School campus training - teaching my students - slaves

My m is my student, and this is my true, poignant story of beauty. I've finally decided to write it down!

I've been watching Qian for a long time. In this classroom, she always sits by the window. Her oval face isn't exactly beautiful, but it's delicate and fair. Her long, flowing hair is elegantly draped, exuding an air of intellect, and her full breasts display a different kind of alluring beauty. In this not-so-prestigious university, she's just one among the masses. I noticed her because of her eyes; her lively pupils didn't reveal a clear spring, but rather a kind of enigmatic allure. Always like that, as if she's restraining herself, concealing herself, yet secretly delighted—a mysterious and enigmatic presence. Her ever-changing gaze, coupled with her sometimes flushed cheeks and sometimes swaying body, made me feel like I understood her. Her heart was soaring, her body was passionate! To confirm my judgment, I inquired about her story after class. Her parents had divorced years ago, and although wealthy, she lacked a father's love. She had good grades and was very aloof. I began to observe her, giving her extra glances during each class. Sometimes I would casually tell her stories, telling her how to get out of her confusion. Every time I approached her, every time I met her longing yet evasive, complex gaze, every time I could feel her body trembling slightly as I drew near. Slowly, I felt she was changing for me, always wearing beautiful clothes. Every time, she would slightly reveal the base of her full breasts, showing a deep cleavage. When I looked at her, she would slowly lower her body and lean forward, letting her breasts be fully exposed to me. During breaks, she would occasionally drift past me, always wearing a skirt that revealed her beautiful thighs clad in stockings. The faint fragrance in the air was intoxicating. She knew I was looking at her, because her buttocks were clearly trembling, a trembling of suppressed excitement, longing, and shyness. I understood her, I understood everything about her, a brave, pitiful girl.

And so we communicated with our eyes, with our hearts, without even saying a word. We enjoyed each other's love, an invisible, simple love. In our occasional exchanges, we used the simplest and most sincere language to tell each other that life should be joyful. We almost never discussed professional knowledge. The last Q&A session was during the last 7 or 8 periods on a Friday. Not many students came, but she did, wearing a black halter-neck jumpsuit that was more revealing than usual, beautiful high heels, no stockings, and her hair, unusually, was tied up with a purple bow, as if she had made a decision. Finally, it was over, and I reluctantly packed up my books, my eyes never leaving her. She didn't leave, sitting quietly, watching me silently, her flushed cheeks and stubborn, aggrieved eyes fixed on me. I, however, didn't have the courage to look up. Suddenly, she spoke, "Teacher, I still have a question." This was unexpected. After a moment of panic, she walked to the front and sat down. Suddenly, I was stunned. She wasn't wearing a bra, and standing on the podium, I could clearly see her full breasts, cleavage, and even her round nipples. She just stared at me without moving. Suddenly, she blushed and asked, "Am I pretty
?" I was stunned, speechless for a moment. Trying to sound casual, I replied, "Of course, you're very pretty and excellent. Study hard, you'll have a bright future." As I spoke, I walked over to her and patted her shoulder. Suddenly, she grabbed my arm, hugged me, and pressed her face against my waist. This was a classroom, a class, and I felt a surge of nervousness. I also enjoyed her enthusiasm; the unique fragrance of a young woman's body slowly filled my nostrils. Slowly, I became intoxicated and hugged her tightly, lowering my head to our lips meet. Suddenly, she slowly stood up, walked to the podium, and lifted her skirt, revealing that she was completely naked underneath. Her white thighs, her not-so-full vulva, sparse pubic hair, her slightly parted clitoris, and the glistening moisture on her slightly open vulva... No need for rejection, no need for words, no need for further struggle. Am I a good teacher? I closed the classroom door and curtains, and we embraced tightly. The rare tranquility of the campus was now just the two of us. I carefully lifted her, carried her to the sacred podium, positioned her facing the students, and inserted my penis, which had ejaculated for her many times before, into her already wet vagina. There were no words, only kisses and relentless thrusting. Only her constant moans and the swaying of her hips. At her request, I ejaculated onto her breasts, the semen directly hitting her nipples. She cried out, telling me she longed for this. She lowered the skirt hanging around her neck to cover her semen-covered breasts. I embraced her, who was already crying, letting her tears soak my shoulder. She felt wronged; her desires were unfulfilled by the world, and even by me. She was happy; she had finally let herself go, that someone could forgive her completely, allowing her to be her freest self. After the hug, she knelt down, cupped my penis in her hands, and held it above her head, slowly sliding it down her forehead, past her eyes, and across her cheeks, before sacredly taking it into her mouth. I understood that she had masochistic tendencies; this was an unconscious expression of masochism. After a warm and earnest oral cleansing, she told me that for me, she often went braless, that she masturbated in front of me in class, and that she had pretended to accidentally touch my already swollen penis several times, knowing it was for her. She had read a lot about BDSM; she longed for me to masturbate her like that, longed to completely relax and be her most authentic self in front of me. Poor woman, what could I say? Actually, I knew her. I knew that during my class, she had something vibrating inside her vagina; I knew she had shown off her beautiful breasts and thighs several times; I even found toilet paper soaked with her vaginal fluid that she had deliberately left on her seat. She neatly folded it on the table, waiting for me to smell it. Actually, I had already smelled it; I always smelled it—the strong scent of vaginal fluid! Once, it even had the words "Teacher" deliberately written on it. But I am a teacher, a teacher!

I had no reason to refuse her. Perhaps refusing wasn't helping her, but giving her a warm and safe space to let herself go and burn brightly was perhaps a form of love for her. Although I was less than 10 years older than her, I chose to let her call me "Dad" because she lacked fatherly love. I affectionately called her "Egg." She longed to be cared for. We rented a house a little distance from the school, decorated our cozy little space, and I would spend some time there with her every week. I would put a collar on her so she could sleep at my feet. The beautiful city of Wuhan left us with joyful memories. In our world of two, we relaxed to our hearts' content, and occasionally I would take her to participate in public surveys. On the cherry blossom top of Wuhan University, she knelt in a kimono, bound, receiving my nipples. At the foot of the Chairman Mao statue at Huazhong University of Science and Technology, her wide skirt covered our place of intercourse, and she sat on me, shaking her buttocks and thrusting wildly. In front of the Zhongnan University of Political Science and Law building, she knelt down in a formal student uniform and hat, giving me oral sex... We promised to leave our stories at every university in Wuhan. On the Chutian Terrace in Moshan, I lay on my back, letting Qu Yuan bear witness that she was my adorable slave. On a boat on East Lake, she knelt naked, rowing for me as punishment for not passing the CET-6 (College English Test Band 6). We photographed her in the reeds of the Yangtze River, taking any pose she wanted... We had no inhibitions, only genuine joy, only heart-fluttering moments. Sometimes we wondered if SM was wrong, and that we should release ourselves after living life seriously. Actually, after being with me, her life returned to normal; she improved her studies, got along well with her classmates, and was no longer irritable.

Finally, she had to leave. Everyone has their own life and path. When she told me she wasn't planning to go abroad, when her father, who hadn't given her much love, had prepared a broad path for her, when she told me she planned to stay in Wuhan with me for life, I knew it was time for me to make a choice. It was time to part ways. I was still a teacher and "father." One day I told her she hadn't done well, that I had fallen for someone else. She frantically begged me to continue taking in her wandering heart, that she would do better, and that she was punishing herself ruthlessly. Poor Egg, you hadn't done anything wrong! My heart ached. We must cherish life. Everyone has their struggles. I told her I was planning to take in another slave. To make her believe me, I brought a submissive to her presence and performed TJ on her. It was cruel, so cruel; I don't know why I was so cruel. She cried and told me she was willing to serve me with her, that as long as I was happy, she was willing to obey her and be our slave. My heart was breaking...

Finally, she left with disappointment, with resentment, gone... I wonder if there's an endless road to the ends of the earth in that distant land, if the dazzling lights of the bustling city can hold back your hopeless steps, if there's someone in that unfamiliar campus who can love you as much as I do! Love you! Don't hate me, Qian, don't hate me, Dandan, don't look for me anymore. I told you long ago, loving someone means wanting them to be happy! Maybe SM isn't wrong, but don't let SM slow down your path to success! ... Tears well up again, but I believe life must move forward! I believe we will both find wonderful partners! We will both get through this! Because we have beautiful hearts! Spring

has come again, a season of blooming flowers, I remember the sunlight of this season shining directly on the place where we came together. The lake has come again, a day of rippling waves, I remember the lake water of this day witnessing our wild abandon. It's that time of year again when the campus is filled with laughter and joy. I remember countless times we'd lock ourselves through the small iron gate on the second floor of the East Building, then stand on the rooftop, passionately watching students bustle about on the busy campus paths. When we were tired, we'd hug each other tightly, listening to the tender music drifting through the twilight from the campus radio.

Last week, driving through the familiar lakeside, the familiar campus, the familiar fields, I suddenly felt it was time for me to rediscover my beautiful submissive. It was time to start all over again.

I have my own views on SM; I've never believed that SM is merely about physical stimulation. The stimulation of SM should be more about indulging one's repressed soul. The true beauty of SM should be the complete relaxation and reliance when embracing each other. "Reliance"—such a simple word, yet so lacking in reality. Because only in a completely SM world can one truly rely on someone. SM doesn't oppose love, life, or studies; SM should be the sacred fire in one's heart illuminating the pursuit of love, studies, and a good life. S always watches with a smile, encouraging and scolding her to enter the world of her heart and dance together.

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School campus training - teaching my students - slaves

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