The photography teacher who is 13 years older

I had excellent grades in elementary school, but they started to decline in middle school. In my final year of middle school, I played around a lot, and when my dad found out about my grades during the midterms, he started forcing me to study. Although the teachers had given up hope on me, I knew my abilities because I had actually been a very good student when I was younger. With a bit of inspiration for drawing, I got into the art program at a top provincial high school. My mother passed away when I was seven, and about six months later, I accepted my new mother. There were still many problems. I was very outgoing as a child, but after my mother's death, I became somewhat withdrawn. Sometimes I had conflicts with my stepmother's younger sister (one year younger than me), and I might hit her. My parents would blame me for this, and I got angry and wrote my dad a very harsh letter. Only then did he realize he might have been too harsh on me. Later, our relationship improved somewhat.

When I was in middle school, my dad said I treated home like a hotel—just coming back to eat, sleep, and ask for money for tuition, without any communication. It wasn't until my senior year of high school, when I went to study my major in another city, that I realized how much my stepmother had actually sacrificed for me. We have a great understanding now. I've always wanted to be a painter since I was little. Now I want to be an advertising professional or do creative work. I hope to have status and money, for my parents and for myself. Secondly, I want to prove to that person that my existence has value. I used to be very simple, just doing art for art's sake. Maybe as people grow up, they don't want to ask their parents for money anymore. And I've always been a very competitive person, not wanting to be worse than others. Besides, someone I once loved once said something about me, saying I wasn't ambitious. I told him he was short-sighted. I should prove him wrong, but that doesn't mean I'm still living for him. In high school, I only had one real boyfriend. Later, although there were some others, they were just casual relationships because after him, it became difficult for me to accept other men. I was pretty good with boys since first grade. My friends aren't numerous, they're all genuine. Sorry, I got a little emotional (I noticed her eyes were red). In first grade, while my mother was sick, my father entrusted me to my aunt. The boy I was very close to was my aunt's neighbor, and we talked about everything back then. Later, when I went back to my own home, we parted ways.

My first time wasn't with a boy; he was 31, 13 years older than me, and was the instructor for our school's photography group. At the time, I was particularly interested in photography.

He tutored us for a month and then left, but he left some assignments and his phone number. When we were alone, he told me to come over to his place, saying he could teach me some photography. Those days were around New Year's Day, and I was reading a book called "A Woman," about Rodin's lover Camille. At the time, I wanted to be a female artist, and reading that book made me quite sad; I was completely enveloped by that atmosphere. As a result, at the New Year's Eve party where everyone was having fun, I not only got drunk but also started crying, and eventually, a few boys took me back to my dorm.

That same night, I called him to ask if he was free for New Year's Day, saying I wanted to visit him. He said he would call me back later. I thought I might be bothering him, so I hung up. About 40 minutes later, he called me and said, "I'm downstairs at your dorm." I was a bit tipsy from drinking and blurted out, "Really?" He said, "Get out." My gut feeling, like a girl's, told me something was off. But I'd never experienced anything like this before, so I thought, what could we possibly do?

Maybe just talk. He has a car, we can talk in the car.

I was already in bed, but I instinctively changed my underwear. Oh, no, I wasn't wearing a bra or socks, just a thermal undershirt and a down jacket when I got out.

After getting into his car, I started thinking about our relationship. I only knew he was divorced, and from our classes, I knew he liked me—that was all. But I still trusted him instinctively.

We drove to his house. His house was quite well-furnished, but the color scheme was a light yellow, and the furniture was simple and modern. We didn't say much, just sat on the sofa watching DVDs.

Because I'd never experienced anything like this before, it felt like a dream, and it was already past 11 pm. I dozed off for a while and then woke up again, still groggy. He suggested I take a shower. Beforehand, I wondered: why would I shower here? I thought his house would have two rooms, or maybe a sofa bed or something, but there was only one bedroom with a double bed. Then I thought, why not just stay up all night? I really didn't expect anything to happen to me, so when I came out of the shower, I was still fully clothed.

Afterwards, I sat there coldly, and he tentatively kissed me.

I wasn't panicked; I was numb. My mind was still on Rodin and Camille's story, their story lasting 15 years, ending tragically. I also felt… I can't quite put my finger on it; I can't remember clearly.

At first, it was just a kiss on the lips, but it went deeper. Although I was passive, I didn't resist. I was a little curious.

I kept going with a question mark in my mind; I kept wanting to know what would happen next (she was amused by her own thoughts at the time).

Later, he went to shower, and when he came out, he wasn't wearing any clothes underneath. I felt particularly disgusted. When I was little, probably two or three, I had an experience where someone at my dad's workplace kept telling me ghost stories, which made me terrified of ghosts and the dark. He also made me masturbate with my hand. I didn't know what that thing was; I thought it looked like a purple eggplant. That's my childhood memory, and I told my dad about it.

I was only two or three years old then, so young, yet I remember that scene so clearly. Also, when I was eight, I was almost raped by a middle school boy. He cornered me and made me take off my pants. I asked, "Why?" He said, "So-and-so has already taken his pants off." I started to cry. He had no choice but to take me home. I told my dad about that too. My dad even went to talk to his father, and from then on, every time I went to the bathroom, I went with my sister.

Now, this incident makes me feel guilty towards my dad, like I've sold myself. So when I saw him without pants, my reaction was particularly strong; I yelled at him, "Put your pants on right now! Don't do this!"

Later, it was very late, and we still slept in the same bed. It wasn't particularly awkward because I still liked him.

...The next day, I went to school. He called me and said, "You're really patient, not calling me or contacting me." During the time I wasn't seeing him, I quickly bought two sets of underwear.

Nothing happened the second time; we just slept in the same bed. I didn't agree to him taking it any further; he was willing to do anything else.

The third time, winter break was coming up, and I would be staying at home. I thought, "If I don't do it now, I'll have to in the future; if I don't do it with him, he's so old, he'll do it with someone else. I might as well do it." So we did. It was

extremely painful. He tried three times that night, and I was in so much pain that I tried to get off the bed, but I couldn't succeed. Later, we went to sleep. The next morning around 9 a.m., he was on top of me again. I couldn't run away or move, and he succeeded.

Later, we went to the post office together, and he even asked me if I was in pain. Then I got my period.

We were rarely together during the day, only at night. I often felt like a "chicken," especially since I knew nothing about him. After all, I was a high school student with classes and the pressure of exams.

First, under his influence, I became less passionate about art. Second, I felt love wasn't so noble or sincere. Most importantly, I learned what men's goals were, and I started playing emotional games with them, even better than them.

He saw me as a lover at the time. I knew Camille was Rodin's lover, but I treated him like a boyfriend, after all, it was my first time. I might have been too naive. He was 20 years old, with much more experience than me.

I didn't expect it to last forever, and I knew everyone eventually had to return to their original lives, but I didn't know how this would end.

[The End]

URL 1:https://www.sexlove5.com/htmlBlog/123461.html

URL 2:/Blog.aspx?id=123461&aspx=1

Previous Page : The Manipulated Me 1-13 22

Next Page : Smash your balls

增加

comment Open a new window to view comments

Contact Information

The photography teacher who is 13 years older

comment Open a new window to view comments