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The Spanish Teacher - MyErotica.com

Terra Shae 9-11 minutes 12/19/2021

Please, teach me your Romance language…

Terra Shae

I wasn’t expecting you to be teaching my Spanish class.

Que guapo eres, profesor, was my first thought.

Not much had changed on that front. You had the same perfectly groomed locks of burnt golden hair, the same taut pink lips, and the same hard, impenetrable gaze as I remembered. At times you had reminded me of a preening swan, at others a graceful lion. You were poised, tense, and defiantly attractive.

When you began to speak, I recognized your voice just as well. It was deep and cynical, with an ever-so-slight, unplaceable accent. I felt comforted by your familiar mystery, even as you avoided looking in my direction as much as you could.

The whole two hours of your lesson, I forced myself to keep my eyes on the blackboard and dutifully copied down everything you said into my notebook. That wasn’t like me. Only the threat of admonishment from someone like you could bring out my studious streak.

I had known since our first chance encounter that you had grown up speaking the language — among others. You were a global kind of man, with conflicting loyalties and irons in many fires. Somehow you’d ended up here, where people were known to be reasonable, fair-minded, and sorely lacking in festivities. English was now the language of your day-to-day life.

Still, I’d always wondered if it was an afterthought in your world. I had always felt sheepish speaking it to you, knowing that so many memories in your head were in languages I couldn’t understand.

Our flame hadn’t lasted long. I had always regretted how guarded I’d been with you, how I’d ended up coldly pushing you away. Now, in the vulnerable position of being your student, I felt a deep compulsion to please you.

After class, I timidly approached your desk. You looked down at the pile of papers you’d collected, pretending to study them, determined to remain proper.

“Hi,” you greeted me. “It’s nice to see you. How have you been?” Your eyes beseeched me to fuck off before I brought more trouble into your life. I was tempted, but I had other plans for the night.

“You as well.” I bit my lip, eager to show you how nervous you made me. “It’s been awhile.”

A couple of strained pleasantries ensued. Then I went straight for the kill. “Would you like to get a drink with me? My treat. And no one will ever hear about it.”

This wasn’t the first course you’d taught, and we’d always joked about me showing up to one of your classes. I saw memories flickering in your eyes as you considered the idea. “Well, technically I’m not forbidden. I suppose I could handle it. So… alright. One drink.” Did you speak this formally in Spanish, too?

We settled on a rather cozy little dive bar down the street. We were seated at a table on the back patio, nestled just a bit too close to one another in a little booth made of cedar. Dark green vines lined the edges of our little alcove, nesting us in from the outside world. We ordered a pitcher of a house-made amber draft, light and breezy and perfect for sharing. There was a feeling of warmth and comfort in the air that night — if not between us, encasing us from all sides.

“So Spanish, huh? Why’s that?” You surveyed me with a gaze I knew well. It was one part condescension, and another part longing. I wanted to slap you; I wanted to kiss you. I suspected that you were thinking things right at me in a language I could barely understand.

“I just wanted to learn,” I said cautiously, though I couldn’t help but lean forward in my seat and smile coyly as I did. Flashbacks were playing in my mind. I could practically feel the smooth skin of your back underneath my palm, the bristles of your hair running through my fingers as I soothed you to sleep.

“You like the language?” you probed. I wasn’t used to you asking me questions. We had usually danced around each other’s lives and stories, speaking little with words and volumes with our eyes.

“Actually, I don’t,” I said. “It doesn’t sound like a language to me.” I paused for a sip of beer. “It’s too simple, and too sexual.”

You squinted at me, unimpressed. You felt defensive of your homeland and its mother tongue that you’d grown up with. Besides, despite being an accomplished intellectual, you lived for rock music and parties. Simplicity and sexuality were important to you.

“It’s just that I’m not like that at all,” I continued. “I’m frustrating to learn and needlessly complex. Just like English.” You smiled in spite of yourself. You couldn’t deny it: you had always found me to be stiff and withdrawn. Frustrating indeed.

I had heard you speaking Spanish precisely once, on the phone. I remembered a passion, a camaraderie in your voice I’d never heard before. You’d finished your conversation and looked up at me with a questioning face. Had I understood any of that?

No, no entendí, I’d responded bitterly with my eyes. I had understood perhaps one word. And I was livid. “That was really fucking hot,” I spat at you. It was true — I was so hopelessly compelled by the sight, the sound of you in that moment that I was almost in pain.

“Spanish always is,” you replied, gloating just a bit.

Now, as we spoke, the memory filled me with fresh rage.

“You only speak one language,” you confirmed, with a familiar gloating expression.

“Yep. Just English.” Now that I’d said it, I felt some relief. “Please don’t judge me. I was born into ignorance. And now I’m trying to atone.”

You appeared far more mistrustful than judgmental. I suddenly realized: it was simpler to identify with one place, speak one language, and never have to play translator. You’d always hated me a little bit for my innocence.

Maybe I’d been shielded from something, but I felt left out nonetheless. “There are many other languages in my family, actually, but I’ve been cut off from them all,” I went on. “I’ve always wanted to learn. But no one ever tried to teach me. I feel… sheltered.”

For a moment your eyes softened, and you offered a light, agonizingly slow stroke of my foot with your foot from under the table. “I’d love to un-shelter you,” you said, raising your eyebrows just a touch.

You were so cold, so hard to read. Tan frío. Little involuntary translations arose like waves in my mind. Teasing little reminders of how I knew some, but not quite enough.

I was also trying not to get distracted by the perfect fit of your beige V neck T-shirt. As if reading my mind, you cocked your signature half-smile my way.

“So that’s why I want to learn,” I concluded hastily.

A pause. “And I’m very pleased to be learning from you specifically,” I added.

Your half-flattered, half-flustered expression enticed me to continue. “But the thing is, I don’t think a regular grammar lesson will do much for me — to be perfectly honest, I find you too physically distracting.”

Your eyes widened.

Está tan loca, I could hear you thinking in response to my insanity. She’s even crazier than you think, I confirmed for you.

“I find you irresistibly cultured,” I continued. You blushed. “Multinational, multilingual. You have a sense of place, and of people.” You shrugged. I pressed on. “I’ve never had those things. And I want them. So badly. Really… I would do anything for you.”

You studied me intensely for what felt like hours. “Well, as a first assignment, you can accompany me as I move to a more comfortable seat.” I shivered with delight at the thought of getting comfortable with you.

I felt your fingers slide into mine as you guided me inside. There was a small, candle-lit lounge area at the back of the indoor bar, and a squat little rust-coloured couch that looked soft and inviting. We sat facing each other, each holding our drink, our bodies perfectly mirrored.

I rested a hand on your knee. “I want to come back with you to your apartment tonight,” I said slowly, boring deep into your eyes with my own, “and I want to pretend we’re in your home country. Like I’ve tagged along for a visit, and you’re the only person I know who I can communicate with.” You shifted nervously in your seat. I thought I could feel a heartbeat reaching my skin through the fabric of your pants. I wondered what the Spanish translation of squirm was.

“My only lifeline to the world,” I continued. “And I’m your little pet. Your cloying, monolingual little stalker slut. Who you only respond to in Spanish. You want me to pick up the language, and fast. But I warn you — I’m not a very quick learner.”

Maybe you thought I was unhinged, but something was clearly making your skin glow pink.

You fiddled with the silver watch on your wrist, considering. “I like this idea very much. But let me know if it gets to be overwhelming for you.”

“I will. But it won’t,” I reassured you. “This is the way I want you.” I reached out one hand and swept the dark amber curls from your forehead. Before tonight, it had been years since we touched, but I recognized the uncontrollable shudder of pure wanting that wracked my whole body.