I Never Told What Happened with My Two Teachers

My name is Lucas and I’m forty years old. I’ve lived in Munich for a decade, but what I’m about to tell happened in Valencia, in the summer of 2003, when I had just turned eighteen and had barely passed the university entrance exams. Biotechnology was going to save me. Math and English almost sunk me.

I was shy. Shy in the most literal sense of the word: I had never deliberately brushed a girl’s hand, I didn’t know how to dance, and the idea of going into a nightclub made my stomach turn. At school I sat in the back, talked little, and went out with the two or three friends who had learned to tolerate my silence. That was my entire social life in June 2003.

The two weak subjects forced me to have private lessons for almost two years. The math teacher was named Clara. Thirty years old, blonde, with gray eyes I tried not to look at too much. We had been working together since the winter before my final year. The English teacher was named Bianca. Italian, from Milan, living in Spain on a scholarship I never fully understood. They were both leaving that August, each to her own country. I’d known since May and had spent weeks turning over how to say goodbye without looking ridiculous.

In the end I bought each of them a gift. Perfume for Clara and a pendant for Bianca. I asked the saleswoman for advice, and she treated it like a personal challenge. I left the shop with cold hands.

Clara met me at my house on a Saturday. My parents had gone off to the mountains with some friends, as they did every August to give me some “breathing room,” and I was going to be alone all weekend. She was flying to Boston forty-eight hours later, so she showed up two hours before leaving for the airport. She arrived with a ridiculously small suitcase and a gray hoodie that was too big on her.

I gave her the package as soon as she came through the door. She opened it in the hallway, smelled the perfume, put the earrings in her pocket, and looked at me for too long.

—You didn’t need to buy me anything.

—I wanted to, —I replied, and it was the most honest thing I said all day.

—Then I’m going to give you something too, —she said—. But mine can’t be wrapped.

I didn’t understand the line until three seconds later.

She took off the scarf from her neck. Slowly. Then the hoodie, over her head, in the gesture of someone who has done it a thousand times. Underneath she wore a pink bra that seemed too small to hold her in. My hands, which until then hadn’t known where to go, hung at my sides like two things that didn’t belong to me.

—You’ve been staring at me in secret for months, —she said without reproach, almost amused—. Look at me now.

She unclasped her bra with the smallest movement. Let it fall onto the sofa. I was eighteen years old and had never seen breasts outside a screen. The difference was brutal. Skin has temperature, has weight, has a slight tremor images never capture. The nipples were large, pink, and had gone hard in the cool air of the hallway. My fingers were shaking.

—You can touch them, —she said.

I touched them. With absurd softness, as if they might break. She laughed quietly and guided my hands when they went still. She pressed my fingers against a nipple and whispered for me to pinch it, that it wasn’t going to break, that she liked it hard. I obeyed. A short gasp escaped her and got my cock hard as a rock inside my pants. She looked down, eyes widening.

—Wait. Is all of that yours?

I looked down and saw the bulge. I hadn’t noticed. She had.

She unbuckled my belt with a patience that made me even more nervous, tugged my jeans and boxers down to my thighs, and let out a long whistle. This wasn’t a joke. It was genuine surprise. Later she’d explain that she thought she’d seen everything and that afternoon had forced her to revise her calculations. My cock sprang hard against my stomach, throbbing, the tip already wet with pre-cum.

—No wonder you were my favorite student, —she murmured with a half-smile, wrapping her hand around it and measuring me with wet fingers.

She knelt and took me in her mouth without ceremony. She swallowed me all at once, until the tip touched the back of her throat, and stayed there a few seconds with her eyes closed and her cheeks hollowed out. Then she started sucking with a slow rhythm, licking the head as if it were candy, running her tongue down the underside to my balls, licking them one by one while she jerked me with her hand. She came back up, took the whole cock in her mouth, and sped up, with wet sounds filling the hallway. I don’t have honest words to describe what I felt the first time a woman sucked me. I can say what surprised me. That it lasted much longer than any session I’d ever had alone. That she breathed differently while doing it, through her nose, with a purring sound that vibrated in her mouth and climbed up my cock. That the hallway mirror threw back a scene that looked like it had been filmed by someone else: me with my pants at my ankles and her kneeling, back bare, bra tossed on the sofa, swallowing me to the base.

I thought I was going to come in thirty seconds. I didn’t. I discovered, as if someone had revealed a trick to me, that shared pleasure is dosed differently. The brain lags one step behind the body, and that delays everything. She noticed and played with it: when I was close, she pulled my cock out of her mouth, squeezed the base with two fingers, and blew on the tip until the urgency dropped. Then she took it back in again.

Clara pulled away without warning, looked up at me from below with shiny lips, and said just one sentence.

—Take me to your room.

I took her. She climbed onto my bed, lowered her jeans and panties to her knees, and looked at me over her shoulder. For the first time I saw an adult woman’s pussy, spread wide by the position, shining with wetness, the inner lips swollen and pink. It didn’t take the fear away. It gave me instructions. With two fingers she opened herself wider, guided my cock to the entrance, and asked me to push slowly.

—Like this, very slowly, all the way in, —she whispered—. One centimeter, wait, another centimeter. No rush.

I obeyed. The feeling of entering her for the first time tore a ridiculous moan out of me. She was hot, tight, wet, and I could feel every wall inside her gripping my cock as I moved forward. When I was all the way in, she let out the air as if she had been holding her breath the entire time.

—Now you start moving. Almost all the way out, all the way in. Very slowly, until I tell you.

I fucked her slowly, as she asked, biting my lip to hold on. She clenched her fists against the bedspread and bit her lower lip until it turned white. After a few minutes she started pushing her ass back to meet me, setting a faster rhythm with her hips, and asked me to grab her hair. I did. I pulled a little, unsure, and she moaned loudly and asked for more. I pulled hard, fucking her with more and more force, hearing my thighs slap against her ass with a wet smack on every thrust.

—Wait, stop, stop, —she gasped suddenly—. I’m going to come if you keep going like that. Not yet.

She asked me to stop and turned to get on top. She sat down on my cock in one sharp movement, both hands braced on my chest, and started riding me while looking me in the eyes. Her tits bounced in front of my face and I grabbed them with both hands, sucking each nipple in turn while she went up and down. My room had three mirrors and each one gave me a different scene: the wardrobe mirror, her ass opening and closing on me; the one on the door, her back arched and her buttocks tightening; the small one on the nightstand, her face with her mouth open and eyes half-closed.

She moved faster, rubbed her clit with two fingers without stopping her ride, and suddenly her whole body tensed. Her pussy clenched around my cock in rhythmic spasms, she bent forward, and let out a long, low moan against my neck as she came. I felt her climax all over me, the hot flow running down my balls.

—Now you, —she panted, still trembling—. Where do you want to shoot it?

—In your mouth, —I said, and I surprised myself with how raw it sounded.

She got down, knelt beside the bed, and opened her mouth with her tongue out. It was a miscalculation, hers and mine. I started jerking off aiming at that mouth and finished before I got there. The first rope landed on her chin, the second on her neck, the third and fourth splattered across her collarbone and one breast, running down from her nipple to her belly. Only the last drop made it into her mouth. Instead of wiping herself, she dragged two fingers across her chest, brought them to her tongue, and sucked them slowly while looking at me. Then she pulled her bra and hoodie back on over the mess and winked.

—You’re going to keep me company like this all the way to Boston, —she said—. Good gift.

She never kissed me. Not when she arrived, not when she left. From the doorway she told me to go out and meet women, that what I was doing to myself was a waste, and that memory would be my best teacher from that day on. I never saw her again. Today she’s a well-known dermatologist on the other side of the Atlantic. Every so often I look up her name and smile.

***

Two days later it was Bianca’s turn to say goodbye. Her apartment was in an old building in El Carmen, with the elevator always broken. I climbed the four flights with the pendant in my hand and Clara’s memory stuck to everything. I had changed. I could feel it even in the way I breathed.

Bianca opened the door wearing a short dress, one of the kind she always wore, and a towel around her neck. She explained two things in one breath, as she usually did. Bad news: she was leaving Spain in forty-eight hours and I’d have to find another teacher. Worse news: the air conditioning had been broken since the previous afternoon. And one good piece of news that, she said, she preferred to show rather than announce.

She kissed me on the mouth without warning. A short kiss, no tongue, more question than statement. Two days earlier I would have died right there. That afternoon, though, I returned the kiss with the polite awkwardness of someone learning a new language and trying to get the pronunciation right. The second kiss was mine, longer, sliding my tongue in without asking permission. She laughed against my mouth.

—Well, well. Somebody’s had lessons this week.

Bianca wasn’t like Clara. Bianca taught everywhere. She sat me on a wooden chair in the living room, crouched down, and pulled my pants and boxers off in one yank. My cock sprang up in front of her face and she laughed again.

—Madonna mia. Now I understand what Clara told me.

—You talked?

—We’re friends, darling. Shut up.

She took me in her mouth before I could answer. She started sucking me with a very different technique from Clara’s: more tongue, more saliva, sucking the head with her mouth closed as if it were a deep kiss, going up and down with her lips pressed tightly to my skin. She pulled my cock out of her mouth dripping wet, jerked me slowly, and licked my balls one by one, sucking them whole into her mouth. While she did it, she explained to me what she was doing and why. That the frenulum was the most sensitive spot. That you had to play with the balls almost all the time. That if she blew cool air after having her mouth hot, it felt different. She demonstrated everything. Neither of us would ever forget that lesson, she said. I certainly haven’t.

Then she asked me to undress her myself. Not by tugging. With patience. To unbutton her dress from top to bottom, to unfasten her bra with both hands, to lower her underwear without rushing. It was an exam and I had no script. She helped me with her eyes. When I made a mistake, she moved my hand and let it float again. When I lowered her panties I discovered she had her pussy completely shaved, something I had never seen in 2003 at eighteen. I stared like an idiot.

—You sit down, —she said at last—. I want to show you something important.

She sat in the chair herself, one leg over the armrest, and ordered me to use my mouth and fingers. I knelt between her thighs with my face a hand’s breadth from her open pussy, so close I could smell her arousal. She grabbed the back of my neck and guided me.

—Up here is the clit. Don’t attack it directly, start from the sides, circles. Tongue flat, not pointed, darling. Like this. Now yes, there, still, keep going.

I sucked, licked, learned. She told me where everything was. She taught me to slip two fingers upward and search for a rough spot on the inner roof. She told me that one day I’d need to know whether a woman was aroused or pretending, whether she was in a hurry or losing interest, whether it hurt or she liked it. She told me there are no two pussies alike and that the best lover is the one who listens to the body before the voice. I sucked her clit with my lips sealed around it while I slipped my fingers in and out, and she started pressing my face between her thighs.

Ten minutes later her thighs were trembling, the chair was creaking, and she was yanking my hair with both hands.

—Very good, —she gasped—. Very, very good. Now come.

She turned around, braced her hands on the back of the chair, and offered herself from behind, arching her back to raise her ass. I obeyed. With Clara I had been the student. With Bianca I had, for the first time in my life, the feeling of being in charge of something. I grabbed her hips with both hands, ran the tip of my cock between the lips of her pussy to wet it, and pushed in all at once, all the way. She let out a sharp gasp and gripped the chair harder.

I started slowly, afraid of hurting her, and less than a minute later she was asking me to go faster. I obeyed. I started fucking her hard, slamming my hips against her ass on each thrust, watching my whole cock disappear inside her and come back out shiny with her juices. Sweat started running down my back. She gripped the chair with both hands and said words in Italian —cazzo, sì, così, più forte— that I didn’t understand but that sounded like approval. I got brave. I slapped her ass. She cried out with pleasure and asked for more. I slapped her again, and again, until I left a red mark on her right cheek.

At some point she turned around and made me lie down on the rug. She climbed on top, facing away from me, and used my body as if I were part of the furniture. She sat down on my cock in a squat, feet flat on the floor on either side of my hips, and started rising and lowering vertically, fucking herself with my cock. I looked up. I saw the stopped fan, the peeling paint on the ceiling, her shoulders moving with precise rhythm, and her naked ass opening every time she came down to the base. She was thirty and knew exactly what she was doing. I was eighteen and the only thing I worried about was not disappointing her.

We were at it for almost two hours. She changed positions eight or nine times and corrected each one without stopping her laughter. She fucked me doggy style on the rug, my face to the floor and my ass up. She fucked me on my back on the sofa, my legs over her shoulders, so deep she asked me to go slower. She fucked me sitting on my lap, face to face, rocking slowly while she kissed me and bit my lower lip. She sat on my face and told me to eat her pussy until she came, not moving away from me, and I came on her while she came, drenching my tongue. When I told her I was close for real, she asked me to wait, and when I couldn’t hold it any longer she pulled herself off me, knelt between my legs, and jerked me while aiming me at her open mouth. I came in thick, long spurts, into that mouth. She swallowed two and let the rest run down her lips to her chin. Then she ran a finger over her face, sucked it, and smiled. She didn’t kiss me afterward. Like Clara, she made a point of not kissing me on the lips from a certain moment on. I understand it now. Back then I thought it was adult detachment.

***

The most unbelievable thing, if I have to pick one, came the following afternoon. By then I had convinced myself it had all been a nice coincidence, a double gift that wasn’t going to happen again. I was reading the first university syllabus when the intercom rang. I looked at the screen. It was Bianca. She was wearing a beige trench coat and, as I found out three seconds after opening the door, nothing underneath.

She opened the trench coat in the hallway, standing right there, and showed me everything: her tits, her shaved pussy, her thighs. She threw herself on me before I could close the door, slid her hand into my pants, and grabbed my cock directly.

—I’ve been thinking about this all day, —she whispered in my ear—. I’ve masturbated twice remembering your cock. Take me to the room and fuck me until I can’t walk.

She stayed in my room until after eleven. We started against the hallway wall, her trench coat open and her legs wrapped around my waist, fucking her standing up while she clutched my neck. We went on the hallway floor because we never made it to the bed. Then yes, on the bed, with her face down and me on top, pushing deep while biting her shoulder. She taught me how to fuck her ass, slowly, with lots of saliva and one hand stroking her clit at the same time. I would never have dared suggest it. She asked for it with the naturalness of someone asking for a glass of water. I came inside her ass the first time, and half an hour later she was already sucking me again to get me hard once more. She sat astride my face and rubbed her pussy against my tongue until she came three times in a row, squeezing my thighs against my ears until I went deaf. We even pretended not to hear the upstairs neighbor dragging furniture to cover the cries she let out. We did things I didn’t know existed and other things I did know and thought impossible. She left with the trench coat on, soaked through inside, gave me a card with her Milan number, and told me to write without fear. I called her twice that decade. The second time a man’s voice answered and I hung up without saying a word.

***

It took me years to understand what had happened in those four days. My friends explained it to me in pieces, laughing. They told me nerves make things last longer, not shorter, when you’re not alone. They told me some bodies enjoy without making a sound and others scream without feeling all that much, and that telling the difference is the work of a lifetime. They told me two thirty-year-old women don’t strip in front of an eighteen-year-old student by accident. That kind of farewell is planned.

It took me even longer to understand that they never hurt me. Not them to me, or me to them. That both sides walked away from that week with something we hadn’t had before. They got a memory for the plane. I got a certainty. The certainty that I was going to survive the rest of my life. That I was going to go out dancing, make mistakes, fall in love, have my heart broken twice, and end up in another city. That I was going to last.

I’m forty years old, I have a German partner, and a little daughter who already says a few words in three languages. Every now and then, while I’m chopping vegetables in the kitchen, the image of the pink bra falling onto the sofa or the stopped fan on the Carmen ceiling comes back to me. I smile, keep chopping, and think that at some point I’ll have to write this diary for myself before it fades.

This is it. Thank you, Clara. Thank you, Bianca.