A Visit to the Tutor 1

First in a trilogy, from Blushes 76

‘I don’t know,’ the tutor says. ‘Really I don’t. Eh Susan?’

The girl makes a mumbled noncommittal reply. We cannot for the moment see her face as her back is towards us as she stands facing the tutor who is seated in a comfortable green-upholstered armchair. But she is quite tall and the white blouse and dark knee-length skirt reveal a shapely figure. Bright sunlight is slanting in across her right side from the french window highlighting her shape and her curling honey-blonde hair.

‘No I really don’t. It was pretty dreadful. So what are we going to do with you, Miss. What do you suggest?’

The highlighted blonde head turns from side to side in a silent reply. She is standing smartly upright, the weight of her full haunches which show through the seat of the tightish skirt evenly balanced on both feet which are in shiny black low-heeled shoes. The nicely-shaped calves above the trim shoes are in smooth-stretched white knee socks. The pretty backs of the knees are pale and vulnerable-looking and there is inevitably the thought of more pale and vulnerable flesh above. The bare backs of her thighs. And above the thighs those full, firm haunches, in insubstantial knickers perhaps. White probably, matching the light white bra, the strap of which can be seen under the thin blouse spanning the slim back.

Is that what the tutor, Mr Robson, is thinking as he gazes at her, a slightly amused expression on his face? Susan’s bottom in her no doubt insubstantial knickers. He is in shirtsleeves and striped tie, with dark hair and a trimmed beard, thirtyish. To one side on his desk are some sheets of lined foolscap covered with reasonably neat writing in blue ink, with scrawled comment superimposed in red biro. This of course is the matter under discussion: the reason for Susan’s unhappy presence here in Mr Robson’s study.

‘Pretty dreadful.’ According to Mr Robson. According to those red-scrawled comments. But does he really think this? Or could he perhaps be deliberately laying it on a bit thick? So that he can maybe lay it on a bit thick in another, more directly physical fashion?

Can this be so? Is this what Susan thinks? Is it what Susan’s ripely-rounded bottom under the dark skirt thinks. There is no sign of course. Not in Mr Robson’s impassive, quizzical gaze. But then there wouldn’t be, would there?

‘Come here,’ he requests. ‘Closer. It wasn’t very good, was it?’

Susan steps forward. Stumbling nervously forward out of the direct shaft of sunlight to stand close to Mr Robson’s chair. His hand turns her so that she faces him in a sideways manner. We can now see her face for the first time. Also the rest of the front of her. A softly-pretty face with wide blue-grey eyes to go with the honey-blonde curls and a ripely vulnerable mouth And there are nice-shaped tits in the flimsy blouse: a good-sized, softly jutting.

The soft lips part, the blue eyes widen further. Alarm bells registering, though perhaps not really jangling. Mr Robson’s hand has gripped behind one bare knee. His hand holding bare flesh.

‘Yes, we will have to have something, Susan. Won’t we?’ She bites her lip. The hand has slid on a few inches. Up onto the beginning of the silky-smooth back of her thigh under her skirt.

‘Have you got knickers on, Miss?

Mr Robson’s voice is mild, matter-of-fact. As if such a query is not at all out of the ordinary. As if a pretty 17-year-old girl might choose to visit her tutor without any knickers under her skirt. Or perhaps absent-mindedly forget them. Susan gulps out an affirmative. Trying not to squirm or twist away because the hand is still there. Further up now.

‘Yes? Well I don’t know. If you produce much more like that last piece maybe you had better come round without them. So that we can get down to it right away. This, Miss.’

She gives a sharp squeal. The hand has suddenly slid right up. Onto her bottom. The tight seat of Susan’s knickers. Mr Robson pinches the flesh through the thin material, then takes his hand down, out. ‘OK? Get your skirt off then.’

She stumbles back a step. The big blue eyes have a slightly frantic look. Take her skirt off. But hasn’t she been expecting this? Her skirt and then… Because surely this is not the first time.

Susan doesn’t argue. Her hands go to the dark skirt’s waistband. Unzipping. The skirt slides down, over the full swell of her hips and bottom. And now we see that her knickers aren’t white. She is wearing black ones. Tight black material snugly hugging the swelling nates. Clinging cosily into the cleft between the cheeks. Perhaps the knickers are a size too small because certainly they are very tight.

Susan straightens up, skirtless now. Looking taller with the quite brief clinging knickers and then her long bare soft-fleshed thighs.

Mr Robson smiles. ‘Come here then.’ His voice soft, seductive almost.

Susan steps forward again. Mr Robson, grinning, pokes out his index finger. At the level of Susan’s crotch. He moves it forward until it is just touching where the black material is taut-stretched over the swell of Susan’s pubis. Where on the undercurve of the mound it is possible to make out if you are close — and Mr Robson is close — the indentation. This is where he puts his pointing finger. Lightly touching where the lips begin.

‘This, Miss. This is your problem, isn’t it? A bit of an itch. A continual itch. Eh? So that you’re not thinking about your work, you’re thinking about this. Eh?’

‘Ooooooohh!’

‘Keep still!’

The finger has slid forward. Along the groove of her tightly-knickered slit. Sliding forward along the hot crease. Sending a high voltage current through her. Causing her knees to turn to jelly.

‘Keep still, Susan.’

The finger slides in and out.

‘Eh Susan. Isn’t that the problem?’

‘Nnnnngghhh…’

That is the nearest to a reply (a denial of course) that Susan can muster. Mr Robson’s finger is going to drive her out of her mind. If he keeps it there. Sliding diabolically in and out. She is getting wet.

‘That’s it, eh Miss? Too much action with this. Hot pants. Ants in your knickers. Boys? Or doing it yourself. Mmm?’

The devilish finger at last comes away. She is sweating, her knees almost buckling. Mr Robson doesn’t seem to require an answer to his question. No, he is more interested in getting down to the real business.

‘Come on then.’

Over his lap he means now. For the spanking. Susan is told to hold her blouse up round her waist and get down. Across Mr Robson’s lap. Her blonde head down over the arm of the chair. Hands on the floor. And then Mr Robson is tugging her knickers down with both hands.

Shortly there is that unmistakable sound. Flesh sharply meeting flesh. The hard palm of a man’s hand cracking rhythmically down onto a girl’s bare bottom. A sound ringing out into Mr Robson’s pretty garden with its climbing roses and bright herbaceous border all in full bloom and resplendent on this sunny June afternoon. But there is no person here to hear the sharp, resounding cracks. Or the feminine yelps which accompany them. No one, only a sleepy tabby cat who is not at all interested in the sounds. Perhaps the cat is used to them, they are a regular feature.

The cat has a certain interest in the bicycle through. The girl’s bicycle propped against the side of the garage. It gets up and stretches and then walks languidly over to rub itself against the wheel. Perhaps it senses a connection between those urgent sounds and this inanimate visitor to the garden.

----//----

Cycling back from Mr Robson’s Susan does her best to keep her skirt down. Does she keep it down sufficiently? She thinks so. And the road and the lane leading from Mr Robson’s are pretty deserted. The only thing is some 300 yards along the leafy lane where there is a man cutting his hedge. An older man in his shirtsleeves in the hot sun who stops to watch as she rides by. His eyes of course are on Susan’s pumping legs. She holds her skirt down with a half-apologetic smile and she is pretty sure he doesn’t see, Doesn’t see she has no knickers on, she has nothing on under her skirt. The man’s searching eyes of course are hoping to see Susan’s bare thighs and her knickers. That is what is in his mind, the thought of a quick glimpse of this pretty girl’s thighs and knickers. He isn’t aware that if he saw that far he would get considerably more than he imagined.

But he doesn’t see, Susan is pretty sure. Not that she turns round to check, to reassure herself that there is not that startled, amazed look on his face which would mean he had. No, she cycles on, feeling just a little hotter though she was already hot from cycling on this warm June afternoon. A little extra glow at the thought of him seeing. But he didn’t.

Mr Robson has kept her knickers. After the spanking he took them right off. And then after that other business said he was going to keep them. She could have them back this evening. Because he is going to require her to come back again after supper. An extra session in view of her awful essay. Or what Mr Robson called awful, although Susan herself doesn’t think it was that bad. But she couldn’t say that, of course not. Not unless she wanted more of the things Mr Robson does to a girl who produces awful essays or argues that they are not awful. No, Susan doesn’t want any more of it, not any more than she’s getting already.

So Susan hasn’t argued. She will be going back again this evening. Even though it is not at all convenient. She was due to see Derek, her boyfriend, and she will have to cancel that. Derek will not be pleased but there it is. Mr Robson of course is not concerned about making Susan break her arrangement with Derek. He simply laughs and thinks it a big joke.

‘Poor boy! Poor Derek. Will he be terribly frustrated, Susan dear?’

There wasn’t really any answer to that. Only a forced acquiescing smile. Mr Robson had laughed again, and briefly groped Susan’s pussy.

----//----

Back home Susan parks her bike and, briefly greeting her mother and saying Mr Robson has given her some work to do, goes up to her room. Susan has got some work but that is not what she is going to do right away. There is something else. A thing maybe she shouldn’t do — and shouldn’t want to do — but nonetheless has to. A visit to Mr Robson and getting a bare-bottom spanking — not to mention the rest frequently brings it on. Pretty much irresistibly. As now. She locks her door. Then, kicking off her shoes, gets on her bed.

Lying on her back. A little sigh of relief. Or rather expectation of relief. She raises one leg and pulls back her skirt. There are no knickers of course. No knickers to first of all take off. A shuddering gasp as urgently she takes hold of herself. Two fingers sliding in the wetness. To her swollen clit. To begin a frantic massage.