로설러 학생

It should be obvious, but it’s a different matter when you’re in it. Koreans are hypersensitive about some topics that Americans are not.

You don’t talk about learning disabilities, Japan’s history in Korea, sex outside of explicitly sexual contexts, or drugs unless you want to have a bad interaction.

On the other hand, they’re so much more casual and overtly lookist and status-conscious than Americans. They readily drop comments that Westerners would regard as fat-shaming, single-shaming, educational-attainment shaming, and hometown-shaming. For example, a slightly overweight, single woman approaching or just past age 30 from a small town and an unknown university in Korea will hear about all of it all the time from everyone. And nobody blinks at it.

I taught ESL, small private classes, for some years there. One of my students was a teenage boy who loved soccer, FPS games, swearing and slang, and getting good grades.

His mom was happy with and liked me, I thought, because I did well by her son, as with any of my students, and with my help, his grades and test scores ticked up fast. Then one day, picking him up, she came inside and thanked me for that. Such a nice mom, she brought me coffee and yakgwa honey pastries, enough to distribute to the next class. Then she kind of visibly overcame some hesitation to say, “I want to ask if you can do something.”

I said sure, expecting it’d be some special request for her son’s lessons. She explained that she wanted to start studying with me, too, one-on-one night classes, once or twice a week, depending on flexible availability. “I really want to improve my English too!”

I said, “Sure, what would you like to study specifically? We can do grammar, pronunciation, dialogue practice, essay writing, all the stuff.”

She said, “I need help reading English novels.”

I said, “Great! Which do you have in mind?” I pointed to my class bookshelves, which took up their own wall and presented a wide variety of YAL, nonfiction, biographies, poetry, and the most mature, spicy thing you might find in there was a Malcolm X biography that sprinkled in details of his lesser-known sex life.

She didn’t stutter or bite her tongue. “Pipeutee Shyaijeu!”

“Which?” I wasn’t familiar with it.

“Keuleeseuchun Geulayee!” she clarified.

I was starting to catch on, but I wasn’t ready to believe it. I cocked my head. “Hmmm. Do you have a copy?”

She set her purse down on my classroom table and pulled a book out, presenting the cover. “BDSM billionaire!”

I couldn’t hold it in. I laughed. “Ha!”

She laughed too. “He-h-h-h! Can we?”

I was red. “But why this one?”

“I need help to understand it. I read it 3 times. But some things are difficult.” She made a cute face; I couldn’t decline.

“Alright? Maybe. OK. Yeah. Yeah. You’re an adult, and I’m an adult. We can study it.”

It was rock-solid reasoning.

I had never read it before, and looking back, I owe her because this is how I even got the idea to try my own hand at erotica. I did my research on the novel, impressed by its sales and all that, but also the background information and trivia behind it. I made up some genuine lesson plans for each chapter and decided to treat it extra-seriously. She was paying for these classes, she was an ESL student, and if this was the material she most enjoyed in her pursuit of a second language… then I was behind that 100%.

Our first class went well. Most importantly, she did the majority of the talking; she gushed over every page. She spoke of Seattle, a city she’d never visited and the setting of the novel, as if it were Paris. “I will visit Seattle next year. I want to see every location in the novel. Do you recommend anything there?”

Korea is a nation of coffee addicts, and many define themselves by the cafés they frequent and brands they drink. Amateur barista classes are offered everywhere, and they’re booked up. I told her, “It’s a coffee city, and bring a raincoat. That’s all I know.”

She grabbed my hand and shook it playfully. “If you want to fall in love in Seattle, where should you go? How do you… connect?”

I pulled my hand away and rubbed my ear. “I’ve never been there. I’m a Chicagoan. Chicagoans have no business in Seattle.”

She laughed way too hard. “Don’t lie, how could you never go to Seattle?”

Koreans, like a lot of foreigners, don’t always grasp the distances between American cities and the total lack of high-speed rail. Most Koreans have been to every Korean city multiple times. I explained that and pulled the lesson back into focus. She put herself in the shoes of the protagonist narrator, as I requested, and she gladly did the little exercises I had prepared. She finished with gratitude. “It was like reading it with new eyes, I can’t believe how much I missed between the lines.”

I did the typical Korean head bow. “Perhaps when we finish it, it’ll be like a different novel to you.”

These classes went on like this. Now, if you’re imagining we got to sex scenes and sat there reading them to each other, that’s not how it went. One, it’s not a productive reading lesson like that. Two, I wasn’t going to read or be read to about whips and nipple clamps like that! But we didn’t exactly skip over it either. She genuinely needed support to fully comprehend what was transpiring in those portions, and well, I supported her! We broke down etymology, tenses, jargon, euphemisms, idioms, and such… in the context of a college girl character getting sexually awakened by a can-fix-him self-made mogul.

But that’s not what got her hottest. What finally got her talking crazy was the male love interest’s tragic backstory, of all things. It really turned her on that he was an orphan, that he had all these scars from being abused, that he never allowed anybody to touch his chest before the protagonist college girl melted him. You should have seen the look in her eyes. That was it, she got wet for the man with a broken-wing dynamic, nursing this mysterious, powerful man, untangling his shameful history, and the rest of it.

She pried into my history on the pretext of making connections with the characters. I thought then that I shouldn’t have said shit, that I should have left it at, “No, no. I had a great childhood.” But she pressed and somehow got this bit of truth out of me. “My parents divorced when I was in diapers. I never met my biological mom again, but for a couple of phone calls.”

She froze like I had just told her I was dying of cancer or something. Her face went pale. Her eyes went pink. I had to stop her; it was embarrassing me. “No, no. I hardly think of it. My stepmom is great…”

She blurted, “Stepmom?! But you must feel a lost link with your birth mom.”

She began to sniffle and bring it back to herself. “I have one son. If I couldn’t see him for years and years, only a couple phone calls, I wouldn’t be able to live!”

And with that, she sprang forward. I wished I could call it a hug, but it wasn’t a hug. She was grabbing me all over.

I was able to find and get hold of her wrists and gently rebuff her, but as soon as I let go of my loose grip, she went back at me! “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!”

She got my body language after she got hold of plenty of my body, and relented. She gave me a polite Asian bow, putting her waist into it, took her book, and told me she’d see me next class as if nothing had happened.

Now you’re thinking, why didn’t I cancel classes with her after that if I was so uncomfortable as I make myself out to be? Several reasons; she paid double tuition for her son and herself. Her son was close friends with several of my students, and she was friends with several of my students’ moms. If they left, others would be sure to leave. I got margins. And, well, I would feel badly about it. And maybe there’s some male privilege in it that if a woman grabs you like that, you might not feel it as quite the threat or violation a woman in the same shoes would. I believed she should get the message and not do that again. And if I’m being totally honest with you and myself, she was kinda attractive, and that does change one’s perception of a person’s behavior.

So she came back for her classes. We made it through chapter by chapter. Things seemed back to normal, by the baseline of studying a major work of erotic fiction. We laughed a lot, too. I once asked her what her husband thought of her reading that genre. She answered, “My husband thought it stands for Big Dick Sexy Man.”

Yes.

Another day, we got to the scene where our college girl protagonist suspects the calisthenics-performing philanthropist of cheating on her. She asked me point-blank, “Have you ever had a married woman?”

That question makes my blood hot and gets me switched into another gear, no matter if it’s asked back then or this minute. A horny demon comes clawing out from the depths of my psyche with a swinging priapism, snarling and growling when I hear that question. The truthful answer is YES!

But I answered with some decorum. “The novel isn’t about me.”

She knew that meant yes, and she rested her cheek on her hand, elbow on the table, pushing her notes aside. “You did. I asked my husband if my English teacher and I did something, what would he think, to see his reaction.”

I couldn’t feign shock at this point. Having gotten to know her through these classes, I would have been surprised if she didn’t run that by her husband. “What did he say?”

“Who cares what he said?” she gestured with a hand wave, to mean forget him.

That kind of comment reminded me that this was real, and I thought to defuse what was happening without insulting her. I tapped on her syllabus with my red pen. “We’re reaching the end of the novel, and our lessons will be finished. I’m proud of your commitment, making it through so many intense lessons. A lot of adult students give up and quit when they realize it’s a long, frustrating road to bilingual literacy… but not you!”

I saw that the praise was causing her to blush.

“Don’t be embarrassed, I mean it. You…”

Without a word, she leaned forward and kissed me on the corner of my mouth. Pulling away, we said nothing.

I had half convinced myself of the absurd notion that perhaps a woman requesting a one-on-one erotica reading class was, in fact, not necessarily interested in fucking me, the teacher. Her kiss obliterated that doubt. But I was still unsure if I wanted to do that. Sex with a student… it was a line I’d not crossed. It sounds bad, even if she’s an adult; even if it’s not a credited course, even if the context begs it. She didn’t let me finish those second thoughts, though, and went in for the second kiss… this time with tongue!

I gave in to it. We stood together, faces pressed tight, and I backwardly fumbled my chair away, went grabbing for the door, and she followed. Her mouth ventured under my jaw, down my neck, as I retreated into the hallway, making way for the classroom adjacent. That wasn’t a true classroom, but a rarely used kind of space with a couple of desks and a sofa. I’d taken mid-day naps back there before on that sofa, and knew it was fit for fucking on. Better still, unlike the classroom she’d initiated in with its wide, street-facing window for any passing pedestrian to peer into… this classroom across the hall had a sliding frosted window none could spy us through.

She sat her big, round ass on the sofa with a thump. I stood, crotch in her face, and she went tugging at my belt, impatiently undoing it and then yanking the zipper down so aggressively that she jammed it. Whatever, with my belt off and unbuttoned, I got them loose enough for her to pull them down to my knees. She closed her mouth on my sack. I’d never had a woman want to gobble my nut like that. My cock bobbed on her cheek, her eye, her nose as she just about hyperventilated, taking in deep whiffs, trying to get a mouthful of my meat bag.

She spoke Korean, mumbling to herself. I normally don’t care to ask when I don’t understand, but I asked her, “Mumjihada?”

She nodded slowly and seemed to calm down, holding my sack in her hand and weighing it like produce at the market. “Mukjikhada,” she corrected my pronunciation. “Heavy. Full.”

“So, this is your playroom?” She was referencing the damned novel.

“I’ve napped back here,” I told her, and unbuttoned her blouse enough to pull it inside out off her head.

With her face half-covered in her own hair, she looked me in the eye and said, “Tell me more about your mom.”

“She was a cheating married mom like you,” I said that because it had been on my mind since she first kissed me.

“Do you think I’m like her?” She stopped like I had almost aborted the sexual moment.

I proceeded to undress us both, pulling off my shirt and then unhooking her bra one-handed. “She didn’t want me, you seem to.”

Her expression lustful, she exhaled as if she had been hit in the alveoli with opium. “Eomeo… neomu ansseureopjana. Eojjeol su eomne. Ije naega neol gajyeoyagetne.” Which means: “Oh my… that’s just too tragic. Can’t be helped. I guess I’ll have to take you.”

She lay back on the sofa and spread her legs. Planting one knee on the sofa, I knelt and, stirring my cock at her entry, tap-tap-tapping it on her clit. I hooked my middle finger into her woman hole and she was so tented that I could wiggle it around and feel a kind of slippery void, no sign of her cervix. Spreading her legs wider and leaning into her, I directed my dickhead into her and slid in balls deep on the first thrust.

Fucking her in that position wasn’t easy, the angle was steep, I had to do this extra-flexible nonsense with my hips, and I felt the beginnings of a cramp… but she was loving it! I’m the kind of guy who sulks if a woman expresses being underwhelmed on her end, and I’m elated forever-after whenever a woman so much as gives me a satisfied murmur. So I wasn’t going to change up what I was doing to her then if someone put a gun to my ass. I really enjoyed that she was really enjoying it.

She was just about grunting like an animal, and that’s with minimal clitoral stimulation as far as I could tell. I was making little mental notes, thinking maybe I’d just discovered a secret penetrative technique; my positioning, hers, my rhythm, I wanted to be sure I could duplicate this level of sexual proficiency in the future. Then she asked this crazy question, “Do you miss your mommy?”

I gave a crazy answer. “Yes, I miss my mommy.”

She shut her eyes tight and clenched her teeth and squeezed out this moan like she’d almost orgasmed just from that, and followed it up, “Did you cry because you miss your mommy?”

I slowed my thrusting pace, because I actually had to, and answered, “Once I was told she would come to my birthday.”

She opened her eyes wide like she was hungry for the next detail and needed to see my face as I told it. She pleaded, “She didn’t come to your birthday?”

I shook my head. “She didn’t make it there, no,” as I continued dicking her.

She clasped her face in her hands and writhed, then composed herself enough to ask what she really needed to hear the right answer to.

“Did you cry because your mommy didn’t come to your birthday like you were told she would?”

I shook my head and made a little that’s-life frown. “Yeah, I never told anyone, but I hid in my closet and cried a lot.”

Her thighs clutched around my hips, she crunched upward as her abs tensed, her tits squeezed together as she crossed her arms over, she looked like she was about to have a seizure, and then she sprayed on me, making these high-pitched yelps, “Eiy! Eiy! Eiy! Eiy!”

I wanted to put a sofa cushion over her face, she was so loud! Finally, she quieted; it must have been like 5 seconds of that noise, but it seemed to me like minutes. Her eyes were pink, and she sat up, my dick sliding out of her just absolutely slimed. She turned and bent, one knee on the sofa, one foot on the floor, elbows on the armrest; she wanted it from behind. I love giving it from behind. I ran my hands up and down her back as she bent over, felt the modest chubbiness around her waist, gave her cheeks a squeeze and docked my cock where it belonged. I took my time getting mine, humping her like a stray dog. She gave her clit some finger rubbing, I groped her tits, and I pounded into her until the sofa screeched forward on its peg legs. Her hair swished, her ass formed gorgeous radiating impact ripples, and she had those beautiful skin imprints left from wearing a bra all day that I adore.

She hesitantly asked something I didn’t hear, so I said, “What?” and she repeated it, still reluctant but louder, “Don’t think of your mom making you sad. You have me right now. I’ll make you happy. Do it inside me.”

I repeated for clarity, “Do it inside you? Finish inside you?”

She nodded, letting her head hang over the armrest. “Do it inside me. I like it.”

And that invitation was enough to blow my meter. In a much, much better stance than that earlier one she preferred, I used every bit of leverage I had to dive into her, mashing her into the armrest. I took her by her hips and pulled her tight onto my cock and with that second or two of pre-release tightness gripping me, I gushed into her.

We sat on the sofa together, limbs entangled, making out and not saying anything. She liked kissing up and down my shoulders, chest, and abs, and left a couple of hickies. Then we heard, from across the hall, her purse buzz, her phone. She was quick on her feet, and I handed her bits of her clothes to get dressed. She didn’t seem all that much in a hurry, though, and let her phone buzz unanswered. Whoever was calling must’ve called three or four times.

“We will still study?” she asked. She might’ve thought the fuck could change things. But I didn’t see why it should.

“Sure. Of course. You have homework, don’t turn it in late.” I smiled.

She liked my response, and fully dressed, with her hair a mess, came in and then pulled away from giving me a kiss. She shyly asked, “Did I say something wrong about your mom? Am I strange for that?”

I smiled big and chuckled. “No, no, no. Tonight was very fun.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me, a nervous grin. “Really? Don’t lie.”

I kissed her, quickly. “Seriously. This was fun for me. I’m serious about the homework too.”

She brushed down her hair with her hands and exhaled. “OK. Good. I promise I’ll bring my homework.”

And then she went out.

I followed her to the door and stood out on the sidewalk as she walked to her car. Then I realized she hadn’t brought her own car. Her husband had come to pick her up and must’ve been waiting outside, parked for some time.

Behind the steering wheel, as she opened the passenger side and got in beside him, he gave me a little wave.

I waved back, and per the custom and habit, gave a small head bow.