Adolescent love

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, and 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, he was a quiet boy, standing timidly in the corner, always speaking softly with a signature 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 lose my appetite, become anorexic, and grow weaker and weaker.
Once, when I went to see my mother in the hospital, she saw me 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 received tutoring from her.
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 for tutoring, divided into small groups. Their monthly income was very high.
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 live in a large, well-furnished house and have hired a housekeeper to help with cooking and laundry.
The teacher, who was in her mid-twenties, 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 go to work with my teacher, and when we come home, we have tutoring in the evenings. There's a small round table, and my teacher always sits next to me. Actually, I find it a little unbearable because I'm allergic to her perfume. But because I can often see her cleavage, I just endure it. Sometimes I have fantasies, but a teacher is a teacher, after all.
Until one day, around 1 or 2 a.m., I woke up to go to the bathroom. As I passed the teacher's room, I heard unusual sounds—a woman moaning softly. The door was ajar, and my intense curiosity compelled me to peek inside. Through the dim light, I saw the teacher's legs spread wide, 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 caught a chill, I sneezed. The sneezing stopped abruptly, followed by a "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 uncooperatively 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 had me lie down. Looking into her eyes, I felt my heart was about to jump out of my chest. 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 to do. Instinctively, I reached out to caress her body, to kiss her smooth skin, her rounded breasts. We caressed and kissed each other like that. I don't know how much time passed, but then she parted her legs and straddled me, her panties seemingly already pulled down. She grasped my penis and rubbed it against her vulva a few times; it felt so wet, so incredibly good.
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 as I was almost unable to breathe, I felt an indescribable pleasure. It was like a volcanic eruption, intense, a fleeting ecstasy. After that instant release, she collapsed on top of me, and the sounds of our breathing were like a beautiful symphony; the world seemed 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 be asleep, so I bent my legs and began my first thrust... Perhaps it was because of that time that I've always been fascinated by the woman-on-top position, enjoying seeing that dazed expression, that flushed face, feeling that it best embodies a woman's beauty, especially that forward-leaning body.
I could barely control myself; it felt as if the world would collapse if I didn't make that simple piston-like motion. I'd never felt anything like it before, so intense it could almost destroy one's mind. Madness—that's the only word to describe it. The room echoed with the groans of two people. No words, only gasps and sounds of pleasure.
And so, again and again, we repeated this simple exercise. I don't know how many times it happened, 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 with her hand, 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 full of 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—it was the first time I'd 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 walked in, 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, and although her husband, as usual, wasn't home, everyone seemed to be having a good time.
It was past 10 o'clock, and I went to bed on time. But I tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep, the scene from the previous night flashing before my eyes. A voice inside me 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. She noticed me, looked at me, and smiled—a gentle, innocent smile.
She told me to lock the door and turn off the lamp. I quickly slipped into her bed, very quickly. Once again, we were face to face, looking at each other. She was wearing a pink silk nightgown, and 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 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, spiraling, sucking each other's saliva, as if the two were dancing a Spanish dance, the feeling 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, and beneath that black was a beautiful angel.
I kissed her breasts, suckling them like a newborn baby, 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 in control of everything, scenes from porn movies flashing before my eyes. My fantasy had finally become reality. As I kissed her, I tried to explore that mysterious triangle area with my hands.
It was already a humid and hot world there. Further down, beyond the rainforest, I discovered that small protrusion.
With just a gentle touch, she trembled as if electrocuted. I began to slowly massage it, and in an instant, she hugged me, telling me how comfortable it felt. I tried to increase the pace, 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 could feel 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 of a higher social standing than you, is a pretty wonderful feeling.
Just when I felt I had everything under control, she began to command me, or perhaps plead with me.
"Faster, faster," I obeyed her will. The moans grew more intense and louder, and I began to worry if anyone would 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 let go of 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, facing each other, I slowly thrust 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 in this way.
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 limply on the bed, countless sperm ejaculating into my teacher's body.
I lay there, limp. She looked at me, still with that same expression—gentle, 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 about her university days. I listened half-asleep 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 would just talk about my studies, her family, her life experiences, and her insights into life.
During her university years, she had a boyfriend, a classmate, whom she loved very much. She recounted their happy times. Every day they would walk along the riverbank at the university, watching the sunset. They would study together in the library, reciting Pushkin's poems. They would secretly meet in the woods, kissing and making 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 behind in Shanghai. The painful separation, the wounds of the times, left them both sobbing uncontrollably at their parting. There was nothing to cherish, except to exchange 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 both 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 man.
She said that I am very similar to that person, with single eyelids, a high nose, gentle eyes, and a calm temperament. I would be a very affectionate person. When you are with him, you feel that the world stops turning and time stops at that point. You have a special sense of security and feel very 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' suspicions; she had a normal family.
In 2010, the year I was admitted to university, her family immigrated to Canada. Since then, we have lost contact.
I miss her dearly. We were both far from home; she must have felt the same way. How many times in a lifetime can one experience such beautiful love? Pure and natural, tender without a trace of affectation, devoid of material considerations, simply a mutual attraction. Thinking of my own love, my life experiences, and the lessons she taught me, fills me with gratitude. I love her 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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Adolescent love

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