The Afternoon I Took Him to the Limit in the Library

My name is Valeria. I’ve been at university for two years and, if I’m being honest, I was never especially brilliant at Statistics. What I always did know, though, was how to move, how to dress, how to make a man look at me without seeming to care that he was doing it. I’m small, the kind of woman who looks younger than she is, with curves that are disproportionate to my height. I always wore clothes that met the dress code just barely, without going over by even a centimeter.

Professor Darío had been teaching Research Methodology for three years. He had to be around forty, well-preserved, one of those men who know they still have something to offer but act as if they don’t care what they project. When he came into the classroom, he would put his briefcase on the desk, take attendance out loud, and start talking about variables and correlations in a tone most people found soporific. Not me, though, but not exactly because of the content.

It was a Tuesday when I realized he was really looking at me. Not out of the corner of his eye or by accident. He looked at me with the same attention he gave the board when he explained something he thought was important. I had the habit of crossing my legs, not out of shyness but for comfort, and that day I was wearing a skirt that pulled a little when I did. I thought nothing of it until I noticed that his explanation would stop exactly when my legs changed position.

Interesting.

When class ended, I went up to his desk with an irrelevant question about the assignment deadline. He answered without fully looking up. Then he did, and said, with a calm that sounded forced:

—Valeria, if you keep distracting me like that, I’m going to have to ask you to sit in the front row.

I understood it the opposite way, just as he meant me to. In the front row, he’d have me closer.

***

That night I got home and couldn’t stop thinking about his face while I shifted in my seat. I got into bed, read for a while, turned out the light. And when I finally lay still in the dark, the image came back: him sitting in his chair, trying not to move too much, adjusting his pants without anyone noticing except me. I touched myself thinking about that. About how hard it had been for him to stay seated, about the stiffness you could make out between his legs, about the way his voice had changed when he spoke to me.

The next day I went to the lingerie shop. I bought two new thongs. Thin, lace, the kind that shows under clothes if you know where to look.

The next class was Thursday. I sat three rows back, center position, with a direct view of the desk. I crossed my legs once. Uncrossed them. Crossed them again. He cut off the sentence he was building halfway through, cleared his throat, and kept going. I kept a neutral expression, like someone taking notes. He called me before the bell rang.

—Don’t play with this —he said in a low voice, with the desk not between us this time. Standing, very close. I could smell his cologne—. You don’t know where it can lead.

—Maybe I do —I replied. And I left before he could answer.

***

The following Friday I got to the classroom ten minutes before everyone else. I went to the restroom, took off my thong, and tucked it into the pocket of my jacket. I hiked my skirt up a little, just enough to change the angle it was seen from if someone looked from the front and above. I walked into class as if nothing had happened and took my usual seat.

When he took attendance and said my name, he held my gaze half a second longer than necessary. Class began. Twenty minutes later he came over to my row under the pretext of checking some exercises. He leaned over the desk of the student next to me, checked his notebook, moved on to mine. He looked at the notebook. Then, without moving his head, he looked down.

He straightened up. Went back to the front. Kept explaining for another ten minutes. Then he said:

—Valeria, when you can, come over here.

I stood up. I stood in front of his desk while he waited for the student in the second row to finish asking a question. When we were alone, in a very low voice, barely moving his lips, he said:

—If you’re not wearing underwear, I’ll lend you mine.

I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh. I took the thong out of my jacket pocket and placed it among his papers, folded. He covered it with a folder without lowering his eyes to the desk. He said:

—That isn’t yours anymore. And I’m going to give you something better back.

I went back to my seat. The rest of class felt endless.

***

Two days later, on Monday, he came into the classroom and within the first five minutes he left a small envelope on my desk while he walked between the rows handing out a reading. I opened it without anyone seeing. Inside was my thong, folded into a perfect square. I picked it up and noticed something different in the fabric: a different smell, something thick and slightly salty that hadn’t been there before.

God.

I went to the bathroom between classes, unfolded it, and looked at it up close. There was a small dried stain in the center. I understood exactly what it was and exactly what he had done with it. I put it on right there, with that stain pressed against me. I pulled the waistband up as far as I could. When I went back to the classroom and sat down, I opened my legs slowly and looked at him. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and said to the group:

—All right, let’s continue. There’s a student here who has proven to be very obedient. I’ll take care of rewarding her later, in the study room at the back of the building.

The rest of the class thought he was talking about a pending grade. Maybe some of them didn’t. I didn’t care.

***

At the end of the last class of the day, he came to get me from the classroom. He told the professor who was teaching that he needed to take me for a moment to review some materials. The other man didn’t object. We left together into the hallway and walked to the back of the building, where the smallest study room was, the one nobody used because it had no windows.

He locked the door.

He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. He massaged them slowly, unhurriedly. Then he slid his hands down my arms and wrapped them around my waist.

—I’ve been thinking about this for a week —he said near my ear.

—I’ve been thinking about it longer —I replied.

I turned around. We looked at each other up close for the first time without the pretext of an academic question. He dropped his eyes to my lips, then back to my eyes. I rose onto my toes and kissed him before he could finish forming whatever he was about to say. It was a brief kiss at first, hot, with the tension of everything we’d been holding back. He deepened it, sliding his tongue into my mouth, holding the back of my neck with one hand while the other gripped my hip, as if he needed to make sure I was really there.

When we pulled apart, he told me he could offer me something in return. That there was still room for adjustment in the midterm grades. I told him I wasn’t worried about grades. He laughed a little, nervously, and took out his wallet. He set some bills on the table without saying anything. I took them without arguing and put them in my bag. It didn’t seem strange to me. It seemed honest.

He knelt in front of me, lifted my skirt, and moved the thong aside. The fabric was soaked almost immediately with the heat between my legs. He looked up at me from below, jaw tight, and spread my thighs with his hands to see better. He kissed me there with a slowness that made me put one hand on the bookshelf so I wouldn’t lose my balance. First it was a slow brush of his tongue over my wet lips, then firmer pressure on my clit, a short suction that tore a moan out of me and left it caught in my throat. He wasn’t in a hurry. He knew what he was doing. He held my hips when I started moving without meaning to, and kept licking me, alternating the tip of his tongue with his whole mouth, opening me wider with his fingers until I had to cover my mouth with the back of my hand so I wouldn’t make any noise.

He made me shake from head to toe. I could feel the wetness running down to my thigh, my pulse pounding in my cunt, his breath hot against my skin. He licked me slowly, then faster, and lowered the pace again just when I was about to come, only to build it back up and leave me on the edge once more. It drove me crazy. I grabbed his hair and pulled a little, not to stop him but to ask for more. He answered with a low growl and buried his face between my legs again, pushing his tongue deeper, sucking me hungrily.

When I straightened up, I was right at the edge. I asked him to stop.

I knelt in front of him. I unbuckled his belt, pulled down the zipper. What I found was exactly what I had imagined: average-sized, hard, with veins standing out beneath the skin, already wet at the tip. I took him into my mouth slowly, taking my time, running my tongue under the glans, tracing the frenulum, feeling his breathing change and his stomach tighten. He rested his hand on my head, not forcing me, just keeping time with me. Then he pushed a little farther, and I let myself go until I felt his cock filling the back of my throat, swallowing saliva so I wouldn’t choke. A rough moan escaped him, almost an insult, and he held me more firmly, setting the rhythm with a cadence that forced me to open wider and move my tongue along the full length, licking from the base to the head.

He liked it so much I had to stop for a second to breathe. The tip was red, shining with my spit. I ran my hand down the shaft, squeezing just where the main vein stood out under the skin, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he told me to keep going, in a voice rougher than I had ever heard from him in class. I obeyed, sucking him again, taking my mouth down as far as I could, feeling him harden even more on my tongue.

He pulled me off his mouth, lifted me by the arms, and took me to a folding mat in the corner, the kind used for movement workshops. He spread it on the floor and laid me on it. He moved my thong aside and stood there looking at me for a second, as if he needed to see the exact place he was going to enter. He positioned himself between my legs and brushed the tip against my entrance, pushing just enough to open me. He went in slowly at first, letting me set the pace with the way I tightened or relaxed my hips. I closed my eyes. It felt much better than I had expected. His cock filled me brutally, stretching me from the inside, and when he started coming out and going back in with more determination, the friction of every thrust shook my entire pelvis.

He began to move harder. I told him things in his ear, things that made him speed up even more. I told him I liked it. I told him to keep going. I told him he was fucking me exactly the way I wanted, not to hold back. He bit my neck carefully and I threw my head back. His hips slammed against mine with a wet, heavy sound, and the air in the room filled with short gasps, with skin against skin, with the noise of my thighs opening and closing around him.

He lifted me, turned me around, and I braced myself against the bookshelf facing it. He entered me again from behind and gripped my hips hard. From that angle the movement was different, more direct, and I pushed back with every thrust to take him deeper. I could feel his cock sliding against the walls of my cunt, brushing the exact spot that made my back arch. He smacked one ass cheek. I asked for another. He gave it to me. Then he spread my ass cheeks wider with one hand and kept fucking me from behind, harder, making the mat creak under my knees and forcing me to clench my teeth so I wouldn’t scream.

We heard the dismissal bell ring in the hall. He kept going exactly the same.

He laid me back down on the mat, face down this time, and kept going. He lifted one leg, grabbed my thigh, and entered me again with a depth that left me breathless. I buried my face in my arm and came without warning, with a spasm that ran from my thighs to the nape of my neck. He felt the movement, sped up for the last few seconds, then pulled out and came over my ass, his breathing broken and his hand braced on my back. The heat of his release slid over my skin, thick, and stayed there for a moment, sticky, while he kept trembling over me.

We stayed still for a moment.

I picked my thong up off the floor and wiped myself with it. I put it back on. He fastened his belt, picked up his briefcase, and checked that nothing was out of place in the room. He opened the door carefully and looked into the hallway. It was empty. He signaled me and I went out first.

***

By then the last students from other classes were already coming out into the hallway. I blended into the flow as if I’d come from somewhere else entirely. Some people from my group were near the exit. I walked beside them, answered what they asked, laughed at something I don’t remember.

The whole way home I kept noticing the dampness of the thong against me, the weight of the bills in my bag, the slight sting on the skin where he had held me harder. I regretted nothing. Not then and not after.

At home I locked myself in the bathroom, took off the thong, and held it for a moment between my fingers. I smelled it. It carried both scents mixed together, mine and his. I ran my tongue over the fabric. Salty and warm, exactly as I had imagined it.

I showered, put on my pajamas, and sat on the bed.

The following Tuesday I had class with him again. I was already thinking about what I would wear.