Some moments are decisive in moulding our personality, at least for specific traits. Know what I mean? You can tell something's changed. Take sex, for example. Can you remember when it came to be SEX? Can you determine that turning point for you and your sexuality?
Well, I can. It's that defining occasion when it became obvious that average or satisfactory wouldn't cut it anymore. Not only did my perspectives broaden, but the whole lens got reshaped.
I was nineteen years old, working the afternoon shift in a financial company as a credit analyst (for consumer goods, nothing requiring too much responsibility), so idle time, interspersed with gym and house activities, plagued my mornings.
Good to my Latin roots, music has always been an inherent part of my life. This was (still is) especially true when getting through not-so-joyful situations. I’ve never been too keen on doing chores, thus cleaning called for some powerful motivation—read pump-up music to keep me distracted and entertained. The first link in the chain of events that led me to this personal epiphany was a CD someone had given me for my birthday: Red Hot Chili Peppers' Blood Sugar Sex Magik.
While sweeping the floors to the funky-rocky beats, I realised I couldn't make out half of what the Chilis were saying. This was decidedly frustrating since, given my curious nature, I had taken to translating songs from a very young age with the help of a thick dictionary, learning the nuts and bolts of the language. But clearly, that was not enough. It was high time I learnt proper English.
I found a modest, family-owned institute a few blocks from home with classes that suited my working schedule. After a brief interview, the owner—a super-nice, classy lady—determined that even though the course had started a few months before, I would have no problem catching up. She gave me the text and practice books and told me I could join the following day.
It was a small group, two guys and me, which was great because that meant less disruption, allowing us to advance faster through the lessons. And there was one substantial perk: my teacher was quite the eye candy. He was twenty-six, a bit on the thin side, yet well-framed, with scruffy light-brunette hair, striking blue eyes and alluring fleshy lips (picture Cillian Murphy in Red Lights, so goddamn distracting).
One lucky day, my classmates bunked off, so I got a dry run of private tutoring. Somehow, he and I ended up discussing books and movies and anime—you know, all sorts of geeky stuff. In fact, he's the one who introduced me to Prof. J.R.R. Tolkien, so there's yet another reason for being forever grateful to him. The thing is, while I could understand him well, it was not so easy for me to communicate properly. However, I did my best.
From then on, our interactions became friendlier. Never the shy kind, rather the 'me likey, me grabby' type, I would flirt a bit, then some more, up to where every sentence I had to make would include some sly innuendo, and he would grin covertly in acknowledgement.
After almost two months, only one of the guys had continued with the course. Still, he was often absent, so it was more or less an individual class. Sometimes we would read passages to each other that, while not Lush material, were not exactly classroom-appropriate. Other times, we would attempt to complete a role-play exercise, only to get inescapably side-tracked, and consequent laughter would mark the end of our academic endeavour. As fun as all this was, things were not getting any further than a back-and-forth tease, and that impish smirk didn't help at all to calm my eagerness to jump his bones.
As fate would have it, I had a double shift scheduled on a class day, and although the entry time didn't require me to cancel, I would have to go straight from there to the office. I figured it was too good an opportunity to pass up. The universe must like me because the other guy didn't show, so the odds were in my favour. Oh, the look on my teacher's face, when he saw me all dressed up in formal attire, was priceless.
He entered the classroom looking down, same as always. Only this time, his eyes didn't find the usual sports shoes, but rather a pair of black elasticised knee-high boots that hijacked his gaze.
The thorough scanning continued upwards along my bare legs to the hemline of a grape suede skirt, an improvised layover at mid-thigh level. The skin-tight garment proved effective in holding an ivory gauze shirt hostage at its scrunched waistband. A black woollen coat framed the outfit, though it didn't do much to conceal the white lace bra underneath the translucent fabric.
His pupils dilated, transfixed by this unexpectedly stylish version of me. I won't lie; I was pretty pleased with myself. He took his folder from the desk and handed me a boring exercise. Leaning on the column separating the classroom door and the small en-suite bathroom, he waited as I completed the task. Chin up, shoulders back—he was pure attitude.
Once finished, I stood up to face him, and he froze. I could swear he was holding his breath. Ms Sassiness took over. “Excuse me, but as much as I'd like to defy the laws of physics, matter is impenetrable. I'll need you to move.”
He doubled the bet. “Is it, though? Care to put that to the test?” Smirking, he moved just one step to the side, leaving scarcely enough room for me to pass so that my hip would have to shave his crotch. Bold move. I had to give it to him.
When I got back, he was standing in the same position, which meant I was the one cornered this time. Well, no way was I backing down.
“Time for testing?”
Christ, did he call me on my brazenness!
He locked the door and ushered me with his body to the far end of the room. His tongue made a solid opening statement to my mouth—to which I did not object—while his hands hitched up my skirt and hung on to the strips of my thong. The coldness of the smooth Formica against the searing heat radiating from my body shocked me, prickling my skin with goose pimples. In a swift move, he hunkered down and growled ominously; his nose skimmed over my crotch, doubtless catching a whiff of my arousal.
Back on his feet, he flipped me as I stood, his hand tracing from the small of my back and bending me over on its way up to my nape, where it nestled, holding me firmly in place. His other hand glided down my ass crack to my pussy. He gasped at how wet I was.
The to-and-fro motion began like an instinctive reflex, sliding the soggy lace slightly to the side and making those trance-inducing sloshing sounds. Showing no sign of abating, he picked me up by the throat and hissed in my ear how he was dying to fuck me, but didn't have a condom. I couldn't help but quip, “So I guess that would be an F for you, as in Fail.”
To this day, I have no clue how or when he undid his belt and dropped his pants. What I can tell you is that his balls were crushing my clit a second later, grinding against it as he took a long breath, getting a grip on himself. My, that was a deep plunge. I bit my arm to muffle the scream. For as sodden as I was, the intense burning sensation in the squishy walls widening around his hefty presence did not go unnoticed. There was something different about him, something primal and raw, and my young cunt loved it.