Staying at the female teacher's house

It was my second year of junior high, a time of youthful ignorance. It was the first time I watched porn with a group of male classmates, secretly masturbating 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, 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 growing thinner and thinner. Once, when I visited my mother in the hospital, she saw me and cried, and my father's eyes reddened too.
A few days later, because my father knew my teacher's husband, he sent me to his home to live with him, eating and sleeping there, and also attending tutoring classes.
That teacher was the homeroom teacher of the next class; if it weren't for that, they 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 away from home. Because of their high income, they lived in 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 her, and after work, we would tutor each other in the evening. We would sit next to each other at a small round table. 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 would have fantasies, but a teacher is a teacher after all.
Until one day, I remember it was 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's low moans. The door was ajar, and intense curiosity compelled me to peek inside. Through the dim light, I saw the teacher's legs spread, 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 afraid 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 penis 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.
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Fatigue made my eyes heavy, and I quickly fell asleep. When I woke up, it was already afternoon. 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 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, as usual, hadn't come home, 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 hard 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 told 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 entwining, spiraling, sucking each other's saliva, like two people 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 the dark patch between her legs—a beautiful blackness, beneath which lay a beautiful angel.
I kissed her breasts, suckling them, like a newborn baby, greedily wanting to drink every drop of milk. She cried out immediately; it seemed this was 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. I kissed her while trying 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 it felt so good. 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 become interesting, at least that's what 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 her will. The moans grew more intense and 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 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. Because of the pleasure, her eyes narrowed, and she moaned softly with each of my movements. I lifted her legs—long, smooth thighs. She was so beautiful. It was unbelievable that I could make love to my teacher in such a way.
I was going crazy, completely out of control, and began to thrust and pump with all my might. After a dizzying wave of pleasure, I lay weakly 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, "He looks like him, so much like him..."
I just lay there quietly, a little sleepy and tired. She told me a lot, a lot about her university days. I listened drowsily and soon fell asleep.
During my second and third years of junior high, because I lived in her house, whenever her husband wasn't home, I would sleep in her room. It wasn't always lovemaking; sometimes we just talked, about my studies, her family, her life experiences, and her insights.
In college, she had a boyfriend, a classmate, whom she loved deeply. She recounted 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, 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 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. They had nothing to keep, 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 person, a kind and good person.
She said I resembled that person a lot—single eyelids, a high nose, gentle eyes, and a calm demeanor. She thought I must be a deeply affectionate person. Being with him felt like the world stopped turning, time stood still, and there was a special sense of security, a feeling of profound 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. 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 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, of my life experiences, of the education she gave me, fills me with gratitude. I love her as I love my mother—with respect and admiration.

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