How My Two Private Tutors Sent Me Off

My name is Iván, and I’ve lived in Munich for almost two decades. I’m going to tell you what happened to me in the summer of 2003, in Valencia, when I was eighteen and had just passed the university entrance exams. I was only a few weeks away from moving into the university residence. My father repeated the same phrase all the time: “At last, a Marín at university.”

I had gotten the grades I needed to enter Biochemistry, but there were two subjects I wouldn’t have passed without private lessons: Physics and Italian. Each had its own teacher. And I remember both of them with frightening clarity.

Helena taught Physics on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She was thirty-three, with blond hair tied back in a ponytail and a way of leaning over my notebook that forced me to count floor tiles so I wouldn’t look at her. I was extremely shy. Until that spring, I had never even brushed a girl’s hand, not even on crowded buses. My friends dragged me to clubs, and I found excuses to leave before the first dance step.

Helena noticed. Some afternoons, when I got stuck on an integral, she would smile at me and say, “Iván, breathe.” And I breathed, of course, but the air reached me with difficulty, especially when she crossed her legs under the table and I imagined what was up there, between that skirt and the navel that showed whenever she stretched to reach for a book.

At the end of June she told me she was leaving for Boston. She had been offered a position in a dermatology laboratory and was leaving on the first Saturday in July. I asked her if I could invite her to my house that same morning, before her flight. I wanted to give her a present: perfume and a small pair of earrings I had spent an entire week choosing at a jewelry store downtown.

My parents had gone away for the weekend. Helena arrived two hours before her flight, with her suitcase resting in the hallway and a green scarf around her neck. I offered her coffee, but neither of us ever got around to drinking it.

—Iván, what you bought me is beautiful —she said as she unwrapped the package—. I’m going to put it on right now. But I want to give you something too.

She said it just like that, looking at me from the sofa, as though she were asking me for a formula. My face burned. I thought she would take out a book, a notebook, anything. What she took off instead was the scarf from around her neck, slowly, with the smile of someone who had just made up her mind.

—I know you’ve been looking at me out of the corner of your eye all year —she said, touching her cleavage—. Today you get to look at them without pretending.

She took off her sweatshirt. Underneath, she was wearing a pink lace bra. She unclasped it at the front with two fingers, and her heavy white tits spilled free, their already-hard nipples pointing upward. I had seen breasts in magazines and on my computer screen, but never from a yard away, unfiltered, smelling of new perfume.

—You can touch them —she said—. They don’t bite.

I brought my hand closer as if I were putting it into boiling water. I touched them with my fingertips, slowly, barely applying any pressure. She took both my hands and pressed them against her flesh, forcing me to sink my fingers in, to feel their weight, to brush her nipples with my palms.

—That’s it, silly. You’re not going to break them. Suck one. I’m dying for you to suck one.

I leaned forward and put a nipple in my mouth. It was warm, salty from the morning sweat, hard against my tongue. She grabbed the back of my neck and pressed me closer. I heard her let out a short, surprised moan, as though she hadn’t expected me to dare so much.

We had been like that for less than five minutes when she looked down and opened her eyes wide.

—Iván… is all that yours?

I hadn’t even noticed. I had a hard-on pressing against my fly, showing through my trousers like a bulge that nearly reached my pocket. Helena sat down beside me, undid my belt, and lowered my zipper with a calmness I was incapable of imitating. When she pulled down my underwear and my cock sprang free, hard and thick, slapping against my stomach, she let out a sigh halfway between laughter and surprise.

—You’re a shy boy with heavy artillery —she said—. How has nobody thrown themselves at you yet? Jesus, Iván, you’ve got a horse cock.

She wrapped her hand around it, but her fingers couldn’t close all the way. She began moving it up and down, watching my face as she did, as if studying me. With her other hand she stroked my balls, weighing them, squeezing them gently. I was on the verge of coming from that alone.

She knelt between my legs and leaned forward. She ran her tongue from the base to the tip, slowly, flattening it against the vein underneath. Then she sucked my glans by itself, her lips tight around it, pulling it out with an obscene popping sound and taking it back in. What came afterward was nothing like anything I had imagined on those lonely nights. The warmth of her mouth, the slowness, the way she lifted her eyes to check my face. She swallowed me halfway, gagged a little, and came back up with a thread of saliva hanging from her lip.

—It tastes so good —she said hoarsely—. So fucking good.

And she went back down. She took me in again, deeper this time, until I felt her throat closing around the tip. She spit on my glans and used it to lubricate me, sliding her fist up and down while she sucked only halfway. I thought I was going to finish right away, like I always did in the shower, after five strokes of my hand. I didn’t finish. Not after five minutes, not after ten. Helena would stop, smile, brush a lock of hair from my forehead, and start again, and I understood that the woman knew exactly when to stop so I wouldn’t come, when to squeeze the base with two fingers, when to let me breathe.

—You’ve made me so horny, Iván —she said suddenly, sitting back on her heels, her lips shining and her chin wet—. I’m dripping. Look.

She opened her jeans, slipped her hand inside, and pulled out her glistening fingers. She ran them over my lips and put them into my mouth. They tasted like something I had never known, sour and sweet at the same time.

—Let’s go to your room. Don’t make me beg. I need you to fuck me now.

I told her I didn’t have any condoms. She said her boyfriend always took care of that, that there was no risk, that I should trust her. That morning, I trusted anything that came out of her mouth.

In my bedroom, she knelt with her back to me on the bedspread and lowered her jeans and underwear just enough. I saw her white, round ass and her pink pussy between her thighs, already glistening, with a trimmed tuft of blond hair above it. I came up behind her and ran my cock up and down her cleft, soaking it in her wetness before pushing. I penetrated her clumsily, not knowing where to put my hands, watching her face in the wardrobe mirror. Helena was biting her knuckles.

—More slowly… more slowly… you’re going to split me open inside… —she pleaded at first, clenching her jaw—. Put it in little by little, Iván, for fuck’s sake…

I felt her pussy swallow me one centimeter at a time, squeezing me so tightly that it was hard for either of us to breathe. When I was fully inside, I stayed still, panting over her back, feeling it pulse inside her. She moved first, a small rocking motion, and I understood that I could begin. I started thrusting slowly, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in to the hilt. In the mirror I could see her open mouth and closed eyes, and her tits hanging and swaying with every thrust.

I fucked her for longer than my mind could measure. I grabbed her blond ponytail and pulled, and a moan broke in her throat. I dug my fingers into her hips and sped up, slamming her stomach against her ass, listening to the wet, obscene sound of my cock entering and leaving her soaked pussy. I surprised myself. My friends talked about lasting two minutes as though it were an achievement, and I had already lasted twenty. When Helena turned to look at me, I saw that her eyes were bright, almost teary, and her teeth were clenched. Later I understood what I had been seeing: a mixture of pleasure and discomfort that become confused when something is too new, and when what is being put inside you is larger than what you usually endure. At that moment, all I understood was her broken breathing, the smell of cologne mixed with sweat, and the salty taste of her skin when I leaned down to lick her back.

—Stop —she said suddenly—. Lie down. Now it’s my turn.

She took off her jeans completely, leaving her gray stockings at mid-thigh, and sat on top of me with her back to me. I saw her nape, her freckled shoulders, the mole beneath her left shoulder blade. She took my cock, placed it at her entrance, and dropped down hard, impaling herself all the way. She let out a cry that vibrated in her chest. She stayed still like that for a few seconds, breathing hard, getting used to me. Then she began to move: rising almost to the tip and dropping again, bracing herself on my knees, arching her back so I could watch my shining cock slide in and out between her buttocks.

When she began moving faster, I understood for the first time that sex wasn’t what I thought it was, that it had slow parts, broken parts, parts that made you laugh, and that almost nothing resembled the movies. I put my hands on her hips and helped her come down harder, thrusting upward every time she fell. Her ass turned red from the pounding. She brought two fingers to her pussy and began rubbing her clitoris in quick circles while I impaled her from below. I saw her arm tremble, then her whole back tremble, and I felt her pussy close in spasms around my cock, squeezing me so tightly it almost ripped my orgasm out of me right then.

—I want to find out what you taste like —she told me at one point, still panting—. Don’t come until I tell you. Hold on, Iván, hold on.

She stood up, turned around, and lowered herself onto me again, now facing me, her tits hanging in front of my face. I grabbed them, put one nipple in my mouth, and sucked it hard while she rode me. We lasted like that for quite a while, until she pulled away, dropped to her knees beside the bed, and made me stand up.

—Come. In my mouth. Everything you’ve got.

She opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue. She took my cock and began jerking me off quickly, pressing my glans against her lips, her tongue, her teeth. I came when she decided I should. It wasn’t a small amount: there was more than either of us had expected, and I filled her tongue and palate with the first jet, then the second, then the third, and some of it ran down her chin and over her chest instead of staying where she expected it to. I watched my cum fall between her tits and slide down to her stomach. Helena laughed, a frank, brief laugh, closed her mouth, swallowed, and wiped away the rest with a bathroom towel.

She got dressed again without showering.

—That way I can take the memory with me to Boston —she said, and before closing the door she added—: Iván, go out with girls. Don’t shut yourself away. You know what you have to offer.

She never kissed me on the mouth, forehead, or cheek. She closed the door, and I heard her drag her suitcase to the elevator. Today, twenty-two years later, it still seems to me like an almost cruel and almost perfect farewell. Helena went on to become a well-known dermatologist in New England. I follow her online, though I’ve never written to her.

***

Two days later I had an appointment with Letizia, my Italian teacher, at the penthouse she rented near the river. Letizia was from Bologna, spoke Spanish, Italian, and English, and always wore miniskirts my mother would have called “a scandal.” She was the same age as Helena and, although she was less spectacular, she had a huge mouth and legs that, according to my friends, ought to come with a consumer warning.

I brought her perfume and a silver pendant. She opened the door wearing a short dark-blue dress that revealed the straps of her bra.

—Iván, I have two pieces of news —she said as she led me into the living room—. One good, one bad. The bad news is that I’m going back to Italy on Sunday. I’ve been offered a position at a publishing house in Florence, and I can’t turn it down.

—And the good news?

—The good news is that the air conditioning broke this morning. And since I don’t want to open the windows, we’re going to have to entertain ourselves without clothes. If you agree.

I didn’t wait to answer. I came closer and kissed her as best I could, lips pressed tight, like a schoolboy. Letizia laughed, separated our mouths with a finger, and told me, “Slowly, Iván, this isn’t an exam.” And then, yes, she taught me how to kiss. Just as she had taught me the Italian subjunctive. She slipped her tongue in slowly, playing with mine, biting my lower lip, and I learned in two minutes what had taken me months to master for the entrance exams.

She undressed me as if she were trying on a suit. When she saw what had already bewildered Helena, she said nothing spectacular. She merely arched an eyebrow and remarked, almost professionally, “Madonna mia. We’ll have to be careful.” She took my cock in both hands, one above the other, and stroked it slowly, watching it grow between her fingers as if she were weighing a piece of fruit at the market.

She sat in a high-backed chair, pulled her dress up to her waist, and spread her legs. She wasn’t wearing panties. Her pussy was shaved, glistening, her lips already swollen and parted. She lifted her right leg over the armrest and asked me to kneel in front of her.

—With your tongue first, until I tell you. Wide and flat, not the tip. Start down below and go up. That’s it. Bravo.

She guided me with her voice, correcting every movement. When I made a mistake, she grabbed my hair and positioned my head where she wanted it. I learned to suck her clitoris with my lips, to lick it with a broad tongue, to go down to her entrance and put my tongue inside, then go back up. I learned to read her breathing.

—Then use your middle finger, slowly; that way you learn to notice the differences. Curl your finger upward. There. There, Iván. Don’t move. Now a little faster.

I did as she instructed, attentive to her voice and her gestures. Letizia taught lessons there too. I slipped my finger inside her and stroked a rough spot above while continuing to suck her clitoris. She began pressing my head against her pussy, rocking me, half smothering me, and I didn’t pull away. When she came, she said it in Italian. Vengo, vengo, cazzo, vengo. I never forgot that word. I felt her pussy contracting around my finger and her whole thigh trembling against my cheek.

Then she straightened up and knelt on the chair with her back to me. She pulled her dress above her hips and rested her hands on the backrest. She didn’t have to ask me. This time I went in without hesitation, too quickly, according to her. I drove into her in a single thrust, and she let out a cry that bounced off the walls of the penthouse.

—More slowly, Iván… you’re an animal… porca miseria…

I didn’t listen. For the first time, I felt a confidence I didn’t recognize in myself. I fucked her as if I knew what I was doing, gripping her hips, burying myself to the balls with every thrust, watching her ass shake whenever it collided with my stomach. Letizia, caught between laughter, complaint, and pleasure, let me. I pulled her hair back and forced her to arch her back, and she thanked me with a long moan. I pushed a saliva-wet finger into her ass, very slowly, and a new swear word I had never heard escaped her.

We changed positions four or five times in thirty minutes. I laid her on her back on the floor, put her ankles over my shoulders, and impaled her from above, watching her tits bounce and her eyes roll back. I put her on all fours on the rug and alternated short and long thrusts until she began begging me in Italian. I remember one position in which she leaned against the desk while I held her right leg up, something I had seen in a video and that proved much more uncomfortable in practice than on-screen, but from which I could see her pussy opening around my cock every time I entered her.

When I was about to finish, I warned her. Letizia hurriedly sat up.

—I want to find out what you taste like too. In my mouth; don’t deny me. Give it to me.

Before she could kneel completely, my body got ahead of me. I splattered her face, neck, collarbone, and a few brown strands of hair that smelled of chamomile shampoo. The first jet hit her forehead and nose, the second went into her open mouth, and the third and fourth ran down her chin to her tits. Letizia laughed, stuck out her tongue to catch what hung from her lip, and said something in Italian that I haven’t forgotten either.

—You’re a real man, Iván. That was something you had to discover on your own.

I arrived at her place at five. I left at eleven. Five times, two bodies, one room that smelled of stale air, deodorant, pussy, and dried cum.

***

The next day my parents went out to dinner with their friends. At seven-thirty the intercom rang. Through the peephole, I saw Letizia wearing a long raincoat, her hair tied back. I thought she had come to say goodbye or pick something up.

When she entered and took off the raincoat in my bedroom, I understood that she hadn’t.

—I didn’t tell you everything I wanted to say last night —she murmured, letting the garment fall onto the chair.

There was nothing underneath. No bra, no stockings, not even a watch. Just Letizia, with her nipples hard, her pussy shaved, and the smile of someone who has made a decision and intends to carry it out.

That second time was no longer a lesson. It was something else. She tore off my clothes in three pulls and pushed me onto the bed. We tried sixty-nine, which I knew only by name. She climbed on top of me backward, sat her pussy on my mouth, and bent down to eat my cock. I felt her moving against my face, rubbing her clitoris against my tongue while I grabbed her ass and spread her cheeks to push my tongue deeper inside. She swallowed my cock down to her throat and pulled it out covered in saliva, spitting on it and taking me back in. We came almost at the same time: me first, in her mouth, and her two seconds later, soaking my face.

We didn’t stop. She mounted me again, now facing me, and rode me slowly, kissing me and letting me suck her tits as she moved up and down. I turned her onto her stomach with a pillow beneath her hips and took her from behind, lying over her and biting her nape. I kissed her nape, her back, her waist. She kissed the scar I’ve had on my knee since I was seven and told me that shy men’s scars always had a story.

We finished with her sitting at the edge of the mattress, legs spread, masturbating in front of me while I knelt on the floor and jerked off watching her. I came on her thighs, and she smeared my cum over her pussy with two fingers and came again, biting her lip and staring straight at me.

When we were done, she sat on the edge of the bed, took a card from the raincoat pocket, and left it on my nightstand.

—My number in Bologna, my email, and my address. When you feel like it. When you’re brave.

I kissed her on the mouth. This time I did, and for a long while. Letizia put on the raincoat, with nothing else beneath it, and went down the stairs with exactly the same calmness as the day before.

***

More than twenty years have passed. I live in Munich, I have a family, and almost no one in my current life knows that Helena and Letizia ever existed. Sometimes, when someone mentions the word “farewell,” I drift away for a few seconds. I’ve kept that Italian card, without ever writing to the address on it. And although I’m not one of those who believe in formative moments, I know that those two weeks in July changed the shy boy I was.

Afterward, my friends told me I had been incredibly lucky, and that kind of luck never came twice. Today, I’m not sure it was just luck. Helena and Letizia chose what they did. They chose to say goodbye that way instead of over coffee or with a handshake. And they chose to say goodbye to me.

Sometimes I think I should write to both of them. And sometimes I think it’s better to leave the doors the way they closed them. In silence. With the suitcase ready. Without a kiss at the end, or with only one, depending on the teacher.

—Iván, be happy —Helena told me.

—Iván, be brave —Letizia told me.

And I, almost always, have obeyed.