Teaching might well be termed the “noble profession,” but at the same time it can set in train some diabolically risky situations. I should know ... I have been a hired educationalist these last three decades and this is but one such early encounter.

New-Age thinking insists that obstacles and difficulties which befall us during our lives are in reality no more than “opportunities” in disguise. Such might be up for protracted debate admittedly, should a wayward semi carouse through your lounge-room one evening midway through CSI, or a herd of marauding bison trample you underfoot in South Dakota mid vacation.

Denise though was infinitely more of a challenge!

I was in my mid thirties at the time. Having had it big-time with the State educational boards and being tired of High-School theatrics and the one dimensional power-plays inside most staff rooms, I decided I could do no worse as a private teacher.

As it happened, it proved to be a great career move. In charge of my own destiny finally, rather than being at the whim of some lame-brained politically incorrect school Principal, I developed a greater pride in my vocation, taking pleasure from helping individual students to understand what the education system appeared unable to pass-on within a class environment.

My specialty, if you can accurately describe it thus, is remedial work. Parents call me in when their child is having difficulty with mathematics or science – most usually around the sophomore stage but occasionally even in their final year.

Denise in fact had only nine months left to graduation.

Her father, a prominent up-state attorney, was from the “nothing-short-of-perfection-cuts-it-in-this- world” school of thinking. Straight A’s for his children were the lowest acceptable ranking and anything less than the number one class position at year-end was an embarrassment to be endured. Failure was not an option let’s say!

Denise as it happened sat well inside the top percentile band of math students ... having done so since sixth grade. She had simply pulled down a B plus in an early year-twelve spot test which had been enough for her father to throw a nervy turn, insisting he call in a home tutor to ‘rectify the problem’ before it was too late. Denise was both demeaned and upset by the suggestion but like everyone else in the family, powerless to argue or reason with this particular control-freak.

Thus it was, I was ushered late that Friday afternoon into the lofty hallway of the Sanderson manor, a riot of mosaic flooring, scatter rugs and marble statues. Conrad Sanderson himself, splendidly attired in an Armani tuxedo and on his way to some sort of legal-eagle ball downtown so I learned, escorted me up the semi-circular staircase to Denise’s suite of rooms somewhere along the east wing. “Just suss out her problem areas and help her as best you can,” he muttered, knocking on his daughter’s suite.

Best I describe for you in detail, the young lady who now stood before us.

‘Pretty,’ does her an injustice. Just seventeen, Denise radiated both a poise and elegance that belied her years. Still attired in her immaculately pressed school uniform, everything about her was ultimately feminine and desirable. From the neat collar and cuffs of her blouse to the hem of her shortish but fully decent skirt, she exuded confidence and dignity. Her quite obviously natural copper-colored hair hung shoulder length, framing a somewhat inquisitive visage whose light blue eyes would have stopped a T-Rex in full flight. Together with smooth cheeks that had surely been sculptured from the finest alabaster on hand, backed-up with generous lips that would be in majorly serious demand in the coming years, here was a package that could not only reduce the average man to an outpouring of nonsensical gibberish but would be likely damaging more hearts in the short term than a regular intake of a Quarter-Pounder and fries.

I shook her hand upon her father’s introduction and noticed that she maintained eye-contact where other girls might have betrayed a hint of embarrassment or insecurity.

Having been married for well over a decade ... and happily so I may add, let me state for the record that I had never strayed from the fold, not even looked at another girl to be honest. This was but a child technically and yet something about her captivated me on the instant.

“Well I expect you will want to be getting on with it,” Sanderson barked, obviously impatient to be on his way. “The housekeeper will let you out when you are finished,” he added as a seeming afterthought, before heading off without so much as a backward glance. Denise looked momentarily embarrassed by his curt manner but smiled sweetly at me nevertheless. I followed her into the room.

Ultra feminine young girls normally have ultra feminine sleeping quarters. It emphasizes their sexual birthright and highlights their orientation. Denise as I said had a small suite of rooms to color her world. Her “ante-chamber” as one might assume it to be, contained classic period furniture that would have set daddy back many a long hour in the Supreme Court. Pretty light green drapes that matched the painted décor, hung at the huge bay window that was wide enough to host a leather-ingrained desk, presently piled up with school-books at one end. Another table, smaller, but with chairs clustered around it, sat against the left wall. Home to a state-of-the-art computer system, it was to this that she led me. I had a momentary glimpse of an expansive bedroom through the far doorway, containing what looked like a four-poster adorned with a coverlet and cushions from the Persian Empire. Denise lived comfortably it appeared!

Ushering me to a chair she sat down herself, looking at me somewhat expectantly. I touched upon her father’s concerns and asked if there were any areas she would like help with? Unable to nominate any she merely commented.

“It’s just the way dad is Mr. Carr. He thinks anything less than total perfection is “failure.” He wants me to go to Law school with a perfect one-hundred percent examination record.” She lowered her pretty head for a moment.

“I don’t even want to be a lawyer,” she confided. I thought I could see a few embryonic tears and wanted to cuddle her more than anything right then.

“What is it you would like to do then Denise?” I asked.

Hastily controlling her emotions she looked up again.

“Something with children ... disadvantaged families,” she replied. “I’d really like to make a difference to a few kids’ lives. Give something back to people who have had way less fortunate lives than me.”

It wasn’t so much her words as the sincerity of them that touched me. I knew right then that she was more than just a pretty young girl ... she was something else completely. She possessed the unfathomable, something I recognized and sadly ... needed.

Neither of us spoke for a moment. “Anyway Mr Carr,” she said smiling once again, “Since you’re here, maybe we should let you earn some of dad’s money ... right?’ She leaned across the desk and retrieved some of her workbooks.

As it turned out, the session was not without purpose. Whilst she ranked at the fore-front of academic ability, perhaps the smartest young lady I ever had the pleasure of teaching, there were a few areas involving calculus and algorithmic logic that in her case, could benefit from a theoretical make-over. It wasn’t that she had failed to understand anything, merely that she had never been taught correctly.

By the second month, we had covered every aspect that needed attention. Her work ethic and retention capability quite astounded me but this paled into insignificance when measured against my own escalating obsession.

I was beginning to think of nothing else but that next Friday night. I desperately needed to be near Denise, to share in some small measure a part of her life ... however insignificant that might be to her. I would gaze unhindered at her beautiful face as she might work at a problem, those expressive blue eyes of hers when they would flash with youthful pleasure at the point she might resolve an equation.

It was the week after she turned eighteen that the equilibrium was for ever fractured.

Pulling into the manor’s driveway at the appointed 8 pm. I was surprised to see Sanderson striding forth angrily from the front porch towards the chauffeured Mercedes. Fully ignoring my presence, he climbed into the limo, barking instructions to the driver who lost no time in circumnavigating the huge fountain before accelerating swiftly back down the driveway up which I had just cruised.

The puzzle deepened when Denise herself opened the front door to me.

“Is everything OK?” I asked.

“Sure,” she answered, a large smile creasing her face. “It’s just daddy – he fired the housekeeper a few moments ago.” She actually broke out into giggles. “Laura had just polished one of the hallway floors and dad slipped on it and spilt coffee all over himself. He was soo mad!” She all but collapsed in mirth at the recalled image it seemed.

“Well isn’t that rather unreasonable?” I asked. “She was only doing her job.” “That’s my dad,” she replied, “But it’s Ok, he’ll calm down and re-hire her next week, he’s done it before.” She added breezily.

Closing the front door, she led me back to her rooms. That was no hardship I have to be honest. Following a teenage girl up a reasonably steep flight of stairs when she is wearing a figure-hugging white dress that clings to everything it was fundamentally designed to latch on to – is, if one is honest – well, fun! I wondered whether she even knew that the opaque nature of the garment did little to shield her modesty so far as undergarments were concerned. Now as it happens, I like pastel blue panties as much as the next private tutor and those that were wiggling up those risers not eighteen inches from my gaze, were indeed a source of inspiration.

You can understand then that my peristaltic rate was unusually high by the time we sat down at the desk. My mind was definitely not on things mathematical. As she worked at the first of a few problems I set for her, my gaze fell, as they had done many times previously I must be honest, upon the upper part of her dress. Adrift to the third button, it was enough let’s say, to display her small but delightful cleavage, not to mention a substantial ribbon of lacy bra. Even chiding myself for such voyeuristic pleasures, I was unable to wrench my gaze from that field of dreams. It was at that second she happened to look up and catch my decadent line of vision.

I think we blushed equally.

It’s funny how one often makes with the dumbest of comments when caught in a personally embarrassing situation. I simply looked at her and muttered. “I’m so sorry Denise ... it’s just that, well I think you are so beautiful.” It’s hardly a plausible excuse for staring fixedly at a teenage girl’s breasts but certainly it was the truth.

Instinctively she raised her hand to her chest, which only served to heighten my desire.

“Do you really think I’m pretty?” she whispered.

The weeks of unspoken affection could no longer be suppressed. I leaned across and kissed her gently on the cheek. For a moment she said nothing, simply looking at me with what must have been shocked bemusement. The blush lingered however and I could hardly fail to notice that she had made no move to either distance herself from me or to air the least of reprimands. Her body language if anything, suggested a complicity of sorts.

Once again I inclined my head towards her and discerning still no implied resistance, I kissed her on the lips.

When a girl wants to be kissed, it is very obvious. When you have been desperate to kiss her for a couple of months or more, the odds are the floodgates will open of their own accord.

I don’t even recall pulling her on to my lap, all I remember is the softness and sweet taste of her young lips. Holding her to me, I reveled in her warmth and seductive perfume as I continued kissing her passionately. Eventually we broke off, both quite obviously in respiratory distress. “I have wanted you to kiss me for ages,” she said, looking up at me with what might have been pleasured victory. “No more than my own thoughts on the matter Denise,” I murmured. “I have wanted to do this just about since I met you.”

I could see clearly down her cleavage those delicately receding curves. She appeared not to mind in the least. Intending to define the rules of the game a little further, I kissed her neck then her collar-bone. The girl’s sharp intake of breath suggested I was moving in a positive direction. Kissing her literally an inch above her right breast brought both a cry of surprise and a definitive wriggle of her hips. It also wrought changes to certain anatomical areas of my own ... none that I was wanting her to notice right that moment you can understand.

Kissing is downright dangerous if you’re serious about it! Denise was committed to learning, no doubt about it! Unable to prevent my hands from their own little trek of indecency, I suddenly found a wonderfully soft and pliant little breast within the confines of my right palm. It’s owner looked at me and sighed as I squeezed that oh-so-desirable mound. I think she had in mind to say “No ... don’t” but nothing ever eventuated and thus I not only continued to fondle that which I shouldn’t, but my hand slid it’s illicit way deep inside her bra where tactility ran riot and the sighs multiplied threefold. She raised her own hand to mine – not to remove it but to ensure I think that her breasts might remain cupped and fondled until time ran out.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” she whispered to me between breaths...”Dad refuses to let me have one.” I wasn’t sure right that moment whether I viewed that as an act of cruelty or one of gratuitous sexual opportunity. Either way I had a wife at home and doing what I was with an inexperienced and majorly vulnerable young lady was, if not downright reprehensible, way left field of responsible! It’s definitely not what I signed-on for with the Parish Priest. The deductive process however is stymied when one is on the road to inflamed passion in a teenage girl’s bedroom suite, the senses intoxicated by a heady mix of girlish scents and the seductive delights of a partially exposed bosom.

There was also the inescapable fact that in some way I needed this girl. Needed her closeness, her intrinsic inner beauty and her intellect ... if that makes any sense?

With an arm around her shoulders holding her to me, I had just the one hand free for other things - not that this was any great hardship. Turning my attentions to Denise’s other breast, I had both pretty much three-quarters out of their bra cups with now just a hint of nipple either side. I decided to push the boundaries yet further and began to undo another button. Oddly, Denise just sat there looking downwards as her dress gaped yet wider, revealing in all its provocative glory that sexy little nylon restraint. Cupping her breasts with both hands brought forth a formative moan from that half-open if not delicate mouth. It was definitely time to kiss those lips a little more.

Risking a full scale rebellion, I gradually lowered my mouth to the girl’s fully exposed cleavage. A sharp intake of breath heralded my initial contact. The smell of her breasts in such close proximity I have to say, was addling my thought processes. I wanted her more than any female I was ever privy to be with. For her part, even as I began kissing her breasts along their upper perimeter, she closed her eyes and leaned back against my shoulder breathing hard, to compensate I imagine for her increased pulse-rate.

Very gently, I eased both breasts clear of their padded crèche. A more beautiful and desirable sight I had never seen. Lowering my mouth further, I drew down upon her right nipple which caused her to shudder with unforced pleasure. Latching on to that wondrously hot little teat I suckled her then, taking such pleasure myself as I am incapable of describing accurately. Making the cutest of little sounds, she opened her pretty eyes and the expression there-in was one of pleading expectation. I began to draw down now on her other breast – dead center.