Typical; my clueless husband had immediately agreed. Hadn't hesitated; he’d even cut me off before I got a word in edgeways. The hussy next door simpered, having successfully battered hubby into submission with those long fake eyelashes. Then scurried inside her bungalow to change into a swimsuit.

That bitch, and recently her daughter, have become way too flirtatious around my beloved. And he, being a typical man, prefers to feign indifference to their scheming. The first sunny Saturday of spring, and, surprise, surprise, she'd popped her head over the fence and invited herself for a dip in our pool. As if that could be anything other than the latest ruse to flirt her way into my beloved’s board shorts.

That view was confirmed when Amanda sashayed up our drive modelling the most fabric-free micro-bikini yet invented. Verging on mutton parsimoniously dressed as lamb, she was well past being a tease; just areola pigmentation and the creases of her, no doubt well-used, pussy had been sparsely covered.

She twirled her lush body—which, to be fair, was a tribute to her cosmetic surgeon and a profitable divorce—then made a meal of dropping her towel on the chair next to my astonished husband. Deliberately provocative, she gave him an eyeful of the extent her skimpy bikini top had been put, to quote that Queen song, Under Pressure.

“The latest Wicked Weasel micro-bikini,” she said, by way of explanation. Then added, with a self-satisfied smirk, “Mail order from Australia. It’s a tad more risqué than I’d imagined when studying the catalogue.”

Koalas, kangaroos, even bad-arsed wombats; but seriously, who knew wicked weasels also roamed about down under? I sniffed bullshit, but questions were moot as she’d already turned on her heel, wiggled her pert posterior in hubby’s direction, and dived into our pool.

She swam lengths, breaststroke of course. My husband, who’d trained as a surf lifesaver into his teens, was suddenly alive to the importance of water safety and keeping watch.

‘Bastard,’ I fumed to myself.

Nevertheless, I was quick to man the matrimonial barricades; no one, and I mean no one, fucks with me when my husband is concerned. “Seriously interested, darling?”

His verbal resoluteness did him credit. “Of course not, sweetheart. She’s easy on the eye, but you’re the love of my life.”

Despite that, I wasn’t offered a reassuring glance. Not then nor when she’d eventually emerged from the pool: that sodden micro-bikini now plastered semi-transparently against her perking nipples and what was clearly a non-hirsute snatch.

Jesus-fucking-Christ.

With that shameless display, the cat had firmly taken hold of my husband’s tongue. But, after she’d wrapped her over-exposed body in a towel, he came to his senses and offered us a refreshing gin and tonic.

My claws were momentarily sheathed after we’d both accepted. Though, just as well he was the one shuffling inside to mix the drinks. For had it been me, a forensic pathologist would’ve discovered that hemlock had garnished a certain hussy’s G&T.

Amanda looked at me over the top of her sunglasses and placed her manicured hand on mine. “Now we have girl time, I need to share with you.”

Unfortunately, the words exited my mouth before I’d engaged my brain. “Not my husband, that’s for sure.”

“He’s sweet, your Derek. You and I have turned thirty-five. He builds confidence that lustful thoughts are still on the cards for women our age.”

“Maybe. But look, and not touch is a house rule.”

“Fair, though you shouldn’t fret. He’s devoted to you. Not like my fucking ex, who became fixated on lodging that impressive dick of his in many a vagina rather than keeping it in his pants.”

Amanda might have been saying the right things. But with her flirting history, I wouldn’t be switching on my trusting mode any time soon. “I work hard on my marriage. So, what did you want to share with me?”

“Well, it’s Emma. She’s …”

Emma, who’d been Amanda’s unexpected teenage pregnancy, was in her last year of school.  “Something is troubling you, I see. My lips are sealed on anything you tell me.”

“Thank you, you’re such a good friend. Emma’s been suspended from school. These next three weeks, she’ll be studying for her final exams at home.”

“Oh, no. Can you share why?”

“I guess everyone will eventually find out. I’m told she has become a social media star given what happened.”

“Which was?”

“Her physical education teacher is ever so easy on the eye. Nevertheless, the Principal was incandescent; fucking, irrespective of public or private schools, isn’t on the PE curriculum.”

Count me unsurprised; Emma’s school skirt had recently risen an inch or so above what’s usually seen as a generous interpretation of the school’s dress code. Lately, whenever I’d seen her around and about, her attitude had just screamed, ‘Tart-in-training.’  “But surely that’s on her teacher…”

I squeezed her hand supportively, as tears had welled in her eyes. “They’re being disciplined; terminated, I imagine. But the school also wants my Emma out of sight; the temperature of the year group’s salacious gossiping apparently needs lowering.”

“I understand. So why raise this with me?”

Hubby returned with two gins and a beer for himself. Amanda took her drink, her smile so wan that, for the first time ever, I empathised with her. My husband just looked confused.

“Emma needs structure to help her succeed in the dreaded final exams and get into a good university course. The three of us work different hours. I wanted to beg you two to keep an eye out for her these next three weeks.”  

Hubby nodded sagely. The bastard: he didn’t understand what was going on, but nevertheless, the idea of helping a precocious teenage tart had immediately struck a chord. Subconsciously, he’d licked his lips, no doubt already lost in some dissolute fucking daydream, before enquiring, “How can we help?”

With another long sip, Amanda’s drained her gin. She sighed. “Supervised swimming on defined study breaks was my original idea. But as I thought more, I realized that asking you for constructive suggestions could be more productive.”

The dream-come-true smirk on hubby’s face as swimming and Emma were mentioned in the same sentence told me he was blind to how incomplete Amanda’s thinking was. So, I quickly interrupted, after all, one of us needed to be striding down ‘sceptical street.’ “We’d need to understand exactly what we’d be letting ourselves in for, Amanda.” 

She battered her eyelashes at hubby. Her watery eyes spoke to a mother’s uncertainty. He melted even more; even I was a tiny bit moved. “Have you got a chardonnay?”

We did, a decent Russian River one. After hubby returned and the three of us had savoured the wine’s delicious malolactic tastes, Amanda sighed deeply and continued. “Her dad has ignored her; her stepdad was too interested in screwing around to be a serious father. I guess I overcompensated. Too nice, not enough structure …” 

I was totally impressed when my man rose to the challenge. “The past must be the past. Helping Emma means a single-minded focus on what her needs are now.”

“Yes, that’s so true. This is her last year under my influence. I want to give her a launch pad for her future. The exams matter: I’m not exactly sure what I am asking for, but, please, I need help?”

I paused, uncertain. Hubby pressed on. “Here’s an idea. I could run through the maths and economics curriculum with her. Wifey majored in English Literature; we’ve got that much covered.”

Amanda’s pneumatic breasts heaved. “It’s a bit rusty, but I did geography as part of my nursing degree. So apart from history, between us we’ll be a second pair of eyes on her subjects.”

That was more than enough to be helpful, so there was no way I’d let hubby sign up to policing whatever it was that passed as appropriate teenage behaviour nowadays. “That’ll help get your daughter into a good university. But you’ll have to be the one to give her structure and ensure she focuses.”

Amanda nodded; accepted that setting boundaries was a mother’s job. “One other thing. Emma thinks money falls, mana-like, from a parental pocket. I’ve insisted she do some house and yard work for the minimum wage. Would you consider offering her that opportunity?"

“Absolutely. We’ve got too much on our plate. She can start by helping me with the housework on Monday morning.”

She raised her glass to seal the deal. “Cheers. Thank you so much. I felt confident I could depend on you both.”

As we sipped the Chardonnay, I felt a tad shell-shocked; becoming trainee parents to an apprentice-tart could upend our ordered lives. But it was just for three weeks, and we’d only be out of our depth if clear ground rules weren’t met. I knew exactly where to start. “There’ll be no flirting with my husband.”

Amanda looked stunned. “I’m surprised she’d do that. I’ll be having that conversation with Emma.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” my husband whined; performatively, it must be said.

“No way,” we replied in perfect harmony.

The next day, with her mother working a Sunday shift, was our first time supervising Emma. Before leaving for the hospital, Amanda had texted that Emma planned to study economics in her room for a few hours, then she’d touch base with us.

Later that morning, on my way out to the grocery store, I left hubby focused on mowing the lawn and weeding the back garden. But, on my return, as I stepped into the back yard, my eyes popped out on stalks.

Hubby’s little head had apparently been overseeing his thinking. After all, even though the sun was beating down, surely no one of sane mind chooses to wear ‘budgie-smuggler’ swim shorts when company is expected.

Yet, there he was underdressed and nonchalantly sunning himself while weeding the flower bed. Having apparently turned a blind eye to an outbreak of near-fucking-nudity on the freshly cut grass.

Emma was lying on her front, on a towel, just wearing a hat. Well, that and a barely-there black bikini-thong that mostly had vanished into the crack of her taut teenage bum.

Topless; her bronzed, toned back and legs glistened. God knows how the fuck that sunscreen had come to be applied. She did have one saving grace; with her nose pressed against an Economics textbook, she was apparently studying.

Emma looked up on hearing me come outside. Leapt to her feet and, barefoot, skipped across the grass and then tiptoed over the sunbaked pool tiles. Her tanned, firm B-cups jiggled, more naturally, it must be said, than her mother’s augmented boobs. Her hourglass physique, flawless sun-kissed skin, impressive six-pack abs, and natural athleticism were eye-opening. Undressed, she impressed; no wonder hubby’s eyes hadn’t left the teenage tart’s derriere as she pranced towards me.

She threw her arms around my shoulders, her petite boobs firm against my lightly clothed, soft full breasts. “Thank you so much for agreeing to look out for me. Mr. Robinson—I mean Derek—has already been ever so helpful.”

Dear, God. “I bet he has.”

“He’s explained economics much more clearly than my teacher. Now I can totally answer an exam question on why a used car lot and a dating site can be a market for lemons.”

I’d been married long enough to understand what was and was not economics. So, it wasn’t inconceivable that he really had been helpful.

But there was a guilty look on hubby’s face. Which told a tale: mentoring an easy-on-the-eye seventeen-year-old who liked to show off her boobies had been a mutually beneficial arrangement.

He must have twigged that I’d spotted his guilty look. For he changed the subject. “Go change into a swimsuit, love. This afternoon you’re in charge; Emma tells me she’d like your help with the Pride and Prejudice curriculum.”

Upstairs, I raged about the neighbours’ blatant encroachment onto my territory. An idea crystalized; I’d fight fire with fire and wrest hubby’s attention back onto me.

In the bottom corner of my underwear drawer lay the only skimpy bikini I’d ever owned, bought in Costa Rica as a treat for a horny honeymoon husband. As I finished shaving my pubes, eager to impress in the high-cut thong, a loud shriek from outside drew me to the bathroom window.

Jesus-fucking-Christ.

Hubby had the teenage tart draped over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. His arm had nestled snuggly between her thighs as he clamped one leg tight against his chest.

She squirmed, desperate to escape. God, did she squirm. That bare arse of hers wiggled into his forearm. She shrieked again and reached for his bottom. Her naked boobs pressed into his back. Her hands started paddling his bum. “Put me down, now.”

“Your wish is my command, Emma.” And it was. Hubby, on the edge of the pool’s deep end, tossed her over his shoulder. She landed headfirst in the water with a resounding splash. And emerged spluttering, with the wickedest grin on her face. “You’re such a bad, bad Derek.”

Leaping from the pool, her nipples had hardened from the cold water. Hubby was momentarily spellbound but turned on his heel when she started to give chase. As I scurried downstairs, I could hear more shrieks and laughter as she pursued him around the back yard.  

When I got outside, she was close to him beside the deep end of the pool. She reached out and grabbed the waistband of his baby-blue budgie-smugglers. That stopped hubby, who turned desperate to defend his modesty, prioritising pulling those swimmers back over what had become a way-too-overexposed arse.

Emma smirked, the scent of victory now in her nostrils. With hubby’s focus elsewhere, her other hand slyly pressed forward. Shoved hard on his chest, let go of his swimmers. He momentarily tottered on the edge of the pool. Reached out to save himself and grabbed Emma’s arm. That didn’t stop his fall but did drag the overconfident teenager into the water with a deafening splash.

They broke the surface. Somehow Emma had twisted in the pool and clung limpet-like onto his back. Her arms and legs were tight around him. Hubby’s hands grabbed her just above the knees, so, with a yeeha, she simulated riding a bucking bronco.

And that big grin on hubby’s face surely wasn’t just about the horseplay. Those perky boobs of hers were still mashed against his back.

Yet the frolicking stopped the instant they saw me mincing through the pool’s gate. Success.

Hubby's intense stare was so focused that the teenage-tart’s legs slipped from his grasp. Double-yay. “You look so hot, baby.”

“Wow,” Emma added, “You’ve got to teach me the art of the spectacular entrance.”

Given how easily she’d wrapped hubby around a little finger, which had to be crazy talk. But then I remembered how fragile my confidence was at her age.  I melted a bit; perhaps Emma looked up to me and really did want to learn from me. “Thanks, that means a lot. Want to run through the English curriculum together?”

I couldn’t help but smile. A delicate blush had coloured her cheeks. Her eyes glinted with an infectious, bubbling enthusiasm. “Yes, Mrs. Robinson, let’s go.”

As she leapt out of the pool, the water streaming down her skin highlighted every taut, budding curve of her athletic physique. Giggling, she shook like a puppy and doused me with the spray she flicked from skin and hair.

That girlish playfulness had me giggling conspiratorially, despite the cold water having perked my nipples. Hubby noticed. She did too. I quickly changed the subject. “Okay, Pride and Prejudice is your main text. What were the previous years’ exam questions?”

Emma really understood the English syllabus. Even so, she focused on what I had to say and seamlessly added my ideas into her thinking. Consequently, it was a breeze to formulate mock exam questions to which she’d draft answers later in the evening. 

When we were done, Emma worked out, swimming freestyle up and down our small pool. Of course, once again, hubby was alive to the importance of water safety and keeping watch. Unnecessary really; her dolphin-like glide through the water was just so lithe and effortless.  

Though having climbed from the water and mashed her hair in a towel, she proved to be her mother’s daughter. Fluttering her eyelashes at hubby, she coyly asked. “Can I have an alcopop?”

Hubby tapped her button nose. “No.”

She pouted, arms akimbo, perky nipples defiantly thrust forward. “So old-fashioned, nowadays everyone does.”

“First, we don’t have any. Second, even if we did, it’s still a hard no to sodas with more alcohol than you’re used to. Two drinks and you’d lose the capacity to consent.”

“Seriously …. Okay then. That’s a ‘no’ to that drink or a blanket ban on seventeen-year-olds drinking?”

“Smart question. Teenagers must learn how to drink, so I’m up for supervising moderate alcohol consumption. For instance, a cocktail of your choice that I’ve prepared. But I want you to promise me that alcopops will always and everywhere be a hard no for you.”

“I’ve seen a few girls get off their faces and wake up with big regrets. Deal; I won’t do alcopops; I’ll have one of your cocktails. Perhaps sex on the beach.”

Hubby shook his head, barely able to suppress a smirk. “You’re just saying that for effect. I’m pretty sure you don’t know what’s in a sex on the beach cocktail.”

Emma giggled happily. “Fair cop, the name is so cool, but I haven’t got a clue. You choose; something fruity and Bacardi-based?”   

I was totally gobsmacked; hubby was good at this parenting shit. 

As he went inside to prepare the drinks, Emma turned to me. “I hope you don’t think I'm out of order. But Mr. Robinson—Derek I mean—makes me, like, think. And he’s fun in a way I’ve always dreamed a real dad would be like.”

Unreal. “I never ever flirted with my dad.”

“Of course. It was easy as a promise to mum: ‘No flirting with Mr. Robinson.’”

“What’s scurrying about topless and simpering when your naked boobs pressed against his back, if it’s not flirting?”

She shyly smirked as she leaned closer to me. “Mister Derek made me feel young again. I really enjoyed that. I just like how I feel when I’m topless.”

Emma’s fingernail traced my arm. Goosebumps broke out on my skin. My nipples hardened against my bikini top. She noticed. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her brows furrowed, uncertainty written all over her pretty face.

Finally, she sucked in the air with such a deep breath. “Pinky-promise, it’s not him I’m topless for … Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.”

Fuck, was the hot little bitch hitting on me?

Suddenly, an assumption I’d made when talking to her mother hit me like a sledgehammer. “The PE teacher at school wasn’t a man, was he?”

“No, silly. Ms. Moulin; she’s athletic, French, a hottie.”

“You’re into girls?”

“To date, older women. Cards on the table time. I really do like the idea of Mr. Derek as the father figure I’ve never had. I already have a mom; that position is filled. Did you know that I’ve always daydreamed about what the future has in store for you and me?”

Jesus-fucking-Christ; had I inadvertently been caught in a L-plate lesbian’s fucking fantasies? Words failed me but fortunately, Derek had emerged from the kitchen with our drinks.

He’d been thinking while making the cocktails. “I’m away with work for the next two days.”

Emma sipped her drink. “Yummy. Making this for me is a vote of confidence, Mr. Derek. What shall I do when daddy is gone?”

Hubby shook his head, but his big grin told me he was into her banter. “Behave for a start.”

“When I’m good, I’m very, very good. But when I’m bad, I’m better.”

“That’s cute, but let's get serious. I’m certain you’ll do well in your exams, Emma. So, the next three weeks are about the difference between good results and great results.”

“Wow, no one has ever said that to me.”

“We all want you to be great, not good. But at the end of the day, that’s up to you. Take it from me, though, when you study you’ve got to focus. Swim or whatever you enjoy in your downtime but tomorrow find blocks of time to help Mrs. Robinson with the housework and for your English revision. Same for history and geography the next day. Economics and maths can wait till I get back.”

Emma finished her drink. Smiled coyly to herself. “I’ll prepare for housework tomorrow, then, Mr. Derek. Double the minimum wage is the going rate, isn't it?”

“Not according to Amanda.”

Emma stood and hugged hubby, her breasts mashed against his chest. “Surely the boobs you admire deserve more for my services than mum pays?”

When he spanked her cute derriere, I spluttered on my drink. Hubby was totally in control. “Take it up with your mother; we’ve agreed that she sets your ground rules.”

She pouted, then softly kissed hubby’s cheek. “Thanks for everything, Derek; you’ve no idea how much I’ve liked today. So, I’ll be your good girl and go home to write up the best-ever answers to Mrs. Robinson’s mock English exam questions.”

God, hubby really was a star at this parenting shit.

The next morning, I was upstairs getting organised when the back door slammed shut. “That you, Emma? Dump your exam responses on the kitchen table and join me upstairs. We’ll dust, vacuum, and clean the bathrooms before focusing on your English answers.”

As she sauntered into our bedroom, the bucket and mop I was holding clattered onto the floor. Gobsmacked, I just stared open-mouthed.

She held a feather duster which at least hinted at housework. But her petite black skirt and sheer-lace white top were altogether a different matter. They did conceal more of her body than yesterday’s fairy-floss bikini. Yet somehow, she’d pulled off an even more sexy-as-fuck look.

And she knew too; smirking, she twirled, let her skirt ride up to give me a momentary glimpse of her taut bum. “Like my uniform, Mrs. Robinson”

A tart or a maid? It would have been a close-run contest if there hadn’t been a bloody duster. “Why, oh why, did you choose that particular maid’s outfit?”

“I’m obliged to wear a prescribed uniform for schoolwork. Seems obvious that I’m obliged to wear a maid’s uniform when doing the housework.”

“An old t-shirt and shorts would have worked, you know.”

“Miss Moulin gave me this uniform. She keeps stressing that a good girl always presents the right image.”

I snorted. “Maybe, but the chores won’t get done faster because you’ve nailed the sexy-maid look …”

“Really, nailed?”  Once again, that delicate blush coloured her cheeks. And her eyes glinted with an infectious, bubbling enthusiasm. “It’s not just a look, Miss. I also can dust, you know.”

She turned her back to me, stood on tiptoes and ran the feather duster along the bedroom cornice. Her skirt rode up, a longer look at her peachy derrière had me wondering: knickers or no knickers?

Emma then bent at the waist and, perfectly competently, ran the duster along the skirting board. Fucking hell; question answered. That glimpse of bare teen-pussy confirmed the harlot-in-training’s underwear had remained in her bedroom drawer.

She glanced back at me from between her legs. A knowing smirk broke out on her pretty face. Standing, she turned and minced across the bedroom carpet. The duster traced the outline of my nipples. “You liked what you saw, didn’t you, Miss?”

Of course, I fucking did. Not even Derek knew how super-intense my Lesbian-Until-Graduation phase at university had been. “No. I’m married now.”

“Married and good at policing Mister Derek’s behaviour. So focused on that, it appears you’ve neglected to disguise an interest in me.”

“Ludicrous. Your imagination has gone off the rails.”

She pouted, her eyes watery. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her fingers nervously twisted the edge of her short skirt. “Seriously?”

I felt for her. Teenage crushes are the hardest thing to keep in perspective. “Emma, you’re sexy, super-hot to be honest. But I’m married. No flirting is one of your mother’s ground rules. Our focus must be on the chores and your English study.”

The relief was etched on her pretty smile. “I’m following the rules, Miss. No flirting with Mr. Derek was Mum’s instruction. That’s doable; wishing away my feelings for you isn’t that easy.” 

After a deep, calming breath, the maid from next door fell to her knees. Her hands slid under my skirt and found the waistband of my knickers.

“This isn’t a good idea.” I was firm, but she was courageous. As Emma pulled at my panties, the gusset stuck against my slit.

My treacherous cunt had betrayed me. There’s no place to hide when you’re so aroused that a teenage tart must tug extra-hard to peel knickers away from your sodden snatch.

She smirked as a gooey pop echoed off the bedroom walls. “Oh my. Your pretty pussy is such a mess, Miss. Perfect timing for a maid becoming skilled at pussy-cleaning to be at hand.”

“We can’t.”

She inhaled. Licked her lips as the scent of my arousal hit hard. “Miss Moulin was firm; French maids were made to French kiss pretty pussies.”

Fuck. Emma’s PE teacher had been a total bad influence. “I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t know about that, your pussy looks desperate to experience my sweet kisses.”

“You know what I hate about you, Emma. You’re now overconfident, over here and over-the-top irresistible.” Arching my hips, I pressed my dripping pussy towards the tempting tongue that poked kitten-like from her mouth.

She pulled back and teasingly wiggled that tongue in thin air. “According to Miss Moulin, patience is a virtue.”

“You little bitch. Your hot body has teased and tormented me into surrender, and now you’re calling for patience!”

“Just taking time to enjoy my only virtue; the rest of the morning is devoted to vice and the yummiest orgasms.”   

Achingly slowly, her tongue rasped through my sticky folds. Wet lips then softly kissed my clitoral hood. I whimpered as, with a little suck, she drew my clit into her mouth.  

Then she looked up at me, her jade doe-eyes sparkled as my slippery clit slid from her lips. Her smug smile glistened with my arousal. “Want me to stop now, Miss?”

“I should, but I can’t.” Wrapping my fingers in her hair, I tugged on her scalp. She smirked triumphantly as I pressed her mouth hard against my molten, musky pussy.

Smothered in cunt, her whimpers vibrated against my sensitive sex. Then her curled tongue wiggled, penetrated and began deliciously stretching my vaginal walls.

Lost in lust, I bucked, hard riding her pretty face. Bouncing, my velvet walls had clamped against her probing tongue, my throbbing clit was mashed against her nose.

But fuck, Ms. Moulin had trained her well. Her wiggling tongue expertly pleasured me and suddenly the freight train rumble of a monster orgasm had left the station.

Patience might be a virtue, but I had none. I screamed as the pleasure rose and peaked; the supernova of an orgasm gushed all over Emma’s pretty face. Which left me bereft of breath as quivering aftershocks then wracked my, temporarily, satiated snatch.

She carefully licked me clean. Looked up at me, doe-eyed, my cum-honey glistening prettily on her lips. “Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson. I was sure you were into me as much as I was into you.”

“Seriously?”

“I did have moments of doubt. Miss Moulin reassured me.”

Yes, of course I’d appreciated how hot she was, but assumed she was her mother’s daughter and interested in men. “I got two things wrong. Certain my girl lust had been buried, and sure you were focused on flirting with hubby.”

“That started as a diversion to worm my way into your life, Miss. I didn’t expect to end up liking Mr. Derek quite as much as I do.”

“You really had this all planned out.”

“Maybe; it took a while to convince Miss Moulin I’d accurately spotted your interest in me. Once she agreed, she not only encouraged me but also helped with the tactics. Going topless was her idea.”

“Fucking hell, you told her? Am I really that easy to read?”

“Not that easy, but detective Emma was on the case. Talking of reading others, Miss. I’m not wearing this outfit just because I’m a maid who likes to flash her pretty pussy. This is the uniform of a girl who's born to serve. I’m willing to do anything for you.”

“Including studying hard and making your mum proud.”

“Especially that. You’ve promised her that you’ll lend a hand. And the best way to focus me on studying is daily tastes of your yummy girl-cum.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Pretty please. Take me under your wing; control me. Yes, do teach me some English Literature, but more importantly, I'm craving an A-plus for pleasing women.”

Amanda hadn’t put boundaries on me orgasming on her daughter’s pretty face. And hubby had said, ‘Helping Emma means a single-minded focus on what her needs are now.’ I was just a fucking hypocrite, but I couldn’t stop any more than Emma could. “We’ve got to be discreet?”

“I promise, Mrs. Robinson. Your wish is my command.”

That was all very well and good. My question had been rhetorical; my capacity for discretion was the bigger worry.

For, with the first touch of the hot teenage tart’s tongue, memories had awoken, and self-restraint had vanished down a rabbit hole. Now I was lost in a wicked wonderland, imagining the delicious ways the hot little tart's lithe body could be used. “You are so fucked, Babygirl.”

“Thank you, Miss. Let’s get the chores and my English study done. Then you can fuck me repeatedly before mum gets home.”

Jesus-fucking-Christ. I’m surely hell bound, may even wreck my marriage, but that sure sounded like my sort of study plan.