Tutoring Turns Titillating

Disclaimer: Though this story has a high school setting, both characters are over the age of 18.

*

Jackson sits at his desk, anxiously tapping a pen against his temple and watching the ancient clock on the wall tick one minute closer to 4:30. He's begun to look on these after school tutoring sessions with a strange mixture of anticipation and dread. No, he knows it isn't the tutoring itself. His pulse never sped on Monday and Wednesday, his stomach never tightened during the groups sessions on Friday. No. He knows it's her, he just doesn't want to admit it to himself.

He hears those insufferable Uggs, clomping down the rickety wooden deck that connects the temporary buildings in the muddy field behind the school, and he jumps with a sudden need to appear busy. As the footstep sounds lift above the intermittent plopping of the rain, he shuffles his scattered papers into a rough stack and stands, turning his back to shove them into a random drawer of the filing cabinet.

"Hey, Mr. Denney." Familiar and cheery, as usual.

Jackson runs a hand through his unruly dark hair and looks over at her. He takes in the skinny jeans, the tight ponytail, the fitted blue-striped shirt coming into view as she strips her jacket off, all in one jumpy glance. "Hi Gwen," he replies, returning to his fake work. Sure, he tried as much as he could to keep his voice level, casual, but inwardly he curses his school-boy nerves that made it sound oddly eager to him. "Be with you in a second," he continues. Better. "Take a seat, get out your practice set. How's your day been?"

"Stellar," she answers with a touch of good-natured sarcasm. He can see her rolling her eyes without even looking. "You know, it's always been my dream to have one of Mrs. Lange's pop quizzes and the cafeteria's tuna casserole in the same day." He has to laugh.

When he turns around he sees she's slid herself into the nearest chair, one of those time-worn wooden models with the half-size desk tacked onto the side, and is smiling up at him. She leans her elbows onto that tiny strip of board, pinning her papers down and displaying more than a hint of cleavage at the bottom of that V-neck. He swears, she does that shit on purpose. "Can't all be that bad," he replies lightly.

"Nah," she admits, pertly adding, "I get to come see you after."

"Aw," he retorts, as if making fun of her cheesiness, but he can't help feel some misplaced bit of gratification. After a quick clearing of his throat, he switches the subject to the task at hand. "So anything on this give you trouble?" He gestures at the problem set and circles his large desk to lean against one of the smaller ones next to her.

Put the students at ease, he was taught at university, not so long ago. Talk to them on their level, facilitate a comfortable learning environment, all that. He didn't think his professors had anticipated him having to fight an erection during those techniques, though. He remembers one day weeks ago when she'd come in wearing yoga pants and one of those stretchy tank tops with no bra; he'd had to retreat behind the big desk and sit there the whole time to hide his stiff cock.

Yes, she's beginning to get over her difficulty with logartihms, that's what she's telling him. He mutters mild noises of encouragement as she walks him through one of the more difficult problems on the sheet, all the while marveling at the way she carries herself. The way she stretches out in that uncomfortable wooden seat as if it's a deck chair by the pool, slender thighs lusciously crossed. The slow drape of her blond hair as she leisurely brushes through it with idle fingers. The curve of her modest but shapely breasts peeking through her shirt, angled purposefully toward him.

She isn't tied down by any of the definable cliques of the school, he often observed. Not the cheerleaders, the athletes, the artists. She's popular, no doubt, but it seems to be based on pure charisma. She's the kind of charmer that eluded him in his own high school years, nearly a decade ago. His long face and slightly too large nose, his and soft eyes and scholarly bent, they all kept those girls far out of his league. He had some manner of success in college, when he filled out playing intramural soccer and ditched the wire-framed glasses, but even then, none of those women had had half the raw allure that Gwen had.

"And I didn't know if that was right?" Gwen's prompting for a response snaps him back to reality. With a little frown he focuses himself on her work, scanning the problem in question and moving the numbers around in order to keep his mind off of warmer, softer things. She's your student, he keeps reminding himself. She's your fucking student.

He manages to make it through the rest of the session without letting his attention wander too far, despite the temptations of her lip gloss application and a glimpse of bra strap. Still, it's Gwen who notices that they're five minutes over time.

"Oh, right. Let me get your next..." He has to stop, because as soon as he stood from his lean, she stood too, leaving them in provocatively close quarters in that narrow aisle.

Gwen smiles wide, looking up at him from their few inches height difference and murmuring, "Oops, sorry." But she doesn't move an inch. Instead she lifts a hand to his arm and gives it a subtle squeeze. "Thanks for your help, Mr. Denney. Really. I think I'm getting it. Finally." And she laughs a bit, plump lips drawn prettily taut.

"It's... just doing my job," he answers her, lingering only a second longer to give her a stilted smile and a cool pat on the shoulder before he sidesteps. He waits until his face is turned before he grimaces at the lameness of his response. It's with a purposeful restraint that he says, "See you again next week," and hands her the next worksheet at arm's length. He doesn't even wait to watch her gather her things and go, he just returns to his imaginary work at the filing cabinet.

The door clangs shut to signal her absence and he feels like he can breathe again; he heaves a sigh as his head drops with a painful metal thunk against the top of the cabinet. He has to be more careful, no more letting her affect him like this. No more kidding around, he had to promise himself. Every time, he feels like he's getting closer and closer to something he shouldn't even be considering.

__________________________

When the next session comes around, he's prepared. He's borrowed one of those clunky, orange plastic chairs from the main building and has it set up in front of his desk, to keep a safe expanse of faux wood between them as he and Gwen discuss math and only math. Jackson forces himself to calmly keep his seat when she walks in the door this time, his eyes cast down on the administrative busy work he's currently completing.

"Hey, Mr. Dessey." It isn't until he hears that predictable inflection that he lets himself look up and take in her lithe frame, today draped in a blousy patterned dress, belted over a tease of tights. She left her hair down today in loose tumbles, and he quickly stifles the thought that he likes it better that way.

"Welcome back," he says with an undertone of formality. "Have a seat," and he motions very obviously to the special chair he's set out for her. "Just let me put this away."

Before he can even reorganize the forms, however, an awful scraping sound alerts him that a wrench has been thrown in his carefully laid out plan. The chair's being moved. Gwen is swinging it around to his side of the desk, choosing that spot directly to the left of his own wide office chair. After a moment of surprise, Jackson decides to simply let it go; surely it would just be more complicated to protest.

"Alright," Gwen says as she bounces into a comfortable position and passes him an almost conspiratorial smile. "I think I've finally got the hang of this stuff. Look." And with an eager little flourish she hands over her worksheet.

Jackson can't help it, her excitement is infectious. It brings out his broadest smile as he takes the assignment and flips it around, skimming over the neatly scrawled lines of figures. "That's great. Yeah, I'm glad. You've been working really hard on these," he praises.

He doesn't even get past the the second problem, though. Gwen's hand suddenly knocks the paper aside and his hand with it, opening up a spot on his lap for her to crawl onto. Which she quite suddenly does, one knee thrust on either side of his legs. He finds her hands grasping the line of his jaw, yanking him into an ardent, breathless kiss, her tongue sending unbidden tingles out over his skin. It's several seconds before he even thinks to resist and by that time the thought is banished again by the press of her breasts against his chest, the grinding against his stiffening cock as she rocks back down again.

His own hands fumble their way to her waist and his fingers convulsively dig in as he struggles to his senses. With one movement he half lifts, half pushes her to her feet again, steadying her there for a moment while he catches breath enough to say, "Gwen. No."

Instant indignation sweeps across her face. "Mr. Denney, yes," she mimics in her best sultry tones, attempting to regain some levity and her spot on his lap at the same time.

He easily derails this attempt, simply keeping his grasp around her waist and holding her at arm's length so that he can keep a sane thought in his head for more than a swift second. "No," he repeats, less flustered and more firm. "You know I can't do this. This is... I'm your teacher, Gwen. I'm your teacher." He sounds as if he's trying to convince himself as much as her, but it at least seems to be working.

"I don't care," she claims. "It doesn't even matter." In one smooth motion, she sinks to her knees and slips free of his grip, hands exploring the territory she's been denied. "Come on," she goads, biting her lip as her fingers stroke their way confidently but slowly up his thighs. "I know you want me. I want you. What's the big deal?"

Jackson knows where she's headed with those hands, where this all is headed and he cuts her off when he's just on the brink of enjoying it. Thumb and forefinger around her wrists, he picks her hands up and escapes out from under them, standing suddenly and stepping around her, ignoring the fact that his dick is front and center to give him away. "I already told you what the big deal is," he insists, refusing to look her in the eye as she huffs in frustration and stands with him. "There's no way that... no, this can't happen," he finishes.

Gwen's disappointment quickly transforms to vexation and a furrow of a frown appears. Without another word, she snatches up her bag from the floor, slings it over a shoulder and shoves her way past him, out from behind the desk and toward the door.

He lets her go. Stunned, he stares at the closed door for a long minute after all sign of Gwen has disappeared. Slowly, he sinks into his desk chair again, leaning back into the creaking thing. He knows he did the right thing, but no matter how hard he closes his eyes, how roughly he presses the heels of his hands into them, he can't get her voice out of his head, those three words.

I want you. I want you. I want you.

________________________________________________

Here it is, Tuesday again. And here Jackson is, waiting for... he doesn't know what. The grading's done and spread out in front of him and there's not even any tutoring to be done, now that Gwen won't be coming back. After going back and forth on it all weekend, in between giving in to decidedly inadvisable bouts of fantasizing, he decided on the best possible way this situation could end; she would just never show up again and he wouldn't see her except for the occasional awkward encounter in the hallways. Problem solved.

But then why is he poking around here aimlessly and perking up at the slightest hint of someone passing by his little box of a classroom? Because I'm pathetic, Jackson answers himself, finally deciding that he needs to give this shit up and act like the adult he is. He rolls his chair back from the desk to fish his bag out from under the desk.

As if on cue, the door whines on its hinges and claps shut, and Jackson jerks up like a startled prairie dog to peer over the top of the desk. Shit. It's Gwen.

She stands there almost defiantly with her arms crossed over a book, lips set as sternly as possible. Jackson swallows hard at the sight of her; she's dressed herself up in an outfit vaguely reminiscent of the mythical kinky schoolgirl found in the minds of so many men. Her pleated skirt is plaid alright, but a subdued tan pattern rather than the classic red check, and she's wearing a snug cream sweater instead of some skimpy white button down. But the hint is there and he sure doesn't miss it. Echoes of daydreams from the past few days skitter through his head.

"I need help with this," she explains, holding up a textbook, the only thing she's brought with her today. "I would have asked my pre-calc teacher, but she reached a new level of bitch today."

Does he believe the excuse? Not entirely. But Jackson decides to give her the benefit of the doubt anyway and silently motions her forward with a conflicted bit of frown muddling his expression. At least he won't be caught unawares in the chair again. He shoves quickly to his feet and hovers there while she makes her way over. "Actually... I know this is slightly awkward," he begins. "But... we should probably talk about what happened yesterday." He's a trifle proud of how mature and calm it actually sounds. She says nothing, so he continues. "I know that sometimes you can get carried away by a crush and it seems..."

She quickly cuts him off with, "Oh, please. Don't patronize me," and shoots him a withering look, punctuated by the heavy book slamming to the desk on top of his papers. She flips hair over her shoulder and bends at the waist, leaning far over to leaf through to the trouble pages.

Jackson stands far enough back that he glimpses a patch of girly pink lace beneath the sway of skirt before averting his eyes. He clears his throat to find his voice again, but when he does he steps forward and says, "I'm not trying to. It's just that... well, it's really not appropriate..."

Again, cut off. "Appropriate," she scoffs, straightening suddenly and staring up at him from much too far inside his personal bubble. "I didn't do anything wrong. I'm legal, I can make my own decisions. And yeah, you're my teacher, but not for long. I'll be graduating in a few months. And anyway, I don't care." Was it his imagination or was she inching closer? "I just care that I can't stop thinking about you on top of me. Wondering what your dick looks like. What it tastes like." Jackson swallows hard as her hand sneaks its way up to his belt, fingers just hooking around the top of it. He should stop her, of course he should. "Thinking about the sounds you'd make while fucking me. About the sounds you'd make me make." His logic center, deep down, still realizes this is all so very wrong, but who can resist such skillful convincing; her voice has somehow transitioned from terse and biting to smooth and inviting without him noticing. Now her second hand has joined the first to slowly slip his belt free of its buckle. Of course, every ounce of resistance that he'd managed to hang on to this far dissolves into nothing quickly when she drags him by his belt ends into a kiss.

Her tongue plays over his for a sensuous moment before he rises to kiss her back, sinking into her seductive wiles. He grasps her by the shoulder blades, fingers digging in as he presses her whole length against him. She responds with an intoxicating little wriggle and an appreciative sigh.

With a quick pivot and a long step he shoves her ass up against the desk, grinding his straining erection against her. Gwen squeaks, but without breaking their kiss she snakes a hand behind her, shoving her forgotten textbook away from her and off the edge of the desk with a messy flutter-whomp. Grateful for the extra work space, Jackson gropes his way down to her ass and lifts her up onto the edge of the desk.

Heaving a breath through a heady, self-satisfied smile, Gwen pulls back and gazes up at him, all the while blindly unzipping his fly, then exploring further, past the band of his boxers. All of a sudden his dick is out, enclosed in her soft palm, and breathing becomes a little more difficult for him. He gazes down at it in disbelief for a second, groaning softly, before beginning to paw desperately at her own clothing.

The sweater is the first to go, slid haltingly up and over her head. The bra calls for a focus that's fled southward now, so it takes him longer than it might otherwise. She doesn't seem to mind, more than happy to distract him with her deliberate stroking.

With the most satisfying snick ever, the clasp falls open and he pulls the rest of it eagerly off of her. Her breasts are better than his imagination ever led him to believe, small but delicately rounded, her nipples pale and pointed. His thumbs trace the under curve with gentle restraint before he cups both greedily in his palms. His mouth soon follows, lips surrounding a nipple while he caresses it with is tongue. Experimentally, he lets his teeth graze her skin in a quick nip, rewarded with a whine of the best kind and a smile when he glances up at her.

Now that her maddening hand job has been interrupted, he has a chance to drive her to distraction and takes it eagerly. With his mouth still at her breast, his reaches under her skirt to hook that tantalizing pink thong and drag it down. In his haste, he pulls too sharply and slingshots them down to her ankles. Grunting disapproval, he pulls back to bend down and remove them completely, taking advantage of the position to knock her flip flops off of her feet and far out of the way. On the way back up, he spots an opportunity in the darkness beneath her disheveled skirt and dives right in.

She's golden and downy, unburdened as of yet by the shaving addiction so many women his age have, and he buries his nose in the softness while his tongue flicks back and forth, building speed slowly. Gwen moans headily when he finally seals his mouth around her clit and sucks. Soon he has her bucking against him, trembling in his grip on her ass, whimpering on the edge. Which is where he leaves her, for now.

He crawls back up while laying down a trail of hungry kisses along her body, stomach, breasts, and finally neck. "Mr. Denney," Gwen groans, turning her mouth to his ear and, when he's close enough, dragging her teeth along its lobe. "I want you inside me, Mr. Denney."

He almost corrects her, tells her to call him Jackson, but a split second later he decides he likes it better her way. "Say it again," he growls softly, teasingly dragging his cock along her clit.

"Mr. Denney," she echoes, playing up the sensual urgency in her voice even more. "I want you inside me. Right now."

With a low, guttural moan, he positions himself and, after only a breath's hesitation, penetrates her with just the head, slowly inching forward with each rocking thrust. At first her moans are encouraging, enjoying, but it doesn't take long for them to gain a note of frustration. "Come on," she finally mutters breathily, forcefully enclosing him in the wrap of her legs. "I'm not all that delicate, really fuck me, come on."

And every bit of vigor she puts into that dirty little word goes into the next thrust, and the next, and he grits his teeth against the resistance while simultaneously appreciating the view. Gwen alternates between meeting his eye and watching his body move, her cries hushed but plentiful, the slight mounds of her breasts bouncing wildly with each push. The sight brings him close to climax and he has to rein himself back; he closes his eyes and slows his pace.