Private Lessons with My Father’s Girlfriend

Italian had always given me trouble. At school it was my worst subject; at university I ended up asking for make-up exams, and when I signed up for an elective course, I dropped it after the third class. It was a language my mind rejected—until she appeared.

Four months ago, my old man, the sales director of a logistics company, decided that his new partner should move in with us. A forty-four-year-old woman, tall, with dark brown hair, the body of someone who was constantly in and out of the gym, and a way of entering any room that changed everything.

She taught Italian. In the mornings, she taught at a private institute downtown, and in the afternoons she stayed home, giving online lessons from the desk my old man had set up for her in the back room.

I’m twenty-three and studying industrial engineering. Since she moved in, my Italian had improved noticeably, but the reason for my sudden enthusiasm wasn’t academic.

The first time I saw her, I had trouble hiding it. She had that mixture of authority and tenderness that left me defenseless. Firm tits, a round, toned ass, long legs that, in leggings, stopped being a suggestion and became evidence. She went to the gym three times a week, and it showed in every movement—in the way she planted her foot when she walked, in the way she bent over to look for something in the refrigerator.

At first I tried to keep my distance. She was my father’s girlfriend, and no matter how horny she made me, I knew that taking things any further would be playing with fire in a wooden house.

The worst part was when she was alone in the afternoons, teaching from her desk. Sometimes she passed through the kitchen in workout clothes: black leggings clinging to her skin, tank tops with nothing underneath, tops that left her trim waist bare and revealed nipples no cotton could conceal.

She spoke to me naturally, as if she didn’t realize what she was doing to me. But I did, and my cock went hard every time she corrected one of my sentences in that flawless Italian, with a soft accent that sounded like something else.

It was as if every word that came out of her mouth had a second meaning, even though she hadn’t put it there. And it drove me crazy.

More than once, I masturbated thinking about her. About her ass moving as she walked down the hall, her tits bouncing bralessly while she prepared mate, imagining her whispering dirty things to me in Italian. They were forbidden thoughts, yes. But unavoidable.

A few days ago, I started noticing something different about her. Her eyes sought mine with an intention that wasn’t the usual one. It was no longer just professional courtesy. There was curiosity. Or something like it.

***

If I have to reconstruct the exact moment when everything changed, it was the previous Monday.

That afternoon she was wearing red leggings that looked painted onto her body. They showed absolutely everything, and above them she wore only a black top that left her navel and back bare. After the lesson, she went into the kitchen and stood at the counter making tea, while I stayed behind her, watching.

The soft perfume she always wore, mixed with the scent of her skin, left me in a state where I couldn’t think. I went straight to the bathroom, my cock already hard inside my pants. I closed the door. Or thought I had.

Inside, something was waiting for me that finished setting me on fire. One of her black lace thongs was hanging from the towel rack. It was slightly damp, as if she had taken it off a little while earlier. I froze for a second, listening to my own breathing.

I pulled down my pants and grabbed the thong with clumsy hands. I brought it to my face and inhaled deeply. It smelled exactly like what I had imagined a thousand times: sweet and salty at once, a mixture of her perfume and what her skin had left behind. I wrapped it around my cock and started jerking off like an animal.

I came within a few minutes. I shot so much that I surprised even myself. It fell on the floor and a little landed on the thong, which I hurriedly rinsed and left hanging in the same place, trying not to leave anything out of position.

When I came out of the bathroom, I thought I saw her back in the hallway, as if she had just stepped away from the door. And then it hit me. The door hadn’t been properly closed. And she, I was sure, had peeked in to watch.

***

The following Thursday, I confirmed that it hadn’t been my imagination.

As every Monday and Thursday, after her online lessons, it was my turn. An hour of private tutoring in the living room, the two of us sitting across from each other. It had always been natural. Until that day.

She came into the living room wearing thin sweatpants, the kind that turned into a second skin over your ass when you sat down. Over them, she wore a tight white top that revealed the outline of her bra underneath.

The books were scattered across the table, along with the exercise sheets and pencils. She sat on one side, me on the other. I tried to focus on verb tenses, but it was difficult. Her voice, the way she pronounced things, her clothes—everything was conspiring against me.

Ten minutes in, while we were reviewing an exercise, she threw out a sentence that left me frozen.

—You need to be more careful with the bathroom door.

I looked at her, not knowing what to say. I felt the color drain from my face. I turned red—not with anger, but with pure embarrassment. My heart was pounding.

—Huh? —was all I managed, pretending not to understand.

—Monday —she added, turning a page in the book—. You didn’t close it properly.

I tried to cover the sun with my hand.

—Yeah, I didn’t notice… I was in a hurry, I couldn’t hold it —I murmured, as if it had been a stomach emergency.

She smiled faintly, with that expression halfway between mockery and sweetness. She said nothing else for a couple of minutes, and we continued with the lesson. I tried to pick up the thread, but inside I was burning.

When I thought the subject had been left behind, she delivered the second sentence. The one that finished burying me.

—The black thong you took into the bathroom wasn’t washed properly. It had a white stain.

I couldn’t breathe. I felt the floor opening beneath me. I looked at her, and she remained there calmly, as if she were talking to me about the weather. But the way she said it—calculated, cold—made it clear that she had seen every detail.

—I don’t know what you’re talking about —I tried, in the most pathetic attempt at pretending.

She stared at me. There was no smile or playful teasing anymore. There was the determination of a teacher tired of having her student lie.

—Stop pretending —she cut me off—. I saw you jerking off with my thong.

There was nowhere left to run. There was no way to make anything up.

—I’m sorry… It was an impulse. It won’t happen again —I said, lowering my eyes like a little boy caught in the act.

She stayed silent for a few seconds. Then she spoke in a tone that sounded like a sentence.

—I’m your father’s girlfriend. You’re crossing a very dangerous line.

But there was something else in her eyes. It wasn’t only anger. There was intrigue, curiosity. She confirmed it with her next question.

—Why do you say it was an impulse?

I looked at her. Everything was out in the open now; there was no point in hiding anymore.

—Because I find you incredibly attractive. Ever since you arrived, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. She wanted more.

—And what do you think about?

She was handing it to me on a plate. And, already committed, I dove in.

—Your eyes, your mouth, your body. But what drives me craziest is your Italian accent.

She let out a short laugh, incredulous but delighted, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.

—My Italian turns you on? Don’t tell me you jerk off thinking about me speaking Italian to you…

I didn’t answer. I only nodded, swallowing hard. There was no turning back now, and honestly, I cared less and less about the consequences. She realized it.

She stood up abruptly. I thought she was going to yell at me, throw me out, make a scene. But she didn’t. She took a few calm steps toward me, her hips moving slowly and firmly. I stared at her, unable to understand.

She came closer. I thought she was going to kiss me. Instead, she went straight to my ear. And in that Italian that had made me come so many times alone, she whispered:

—Mi è piaciuto vedere il mio tanga avvolto sul tuo cazzo…

My eyes nearly popped out of my head. My cock began to swell as if it had understood every word before my brain did.

She noticed, smiled, and moved closer. Her perfume enveloped me, her breath brushed my neck. And into my ear she breathed the phrase that completely undid me.

—Vuoi scopare?

She took my hand without saying another word. She led me down the hall unhurriedly, confidently, like someone who knew the way. I knew perfectly well what was about to happen.

***

She took me straight to my room, entered first, left the door slightly ajar just in case, and looked at me with that expression of hers—half teacher, half dominatrix.

—Sit on the bed —she ordered.

I obeyed. I sat on the edge of the mattress with my elbows on my knees, looking at her like an attentive student. And then she began.

She took off her top slowly, letting my eyes soak up every inch of skin. Her white bra outlined the tits I had so often imagined naked. She unfastened it with one hand behind her back and let it fall to the floor. Dark, hard nipples, as if waiting for me.

Then she lowered her pants, revealing a thin white thong that cut right between her buttocks. When she bent over to take the pants off completely, I saw her entire ass. Round, tight, toned. It was more than I had imagined.

She straightened up, now wearing only her thong, and stared at me.

—Do you like my body, kid? —she challenged.

I could barely move my head to signal yes. I had a knot in my throat.

—Stand up and take your clothes off —she ordered.

I didn’t hesitate. I stood in front of her and took everything off as best I could, my hands clumsy. I was left naked and sweating, my cock standing like a stone and pointing straight at her.

She looked at me as if she were evaluating me, as if deciding what to do with a new toy. She approached slowly and pressed herself against my body. Her tits touched my chest, and her hand went straight down to my cock. She grabbed it firmly—not to caress it, but to mark her territory.

—Relax. Leave it to me. I’m the teacher —she whispered.

She held my cock for a few seconds, squeezing it and looking into my eyes as if she could see everything I had fantasized about with her. Then she lowered her gaze, crouched in front of me, and the delirium began.

She knelt between my legs. Without taking her eyes off me, she brought her tits together with her hands. She brushed my cock against them first, testing it, then placed it right in the middle, squeezing it between those two soft, firm bombs.

—Is that how you jerked it, little boy? —she asked, moving her tits up and down at a slow rhythm.

I didn’t answer. I only moaned. I felt the warmth of her skin and the perfect pressure of a rhythm that was torture. She sped up a little until the head brushed her chin. Her breathing grew more ragged, and without warning she lowered her head and took me into her mouth.

First the tip, with criminal delicacy. Then she sucked me hungrily, wetting me all over with her saliva. She moved her head at a rhythm that made my legs tremble. She looked up at me with conspiratorial eyes, and I could hardly believe it.

After sucking me for a few minutes, she pulled off with a strand of saliva hanging from her lips, caressed me once more with her tits, and stood up. She came to my ear again, her hot breath raising goosebumps on my skin, and in that Italian tone that drove me crazy, she whispered clearly:

—Scopami…

No more was needed.

She turned around and leaned over the edge of the bed, her back to me. She planted her hands and stuck out her ass. She moved it in circles, teasing me. I approached, panting and on the verge of exploding. I pulled off her thong very slowly, moistened my fingers with saliva, and brushed her pussy. She was wet, hot, completely ready.

I grabbed her tightly by the waist. I drove my cock into her in a single thrust, all the way in. A sharp cry escaped her.

—Sì, cazzo, sì…

I stayed still for a few seconds, feeling her tremble. Then I began to fuck her with all the desire I had accumulated since the day I first saw her walk into the house. Every thrust was a release, every movement of my hips a fantasy made real.

She moaned as if possessed, her ass reddening against me. And she mixed in Italian phrases that made me lose my mind.

—Sì amore… più forte… più profondo… oh mio dio…

It drove me crazy. Her clean, perfect voice saying filthy things while I impaled her mercilessly. I thrust my cock all the way inside and felt her squeeze me, as if she didn’t want to let me go.

I grabbed her waist, then her hair, then her ass. I didn’t want to stop. At one point she pulled away, turned her body, and lay on her back, spreading her legs with absolute shamelessness.

—Scopami ancora, scopami forte, non fermarti…

I didn’t need a translation.

I threw myself over her, grabbed her thighs, and buried myself in her again, all the way to the bottom. Her legs were spread wide, her heels planted on the mattress. I fucked her hungrily. Every thrust arched her back. I licked her tits, bit her nipples, and gripped her neck with one hand. She didn’t stop asking for more.

Suddenly, she gently pushed me backward.

—Adesso sdraiati.

She took me by the chest and made me turn over. I ended up on my back, my cock pointing at the ceiling. She mounted me without hesitation, planted her hands on my chest, and sank down onto me in one movement, letting out a deep moan when she had me all the way inside.

She began riding me hard, wildly, as if she wanted to make up for all those months of tension. She rose and fell, bouncing against my pelvis, her tits jumping, her ass out of control. Her pussy squeezed me with every thrust, and her moans were music.

—Sì… dammi quel cazzo… scopami forte…

I held her hips and helped her move harder. She leaned over, sucked my neck, and bit my lip while she kept riding me at a desperate rhythm.

After a while, she stopped abruptly, still with my cock inside her, panting, her body sweaty and her hair stuck to her face. She stayed still for a moment, enjoying the heat. Then she slid off slowly, pulled me out, and lay facedown, resting one cheek on the pillow and parting her legs slightly, leaving her ass raised high.

And in a voice hoarse from moaning, she gave me the phrase that left me paralyzed.

—Voglio che mi scopi il culo…

I stayed still for a few seconds, staring at the scene: my old man’s girlfriend in my bed, asking me in Italian to fuck her in the ass.

I approached slowly and spat between her buttocks. I spread it with my fingers, massaging around her asshole with gentle movements. I positioned the tip, opened her wider with one hand, and grabbed her hip with the other. I pushed slowly, feeling myself make my way inside her. She moaned loudly, caught between pleasure and pain, clutching the sheets.

—Oh cazzo… sì… dammelo tutto…

And I pushed it in. Slowly at first, then with more force. Every inch made me tremble. Her ass opened just enough to let me pass, and I pushed firmly until I was completely inside her. I grabbed her hips and began to fuck her with everything I had. Every time I drove my cock into her, she let out muffled moans, gasps in Italian, dirty words.

—Sì… scopami il culo… più forte…

I lost control. I was impaling her mercilessly, squeezing her ass with both hands and feeling her tighten around me. My balls slapped against her. My cock was throbbing, about to explode, and she knew it.

—Stai per venire? —she asked breathlessly, looking over her shoulder.

—Yes. I’m coming —I panted.

She slid forward, letting my cock slip out. She immediately turned around, sat back on her heels, and told me in that same perfect pronunciation:

—Vieni sulle mie tette.

She brought her tits together with her hands, offering them to me. They glistened with sweat, her nipples hard, ready to receive it. I jerked off quickly, my balls on the verge of bursting. I looked into her eyes. She didn’t blink. I bit my lip and let it all go.

Thick, hot, sticky spurts. They landed between her tits, across her nipples, and a little on her neck. She smiled as if it were exactly what she wanted.

—Bravo ragazzo… —she whispered.

And as if that weren’t enough, right there she grabbed my still-wet cock and, without saying a word, put it back into her mouth. She sucked me slowly, as if cleaning me, running her tongue along the entire shaft and swallowing the last traces. That scene was too much.

***

Then she stood up calmly, without hurrying. She found her clothes and began to dress, without speaking to me or looking at me too much. I remained sitting on the bed, not knowing whether what had just happened was real or a hot dream born from masturbation.

As she adjusted her top and pulled up her pants, she came over to me, more serious now. She looked at me for a few seconds and spoke in that clear, confident voice.

—Now you can jerk off as many times as you want thinking about what happened. Because it isn’t going to happen again.

Direct, without anesthesia. She turned around and left the room, leaving behind the smell of sex and sweat, and that mixture of guilt and glory that would be etched into my memory forever.

I spent a long while staring at the ceiling, trying to process everything. I had made the most forbidden fantasy of all come true. And to top it off, she had been in control from beginning to end.

Two hours later, I heard the front door open. My old man had come home from work. Everything returned to its normal rhythm, as if nothing had happened.

She was in the kitchen preparing something for dinner. I was in the living room, notebook open, pretending I was still studying Italian. He came in, greeting us with his usual energy.

—How was your day, son?

—Fine —I answered without looking at him too much—. Lots of studying.

Then he went over to her and asked her the same question.

—And you? How did your day go?

She turned her head slightly and, before answering him, looked at me. The same look she had fixed on me while asking me to fuck her harder. Brief, penetrating, with that mixture of power and lust that I already knew by heart.

And with half a smile on her lips, she answered:

—It was a great day. Today one of my students had his Italian test. And he passed with flying colors.

I gripped my pen tightly, knowing that student was me. And that test was a lesson I would never forget.