Brianna’s First Tutorial

It’s early afternoon when the doorbell rings. You’ve been waiting for it, your dick semi-hard from the prospect. You’ve switched on all the statuettes. You’ve made certain the bed is clean and ready. You’ve laid out the dining room for lessons.

Still, you don’t feel ready when you open the door to find Brianna standing there, her schoolbooks clasped to her chest pushing up her breasts, her face radiant, her brown eyes eager. She’s wearing a thin, rollneck black jumper and a short black skirt. The way her top clings to her body suggests she’s not wearing a bra.

“Afternoon, sir. I’m here for my lesson.” Her words are thick with sexuality.

First the lesson. First the lesson. She’s paid for a lesson. You’ve got to give her a lesson. That’s the plan. But just looking at her there, her golden red hair down her back, her beautiful face awash with desire, and going through the plan feels impossible. Somehow you gesture for her to enter and direct her towards the dining room rather than the bedroom.

Her outfit has driven all your plans for the lesson from your mind. You rearrange your thoughts by pouring both of you a drink. Then you switch on a timer on your phone, one hour. She has one hour of your time.

Right, yes, the lesson. You pull out her essay she wrote over the summer. In class you’ve only gone through the general issues with the girls’ essays. Now you go through Brianna’s essay in fine detail. You point out the places where she rambles, where she repeats herself, where she’s vague. For a while you stand behind her, pointing out the passages in her essay, one hand gently running along her arm. Not deliberate. You don’t even realise you’re doing it until the urge to lean a bit further and brush the back of your hand against her breasts becomes almost unbearable. No. You can’t do that. She’s paid for a lesson. You have to give her a lesson. But if she doesn’t ask to pay for a second lesson afterwards you don’t know how you’ll cope.

Thinking of history, thinking of dead people and dead events is so hard, when there’s a living, breathing, hot woman sitting there. Especially when she looks up at you with big, soulful brown eyes filled with adoration, or you notice the slight flush of her body, or the scent the musk of arousal over the lure of her perfume. Your mind keeps wandering.

And then the timer goes off. An hour. An hour of agony, of ecstasy, of suppressed desire.

“And that’s the hour,” you state with cracked voice. You sit down, because your cock is lengthening and hardening, and standing is growing difficult. “Did you find that lesson useful, Brianna?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

And the way her eyes look at you makes you melt, except for that one part of you that just hardens further.

“And will you be wanting another lesson next Sunday?”