Hard Measures

Denise adjusted her glasses, which she wore solely for effect, and took a deep breath.

—Hi, I'm Ms. Daniels, she said, extending her hand towards her newest student who would, though she was unable to intuit it at the time (wasn't she?), bring about the untimely end of her tutoring career.

The young man looked up from his smartphone as he tucked his hand behind his head and reclined in his Charles & Ray Eames chair.

—I'm Quinn, he said.

She rebalanced the bag with her teaching materials on her shoulder and, as he made no move to return the proffered greeting, withdrew her hand. Denise had dealt with sullen, ungrateful students before, so this refusal did not trouble her dignity too much. Accordingly, she gave him a lenient smile.

—Do you know why I'm here, Quinn?

—To improve my grades, so I can get into college and my parents won't be embarrassed about me when asked at parties, I guess.

Denise paused and considered.

—I wouldn't have phrased it so bluntly, but yes, in essence that's it, it seems.

—A college enrollment would also keep me out of the house nine months of the year.

Denise ignored his last statement, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The teenager's lair was large with a sizeable bed that was set in the far corner. She had expected the room to be messy, but it was neatly arranged and smelled faintly of coffee. Remarkable was the absence of the usual cadre of posters displaying bands, sports teams, and bikini-clad girls. A photograph of an aspen grove adorned the wall above the bed, while two rows of four black-and-white pictures on the far wall she could not quite make out. Quinn's clothes looked clean and voguish, but rumpled as if donned in a haphazard way.

—I was expecting another coed, he said, but I like you. You have the hot librarian thing going on, you know.

He twirled his index finger around.

—Come on, give me a slow turn. A cute face and a first-rate rack are nice, but a tight butt would pull the whole package together.

Hands on her hips, Denise was prepared to scold the young man. His smile was mischievous and his blue eyes had a detached, almost amused quality about them. She cocked her head to the side.

—You're trying to get me to quit, she said.

Quinn grinned.

—Of course I am. It'll make life much easier.

—How old are you? Sixteen?

—Eighteen, ma'am!

Denise considered him with narrowed eyes. He glanced at the floor, and for a brief moment his air of confidence evaporated.

—I was sick a lot when I was younger, you know.

—Well, you're sure not going to get rid of me that easily, she said. I promised your mother I'd help you, and I intend to be true to my word.

A beguiled smile uncoiled upon her lips.

—Plus, I like challenges.

Quinn placed another chair designed by a mid-century modernist (Jacobsen or McCobb, possibly) in front of his desk and patted the seat.

—Let's see what you've got. Move your cute butt, he said.

Denise settled into the chair and prepared her materials, contemplating his impudent dabbling in the Bard's art, when something mounted on the wall above the desk lit up. It reminded her of a NOW SERVING sign at a deli. The number sixteen appeared in small red-backlit numerals. Quinn scribbled on a piece of paper and taped it up under the sign. It illegibly read: Sessions until super tutor Denny gives up.

Denise arched an eyebrow; Quinn grinned again. Next she slapped a stack of papers against the desktop.

—All right, she said, let's see what you've got.

Later that day, seated at her desk at home, Denise pinched the bridge of her nose: too many of Quinn's answers were wrong or lacked the needed details. Bad habits and faineance! It would be an uphill battle, but she had faced worse in the past.

In the ensuing month Quinn barely scored Cs on his exams. Often his homework went incomplete, and extra exercises she gave him he simply ignored. Denise, halfway through their fifth session, ground her forehead into her palms.

—Honestly, what would it take for you to actually try, Quinn?

He shrugged.

Denise tilted her head, tapping her fingers on the desktop.

—You know what? If your performance stays this poor, I get to keep your smartphone for a month.

—No way, I need that!

She shrugged.

—I'll explain to your mother the utter necessity of punitive action. I'm sure she'll understand.

Quinn crossed his arms over his chest, his brow gravely furrowed.

—You know, he said, science has proven that kids respond a lot better to positive reinforcement than negative.

— You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, she said wryly. Is that what you're saying? Somehow I think positive reinforcement would be wasted on you, Quinn.

—Not if I had sufficient motivation.

—And what would provide sufficient motivation?

—Think I score low on the next test. You confiscate my phone. But how about if I score high on my next test  . . . and you give me something instead.

—Like what? asked Denise warily.

—Your bra, said Quinn, flashing perfect teeth.

—Excuse me?

—You know the strappy thing you wear to hold up your tits?

He rolled his eyes and poked his thumb back at himself:

—I'm supposed to be the dumb one, remember?

—Nobody here is dumb, she said. I'm not going to tolerate derogatory language.

He stared at her imbecilically.

Denise sighed.

—This isn't going to scare me into quitting, she said.

He said nothing.

—I'm not the kind of person you seem to think I am.

He shrugged.

—I don't think about the kind of person you might be, you know, at all.

—Fine, she said and took a deep breath (he grinned again). But I get to decide the target score.

Since he had barely scored 70s on his previous exams, Denise gave a number she knew would be tempting but ultimately unreachable.

—And you will complete all your homework and the assignments I give you too, she added.

Quinn frowned, open-mouthed.

—That's an awful lot of work for a bra!

—If I demand too much of you, then just admit it and we'll move on, she said in a syrupy sweet voice.

Watching his facial expressions evolve for a solid minute (or so it temporally felt to Denise), she could tell the exact moment the hook was set.

—It's a deal, he said, extending his hand. I wonder if it's black lace. You seem like the type. Guess, I'll know soon enough.

She shook it and said:

—We'll see.

Though she found the arrangement detestable, as the days passed Denise had to admit it was working. At their meetings Quinn displayed fully completed homework and exercises; the execution still left much to be desired, but with him on the line Denise felt she only needed to tug now and then to pull him in the right direction. In a weak moment she showed Quinn's work to his mother.

—How fantastic, Denise! You are a miracle worker, Mrs. Ross said. The last tutor we had quit after the first month. She left here in tears.

Denise stifled a grimace. She was fairly certain about why the poor girl had fled.

Then, early in the morning a few days after Quinn's exam, as the shower head sprinkled her naked body, she realized that her session with him today would bring the moment of truth! While drying her skin with a waffle-weaved linen towel (which was advertised to her as naturally rejuvenating the skin along with being more eco-friendly, more durable than terry), she tried not to imagine Quinn's reaction in the event he actually won. Back in her bedroom, dried and already half-clothed, she paused as she dressed. A plain bra dangled from her fingers. With a smile she put it back and grabbed a delicate lacy one. She had purchased it from Victoria's Secret on the miserable day last November when she had wanted to feel uniquely confident and sexy after the breakup with her fiancé. It would be twisted fun to get back at him by describing to Quinn what he had missed out on.

She could not but smile as she knocked on the open door. Quinn looked up and patted the seat of the chair next to him.

—Have a seat, Denny.

—It's Ms. Daniels to you, Quinn.

The smug grin on his face and corresponding body language melted her confidence away. As she settled into the chair next to him, he forced a paper into her hands. Denise swallowed hard. Emblazoned in red at the top was the agreed upon score. There's no way  . . . ! Quinn's eyes brimmed with impatience as she closely examined each of his answers. He held out his hand, palm up, and wagged his fingers.

—Pay up!

Denise choked on words unspoken.

—We both know that agreement was made in jest, she said, swallowing hard again. Let's just get on with our lesson.

Quinn clucked his tongue:

—We had an agreement. You gave your word and so did I. I held up my end and now I'm the wrongdoer?

—I'm not giving you my bra.

—Then we are done here, he said, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

Denise narrowed her eyes and studied the young man.

—This is all just a game to you, isn't it?

—Of course, he said wryly. But as long as you continue to play you get a chance to win and fix me and snatch some more money from mom. If we stop now, you forfeit it all.

She crossed her arms and pursed her lips.

—Not like I'm going to see anything, you know, besides a bra, he said, rolling his eyes.

With trembling hands Denise reached under her blouse behind her back. She cringed as her clammy fingers fumbled with the clasp. Slowly and awkwardly she slipped each strap off her shoulders and down her arms. She was woefully out of practice in removing a bra underneath her clothes (the last time she had been in college), and presently fumbling for it made her feel clumsy and unwomanly. The flimsy piece of garment was snatched from her fingers as soon as it was free from her blouse.

Quinn gave a low whistle.

—Very nice, Denny, he said. Very nice.

His smile grew ear-to-ear as he examined the tag. Denise felt her face flush. He held her garment up to his nose, then dropped it in a drawer and pushed it closed with his knee.

—Shall we begin?

Over the next two weeks Quinn's schoolwork and exercises improved notably. During their sessions he had repeatedly brushed up against Denise's breasts at odd times; but presently, as she was elaborating on an exceedingly abstract concept (though not quite in the league of, say, the Stoics' καθῆκον or the like), Quinn leaned over as if to better follow her explanation and placed his hand on her leg above her knee, his fingers tickling the inside of her thigh.

Denise sighed.

—Touching is very inappropriate, Quinn, she said, taking his hand off her leg. And it's not going to scare me into quitting.

—I have another test coming up, he said as Denise packed up for the evening.

—Uh-huh.

—And if I get a good score, I think I should get to touch your tits.

Denise shot upright, saying:

—You can't be serious!

Quinn grinned that grin again.

—A bra is one thing, but groping is a whole other story.

—Touching won't make me quit, said Quinn in a cracking falsetto.

Denise's eyes drifted to the glowing red six on the wall above the desk. He was just a kid, wasn't he? She would not let a juvenile teenage boy push her around.

—The target is going to be even higher than last time, she said.

—What? Now you can't be serious.

—If you can't do it, then I get my bra back.

Quinn leaned forward and gave her the Uncle Sam pointing finger:

—OK. . . . But you get them tits out in the open. No underneath your shirt crap! And I get to touch them for as long as I want!

Denise extended her hand and said:

—I look forward to getting my bra back.

When she knocked on the open door, she could not ascertain Quinn's mood. He had improved, but had he improved enough to meet the target? Not likely, for how often had she had to repeat each concept before it sank in! Denise decided to play it cocky: holding out her hand, she approached him:

—My bra please, she said, wagging her fingers as he had done before.

Quinn frowned, opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out  . . . a bundle of papers! He grinned, slapping them into her hand. Denise lost control of her mimetic muscles: his score exceeded the target she had set! With shaking hands she leafed through the exam. A few minor questions at the end were unanswered; he had run out of time apparently.

—It came down to the final question, and I had only a minute or so left, he said. I really thought I wouldn't pull it off. Then it just clicked. That last question was similar to one you showed me the other day.

Denise's heart leapt into her throat.

—Look Quinn—

—Are we going to go through this again? You lost. Woman up.

Denise wiped her sweaty palms on the legs of her pants. Her stomach stirred with not exactly butterflies, but something close.

—Sit on my bed, said Quinn.

She sat down on the soft comforter. She thought she was going to get sick. Her hands felt heavy and stiff as she unbuttoned her blouse. She hooked her fingers underneath her bra but struggled lifting the cups away.

—Just take them both off!

A prudent suggestion, she conceded, albeit grudgingly. Denise swiftly acted on it, neatly folding her discarded bra and blouse (plain both) before setting them aside. Quinn settled in behind her with his knees either side of her hips. She jumped at his touch. His hands were warm. He ran the tips of his feather-light fingers along the underside of each breast. Then he cupped them in his hands as if to measure their weight. Denise shut her lids at once as he bounced her breasts in the palms of his hands. It felt degrading to be nothing more than a live toy, to be touched and played with at the whim of another; yet there was a little arousal present in the back of her mind—and a tickling down below her navel.

Quinn gave an appreciative whistle.

—So big, yet firm and malleable . . . not hard like aunt Daisy's fake ones, he mused aloud, running his fingers upwards and letting her breasts bounce.

Then, much to her chagrin, he focused on her sensitive nipples, gently edging his thumbs over each areola. With every second of this her nervous tension melted away. Denise reclined against Quinn (and forgot about his aunt Daisy comment) as he gave her nipples a gentle tug. She bit her bottom lip to stifle a moan. Her lids sprang open when she heard the telltale snap of a cell phone picture being taken. She tried to move away, but Quinn held her tight.

—What are you doing?

—Don't worry, he said, I'll send you a copy.

—I don't want a copy, she said, getting one hand free to cover her face.

—Relax, Denny, I'm only going to show it to my friends.

She struggled again, but Quinn had a firm hold on her breasts. Denise heard him give a sigh, carrying a fair amount of annoyance.

—I'll crop it about mid-nose so it won't show all of your pretty face. I'm betting I can get a couple days of playing Guess the Bitch out of it.

A stunning realization caught her: to Quinn she was not a college educated woman, his tutor, or even Ms. Daniels; no, she was simply the bitch he toyed with and showed off to his friends. This epiphany coincided with a firm tug on both her nipples. Denise was able to stifle a moan yet again, but her head lolled backwards and came to rest on Quinn's shoulder.

Frustration, anger, and disappointment swirled through her mind as the teenage boy's fingers continued to stroke and tease her body. Denise squirmed against her student, ripples of unseemly pleasure traveling up and down her spine. She lost track of time: her breasts molding to every touch, bouncing free after three firm final taps.

—I'm done, said Quinn. Let's get on with our lesson.

She was catching her breath when he handed her blouse to her. With tingly fingers she quickly buttoned it. A third of their appointed session time had elapsed. Denise's thoughts were scattered and it was apparent in her instruction: several times she had to make recourse to some more or less important detail to elaborate or clarify all over again.

—You're a slow burner, huh?

—What?

He reached out and gave her right nipple a playful pinch. Much to her chagrin, Denise's nipples were still tenting the fabric of her blouse.

—It takes you a bit, said Quinn, but once you get going it takes you a long time to cool off.

Denise was overcome by an acute urge to flee from the young man.

—Let's call it a night, she said, hastily pulling out a sheet of paper with prepared questions and slapping it down on the desk. Answer these and have them ready for our next session!

She did not wait for an answer before gathering her belongings (or so she thought) and bolting out the door. Descending the stairs, her buoyant breasts made her realize she had forgotten her bra. She paused. Denise turned to look back at the elegant hallway above her and swallowed. She could not bring herself to face that self-satisfied grin of Quinn's again. With a groan she resumed her path out of the house.

Sitting on her couch, late in the evening, she gulped hot tea without concern about scalding her tongue. Her iPhone chirped, announcing a new message. Tea in hand she thumbed the display. It was a picture with Quinn supporting the underside of each of her breasts (demonstrating that they really did not need his support). Her head was resting on his shoulder and her mouth wide open; both nipples as hard as pebbles. Quinn's proud grin filled the top third of the picture. Her student had kept his word and cropped the photo. Denise flung her phone away.

She pushed the remainder of her Cobb salad to the side of her plate. It had been months since last meeting with her friend Suzanne, so the greater part of their lunchtime was spent catching up on each other's lives. After discussing current events, TV shows, and mutual friends, the subject shifted towards work, and then Denise's frustrations with Quinn tumbled out.

—My senior year in college I got stuck in that mentor program, remember? said Suzanne. I had a mentee kinda like Quinn: young, cocky, and annoying.

—How did you handle it?

Suzanne gave her upright girlfriend a devilish grin.

—I fucked him in the back seat of his car after Homecoming.

—Sue! exclaimed Denise under her breath, quickly glancing at the occupied tables nearby in the hope for no easily impressionable people to be within earshot (a big signora beside a little girl in a plaid skirt made eyes at her).

Suzanne pushed her plate to the side and leaned forward, lowering her voice:

—Do you know how, when you're with a guy you trust, you feel all warm and safe?

—Yeah .  .  .

—With Jackson, in the back seat of his car, it felt . . . raw . . . intense . . . and . . . kinda dangerous.

Denise sucked the French dressing off the tines of her fork.

—Anyway, you're an adult. He's just a teenager. He knows nothing of real women or how to fuck 'em, said a self-amused Suzanne (who sure did not spare her girlfriend's blushes). His right hand has probably gathered more mileage than both of us combined.