It all happened in a second. I was correcting exams in the teachers' lounge when a blinding light flooded the room. When I opened my eyes, I was no longer sitting at my desk: I was on my knees in the second-floor music room, wearing my daughter’s uniform with my mouth full.
The arts and music teacher — the same one who always greeted me with a fake smile at staff meetings — was moaning with his eyes closed, thrusting his hips forward. I felt instant nausea. “This can’t be happening,” I thought.
It was me… but it wasn’t me. I was inside my daughter’s body, and she — or rather, I now — was giving a blowjob to the guy I liked the least.
I tried to pull away, spit, scream at him to stop, but my body wouldn’t obey. My lips kept sliding with perfect rhythm, my tongue moved exactly the way he liked, and my throat relaxed every time he pushed deeper. It was disgusting. I could taste the salty flavor, the smell of sweat and cheap cologne, and a wave of revulsion twisted my stomach… but my daughter’s body was too well-trained. The jaw muscles, the way it breathed through the nose, even the soft involuntary moan that escaped my throat — everything continued working as if it had been practicing for months. Every time I tried to stop, my hands gripped his thighs tighter and my head moved on its own. It was humiliating. My forty-two-year-old math professor mind was trapped in a body that knew exactly how to please a man.
When he finally finished and came in my mouth, I swallowed a little without meaning to. The disgust completely overwhelmed me. I straightened up, lowered my head, fully aware of what had just happened. I tried to keep my composure and fix my hair a bit while he stroked my head and murmured, “Good girl.”
At that moment, I could only think one thing: as soon as we get home, I’m going to sit down with my daughter and we’re going to have a very serious conversation. A very, very serious one.
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