The Teaching Assistant Who Couldn’t Wait

That afternoon I had stayed later than usual. The last class had ended at six, and while the institute’s hallways were emptying out, I was still in the teachers’ lounge correcting the exams they had handed in that morning. I thought I was alone in the building.

Hands wrapped around me from behind without warning. One settled over my right breast, the other slid down to my waist and kept going slowly. Warm lips brushed the skin of my neck, right at the spot where my hair stands on end most easily, and I felt my underwear dampen without either of us saying a word yet.

I knew perfectly well who it was. I recognized her perfume —something like vanilla and old wood— before I even turned my head. Mariela. My teaching colleague. The one who, the night before, had stayed up chatting with me until the small hours, sending me messages neither of us should have written.

It had all started the day before, in one of those coffees we had when our free periods happened to line up. She was talking to me about her boyfriend. A nice, attentive guy who loved her very much, yes, but who was a disaster in bed. She said it with that weary laugh of someone who no longer expects things to change.

—I finish the night and then I take care of myself —she confessed, shrugging—. Sometimes in the car, before I get home. I need to finish somehow.

I laughed, a little awkwardly. It was a conversation we never would have had a month earlier. Without thinking too much about it, I blurted out that I wrote erotic stories for a website, that I published under a pseudonym, and that I had a couple of regular followers who left me comments asking for more.

—I don’t believe you —she said, and her eyes lit up in a way that should have served as a warning.

I sent her the link before we said goodbye. “So you have something to keep you entertained tonight,” I wrote in the chat, almost as a joke. She replied with a fire emoji and a mischievous smile that kept circling in my head the whole bus ride back home.

At eleven-thirty, just as I was getting into bed, the message came.

—Mmm, these stories are delicious. I’m liking them way too much —she wrote, with a little devil emoji at the end.

—Glad to hear it. I write them when I can —I answered.

—And how do you come up with them? Where do you get so many ideas?

I told her the truth. That most of them started as dreams, that I’d wake up with the image stuck in my head and touch myself thinking about them to finish waking up. That my imagination recreated them with details I only had to put on paper afterward.

I don’t know when I started getting wet. My nipples hardened without warning. I felt my cunt beating with a pulse of its own, begging to be touched. I resisted. I was talking to a coworker, for God’s sake. A woman I would be seeing in the hallways the next day. I couldn’t.

—Do you mind if I touch myself while I read them again? —she wrote.

I should have put a stop to it. I should have changed the subject. Instead, I typed the first thing that came out.

—Use them. That’s what they’re for. I’m going to reread them too.

—Are you touching yourself right now too? —she asked.

I half lied. I told her yes, that I always did before going to sleep. It was almost true. By then I had already slipped a hand under the sheets and pulled my pajama pants down to my thighs.

—I’m going for the vibrator. I’m soaked, I can’t take it anymore —she wrote.

And then the audio came in.

It was thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of her breathless voice, whispering words she couldn’t finish, asking for more in a low murmur. I heard her stifled moaning, as if she was trying not to let her neighbors hear. I imagined her body. The few times I had seen her in a summer skirt, her long legs, those generous breasts suggested beneath every blouse.

I came with that audio on a loop. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t make a sound and stayed trembling for a good while under the duvet.

Then came the shame. The kind that always arrives once the body has already settled and the mind starts getting serious again. I sent her one last message.

—I’m going to sleep. Thanks for the audio, you made me cum —I typed, and hit send before I could regret it.

I turned off the phone’s Wi-Fi. Threw the phone on the nightstand. I fell asleep not knowing what face I’d have to wear the next day at the institute.

***

And there I was, twenty-four hours later, with her hands on me and neither of us having said a word yet.

—We can’t do it here —I whispered, barely a thread of voice.

—I already locked up —she said, biting my earlobe—. The doorkeeper left half an hour ago. There’s no one left in the hallway, I promise you.

I felt her chest press against my back. One of her hands traveled to my right nipple and squeezed over my blouse with a firmness I hadn’t expected. A moan escaped me. I turned clumsily, looking for her, and then she kissed me.

It was different from the way I had imagined it. Mariela kissed with hunger, without apologies, biting my lower lip and pushing against me with her whole body. She backed me up to the long table in the room —the same one where we held department meetings on Mondays— and sat me on top of it as if I weighed nothing.

—I’ve spent the whole day thinking about how you were going to come —she said against my mouth—. Since the alarm went off.

She lifted my blouse. She pulled my bra straps down with two fingers, impatiently. When her teeth closed around one of my nipples, I threw my head back and let out a moan that bounced off the empty walls. She covered my mouth with the hand she had left free, laughing against my skin.

—I told you nobody was here, but let’s not get carried away —she whispered.

She laid me out on the table. She started kissing my stomach, every inch, stopping at my navel and moving down toward the button on my pants. She unbuttoned them with her teeth, a little show that felt practiced, and pulled them down by the legs. I was left in my panties, thighs open against the cold wood, and she straightened up for a moment to look at me all over.

—Look at you —she said—. I couldn’t stop thinking about this image yesterday.

I, who had never been with another woman, pushed myself up on my elbows and tugged her blouse upward. I wanted to see her. I needed to see what I had spent all night imagining. When I unfastened her bra and her breasts fell forward in front of my face, my mouth went dry.

I leaned in and slowly ran my tongue over one of her nipples. Mariela let out a low moan, almost a whimper. I held her waist with both hands and pulled her toward me, devouring her, alternating tongue and teeth, and I felt her fingers knot in my hair and yank me back.

—Lie down —she ordered.

She pushed me back onto the table. She parted the fabric of my panties with two fingers —she didn’t take them off, just moved them aside— and stared. She ran one finger over my sex from top to bottom, very slowly, and laughed when I arched hard against her hand.

—You’re drenched —she said—. Did coming in and seeing me really get you that hot?

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. She lowered her head and kissed me right where her fingers had just been, and the first touch of her tongue made me cry out. I covered my mouth with my forearm. She kept going, drawing slow circles around my clit, alternating with just the right amount of pressure from the tip of her tongue. Then she slid in two fingers. Then three. She moved her hand with a rhythm that melted me from the inside out.

—More —I begged her—. Faster.

She did as I asked. She picked up speed while keeping her tongue working up top, and it wasn’t long before I felt my whole body tightening. I grabbed the edge of the table with one hand. The other tangled in her hair. I came with a force I hadn’t felt in months, clamping my thighs against her face, moaning too loudly for a room whose door was only locked.

She stood up, smiling, her chin shining.

—Now it’s my turn —she said.

I pushed her until she was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs. I yanked her skirt and panties down in one motion and knelt between her legs. I had never done this before. I had imagined it a thousand times, written about it in a dozen stories, but I had never had another woman spread open in front of my mouth.

I started with my tongue flat, tracing her all the way. Mariela threw her head back and let out a long, deep moan. I ran my hands over her thighs, spreading them a little wider, and set about learning what she liked. When I moved up toward her clit, she writhed. When I moved down, she sighed. When I slid two fingers in without stopping sucking her, she dug her heels into my back.

—Like that, like that, like that —she repeated softly, eyes closed.

I settled into a steady rhythm. I felt her thighs beginning to tremble against my shoulders. The way her stomach tightened under my gaze. The way she held my head against her, almost not letting me breathe. She came with a muffled moan against her own wrist, biting herself so she wouldn’t scream.

When I sat up, she pulled me toward her and set me astride her lap. She pressed her sex against mine, both of us still wet, and started moving slowly. I braced myself on her shoulders. I began moving with her, finding a clumsy rhythm at first and then a steadier one. The friction was unlike anything I knew, more intimate, stranger, hotter.

We looked at each other without saying anything. We moved our hips in a rhythm that kept speeding up until I felt that pressure in the pit of my stomach again. Mariela grabbed my ass with both hands, pushing me harder against her, and we came almost at the same time, gasping into each other’s mouths.

We stayed wrapped around each other, seated in that chair, while our bodies slowly settled. Orange sunset light came in through the window. Somewhere far away, someone was talking in the hallway below.

—We need to get dressed —I murmured.

—Five more minutes —she asked, her face buried in my neck.

I gave in. Five minutes. Then we would be two teaching colleagues again, buttoning up our blouses before going out into the street, two professors greeting the doorkeeper with proper smiles. But those five minutes were only ours; we stole them without anyone finding out.

And I knew, as I stroked her back with the tips of my fingers, that this wasn’t going to end with just one afternoon.