Reuniting with Blabbermouth

Twelve years after last seeing her, a tutor surprisingly reunites with the quietest, shyest pupil he ever had when he is a customer at a massage parlor!

Part One

About 20 years ago I, Kent Weston, had the pleasure of tutoring the Frederic girls, two delightful sisters who were a joy to be around. Blonde-haired and bubbly, they were so naturally cute that they were both offered small roles in a major movie when a talent scout saw them at a shopping mall with their mother. The younger of the two parlayed that short film appearance into a few lucrative TV commercials where she promoted dolls and other toys.

But this story is not about the Frederics. It is about a classmate of the older one. I had been tutoring Alicia Frederic for about two years when her mother asked me if I could accommodate another tutee. (I could.) Her name was Patricia McInnes and she was in the seventh grade. She needed a bit of help with a few subjects, primarily math.

I was welcomed warmly by Patricia’s parents when I arrived. “We’ve heard good things about you, Kent,” I was told by the mother. “I have it on good authority that the two Frederic girls adore you.”

“Well, that’s quite a compliment—and a nice thing to hear every once in a while,” I replied.

“We’re hoping that our Patricia takes a similar shine to you. She’s a clever girl, but she doesn’t seem to put out her best efforts with her schoolwork. Her marks should be much better than they are.”

I was shown her most recent report card. It wasn’t bad at all. Patricia wasn’t really struggling in any subject, but both her parents thought she was underachieving. I told them I’d do my best to inspire Patricia to work harder. It occurred to me that the elusive seventh-grader hadn’t yet made an appearance.

“So…when do I get to meet Patricia?” I asked.

“Patricia! Come downstairs please!” her father shouted. About 20 seconds later a slim girl with a very pretty face appeared. The black-haired, 12-year-old came slowly down the steps. She was probably a smidgen taller than most seventh-grade females I’d tutored in the past decade. She also had no womanly assets at all—something I always noticed on every female. Still, Patricia McInnes was so facially attractive that she would have caught my attention if I were a male classmate of hers, or even a year older.

Patricia said hello only when prodded by her father. I normally greet my new students with a handshake, but I sensed this girl was very shy—perhaps downright introverted—so I did not extend my arm toward her. It was explained to Patricia that I had been hired to tutor her twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, for an hour each time until her marks “were at the level they should be.” She meekly replied, “Okay,” and went back upstairs without any further comment to me or her parents. To me, that was odd.

“Not exactly a chatterbox, is she?” I stated with sarcasm.

“Don’t take it personally, Kent,” said Mrs. McInnes. Patricia behaves that way in front of every adult she encounters—even her aunts and uncles and the neighbors she’s known her whole life. Of course, she never raises her hand in school to ask a question, or answer a question, or offer a comment during a classroom discussion. However, when she’s among her friends, Patricia is apparently as outgoing as any of them. It’s all very strange.”

“I hope this works out,” I said honestly. “Successful tutoring is a two-way street. I need feedback from the student to make sure I know that the lessons are getting through to her.”

“We hope so, too!” both her parents said, almost simultaneously.

Part Two

The first session I had with Patricia McInnes was held in the family’s dining room. It mostly focused on her math homework. The lesson was on adding fractions with different denominators. “I don’t really get this,” she said to me. Those five words at one time were the most she spoke to me that day, although I got a few “yes” and “no” answers and one “Now I get it!”. For the next year-and-a-half that was typical banter for Patricia.

Before the first session I had with the Frederic girls after starting with Patricia, I mentioned the two hours I’d had tutoring Alicia’s school chum. “I’ve tutored Blabbermouth twice so far,” I told Mrs. Frederic. “I don’t think she has a career in radio ahead of her.”

Mrs. Frederic just laughed at that comment and the nickname I had given Patricia. She said, “Ah, Patricia is like that with you, too, huh? At first, I thought Patricia McInnes had some sort of problem with me. Then I learned from my girls she clams up whenever she’s around adults other than her parents. I’ve heard her open up twice when she was here visiting Alicia. Both times I was in an adjoining room, and she didn’t realize I could hear her. You have your work cut out for you, Kent.”

In one sense, the tutoring sessions worked as Patricia’s marks rose to the level her parents expected. However, she was still as quiet and mysterious as ever. The most talkative she ever was with me occurred during a rare Saturday morning session in April to help her with an eighth-grade religion project that she needed to submit to her teacher on Monday morning. (Patricia attended a Catholic school.) We worked at the desk in her bedroom that morning because she had access to the internet on her desktop computer.

The nature of the assignment required Patricia to be more loquacious than she typically was in order for me to assist her. She had to find certain images in print media and online that could be considered “temptations” and explain why they could be perceived that way. I think a couple of times she spoke 30 or 40 words to me in one breath. I was so startled that I let slip the pet nickname I had given her: “Blabbermouth, you’re talking my ear off!” I joked. She just smiled briefly and reverted back into her shell. I was sorry I teased her—and I apologized for it. The harm was done, though.

Amusingly, one of the photos she used in her project was a beer ad clipped from a magazine that featured some well-endowed females in bikinis. “I’ll never be hired as a swimsuit model,” the flat-chested Patricia commented in a rare moment of unsolicited candor. It was the only time I ever heard her make an attempt at humor. I only tutored her for a couple of more months until the school year concluded. I didn’t work with Patricia at all during her high school years, but I did tutor her little brother for about a year or so. Then the McInnes family vanished from my radar.

Part Three

More than a decade elapsed. Students came and went as they always had.

My life settled into a routine. For example, without fail, I always bought $2 worth of lottery tickets when I did my grocery shopping. I had developed a routine in which I’d check my old tickets before I bought my new ones. One afternoon I was startled when the ticket scanner showed that I had a winner worth more than $1,400. My largest haul before that had been a mere $83.50—and I thought that was thrilling. The only catch was I couldn’t collect my winnings directly from the grocery store. Any prize money in excess of $300 had to be claimed at the lottery headquarters located in a city 60 miles from where I lived, or by sending the ticket and a claim form there by registered mail. I chose the latter option.

About two weeks later, my check for $1,417.62 arrived in my mailbox. To me, this was the equivalent of found money, so I decided to splurge. I lived by myself and had no steady girlfriend in my life. However, I was a normal male and I liked to have a bit of naughty fun occasionally. There was a massage parlor in a neighboring city that had a reputation for providing all sorts of services that were never officially advertised. I wanted to find out if that was true. I took my check to the bank and deposited all but $300 into my savings account. That was the amount I set aside and was prepared to spend at the Castle of Delights massage studio that night—with the object of getting fucked by a comely masseuse.

Castle of Delights was located at the very end of a strip mall that had stores that sold musical instruments, pet supplies, gardening tools, and computers. There was plenty of free parking. I lingered for a moment, sipping on a coffee-to-go that I had bought. I had never been to a house of ill-repute or a “massage studio” before. I had to work up my courage to walk through the door. I amusingly noticed that the three or four customers I saw walk in or out of Castle of Delights had all parked their vehicles nowhere near its entrance. I suppose that if they had the misfortune of encountering anyone they knew, they wanted to make it appear that they were customers at one of the other stores. That realization made me laugh. It also bolstered my courage. I finished my coffee, got out of my car—which was parked close to the music store—and walked confidently through the door for a little bit of sin.

When I got inside, I was surprised how spacious it was based on its outside appearance. I was immediately greeted by a friendly thirty-something woman with an eastern European accent. She had Natasha on her nametag. She welcomed me and asked if I was a returning customer. I told her honestly that I had never been to this massage studio—or any massage studio—before this very moment. “I want to expand my horizons!” I declared with a sly smile.

“Good for you. That’s the spirit. Enjoy life!” she exclaimed. Then she asked for my name. I hadn’t expected that question. I told her my name was Brad Park. That was the name of a famous hockey player from my youth. For some reason, it was the first male name that popped into my head. Anyway, it sounded like a plausible alias. There was no way I was going to divulge my real name to the manager of a massage parlor—and I figured Natasha (or whatever her name actually was) wasn’t likely to be familiar with a long-retired Canadian hockey player.

I saw a board with five female names listed on it. “That’s tonight’s roster of girls you can choose from to service you,” Natasha informed me. You’ll notice that three of them have check marks to the left of their names. That means they are presently occupied with other customers. Therefore, there are only two of us available to choose from right now. I’m one and Jane is the other. The choice is entirely yours. Jane will be out in a moment. She just finished with a client a few minutes ago.”

I didn’t want to make any gaffes, so I asked what the protocols were. Natasha told me that I had to pay $50 cash up front for a basic 30-minute massage and ‘room fee.’ “However, once you’ve done that, you can freely negotiate with your girl for other special services—whatever she’s willing to do and the price you will be charged. If you buy extras from her, your time is automatically increased to 60 minutes.”

That was about what I expected. I pulled a $50 bill from my wallet and handed it to Natasha. She wrote my false name into a ledger and put a red check mark beside it. “You are marked as having paid the $50 studio fee, Brad. I hope you enjoy your stay with us today regardless of which girl services you. Oh, here’s Jane right now.”

Ther was something vaguely familiar about “Jane” but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. She was fairly tall with long black hair—and not much adorning her torso. But she was very pretty in her sexy red peignoir. I took two seconds to select her over Natasha. Our eyes met. I could tell she recognized me at about the same moment I figured out her true identity.

“Jane, this is Brad, your next client,” said Natasha. “He’s paid the $50 room fee already. Use Room #4.”

“Brad?” she said sarcastically.

“Jane?” I said in the very same tone of voice.

We both laughed as the masseuse formerly known as Patricia McInnes a.k.a. Blabbermouth led me by the hand to Room #4.

“Hi, Patricia. How are you doing? What’s it been? I figure 12 years.” I whispered as we made our way down a long corridor.

“I’m doing fine, Kent,” she whispered in return. “We’ll have a talk when we get to Room #4.”
I just shook my head in wonderment. Of All the places I expected to encounter the shyest, most reserved student I’d ever tutored, a massage parlor would have come in dead last.
Part Four

Room #4 contained both an elevated massage table and a mattress on the floor. We sat together, very close to each other, on the table. I couldn’t help but notice that Patricia, whom I calculated to be 26 years old, was absolutely gorgeous, despite having next to no boobs. Some things never change.

“It’s nice to see you again, Kent,” Patricia confessed. “I wish it had been elsewhere, though.”

“This is a bit embarrassing for me, too,” I explained. “It’s the first time I’ve ever been to such a place. I was worried about being recognized in the parking lot—but not by one of the employees here!”

Patricia felt compelled to explain why she was known as “Jane” and was basically a prostitute. “The last time you tutored me I was in the eighth grade,” she began. “When I was in high school, I began to rebel against my parents. They’re very religious. Despite their best efforts, I never was. I balked at going to church and abiding by all the dos and don’ts of Catholicism. I started to hang out with ‘boys of questionable morals’ as my parents described them. Many of them were.

“When I was 18, I was basically told to shape up or ship out. I shipped out not long after graduation. I was looking for a place to stay, so I answered an ad from a female who was seeking a roommate. I hooked up with a 21-year-old named Sherry who had regular jobs, but she often supplemented her income with prostitution and nude dancing…and working in places like this. I was barely scraping by as a cashier at three different stores and handling complaints phoned in to the municipal bus service.

“Sherry said I could easily triple my income by doing what she did for extra cash. I laughed at the idea because I’m about as flat-chested as an adult female can be. She clued me into the fact that a great many men are turned on by exactly those types of girls because they give the impression of being young even if they’re not. One day I accompanied Sherry to a strip joint where she worked. That was an eye-opening experience. The manager took one look at me and my tiny boobs and immediately offered me a job that paid considerably more than cashier work did. Given my religious upbringing, I was petrified and a little bit ashamed at first to be parading around nude to entertain strangers, but after just one or two times, it seemed perfectly natural. Besides, all the men were throwing money at me and whistling at me even if I wasn’t much of a dancer. It was all very flattering.

“About a year ago, I started working here. It isn’t much of a leap from dancing in my birthday suit at a strip club to giving erotic massages. Besides, I had already been selling sexual favors to special clients in the clubs’ private VIP rooms almost since Day One. So, Kent, that’s why Blabbermouth is augmenting her income by working as a masseuse at Castle of Delights massage parlor and using my middle name as an alias. Now that you know the story of my life since we last saw each other a dozen years ago, what do you want from me, Kent?”

“I have $250 to spend here tonight,” I told her. Then I calmly said, “I want to fuck your brains out, Patricia. I think you are quite beautiful.”

“Deal!” she said without the slightest hesitation. I suspect the amount I offered was above the typical going rate. “You can take off your clothes and join me on the mattress, Kent.”

Part Five

I paused to watch as “Jane” slipped out of her sexy peignoir and her lacy undergarments and took her position on the mattress. I was completely nude, too, in under a minute.

“I’ll give you a sexy massage to begin with, Kent,” Patricia told me. “You’ll enjoy it and it will get you in the proper mood for fucking me. Lie on your stomach to start.” I complied.

Patrica poured warm oil on my back from my neck to my behind and over her own body. That itself was sexy! She started the erotic massage with her hands, but she quickly advanced to using her entire slick body to slide all over me. “Want to turn over so I can do this to your front now?”

I chuckled and said, “Now I know why you rarely asked questions when I tutored you for two years, Patricia. Your questions are completely silly! Of course, I’ll happily turn over.” I was glad to do it for the obvious reason—and because I was becoming uncomfortable lying on my very stiff penis.

“Ooh, that’s a nice one you have, Kent!” Patricia told me upon seeing my hard dick pointing upward at her. Let me slide on it and stroke it. It will make you feel really good.”

“I don’t doubt that at all,” I told Patricia with a huge smile on my face.

“Feel free to touch me wherever you like, Kent,” she informed me. “It’s all part of what you paid for with your $250.”

I immediately zoomed in on Patricia’s small, adorable tits and began caressing them. “See, Kent you’re no different than those men who frequent strip clubs. You get aroused by 26-year-old women who look like they’re 12 or 13. You’d be surprised at how many guys prefer me over the super busty dancers. It annoys the girls who have the big whoppers. Yes, you can suck on them, too. That’s what you were going to ask me, right?”

Patricia had read my mind. Sucking on her small breasts was a highly erotic experience. Since I had permission to “touch her” I figured that extended to a titty fuck, too. It did. We switched positions on the mattress so that she was on the bottom. I merrily slid my oily dick between her oily boobs as she squeezed them together.

I figured Patricia’s shaved vagina needed some attention, so I began to finger it. I put the middle finger of my right hand at its entrance and slowly inserted it and moved it around. Patricia seemed to enjoy the sensation of being penetrated that way. When I withdrew my finger, the obvious next step was a good, old-fashioned fuck. Within ten seconds, my firm dick replaced my finger inside Patricia’s pretty pussy. (Only afterward did Patricia tell me that the customer typically wore a condom if fucking was part of the service he paid for, but she waived that requirement for me for some reason. How nice of her!)

I wasn’t subtle about my screwing. I really did want to fuck Patricia’s brains out—whatever that vague term means. I thrusted and withdrew my penis in rapid succession as her vagina became wetter.

“Come inside me if you want, Kent. It’s okay,” Patrica advised me as I grunted loudly and fucked her vigorously. I had other ideas, though. When I felt my ejaculation was imminent, I pulled out of her pussy and came all over her small breasts with three ropes of jism splashing on and around them.

“That’s what those lovely little things were made for!” I insisted.

“If you say so, Kent! The customer is always right,” Patricia told me.

Our coitus had lasted about 20 minutes. We spent the next 40 minutes mostly cuddling and exchanging a few affectionate kisses, although I did nibble again on her firm nipples once or twice. “I can’t help myself; they’re irresistible!” I explained
.
Patricia didn’t say much during that time of quiet bliss. She had reverted to the silent mode that had once characterized Blabbermouth.