Ping, the elegant and beautiful teacher

There is no absolute light or absolute darkness in the world. Everyone has secrets. With Ping, I feel like we're a pair of elegantly dressed night dancers, freely performing our own dance where no one can see us. Like two people walking hand-in-hand in brocade robes at night, only we know each other's beauty. We can hear each other's heartbeats, feel each other's breath, and touch each other's warmth, as if we're far apart, yet as close as lips and teeth.

Ping and I often say goodnight to each other, but not every night. Our tender experiences are like a gentle melody, lulling me to sleep peacefully.

Ping is a professor of Chinese literature at a university, elegant and very gentle, always expressing her thoughts in a way I can easily understand. For a while, I was very busy and neglected Ping. She missed me but didn't want to bother me, so she texted me: "I've learned a few new dishes recently, and I think they're pretty good. Come try them sometime." I couldn't help but smile. This clever woman seemed to be saying to me, "The flowers are blooming along the path; you may return slowly." Just a few words, yet infinitely tender.

Once, in Prague, Czech Republic, I came to the Old Town Square, the very square Jolin Tsai sang about in her song. It was a winter day, and the square wasn't very big. A group of middle-aged people in long dresses and traditional costumes were slowly dancing, while some young people played music nearby. The sunlight created a uniquely gentle atmosphere. I went to the post office next door and bought a postcard with a picture of the dark green old church in the square and the beautiful red-roofed houses next to it. I wrote two lines of lyrics on it: "The flock of white doves with their backs to the setting sun, the scene is too beautiful for me to bear," and sent it to Sister Ping.

Two weeks later, Sister Ping sent me a photo. Her slender, white fingers were holding my postcard, and next to it, in pencil, was another line of lyrics: "I dance and twirl alone." I immediately wanted to fly to Sister Ping's side.

Not long after returning home, it was Christmas. I spent Christmas Eve with Sister Ping. She picked me up at the high-speed rail station. When we got home, it was still early, not yet dinner time.

I still missed Sister Ping's line, "I dance and twirl alone," and wanted to see her dance. Ping wouldn't have it, saying it wasn't a performance and dancing only for me was silly. No matter how much I pleaded, Ping wouldn't budge; she knew my tricks all too well. I said, "Then teach me ballroom dancing," and she finally agreed.

Ping was an excellent ballroom dancer, having danced since she was young. She specially changed into a green V-neck dress, did some simple makeup, and wore earrings and a necklace. The dress was paired with a gold belt, making her look beautiful and charming. She knew I loved her when she looked exquisite. Looking at Ping's shimmering lipstick and graceful figure, I started to fawn over her again: "Sister, I just remembered two more phrases to describe you." Ping said, "What are some compliments for me now? Tell me." I said, word by word, "Cherry lips, willow waist." Ping smiled from ear to ear. Women of any age like to be complimented on their beauty; that's a truth.

I learned ballroom dancing in my freshman year of college, but I hadn't practiced in a long time and had long forgotten everything. Faced with someone like me with virtually no dance skills, Sister Ping practically had to teach me from scratch. I held Sister Ping's soft waist, and she supported my shoulders. We swayed gently to music in the living room. Sister Ping kept correcting my clumsy steps, telling me not to rush, or I'd lose my footing.

Her long hair cascaded down her back, exuding charm and allure. As we danced, I wanted to kiss her, but Sister Ping playfully turned her head and pinched my shoulder: "Aren't you supposed to be learning to dance? Getting distracted again?" After several attempts, I finally managed to kiss her cheek. You probably can't guess what I was thinking at that moment: I was wondering who coined the idiom "to kiss her sweetheart." How wonderful!

I gripped Sister Ping's soft little hands tighter and tighter, and my embrace around her waist tightened as well. Sister Ping scolded me for my little tricks, but her slender waist was under my control. With a little effort, Sister Ping's lower abdomen pressed against my body. Our ballroom dance turned into friction, a grinding of our genitals. My penis uncontrollably hardened, pressing against my pants. Ping smiled at me, no longer seriously teaching me to dance, and playfully scolded, "I knew you were fickle," before twisting her soft lower body, clearly uncomfortable. My

glans felt an unprecedented tingling sensation. I released Ping's hands and hugged her waist tightly. I loved the feeling of possessing her completely, safe and happy. Her firm breasts pressed against my chest. I stroked her hair, and Ping buried her head in my chest, her eyelashes trembling.

I kissed Ping's bare skin inch by inch—her forehead, the tip of her nose, her cheeks, her earlobes, her lips. Gentle, tender kisses invaded downwards. Because she was wearing a dress, I could only caress Ping's trembling breasts through the fabric. I slowly squatted down, lifting Ping's skirt. Since we were at home, she wasn't wearing stockings or pantyhose. Ping remained standing there; we were perfectly in sync. I loved Ping's plump yet long thighs, and I also loved the two blooming, moist peach blossoms beneath her black panties.

I kissed Ping's thighs, and her body swayed back and forth. I held her legs to keep her from falling, and gently pulled her beautiful panties down from her buttocks. When I kissed Ping's vulva, she hugged my head, letting out a deep moan from her throat, and uttered a new word: "Little brother... little brother." She had never called me that before; it was so new. I tasted her delicious juices beneath Ping's long skirt. Ping subconsciously pressed my head against her labia, and my licking and sucking made her unwilling to let go.

After tasting for a long time, Ping's lower body was like an inexhaustible mountain spring, the overflowing nectar making the curly hair stick together. Slowly, her legs began to tremble like a sieve, and the pressure on my head suddenly increased several times. I knew Ping was about to climax, so I wrapped my arms around her beautiful buttocks, pressing her vulva closer to my face, and licked her clitoris even faster, quickly bringing her to orgasm. She convulsed, her body arching, gripping my hair tightly, making my scalp ache. I had to keep her balanced, it hurt…

After Ping slumped down, I pulled her to the sofa and kissed her lips. Ping seemed exhausted, letting me kiss her without much reaction. I hadn't even had my fill yet, but Ping was too lazy to pay attention to me. After a while, I realized Ping was really tired, so I carried her to the bed to lie down for a bit. We still had to

eat dinner. After resting for more than an hour, I coaxed and urged the drowsy Ping out of bed, quickly washed up, and went out for dinner. Before leaving, she pinched my face a few times. No wonder, having to go out without a good rest is really unpleasant.

Dinner was at a nearby Western restaurant. Having studied abroad for several years, I felt the Christmas atmosphere in China was much stronger than abroad, though it was all driven by commercial interests. Someone unfamiliar with the country might even mistake Santa Claus for a Chinese person. Before entering the restaurant, I ran to a nearby shop and bought a Christmas card. Borrowing a pen from a waiter, I wrote the second half of Yan Shu's poem "Huanxi Sha": "I remember when I first met Xiao Ping, her double-layered robe embroidered with the character for 'heart.'

She spoke of longing on the pipa strings. The bright moon was there then, shining on the returning colorful clouds." I gave it to Sister Ping. Sister Ping smiled broadly, giving me a flirtatious wink: "So sweet, little lover." The restaurant was crowded on Christmas Eve. We sat facing each other across the table, making it inconvenient for Sister Ping to kiss me. She placed her right hand on her lips, then gently pressed it against mine, her soft, warm fingertips carrying a beautiful, alluring, and lonely fragrance. Even today, long after, I still cherish the sweet scent of that kiss.

We went home quickly after dinner, both quite tired. After chatting for a while, I went to wash up first. After showering, I was brushing my teeth in front of the bathroom mirror when Ping came in. She had changed into her pajamas and gently hugged me from behind. The feeling of her breasts against my back was so soft and warm. Ping's hands playfully teased my naked lower body, stroking me with her soft little hands. I had been hard for so long, and Ping was whispering sweet nothings behind me, sucking on my earlobe—it was both incredibly stimulating and agonizing. I didn't move after brushing my teeth, just enjoying Ping's masturbation.

Finally, unable to withstand Ping's caresses and friction, I ejaculated in her little hands. Ping turned coquettishly to face me, and in front of me, she put the semen in her hand to her lips and took it in. Before I could even feel the pleasure for three seconds, Ping suddenly kissed my lips, sharing her semen with me once again. It's worth mentioning that I was the one who first introduced me to semen. This time, I was completely unprepared and instinctively tried to pull away, but Ping held me by the neck and I couldn't go anywhere. Only when Ping felt she had tormented me enough did she let go, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. I was lying in the sink coughing for a while, while Sister Ping was laughing hysterically behind me.

I'm a detail-oriented person, and I cherish every moment I spend with Ping. These are just little things that happened between us, but I like to write down every single one of them.

[The End]

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Ping, the elegant and beautiful teacher

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