It's March already, and for eighteen-year old Craig Zanetti, the finish line is coming more into focus with every passing day. No, he's not running some super marathon; rather, he's looking forward to high school graduation in mid-June, looming ahead like a huge golden gate, sweet and lovely. There's only one problem: he's flunking algebra and unless he brings up his grades, he won't be able to graduate with his class. A flunking grade means summer school and the humiliating prospect of receiving his diploma in the mail as opposed to being part of all the pomp and circumstance of receiving it on stage with his friends in Belmont High's auditorium.
"You need Mrs. Cassidy," his mom suggests. "She's reputed to be a math whiz, tutors on the side."
His mom refers to Alexandra Cassidy, their forty-something, divorced neighbor, she with the hot little bod who tends to her rose garden wearing skimpy attire when weather permits. She's doing quite well for herself, running a home web business and tutoring numbers-challenged kids like Craig. Alex, as close friends call her, lives a block away in classy Wiltondale, a pre-World War Two neighborhood of mostly three-story, three-bedroom homes that's seen generations of families come and go. Divorced for over a year, she shares joint custody with her two teen children, Sadie and Ronnie. She doesn't date, despite interest from divorced or never married men, "vultures" she calls them in her more cynical moments. "The ink wasn't dry on the paper before they began to swoop," she tells girlfriends who can relate. She isn't sour on men; she's just not ready to plunge back into the dating scene. "Emotionally drained, sexually starved," she jokes. Only it's no joke; she's one horny lady. "But to go through all the dating rigmarole," she complains. "It exhausts me just thinking about it." She rolls her eyes. "Maybe I need a gigolo."
Enter Craig Zanetti, no gigolo by any means, though good looking enough to attract the opposite sex of any age without much effort. Young guys close to six feet with blond, all American good looks normally can't complain when it comes to women who go for that surfer boy image, and Craig is no exception. His current amour de jour is the comely Heather Chaillet, a prep school cutie who's thus far resisted Craig's entreaties to consummate. 'Saving it for marriage,' she tells him, a position he respects but one that's left him looking elsewhere for carnal pleasure.
Sex isn't on Craig's mind when his mom suggests that he enlist Alexandra for tutoring. Not right away, at least. Oh, he finds her desirable all right, cranes his neck to watch her tend those roses of hers attired in her short-shorts and in a bikini when the mercury shoots past ninety. "I wouldn't mind fucking that little firecracker," a friend from the neighborhood told him one day. She IS little, at least in height, standing a mere five-foot two but well proportioned with a mane of auburn hair that she sometimes wears up, other times wears in a thick ponytail that drops a couple inches below her shoulders. Then there's that bounce in her step, a vibrancy that he finds exciting, her thick, shapely calves flexing, her bubble butt swishing. Energy personified. A firecracker indeed.
Sex isn't on Alexandra's mind either when Craig calls to ask for help. She's got aspirations, but seducing young men like the proverbial cougar isn't one of them. She does find it "cute" when she catches him ogling her, can't deny the ego boast it gives her, can't deny either that he's one handsome young man. Young women are turned off by the stares of much older men, whereas older women covet the attention of men young enough to be their sons. Alexandra is one of those women and, come Saturday morning, her focus takes a sharp detour when she opens her door and he says, "I'm here for my private lessons."
The term private lessons rings bells, as well it should, because it's the title of a film she saw years ago about the older woman seduction of a teen boy. Craig looks so cute standing on her white front wood porch clad in jeans and a v-neck pullover sweater, algebra textbook tucked under his arm, his retro blond shag of hair hugging his head like a shiny helmet. Oh my, what is she thinking? Is she that horny?
She leads him into her cozy study, furnished with a desk piled high with papers and a Dell Optiplex desktop. A wood armless chair sits wedged between the wall and the desk. He takes a seat there while she eases down in her black leather desk chair and then begins thumbing through his textbook. "Pretty basic stuff," she says. "It shouldn't be much trouble bringing your grade up to passing. But you need to stay focused, pay attention."
He nods while his eyes drift, first to the area just above her cleavage, the skin still smooth and translucent; and then her legs, exposed to mid-thigh when she crosses them and the slit in her yellow dress parts. "Focused on THIS stuff, Craig," she says, holding up the fully open book, flashing him a look of amused admonishment.
He grins, then quickly shifts his eyes to the text. "You're my best hope for me to graduate on time," he says. His big midterm exam is coming up, he tells her, and a passing grade would almost insure him a passing grade in the course. "So I'm hoping you can prepare me for that midterm."
"I'll do my best," she says, her mind still reeling with thoughts that have little to do with algebra. "First, you need to show me what's giving you the most trouble." He flips the page to the simultaneous equations. She nods, then pulls a pencil and a yellow pad of lined paper from her desk drawer. They get started with stuff like this:
2y+x=8(1)
1+y=2x(2)
She takes him through numerous problems like that one. But, as usual, it still leaves him scratching his head. "Algebra might be too abstract for me," he says. "Unknown quantities, the x, y and z stuff throw me off."
"That's why you need to stay focused and practice working these problems. You also need to be relaxed. I bet you're nervous before taking a test." He nods. "I thought so. Are you nervous now, just sitting here with me?" She rubs her hand down her calve while she holds the pad on her lap.
He shifts in his seat, glances at her deep cleavage, then looks her in the eye. "Maybe a little."
She brushes a reassuring hand over his knee, then pulls away. "How come? Do I make you nervous?"
He giggles nervously glancing at her legs. "Um, no, not really. It's just that it's hard to concentrate with us sitting this close and you wearing something so...revealing. It's distracting."
She laughs, slides her chair back and flips the hem of her dress over her thigh. "Better?" She holds her amused expression in an open-mouth grin.
More giggles. "Yeah, I guess."
"You guess? Craig, I'm here to help you, not seduce you. That said, you should know—or maybe you shouldn't but what the heck—that this isn't real easy for me either." She reaches out and takes his hand. "You're a very good looking young man and I'm a divorced woman who hasn't been intimate with a man in a long time." She shakes her head. "I can't believe I'm telling you all this."
He shrugs. "Sex is more fun than algebra."
She laughs. "Undoubtedly. But it won't get you through that midterm. So, if you can keep your eyes off my, um, assets, perhaps we can move forward."
She proceeds with the lesson, struggling to follow her own advice. She moves her pencil across the yellow pad, jotting down numbers while wondering what his five-foot ten, lifeguard of a body would feel like against hers, what his tongue would feel like on her nipples and clit, what his young cock would feel like pile driving her into blissful moans of pleasure. She's beginning to squirm, feels moistness between her legs. Dropping the pencil, she stands up and says, "I'm thirsty all the sudden. Be right back. Meanwhile, work on problems one through six on this page of your book."
She pads across her living room, dining room and then into the kitchen. Turning on the sink, she splashes her face with cold water, dries with a cloth dish towel and then grabs a napkin from the counter. Then she lifts her dress, shoves the paper inside her blue panties and wipes her pussy. "Damn, I'm coming on my feet," she whispers. What began as a cleanup job is turning into a masturbation session. With one arm braced on the counter top, her breathing labored, her knees buckled in a quarter-squat, she continues to indulge herself, her imagination transcendent, concocting fantasies involving her "student" who sits just two rooms away, presumably working on algebra problems. She shakes her head, feeling somewhat like a hypocrite after telling Craig to focus when she's doing this. Absurd to the point of comical, she thinks, stifling a guffaw.
Then comes this: "Mrs. Cassidy, are you okay?"
"Um, yes, be right there," she yells, and jumps to attention, minus the climax that had been quickly approaching. She yanks up her panties, then leans against the counter, woozy and frustrated. Fanning herself and taking deep breaths, she wonders how she's going to get through the rest of Craig's lesson without tearing clothes off—his and hers both. Of course, she must get through it, because she really would like to see him pass the course. She primps her hair, then runs another paper towel along her pussy, just one swipe this time, least it could delay her indefinitely.
Upon her return, he's hunched over the desk, pondering the material. Looking up, he says, "That must have been one long drink of something."
She stands with both hands on the desk, leaning over, mouth agape, fishing for a credible answer. "Ah, right, it was. Can I get you something? Sorry, I should have asked you sooner."
He puts down his pencil and sits back in the chair. "No, I'm good. But you look, I don't know, kind of flushed, like you've been exercising." His eyes focus on the reddened skin above her blouse.
She hugs the palm of her right hand against her chest, then eases down on her leather chair and pulls the hem of her dress over her legs. Distracting him again could push her over the edge, get them both in trouble. "The kitchen is the warmest room in this house, even with the stove off," she says, followed by a nervous titter. She sighs. "Meanwhile, let's see what you've done here." She reviews his work, marking checks and exes next to the problems: half right, half wrong. After correcting his mistakes, she says, "As you know, fifty percent won't cut it. But don't get discouraged. I see potential here."
He leans forward in the chair. "You do, really?"
"Enough to pass, yes. Sixty's passing, right?" He nods. "So take what I've shown you today, work on it and come see me next week." She tears off the sheet of paper and shoves it inside his book. "That is, if you can stay undistracted." She pauses, shakes her head in a look of self-admonishment. "I should talk. That goes for both of us."
