My New Student Gave Me a Lesson I Won't Forget

My name is Aurora and I’m forty-two years old. My brown hair falls to my waist, I have light eyes, and I still have a small body that genetics has taken better care of than I deserve. I teach art history at a private academy in the center of Valverde, one of those schools that prepares adults to enter university and also attracts people who want to resume studies they left unfinished years ago.

That Monday in late September, classes were starting. I woke up early, took a shower, and put on a long-sleeved wine-colored T-shirt, a tight black skirt, and ankle boots. I brushed my hair, put on just a little makeup, and clipped on the hoop earrings my mother gave me when I passed the civil service exam. I looked at myself in the mirror longer than necessary. It wasn’t vanity. It was panic about the first day.

When I got to the classroom, the students were already coming in. Almost all of them were around twenty. Some came in groups, others glued to their phones. And then she walked in.

She was small, maybe five feet tall, as slender as a young branch. She had straight blonde hair down to her waist, large brown eyes, and very fair skin. She sat at the back of the classroom, alone, clutching her backpack against her chest. She didn’t look at anyone. She didn’t try to make conversation. I took out the roster and started calling names.

—Lucía Aldecoa —I read.

She raised her hand without looking up. The name suits her too, I thought, and I was frightened by the thought.

Lucía was twenty years old, had barely passed high school, and had moved to Valverde alone to prepare for university entrance. I found that out in her file, during one of those afternoons when I stayed in the office pretending to grade exams and, in reality, going over hers again and again. Her grades were mediocre. I didn’t care.

For two weeks I watched her. When she stood up to throw away a scrap of paper, I looked at the shape of her thighs beneath her short jeans and imagined opening them over my desk. When she talked with the only friend she seemed to have made in class, a girl with pink hair, I studied the way she bit her lip and thought about what it would be like to bite it myself. When she laughed, hiding it against the palm of her hand as if she were ashamed of her own joy, my panties got wet right in the middle of explaining Caravaggio.

One afternoon, when class was over, I ran into them in the hallway. The pink-haired girl was saying something that made Lucía blush, and I heard Lucía answer:

—I’ve told you a thousand times. I like guys and girls. Leave me the hell alone already.

I stopped a couple of steps farther on, my heart galloping and my cunt tight. I waited for the friend to say goodbye, kiss Lucía on the cheek, and head down the corridor. Then I walked over.

—Lucía, I need to talk to you about last week’s exam. Come to the office for a moment.

She nodded without asking anything. I took her by the arm, maybe a little more firmly than necessary, and led her down the hallway. I could feel my own breathing going ragged, as if I were the student and she the teacher.

The office was small, with an old wooden desk, a shelf packed with art books, and a window overlooking the inner courtyard. I closed the door. Turned the latch.

—What about my exam? —she asked. Her voice was deeper than I expected.

—I wanted to give you the grade in person —I lied—. You got a ten.

In reality, she’d scraped a four. I invented that grade after closing the door.

—A ten? —She frowned, then let out a short laugh—. I never get tens. I’ve gotten this far by cheating on every exam they’ve put in front of me. Cheat sheets are my thing.

Her honesty disarmed me. I didn’t know what to say. I took a step toward her. Then another.

—I heard you earlier in the hall. You said you liked girls too.

Lucía lifted her gaze and, for the first time since the first day of class, held mine.

—Yes.

—And older women?

She smiled. It wasn’t a shy smile. It was something else, something it took me a moment to recognize because it didn’t fit the quiet girl I’d been watching for two weeks.

—Depends how much older.

I lifted her chin with two fingers. My hand was shaking.

—May I?

—Try, Professor.

I kissed her. I hadn’t kissed anyone on the mouth in seven years, since I broke up with Marisol and promised myself I’d never get involved with anyone who could complicate my life. Lucía knew how to kiss. Too well. She shoved her tongue down my throat, wound it around mine with a skill that didn’t match her good-girl face, and her hands grabbed my ass over the skirt and pulled me against her. I could feel her pubic bone pressing against my thigh, I could feel my own cunt soaking my panties, and I heard myself moan into her mouth like a little girl.

—Take off your shirt —she ordered.

It wasn’t a question. I obeyed. I, who had spent two weeks planning how to seduce her patiently, how to kiss her along the neck, how to undress her with the slowness of a painting being revealed, obeyed. I took off my shirt. Then the skirt. I stood in front of her in bra and panties.

Lucía looked me up and down, unhurriedly. She ran one finger along the edge of my bra, yanked it down, and pulled my tits out into the open. She pinched one nipple between thumb and forefinger until a gasp escaped me.

—You’re not bad for your forties —she said—. Your tits are firmer than I thought.

The phrase hit me right through the middle like a slap, but something else hit me too, something I hadn’t had time to name. I wanted to undress her slowly, kiss her shoulders, her navel, her hip bones. I knelt in front of her and brushed her stomach with my lips. I started to do it and she stopped me.

—Leave the mushy stuff, Aurora. I’m in charge here.

She grabbed my hair, forced me to look up at her, and slammed my mouth against her short jeans. I could feel her heat through the fabric. Then she hauled me up and shoved me with both hands against the desk. The wood struck my tailbone. She ripped my panties off in one pull, left them hanging from one ankle, spread my legs with a slap of her hand, and without warning shoved two fingers deep into my cunt. I screamed and bit the back of my hand to keep from screaming louder. Her fingers were long and cold and they reached a place nobody had reached in years. She fucked me with a hard, mechanical rhythm, looking me in the eyes the whole time, as if checking an instrument. Each thrust tore an obscene splash from my cunt and a spasm from my hips.

—Is this what you wanted? —she asked in my ear, squeezing one nipple with her free hand—. For some kid to fuck you in your own office? To shove it all the way in against your students’ files? Say it.

I couldn’t answer. She brought her thumb to my clit, started rubbing fast circles while keeping up the pumping with her other two fingers, and I felt everything clench inside me. I came on her hand in three minutes, the back of my neck hitting a folder of records, soaking her wrist, my cunt gripping her fingers in waves I couldn’t control. I came ashamed and relieved and confused all at once. She pulled her fingers out with a wet sound, put them in her mouth without looking away from me, and sucked them one by one.

—You taste good, Aurora. For a sad old woman, you taste really fucking good.

Lucía took off her shorts and panties with the indifference of someone taking off her shoes. Her cunt was blonde, barely groomed, the lips small and already shining. She climbed on top of me over the desk, spread my legs wide, and pressed her sex against mine. She started rubbing herself, supporting herself on her forearms on either side of my head, grinding my clit against hers, fitting the lips of her cunt between mine with a precision that made me howl. She was dripping on me. I was dripping on her. I could hear the sticky sound of our cunts slapping together each time she drove her hips.

—Look at me —she demanded, grabbing my jaw—. Look at me fucking you, goddamn it.

She was done in less than a minute. When she came, she did it in silence, biting her lip like she did in class, only now my cum was smeared over her thighs and stomach. She pressed her cunt against mine so hard I thought she’d break my bone. Then she straightened up.

—Wait —I said, because I was still sensitive, because I wanted her on top of me a little longer, because I wanted to kiss her again without her calling me mushy.

Lucía saw my face. She smiled with that smile that no longer seemed shy to me and reached for the jar of markers on my desk. She took out two thick black ones, the kind used for whiteboards. She put one in her mouth and moistened it with her tongue without taking her eyes off me, with such calculated obscenity that my cunt tightened just from seeing it. Then she opened my legs again.

—I’m not done with you yet, Professor.

She pushed one in from the front, slowly, easing it in centimeter by centimeter, twisting it inside so it rubbed the exact spot she already knew from her fingers. She rested the other against my other opening, cold and hard against my puckered ass.

—Honey, wait, I’ve never had anything back there…

—Quiet. Open. Let go.

She kissed my forehead with a tenderness that didn’t fit what she was doing. She spit on my ass to lubricate it, ran one finger around my anus until it relaxed, and only then did she start inserting the second marker. She did it slowly, just enough, attentive to my face. She was ambidextrous. I found that out when she started moving them both at once, each one to its own rhythm, and I saw her hands working in parallel with a pianist’s precision: the one in front went in and out with short, deep thrusts, the one in back barely sank in and twisted on its axis, widening me, burning me, forcing my mouth open. One of them irritated me and the other made me lose my mind; both together made me tremble from head to toe. She bent down, licked my clit while she kept moving the two markers, and I started pleading out loud for things I didn’t recognize as mine.

—More, goddamn it, deeper, harder, make me come again, don’t stop…

—That’s it. That’s what you are.

I came a second time, crying that time, with both openings squeezing the markers and her tongue rasping over my swollen clit. I screamed into my forearm. A hot jet escaped me and wet her chin, then ran down my ass to the desk.

—See? —she said, slowly pulling the markers out and putting them back in the jar like they were any ordinary pens—. The thing about girls who act all romantic is that what they really need is to be treated like this. A good fuck, no poetry. That’s all.

I stayed lying there, legs open, cunt throbbing and the desk cold against my back. I couldn’t bring myself to lift my head.

—And you? —I asked in a thread of a voice—. Do you want anything with me?

Lucía pulled up her panties. Then her shorts. She searched for her shirt on the floor.

—Aurora, I have a boyfriend.

—A boyfriend?

—Yes. He’s been waiting for me all summer. This afternoon I’m going to see him. I’m going to show up at his house with your taste still in my mouth, and I’m not going to tell him why he likes kissing me so much today.

She put on her shirt. She tied her sneakers. She ran her fingers through her hair. I hadn’t moved.

—Don’t tell anyone about this —she added before leaving—. For you, not for me. I don’t care.

She closed the door slowly.

***

I stayed still for a very long time. I don’t know how long. When I sat up, the desk was wet with my cum and hers, and there were places on me that ached where I hadn’t expected them to. I picked up my clothes from the floor, got dressed, and straightened the files I’d banged against. I threw the two markers in the trash, then, thinking better of it, took them out, wrapped them in paper, and put them in my bag to throw away in a different bin on a different street.

For the rest of the course, Lucía never looked at me again. Not when I handed back exams, not when I asked her a direct question, not when we crossed paths in the cafeteria. She sat in the back, alone again, and laughed with her pink-haired friend as if I didn’t exist. I started missing class a couple of times a month, claiming migraines the administration never argued with, because I had always been reliable. I even considered asking for a transfer.

I still don’t know whether to regret having done it with a girl who didn’t want me, or to be glad it happened at all, after seven years without touching anyone. Maybe both things at once. The only thing I know is that when June came and I saw that I wouldn’t have Lucía Aldecoa on my lists for the next course, I breathed.

I breathed, and then I spent the whole night crying on the sofa, with a forgotten marker in my hands.