I feel him looking at me, and he tells me not to cry. I reply that I’m not going to. He knows I’m lying. I blink them down far enough that it’... safe to look at him. He leans towards me, waiting for me to go. I don’t want to. I’m stalling. He reaches out and catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, then releases it, telling me that everything will be fine. I sigh, glancing away, knowing that his version of fine is vastly different from my own. My eyes drift back over to him, and I. By the time you hit puberty and you discovered the joy of masturbation, you found yourself jacking off to the images of your female teachers. Demure or dynamic, conservatively dressed or shoulder-baring, uniformed or casual - it didn't matter. All you could think of was their deliciously developed frames, backsides and busts enticingly shaped by neatly - yet tightly - worn clothes, affirmative smiles with just a hint of "come hither" in their eyes. You don't really remember a teacher who you. More

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