The First Time for the Shyest Guy in Class

I was twenty-nine when I decided to go back to university to study for a second degree. I enrolled in a computer science program where the vast majority of the students were men between twenty and twenty-three, with all the immaturity that implied. It didn’t bother me. It was entertaining to watch them from my seat in the second row, with the comfortable distance of someone who had already passed through that stage and remembered it without nostalgia.

It was obvious that I caught their attention, but most of them didn’t know how to handle it, so they compensated with clowning around. The group had that classic twenty-year-old dynamic: aggression disguised as play, jokes that crossed boundaries, and a constant need to prove who was the boldest. I ignored them elegantly and got on with my work.

One Tuesday in October, the professor arrived late. Really late, more than half an hour. The classroom began to heat up with the energy of twenty bored boys without supervision. They started with insults, then shoving, and afterward that stupid prank of pulling each other’s pants down. I was looking at my phone, trying to ignore them. Until I saw him.

His name was Rodrigo. He was twenty-one, tall, medium-built, with light brown hair and black-framed glasses that slipped down his nose whenever he looked down. He was the quietest one in the group, the one who always got to the classroom first and never joined in the pranks. He carried notebooks, not a tablet. He took notes by hand. There was something monastic about the way he existed inside the classroom that I found hard to place in that environment.

He was coming through the door when one of his classmates yanked his pants down from behind.

What followed lasted only an instant. A second, maybe two. But I was looking in exactly that direction when it happened. Rodrigo wasn’t wearing underwear.

I froze. Not because of the joke or the look of horror on his face, but because of what I saw. Even though it was flaccid, it was obvious: a long, thick cock hanging heavily between his legs, carefully shaved, with large, clean balls beneath it. A completely disproportionate dick for someone who seemed so harmless. He pulled his pants back up at once, and the others burst out laughing. Rodrigo sat down in silence, his cheeks red, without looking at anyone. And I was left with that image stuck in my head for days, touching myself at night while thinking about what it would feel like to have that cock filling my mouth, burying itself deep inside my pussy.

***

I had gone more than two months without fucking anyone. It wasn’t a usual problem for me, but the routine of classes and work had dried me out inside. And that untimely accident had ignited something in me that I couldn’t easily put out. Every time I got into the shower, I ended up with two fingers in my pussy and my other hand squeezing a nipple, imagining that dick sliding inside me.

I began approaching Rodrigo little by little. I asked him about the practical exercises, asked him to explain things I perfectly understood on my own. He always answered patiently and without pretension. He never flirted, never looked at me for too long. He talked about compilers, algorithms, a mathematical logic class he was passionate about. That was all.

I tried several times to steer the conversation into more personal territory. I asked whether he went out often, whether he had friends outside the faculty, whether he liked anyone in the group. He answered in monosyllables or diverted the subject toward some technical problem he still had to solve. It was like talking to someone who had learned how to function in the academic world and had never needed the other one.

One afternoon, before database class began, I asked him directly if he had a girlfriend.

—No —he said, without taking his eyes off the notes he was copying—. I’ve never had one.

He’s never had one. He said it without any pain, as if he were informing me that he didn’t have a car either. Just another fact. I imagined that enormous cock going to waste, having never broken in a pussy, and felt my panties grow wet right there in the middle of the classroom.

Three weeks after that scene in the classroom, I invited him to my apartment.

—We have to submit the data structures project next week —I told him—. We can work on it at my place on Saturday. I already have the environment configured, and there’s more space to work.

He accepted without hesitation.

***

He arrived on time, carrying a backpack and a bottle of water. We sat at the dining table and genuinely worked for the first hour. He was meticulous and organized, and he knew exactly what he was doing. I kept getting distracted watching him out of the corner of my eye: the way he frowned when something wouldn’t compile, the patience with which he checked every line before looking for the error. And under the table I squeezed my thighs together, soaked, thinking about what he was hiding inside his sweatpants.

During a quiet moment, I asked him again if he had a girlfriend. I already knew the answer, but I needed a thread to pull.

—No —he repeated—. I haven’t really been interested in anyone.

—No one? —I said, letting the question hang.

—Well —he hesitated—. I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe I don’t know how that works. With people, I mean.

He doesn’t know how it works. I felt something tighten in my chest, and something else tighten much farther down as well.

It was hot in the apartment. I took off my sweater and was left wearing a tight camisole with spaghetti straps, no bra. I have large breasts, and he noticed, because he blinked, looked away, and then returned his gaze to the screen with an exaggerated concentration that made the exact opposite of what he intended perfectly clear. A bulge was showing in his sweatpants, growing larger by the second.

I couldn’t wait any longer.

—Rodrigo —I said, without beating around the bush—. Ever since that day in the classroom, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.

He went completely still, his hands resting on the keyboard.

—What day?

—The day they pulled down your pants. The day I saw your cock.

The silence that followed was heavy. His ears turned red first, then his cheeks.

—Oh —he said, very quietly.

—I want to suck you off —I said simply—. I want to suck you until you come in my mouth. If you want that.

He didn’t answer right away. He looked at me for several seconds with an expression that was a mixture of panic, disbelief, and something else he still didn’t know how to name.

—I’ve never been with a girl —he said at last.

—I know —I replied—. That’s exactly why. I want to be the first one to swallow that dick.

I stood up and went over to him. I kissed him slowly, carefully, and slipped my tongue into his mouth without rushing. At first he didn’t know how to respond; his lips were stiff and his hands remained motionless at his sides. But he didn’t pull away. That was enough to begin.

I took one of his hands and placed it on my breast over the camisole. I felt the tension in his fingers change, felt him squeeze without really knowing what to do with it. I guided him a little, taught him to squeeze harder, to find my nipple with his thumb through the fabric. I yanked off my camisole and left my tits in his face. This time he took one nipple into his mouth, clumsy and careful at the same time, like someone learning a new language who didn’t want to make any serious mistakes. I grabbed the back of his neck and pushed it farther in.

—Suck me harder —I whispered—. Bite me a little. You’re not going to break me.

He obeyed. He closed his teeth carefully around my nipple, and a current shot straight down to my pussy. I gave him my other breast, and he played with both, alternating between them, while I grabbed his bulge through his sweatpants and squeezed it. He was rock-hard. I could feel its full shape through the fabric, that long, thick curve that had been haunting me for weeks.

I dropped to my knees in front of him.

The pants were sweatpants, with no belt. I pulled them down slowly. He still wasn’t wearing underwear, just like that Tuesday. And there it was, no longer flaccid, already beginning to rise toward me, heavy and thick, its tip reddened and its balls pressed tight against his body. I took it in my hand and couldn’t even close my fingers around it. It was bigger than I remembered.

I started by holding it and slowly masturbating him, sliding the foreskin up and down, watching the tip grow shinier with every movement. He held his breath.

—Is this okay? —I asked, without stopping my hand.

—Yes —he said, his voice breaking—. Yes, keep going.

I spit on the tip and watched my saliva run down his dick to his balls. I lowered my mouth and licked him from the base to the tip, slowly, tracing every vein with my tongue. Then I ran my flat tongue beneath his balls, sucked them one by one, taking them fully into my mouth, and came back up the other side. Rodrigo clenched his fists against the sofa and let out a moan that sounded like someone who had never moaned before.

I put the tip in my mouth and ran my tongue over the head, pressing just below the corona. Then I began to swallow, inch by inch, until I felt it lodge at the back of my throat. It was too much to take all at once, so I worked it with both hands while continuing to suck the tip and the first few inches. I heard his breathing become irregular and felt his fingers search for my hair, uncertain whether to grab it.

—You can grab me —I told him, pulling it out for a moment and slapping it against my lips—. Grab my head and fuck my mouth. Don’t hold back.

And he grabbed me. At first timidly, then with more force. I taught him to set the pace, to push my head down when I lowered it. He filled my mouth with his cock again and again, until saliva dripped down my chin and my mascara ran. I held his balls with one hand and stroked his ass with the other while he fucked my face. He was at the edge; it showed in the way his whole body tensed, in how his thighs trembled beneath me.

I pulled him from my mouth just before he came and squeezed the base hard.

—Not yet —I told him, panting—. I want you to put it inside me first.

I led him to the sofa. I guided his hand between my legs and watched his face when he felt how wet I was. He was genuinely surprised, as if he hadn’t considered that possibility. I took his fingers and ran them up and down my pussy, letting him feel how badly I wanted him.

—Is that because of me? —he asked.

—Yes —I said, laughing a little—. All of this is yours. Put them inside me.

He pushed in two fingers with more decisiveness than I expected and moved them slowly, watching my face the entire time as if he were studying a reaction in real time. He was so focused even at this that I found it sweet. I grabbed his wrist and taught him the rhythm, how to curl his fingers upward to touch the spot that made me arch.

—There —I moaned into his mouth—. Right there, keep going.

I asked him to kiss me while he did it, and this time he knew how. The body learns quickly when it has a reason to learn. With his other hand he moved down to my clitoris and began making clumsy circles that gradually found the rhythm. I came all over his fingers almost without warning, squeezing his wrist against me while my legs trembled.

—Fuck —he said, staring at his soaked fingers—. Fuck.

***

I climbed on top of him. He was still sitting on the sofa, his cock pointing at the ceiling, hard and glistening with saliva. I took it in my hand and ran it over my pussy lips several times, letting the tip slide between my folds, getting it thoroughly wet before lowering myself.

—Look —I told him—. Look at me putting it inside.

I lowered myself slowly. I felt the tip opening me, the pressure of a body that wasn’t accustomed to something so thick. I stopped halfway, breathed, and continued lowering until I felt his balls against me. I had taken all of it inside. I remained still for a second, adjusting to its size, to that fullness that almost hurt because it was so complete.

Rodrigo exhaled something that wasn’t exactly a word. His eyes were closed and his mouth hung open, as if he were holding his breath.

—Don’t move —I asked him—. Let me take care of it first.

I moved on my own at first, setting the rhythm. I began slowly, rising almost to the tip and lowering again inch by inch, feeling every vein scrape me inside. Then I sped up, bracing myself on his shoulders and riding him with my tits in his face. He bit them and sucked my nipples without taking his eyes off me, and every time I lowered myself, a hoarse moan escaped him.

He had his hands on my hips but didn’t know what to do with them, so I put them on my waist and showed him how to move with me. It took him a few minutes, but eventually he began to follow me, thrusting upward when I lowered myself, driving into me to the hilt with every stroke. He found the rhythm little by little, as if his body were beginning to understand what his mind had never been able to learn any other way.

—That’s it —I panted in his ear—. Wreck my pussy. Don’t be gentle.

He took to it quickly. He gripped my hips and began pounding up into me with a strength I hadn’t expected from him. Every thrust made my tits bounce against his face, and he grabbed them, squeezed them, and put them in his mouth. I came on top of him with his cock buried all the way inside me, squeezing it with my pussy in spasms that drew a long moan from him.

—Wait —I said, pulling it out and breathing—. Come here. I want you to fuck me from behind.

I knelt on the sofa, resting my elbows on the back, my ass raised toward him. He got behind me and thrust into me again in one push. I screamed. From that angle he went deeper, reaching the very back, hitting something inside me that made me see white spots.

—Grab my hair —I told him—. And pull hard.

He grabbed my ponytail and pulled my head back while he fucked me from behind, with a violence he was discovering by instinct. With his other hand he slapped my ass, softly at first, then harder when I moaned yes. He drove his cock into me to the hilt again and again, his balls hitting against me, until I came once more, squeezing him so tightly I almost forced him out.

—I’m going to come —he panted—. I can’t hold it anymore.

—Inside —I told him—. Come inside me. I want to feel it.

When he did, he went completely still, eyes closed and breathing ragged, and I felt jet after jet filling me inside, hot, thick, so much of it. His body shook with every pulse, moaning against my back as if pleasure hurt him. I waited for him to come back to himself, his cock still buried inside me and throbbing.

When he pulled out, the semen began running down my thighs. I turned around, knelt in front of him again, and cleaned his cock with my mouth, licking it all the way to the base and swallowing what remained.

—Are you okay? —I asked, looking up at him.

He opened his eyes. He nodded slowly.

—Yes —he said—. Very good.

We didn’t talk much after that. He stayed a while longer, we looked over part of the project as if nothing had happened, and he left with the same backpack he had arrived with. From the window I watched him cross the street and thought he probably wouldn’t get much sleep that night.

***

The following days at the faculty were strange. He looked at me but didn’t come over. He answered when I spoke to him but kept his physical distance. I thought maybe he regretted it, that the awkwardness had won out and that Saturday would be stored away in some corner he preferred not to revisit.

Until one Thursday, as I was leaving algorithms class, he took me by the arm in the hallway and pulled me into the bathroom at the far end of the floor, the one almost no one ever used.

He pushed me against the wall and kissed me hungrily. This time he knew what he was doing from the start. It wasn’t the same inexperienced kiss from Saturday.

—I’ve been thinking about you for days —he said, his mouth pressed to my ear—. About your pussy. About how you squeezed me. I don’t know how to ask you to do it again. I don’t know what the rules are here.

—There are no rules —I said, grabbing his bulge through his pants—. You just have to ask. Take it out.

He pulled down his sweatpants, and his cock sprang into his hand, already rock-hard. I knelt right there in the bathroom and took it into my mouth all the way to the back of my throat. I sucked his cock against the cold tile while he held my head and fucked my mouth, moaning softly so no one in the hallway would hear him. He pulled it out, lifted me from the floor, hiked up my skirt, and tore off my panties with two fingers.

He turned me around, pressed my hands against the tiles, and bent me forward. I felt his hands spread my hips with a confidence he hadn’t possessed eight days earlier. He drove into me in one blow, all the way to the back, and covered my mouth with his hand to smother my scream. He began pounding me quickly, without giving me time to adjust, driven by the desperation that had built up over those days.

What followed was different from Saturday: more urgent, less calculated, more him choosing the rhythm instead of following mine. He made mistakes in some things; he still lacked experience. But in the middle of that clumsiness there was something genuine that made me feel more than I had with many other men who thought they were experts. He drove into me to the hilt with every thrust, squeezed one of my tits beneath my bra, and bit my neck.

I came right there, biting my hand to keep from screaming, with him inside me. He held out a little longer, then pulled out and came over my ass, hot streams sliding down my back as he panted against my nape.

We fucked many times after that. At my apartment, at his, in the faculty bathroom, once in the car in the parking lot. I taught him to eat my pussy, to take his time with his tongue until I pulled his hair. I taught him some things, and we learned others together. The quietest guy in the classroom turned out to have exactly the cock I’d been needing to find for months.