Staying overnight at the female teacher's house

It was about 8 years ago, a long time ago. I've been with many women, but the first time is something you'll remember for a lifetime. Time stopped in the mid-1990s, during a population boom, everything became difficult, and getting into a good school became extremely challenging. I was in the second year of junior high school, a time of naivety. The first time I watched porn with a group of male classmates, I secretly masturbated in bed, 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, standing timidly in the corner, always speaking softly with a signature smile. My father was a lawyer, very busy with work, and my mother was in poor health and hospitalized. So basically no one had time to take care of me. I often had to go to small restaurants to eat alone, gradually losing my appetite, becoming somewhat anorexic, and getting thinner and thinner. Once, when I went to see my mother in the hospital, she saw me and cried, and my father's eyes also reddened. A few days later, because my father and the teacher's husband were acquaintances, he sent me to the teacher's house to live with him, where I ate and ate, and also received tutoring. The teacher at that time was the homeroom teacher of the class next door; if it weren't for this, she probably wouldn't have known about such an insignificant little person as me. Tutoring was quite popular in those days; teachers often had dozens of students, divided into small groups. Their monthly income could often reach tens of thousands. The teacher was in her thirties, had a five-year-old daughter, and her husband was also a lawyer, very busy like my father, often not home. Because of her high income, her house was large and well-decorated, and she even 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 about 25 or 26 years old. 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 she was, after all, a teacher. Until one day, around 1 or 2 a.m., I woke up to go to the bathroom. Passing by my teacher's room, I heard unusual sounds—a woman moaning softly. The door was ajar, and intense curiosity drove me to peek inside. Through the dim light, I saw my teacher's legs spread, her hands moving between them, and she was emitting 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 caught a chill, I sneezed. The sound stopped abruptly, followed by a "Who's there?" I was terrified, but too scared to run, so I answered. hukops She turned on the lamp and called me in. I felt like a child who had done something wrong, head down, afraid to look at her, because for some reason, my little brother was uncooperatively erect. She looked at me for a while, then suddenly called me to her bed in a very gentle voice. I was at a loss, so I did as she said. s#c (embil protedted) 2h The content of this post is hidden and requires a reply to view t(nos z- Fatigue made it hard for me to keep my eyes open, and I fell asleep quickly. 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. Introducing something good to everyone, rich and strong men come in, if you are not satisfied, find me, absolutely wonderful (t0(m~~f6) She came back very early that day. As soon as she came in, she smiled at me, a bright smile. She was carrying a lot of things and had also brought her daughter back. It was rare to see her so happy. She cooked a lot of dishes that day, and although her husband did not come back as usual, everyone seemed to be very happy. }nb2 Around 8 PM, I went to bed on time. In bed, I tossed and turned, the scene from the previous night flashing before my eyes, making it difficult to fall asleep. A voice inside 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, couldn't stop myself from going to her room. She wasn't asleep, leaning against the headboard reading. I didn't dare go in, just stood outside the door, staring at her. She noticed me, looked at me, and smiled—a gentle, innocent smile. She told me to lock the door and dim the lamp. I quickly slipped into her bed. Once again, we were face to face, looking at each other. She was wearing a pink silk nightgown. Suddenly, I felt an urge. 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. I tried to kiss her lips, her cheeks, her chin, just as she had. She loved French kisses, tongues entwined, spiraling, sucking each other's saliva, like two people dancing a Spanish dance—the feeling was indescribable. 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, beneath which lay a beautiful angel. I kissed her breasts, suckling them, like a newborn baby greedily wanting to drink every last drop of milk. She suddenly cried out; it seemed this was too stimulating for her… For the first time, I felt in control of everything; scenes from porn movies flashed before my eyes. My fantasy had finally become reality. I kissed her while trying to explore her mysterious triangle with my hands. It was already a humid, hot world there; further down, beyond the rainforest, I found that small protrusion. Just a light touch, and she trembled as if electrocuted. I started to slowly rub it, and in an instant, she hugged me, telling me how comfortable it felt. I tried to speed up the pace, changing the direction of the rubbing, trying different fingers. With each movement, I could hear her breathing beside me, becoming increasingly erratic and heavy. Sometimes, when I applied a little more pressure, I could hear her uncontrollable moans. I began to control the rhythm of my finger movements; from the changes in my fingers, I felt 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 of higher status, 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. The moans grew more intense, louder, and I began to worry if anyone could hear. Suddenly, she screamed loudly, her body stiffening instantly. I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder and neck. I tried to struggle, but she held me tightly, and I couldn't move.After about a minute or two, she slowly released me. I felt so wet down there; after those few minutes, I could feel she was practically 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, we faced each other, slowly thrusting. Because of the pleasure, her eyes narrowed, and with my movements, she occasionally let out moans. I lifted her legs—long, smooth thighs. She looked so beautiful; it was hard to believe I could make love to my teacher in this way. I was going crazy, completely losing control. I started using all my strength to thrust and pump desperately. After a dizzying wave of pleasure, I lay weakly on the bed, countless sperm shooting into my teacher's body. I lay there helplessly. She looked at me, still with that same expression, gentle and affectionate. She stroked my face, murmuring, "It's like him, it really is like him..." I just lay there quietly, a little sleepy and tired. She told me a lot, a lot of things, a lot about her university days. I listened drowsily and fell asleep soon after. 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. In university, she had a boyfriend, a classmate, and they were deeply in love. She told me about their happy times. They would walk along the riverbank near the university every day, watching the sunset. They would study 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 it was the happiest time of her life. Until graduation, when they were forced to relocate, her boyfriend reluctantly returned to his hometown, while she was left in Shanghai. The painful separation, the wounds of the times, and their tearful farewell... There was nothing to remember them by, except for exchanging a collection of Pushkin's poems that they had both read. The memory was thus preserved in that book. Later, through an introduction, she met her current husband. They felt good about each other and then got married. She lived a peaceful life. Her husband wasn't very interested in that kind of thing, nor was he very knowledgeable about it. He was a good person, a kind and good person. She said, "I look a lot like that person. Single eyelids, a high nose, gentle eyes, and a calm temperament. He must be a very affectionate person. When you're with him, you feel like the world stops turning, and time stands still. You feel a special sense of security, and your heart feels incredibly at ease." More than ten years have passed, and she still loves him deeply. Even when she first saw me, she was so excited that she almost cried. She inquired about who my father was, holding onto a sliver of hope. But hope often brings disappointment. Let me introduce you to a place for entertainment. Registration is simple and exciting. If you don't believe me, go check it out. In the years that followed, we kept in touch. Sometimes, after class, I would go to her house for dinner and conversation. 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 couldn't arouse my parents' suspicions; she had a normal family. In 1999, the year I entered university, her family immigrated to Canada. From then on, we lost contact. I miss her dearly. Being in a foreign land myself, she must have felt similarly. How many times in a lifetime can one experience such beautiful love? Pure and natural, tender without any affectation, without material factors, just mutual attraction. Thinking of my love, my life experiences, and the education she gave me, I am filled with gratitude towards her. I love her, and respect her as I would my own mother.

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Staying overnight at the female teacher's house

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