Juana was Mexican but lived in the same English town as me. Her husband was a bigwig restaurateur who wanted to set up a chain of quality restaurants, as opposed to the usual melted-cheese-and-Doritos joints that gave his country’s cuisine a bad name.
I was a teacher of English as a foreign language (TEFL) and Juana had answered my small ad in the local paper. We would meet three mornings a week at my house and spend ninety minutes running through grammar and having stumbling conversations as I attempted to increase her confidence. That’s how it is with most of my Spanish-speaking students.
They did English at school and know the basics, but they are reluctant to put it into practice. And they all make the same mistakes, so by the time Juana came along I seemed like I knew a thing or two because I had come across them before.
In class, she was polite and quite formal, not at all flirty. Being keen to establish a good reputation, I too behaved professionally. But as soon as she had gone, I would be alone with my right hand and the recent memory of her sitting right there at my kitchen table.
I was resigned to never having sex with Juana in reality, unless something unexpected happened.
Then one Saturday, I was walking through town when I saw her sitting in her car under a tree in a public car park. I went over and she wound down the window and rested her arm on it, palm upwards. Nothing significant about that. But as we talked about this and that it seemed to me that she was leaving the arm in that position when it would have been natural after a while to take it in and rest it on the steering wheel or in her lap or something.
A body language expert would probably be able to tell you exactly what it meant, but in my own amateur mind, I just knew it turned me on somehow.
Instinctively, I leaned down and licked the crease of her elbow. She didn’t flinch or react in any way. I put my fingers in her palm and tickled her and she wriggled, but left her arm there defiantly. I leaned down again and licked her more strongly, more slowly, in that same innocent place.
And then she cracked. She raised her head towards me and closed her eyes. I kissed her lightly on the lips and I swear she parted her legs slightly. She was wearing one of her knee-length orange dresses – she had several because she liked dresses and orange was her favorite color. I put a hand on her knee just under the hem of her garment.
This, of course, was a different proposition altogether from a tongue in her elbow. Or was it? A more contentious area, certainly, but no more provocative.
“Maybe I need more class,” she said. Spanish speakers are too lazy to pronounce the “iz” sound that makes the plural of a word ending in “s”. “Are you busy?” she asked.
“Now? Sure,” I said.
“Come in my house,” she whispered. “Where your car is?”
“No car,” I replied. “I walked here.”
“Come in,” she said, and I found myself having to suppress the urge to correct her English, like “Where is your car,” and “Get in, not come in.”
She drove like a maniac, still struggling with the idea that you sit on the right-hand side in a British car and drove on the left side of the road. Or maybe she drove like a maniac wherever she was.
In two minutes we were outside their rented house up a leafy side street.
“Where is your husband?” I asked nervously.
“Play golf with his lawyer,” she said, pronouncing it “lou-yer,” to rhyme with louder.
She led me into the house and up the stairs, stopping outside a bedroom door and holding her arm out.
“Another time,” she said. I licked the inside of her elbow. This seemed to seal the deal or something.
Inside the room Juana sat on the bed and took off her shoes, then stood up and pulled the dress over her head, to reveal a black bra and panties. A thong, actually. She was substantially built – some would say overweight but to me, she was perfect, and very sexy.
Without a word, she removed the underwear and lay back on the bed with her arms spread and her legs ajar. Her eyes were closed.
As I undressed I looked at her shaven pussy with its fleshy buns and the surprisingly big, sealed package of inner thighs and buttocks.
She wasn’t going to talk, so nor did I. I didn’t even kiss her, I just parted her thighs and got my face in there, where the air was humid with sweat and the sweet smell of fat.
I sucked Juana’s clitoris and she grunted contentedly. Maybe this was how she approached sex all the time. Maybe her husband knew his role was to serve her orally without question and without comment.
Maybe he knew his place, and that place was here between her legs. His face and her crotch. But I didn’t want to think of someone else there, because this was Juana: my student, my fantasy, and she wanted to be licked.
I licked her. I slurped on her juices, which flowed so freely that after a while I had to wipe my mouth with my hand. It was fabulous, unctuous stuff, Juana’s pussy juice, and I felt it was going to do me untold good as it went down my throat and into my stomach. Her bodily fluids.
They get a bad rap, bodily fluids. You only hear about them in medical reports and sex advice, as if they were intrinsically bad.
I wasn’t finished with Juana and her bodily fluids. In fact, I had only just started. Now I wanted to kiss her and get that other fluid, her saliva, mixed with mine and incidentally depositing her own juices into her mouth. A lot of women seem to like that.
I left Juana’s crotch and headed up to her face and she kissed me, her eyes now wide open and staring into mine.
I kissed her mouth, her nose, her ears. I licked her neck and slid down to suck her nipples, which made her squirm, but not as much as when I moved into her left armpit. It was faintly fragrant from deodorant but tasted more of her natural oils, fresh and exciting. She wiggled her hips, as if to attract my attention, so I returned to the fork in her road, pausing only to put my tongue in her navel, which again caused her bottom to move.
I turned her over and lay with my face on her buttocks, kissing them adoringly.
“Yes, yes,” she said, breaking her vow of silence in the ecstasy of being about to be rimmed.
I had looked this up on Google Translate.
“Quiero lamer tu culo,” I said needlessly. (That’s, “I want to lick your arse,” I think.)
“Si, si,” she repeated, so whether it was grammatically correct or not, my actions were pleasing to her.
She had a fat bum and the entrance was deep and dark, more like a bruise than the usual brown. I had fantasised countless times about licking Juana’s arse and now I was doing it. She was writhing, in raptures as her English teacher invaded her private property.
Then she stopped writhing and took control of herself.
“Fuck me,” she said. “I want you fuck me now.”
She raised herself into doggy position and I licked her again, because it’s my favorite thing, before getting up behind her and ramming my cock into her pussy.
“You make me cum,” she said. “You cum also, in me.”
I reached around and took her beautiful big breasts in my hands, humping her like the sensational wild beast she was, all her formal stiffness gone, all her decorum thrown to the winds in her need to be fucked. She had made me service her with my tongue and now she needed to be ravaged by her own orgasm and to feel me splurging, out of control, inside her.
Juana began to scream, quietly for the sake of the neighbors, and to buck like a rodeo bronco, but she wasn’t trying to throw me off. If anything she wanted me to climb right inside her, where I could stimulate her with my whole body. She was being fucked and it was what she wanted, what she desperately had to do, to be ploughed by this man and to have him shoot his spunk inside her as she fulfilled her role as a woman, the receptive but no less demanding half of the human mating ritual.
But before I could cum, she somehow shook me out and repositioned herself, trembling with orgasm, so my cock plunged into her arse and I dumped my load in there.
Juana lay quietly afterwards, stroking my arms and muttering Spanish endearments before scooting in a ladylike fashion into the bathroom. When she came back, wearing fresh underwear, she pulled the dress back on and she was Juana the nice, respectable Mexican woman again.
We never spoke of it after that day. We resumed the English classes and she gave herself and her husband no reason to have reservations about having private classes in the teacher’s home.
Then one day she announced that she was heading back to Mexico and she thanked me sincerely for my help. Her husband came to pick her up and he too shook my hand and said, “Thank you.”
I touched Juana subtly but meaningfully in the crease of her elbow and she put her hand on mine. And then she was gone.
