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My name is Roger Berkman. I'm a fifty-two-year-old divorceé and father of an adult son. I've lived alone for over a decade, no pets or potted plants. My house is small but cozy, my passion for antiques endless. I spend my days teaching World History at one of the local high schools, and my free time reading books and listening to old jazz records. I'm content with my life, in decent health, and I like to joke that I've never met a dessert I couldn't eat.
I'm also fucking my former student. She's thirty-four years younger than me.
It's a little too late to say I never meant it to turn out this way, as if that might be thanks enough for letting me keep my job. But for what it's worth, things were different back then. My only love was teaching, my classroom a stage on which I proudly performed. All I'd ever defiled was a chalkboard, and a few tests here and there, whenever someone needed a push to study more. I was good at what I did—I still am. My students are proof of that. But none quite as much as Tanya Martinez.
She stepped into my life as a cheerful seventeen-year-old, a senior who wore her hair in pigtails, and would come skipping to class every day thirsty for knowledge. Someone who'd smile whether the grade on her quiz was a B or an A. She was bright, curious. A pleasure to be around. And I easily found myself smiling back, each time she raised her hand with another question or volunteered to help clean the room after school. She didn't care about extra credit; she only wanted to learn.
We once had a discussion about the rise and fall of the Roman Empire while my fingers were knuckle-deep inside her. I was amazed at how she was able to keep talking, despite the gasps that caught in her throat, the tremors that had her squirming on the couch cushions until the moment I made her come. God knows I tried the same. But my words fell apart when she straddled my hips, and by the time her cunt swallowed me up, they were gone completely.
She smiled afterwards and said, "Tell me about the French Revolution next time."
I wanted to, but my tongue had other plans.
The last day of classes, she came up to my desk with one of her graduation photos in hand.
"I thought we could keep in touch." But what I'd heard was "Please don't forget me", and my mind had echoed that exact wish as I wrote my email in her yearbook, along with a note to "Take care, kiddo. And know that I'm proud of you."
At least one of us could take pride in themself.
Barely a week had passed before I started to miss her. I told myself to give it time, that she was busy enjoying her year off before college, as she'd said she would. I waited, I pondered. And a month later I invited her out for a cup of coffee, a mistake that I knew I wouldn't regret.
I still don't, regardless of how my conscience wants me to.
The café was lovely, the conversation too good to let go after just one cup. I bought a box of macarons, and innocently asked her back to my house for tea. What could have happened, then? In daylight, with a man old enough to be her father? The two of us smiling and laughing on the couch, as though it were meant to be that way. Simple and straightforward.
When her lips met mine, it felt like I'd slipped into the sweetest of dreams.
I couldn't move, couldn't speak. Couldn't push her away, though I told myself I wanted to. Her hands were on my face, her tongue soft and warm. Gentle fingers untied my ponytail, so they could weave their way through my hair.
"I thought it would be nice if I could sweep it back for you," she admitted later, with a blush. "Like you did in class, whenever it fell across your forehead."
It is nice. I let her brush it before bed on occasion. And she lets me take her clothes off as I'd done that day—everything pink, from her strawberry-patterned shirt to her polka-dotted bra. The pleated skirt I pushed up around her waist so I could peel down her panties, after I'd sucked and teased her nipples until they were hard as marbles.
The sight of her pussy was nothing short of stunning, a work of art with slim lips and shaved sides, and a sculpted triangle leading the way to her clit. It was almost as if she'd come ready for me to spread her legs. My mouth watered.
"You're wet."
Her gray eyes locked with mine.
"Make me wetter."
I gave her what she wanted. Twice. With my tongue and fingers, everything steeped in her taste. It was all I never knew I'd desired. And now that I had it, I couldn't get enough.
"Why do you like eating my pussy so much?" She sometimes asks as I'm wiping her come from my mouth.
"Because I like sweet things." And she's sweeter than any macaron in existence.
We stopped just short of sex then, though Tanya had whimpered for more, more, "Please, Mr. Berkman", "Keep going", "Be my first", "Make me yours."
"I love you."
I brought my trembling lips to hers. "Tanya…I love you, too."
And from then on, I insisted she call me Roger.
It had never sounded more beautiful than when she said it. "Roger," as she curled her arms around my neck. "Roger," when she whispered in my ear, "Teach me how to make you come."
I only had to show her once. She was always a quick learner, be it in class with a pencil in hand, or down on her knees, tickling my cock from root to tip. She likes to suckle my balls, kiss the veins on my shaft. Waits with her lips pressed to my foreskin, watching my eyes gleam in desperation before she peels it back to take me into her mouth. Always eager, always hungry.
"Tanya. I'm close."
She drinks it to the last drop.
I'll never forget the first time we made love, how she cried into my shoulder.
She knew it would hurt; I wasn't going to lie. I'm a bit on the larger side, thick, and out of practice when it comes to virgins. Still, she trusted me, and I treated her as delicately as a flower, pausing, asking, checking with every inch to make sure the pain wasn't unbearable.
"Does it feel good for you?" She asked.
"It feels amazing." But all I cared about was her. It didn't matter that I hadn't done this in ages, or that I came embarrassingly fast. As long as Tanya could enjoy it, I was happy.
She loves it more than ever now. We've fucked in the shower, on the couch. I've eaten her out on the kitchen counter while we had a batch of cookies in the oven, to see which would finish first. Anything she wants, I give to her. Because I know the day will come when I can't.
I tell her this in bed sometimes, when my insecurities swell so big, my mind can't contain them.
"I'm only getting older." "I won't be able to keep up." "I'm sorry if I disappoint you."
But Tanya only purrs and cuddles closer, stroking my graying chest hairs and tugging playfully at the bristles on my chin.
"Don't think you can get rid of me that easy, Old Man."
She's stubborn, but I'm the one who's worse. Because even if I wanted, I couldn't let her go. I wouldn't so much as dream of trying.
"Selfish." Is what my ex-wife had called me when she'd unearthed my countless affairs. Selfish, stupid, despicable. Things I call myself in guilt when I look back at my broken family and the life I'd ruined, and vow never to destroy the one I've built.
My hands are too tired; my heart just wants to heal. Tanya picked up the pieces and strung them back together. She knew what she had to lose, yet she gave me everything. Her love, her future. Her home. Her mother threw her out when she told her about us. Her friends look at her with disgust. Everywhere she goes, she has to carry my shame with her. But she stays. She smiles. She paints pictures of our life together, as we hold each other tight.
"I've never been so happy."
"Neither have I," I say. "I want this to last forever."
We talk about getting married once she's finished college.
"Second time's the charm, right?" I joke. And when we've laughed our hearts out, Tanya replies, "Lucky for you, I only want to do this once."
I am lucky. The world may never understand, but if it takes forever, I'll shout my confession until the day I die.
My name is Roger Berkman. And I've finally found someone to call home.