Staying overnight at the female teacher's house

It was almost eight years ago, a long time ago. I've been with many women, but the first time is something you'll generally remember for a lifetime.
The time was the mid-1990s, a time of population boom, when everything became difficult, and getting into school became exceptionally competitive.
I was in the second year of junior high school, a time of youthful ignorance. It was the first time I watched porn with a group of male classmates, secretly masturbating under the covers, imagining having sex with the girl I liked. Men born in the 80s should all have similar experiences.
As a child, I was a quiet boy who stood timidly in the corner, always speaking in a very soft voice and with a distinctive smile on his face.
My father is a lawyer, and he's very busy with work. My mother is also in poor health and hospitalized. So basically, no one has time to take care of me. I often have to eat alone at small restaurants, and gradually I've lost my appetite, developed anorexia, and become increasingly thin and weak. Once, when I visited my mother in the hospital, she saw how I looked and cried. My father's eyes also reddened.
A few days later, because my father and the teacher's husband were acquaintances, my father sent me to the teacher's house to be fostered. I ate and lived at the teacher's house and also attended tutoring classes.
The teacher at that time was the homeroom teacher of the class next door. If it weren't for that, I probably wouldn't have known about such an insignificant person as me. Tutoring was quite popular in those days, and teachers often had dozens of students receiving tutoring, divided into small groups. Their monthly income could often reach tens of thousands.
The teacher is in her thirties, has a five-year-old daughter, and her husband is also a lawyer. Like my father, he is very busy and often doesn't come home. Because of their high income, they have a large house with nice decorations, and they have hired a housekeeper to help with cooking and laundry.
The teacher, in her thirties, wore glasses and had a very refined appearance. She always used imported cosmetics, so she looked like she was in her mid-twenties. She had a great figure and often wore low-cut clothes and perfume.
Every morning I went to work with my teacher, and after get off work, we had tutoring in the evenings. We sat at a small round table, and she always sat next to me. Actually, I couldn't stand it because I was allergic to her perfume. But because I could often see her cleavage, I endured it. Sometimes I had fantasies, but a teacher is a teacher, after all.
Until one day, I remember it was around 1 or 2 a.m., I woke up to go to the bathroom. As I passed my teacher's room, I heard unusual sounds—a woman's low moans. The door was ajar, and a strong sense of curiosity drove me to peek inside. Through the dim light, I saw my teacher's legs spread apart, her hands moving incessantly between them, while she emitted low moans. I didn't know what was happening; I just stood there, staring blankly.
It was autumn, and a bit chilly, and I was only wearing my underwear. Perhaps because I'd caught a chill, I sneezed. The sneezing stopped abruptly, followed by a shout of "Who's there?" I was terrified, but too scared to run, so I answered.
She turned on the bedside lamp and called me in. Like a child who had done something wrong, I lowered my head, not daring to look at her, because for some reason, my little brother was stubbornly erect. She looked at me for a while, then suddenly asked me in a very gentle voice to come to her bed. I was at a loss, so I did as she said.
She dimmed the lamp and helped me lie down. Looking into her eyes, I felt my heart pounding. Suddenly, she kissed me. I closed my eyes, letting our tongues intertwine. It felt so good, really. It lasted for about a minute. As our lips parted, I heard her heavy breathing, a breath I hadn't felt in a long time.
She gazed at me, her eyes filled with tenderness and sadness, but in an instant, that look vanished.
She started kissing me, kissing my cheeks, kissing my body. I suddenly felt like my body was on fire, a feeling I'd never experienced before. I wanted to do something, but I didn't know what. Instinctively, I reached out to caress her body, to kiss her—her smooth skin, her rounded breasts. We caressed and kissed each other like that. After what seemed like an eternity, she parted her legs and straddled me, her underwear seemingly already removed. She grasped my penis and rubbed it against her vulva a few times; it felt so wet, so incredibly pleasurable.
Suddenly, she sat down, and almost instantly, I felt warmth spread throughout my body from that point, a warmth that seemed to melt me. She began to move up and down, slowly at first, then faster and faster, waves of pleasure washing over me. I felt like I was about to die.
Gradually, just when I could barely breathe, I felt an indescribable pleasure. It was like a volcanic eruption, violent and intense. [1]1049; that pleasure. After a moment of release, she lay on top of me, and the sound of our breathing was as beautiful as a symphony, and the world became so wonderful.
I closed my eyes, feeling the contractions deep within her vagina, and instantly, my body regained its vitality. I wanted to move, but she seemed to want to sleep, so I bent my legs and began my first sprint...
Perhaps it was because of that time that I have always been fascinated by the woman-on-top position. I like to see that confused expression, that flushed face, and I feel that it best embodies a woman's beauty, especially that body that is thrusting forward.
I was almost out of control, as if the world would collapse if I didn't engage in that simple piston-like motion. I'd never felt anything like it before, so intense it could almost destroy a person's mind. Madness—that's the only word to describe it. The room echoed with the groans of two people. There were no words, only gasps and sounds of pleasure.
And so, time and again, we repeated these simple exercises. I don't know how many times we did it; I only know that by dawn, I was too exhausted to move. We lay there facing each other, she looked at me, stroked my cheek, and let out a soft sigh. Her eyes were always that gentle gaze, a gaze I will remember for the rest of my life—gentle yet tinged with sadness, her expression filled with tenderness. I think I will remember it for the rest of my life, forever.
Exhaustion made it hard to keep my eyes open, and I quickly fell asleep. When I woke up, it was already afternoon, and I was a little scared, as it was the first time I had overslept and missed class. The note I found on the table reassured me; she had asked for leave for me.
She came home very early that day. She smiled at me as soon as she entered, a bright and cheerful smile. She was carrying many things and had also brought her daughter home. It was rare to see her so happy. She had cooked a lot of dishes that day. Although her husband, as usual, didn't come home, everyone seemed to be very happy.
Around 8 PM, I went to bed on time. But I tossed and turned, and every time I closed my eyes, the scene from the previous night kept replaying in my mind, making it hard to fall asleep. A voice in my heart urged me to go to her room. I was at a loss, unsure if I was doing the right thing. But I couldn't control myself; I couldn't stop myself from going to her room.
She wasn't asleep; she was leaning against the headboard reading. I didn't dare go in; I just stood outside the door, staring at her blankly. She noticed me, looked at me, and smiled—a gentle, innocent smile.
She told me to lock the door and turn off the bedside lamp. I quickly slipped into her bed, very quickly. Once again, we were facing each other, looking at each other. She was wearing a pink silk nightgown, and suddenly I had an impulse. I reached out and touched her breasts; through the nightgown, I could feel their softness and elasticity.
She closed her eyes, enjoying it, letting me caress her. I could almost hear my heart pounding, as if it were about to burst out of my chest. I tried to kiss her lips, her cheeks, her chin, just as she had done.
She loved French-style wet kisses, tongues entwining and spiraling, sucking each other's saliva, as if the two were performing a Spanish dance, a feeling beyond words. She sat up, took off her nightgown, and in the dim light, I could vaguely see her body: smooth skin, rounded breasts, and a patch of black between her legs—a beautiful black, and beneath that black was a beautiful angel.
I kissed her breasts, suckling at them like a newborn infant, greedily wanting to drink every last drop of milk. She cried out suddenly; it seemed too stimulating for her…
For the first time, I felt like I could control everything; scenes from porn movies flashed before my eyes. My fantasy had finally become reality. I kissed her while trying to explore that mysterious triangle area with my hands.
That was already a humid and hot world. Further down, beyond the tropical rainforest, I found that small protrusion. Just a light touch, and it trembled as if electrocuted. I started to gently massage it, and in an instant, it hugged me, telling me how comfortable it felt. I tried to speed up the rhythm, change the direction of the massage, and try different fingers.
With each movement, I could hear her breathing beside my ear, becoming increasingly erratic and heavy. Sometimes, when I exerted a little force, I could hear her uncontrollable moans. I began to control the rhythm of my finger movements, and from the changes in my fingers, I sensed her changes—sometimes moaning, sometimes panting, completely out of control.
Everything seemed to be getting interesting, at least that's how I felt at the time. Controlling a woman, especially one who is on a higher social level, is a wonderful feeling.
Just when I felt I had everything under control, she began to command me, or perhaps plead. "Faster, faster," I obeyed her will. The moans grew more intense and louder, and I began to worry if anyone would hear us. Suddenly, she screamed loudly, her body stiffening instantly. I felt a sharp pain in my shoulders and neck; I tried to struggle, but she held me tightly, and I couldn't move.
After about a minute or two, she slowly let go of me. I felt... so wet. After those few minutes, I could feel that she was almost like a vast ocean.
With just a gentle touch, my penis slid in. It felt so warm, and I couldn't help but start thrusting. And so, face to face, we slowly moved in and out. Her eyes narrowed with pleasure, and she moaned softly with each of my movements. I lifted her legs—long, smooth thighs. She looked so beautiful. It was hard to believe I could make love to my teacher like this.
I was going crazy, completely out of control. I started thrusting and pumping with all my might. After a dizzying wave of pleasure, I lay weakly on the bed, countless sperm ejaculating into my teacher's body.
I lay there, powerless. She looked at me, with that same expression—gentle and affectionate. She stroked my face, murmuring, "He looks so much like him, so much like him..."
I just lay there quietly, feeling sleepy and tired. She told me a lot, a lot of things, a lot about her college days. I listened in a daze and soon fell asleep.
During my second and third years of junior high, I lived at her house. Whenever her husband wasn't home, I would sleep in her room. We didn't always have sex; sometimes we just talked about my studies, her family, her life experiences, and her insights into life.
During her university years, she had a boyfriend, a classmate, and they were deeply in love. She recounted their happy times. Every day, they would walk along the riverbank at the university, watching the sunset. They would read together in the library, reciting Pushkin's poems. They would secretly meet in the woods, kiss, and make love, always terrified of being discovered.
Those days were romantic and beautiful, fulfilling and happy. She said they were the happiest time of her life. Until graduation, when she was forced to relocate, her boyfriend had no choice but to return to his hometown, while she was left in Shanghai. The painful separation, the wounds of the times, left them both sobbing uncontrollably at their parting. There was nothing to cherish, except exchanging a copy of Pushkin's poetry that they had both read. The memory was thus preserved in a book.
Later, through an introduction, she met her current husband. They felt good about each other and got married. They lived a peaceful life. Her husband wasn't very interested in or skilled in that area. He was a good person, a kind and good person.
She said that I resemble that person a lot, with single eyelids, a high nose, gentle eyes, and a calm temperament. I think he must be a very affectionate person. When you are with him, you feel like the world stops turning and time stands still. You have a special sense of security and your heart feels especially at ease.
More than ten years have passed, and she still loves him deeply. Even when she first saw me, she was so moved she almost cried. She inquired about my father, clinging to a sliver of hope. But hope often brings disappointment.
In the years that followed, we kept in touch. Sometimes, after class, I would go to her house for dinner and a chat. Sex wasn't the main topic between us; she treated me like her child, her lover, cherishing and guiding me. I would always go home around 9 PM because I didn't want to arouse my parents' suspicion; she had a normal family.
In 1999, the year I was admitted to university, her family immigrated to Canada. Since then, we have lost contact.
I miss her quite a lot. We are both in a foreign land, so she should have similar feelings. How many times can a person have such beautiful love in his life? Pure and natural, delicate without any pretense, no material factors, just the mutual attraction between two people. When I think of my love, my experience of life, and the education she gave me. When I think about that, I feel so grateful to her. I love her as much as I love my mother, with respect and admiration.
I hope she can be happy for the rest of her life, and I also hope that everyone can have a true love at least once.

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Staying overnight at the female teacher's house

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