A Beginner's Guide to Staying at a Female Teacher's House

The days I stayed at my female teacher's house. (For inquiries,
add 461013448, mention xiao77).

This happened about eight years ago, a long time ago. I've been with many women, but the first time is something you'll likely remember for a lifetime.
It was the mid-1990s, a time of population boom, when everything became difficult, and getting into a good school was extremely competitive.

I was in the second year of junior high, a time of youthful ignorance. 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 have similar experiences.

As a child, I was a quiet boy, timidly standing in a corner, always speaking softly with a signature smile.

My father was a lawyer, very busy, and my mother was in poor health, hospitalized. So basically, no one had time to take care of me. I often had to eat alone at small restaurants, gradually losing my appetite, becoming anorexic, and increasingly thin. Once, when I visited 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 live with the teacher. I ate and slept there, and also attended tutoring classes.

The teacher was the homeroom teacher of the class next door; if it weren't for that, she probably wouldn't have known about such an insignificant child 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, and often not home. Because of their high income, they had a large, well-decorated house and 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. She had a great figure and often wore low-cut clothes and perfume.

Every morning I went to work with the teacher, and after work, we would have tutoring in the evening. At a small round table, the teacher always sat next to me. Actually, I couldn't stand it because I was allergic to the perfume she wore. But because I could often see the teacher's cleavage, I always endured it. Sometimes I would fantasize, but a teacher is a teacher after all.

Until one day. I remember it was probably 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 intense curiosity drove me to peek inside. Through the dim light, I saw the 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 caught a chill, I sneezed. The sounds 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, 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, but I did as she said.

She dimmed the bedside lamp and had me lie down. Looking into her eyes, I felt my heart was about to leap out of my chest. Suddenly, she kissed me. I closed my eyes, letting our tongues intertwine—it felt so good, really. It lasted 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 that look vanished in an instant.

She began to kiss me, my cheeks, my body. I suddenly felt as if my body was burning; I had never felt anything like it 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 climbed on top of me; her underwear seemed to have been pulled down long ago. She held my penis and rubbed it against the flower bushes a few times, feeling how wet and incredibly comfortable it was.

Suddenly, she sat down, and almost instantly, I felt warmth spread throughout my body from that spot, a melting sensation. 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, intense, a fleeting moment of ecstasy. After that instant release, she lay on top of me, our breaths mingling like a symphony, the world becoming so beautiful.

I closed my eyes, feeling the contractions deep within her vagina, and suddenly, my body was alive again. I wanted to move, but she seemed to want to sleep. I bent my legs and began my first thrust...

Maybe it was because of that time that I've always been fascinated by the woman-on-top position, enjoying the dazed expressions and flushed faces, feeling that it best embodies a woman's beauty, especially that forward-leaning body.

I could barely control myself; it felt like the world would collapse if I didn't do that simple piston-like motion. I'd never felt anything like this before, so intense it could almost destroy one's mind. Madness—that's the only word to describe it. The room echoed with the moans of two people. There were no words, only the sounds of panting and pleasure.

And so, again and again, we repeated this simple movement. 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, stroking my cheek with her hand, making soft sighs. As always, that gentle gaze, I will remember that gaze 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 fell asleep quickly. 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 called in sick for me.

She came home early that day. She smiled at me as soon as she entered, a bright, radiant 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 wasn't home as usual, everyone seemed happy.

Around 8 pm, I went to bed on time. In bed, I tossed and turned, and every time I closed my eyes, the scene from the previous night flashed 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; 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 asked me to lock the door and dim 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.

She loved French kisses, tongues entwined, spiraling, sucking each other's saliva, like two people dancing a Spanish dance, an indescribable feeling. 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 I could control everything, scenes from porn movies flashing before my eyes. My fantasy had finally become reality. While kissing her, I tried to explore that mysterious triangle with my hands.

It was already a warm, moist world there; further down, beyond the rainforest, I found that small protrusion. Just a light touch, and she trembled as if electrocuted. I began 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, sensing her changes from the changes in my fingers—sometimes moaning, sometimes panting, completely out of control.

Everything seemed to be getting interesting, at least that's what I thought 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 her will. The moans grew more intense and louder, and I began to worry if anyone would hear. Suddenly, she cried out loudly, her body stiffening instantly. I felt a sharp pain in my neck and shoulders. 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 how wet she was; after those few minutes, I could feel she was almost 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. 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, powerless. She looked at me, still with that same expression, gentle and affectionate. She stroked my face, murmuring, "It seems he, it really seems..."

I just lay there quietly, a little sleepy, very tired. She told me a lot, a lot about her university days. I listened vaguely and soon fell asleep.

During my second and third years of junior high, because 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, her insights.

In university, she had a boyfriend, a classmate, they were very much in love, and she told me about their happy times. They would walk along the river at the university every day, watching the sunset. They studied together in the library, reciting Pushkin's poems. They secretly met in the woods, kissing and making love, each time 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 era, left them both weeping uncontrollably. There was nothing to cherish, except exchanging a copy of Pushkin's poems they had read. The memory was thus preserved in that book.

Later, through an introduction, she met her current husband. They felt a connection and married. They lived a peaceful life. Her husband wasn't particularly interested in or skilled in sex. He was a good man, a kind and good man.

She said I resembled that person a lot—single eyelids, a high nose, gentle eyes, a calm demeanor—I must be a deeply affectionate person. Being with him, you felt the world stop turning, time stand still, a profound sense of security, and an extraordinary sense of peace.

More than ten years later, she still deeply loved him. Even when she first saw me, she was so excited 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 frequently. Sometimes, after class, I would go to her house for dinner and conversation. Sex wasn't the main focus 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' suspicion; 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 as well, she must have felt similarly. How many times in a lifetime can one experience such beautiful love? Pure and natural, tender without a trace of affectation, devoid of material factors, simply the mutual attraction between two people. Thinking of my love, my life experiences, and the education she gave me, I am filled with gratitude. I love her like I love my mother—with respect and admiration. (For more information,
add 461013448 and mention xiao77.)

URL 1:https://www.sexlove5.com/htmlBlog/43070.html

URL 2:/Blog.aspx?id=43070&aspx=1

Previous Page : Chapter 10 of the Sex Slave Training Academy

Next Page : Stories of Youth (21)

增加

comment Open a new window to view comments

Contact Information

A Beginner's Guide to Staying at a Female Teacher's House

comment Open a new window to view comments