What Happened with My Two Teachers Before They Left

My name is Daniel, I’m 41 years old, and I now live in Munich. What I’m going to tell happened in Valencia, in the summer of 2002, when I had just turned 18 and had just passed the university entrance exams. I had enrolled in Chemistry, my dream degree. But I had passed those exams through sheer effort: math and English had always tripped me up, and to get through them I needed two private tutors for almost two years.

At 18, I was the shyest boy in my year. I had never brushed a classmate’s hand, not even by accident. I didn’t go to clubs, I didn’t go out partying, I didn’t dare hold anyone’s gaze for more than three seconds. My friends joked that I was going to reach my doctorate a virgin.

My math teacher was called Helena. She was 31, blonde, with very light eyes, and had enormous breasts that I never knew where to look at whenever she bent over my exercises. When she told me she was leaving for Boston for a research position, I felt something between relief and sadness. We agreed that she would come and say goodbye at my house the following Saturday, before catching her flight.

I had bought her a perfume and a pair of earrings with the money I’d saved from the previous summer. My parents had gone out to lunch with some friends. I was in the living room when the doorbell rang.

—You really shouldn’t have bothered —Helena said when she saw the gift. She smiled in a way I had never seen from her in class—. But I brought you something too.

She untied the scarf from her neck.

—I know you haven’t stopped looking at them all these months, Daniel —she said, without a trace of reproach, almost tenderly—. So today you’re going to see them properly.

She took off her sweatshirt and underneath there was a pink bra that seemed to be holding on by a thread. She unclasped it. And then I saw, for the first time in my life, a pair of real tits, not in a magazine or on a screen. Huge, white, with pink nipples hard as stones. I had no idea what to do with my hands.

—You can touch them —she told me, and came closer.

I touched them with the awkwardness of someone tuning an instrument without knowing how to read music. They were heavy in my palms, the skin warm, the nipples jabbing into my fingers. I pinched them without thinking and she let out a short moan. I took one whole breast in my mouth and started sucking her nipple as if my life depended on it. Helena closed her eyes and held my neck. After a few minutes, she opened them suddenly, looked down, and burst out laughing.

—And what’s that? —she said, pointing at my crotch.

I hadn’t noticed. There was a bulge pulling the fabric of my trousers forward. Helena didn’t ask if I wanted her to: she undid my belt, the button, the zipper, and pulled down my trousers and underwear in one yank to my thighs.

—Daniel, for God’s sake, how can you be so shy if you’ve got this cock?

She looked at it for a second, like someone evaluating a prize, and took it in her hand. She started jerking me off slowly, sliding the skin up and down, and with her other hand she stroked my balls. I braced myself against the wall because my legs were giving out. She knelt in front of me without taking her eyes off me, stuck out her tongue and licked the tip like she was tasting an ice cream. I saw the thread of saliva hanging between her mouth and my glans. Then she took it into her mouth slowly, like someone testing something hot, and went down to the base. I felt it thump against the back of her throat. She pulled it out, coated it all over with her flat tongue, took it back in and started sucking me with a cadence that rose and fell, sucking hard as she pulled away, cheeks hollowed, making a wet sound that filled the living room.

What I felt was unlike anything I had imagined alone in my room. It wasn’t only pleasure. It was seeing her head moving between my thighs, her blonde hair falling over her face, the sway of her giant tits with every movement, the nipples brushing my thighs every time she went down. I grabbed her head with both hands and she let me: I fucked her mouth with short thrusts, and she didn’t resist, breathing through her nose and taking each push all the way to the back. That was the filth my friends talked about, and until that day I hadn’t understood what they meant.

She stayed like that for a long while. She pulled my cock out of her mouth with a soft pop, spit on the head and kept going with her hand, looking me in the eyes. I, who usually came in five minutes when I was alone, didn’t even feel like I was anywhere near it. Helena stood up abruptly, breathing hard, her chin shining with saliva.

—You’ve got me incredibly horny —she said, and ran two fingers between her legs over her trousers so I would feel the wetness—. Take me to your room.

***

In my room, she knelt on my bed and yanked down her trousers and panties. I saw her pussy for the first time: shaved, swollen, shiny. I stammered that I didn’t have condoms.

—I’ll take care of that —she said—. Nothing’s going to happen today. Put it in already.

I did as she said. I knelt behind her, grabbed one cheek in each hand and tried to find the spot blind. She herself slipped a hand underneath, took my cock, and guided it to the entrance. When I pushed and felt how it opened, how hot she was inside as she squeezed me all over, I nearly came right there. I started without rhythm, not knowing what to do with my hips, with the total clumsiness of someone doing it for the first time. Everything surprised me: that she screamed —fuck, fuck, keep going, keep going like that— as if I knew what I was doing, that the minutes passed without my coming, that her ass slapped against my belly with a sound like a handclap filling the room, that her tits swung beneath her with every thrust. I pulled her hair without realizing it and Helena’s whole body spasmed.

—Harder, harder —she panted with her face against the pillow—. Tear up my pussy, Daniel, don’t be shy with me now.

I grabbed her by the hips and started fucking her with hard, dry strokes, burying it to the balls. Every time I pulled almost all the way out and then shoved back in to the hilt, she let out a strangled cry. I watched her pussy opening and closing around my cock, glossy with her juices, and it seemed to me the most obscene and most beautiful image I had ever seen in my life.

—Stop, stop, stop —she told me suddenly, panting—. Now it’s my turn.

She made me lie on my back. She climbed on top of me facing away, guided my cock again with her hand and sat down on it in one motion. A guttural moan escaped her. She grabbed the sheets with both hands and started moving up and down, riding me, making short bounces and then slow descents all the way down. I could see her blonde nape, her arched back, her gray stockings halfway up her thighs, her white ass swallowing my cock whole every time she sat down, and the wardrobe mirrors returning the scene to me three times over: her tits hanging, her concentrated face, my cock going in and out, shiny. She started rubbing her clit with two fingers without stopping. It was too much. When I told her I was about to come, she said, still not stopping:

—No, wait. I want to taste it.

She had time to turn around, kneel between my legs and open her mouth. I brought my cock closer and she took it in both hands and shook it hard, tongue out, waiting. But there was so much that it spilled out of the corners: the first spurt hit her cheek, the second her tongue, the third slid down her neck and landed on one of her breasts. She licked off whatever reached her mouth without stopping pumping my cock until nothing else came out.

—My God, Daniel —she laughed, with a thread of semen hanging from her nipple—. You last like a champion and unload like a hose. And here you are, coming to this so late.

She dressed without cleaning herself. She pulled up her panties, her trousers, her bra and her sweatshirt over what had landed on her.

—I’m taking it like this to Boston —she said—. As a souvenir.

She never kissed me once. At the door she turned around.

—Start going out, Daniel. You’ve got no excuse anymore.

And she left. I never saw her again. Today she’s a well-known dermatologist in the United States. Even if she has come back to Spain at some point, she never looked for me, and I never looked for her. It’s a memory, and memories have to be left where they are.

***

Two days later I went to say goodbye to Chiara, my English teacher. She was Italian, from Turin, and she was leaving too: she had an offer to go back to her city. She was the same age as Helena, 31, but she was a different kind of woman. Taller, thinner, with a very large mouth and very long legs that she always wore bare beneath dresses that looked designed to make an 18-year-old student lose concentration.

I brought her a perfume and a pendant. She thanked me, showed me into the living room, and, without any preamble, said:

—I have one bad piece of news and one good one. You already know the bad one: I’m leaving. The good one I’m going to show you.

She gave me a small kiss on the mouth. Then another, longer one, slipping her tongue all the way in. Then her hand climbed up my leg to my fly and squeezed my cock over my trousers. That day the house was so hot the walls seemed to sweat, and instead of opening the windows she undressed me slowly, never stopping kissing me.

—Today I’m going to teach you two things —she whispered in my ear, biting my earlobe—. How to tell when a woman wants you. And how to fuck her when she does.

She sat me in a wooden chair, pulled her dress over her head and wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her tits were smaller than Helena’s, but she had dark, very long nipples, and between her legs there was a triangle of black hair perfectly trimmed. She settled in front of me, put her feet up on the edge of the chair, spread her pussy with two fingers and showed it to me inside, pink and shiny.

—Look, Daniel. This is a woman who wants it. When you see this, don’t ask: eat.

And she guided my head down. She explained, with a calmness that still impresses me, what I had to do with my tongue and fingers. To start with her thighs, not touching her pussy, until she asked for it. To lick her whole lips, from top to bottom, and leave the clit for last. To slip two fingers inside her and curl them upward while I sucked her bud. As if she were going over an exam with me. I obeyed every instruction and she corrected me in a low voice: —Slower. There. With the tip, not the whole tongue. Now yes, put them in to the knuckle—. Two years of English lessons ended with the most useful lesson I got in all my adolescence.

I could feel her pussy swelling against my mouth, her thighs trembling at the sides of my face, her hand gripping my hair. When she came, she pressed my head so hard against her pussy I couldn’t breathe, and she said it in Italian: —Cazzo, cazzo, mi vengo—. I felt on my tongue how she contracted from the inside around my fingers. Then she pushed me aside, knelt on the chair with her hands on the backrest and offered me her back and her pert ass.

—Go ahead. And not as fast as I imagine you’re thinking.

I came up behind her and rubbed my cock over her soaked pussy before sliding it in. When I pushed, it went in all the way in one stroke and she let out a long, slippery —sì—. I grabbed her hips, just as Helena had taught me two days before, and started fucking her calmly, measuring every thrust. She looked back over her shoulder with her mouth open.

—Bravo. Like that. Hard but slow. So every centimeter is felt.

That afternoon we did almost everything a freshly minted 18-year-old body can do. She tried positions on me I had only ever seen on screens: her on top from behind riding me with her hand on my balls, her on top facing me digging her nails into my chest, her on the desk table with her legs open and me standing fucking her to the hilt, her face down with a pillow under her hips asking me to spank her while I held her by the nape. Each slap left a red mark on her white ass and she screamed louder. She made me spit on her pussy and rub it with the glans before I put it in again. She made me lick one nipple while she touched her clit with my cock inside her. Every time I thought she was getting tired, she was the one who put me into the next position, like a patient conductor with a clumsy student.

When I warned her I was going to come, she made me stand up and knelt in front of me. She took my cock in one hand and my balls in the other and started sucking me with her mouth very wide, sticking out her tongue between thrusts. I didn’t get all the way into her mouth: I came before that, over her face, her neck, her brown hair. One jet went straight into her open mouth and she swallowed it without taking her eyes off me. Another landed on her upper lip and hung from her chin. She was laughing, wiping herself with the palm of her hand and sucking her fingers.

—In Italy that’s called being lucky —she said.

I had arrived at her place at five. I left at eleven at night. When I said goodbye at the door, I felt like I was closing a country in which I had lived for an entire day.

***

I was wrong. The next day, at half past seven in the evening, the intercom rang. My parents had gone out and wouldn’t be back until nine. On the screen I saw Chiara wearing a long trench coat.

—Come up —I said, without thinking twice.

When she took off the trench coat in my room, she wasn’t wearing absolutely anything underneath. Just black heels and the smell of perfume mixed with summer sweat.

—Tomorrow I catch the plane —she said—. Today a memory isn’t enough for me.

That second time was different. She threw herself at me before I had even closed the door, slipped her hand into my trousers and pulled my cock out already hard. She knelt right there in the hallway and took it into her mouth to the throat, grabbing my ass with both hands to drive it all the way in. When we managed to get to the room, her pussy was already soaked. She took charge of everything again, but with an urgency she hadn’t had on the first day. She sat on me and moved without rhythm, searching for her own, pressing her clit with the palm of her hand. She kept touching herself while I held her by the hips and drove up into her from below. She came once on top of me, biting her lip so as not to scream, and kept going without taking it out, still trembling.

She made me lay her on her back, spread her legs and bring her knees to her chest so I could put it in as deep as possible. Then she asked me to put her on all fours and give it to her hard, no mercy. —Grab my hair —she said, and I took her ponytail and pulled back while I fucked her with all the force I had. She made positions I’m now incapable of remembering properly, because she did them too fast, one after another, like someone trying to get through a checklist. At one point she asked me to put a finger in her ass while I was fucking her pussy and I felt a different tremor, longer, rougher. She made me finish on her face again: me standing against the wall, her kneeling below pumping me with both hands and sticking out her tongue. When the first jet came out she closed her eyes, when the last one came out she already had it all over her chin and tits. Afterward she stayed for a while on the floor of my room, eyes closed and semen running down her cleavage, before sitting up.

Before leaving, she gave me a card with her Turin number and her email. She told me to call her if I was ever there. I didn’t call. She never came back either. Sometimes I think that afternoon was her way of not leaving completely: of leaving me with the feeling that life was always going to be that generous.

***

It wasn’t, of course. What came after were normal years: girlfriends, mistakes, distances, moves. I finished my degree, did a thesis, was offered Munich, said yes. I’ve been here for twelve years. I have loved and been loved. But sometimes, when I have to explain to someone why I stopped being shy in that September of 2002, I don’t know what to answer.

The truth is this: two women who were leaving the country decided, for reasons they have never told me, that I did not deserve to reach adulthood the way I had reached 18, without having touched anyone. And in one week they gave me what it took my friends years to get. I don’t think they did it out of kindness. I think that each of them, in her goodbye, needed something that could only be asked of someone who would not talk.

I haven’t talked in twenty-three years. Now I’m writing it, with the names changed, because there’s no one left to protect. My parents won’t read this. Helena won’t either. Chiara, if she reads it, will know it’s about her. But she won’t say anything to me. Those two women taught me, among many other things, that silence is also a form of respect.