I Pretended to Be His Teacher That Winter Morning

It has been almost three weeks since that Christmas Eve when everything inside me went wrong. Damián came into my life without asking permission, and ever since, I have a hard time recognizing the woman the mirror hands back to me each morning.

My husband is still away on a trip. Another round of meetings, another week far from home. And I, every night, thinking about the twenty-three-year-old boy who calls me “ma’am” with mockery and leaves me trembling on the sheets.

That Tuesday, January 13, dawned gray and cold. I woke up alone in the marital bed, with the pillow still carrying the scent of the encounter from the day before. Thirty-two years old, two children at school, a life ordered on the outside and absolute chaos on the inside. The previous night I had received a message on the phone I keep hidden:

—Tomorrow at ten. I want the teacher. Find a uniform or improvise. Don’t make me wait.

No signature. No need.

I reread the message five times before falling asleep. The idea had followed me all night in broken dreams: me, severe, hair tied up and voice firm, surrendering to a student who does not take no for an answer.

I got out of bed, still soft-bodied from the memory. I opened the closet and started looking. I found a white button-down blouse that barely fastened over me, a black pencil skirt down to the knee, sheer stockings, and heels I hadn’t worn in years. Underneath, nothing. I put on my makeup carefully: red lips, black liner on my eyes, hair gathered into a tight bun. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt an uncomfortable heat between my legs. The woman staring back at me looked like a school principal about to lose her composure.

At ten o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door without fully catching my breath. Damián was leaning against the frame, gray sweatshirt, low-slung jeans, a backpack hanging from one shoulder. He looked me up and down with that slow way of his that melts me, and when he reached my lips, he smiled crookedly.

—Good morning, teacher —he said, and walked in without waiting to be invited.

—Come in —I murmured, though he was already inside.

He shut the door with his foot and shoved me against the wall of the entryway. The backpack hit the floor. His hand slid up my waist until it settled, possessive, on the curve of my hip.

—Damián, no —I said, stepping into the game—. I’m your teacher. You can’t do this.

—Oh, really? —His nose brushed my neck—. Then why did you open the door dressed like that?

—Because… —I swallowed. My voice came out shaking—. Because I was going to class.

—Lies. You want it too. I’ve seen you look at me every time I walk by you.

My body reacted before my mind did. His fingers slipped under the skirt and found bare thigh. My hips pushed, traitorous, against his hand.

—That’s how I like it, teach —he whispered—. Show me you’re ready.

***

He grabbed my arm and took me to the dining room. He had set the scene in advance: the rectangular table covered with a dark tablecloth, two old books open, a chair on the opposite side. He settled into the “student” chair, leaned back against the rest, spreading his legs as if expecting an explanation.

—Begin the class, teacher.

—Today… —I cleared my throat, grabbing the first book I saw—. Today we’re going to review physiology.

—Physiology —he repeated, biting his lip—. Good topic. And which organ are we going to study?

I lifted my eyes from the book. His eyes were shining. His hands rested on his thighs, a crooked smile on his face and a clear bulge beneath his jeans.

—Damián, this is serious —I protested, pretending to be annoyed.

—It is very serious, teach. Come closer and look at it properly. It’s for a good grade.

I closed the book slowly. I walked around the table with my heels clicking on the parquet. When I reached his side, he grabbed my skirt and pulled me onto his lap. My bun loosened. A blond strand fell over my eye.

—Feel it —he ordered, pressing my hip against his crotch—. This is what you provoke every time you pass by me.

—Please… —I gasped—. I’m your teacher.

—You’re my whore —he said softly, his mouth against my ear—. And today you’re going to admit it out loud.

—No.

—Say it.

—I can’t.

His fingers went into the bun and pulled back, forcing me to look him in the face. The pressure on my scalp ripped a low moan from me.

—Say it, teacher.

—I’m… I’m your whore —I whispered, and as I said it, my sex tightened with a pulse that left me wet all the way to my stockings.

Then he kissed me hungrily, forcing his tongue into my mouth as if he wanted to bite my shame out of me. His hands went down to my thighs, yanked the skirt up with a rough pull, and left me exposed in front of him, my panties already soaked through. I felt the cold air between my legs and then, immediately, his fingers moving the damp fabric aside to touch me for real. A first brush, his thumb sinking into my sensitive flesh, then two fingers spread apart, testing the hot slit waiting for him. I arched against his hand before I could stop myself.

—Look how you’re dripping —he murmured, almost with contempt—. A whole teacher made into a bitch because of me.

—No… —but my voice came out broken, because I was already pushing my hips toward his palm, looking for more pressure, more friction, more of that filthy humiliation that made my legs go weak.

He slid one finger inside me with cruel patience. Then another. I clenched my teeth, feeling how he opened me slowly, how he invaded me with a precision that left me trembling. His free hand held my waist so I wouldn’t get away, and every time I tried to move, he stopped me, forcing me to endure the rhythm he set. He took me to the edge with the tip of his fingers, brushing the exact place where everything burned, where the wetness turned into need.

—Do you like being touched like this? —he asked in my ear.

—Yes —I said almost voicelessly.

—Harder.

—Yes, fuck… yes.

His laugh was short, dark. He lifted me off his lap only to stand me up and spin me around with a sharp blow to the hip. The table hit my ribs when he bent me over it. I felt the cold wood against my breasts, the skirt hiked up to my waist, the air opening my ass. The sound of his belt coming undone made me close my eyes.

—Look what a good teacher does —he said, and I heard the movement of his clothes falling.

—Damián, wait.

—Wait for what?

I couldn’t answer. His hands parted my legs with authority, my heels still planted on the floor. I felt him settle behind me, hot, hard, brushing my wet sex with a slowness that drove me mad. The tip pushed between my folds, sliding through the gathered moisture, seeking my opening and finding it trembling, ready, opened by waiting. He entered slowly, centimeter by centimeter, and the sweet burn of the pressure tore a gasp from me so loud I had to bite my wrist to keep from screaming.

—Repeat the lesson, teach.

—I’m your whore —I said, my voice breaking—. I’m your whore.

—Louder.

I repeated it. He started moving in earnest, gripping my waist, slamming me against the table with a rhythm that knocked the air out of my body. The pages of the books crumpled beneath my face. The blouse ripped open when he slipped his hand under it and tore off two buttons with one swipe. His thrusts were deep, brutal, filling me to the bottom with a wet, obscene sound that shamed me and ignited me at the same time. Every thrust made my tits brush the table; every withdrawal left a stabbing emptiness that demanded another, and another, and another.

—Think about your students —he mocked—. Think about what they’d say if they walked in right now.

That sentence broke me open. I imagined the classroom that wasn’t there, the door opening, the stares. My whole body convulsed, and I came for the first time without warning, biting my tongue so I wouldn’t cry out. The orgasm shook me from knees to neck; I clenched around him in a wild spasm, soaked, undone, hearing my own ragged breathing and his triumphant laugh. He did not stop. He kept going a little longer, hammering into me harder while I kept trembling, and when I felt unable to take it, he pulled out and made me turn around.

—Kneel.

I went down to the floor with the heels bending my feet. I kissed his neck, his chest through the sweatshirt, the dark line of his stomach. He grabbed my hair and guided me where he wanted me. He slid his hand down the back of my neck, pushed my head between his legs, and moved my still-wet underwear aside, putting his cock within reach of my mouth. I hesitated for a second. He pulled my hair.

—Good teacher —he said, almost tenderly—. Grade me.

I opened my mouth and took him, first the tip, then more, until I felt him strike my tongue and palate with that living hardness that made my eyes water. I licked the base, sucked eagerly, swallowing the salty taste of his skin and the rough drag of skin tightening under my lips. He was moaning low, guiding me with precise tugs of my hair, setting the pace of my head. I learned his rhythm. I learned when he liked me to pull back. I learned, above all, to obey without resisting.

—Like that —he growled—. That’s it, fuck. Don’t stop.

When I felt him harden even more, I brought one hand to my own thighs, still parted, still throbbing, and touched myself while I sucked him, chasing the same relief from him that was drawing small broken moans out of him. I came again like that, with his cock in my mouth, my body shaken by another wave that left me breathless. He tensed, swore, and pulled away just enough to finish over my face and lips, hot and thick, staining my mouth, my chin, my neck. He made me stay still while he breathed hard, watching me swallow what I could and watching the rest run down my skin.

***

We went up to the bedroom when the first assault ended. I was a collection of marks: the blouse in tatters, the bun undone, lipstick smeared, stockings torn at the thigh. He, on the other hand, looked freshly showered.

—Now the teacher lies down —he ordered.

I let myself fall onto the comforter. Damián took off his sweatshirt. He had the body of someone who goes to the gym without obsession, defined shoulders, a narrow waist. He climbed on top of me and kissed me for the first time that morning. It was a slow kiss, almost tender, which confused me more than any earlier order. Then he opened my legs with his knees and settled between them, rubbing his hardness against my sensitive center, making me search for him with my pelvis. The wetness was still there, mixed with his saliva and my sweat, and the simple friction made me moan again.

—I corrected you badly —he murmured against my mouth—. You’ve got a ten.

—Why?

—Because you gave yourself over without arguing.

He touched me again, slowly, two fingers sliding into me while he looked me in the eyes. This time there was no hurry: he opened me patiently, made me feel every tense wall of my sex, every inner pulse, every contraction answering his hand. When he saw I was at the edge again, he withdrew his fingers and lowered his face between my legs. His tongue licked me from top to bottom, direct, without softness, seeking the center of my pleasure with an insistence that arched my back and made me grip the sheets. He made me ride him, look him in the eyes, tell him all the things I had never told even my husband. He made me confess fantasies I had kept hidden since adolescence. He made me promise I would open the door every time the bell rang.

When it was all over, he fell asleep for ten minutes, holding me from behind as if we were any ordinary couple. I didn’t move. I was afraid of waking him and afraid he would leave.

At two in the afternoon, he dressed in silence. He picked up the backpack from the entryway, combed his hair in front of the mirror by the door, and kissed me on the forehead.

—Good class, teach.

—Will you come back? —I asked before I could stop myself.

—Whenever I feel like it.

***

That same night I understood something I had been avoiding for weeks: I was no longer a woman visited now and then by a lover. I was a woman who organized her life around a text message. Who learned roles. Who dressed to please him. Who waited for the doorbell.

I called my husband to wish him good night, asked him about the cold on the trip, lied to him in the calmest voice in the world. When I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed, still in torn stockings. The mark of a bite burned on my collarbone. I touched it with the tip of my finger and breathed deeply.

Before, I thought I was the one who decided when this game ended. Now I know it was Damián who decided for both of us that very morning, the day he walked into my entryway and said, “good morning, teacher.”

And I still don’t know how to tell him yes. Nor how to tell him no. I only know that I live between Tuesdays, waiting for another message.