The Two Teachers Who Introduced Me to Sex

I’m forty-two years old, I live in Berlin, and I work as an industrial chemist. What I’m about to tell you happened in Valencia, in the autumn of 2003, when I had just turned nineteen and had recently passed my university entrance exams. I’m writing it because I wrote it down in a notebook at the time, and because, after all these years, it remains the exact moment when I stopped being afraid of myself.

Until that summer, I had never touched a woman. Not even a kiss. Not even holding hands in the cinema. I was the kind who sat at the back of the classroom and watched the clock until it was time to leave. I was about to start Chemistry and was dragging two failed subjects behind me: Physics and French. My parents hired two private tutors and, without knowing it, gave me much more than passing grades.

The first was named Helena. She was thirty-two, from Seville, and taught me in our living room on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Blonde, tall, with a mouth that smiled before the rest of her face. She always wore thin cotton T-shirts, and I forgot my logarithms whenever she leaned over the notebook and her nipples showed through the fabric. She noticed; I thought she didn’t.

The second was Fiorella. Italian, born in Turin, married to a Spaniard she planned to leave as soon as she found an excuse. She taught French at an academy downtown and, from time to time, received students at her apartment. Huge smile, white teeth, legs that looked painted on. Her miniskirts were a polite scandal.

At the end of September, they both announced almost simultaneously that they were leaving. Helena had been offered a research position in dermatology in Toronto. Fiorella was returning to Italy. I decided to buy each of them a gift to thank them for helping me pass. I thought that would be the end of the story. It was, but not in the way I had imagined.

***

Helena arrived two hours before her flight. My parents were away for the entire weekend, at a wedding in Castellón. I opened the door with a little package in my hand: perfume and a pair of silver earrings.

“You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble,” she said, taking the gift. “But I’ve brought you something too.”

She was smiling differently, more slowly. She removed the scarf from her neck and left it on the chair in the entryway.

“You’ve been looking at them all year. You’re going to see them, at least once.”

My mouth went dry. Helena pulled her sweater over her head in an unhurried movement, and underneath was a pink bra that didn’t look like something a private tutor would wear. She looked me in the eyes as she reached behind her back. The garment fell slowly to the floor, and her tits were bare, larger than her T-shirts had suggested, her nipples already hard and pointing upward.

I didn’t know what to do with my hands. She took them and placed them on her.

“Touch me,” she said. “I’m not going to break. Squeeze them. Suck them. You’ve wanted to do it for months.”

My fingers were clumsy and cold. I ran them over her nipples, pinched them as best I could, and she let out a short sigh that sent an electric shiver up my spine. I lowered my head and put one in my mouth. I sucked, bit gently, and ran my tongue around it. Helena held the back of my neck and pressed me against her chest.

“That’s it, that’s it, don’t be afraid. Bite it a little harder.”

While I sucked her tits, she looked down, toward the bulge pushing against the fabric of my trousers, and opened her eyes a little.

“Is that all yours?” she asked, giving a quiet laugh. “Fuck, Mateo. And you had it hidden.”

She undid my zipper with the same calmness with which she had explained an integral two hours earlier. She pulled down my trousers and underwear in one tug, and my cock sprang upward, hard and pointing at her face. Helena laughed again, grabbed it at the base, and weighed it as if she were measuring something in the laboratory.

“Thick,” she said. “And nice and hard. I’m going to enjoy it.”

She knelt between my legs.

“Close your eyes,” she said. “If you open them now, it’ll be over in five seconds.”

I closed them. I heard her breathing. I felt her tongue first, flat, moving slowly from my balls to the tip, as if she were drawing me. Then her whole mouth, warm, closing over the head, sucking with exactly the right force and making me clench my fists. Her tongue kept moving inside, circling the crown, while her free hand came down to hold my balls, playing with them and barely squeezing.

I understood what my friends shouted about at the school gates: nothing I had imagined was anything like this. Nothing. Helena began taking my cock all the way down her throat, gagging lightly, drool escaping from the corner of her mouth, and she looked up at me with wet eyes, enjoying it. She pulled me all the way out and gave me long licks underneath, sucked my balls one at a time, and swallowed me again. I had no idea how long we stayed like that. Whenever she sensed I was about to come, she pulled away, squeezed the base with two fingers, and waited a few seconds before taking me back in.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Not yet, handsome. Hold it for me.”

When I grew tired of standing, she led me to my bedroom. She stripped off the rest of her clothes after climbing onto my bed, leaving herself in gray thigh-high stockings. She opened her legs without ceremony and showed me her pussy: pink lips, slightly parted, her clitoris peeking out above them. She slipped two fingers between the folds and held them up, barely glistening.

“I’m dry,” she said, almost to herself. “But I want you inside me anyway. Don’t worry about anything. Come on, put your tongue in me first and help me along.”

I lowered my head between her thighs without really knowing what to do. I ran my tongue over her whole pussy, from bottom to top, as I had once seen in a borrowed video. Helena grabbed my hair and guided me.

“Up there, right there. That button. With the tip. Don’t press down on it; circle it.”

I obeyed. I licked her clitoris slowly, in circles, and after a few seconds I felt her grow wet all over. A salty, strong flavor, unlike anything else. I slid one finger inside her while continuing to suck her clitoris, and she arched her back.

“Fuck, you learn fast. Another finger. Yes, like that. Bend the fingertip upward, as if you were beckoning to me.”

I licked her for a while, until her thighs squeezed my head. Then she asked me to come up. I asked her about condoms. She told me she had been on the pill for years, that she was sure, and that this was her decision to make. I did as she said.

The first time I entered a woman wasn’t like in the movies. It took some effort. Helena spat into her palm, smeared my cock, and guided the tip herself to her pussy. I pushed, and the head slipped in with a wet pop. She gritted her teeth and told me “slowly, slowly” twice. She felt hot and tight, much tighter than I had expected. I moved in by millimeters until I had buried it completely, then stayed still for a second, feeling her pussy hug my cock, pulsing around it.

When I could move, her nails dug into my neck and never left it. I fucked her without knowing what I was doing, copying what I had seen on screens and letting myself be guided by her short instructions.

“Higher, you bastard. Rub me inside. Don’t pull out so far; stay buried. Don’t stop now, don’t stop.”

Every thrust made a dull, wet sound, and Helena’s tits bounced against my chest. I fucked her deep, without a rhythm, speeding up whenever she moaned more loudly. At one point she bit her forearm, closed her eyes, and stayed very still for a long time, her pussy contracting around my cock in long spasms. She dug her heels into my ass to keep me from pulling out.

“You’re far too good to be a virgin,” she said afterward, almost voiceless. “It’s not fair to the next ones.”

***

When we started moving again, she made me lie on my back. She climbed on top of me facing away, looking at the wardrobe mirror. She sat down slowly, impaling herself on my cock all the way to the bottom, and let out a low moan. I could see the nape of her neck, her hair falling over her shoulders, her hips setting a rhythm that wasn’t mine, rising and falling in small circles, making use of every inch. I grabbed her waist and pushed up from beneath. I could see her white ass striking my thighs, the lips of her pussy stretching each time she rose and sank, my cock shining with her juices.

“That’s it, push me from below. Break my pussy. Get all the way in.”

I clenched my teeth to keep from coming. She looked at me once in the mirror, only once, and smiled as if she had won something. She slipped one hand between her legs and rubbed her clitoris while I continued thrusting up into her. Two minutes later she came again, curled over herself, moaning “I’m coming, I’m coming” in a way that left me rigid.

“Now it’s my turn to taste you,” she said when I confessed I couldn’t hold back any longer.

She jumped off and knelt on the carpet. She grabbed my cock with both hands, soaked with her own juices, and started sucking me again, this time quickly, without pauses, stroking it with her hand to the rhythm of her mouth. I closed my eyes instinctively, but she made me open them.

“Look at me. I want you to look at me when you come. In my face. All of it.”

I lasted three more seconds and exploded. I came incredibly hard, far more than I expected, long spurts splashing her cheek, forehead, and the tongue she stuck out to gather them. She didn’t have time to swallow it all. Her hair was stained, along with her neck and breasts, with two drops hanging from a nipple. She burst out laughing, ran two fingers over her face, put them in her mouth, and sucked them calmly.

“Yummy,” she said. “And plenty of it. You almost drowned me.”

She got dressed again without cleaning herself completely.

“I’ll go to the airport like this,” she said as she put on her bra. “So I’ll remember.”

She didn’t kiss me. She hadn’t kissed me once all afternoon. At the door, she tapped me twice on the cheek and said:

“Start going out, Mateo. I mean it. With that cock, and learning so fast, you have no right to be alone. You’re not the boy you were on the first day anymore.”

I closed the door and stood there for a while, leaning against it, my head completely blank.

***

Two days later I went to Fiorella’s place with another package. Perfume and a silver pendant. She lived in a walk-up on Calle del Mar. I climbed the stairs two at a time.

She opened the door wearing a bathrobe. The air conditioning had broken that morning, she said, but she didn’t want to open the windows. Because of the noise from the street, she said. For some other reason, she didn’t say.

I sat on the sofa. She sat beside me, very close, and began telling me about Turin, the job offer from the textile company waiting for her, her mother. I listened only halfheartedly. She smelled of something sweet and hot, like a drink.

“I’m going to explain two things they don’t teach you in class,” she said suddenly, in a different tone. “First, how to tell whether a woman desires you. Second, how to fuck a woman who knows what she wants.”

She began by kissing me. Short, dry kisses, asking each time whether I was all right. Then one long, deep kiss, taking my whole tongue into her mouth and sucking it. When I relaxed, she guided my hand beneath her robe. She was wearing nothing. I touched her tits, smaller than Helena’s but firmer, with dark, erect nipples. I moved my hand down to her pussy and found it shaved, hot, soaked.

“See?” she whispered against my mouth. “This is a woman who desires you. Learn the wetness by heart. Put them in me, move your fingers slowly.”

I put two fingers inside her. She was soaking wet, wetter than Helena had been all afternoon. Fiorella closed her eyes, rested her forehead against my shoulder, and began moving against my hand.

Then she stood up and left me naked in the middle of her living room. She made no comment about my body. She took me, sat me in a wooden chair with armrests, and knelt in front of me. What she did was different from Helena’s way: slower, with pauses, looking into my eyes every so often. She licked the head with the tip of her tongue, making tiny circles, then took my entire cock into her mouth in one motion, down to her throat, and stayed there, swallowing around it. She slipped out her tongue and licked my balls while the tip of my cock touched her palate. When she noticed I was about to lose control, she stood up and took my head in both hands.

“Now it’s my turn to teach you,” she said. “Lie down on the rug.”

She sat on my face, straddling me, and lowered her pussy onto my mouth. It smelled strong, like a woman, and was shining with wetness. I began licking as I had with Helena, and she corrected me immediately.

“No, not like that. Less surface. Just the tip. Here, on the clitoris, tiny circles. Keep them steady. Don’t change your rhythm even if I move.”

I obeyed. I sucked her clitoris with the tip of my tongue without stopping while she rocked on top of my mouth. I put two fingers inside her and curved the fingertip upward, as Helena had taught me. Fiorella screamed.

“There, there, don’t move from there. Press. Press harder.”

That afternoon I learned how to use my tongue, my fingers, and my lips. She corrected me three times without losing her smile. When she came for the first time, she nearly shoved me off the bed, laughing and saying “enough, enough, I can’t take it,” her thighs trembling against my ears and her pussy dripping over my chin.

She got up, knelt on the chair while holding the backrest, stuck her ass out, and asked me to enter her like that. I obeyed. She spread herself open with both hands and showed me her open, glistening pussy, and a little higher, her dark asshole. I placed the tip of my cock there and entered in one thrust, all the way in. She let out a muffled “cazzo” and asked for more.

“Hard. Don’t hold back. Fuck me as if you hated me a little.”

I thrust deep, gripping her hips and watching her ass bounce against my belly. She set the rhythm with her free hand, striking the armrest. Each slap of her hand coincided with one of my thrusts. When I grew tired, Fiorella took over, rocking her hips back and forth without my having to do anything, pushing herself against me and closing her pussy around my cock with deliberate contractions. It was as if there were no doubts in her body.

“Spank me,” she said at one point. “On the ass. As if I deserve it.”

I did it lightly. She laughed.

“Harder. I’m not going to break.”

I gave her a sharp slap, and her flesh reddened instantly as she moaned loudly. Another. Another. With each slap she squeezed my cock harder from inside. She put one of her own fingers in her mouth, sucked it, and lowered it to rub her clitoris while I kept drilling her from behind.

We stayed like that for I don’t know how long. We tried another position against the desk, with her bent over the papers, the skirt she had put back on pulled up to her waist, and me behind her, spreading her ass cheeks so I could watch myself going in and out. And another in which she made me hold one of her legs in the air, both of us standing, her leaning against the wall, my cock lodged inside her from below. She came in her own way, her face wrinkled, almost angry, dripping down the insides of her thighs, and started again without a break. When I told her I couldn’t hold back any longer, she pushed me backward and knelt down. She opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue, waiting for me. She didn’t have time. The first spurt landed inside her, but the next ones splashed her chin, neck, and brown hair. She laughed, gathered what she could with two fingers, tasted it, and wiped the rest off with her robe.

“You taste salty,” she said. “Good. It means you eat well.”

She looked at a wall clock.

“You arrived at five. It’s almost eleven.”

I went down the stairs trembling, my legs like rags, my sore cock trapped inside my trousers. In the entryway I sat on the first step for a minute and laughed to myself.

***

I thought that was enough. That the story ended there. But the next day, at seven-thirty in the evening, the intercom buzzed. My parents had said they would be back at nine for dinner. Through the camera I saw Fiorella wearing a trench coat down to her ankles and dark glasses.

I let her in. She came upstairs in silence. When I asked what she was doing there, she put a finger to her lips and entered my bedroom ahead of me. She closed the door and took off her trench coat.

She was wearing nothing underneath. Just black stockings and high heels. Her shaved pussy was already glistening, her nipples hard.

“I couldn’t leave without a second lesson,” she said. “Get undressed. Quickly.”

That afternoon was different. Faster, less instructional, angrier at something I didn’t understand. She tore my clothes off, threw me onto the bed, and swallowed my cock all the way down without warning. She sucked me brutally for three minutes, gagging, saliva spilling from the corners of her mouth, until I was hard and throbbing. Then she mounted me abruptly, impaled herself all the way down, and began riding me fast and without rhythm, staring at the ceiling.

We did things we hadn’t done the night before. She turned around and got on top backward, presenting me with her ass, riding me while I watched my cock disappear inside her pussy and her asshole contract each time she dropped down. I ran my thumb over it, wet with her own fluids, and pressed lightly. She pushed backward.

“There too,” she gasped. “Put it in me. One finger. Just one.”

I slipped it in slowly, and she came instantly, screaming and squeezing my cock with the walls of her pussy so hard that I saw stars.

Then we got into a sixty-nine, her on top, sucking me slowly while I ate her pussy and ran my tongue over her asshole too, which made her whole body tremble. Then on our sides, spooning, she made me hold her left leg up so I could enter her from behind while she kissed me sideways, her tongue deep in my mouth. Then another position in which she sat on top and touched herself with her eyes closed, ignoring me for a long time, rocking on my cock as if I were merely the place where she could brace herself, a toy, a position with a temperature.

At one point, while she rode me looking at herself in the mirror, two fingers between her legs rubbing her clitoris, she opened her eyes and stared at me.

“Don’t fall in love with the first ones, Mateo. None of them stays.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what one was supposed to say to that. I grabbed her by the waist and thrust up hard until she came again, her face crumpled and her whole weight collapsing onto my chest.

When I couldn’t hold out any longer, she got off, knelt beside the bed, and told me to stand up. She opened her mouth with two fingers, stuck out her tongue, and told me to jerk off in front of her face. I did. I came in her hair again, unintentionally, spurts staining her forehead and the locks hanging at either side of her face. She laughed again in the same way, briefly and a little bitterly, and collected a drop from her lip with her index finger.

Before leaving, she gave me a card with a phone number and an email address, and told me to call her if I ever passed through Turin.

I never called.

***

For the next few weeks I kept turning over a list of questions that I wrote in my notebook. Why hadn’t I come right away? Why hadn’t Helena been wet at first, while Fiorella had been soaked from the very first minute? Why did they sometimes make faces of pain, and other times laugh like girls? Why had neither of them wanted the missionary position at first, the one that seemed like the only position in movies?

I didn’t dare discuss it with my father. I asked my neighborhood friends on a terrace one afternoon, after several beers. Lucas and Diego, both sons of very modern mothers, answered me better than I expected. That orgasm doesn’t always involve fluid. That many women move between pleasure and pain in the same sentence. That most women do prefer the missionary position, yes, but a woman doesn’t always ask for it the first time with a stranger. That sex is really learned very slowly, and every body speaks a different language.

I listened to them and thought of Helena getting off the plane with her hair still dirty with my semen, and of Fiorella entering her new office in Turin. I thought about myself, about the boy I had been the previous Monday and the one I was no longer.

***

I started going out. To clubs, birthday parties, other people’s houses. It took me almost a year to sleep with someone again, and it was with a classmate who resembled neither of them in the slightest. I was embarrassed to tell her about Helena and Fiorella, so I never did. No one, really. Until today.

As for Helena, I know from a scientific documentary I happened to see once that she is still working in Canada. She is an authority in her field. She appeared explaining something about skin and some new cells. She was speaking very seriously, wearing a white coat, and for a moment I didn’t recognize her. Then she smiled, just once, before the scene cut to something else. And I recognized all of her.

I never heard from Fiorella again. I tore up the card six months later, one stupid night, after an argument with a girlfriend. I regretted it two days afterward, but by then it was already in the trash. That was all it became: two and a half afternoons in a Valencia autumn, two teachers who decided to say goodbye that way, and a boy who closed the door and began to live.

I’m writing this now, twenty-three years later, because I know exactly how much I owe them. Not the sex, though the sex was enormous. The other thing: confidence, losing my fear of looking a woman in the eyes, knowing how to touch a pussy without trembling, knowing how to ask and knowing how to let myself be asked. That was what they gave me. The rest was only the wrapping.

Mateo Solís.