The Professor & The Rearview Mirror

The year 2002 was my year of education. Beatriz wasn't just my girlfriend; she was my mentor.

She was older, wealthier, and infinitely more sophisticated. She took the simple boy I was and showed him the good life. We dined at the city’s best restaurants, sat in the best seats at the theater, and she dressed me in expensive clothes I couldn't afford myself. She was polishing a rough diamond.

But her best lessons were in the bedroom.

Physically, she wasn't a bombshell like Mónica. But in terms of skill? She was a professor. Beatriz had an open mind and a hunger that matched mine. She introduced me to toys—vibrators, cock rings—and showed me that sex didn't have to be confined to the bed. We fucked on top of the washing machine, standing in the corridor, and even visited strip clubs together.

She was loud, uninhibited, and intense. She wasn't multi-orgasmic, but she made her climaxes count. Sometimes, after two quick orgasms, the pleasure was so intense she would actually cry. It was a raw, emotional release that fed my ego.

And, to my delight, she loved the back door.

It wasn't just something she tolerated; she asked for it. She would hand me the lubricant, her eyes heavy with lust, begging me to take her ass. Sometimes we mixed it up—a plug in her ass while I took her pussy, or a vibrator buzzing against her clit while I hammered her from behind. She swallowed every drop of cum like it was champagne.

With a woman like that at home, most men would retire from the game. But I wasn't most men. The restlessness was still there, and I had a specific weakness: big tits.

In the summer, Beatriz went south for a few days. The apartment was empty, the bed was cold, and boredom set in. My mind drifted back to Mónica and those spectacular breasts. She had just bought a new car. It was the perfect excuse.

"Let's grab a coffee," I told her. "I want to see the new machine."

We met at a bar near the beach. I offered to drive, taking us to a cozy, private spot overlooking the ocean. I parked, turned off the engine, and let the old routine take over. Arm around the seat, hand on the neck, lips on the skin. I checked the merchandise. Her tits were still perfect—heavy, firm, inviting.

But the spot wasn't private enough for the main event. "I know a better view," I said.

I drove us to a well-known "lovers' lane," a parking lot where every car had steamed-up windows. We weren't there for the sunset. We climbed into the back seat. I pulled down her pants. She was on the pill this time, so anal was off the table. I fingered her until she was wet, then slid inside.

It was exactly as I remembered: visually stunning, but mechanically boring.

Mónica lay there, looking beautiful, while I did all the work. It was a hollow victory compared to the fireworks I had with Beatriz, but looking down at those bouncing tits, I didn't care. I came, pulled up my pants, and dropped her off.

I went back to Beatriz without a shred of guilt. The affair didn't affect us; if anything, it scratched an itch so I could focus on her.

But by November, the relationship hit a wall. It wasn't about sex; it was about "futurology."

I started looking ahead. Beatriz was thirty-three, wealthy, and established. I was twenty-nine, still building my life. Our worlds were different. Our friends were different. I felt a creeping insecurity that I was wasting her time. She needed a man ready to build a family, and I wasn't there yet.

I initiated the breakup. It was a rational decision, not an emotional one. I was single again. The Teacher had taught me well, but it was time for the student to graduate and move on.