from the impact. My heart was filled with fear mixed with a hint of excitement and anticipation. But before I could catch my breath, there were two sharp slaps on my back. I turned around in a panic and saw him brandishing his belt. A burning pain instantly spread throughout my body.

He then jumped onto the bed, slapped my face again, and then tightly bound my hands behind my back with the belt. I was instantly powerless to resist. Tears of pain and humiliation welled up in my eyes. I felt like a lotus flower battered by autumn rain, delicate and pitiful. But I knew even more that the more pitiful I felt, the more it fueled his desire to conquer me. The real "torture" had only just begun!

After binding my hands, he unzipped his pants. Although I couldn't see, I felt a powerful, rough aura surging up from behind. I knew that his imposing, robust member had been unleashed. My tender vulva trembled twice in a seductive manner, and my thick labia, flushed with vaginal fluid, parted like little mouths. The dignity and shame that should have remained within me as a wife and mother were instantly overwhelmed by the lust that had been suppressed for days.

I struggled symbolically a couple of times, waving my most prized buttocks back and forth at him. I remembered my husband once holding my plump buttocks and exclaiming: "Holding them feels like the warmth of lying in my mother's arms when I was a child. Your buttocks are full but not greasy, smoother and softer than the skin on your face. Touching them feels like melting, better than any massage device I've ever used. A blush of girlish shyness always lingers on the tips of your buttocks, never fading. Even if I die from those plump buttocks, I'll still be a ghost of romance!"

The person behind me wasn't my husband, but I believed that when he saw my waving, sexy buttocks, he must have felt the same way my husband did.

Sure enough, he roughly spread my buttocks apart with his left hand, and with his right hand holding his penis, he thrust it into my already eager flower bud. I couldn't catch my breath, my mouth was wide open but I couldn't make a sound, and I suddenly raised my upper body, stretching my back into a big arc. He covered my mouth with his hand, thrusting his hips like a pestle, taking possession of my body in the most brutal and savage way. It was the most humiliating form of rape, yet I felt pleasure, even a touch of gratitude, because I had achieved my goal… After fucking me over a hundred times, he slowed his pace slightly. My virginity, untouched for days, was like parched land receiving rain; waves of intense pleasure surged through my body, reaching my core and spreading throughout my entire being. He untied the belt binding me, turned my head, and launched into a frenzied kiss, giving me no time to breathe. His hot, powerful tongue broke through my lips, forcefully swirling inside my mouth. Simultaneously, one hand slipped inside my collar, ripping off my bra and kneading my breasts. This was a merciless, unreserved kneading, each stroke a declaration of conquest and possession: You're a slut, everything you have is mine, don't even think about escaping or resisting!

After kissing me for a while, he pressed my head down again, displaying his power. His thick, hard penis continued to churn and churn inside my tender hole. Each thrust was like a tonic, relieving the insatiable lust that had plagued me for over a decade!

I knew that after he finished, there would be another long period of hunger and endurance, but I was already used to it. I just wanted to enjoy the pleasure of the moment. I had tried time and time again to break free from the control of lust, but each time I was thwarted. I had lost my beloved and fallen into a fatal trap because of it. Slowly, my will was worn away. So, as a certain celebrity said: since you can't resist, then enjoy it to the fullest.

I can still be with my lovely son and do the work I love. It's just that a part of my life has been given to lust and sex, and I have an extra layer of desire and shame buried deep in my heart. A part of me has become the person I once despised. But time has passed, I have compromised, indulged, and accepted my fate. I am still an excellent teacher, just with the prefix "lustful." What difference does it make?

He was unaware of my deepest, most private thoughts, and continued his wild thrusting. My vagina grew increasingly hot, tightly gripping the enormous penis that didn't match its size. Despite being thoroughly ravaged, it clung to me with reluctance each time his penis withdrew, as if afraid of losing it forever. He felt the contraction and sucking of my clitoris, the intense stimulation causing his penis to tremble noticeably. He straightened his back, thrusting into me dozens more times without pausing, then suddenly pressed down hard on my shoulders, his lower abdomen slamming forward, slamming into my buttocks with a loud "smack."

The large penis throbbed rapidly twice inside my vagina, and I felt a torrent rush towards my cervix. Instantly, waves of tingling, itchy pleasure spread throughout my entire vagina, starting from the most sensitive area around my cervix and spreading throughout my body. I bit down hard on the sheets to relieve the overwhelming surge of orgasm, closing my eyes to savor every second after the climax. It had only been three days since the last time, but to me, it felt like three years. I wanted to remember every moment of pleasure and ecstasy because I wasn't sure if I would have to endure another "three years."

He turned back to his chair and continued smoking, but his gaze softened. I felt a chill, so I curled up on my side, staring blankly at the semen stains on the sheets, a smile on my lips that should never have appeared after being "raped." He finished his cigarette, stood up, grabbed my trench coat, and tossed it at me, saying in a low voice, "Your clothes."

He then went into the bathroom. A minute later, he emerged naked, his eyes meeting mine. We stared at each other for a few seconds, then suddenly burst into laughter. I jumped out of bed, ran to him, hugged him tightly, and gave him a French kiss, giggling, "Brother Jun, how was my performance?"

His hands caressed my buttocks as he exclaimed, "Wow, that was fantastic! Zhiyi, much better than Tang Wei in the movie, and besides, your figure is ten times better than hers! You've worked hard, baby, does your back still hurt?"

I pouted and said, "Of course it hurts! You always have so many naughty ideas in your head, even thinking of imitating scenes from movies. But it was really exciting, I almost burst out laughing just now."

He pinched my buttocks hard twice and laughed, "Zhiyi, your brother has many more exciting ideas for you. As long as you serve your 'second husband' and 'third husband' well, you'll have plenty of fun later!"

As he spoke, he took my hand and touched his still imposing penis, even when it was limp. I laughed and scolded him as we hugged each other, and the two of us took a passionate bath together.

The phone on the bedside table was playing Ang Lee's "Lust, Caution," which was showing the first sex scene between Wang Jiazhi and Mr. Yi. But we didn't have time to rewatch it because he and I were acting out the second sex scene in "Lust, Caution." The man on top of me wasn't my ideal partner. He was average-looking and only a little taller than me, but I was becoming more and more dependent on him.

In that decadent and compromising phase of my life, only he could give me enough satisfaction and healing. He possessed a powerful sexual ability that captivated me, along with occasional bursts of sensual and creative sexual ideas. I never loved him, and he probably never loved me either. We simply lived in a shared world of indulgence, relying on and admiring each other, each satisfying our own desires and cravings. And all of this was done with my husband's support. Every time I think about it, I feel utterly absurd and ironic…

[The End]

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The female teacher controlled by lust

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