Her Beautiful Seduction (Student/Teacher)

• Prologue

I've always been a lover of older men.

Whether it be their manners that attract me, their behaviour, or just the fact that they're older.

I don't know when it happened, how, or why.

But I know that it had something to do with my teacher in middle school.

He was married, as I knew, during the time of my early teenage years, but I found myself having thoughts about him; ones that I shouldn't be having about my own teacher.

I always chastised myself for it, even went as far as trying to stay away from him for fear of one day accidentally jumping him, but when I heard that he was having an affair with another student at school, I was devastated.

At the same time, a little bit glad, because it seemed like I wasn't the only one to have been harbouring a crush on my teacher. It was good to know that there were others with the same tastes; the same flavor. I felt at peace, for once in my life, knowing that even though I'd only had thoughts about my teacher, I never acted upon it. Unlike the other vixens.

Thus, as I anxiously await my first session with my psychologist, I look around the room at the other children; more or less the same age, some younger, or older.

All of them looked well-treated, healthy, even, but I knew one thing that strangers didn't. All of them shared the same attribute - or so I thought, - one characteristic that distinguished them out from the rest of the healthy kids living off their parents' money.

It was their dead eyes, or better known as the lack of affection hidden within their orbs. The neglect. Perhaps it was the abuse. Emotional. Or maybe physical? Maybe it was because of the financial issues. Maybe because they were assaulted. Or maybe, it was just because their mental health was in jeopardy and apparently it had to be because of events that happened too long ago.

"Next."

With bated breaths, I rise from my seat, shooting an unsure glance towards my mother, who gives me a nod of encouragement.

Nursing a heavy heart, I enter the room, and the smell of the office wafts into my nose, immediately calming my nerves. Closing the door behind me, I steady myself, my thoughts, my feelings.

It's fine; I'm fine. And now I only have to act upon my thoughts.

"Why hello there, Namora," the woman beams, an enthusiastic smile holding her features captive, "it's your first time here, so welcome! I'll let you get comfortable before we start, and please feel free to treat me as you would a friend, not as you would a doctor. I'm here to be your friend."

I've heard that phrase one too many times, spoken by all kinds of people. "I'm your friend," they'd all said to me, but in the end, they never really were my friends.

I don't even need a stupid psychologist; I only came at my mom's insistance because apparently a follow-up would be good after so many years of abstaining from the office.

"Hi, Mrs. Howell," I say with a small smile, casting a glance over the name plate at the foot of the desk, "we can start now, I'm okay."

"Alright, so tell me about yourself; your family," she begins, her eyes holding mirth, but I know that underneath that façade she wears, she's scanning me from head to toe and analysing my reaction; my responses.

I don't have anything to hide from her except for my taste in older men, and honestly, I don't think that's any of her business. I haven't done anything out of the ordinary, haven't acted out on my feelings, nor have I been aggressive.

I'm just, tired. Tired of life; dead inside, as we all are. I'm just emotionally and physically exhausted because of social media, because of not having any friends, because of not being able to fit in.

But of course, I drown out the demons in my head.

Because it's okay; I don't need to depend on anyone but myself.

"My mom and dad are divorced," I say in monotone, having said it already so many times that I'm surprised I haven't ripped my hair out yet.

"I see, who do you live with?" She asks, seemingly interested as she jots down the case of divorce.

"My mother."

"And your father?"

"I don't get to see him often, but when I do, we go out together. Well, both me and my sister. Sometimes his family comes along, too."

"Don't you miss him?"

"Not really. I've come to terms with the divorce. My mother needed an out, and I'm happy that she was saved from such a dysfunctional marriage," I press, clenching my teeth together.

"Oh, I see," she notes, smiling, though her beady eyes scan me again for any signs of my behaviour saying otherwise, "how do you feel?"

"Okay. I'm okay," I state monotonously, and then I give her the biggest smile I can muster.

"Anything else you want to talk to me about?" She asks me, and I fold my hands in my lap, a bit hesitant.

But then again, what could it hurt?

"What... what can I do to combat social anxiety?"

She furrows her brows, "it's only social anxiety, correct? Because if it turns out to be the main branch of anxiety, we would need you to be properly diagnosed at the hospit-"

"No, no, I'm fine, I just suffer from social anxiety," I clarify quickly, stomach twisting with worry.

"Alright," she continues, but her weary eyes are still narrowed in on me, "well, to combat social anxiety... you just need to push forward and execute. I often have clients who say, "I wish I could go back in time to be better than what I'd been." But that's just going backward. When we see ourselves doing things that we find difficult, we actually start to believe we can. So, you can do that too."

I rub my hands together, shaking my head at the completely valid advice which, unfortunately, won't be implemented into my life, "thank you for that, I'll try my best to implement it into my routine. I think I should go now, there's other people waiting." I look up at the clock, showing twenty past one, and Mrs. Howell follows my gaze.

She sighs, as if conflicted, but seems to yield to my words not a moment after. "Alright, but we should have a follow up on this."

"Yes, we should," I muse, watching her fill out a card, knowing fully well that I won't be returning back here again.

▪︎▪︎▪︎