Just a few days ago

Ah yeah... who I was! Well...

My dad was a public defense lawyer and my mom a college teacher, and they were both idealists, leaning pretty far to the left of the political spectrum. Raising me, that meant that they focussed on values like self-development, independence, and equality. I was encouraged to take everything out of the educational system that I could, and they taught me that I should question and fight the last remnants of the millenia old patriarchy, and carry it to the grave. Women would finally be free, and utopia would be achieved.

They automatically assumed that I supported these values, I think they never even asked themself that question. Of course a young woman would feel the same as they did, indeed be grateful for the struggle they had fought and the steps they made to lead mankind forward on that path of equalitarian enlightenment.

I have always loved my parents very much. I appreciated everything they gave me as a kid, a warm and cozy nest, and accepted their teachings as the truth. Heck you don’t even think about these things when you’re a kid; I just wanted to please them, so I was a good girl, did my best in school, echoed their views in social life, and walked the straight line to becoming a modern, independent woman.

All of that worked perfectly until well into pubescence. When “boyfriend age” began, it didn’t seem very much like a big thing to me. The boys who would humbly ask for dates, then politely request if I could please allow them to kiss me or fondle my breasts seemed boring and stupid. I turned down their requests, partly because I just didn’t want to be fondled if it involved some sort of pseudo-legal procedure to establish my consent, and partly because I wanted to see if they had a plan B. They didn’t; they were raised just like me, the need for consent ingrained into their values. So they just backed down when I rejected them, and turned their attention to my classmates. I’m pretty sure they called me a “frigid bitch” behind my back.

And they were right, in a way. Sex didn’t seem a very interesting subject, and I didn’t feel like missing out on something. I much more liked to discuss the differences between the various Brontë sisters, the racism inherent in the election laws, or even the inner workings of a combustion engine, than waste my time on the courting rituals my peers were so fond of.

All of that changed when a new semester brought a new teacher to my class: mr. Jenkins. He was a man who established his rule over a class with a casual supremacy. His pupils quickly came to fear and respect him, not because of his strict discipline, but because of his way with words. He could ridicule or embarrass anyone with nothing but a three-word sentence; and he didn’t hesitate to do just that to anyone who showed the slightest sign of arrogance, bigotry, prejudice, or just plain stupidity. And when you were thus treated, it was painfully obvious to everyone in the room that you had just suffered an ignominious intellectual defeat. Within a few days, no one challenged him anymore.

At the same time, he was an excellent teacher. When he lectured on a subject, it felt like he took us along in a story of adventure, making you want to know everything about it. He would encourage us to explore our own preconceptions, to challenge our view of the world as the only right one, to explore new angles to look at something.

He was incredibly attractive. Not by his looks - he didn’t pay any attention at all to his appearance, he was usually unshaven and he probably hadn’t bought any new clothing in the last ten years. But he had something else - call it confidence, call it seniority, call it wisdom, call it…

No.

Call it by the right name. Dominance. He had dominance. It was a completely natural thing; he didn’t need any tools or appearances for it. He wore it like an invisible cloak, innate to his person. I could feel it whenever I was near him, his authority, his power. Everyone did.

And boy, was it attractive. For the first time in my life, someone managed to arouse that age-old voice in me: “I want him.” You probably know what I mean. It is like a voice, but it has nothing to do with sound. It is a voice that speaks to you in your crotch: a tingling, warm feeling, a bit like an itch. It makes your knees wobbly and your head feel light and dizzy.

I had masturbated before, at night in my bed before sleeping, but not excessively, maybe once a week or so. It had been a bit like a chore, something you had to do every once in a while to release some tension. Anyway that’s what my mother had told me. After mr. Jenkins came to our school, it increased dramatically. I would play with myself every night, and mostly, fingering myself to a single orgasm wasn’t enough. I’d lay awake, afterwards, unable to get to sleep like I used to, and an unseen **** would pull my hand back to my pussy, and just start over again. And in the image in my mind, it was him that pulled my hand back - smiling his sardonic smile, with the slight whiff of superiority and contempt that sauced all his glances. He would tell me to start all over again, and when I finished that, yet again. My mother was worried about me when I started showing up at the breakfast table, circles under my eyes and deadly fatigued, still exhausted after losing many hours of sleep to obsessive masturbation for many days in a row. But this phantom of my school teacher just wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and kept pushing me across boundary after boundary of an uncharted territory of uncontrollable lust.

The real mr. Jenkins was way out of my league, obviously. He was the undisputed and authoritarian teacher of my class; he made the small stage from where he lectured feel like it was a throne. I was just another pupil wench, just a grey mouse among mice, for whom he had no special attention.

But I wanted to change that. As this man who could control my nights the way he did, I wanted him to notice me in the daytime as well. I changed my clothing. I used to wear baggy T-shirts over sweatpants or a skirt way over the knee; now I lost 4 sizes on the shirts and eight inches on the skirts. I googled stuff that had never interested me before: mascara, conditioner, tiara’s, lip gloss.

And I told myself that it worked. I told myself that Mr. Jenkins started noticing me when I entered his classroom in the morning. I told myself he looked me up and down the length of my teenage body, following every curve of it, devouring me with his eyes. I imagined he made just a little bit more effort to explain things to me during class than to the others.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe all of this was the imagination of a ditz in heat. Stories about schoolgirls falling in love with their teachers aren’t really unusual, it’s like a bad cliché. I didn’t want to be a cliché, and I thought I didn’t feel like I was in love with him; but then again, I had never been in love, so how did I know? It just didn’t fit the description… I didn’t want to sail a boat into the sunset and live happily ever after with him; I wanted him to knock me out, drag me to his cave, and avail himself of my body.

It actually shocked me when I realized that. It diametrically opposed my entire upbringing. Guys who did such things were criminals, who deserved jail time and the contempt of all my family and social circles as it opposed everything we stood for… including me? I didn’t know, it was so hard… I wanted to be a modern young woman, independent and free, to enjoy my life of liberty and opportunity, just like my parents wanted… but on the other hand, I had these weird fantasies of being weak, ****, submissive, and abused. The thought of a dark towering figure above me, telling me what to do and how to behave, sent shivers down my spine which bombarded my pussy when they came to the bottom. My nightly masturbation sessions weren’t even enough anymore; I started secluding myself in the toilet during breaks, and wiggle myself into even more orgasms. My pussy became dry and sore and I was feeling fatigued all day, but that was no reason to stop playing myself to ever more violent and overwhelming peaks of ecstacy. I had trouble keeping my moanings down, as the walls of the school toilet were really nothing but cardboard sheets.

Ah, yes… you wanted to read about TRAP, right? Yeah, yeah, hold on… we’re coming to that soon. I just think you need a bit of context, it will be a much better story with it…