The Exceptional Tutor Pt. 01

She was late.

Emma wasn't one for missing appointments. Occasionally, very occasionally, her clients might. None had ever missed two -- she made sure of that. So it grated that her bus had been held up here in Isleworth as workmen cut the road open up ahead like a surgeon over a patient.

"Expect delays," advised the electronic sign on the pavement, and Emma murmured a curse to herself. This wasn't how you make a good impression -- not when you want to present the type of image which Emma needed to present.

Emma was what she liked to call an "exceptional methods tutor." Advertising herself on social media and university message boards, she offered her tutoring services to any student who could pay. She'd graduated from Oxford with honours -- her photographic memory made that fairly easy -- and even then couldn't find better work than a sweaty kitchen or a miserable care home. Maybe, she thought all the time, she shouldn't have gone with classics. "Waste of a perfectly good brain," her dad told her. So here she was, offering her abilities in other ways, guaranteeing results one way or the other, because after shepherding her best friend through her Master's she'd discovered quite the knack. Where did the "exceptional" come from? Well, she got those kinds of results out of her students. But the term described something else, too -- her methods.

The bus showing no sign of moving and other passengers already giving up, Emma did the same; she disembarked onto Jersey Road and hurried past Osterley Park under a greying September sky, leather messenger bag swinging from her shoulder. The new semester was a week old -- students were aplenty on the streets but Emma only had interest in one.

She would have broken into a run were it not a bit of a red flag for your tutor to turn up red and panting and sweaty -- that was how the student ought to be. If they'd earned it, of course. Instead, Emma came as close to power-walking as her self-conscious self would allow her to, marching past the roadworks and a group of shouting Christians handing out colourful pamphlets. The breeze kept wandering up her black dress -- she wondered if, perhaps, the outfit had overdone it. Ordinarily she'd go for a more casual look which communicated to the student her friendliness, her normality, that you could be at ease with her. Which you could be, of course, to a certain degree. But this new student seemed, at least to Emma, like one who'd respond well to an extra vibe of authority. It wasn't too hard to present -- with her ghostly pale skin, thin lips, cropped black hair, and sunken cheeks, she'd been told more than once that she'd make a good dominatrix. If the money ever got better, and the competition less challenging in a place like London, maybe she'd even think about it.

Bellingham Park, the student accommodation block housing a couple hundred eager-or-not first year students, was just around the corner now. It hadn't been such a long walk, after all -- Emma slowed, rolled her shoulders, stroked her sore hand, checked her reflection as she passed a parked black cab's window. Know the image to present, she told herself. It wasn't easy to stay in character, so to speak, all the time; but it was paying her rent and then some.

Once Emma reached Bellingham Park, she squeezed through the metal gate, thankfully ignored by the security officer who just sat in his booth and stared at his phone, and walked down the path between tall beech trees towards the main building. It was an old building, one of those godawful sixties blocks of concrete and brick with grimy windows, and there were already signs up advertising what they'd soon be building in its place. It was just another monstrosity, Emma thought, only this time it'd be plastic. Checking the signs as she went, looking for Lady Caldwell House -- one of the seven blocks on Bellingham Park -- Emma felt a pang of nostalgia for her old student days. The surroundings were rather more show-offy in Oxford, of course, but the energy was still here. It wasn't yet ten -- those who were awake on a Sunday looked either hungover to their eyeballs or were dressed for the gym. Two girls walked by in pyjamas and slippers -- Emma had to fight hard not to laugh at the sight. A part of her worried that a former tutee might see her, or that she'd otherwise be recognised, but besides a couple unwelcome male glances she went unseen on her way.

Once at Lady Caldwell, just another anonymous block of concrete with cigarette butts and lager cans decorating the floor outside the main entrance, Emma was halted by the double-doors. These required a student card to pass, which Emma lacked, and though she could have convinced one of the male students to let her in that'd only invite the expectation of a favour in return. Probably. It'd happened once -- it could happen again. So it was that Emma took her phone from her bag and, finding the right contact, a name reading 'Cara,' texted her.

"I'm outside Lady Caldwell House. Emma." Crisply formal and matter-of-fact. Not at all her normal way of being -- but she was in character now. Her phone pinged.

"One second!" Emma dropped her phone into her bag and waited. Goosebumps danced across her. They always did -- no matter how normalised this ridiculous job was, she always got excited. How could she not? The day it got so normal she stopped enjoying it, she'd promised herself, she'd quit.

A beep came from behind Emma, almost making her jump, and then someone pushed the door open. Cara stood there, holding it open, almost staring at her with her shy face. It was their first time seeing each other -- Cara was a Chinese student, slimly built, petite to the point of appearing delicate, with hair as black as Emma's but long and flowing down to her shoulder blades. Big, bright, brown eyes were covered by round glasses, and her fringe parted in places just enough that she couldn't quite hide the splattering of pink acne decorating her forehead, but otherwise her face was smooth and pale as porcelain. She wore a light blue blouse, sleeves all the way to her wrists, a beige pleated skirt which just passed her knees, and beyond her bare, pale calves she wore white trainers which looked clean enough to have been bought this morning.

"Hi -- Cara, right?" asked Emma. The girl nodded quickly, brushing errant hair from her eyes. "I'm Emma."

"Mhm," Cara replied, seeming unsure, one hand still on the door, as if she hadn't asked for Emma to come.

"Shall we go in?" Emma asked, sensing this might be a little tricker. Chinese students, especially girls, could be infamously shy -- it was the same everywhere.

"Okay," Cara said, her accent soft and sing-song, and she pushed the door open wider so Emma could step into Lady Caldwell. It smelled as bad inside as she'd thought it might. Students never change.

"This brings back memories," Emma remarked, looking around at the broken vending machine and laminated signs pointing to the IT Hub.

"Did you also go to college here?" Cara asked.

"No, Oxford," Emma said, "but it felt similar."

"Oh," Cara said, nodding.

"So, shall we go to your room and get started?" Emma asked.

"Yes," Cara agreed, and she turned to go up the stairs. Emma stayed a pace behind her -- Cara said nothing the entire walk, moving with a hurry in her stride and her skirt waving around her knees as she went, as if desperate to get back to the safety of her bedroom where the outside world couldn't see her. They went up three flights of stairs before passing a number of anonymous doors, the smell of weed emanating from behind at least one of them, before Emma thought she ought to keep conversation going.

"Do you like living here?" she asked. Cara looked over her shoulder and shook her head. The look she gave Emma was almost despondent.

"It's terrible," she replied. "Everyone is so loud and I can't study. I complain but they won't do anything."

"So you'll be moving out in second year?"

"I want to," Cara replied, stopping at a door -- its sign read 33. "This is my room."

"Great," said Emma, crossing her arms and watching Cara retrieve jangling keys from her skirt pocket. She unlocked the door and stepped inside -- Emma followed.

"I'm sorry about the mess," Cara said meekly, her hand drifting over the spotless, creaseless, dustless bedroom. Emma said nothing -- just shook her head as Cara went to the window and pushed it as far open as its latches would permit. The sound of traffic came in with the warm late-summer air. Then, hands holding each other, Cara turned to face Emma.

"Alright," said Emma, dropping her messenger bag onto the desk. "Why don't you sit down somewhere and we'll have a little talk?"

"Okay," Cara agreed, pulling her swivel chair out from under the wooden desk and turning it round, sitting to face Emma, who sat on Cara's bed. The mattress was so thin she thought she could feel the frame beneath it. These poor students. She wondered how much money Cara had come from and what a shock it must have been to open that door for the first time.

"Right," Emma began, "so, you'd like me to be your tutor for the academic year."

"Yes," Cara said, pushing her glasses up her nose with a finger. "I think I'll need extra help, a bit, and I saw your advert. Do you really guarantee a First?"

"I do," said Emma, smiling. "Or your money back."

"Wow," said Cara, seeming genuinely impressed.

"I know it's only been a week since the semester started but how are you finding the work so far?"

"Hard," Cara admitted. "Harder than I thought. So I think I need a tutor. And I can afford it. It's for Politics With Quantitative Research Methods. Is that okay?"

"It's a mouthful." Emma smiled.

"Mouthful?"

"Never mind," she said, shaking her head. "Don't worry -- I've memorised the textbooks so I'll be on top of the material. We'll need a couple of sessions to get a grip of your study strategies and how best we can adapt them. Within a month I can have you averaging ten more points than you'd otherwise be getting. Three months and we'll be in regular First category. Guaranteed." Cara didn't seem to quite be listening -- she seemed vaguely dumbstruck.

"You memorised the material?" asked Cara, slowly.

"Well, just the recommended reading. I know where to get the PDFs."

"But that's thousands of pages. That's impossible."

"Not for me." Cara almost seemed to swallow -- Emma had been told, once or twice, that she had a superpower. Maybe -- but that power had its drawbacks. Sometimes you don't want to remember things. This didn't give you a choice.

"What are your exceptional methods?" Cara asked, suddenly. "I didn't understand that bit."

"Didn't you read my website?" Emma replied, cocking her head, and Cara shook hers.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"It's alright," said Emma, "it's kinda vague on there, anyway. I'll explain."

"Okay." Here we go, thought Emma.

"So, if you do decide you want me as your tutor, I come with certain very important rules. They're non-negotiable. Without them, you won't get anywhere; you certainly won't be guaranteed a First."

"Oh, okay," said Cara, speaking a little slower than before, "what rules?"

"As your tutor, I reserve the right to punish you in any way I see fit, for any transgression. Okay?"

"Okay..." mumbled Cara, her pretty face lighting up with surprise.

"By transgressions, I mean any poor grades in assignments, any failures to follow instructions, any skipping classes or skipping studying, anything like that. With me so far?"

"Yes," Cara replied, nodding quickly again.

"And if you do break these rules, you get a punishment."

"What kind of punishment?"

"It depends on what you've done to deserve it," said Emma. "But you'll sign a contract agreeing that I can do anything to you as punishment. Anything."

"Okay," said Cara, quietly. "Why do I have to sign a contract?"

"So you can't take me to court if you don't like one of your punishments."

"Is that likely?"

"It's not happened yet," Emma replied with a smile, "but I like to keep my bases covered."

"Right." Cara looked deathly nervous -- but, Emma noticed, she wasn't saying no.

"And likewise," added Emma, "if I think you've earned a reward then I'll reward you however I see fit, too. As long as I'm your tutor you belong to me. Whatever I say goes without question. And in exchange, I guarantee you'll get an A in every module. If you don't -- all your money back. That's my deal."

"I..." Cara squirmed a little in her chair. "I belong to you? Like a slave?"

"Like a tutee," Emma corrected. "As long as I'm your tutor, I'm in charge. You'll address me as 'miss,' you'll follow my instructions at all times, and you'll take any punishment I think you deserve."

"You still haven't told me what the punishments are," Cara mumbled, looking to the window. A hawthorn branch swayed outside. "I don't think I can sign anything without knowing what I'm agreeing to."

"Well," said Emma, "my normal method of punishment is spanking." She let the words hang in the air -- this bit was always fun.

"Spanking?"

"That's right." Cara shifted again in her seat, her knees seeming to press a little tighter together.

"What, like... on my behind?" She giggled, despite herself, at the absurdity.

"Usually," said Emma, as matter-of-fact as she could, and Cara's smile faded fast. "But sometimes on your hands, if I think that's more appropriate."

"So... if I didn't study like you told me to, you'd spank me?"

"Exactly." Cara regarded her for a moment.

"You're joking."

"Take a look at my hand," Emma said, holding up her right palm -- Cara looked and, with a jolt, for the first time saw how red raw it was.

"Is that from-"

"Last night," said Emma, nodding. "One of my second year tutees was too hungover to show up for her first seminar. Hopefully she'll learn to attend from now on."

"Yeah," Cara said quietly, still staring at her hand. "What other punishments do you do?"

"I wouldn't want to spoil any surprises for you," Emma replied with a wicked smile. "Any questions I can answer?"

"Um..." Cara thought for a moment. "How many people do you tutor?"

"You'd be my eleventh."

"Your hand must be busy," Cara mumbled, smiling nervously.

"Not all of my tutees misbehave," Emma replied with a smirk. "What about you? Would you misbehave?"

"Uh..." Cara sucked in her lips a little. "I'd try not to."

"Well, I'll be the judge." Emma regarded her for a moment. "Because I'm an excellent tutor. But I can also be a nasty fucking bitch if I have to be." Cara bristled.

"Okay."

"And that's how I'll get you your First."

"Yeah," Cara mumbled, looking away again. "I've never been spanked before. Isn't it what you do to kids?"

"That's illegal now," Emma said, with a grin. "But you're not a kid. You're a consenting adult who can say no at any time. It'd mean our partnership ends on the spot -- but you can say no."

"Right," Cara said. She sighed, deeply. "Well... I really need a First. And I guess if I just do what you say then I won't get spanked. Right?"

"Almost right," said Emma, leaning back a little, hands on the bed to support herself.

"Almost?" Cara asked, mouth slightly open, unsure how to reply.

"I'm not prepared to do a lot of initial work getting you up to speed only for you to back out and end everything when you have to take your first spanking," Emma said. "So, I think it's best that you find out what it's like at the beginning. Otherwise I'm risking it with you."

"Wait..." Cara's face filled with surprise.

"That's my deal." Emma leaned back forwards, crossing her arms.

"You want to spank me?" Cara asked, voice quivering.

"I have to spank you," Emma replied. Ooh, she thought, that was a good line. She'd use that again if the chance came. "And you need me to. It's how you know exactly what you're signing up for."

"Well..." Cara looked down at her legs -- she took her skirt's hem and tried to pull it further past her knees but it resisted her efforts. "How do you do it?"

"How do you think I do it?"

"You smack my behind, right?" Cara mumbled, eye contact seemingly impossible.

"Twenty smacks," Emma added. "I think that'll give you a good idea of what you're signing up for."

"I don't know..." Cara said quietly, hands fidgeting with each other. "Maybe you could just smack my hands instead?"

"No." Emma shook her head. "We do things my way."

"This is crazy," Cara said, nervous laughter bursting from her tongue, "you're just a tutor. You can't do that."

"Do you need to have another look at my hand?"

"No." Cara was blinking rapidly, now. Emma wondered if she was fighting back tears. She didn't have a heart of total stone; if Cara ended up crying, she'd get a hug at the end. "Stand up."

"Huh?" Cara looked back at her, confusion on her face, as Emma rose to her feet. Cara, still rooted to her swivel chair, just stared up at her.

"I said stand up."

"But-" Impatient, Emma reached down, took the girl's wrist, and hauled her to her feet. She squeaked as she rose but didn't resist. With their noses almost touching, Emma let go and glared into Cara's rich brown eyes. She was proud of herself -- it had taken a lot of work to exude this kind of authority. Her first meeting with her first client, well, the less said about that the better.

"Here's what's going to happen," Emma said, soft but firm. "You're going to bend over the desk with your knees nice and straight. Then you're going to lift up your skirt. Then I'm going to spank you twenty times on your rear and once I'm done you're going to thank me. Understand?"

"I..." Cara gripped the sides of her skirt, holding it tightly against her legs. "I'm not sure. Do we have to?"

"Depends on whether you want to get through university."

"I do!" Cara insisted. "But..." Emma interrupted her -- with a flash of movement, her hand was on Cara's neck. She squeezed, lightly, enough to hold her in place. This was the test -- if they stepped backwards, if they resisted, they were a waste of time. The ones who stayed put, however, who gave in to her; they were future tutees. Cara, gasping in surprise and staring wide-eyed at Emma, stayed put. Emma pulled her close to her face.

"As long as I'm your tutor," she growled, pausing a touch awkwardly as two chattering students passed by down the corridor outside. Once their voices faded, she continued. "I own you. If I want to spank you, I will. If I want to ground you, I will. If I want to strip you and push you out onto the street in front of everyone, I will. And you'll obey. Understand?"

"Yes," Cara whimpered.

"Yes, miss."

"Yes, miss."

Emma let go -- Cara breathed heavily and, after a moment's hesitation rubbing her neck, turned to the desk. Obediently, she bent over it, pushing a books and a potted plant out of the way to give herself room. Resting on her forearms and keeping her knees straight, she stuck her little bottom out towards Emma, shapely under her pleated skirt. Emma gave her a moment to lift up her skirt herself but, when Cara didn't, she did so herself -- Cara mumbled a tiny noise of protest as her skirt was draped over her back. Her bottom now on show, hidden behind plain black briefs with lace along the waistband, Emma took a moment to admire the sight. A finger trailed along Cara's lower back, eliciting goosebumps across her pale skin, as Emma noted how Cara's underwear stretched as she bent over to more or less perfectly show off her rear's pretty shape.

"Good girl," Emma purred, finger drifting down Cora's spine and toying with her waistband's thin fabric, noting how her tutee's knees were pressing tightly together. Cora looked over her shoulder to meet Emma's eyes, her face flushed and cheek still against the desk, a helpless expression painted on her.

"I can keep my panties on, right?"