There are words to describe Anna Hadlow. Confident, sassy, and smart, for starters. Ravishingly pretty too, in her effortless girl-next-door kind of way. As her tutor, I'm not supposed to admit that, but it's true.

However, as I stare into my webcam at the way she nonchalantly slips one breast from the scoop neckline of her aquamarine summer dress, a whole slew of other adjectives spring to mind. None of them wholesome. Tease, sexpot, and slut, for example.

She chews her lower lip. Eyes me, then glances over her shoulder at her mum, Bev, bustling in the open plan kitchen, preparing the family meal oblivious to her daughter’s imprudence.

Focusing back on me, Anna cups her exquisite and, it has to be said, full boob. She squeezes the pliant flesh to accentuate its delicate rose pink cap that firms at her touch. I can almost detect the chain reaction; blood pressure elevating, breath quickening, the muscle fibres contracting as her nipple swells and stiffens. It begs to be kissed. Sucked. Bitten.

I'm captivated, but the vision is cruelly short-lived. She tucks the soft orb away with an equal amount of insucience as it had appeared, and loops a stray lock of mahogany hair behind her ear.

More fool me for asking her to show me what you have.

“Well? What do you think, Mr Metcalfe?”

Conscious that her mum can hear everything, I clear my throat that's suddenly drier than a tax manual. “Uhhh, yes, a compelling argument.”

I shoot her a warning stare. Should have known it would only encourage her.

While I'm uncomfortable and suddenly very hot, not to mention aroused under my desk, let me just rewind a moment. I'm Andy Metcalfe and I specialise in private English tuition, offering anyone who is preparing for exams a boost.

Usually I get precious darlings who aren't hitting the grades that Mummy and Daddy expect. Sometimes the unhelpable who could be given two months’ extra time in the exam and still not identify the nouns. Occasionally, I get students like Anna; already on the upper grade boundary but wanting to learn techniques to push themselves to that top mark.

On the whole, one-to-one sessions are lucrative in the saturated, post-COVID tuition market. I attract clients by slightly undercutting my competitors, and the reason I can do that is because I'm not background checked.

I can already hear the klaxons going off. And I get it. In this profession, no checks are a cardinal sin. But I found a USP: by not paying the regulatory fees to the jobs-for-boys club in government, it gives me a price advantage over the do-gooders.

It does, however, come with a caveat that I make a big deal about in my marketing literature. I absolutely, one hundred percent insist that all lessons are virtual, and a parent or guardian remain present throughout.

That simple clause means I can sidestep legislation because there's no unsupervised contact. No he-said-she-said. And no baseless accusations against my good name from blackmail, extortion, or those trying to make a quick buck through litigation. I've seen it happen to colleagues. As a final precaution / convenience, I record the sessions in case the student wishes to revise from them.

And it works. Parents like listening in, monitoring the lesson progress, because they can track where their money is going. I get glowing word-of-mouth referrals that are worth ten times the hassle of manipulating Google searches. And so far, it has kept me out of trouble.

So far.

Anna seems as if she might be on a mission to change that.

Her latest stunt is hardly a surprise. It's a gradual escalation from teasing me in recent weeks by wearing more revealing clothes. If challenged, she'd blame the unseasonable early summer for needing to wear shorter shorts. Smaller, strappy tops. Dresses with lower neck lines. No bra, like today. But I know the real reason is to tease me.

I’ve not encouraged her, but there's only so far my poker face goes; and the horny minx has latched onto my squirming as a challenge. I can't even text her and tell her to stop. Every student session is arranged through the parents, for transparency, and they've paid for a discounted block of lessons up-front. Walking away isn't an option for at least another four weeks. And I’m limited in what I can say with her mum in the room.

It's somewhat ironic that my business’ instrument of power has entrapped me with this teenage siren. Guess I'll just have to ride it out.

She starts jotting more notes, and I compose myself.

“That's very good. For the analysis of the unseen piece, you need to begin with a clear overview, so the examiner can see precisely where you're heading with your line of argument. Follow that up with a perceptive and detailed evaluation, and a convincing and critical response to the focus of the statement. As always, support any arguments with a range of quotes and textual details. And include how the author uses the senses. Smell, taste, and—”

“Touch?” Anna idly strokes the swell of her bust with the tail end of the pen. She drags down into the considerable cleavage. Pauses at the dress neckline, and traces it out to circle a nipple that pokes against the fabric. My gaze centres there as the tiny peak responds and stiffens.

“Yes. Touch is especially important. It demonstrates how people interact. Whether that be firm or light. A grip or a brush.” I swallow as she flicks it with her fingertip, her mouth opening to allow a tiny inhalation to enter. “That can tell you a lot about a person’s mindset. Authors use the senses to add texture to their work.”

She nods. Pinches the cap and chews her lip. “I'll bear that in mind.”

“Excellent.” I check the time in the corner of the screen. “That's pretty much it this week. As always, get your mum to send me over anything you want marking.”

She flashes a mischievous smirk and stretches theatrically to emphasise her sumptuous chest bursting from the flimsy outfit. “I will. Thanks, Mr. Metcalfe.”

“No problem. Bye, Anna. See you next week.”

I click off the camera. Sit there in my home office, slightly dazed, the image of her delicate breast branded in my mind, its perfect cerise centre begging for attention. I wonder if she's scurried to her room. Flopped on the bed among her teddy bears, the dress riding up her tender thighs as she slips fingers into her panties, one hand scooping out and alternately clutching her exquisite tits while the other digs into her dripping folds.

Becoming hyper aware of my raging erection, I push back from the desk a fraction, yank the buttons of my jeans open and free it. Grip the stiffness and stroke, thumb swirling pre-cum over the crown.

With my free hand I navigate to the video folder and open the session. Drag through the footage, keyframes flitting by at a comical pace until I find the last few minutes. Her indiscretion. The way she checks over her shoulder, knowing it's wrong but doing it anyway. Exposing herself.

For me.

My cock swells in my fist and I stroke faster. I wonder if she's tending to her sex likewise. Picking up speed, touching herself sprawled on her bed. Circling her clit with a wet fingertip as she imagines me, all worked up and wanking over illicit thoughts of her hand wrapped around my shaft. That little coy smile as she leans down, her breath playing across the silvery blobs of pre-cum that ooze from its head. Her lips brushing. Sampling. Tasting me as my length slips into the warm cocoon, and she hums happily around me, sucking and slobbering my thickness.

On-screen, I replay the moment she eases her breast into view, my breath hitching. How would she respond if I closed my mouth around that tantalising peak? If I suckled and lapped as her sighs escalate, fingers entwining my hair while she clamps me to her nipple and loses herself in the impulses firing from the contact point to swamp her body.

My stroking increases again, soft clicking above my quickening breaths, her name, hushed and tumbling from behind them. The orgasm rises, surges, and I awkwardly stand from my seat, clutching the desk, hunched forward, face a few inches from the paused visage of her soft breast on my laptop screen. I groan, “Oh, Anna, yes,” and fire arcs of spunk across the desk surface in front of the keyboard, breathing hard through gritted teeth as each milky lash pools and peppers the wood grain.

I can't recall a time I climaxed so fast. My wife and I tend to adopt a more laid back pace. She appreciates me taking my time, tending to each area of her curves as I gradually build her desire, kiss by kiss.

Staring down at the desk as the last drops splatter, a pang of guilt hits. What the hell am I doing fantasising over this girl? I'm no better than Gary Ward who boned one of his A-Level students over his piano. The only reason he got found out was because she filmed it and her iCloud account was hacked. Bernadette, too. I forget her surname, but she sucked off one of her biology tutees at her kitchen table. To be fair, he blackmailed her into it after finding a leaked video of a debauched, drunken night out that he threatened to show her husband. Harris, that was her. Bernadette Harris. She stopped teaching him after that.

I focus on the screen. I should delete the video and pretend I lost it if she asks for footage. Or maybe I should edit this chunk out? Blame drive corruption, or something.

Slumping back down in the seat, my cock softening in my hand, I consider. Take in the curve of her sumptuous breast. The deliberate, filthy smirk. She knows exactly what she's doing. Certainly old enough to know it's wrong and is playing the power trip; using sexual allure to toy with me, because I can't do anything to stop her.

Trouble is, I'm not even sure if I want to.

Maybe if she oversteps, I'll find a way. But until then, I guess she can have her fun. Expression is all part of growing up, after all.

A week later, I regret that decision. It's approaching thirty on the Celsius scale and when I click to start the conference call, Anna is in the kitchen wearing a marine blue cami top with matching hot pants. Her hair’s pinned up, a few strands escaping to frame her cuteness, and she struts towards the table.

“Hey, Mr Metcalfe.”

“Hi, Anna. Hot enough for you?”

She giggles. “It's a bit melty. Nice shirt, by the way.”

I glance down at the cotton with its not-quite-Hawaiian pattern. “Oh, thanks. It was a present.”

"From your wife?"

"Yes."

“Suits you.” Before taking her seat, she pauses, almost the entire frame filled with thighs to midriff. There's not a single crease in the stretchy lycra shorts, hugging her body like they’re sprayed on, but her fingertips grab the waistband and she tugs them up a little. If anyone else cared to watch, the act could be construed for comfort, but I know the real reason. The outline of her plump pussy lips with a faint damp vertical line between them demonstrate two things. One, she wears nothing underneath. Two, she's been playing with herself.

And she wants me to know it.

I stir under the table in my khaki shorts.

All too soon, the vista is gone, the imprint of her tight slit seared into my memory. A new image jostles for pole position: her jiggly tits trying to escape the confines of her tiny cami top. Their creamy curvature invites my gaze, the tantalising discontinuity between them in shadow. I don't even realise I'm staring until I snap my attention back up and realise she's grinning.

“What do you want to see from me today, Mr Metcalfe?”

Now, there's a question. Your magnificent chest spilling from the clothing. Your hands cupping and pinching the cherries on top. One hand sliding down between your legs as your mouth falls open. The chair scraping the linoleum as you stand to show me the wetness blooming, your finger exploring the tight slit beneath the lycra. Any or all of the above. “How about we focus on writing quickly? A few timed exercises.”

She nods. Reaches forward to open her notebook and grabs her pen, making sure to squish her cleavage between biceps in the process. “You're the boss.”

I shiver. Try to compose myself, despite the erection vying for my attention, and start the lesson. We work on exercises to hone her analytical skills, formulating an argument and translating her thoughts to paper in ten-minute bursts. She gets better at it. Real progress before she asks to take a quick break and disappears for a couple of minutes, leaving her mum stirring the dinner in the background.

It's hot. Stifling almost, the rotating desk fan only managing to redistribute humid air. It ruffles up the edges of my notes folder as the breeze catches the corner on its rhythmic left-right sweep, the mechanical whir and its motion lulling me. My eyes half close. Didn't sleep particularly well in the heat either.

Bev sets the table, the distant clatter of the cutlery drawer registering. Placemats. Knives. Forks. Condiments. Blurrily, a few pages of my notebook curl up as air blows across it. Bev is leaning forward, reaching for the far side of the dining table to set the place. Her cleavage is as impressive as Anna’s and it's obvious where her looks originate.

Her voice echoes like she's in a tunnel. “Apologies for my daughter's dress code. We've talked about it but she's being stubborn. I hope it's not causing you too much discomfort. But if it is, maybe this would take your mind off it?”

She's naked, strutting towards the camera, full bush captivating, hips swaying in sync with her breasts, oaky tresses framing prominent, suckable nipples. I woozily gawp. She traces hands up her curves, cups her tits then slips a finger in her mouth, wetting it and drawing the digit round a nipple.

“Perhaps you'd lick these for me? Bite them. Come over when Anna’s at school and Neil’s at work. Pin me to the wall here and fuck me with your huge cock as you mark my skin. You'd like that wouldn't you? Making me scream as you—”

Anna slides into the frame and plonks herself on the chair. I jolt. She giggles. “You okay, Mr Metcalfe?”

I blink. Bev finishes setting the table and returns to the stove.

“Yes. Sorry. Zoned out there a moment. Bit tired.”

“Awww. Hope I'm not stressing you out. Am I making good progress?”

“Very good. Shall we go for one more?”

She grins. Glances over her shoulder, then rolls her top up, breasts doing a classic titty drop and a single, perfect bounce under gravity. “As you wish.”

Yes, one more breast than last week wasn't what I meant. But while I gawp, she starts writing. Her chest quivers with the motion of her arm transferred from the pen, and both nipples begin to harden as I stare.

Her free hand rests above her chest, fingering the hiked hem of the cami so she can yank it down if her mum interrupts. But as the minutes tick by and her essay lengthens, she becomes bolder. Dusts her hand down to cover the furthest nipple. Takes it between thumb and forefinger and twists it. Her jaw slackens. She lets go. Drops her arm to the table, draws a theatrical breath to lift her rack, and drapes it over her forearm.

The flesh squishes, so soft, so inviting. I can barely contain my professional decorum. Certainly beneath my desk, the height of unprofessionalism is taking place. I have one hand caressing my straining bulge, mind focused solely on imagining her squeaks and whimpers as I bite her beautiful tits. The other hand grips the desk edge as an anchor.

She lets a slow smile spread. “What do you think of these points?”

Putting her pen down, she lifts the page she's been working on and holds it up for me to screenshot like normal, so I can critique her writing while she carries on. Except there's nothing normal about this situation. Her firm nipples peek below the lower edge of the page, and I peel my fingertips from the desk to hit the screen capture button.

I nod. “Excellent… points.” I tear my attention from her tits to scan what she's written. With reference to her mentioning how Shelley had depicted the abuse of power in Ozymandias, I offer: “Maybe you could embellish the first point?”

Anna's eyes gleam as she captures the untouched nipple in her fingertips and pinches it, then cups the orb and offers it to the camera. “Like this?”

To keep up pretences, but also to compose myself, I pause before answering. “Yes, just like that.”

She beams and carries on writing as I zoom in to continue skim reading the screenshot.

And freeze.

There in the bottom right she's scrawled:

I hope ur touching urself for me :)

I snap my gaze up. Stare. She looks up. Raises an eyebrow. And grins. That's definitely why I never win at poker.

My cock is desperate to escape from beneath my fingertips. It swells and leaks a drip into my underwear. Another when she holds up the page again where she's added:

Take it out. Stroke it.

My eyes widen and I shake my head. She raises her eyebrows once more, dips her chin like she'd be looking over the rim of her glasses if she was wearing any, leans forward and peers down into the lens, pretending to look beneath my desk. Her spectacular tits fill the frame for a moment, before she sits back down. Gives me a long nod and mimes wanking.

With a long sigh, I unbutton. Unzip. Grip my solid shaft and pump it under the desk. She mimes clapping, obvious glee, and carries on writing while I focus on not painting the underside of my desk with spunk. I smear pre-cum over the glans with my thumb and stroke, rampant visions of her breasts smothering my face as I lick and bite them.

A commotion draws my attention and she yanks her top down. “Hi, Dad. How was work?”

Neil strides into frame and kisses Bev. “Good, thanks. How's English?”

He waves at the camera and I guiltily bring my hand from under the desk to wave back, praying he doesn't spot my palm glistening. “We're about done here. Aren't we, Anna.” It's not a question.

She smiles at me and bites her lip. “I am. Mr Metcalfe is going to do some marking straight after.”

Neil reaches for a Dorito from the bowl on the counter and Bev slaps his hand away. “Wait for dinner.”

“Yes, boss.” He calls across to me: “Thanks for your support of Anna. We really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” I'm glad he can't see my cock straining at inappropriate thoughts of his daughter bent over the kitchen table as I teach her a very different lesson with the palm of my hand.

Anna stifles a giggle at my discomfort. “Mr Metcalfe works very hard.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she cups a glorious breast through the tight top, squeezes it and mouths, Cum for me. Licks her lips. “See you next week.”

The instant she clicks the camera off, I stand, grab my cock and, just like the week before, hunch over the desk as I groan her name and erupt in sticky stripes that narrowly miss the laptop.

Breathing hard, I gradually recover. Wipe the tip of my spent dick and flick my fingers to splatter the remnants on the desk, before tucking myself away.

Still shaking from release, I stumble to the bathroom to fetch some tissue and wipe up the mess. I know this path is dangerous. I know I could resist. Should resist. Not play along with her games.

With a decisive nod, I talk myself into being firm next week…

… which evaporates the moment the link is established. She's wearing the world's shortest black dress. Barely reaches her thighs and is practically a nightie. No bra again. I almost groan as I imagine what she's going to taunt me with in the next hour.

Her girly wave is at odds with what she's not quite wearing, and three more adjectives spring to mind. Temptress. Lorelei. Vamp. She's like a delicately wrapped grenade.

Both her parents are in the kitchen, as this week’s lesson is an hour later than usual. Neil prepares the veg, chopping and simmering as the session begins.

We focus on language, practicing the analysis of a block of text she's never seen. Pick out rhythm, onomatopoeia, alliteration and mood that the author conveys through word choice.

When Neil has finished and leaves the dinner to itself, he perches at the breakfast bar with his phone while Bev tidies out a cupboard. Anna sneaks a sly glance over her shoulder during the writing exercise. Turns back to face me. “Does this answer identify motive?” She holds up the sheet for me to screenshot, then returns to writing.

Her answer is good. Fully realised. Demonstrates insight. And has a note vertically in the margin:

I'm not wearing knickers <3

She must hear the blood rushing to engorge my cock because she flicks her eyes to mine and chews the tip of her pen. “Well?”

I clear my throat. “An excellent argument. Very compelling.”

She beams. “Enough detail?”

“Plenty.”

“Sure I can't provide any more evidence to support the claim?” She must enjoy watching me squirm. “Like, remember what I did in the anthology last week? I'll just grab it to refresh my memory.”

Before I can interject, she spins on the stool, stands and takes a few steps to where her bag rests. On the floor.

God.

I know what's coming and should look away. But I can't.

She eases forward at the waist, and each degree exposes another centimetre of perfect underbutt. That gorgeous crease where her thigh joins. The bit I could spend an age exploring with fingers and tongue. And that's even before I drift inward, the wisps of hair on her exposed slit tickling my chin as I breathe her teenage scent.

Even from this distance, her arousal is evident, lips glimmering faintly. My dick steels against my shorts and I try not to gasp.

Her pert bottom is flawless. Begs to be spanked. Marked. She clearly needs to be taught a lesson. As she rummages in the bag, she shifts her weight from foot to foot, emphasising each cheek in turn. Teases me. Knows the only thoughts running through my head involve my hands on her rump, nose and tongue buried in her exposed holes. And her whimpers of encouragement as I coax her orgasm into existence.

For Christ's sake, her dad is merely a few feet to her left, oblivious that she's tormenting me with her delicious pussy and bum. That's a whole level of crazy above my original suspicions.

“Here it is.” She stands and saunters back like nothing had happened. Sits and leafs through it. Puts one finger in her mouth to hang from her lower lip, and lifts her knee onto the rung of the chair, spreading her thighs and giving me a glimpse of her wares from the front.

She catches my eye and makes a subtle wanking gesture like she did last week. But adds her cupped, upturned palm immediately after.

I stare. She cannot be serious. Here? Now?!

As if to answer my unvoiced turmoil, she splays her thighs fractionally further and drops her hand between them. Inches it towards her body, the dress riding until she makes contact with the puffy slit. Her eyes flutter and she strokes her sweet, wet cunt.

Then stops.

“How's this argument?” She picks up her book and holds it open for me to see. All I focus on is the wet digit on the left of the screen, curled around the page.

“Yes, that's a strong argument. Well backed up.” I am giving steel a run for its money under the table. Her eyes widen and she nods at me to hurry up.

Jesus, what am I doing?

I drop a hand to my crotch, free my straining prick and jack it. Anna resumes writing, idly swaying her legs in and out to keep flashing me. I presume the action also increases the friction between her lips, because I catch sight of juice droplets drizzling from her snatch, trapped in the wiry hairs.

As surreptitiously as I can manage, I shuffle my fist around my swelling prick and inch closer to climax with each stroke. She flits her attention between workbook and the screen, eyes ablaze with mischief at what she’s orchestrated. My head is bursting with racy scenarios involving her body and my fingers, lips, tongue and teeth. Not necessarily in that order.

She starts to divide her attention more my way. Maybe 60:40. Then 70:30 as I try to keep a lid on my faster breathing. Both parents are now engaged with the cupboard cleaning exercise, so I wank slightly more overtly.

It's been a while since I spoke so I add something to not arouse suspicion. “Your attention to detail in that passage is excellent.”

We both know to which passage I'm referring. After checking over her shoulder again, she lifts her other foot to the chair rung, splays her thighs, drops her hand between them and spreads her wet pussy lips.

I lose it. Stare at her beautiful cunt, shove both hands under the desk and exhale as I stroke my climax into my upturned palm. The globs are hot, pooling as each spurt fires and I try not to hiss in satisfaction.

Anna drifts her thighs shut. Puts her feet back on the floor and eyes my dishevelled state. Wags her finger at me. A silent scolding. Then lifts in her seat a little to pretend to look down into my lap. I take the hint and lift my palm onto the desk. She grins. Mimes lapping like a puppy.

I raise my eyebrows. She raises hers. Nods her head upward. One little jerk of her chin.

My god am I really going to do this? I stare at the creamy puddle in my hand. Lift it as she stares. And lick up my brackish output, tentatively at first, then with more verve until my palm is only left shiny with saliva.

She mimes silent applause. My withering cock is still out under the desk but I leave it. Pick up my pen and scrawl on my notebook: Why are you doing this?

Hold it up.

She smiles. Writes her reply:

‘Cos fun :)

Toying with the pen against her lips, she scribbles some more. Lifts it so I can read:

My turn next week :o

I can barely contemplate what that means, though it doesn't stop my imagination. Pretty much every night I play out scenarios in my head. Wonder what she'll do. How she'll torment me or herself in our illicit, mimed liaison.

Turns out she decides to do it in a micro pleated tennis skirt and a crop-top-slash-sports-bra affair. Maybe she'd just had PE last lesson. Or it was deliberate. I'll never know.

She sashays into the frame, skirt flitting high enough I catch glimpses of pastel blue panties beneath.

“Hi Mr Metcalfe. Have you had a good week?”

“Very good, Anna. You?”

A moment before settling on the seat, she pats her pussy. “Very productive.”

“Excellent. Anything to show me?”

She nips the corner of her lip with her teeth. “Plenty.”

“Then let's begin.”

I think my forthright approach surprises her. She's used to being in control but I decided the other night that maybe what she needs is to be taught a lesson.

“Oh… okay. What first?”

“Let's explore narrative. Peel back the layers of what Imtiaz Dharker alludes in Tissue and how it compares to, say, Wilfred Owens’ Exposure. The difference between an 8 and a 9 at GCSE is when you don't tell the examiner what's going on.” I catch her eye. “You show them.”

“Mmm, okay. We've done show vs tell before. What's different this time?”

“We’ll use a reveal technique.” I trace my gaze from hers down to the hem of her skirt. “You’ll touch on each area of one poem and show how it’s echoed in the other.”

Anna smiles. Drops her hand between her legs and hooks a thumb beneath the material. Wiggling her hips, she inches the garment from its snug location, regularly checking over her shoulder. When they have cleared her bottom, she shuts her legs, tilts them forward and lets her underwear slither free, dropping out of sight. My cock stirs.

She stoops to collect her panties, flashing that impressive cleavage, and drapes the already sticky scrap of fabric on her notebook.

“How long do I get?”

“Let's start with ten minutes. See how you go.”

As casually as possible under the circumstances, she lifts her knee like she did the week before. Perches her foot on the stool rung to afford me a view up her skirt, writes with one hand and strokes her pussy with the other.

I stare. And stare more, unsure at first if my mind’s playing tricks or if it’s real.

No. It’s real. She has shaved completely. Not a wisp remains.

A fingertip traces her smooth, bare lips, up, down, up, down as they moisten at her ministrations. Dew forms. Then drips for her to smear across the hairless landscape.

Her pussy lips begin to part a little. Her mouth follows suit and tiny extra breaths escape when she brushes the hood housing her clit. The bolder she gets, the faster her circles become. Her face is a picture of desperation and it's a welcome role reversal compared to recent weeks. Not that my cock cares about taking turns: it's raging against my shorts under the desk.

Watching her gradually losing control is possibly the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. She half closes her eyes and increases the radius and pressure of the circles.

I give a stage cough and she focuses on my raised eyebrow. Pauses. Scribbles something and holds it up:

Can I cum?

A smile spreads before I realise it has. I shake my head No and she glares. But dutifully backs off. Squeezes her thighs together.

I pick up my pen. Click the cap. Write:

I didn't say stop.

Her eyes widen and legs gradually do the same. Swear I detect the sticky smack as her lips splay again. She continues masturbating, clearly struggling to stay this side of release. Her pussy drips and I can almost taste her sweet juices across the few miles that separate our houses. She's maybe a ten- or fifteen-minute drive away. If I was a regular lecturer, I could drop everything and show up. Let her lead me to her room, shove her back over the bed and devour her bare cunt while she begs for more. Then turn her over and spank her perfect bottom for daring to tease me this hard for this long.

But I'm not. I'm Andy Metcalfe. The reliable, trustworthy remote tutor. Staring at a sixteen-year-old’s dripping slit through my webcam and daydreaming the rest.

Her inhalation grounds me and I refocus. “That's very good. Very, very good.”

She stutters. “Good enough to pass?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good enough to… ace?”

I grin. “Almost. There's a little more you can do.”

Her eyes drift shut and she lets out a long breath, then flutters them open. “What?”

My gaze lifts from her wet pussy to those soulful brown eyes, wide with desire. “Consider the audience. Insert yourself, your penmanship, and really show the examiner you understand.”

She stares. I nod. She reaches for her pen. Splays her cunt lips with two fingers of one hand and slithers the base of the pen between them.

I swear I nearly lose it in my underwear at the sight of her fucking herself. The soft schlick schlick of her juices are barely detectable but definitely there.

With the finger between the two holding her lips open, she crushes and circles her clit, mouth dropping open. She disguises her gasp with a cough immediately after, and flicks her attention over her shoulder a moment to check she's not been busted. Bev is still tending to the dinner.

Anna’s eyes plead for release as she glides the pen in and out of her sticky folds, circling her nub at the same time. She mouths: “Please”.

I scribble two words. Hold them up:

“Hold it…*

Her disbelief is palpable, and she slows her fucking motion to cope. I shake my head and roll my hand in the air to make her pick up the pace again. The horny seductress can damn well stew.

She chews her lip as she slides the pen back and forth. It glimmers in the early evening sunlight streaming through the windows to her right. Her eyes widen, need etched on her features. I lift the same sign. Make her wait.

Bev calls out, “How hungry are you?”

Anna stifles a gasp. “V… very.”

“I'll put extra pasta on then.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Her eyes bore into mine. Her cunt drips onto the back of the tennis skirt. Her thighs glisten from where she squeezed them together. A tantalising package of want on my screen.

Once more, she mouths “Please…” and I take pity on her. Nod. And watch as she grinds her clit and thrusts the pen rapidly in and out a handful of times before jamming it deep and rocking her hips, mouth falling open as she cums all over it and her fingers.

What I'd give to be stationed between her legs and taste her. Clean her. I'm sure my underwear is practically translucent from pre-cum.

Her orgasm peaks, sustains, then fades, the pulsing of her pussy lips lessening, and she breathes out a deep sigh.

Bev inquires: “You finding it hard, love?”

Anna covers her mouth with wet digits. Suppresses a giggle. “Yes.” She lifts in her seat to peer down into the camera like she's done the last couple of weeks. “Harder than normal.”

“Well, keep working at it. It'll come.”

She disguises her laugh with another little sigh. “I know.” The minx bites her lip. Licks her fingertips then extracts the pen from its wet hiding place and sucks it clean, waggling an eyebrow at me.

I can't hold it. “Just taking a quick break. I'll be right back.”

Stumbling to my feet, the last thing I see before streaking from the room are Anna’s bugeyes at my hard-on in the shorts. I race to the bathroom, lock the door, unzip, free my cock and jack into the sink, balls resting on the cold porcelain edge as I blast jets of cum against the far side.

Breathing heavily, I grip the window ledge as my heart rate slows. Run the tap and sluice the residue down the plughole. Stare at the water swirling then shut it off. Make myself presentable and return to the office.

Anna is diligently working. Her panties are still on her notebook but they're significantly stickier than before. Presumably she wiped herself up with them. I almost groan.

She waves and beams. “Hi.”

“Apologies.”

“None necessary.” She grins and brandishes her pen like a victory sword. “Back to English!”

And we do. Finish the lesson in comparative normality, despite my knowledge that she's knickerless and dripping into her skirt.

As the lesson draws to a close, she scoops her panties off the notebook and stuffs them in her pencil case, zipping it up. I've half a mind to scribble my address and hold it up so she can post them to me.

But that would be unprofessional... right?

Bev calls out that dinner will be ten minutes. Rounds the counter and approaches the laptop on the table. Leans over, her cleavage very much dominating the lens.

“By the way. Anna says she's really enjoying the sessions. Are you okay to do us another four weeks at the same rate?”