Do you know?
Yes, you do know, and that's why I keep writing to you. wherever you are. You're still the only person who might know so... well, I keep writing.
I was thinking again last night about my teacher and the way he used to touch me. I've spent so much of my life running away from all of that, from the pain and the misery and all the hundreds of big and little pieces of me that have fallen, like dead leaves from my heart on account of that 'person'. Yet before all of that, there was something there that made me come back again and again. Duty certainly, a feeling that I had no choice to be sure, but also on some level, I enjoyed it and though I try to just leave that out of the calculation whenever possible, it's there and it's not going to go away.
I remember one specific thing...it was his pants unzipped, his huge cock practically ripping out of his underwear and an ever growing dark, wet, sticky spot just below the tip of his penis. He liked for me to rub his dick through his underwear so I'd rub and rub and then he'd get frustrated with my clumsy hands and take my face between his two big hands and smash it against his penis. It hurt my nose and sometimes the zipper would scratch me, but there was something about that big, hard thing going back and forth across my face and the almost frenzied way he'd keep me pressed tight against him that felt ahhh...meaningful somehow. Does that make any sense? I felt like I was a part of something urgent, or involved in something important.
And for a guy with little or no self esteem, that was really meaningful. I longed to be needed and considered worthy, and when I was doing this, I was.
At these times, even though I was frightened and mostly just wanted to get away, I was also excited and my heart would pound, both from fear and from arousal. My own cock would be pushing against my pants too.
Sooner or later he always groped to find me hard like that and it spurred him on. Convinced him that I did truly 'want it'. He used to like me sticking out of my zipper the same way he always had his, and sometimes he'd bat my hard cock back and forth with his, laughing at the way mine would twitch and bounce.
This must be why I started leaving my cock out whenever I was alone. As soon as I come home, I pull down my zipper and pull out my dick. I always leave it out when I'm at home to this day. But I didn't make that up it seems, I'm not original at all, I just don't like to admit that so much of me is a product of things that in and of themselves, should never have happened or are borrowed from people who have no soul.
It helps to think that at least you'd like it as much as I do. In a different way maybe, but I just know you'd know somehow. and it helps to think that I'm not completely crazy sometimes.
So sometimes I do remember, and it's always at least a little bit exciting.
Maybe that's why I like pictures of cocks...no face, no person connected to it, just the cock itself. That's what he looked like to me a lot of the time, I never saw much more of him than that in those days which was fine with me. I never liked him at all, I just liked being important to someone and at that time, he was the only one who needed me for anything.
There was one time in particular. He had me pushed back into some coats hanging on the wall and was rubbing against me from behind, my face pressed into a long brown jacket. It smelled like Melissa I think her name was. A girl with long curly blond hair and big, slightly crooked glasses. She was dumpy, relatively shapeless. Her ass a little too wide and her chest a little too flat. The archetype of a nerd. Bookish, unconcerned about fashion or social interactions. But that's what I liked about her I think. She seemed utterly absorbed in her own little world, like I was, and I could imagine that maybe her make-believe world was as sexual and depraved as mine.
My teacher had my pants pulled down to my ankles, and he had reached between my legs and was holding my dick and balls in one hand, yanking down on them while he poked and prodded my asshole with his finger. It hurt and I knew that in his clumsy way he was trying to open me up so he could try to stuff that big hard cock of his inside of me. I didn't want that, I just wanted him to keep tugging my cock like that. But he didn't stop as I knew he wouldn't, and as he shoved himself, bit by bit into my tight little hole, until it felt like he was kicking my stomach from behind with each push, I distracted myself by thinking about her and what she'd think if she knew about this and could see it. I pretended that she'd like it, that it was her fantasy come true. I pictured her watching, hidden, somewhere off to the side, squatting, her knees spread wide and panties pulled to the side. I imagined her grunting slightly as she shoved a couple of fingers up her own ass, while she watched me being sodomized and lived out some unspeakably vile rape fantasy of her own. I closed my eyes and smelled her unmistakable smell in the fabric, and despite the pain I could feel my own cock getting stiff as I thought of her, eyes wide, mouth open, panting slightly as she pushed her fingers feverishly into her two holes.
"Fu...fuc..." her panting sounded like she was trying to say 'fuck' and I got harder and harder thinking of her desperate fingers and hot, aching pussy. Burning as she built up to a screaming orgasm, the kind you can only get when you have to have it, and you need the lowest, crudest stimulation to get you there.
The more it hurt me, the hotter she seemed to get, and I felt like I was suffering FOR something, for someone. It was all ok because it served a purpose outside of itself I guess you could say. At the same time I could also enjoy it for someone else and not have to feel guilty for that either. It worked both ways apparently.
He came finally, pouring his hot cum inside of me. I could feel his big prick twitch as it pumped his need into my bowels and each squirt was a fresh, tearing pain.
I didn't start to breath completely again until he pulled out, and I was embarrassed and confused to find that I had cum as well at some point, and as I leaned there, resting my head against the wall and looking down, I watched the little pools of semen form inside the seat of my pants and the only thing I could think about was how uncomfortable and sticky it was going to be to pull them up again.