The Farewell My Female Teachers Prepared for Me at Eighteen

My name is Tomás, and I’ve been living in Berlin for almost two decades. What I’m about to tell you happened in Valencia, in the summer of 2002, when I had just turned eighteen and had passed the university entrance exams to study Chemistry. I wrote it down at the time in a hardbound notebook and, over the years, transferred it to a computer file. That’s why I can remember almost all of it.

I was as shy a kid as they came. I had never danced with a girl, never brushed against a hand by accident, never set foot in a nightclub. My friends reminded me of it every weekend, and I changed the subject. Apart from my shyness, the only things occupying my mind were the two subjects I struggled with: mathematics and English. My parents had hired private tutors for both.

The mathematics teacher was called Beatriz. She was thirty-one, blonde, with very pale blue eyes and breasts I tried not to look at and looked at all the time. She had been coming to our house on Tuesdays and Thursdays for two years. The English teacher, Helena, was Italian, had lived in Valencia since university, and taught classes in her own apartment in El Carmen. She was the same age as Beatriz, had a huge mouth, and a collection of short dresses that made me lose track of the conditional tense.

That Saturday in June was Beatriz’s last day in Spain. She had been offered a research position at a laboratory in Boston and was flying out that afternoon. I had bought her a bottle of perfume and a pair of silver earrings to thank her for everything. When she rang the intercom two hours earlier than we had agreed, I thought she had come to hurry me along.

“You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble,” she said when I gave her the bag.

She smiled as she looked at the earrings. Then she left the bag on the kitchen table and stood still in front of me, both hands in her trouser pockets.

“I brought you something too,” she said. “And if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll leave and nobody has to find out.”

I didn’t answer. My mouth had gone completely dry.

“You haven’t stopped looking at my cleavage for two years. Today I’ll let you see it properly. And something else, if you dare.”

She took off the scarf around her neck and then the thin shirt she was wearing. A dusty-pink bra appeared, almost the color of her skin. She undid it at the front with a gesture she had clearly practiced. For a second I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I stared at her tits as if they were an exam I had to pass and fail at the same time: large, round, with pink, hard nipples and a small mole beneath the left one.

“You can touch them. They don’t bite.”

I touched them with two fingers, as if they were made of glass. Then with my whole palm. I weighed them, squeezed them, and felt her nipples grow even harder against the pad of my thumb. Beatriz closed her eyes and threw her head back. I pinched one nipple between my forefinger and thumb, and she let out a short, startled moan, as if she hadn’t expected me to learn so quickly. I could feel every inch of the clothes I was wearing, especially the zipper, which was digging into me with my cock already fully hard inside my underwear. I had gone quite a while without looking down, and when I did, she was already looking at it.

“Is all that yours?”

I nodded without really understanding the question. Beatriz laughed with her mouth closed. She undid my belt, my button, and my zipper, and lowered my trousers and underpants together to my thighs. My cock sprang upward, stiff, the tip already wet.

“Good Lord, Tomás. Two years explaining integrals to you and I never noticed this. You’re enormous, darling. Enormous and thick.”

She took it in her right hand, all of it, and squeezed me slowly, measuring me. With her thumb she spread the drop of fluid peeking from the tip and smeared it all over my glans. I clenched my teeth to keep from coming right there, against the hallway wall, before anything had even begun.

She knelt without thinking twice. She examined my cock very closely, almost with laboratory curiosity, and brought out a long, pink tongue. She started underneath, at my balls, licking one first and then the other, taking each one entirely into her mouth. Then she moved up the shaft with the tip of her tongue, very slowly, tracing the thick vein underneath. When she reached the glans, she closed her lips around it and suddenly dropped halfway down.

Feeling her mouth for the first time in my life was like putting my hand into very cold water: my whole body went haywire. I remember it that way, without embellishment. She moved her head up and down, slowly, swallowing a little more each time, pulling me out to the tip, spitting on me, and taking me all the way in again. She used one hand at the base, squeezing me and twisting my skin at the same time her mouth sucked. She made wet, slurping sounds, throat sounds, and every so often she lifted her blue eyes to look at me without stopping her blowjob. I was against the hallway wall, a silver earring still in my left hand and the other hand resting on her hair, trying not to fall.

This isn’t happening to me.

I was certain I was going to come in thirty seconds. When I masturbated in my room, watching videos on the computer, I squeezed my hand tightly and everything ended very quickly. With Beatriz, however, it never ended. I don’t know whether it was the nerves, the disbelief, or the promises I had made to myself, but the minutes passed and I kept holding on. She pulled it from her mouth, spat a long strand onto the glans, spread it around with her hand, and swallowed me again. With her other hand she touched my balls, weighed them, squeezed them very slowly.

“Let’s go to your room,” she said as she stood, her lips shining and a drop of saliva still hanging from her chin. “I want this cock inside me.”

***

My parents had gone to a wedding in Alicante for the whole day and wouldn’t be back until late. I’m an only child. The entire house was ours, and I had never felt smaller inside it. Beatriz took off her trousers and panties and knelt on my bed with her back to me. I saw her ass for the first time: white and round, with her two cheeks divided by a pink line and, lower down, her swollen, open pussy, glistening with how wet she was. A transparent thread hung from inside it.

“I don’t have any condoms,” I said in a thread of a voice.

“We don’t need them. I’m on birth control. And you’re my last farewell present; I don’t want anything getting in the way. I want to feel you bare. I want to feel you come inside me.”

I did the best I could. I knelt behind her, took hold of my cock, and rubbed it over the lips of her pussy, up and down, soaking myself in what was already streaming from her. The tip sank in on its own. I pushed slowly and felt her opening, swallowing me inch by inch, very hot and very tight inside. Beatriz cried out when I reached the bottom and crushed her face into the pillow.

“Oh God. Oh God. Fuck me, Tomás. Fuck me hard.”

The strangest thing was that she screamed as if I knew what I was doing, when in reality I was blindly copying what I had seen on a screen. I grabbed her by the hips and began thrusting in and out in long strokes, watching my cock emerge glistening and sink all the way back in. I watched her back, her shoulders, the huge mole on her waist, the way her tits hung and swayed beneath her body in time with my thrusts. I watched her face reflected in the mirrored wardrobe in front of her. She bit her lower lip in a way I have never forgotten. Every time I reached the bottom, a guttural moan escaped her, and her pussy clenched around me as if trying to milk me.

“More, more, more,” she repeated. “Break me. Open me.”

I put my thumb in my mouth, soaked it with saliva, and pressed it against her ass. She spread her cheeks wider with her hands without stopping taking my pounding cock, and I sank my thumb into her asshole in time with the way I fucked her pussy. Beatriz let out a howl I had never heard before.

“There, there, there. That’s how you fuck, darling.”

When she told me to stop because she couldn’t take any more, she turned around, pushed me with her open hand until I was lying down, and straddled me, looking into my eyes. She grabbed it and put it inside herself, slowly, lowering herself all the way down with a long moan. Her breasts weighed down on my hands. I squeezed them, pinched them, jostled them while she rose and fell, riding me faster and faster, her hands braced on my chest. She said things that she mixed with her name and mine and words I had never heard her say: slut, whore, cock, cum. I still wasn’t coming, and that amused her.

“You’re a lucky boy,” she said, panting. “But luck is useless if you don’t know how to use it.”

She leaned backward, braced her hands on my thighs, and arched her back, giving me a full view of her tits bouncing and my cock entering and leaving her open pussy. She brought her right hand to her clitoris and began rubbing herself, biting her lip, her breathing growing more and more broken. Suddenly she went rigid, squeezed her knees against my sides, and let out a muffled cry. I felt her pussy pulse around me in waves, squeezing me, releasing me, squeezing me again. Her body collapsed onto mine and she bit my shoulder to keep from screaming any louder.

When I finally felt that I couldn’t hold back any longer, she pushed me until I was sitting up. She knelt on the rug and put it in her mouth for an instant. There wasn’t time. She pulled it out just in time, stroking me at top speed, her mouth open and her tongue out. I came all over her face, her chest, and her blonde hair. The first jet crossed her forehead. The second went into her mouth. The third, fourth, and fifth landed on her tits and ran between her nipples. It was an amount that surprised even me. Beatriz laughed with her eyes closed, ran two fingers along her chin to collect the semen, and sucked them.

“I’m going to arrive in Boston with this all over me,” she said, wiping herself with a tissue. “Best souvenir ever. And what delicious milk, darling.”

She got dressed in front of me, without hiding herself. She didn’t kiss me at any point. Before leaving the room, she turned around from the doorway and said to me, very seriously:

“Start going out, Tomás. You’re not handsome. But today I saw some things. You’re going to make some girl happy.”

And she left.

***

Two days later it was time to say goodbye to Helena. She was leaving too: a company in Bologna had called her, and she had said yes. I bought her perfume and a silver bracelet, almost automatically, without daring to imagine that the same thing might happen again. I went up to her apartment in El Carmen at five in the afternoon, with the gift in a small bag and my mind on something else.

Her apartment smelled of lavender and trapped heat. The air conditioning had broken that morning, she told me. She didn’t want to open the windows because of the street noise, so she was barefoot, wearing a thin dress, her shoulders shining with sweat. Her nipples showed through the fabric: she wasn’t wearing a bra. She kissed me twice on the cheek. Then two small kisses on the mouth. Then one longer one, with her tongue, holding the back of my neck with both hands.

“I have two pieces of news today,” she said, her mouth still pressed to mine. “The bad news is that I’m no longer going to be your teacher. The good news is that I’m going to teach you something different.”

She led me into the living room. She knelt in front of me and pulled down my trousers with a calmness Beatriz hadn’t had. She took my already-hard cock from my underpants and spent a moment looking closely at it, smiling.

“Holy Madonna. Signora Beatriz had this hidden from me.”

She put it in her mouth slowly, as if testing it. Her mouth was huge, and even so she sucked me without taking almost any of it in, as if afraid of gagging. She licked my glans with the tip of her tongue, drawing circles, then took it all in and squeezed it with her lips. With one hand she caressed my balls, tugged at them very gently, rolled them between her fingers. I raised my hand to stroke the back of her neck but didn’t dare squeeze.

“Take off my dress,” she said between laughs, a thread of saliva hanging from her lip.

I unbuttoned it from top to bottom. Beneath it she wore nothing but a very small pair of black panties. Her tits were smaller than Beatriz’s but high and firm, with dark nipples as large as coins. I took off her bra clumsily, still a mystery to my fingers—I got confused with the clasp of the fabric itself. The panties, on the other hand, came off by themselves, sliding down her thighs. Beneath them was a sharply trimmed strip of black hair pointing toward her pussy. Helena sat in a wooden chair with armrests and raised her right leg onto the arm, opening herself completely for me.

“Today is the practical lesson,” she said. “You’re going to learn how to tell when a woman is turned on. Run your tongue over me. Slowly. Then put in your middle finger. I want you to learn the difference between a nervous girl and a willing woman.”

I knelt between her legs. I ran my tongue from bottom to top, very slowly, as she had told me. She tasted of salt, of something hot and clean. The lips of her pussy swelled at my touch and opened on their own. When I reached her clitoris—a hard little button hidden beneath the hood—I brushed it with the tip of my tongue, and her whole body shuddered.

“There, darling. There. Suck. Suck slowly.”

I closed my lips around her clitoris and sucked. Helena cried out and pressed my head against herself. I put in my middle finger, as she had asked. Inside, she was hot and very slippery, with rough tissue above that she guided me to touch by squeezing my wrist.

“There. That spot. Move it. As if you were beckoning me. Yes, like that. Like that.”

Helena corrected me with short instructions: “higher,” “slower,” “with two fingers.” She closed her eyes and threw her head back whenever something worked. I put my index finger in as well and began pumping them into her while eating her pussy, sucking her clitoris with increasing eagerness. I felt her thighs tense around my head, felt her pussy beginning to squeeze my fingers in waves. When she finished coming— it took as long as a long song—she grabbed my hair and pulled me upright. My face was soaked, my chin shining, my mouth still full of her taste.

“Put it in me,” she said, standing and bracing her hands on the back of the chair, sticking out her ass. “Quickly. I want it inside me now.”

***

Standing behind her, I was much less shy than I had been two days earlier. I grabbed her hip with my left hand and guided my cock with my right until it fit into the entrance of her pussy. I pushed in with one thrust, and she let out a long gasp. I don’t know whether it was because of Beatriz, the heat in the apartment, or Helena’s voice, which made everything sound like another language with its Italian accent. The truth was that I started very fast, and she had to hold my hip.

“Slowly, slowly,” she said in Italian and then in Spanish. “You’re very wide. Let me get used to you, cazzo.”

I slowed down, burying myself all the way inside her and staying still at the bottom, letting her breathe. Then I began moving again, with long, deep thrusts, pulling her hips backward to drive myself into her up to my balls. I watched her trembling ass with every stroke, the lips of her pussy sticking to my cock as I withdrew. I slapped her buttock, and she burst out laughing.

“Another. Harder.”

I gave her another. The mark of my hand turned red on her skin.

We tried several positions. None of them was missionary. I laid her facedown on the living-room table and fucked her from behind with her legs closed, so tight that it was difficult to get inside. Then I lifted her against the wall, one of her legs over my elbow, and pounded into her while she held onto my shoulders and dug her nails into me. We moved to the sofa, and she got on all fours, her face buried in a cushion, screaming things in Italian that I didn’t understand but that made her pussy squeeze tighter around me. I understood later that a woman like that—the kind who really dares to fuck an eighteen-year-old student in her own living room—doesn’t want to be looked in the face during sex. She wants to be taken. She wants to look in the mirror. She wants to watch her hands gripping a piece of furniture.

At one point Helena sat in the chair and made me kneel. She took my head and buried my face between her thighs. I ate her pussy again, now with more confidence, sucking her clitoris and fucking her with three fingers until she began to moan with her mouth open and tremble all over. Her eyes were very wide, very black, and her mouth was clenched in a grimace that hovered between pleasure and something else. When she came for the second time, she soaked my chin and neck with a hot stream I didn’t know how to explain. I’m no longer the boy who rang the intercom at five, I thought. I was something else, something that still had no name.

She made me lie on my back on the rug and straddled me, facing away, bracing herself with her hands on my knees. She began bouncing on my cock as if riding it, her ass striking my thighs, moaning in Italian whenever I reached the bottom. I watched her tight asshole directly above my cock as it went in and out, and pressed my thumb against it without pushing, just squeezing her there. She turned for a moment and looked over her shoulder at me with a wicked smile.

“Another day, ragazzo. Another day I’ll let you try it there. Not today.”

When I announced that I was going to come, she jumped up and knelt on the rug. She took my cock in both hands and began jerking me off at top speed, aiming it at her face.

“I want to know what you taste like,” she said, laughing with a laugh that seemed scandalous to me. “Give me all of it. Everything.”

She didn’t have time to open her mouth. I came on her chin, her neck, and one of her breasts. The first jet crossed her cheek and hung from her hair. The second went into her open mouth. The next ones stained her tits from top to bottom. She kept jerking me until the last drop, squeezing me from the base and milking out every last bit. Then she put my glans in her mouth and sucked me slowly, cleaning me, until my whole body trembled with sensitivity. She looked at me with one eyebrow raised and said something in Italian that sounded like a question and an answer at the same time. Then she added, in Spanish:

“Your mathematics teacher and I should have talked more often.”

***

I spent the following weeks trying to understand what had happened to me. At last I dared to tell my friends: Andrés, Luis, and Carlos. They laughed, slapped me on the back, and between the three of them explained what neither Beatriz nor Helena had bothered to clarify.

That being able to hold out so long was because of the tight grip I had used for years while masturbating to videos: no mouth and no woman would ever squeeze like that closed hand. That many women came without fluid, especially when what turned them on was the situation more than the body. That a look of pain was sometimes real pain and sometimes wasn’t. That some women preferred missionary and others preferred not to look into your eyes. That getting lucky enough to run into two women so willing twice in a row wasn’t the kind of luck that was easily repeated.

That August I spent a week at my cousins’ house on the coast. My parents always went away together that same week, without me, and then I understood—after Beatriz and Helena—that they too needed those seven days to be someone else. A third woman was still waiting for me in that house, a neighbor of my cousins, but that’s a story I already told in another notebook and will save for another night.

I no longer live in Valencia. I’m no longer eighteen. But sometimes, when I pass an old bookshop in Berlin and see a Spanish mathematics textbook, I return to the hallway of that house, with a silver earring in my hand and a blonde woman telling me they don’t bite.