Schoolyard training - my students - slaves

My m is my student, and this is my true, beautiful, and tragic story. I've finally decided to write it down!
Finally, she's leaving as usual. 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 road 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 my choice. It was time to part ways. I remained her teacher and "father." One day I told her she hadn't done well, that I had fallen in love with someone else. She frantically begged me to continue taking in her wandering heart, that she would do better, that she would punish herself severely. Poor egg, you did nothing wrong! My heart aches. We must cherish life. Life is hard for everyone. I told her I was planning to take in another slave. To make her believe me, I brought a m to her and raped her. It was cruel, so cruel. I don't know why I was so cruel. She cried as she told me she was willing to serve me and take care of me, as long as I was happy. She was willing to submit to me and be our slave. My heart was breaking... I

had been watching Qian for a long time. In this classroom, she always sat by the window. Her oval face wasn't exactly beautiful, but it was delicate and fair. Her long, flowing hair was elegantly draped over her shoulders, exuding an intellectual air. Her full breasts displayed a different kind of alluring beauty. In this not-so-top-tier university, she was just one among the masses. I noticed her because of her eyes. Her lively eyes revealed not a clear spring, but a kind of mystery. Always like that, as if she was restraining herself, concealing herself, yet secretly delighted—a mysterious and enigmatic look. Her ever-changing eyes, 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 suspicions, I inquired about her story after class. Her parents had divorced years ago, and although wealthy, she lacked a father's love. She was indeed aloof. I began to pay attention to her, giving her extra glances during class. Sometimes I would casually tell her stories, telling her how to overcome her confusion. Every time I approached her, I was met with her complex gaze, a mixture of desire and avoidance. I could feel her body trembling slightly as I drew near. Gradually, I sensed she was changing for me. She always wore beautiful clothes, subtly revealing the base of her full breasts and a deep cleavage. When I looked at her, she would slowly lean forward, making her breasts clearly visible. During breaks, she would sometimes 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 watching her out of the corner of her eye, because her buttocks were clearly visible. She was trembling, a suppressed trembling of joy, desire, and shyness. I understood her, I understood everything about her, a bold yet pitiful girl.
We exchanged our thoughts and feelings, without even saying a word. We enjoyed each other's love—an invisible, simple love. Occasionally, we would exchange words in the simplest and most sincere way: "Live life to the fullest!" We almost never exchanged professional knowledge. The last Q&A session was on a Friday, the last seven or eight periods. Not many students came. She came, wearing a black jumpsuit that was more sexy than usual, beautiful high heels, no stockings, and her hair, unusually, tied up in a purple bow, as if she had made a decision. Finally, it ended. I reluctantly organized my books, my eyes never leaving her. She didn't leave, sitting quietly... She stood there, silently watching me, her flushed cheeks and stubborn, aggrieved eyes fixed on me. I, however, never had the courage to look up. Suddenly, she spoke, "Teacher, I have another 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; standing in front of the classroom, 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 are very pretty. Study hard, you will have a bright future." As I spoke, I walked to her side and patted her shoulder. Suddenly, she grabbed my arm, hugged me, and pressed her face against my waist. This is the classroom! This is the classroom! I felt a surge of nervousness. I reveled in her passion; the unique, delicate fragrance of a young girl's body slowly filled my nostrils. Slowly, I became intoxicated, holding her tightly, our lips meeting in a rapid kiss. Suddenly, she slowly stood up, walked to the podium, and lifted her skirt, revealing herself completely naked. Her snow-white thighs, her not-so-full vulva, sparse pubic hair, her swollen clitoris, and the slight opening of her vulva glistening with moisture... No need for thanks, 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 for a while. This precious, quiet campus was now just us. I carefully lifted her, carried her to the sacred podium, positioned myself facing the students, and inserted my penis, which had ejaculated many times for her, into her already wet vagina. There were no words, only kisses and... I thrust deeper into her. Only her usual moans and the sound of her writhing hips filled the air. At her request, I ejaculated onto her breasts, the semen spraying directly onto her nipples. She cried out, telling me how much she desired. 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 go of herself, that someone could tolerate everything about her, allowing her to be her freest self. After the embrace, she knelt down, cupped my penis in her hands, and raised it above her head, slowly sliding it across her forehead, across her eyes, across her cheeks, and sacredly taking it into her mouth. I understood that she had a masochistic tendency; this was an unconscious expression of masochism. A warm and earnest kiss followed. Afterwards, she told me that for me, she often didn't wear a bra; for me, she masturbated in front of me in class; for me, she pretended to accidentally touch my already swollen penis several times, knowing it was for her. She had looked at many SM devices, and she wanted me to masturbate her like that, wanted 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 a trembling device inserted into her vagina. I knew that she showed off her beautiful breasts and thighs several times. I even found a piece of toilet paper, soaked with her vaginal fluid, that she had intentionally 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 smell of vaginal fluid! Once, she even deliberately wrote two... The word was "teacher." But I am a teacher, a teacher!
I had no reason to refuse her. Perhaps refusing her wasn't helping her, but giving her a warm and safe space to let herself express herself and burn brightly was perhaps a form of love for her. Although I'm 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 lived a little distance from the school... We rented a house and arranged a cozy little space for us. Every week, I would spend some time there with her. I... [The text abruptly shifts to a seemingly unrelated anecdote about a woman's love for her boyfriend, then back to the main topic of conversation.] ...to the cherry blossom top of Wuhan University, where she knelt in a kimono, bound, receiving my NY... [The text abruptly shifts again to a seemingly unrelated anecdote about a woman in a wide skirt at the Mao Zedong statue at Huazhong University of Science and Technology.] We concealed the location of our encounter, and she sat on top of me, wildly shaking her hips and thrusting. In front of the Zhongnan University of Political Science and Law building, she knelt in a formal student uniform and hat, giving me oral sex… We promised to leave our stories at every university in Wuhan. On the arrogant terrace of Moshan Mountain, we lay on our backs, letting Qu Yuan bear witness that she was my adorable slave. On a boat on East Lake, she knelt naked, rowing for me, a punishment for her lack of English proficiency. We filmed her in the reeds of the Yangtze River, taking any pose she wanted… We had no inhibitions, only genuine joy, only excitement. Sometimes we wondered if BDSM was wrong, that after working hard in our lives, we should release ourselves. Actually, after being with me, her life returned to normal; her studies improved, she got along well with her classmates, and she became less restless.
Finally, she left with despair, with resentment, gone... I wonder if there's an endless road to the horizon 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 delay your path to success! ... Tears well up again, but I believe life must move forward! I believe we will all find our dream partners! We will all get through this! Because we have hearts full of dreams!
We encountered a season of spring blossoms, and I remember the sunlight of that season shining directly on the place where we watered our sorrows. We encountered a day of rippling lake water, and I remember the lake water witnessing our wild abandon on that day. I encountered a time when the campus was filled with laughter and joy. I remember countless times we would lock ourselves through the small iron gate on the second floor of the East Building, standing on the rooftop, exuding pride as we watched students bustling about on the busy school paths. When we were tired, we would hug each other tightly, listening to the gentle music from the campus radio drifting in through the evening air.
Last week, driving through the familiar lakeside, the familiar campus, and the familiar countryside, I suddenly felt it was time for me to rediscover my sweet dreams. It was time to start anew.
I have my own SM views; I don't believe SM is merely about pure physical stimulation. The stimulation of SM should be more about unleashing one's repressed soul. The true essence of SM should be the complete relaxation and dependence when embracing each other. "Dependence"—such a simple word, yet how much people actually lack it. Because only in the world of complete SM can one truly depend on others. SM does not deny love, life, or studies. SM should be the sacred fire in one's heart illuminating the pursuit of love, studies, and a good life. And the S will always smile and watch over the slave, encouraging her, scolding her, and leading her into the corner of her soul to dance together in old age.

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Schoolyard training - my students - slaves

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