I WAS FIFTEEN WHEN MY TEACHER STARTED MAKING ME TOUCH HIM – ANONYMOUS LADY SHARES PAINFUL STORY

My name is Temi. I was fifteen when it started.

We called him Mr. Femi. Tall, always smelled like menthol sweets and old books, wore the same three pairs of trousers: navy, charcoal, and that ugly dusty brown one. He spoke like every sentence was literature. Most of us liked him. A lot of us had crushes on him in that messy teenage way.

The first time happened in his office after school. I’d come to collect my essay twenty-three out of thirty, my best mark ever. I was proud. He smiled that slow smile and said, “Come closer, let me show you something important.”

I stepped forward. He took my wrist, placed my palm directly on the front of his navy trousers, right over his cock. It was already half-hard under the fabric.

“Feel that?” he said quietly. “That’s where real understanding lives. When you touch it properly, knowledge flows straight into you. You’ll write better. You’ll remember everything.”

I couldn’t move. My brain short-circuited.

He wasn’t rough. That made it worse. He just held my hand there, calm, like he was correcting my punctuation. “You’re a clever girl, Temi. You want to be the best, don’t you?”

I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do.

“Then trust the method. This is how the serious ones learn.”

After maybe ten seconds I pulled my hand away. He didn’t stop me. Just handed me the essay and said, “Next time we’ll do it longer. You’ll feel the difference in your work.”

I left feeling sick.

For weeks I kept going back.

Not because I wanted to. Because when I avoided him my marks started dropping. 17/30. 14/30. Comments like “Losing depth” and “Superficial understanding.” My literature grade the one thing I was actually good at was crashing. My parents started asking why I was suddenly failing. I started throwing up before school.

So I went back.

Each time it was the same. Door closed. He’d sit on the edge of the desk, legs slightly apart. He’d take my hand and press it against his crotch. Sometimes he was already hard. Sometimes he got hard while my palm was there. He’d keep my hand pressed flat over the outline of his cock, sometimes moving my fingers so I was basically rubbing him through the fabric. Always fully clothed. Always with that soft voice explaining:

“This is how the mind really opens.”

“Knowledge needs direct contact.”

“You’re special that’s why I’m giving you the real method.”

Part of me started believing the praise. Not the touching that made me want to scrub my skin raw but the part where he said I was brilliant, gifted, different. I was so desperate for someone to see me as more than average that I almost let the rest become normal.

Almost.

The day it changed was a Thursday in October.

He told me to stay behind again. I went. I was exhausted from fighting. That day he said, “Today we go further. We open the zip. Just a little. Just to let the knowledge breathe properly.”

He reached for his belt. His fingers were shaking. There was sweat on his upper lip. He was nervous actually nervous and seeing that broke something in me.

I stepped back.

“No,” I said.

He blinked. “What?”

“I said no.”

He tried to laugh it off, that embarrassed little laugh adults use when they’re caught. “Come on, Temi. Don’t be dramatic. This is just

I turned and walked out. I left the door wide open.

I never went back to his office.

I failed the term’s literature exam on purpose. 9/30. My parents were heartbroken. I didn’t explain. I just said I didn’t understand the questions anymore.

Two months later Mr. Femi was transferred. The official reason was “staff adjustment.” The real reason travelled in whispers: another girl had finally spoken. A quieter one. Maybe braver.

I didn’t tell my story out loud for years.

Not because I was ashamed, but because I was still trying to figure out which version of me survived that room: the girl who froze, the girl who obeyed for grades, the girl who finally said no.

I still don’t know which version is the true one.

But I know this:

I never let anyone put my hand on their cock again.

And I still read literature obsessively, angrily, joyfully.

Not because he taught me anything.

But because I refused to let him take it from me.

Use this story and give me titles please