Destrozando el culo de mi profesora de italiano

So I finally did something about that whole situation with my Italian teacher, and honestly, the phrase destrozando el culo keeps replaying in my head because that’s exactly what happened, and I still can’t believe how far things went that afternoon. You know how she’d always make those snide comments in class, acting like I was the dumbest person in the room, so when she asked me to stay after for extra help, I thought it was just another chance for her to tear me down, but the second the door clicked shut, her whole vibe shifted, and she got this look in her eyes that was less about grammar and more about something primal. She leaned over my desk to point at a verb conjugation, and her perfume hit me hard, then her hand brushed my thigh as she “adjusted” her notes, and I froze, but she didn’t pull away, instead she whispered something in Italian that I didn’t need to translate because her fingers were already unbuttoning my jeans. The next thing I knew, I had her bent over that same desk, her skirt hiked up, and I was gripping her hips while she moaned out phrases that sounded like dirty talk even if I couldn’t parse them, and the power dynamic flipped completely—every condescending look she’d ever given me turned into these desperate little gasps as I pounded into her from behind, watching her ass ripple with each thrust. It was raw and messy and way hotter than I’d ever imagined, her nails scratching the wood, me pulling her hair just enough to hear her whimper, and when I finally finished, we both just stood there panting, her lipstick smeared, and she looked at me with this mix of shock and satisfaction that said she’d been waiting for that exact kind of release too.