Private Lessons with My Father's Girlfriend

Italian always gave me trouble. In school it was my worst subject, in college I ended up asking for make-up exams, and when I signed up for a non-degree course I quit after the third class. It was a language my head rejected, until she appeared.

Four months ago my old man, commercial director of a logistics company, decided that his new partner would move in with us. A 44-year-old woman, tall, with dark brown hair, a body like someone who keeps going in and out of the gym, and a way of walking into any room that changed everything.

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

I’m 23 and I study industrial engineering. Since she moved in, my Italian improved noticeably, but the reason for my sudden enthusiasm wasn’t academic.

The first time I saw her, I could barely keep it together. She had that mix of authority and tenderness that left me defenseless. Firm tits, a round, worked ass, long legs that, with leggings on, stopped being a suggestion and became evidence. Three times a week she went to the gym and it showed in every movement, in the way she planted her foot when she walked, in the way she bent over to reach something from the fridge.

At first I tried to keep my distance. She was my father’s girlfriend and, no matter how much she turned me on, I knew pushing that line was like playing with fire in a wooden house.

The worst was when she was alone in the afternoons, giving her classes from the desk. Sometimes she’d walk through the kitchen in workout clothes: black leggings clinging to her skin, tank tops without a bra underneath, crop tops that left a tight waist and nipples no cotton could hide.

She spoke to me naturally, as if she had no idea what she was doing to me. But I knew exactly, and my cock got hard every time she corrected a phrase in that flawless Italian, with a soft accent that sounded like something else entirely.

It was as if every word coming out of her mouth had a second meaning, even if she wasn’t putting it there. And that drove me crazy.

More than once I jerked off thinking about her. About her ass moving as she walked down the hallway, about her tits bouncing braless while she made mate, about imagining her whispering dirty things to me in Italian. They were forbidden thoughts, yes. But inevitable.

A few days ago I started noticing something different in her. Her eyes sought mine with an intention that wasn’t the usual one. There 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 a red pair of leggings that looked painted onto her body. They marked absolutely everything, and on top just a black top that left her stomach and back bare. After class she went to the kitchen, stood at the counter making tea, and I stayed watching her from behind.

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

Inside, something was waiting for me that finished setting me on fire. A black lace thong of hers, hanging from the towel rack. It was just slightly damp, as if she’d taken it off a little while ago. 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 close to my face and took a deep breath. It smelled exactly like what I’d imagined a thousand times: sweet and salty at once, a mix of her perfume with the rest her skin left behind. I wrapped it around my cock and started jerking off like an animal.

I came in a few minutes. It was so much cum that I surprised myself. It spilled onto the floor and a little onto the thong, which I rinsed quickly and hung back in the same place, trying to make sure nothing was out of place.

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

***

The following Thursday I confirmed it wasn’t imagination.

Like every Monday and Thursday, after her online classes it was my turn. An hour of private lesson in the living room, the two of us sitting face to face. It had always been natural. Until that day.

She came into the living room wearing thin track pants, the kind that, once you sit down, turn into a second skin over your ass. On top, a tight white top that showed the outline of the bra underneath.

The books scattered on the table, the exercise sheets, the pencils. Her on one side, me on the other. I tried to focus on the verb tenses but it was hard. The voice, the way she pronounced things, the clothes: everything was working against me.

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

—You have 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 from anger, from pure embarrassment. My heart was pounding.

—Huh? —I managed, pretending I didn’t understand.

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

I wanted to cover the sun with my hand.

—Yeah, I didn’t notice… I was in a hurry, I didn’t have time —I muttered, as if it had been a stomach emergency.

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

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

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

I ran out of air. I felt the floor opening beneath me. I looked at her and she was still there, calm, as if she were talking to me about the weather. But the way she said it, calculated, cold, made it clear she had seen every detail.

—I don’t know what you’re talking about —I tried, with the most pathetic pretense imaginable.

She looked at me straight on. There was no smile, no game now. There was the determination of a teacher tired of a student lying.

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

There was nowhere left to run. There was no way to invent anything.

—I’m sorry… it was an impulse. It won’t happen again —I said, dropping my gaze like a kid caught red-handed.

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 just anger. There was intrigue, curiosity. She confirmed it with the 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 it anymore.

—Because I think you’re very hot. Since you arrived I can’t stop thinking about you.

Her eyebrows lifted a little. She wanted more.

—And what do you think about?

She was serving it up to me. And I, already all in, jumped into the water.

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

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

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

I didn’t answer. I just nodded, swallowing hard. There was no turning back now and, honestly, the consequences mattered less and less to me. She noticed.

She got up suddenly. I thought she was going to yell at me, kick me out, make a scene. She didn’t. She took a few calm steps toward me, her hips moving slowly, firmly. I looked at her without understanding.

She came closer. I thought she was going to kiss me. 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 almost popped out of my head. My cock started swelling as if it had understood every word before my brain did.

She noticed, smiled, came closer. Her perfume wrapped around me, her breathing brushed my neck. And into my ear she let out the phrase that completely undid me.

—Vuoi scopare?

She took me by the hand without saying another word. She led me down the hallway without hurry, with confidence, like someone who knows the way. I knew perfectly well what was about to happen.

***

She took me straight to my room, went in first, left the door barely ajar just in case, and looked at me with that expression of hers, half teacher, half dominant.

—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 it began.

She took off the top slowly, letting my eyes soak in every inch of skin. The white bra highlighted those tits I had imagined naked so many times. She unclasped it behind with one hand and let it fall to the floor. Dark nipples, hard, as if they’d been waiting for me.

Then she pulled down the pants, revealing a thin white thong that cut right between her cheeks. When she bent to get the pants off completely, I saw her entire ass. Round, tight, worked. It was more than I’d imagined.

She straightened up, now only in her thong, and looked at me fixedly.

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

I could barely move my head to say yes. I had a lump in my throat.

—Get 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, with clumsy hands. I ended up naked, sweating, with my cock standing like a rock, pointing right at her.

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

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

She held my cock for a few seconds, squeezing it, looking into my eyes as if she could see everything I’d fantasized about her. Then she lowered her gaze, knelt down in front of me, and that was when the madness began.

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

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

I didn’t answer. I only moaned. I felt the heat 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 got more ragged and, without warning, she lowered her head and took it into her mouth.

First the tip, with criminal delicacy. Then she sucked it hungrily, soaking it all with her saliva. She moved her head in a rhythm that made my legs tremble. She looked up at me from below with complicit eyes and I still couldn’t believe it.

After a few minutes of sucking me, she pulled back with a thread of saliva hanging from it, stroked my cock once more with her tits, and straightened up. She leaned in to my ear again, her hot breath raising goosebumps on my skin, and in that Italian tone that drove me wild she whispered very clearly:

—Scopami…

Nothing else was needed.

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

I gripped her waist hard. I drove my cock into her in one single thrust, all the way in. She let out a sharp cry.

—Sì, cazzo, sì…

I stayed still for a few seconds, feeling her tremble. Then I started fucking her with everything I’d been holding back since the day I saw her walk into the house for the first time. Every thrust was relief, every hip удар a fantasy made real.

She moaned like she was 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…

That drove me crazy. That clean, perfect voice saying filthy things while I drove into her without mercy. I buried my cock to the hilt and felt her clenching around me, as if she didn’t want to let me go.

I grabbed her by the waist, then by the hair, then by the ass. I didn’t want to stop. At one point she let go, turned her body, and lay on her back, opening her legs with absolute shamelessness.

—Scopami ancora, scopami forte, non fermarti…

No translation needed.

I threw myself on top, grabbed her thighs and buried it in her to the hilt again. Her legs wide open, her heels on the mattress. I fucked her hungrily. Every thrust arched her back. I sucked her tits, bit her nipples, grabbed her throat with one hand. She kept begging for more.

Suddenly she pushed me back gently.

—Adesso sdraiati.

She took me by the chest and made me turn over. I ended up on my back with my cock pointing at the ceiling. She climbed on me without hesitation, put her hands on my chest and sat on it in one motion, letting out a deep moan when she took all of me inside.

She started riding me hard, wild, as if she wanted to get even for all those months of tension. She rose and fell, bouncing against my pelvis, her tits jumping, her ass out of control. Her pussy clenched me with every stroke and her moans were music.

—Sì… dammi quel cazzo… scopami forte…

I grabbed her hips and helped her move even harder. She leaned down, sucked my neck, bit my lip while she kept riding me at a desperate pace.

After a while like that, she stopped cold, still with my cock inside, 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 my cock out, and lay on her stomach, rested one cheek on the pillow and spread her legs a little, leaving her ass high.

And with a hoarse voice from all the moaning, she let out the line that left me paralyzed.

—Voglio che mi scopi il culo…

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

I came closer slowly and spit between her cheeks. I spread it with my fingers, massaging around the asshole with soft movements. I lined up the tip, used one hand to open her wider and the other to grip her hip. I pushed slowly, feeling my way in. She moaned loudly, caught between pleasure and pain, clutching the sheets.

—Oh cazzo… sì… dammelo tutto…

And I shoved it in. Slowly at first, then harder. Every inch made me tremble. Her ass opened just enough to let me in and I pushed firmly until I had all of it inside. I grabbed her hips and started fucking her for real. Every time I drove my cock in, she let out muffled moans, gasps in Italian, dirty words.

—Sì… scopami il culo… più forte…

I lost control. I was fucking her mercilessly, squeezing her ass with both hands, feeling how tightly she held me inside. My balls slapped against her. My cock was throbbing, on the verge of exploding, and she knew it.

—Stai per venire? —she asked breathlessly, looking back.

—Yeah. I’m coming —I panted.

She slid forward, letting my cock slip out. She turned around immediately, sat on her heels, and with that same perfect pronunciation said it to me.

—Vieni sulle mie tette.

She gathered her tits with her hands, offering them to me. They were shining with sweat, the nipples hard, ready to receive it. I jerked off quickly, my balls about to burst. I looked her in the eyes. She didn’t blink. I bit my lip and let everything go.

Thick, hot, sticky ropes. They landed between her tits, on her nipples, a little on her neck. She smiled, as if that was 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, took it back into her mouth. She sucked it slowly, as if cleaning it, running her tongue over the entire shaft, swallowing the last traces. That scene was too much.

***

After that she got up calmly, without rushing. She looked for her clothes and started dressing, without talking to me, without looking at me too much. I was still sitting on the bed not knowing whether what had just happened was real or a hot dream born from a jerk-off session.

While she adjusted her top and pulled up her pants, she came over to me, now more serious. 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 with what just happened. Because it won’t happen again.

Straight to the point, no anesthesia. She turned halfway and left the room, leaving behind the smell of sex, sweat, and that mix of guilt and glory that would stay burned into me forever.

I stayed there 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 taken control from beginning to end.

Two hours later I heard the front door open. My old man had come home from work. Everything went back 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 saying hello with his usual energy.

—How was your day, son?

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

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

—And you? How was your day?

She turned her head slightly and, before answering him, looked at me. The same look she had pinned me with while she asked me to fuck her harder. Brief, piercing, with that mix of power and lust I already knew by heart.

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

—It was a great day. Today one student had his Italian test. And he passed with honors.

I gripped the pen tightly, knowing that student was me. And that that test was a lesson I was never going to forget.