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Lynn and Nikki's relationship changes forever.

Is she okay?"

"I don't know, something about her husband's bank account. Her card was refused and she was too embarrassed. Help me with these bags"

Amelia tried to remember which of her friends had their perfectly manicured nails into Cheryl's husband, and how far along he was to ruination. She glanced back through the window at the shape of her tutor packing away his worn out satchel and thought what small fry he really was, compared to some of the sugar daddies she could cultivate amongst her mother's social group. She took a bag and carried it inside, her mother following behind her.

"Mr Daniels? You're still here?" Her mother said with surprise when she saw the tutor packing away his things.

"Oh, he stayed behind to help me with some background to the play; the online test is coming up."

"I'll only charge for the hour I said I would do" Mumbled Mr Daniels, still looking flustered. Amelia's' mother looked him up and down before smiling brilliantly.

"Not at all, you've been very helpful to my daughter." She counted out fifty pounds from her purse and he humbly accepted it.

"Let yourself out, we'll see you next week." And she walked into the kitchen. Amelia sidled up to him and slid his wallet into his pocket, breathing heavily in his ear.

"You still owe me a shopping trip Mr. Daniels."

"Yes princess." He whispered. Amelia's' mother called her into the kitchen, she pushed the satin panties into Mr. Daniels hand and he fumbled them into his satchel.

"How nice for you, to get paid a little extra this week."

"Please" He whispered. "Take it."

"You would do that for me?" She taunted.

"Yes, yes I want you to have it." And he held out the money. She tapped his nose with her sharp nail. "Is that how we hand our princess her money?" He looked pleadingly at her as her mother called for her again. She took the money and shoved it in his mouth and he sank to the floor and begged her to take his wages.

"This doesn't get you out of taking me pantie shopping"

He nodded eagerly, a man in a deep hole begging to keep digging. She tucked the money away in her sheer bra and blew him a kiss, turning on her heel so her skirt lifted up to the dimples of her bottom.

He staggered out of the front door, the day felt hotter than it was and the sound of a sprinkler on the lawn disorientated him until he thought he would vomit, but he found his car and slumped at the steering wheel, not knowing whether to cry, masturbate or drive off a bridge. An old man watering his lawn was watching him with a curious look. He started his car and drove with the exaggerated caution of a drunk.

Amelia walked into her kitchen; her mother was putting away the shopping bags, her heels brisk on the kitchen tiles.

"Your tutor was here for a long time."

"Yes, he gave me some notes on social hierarchy in Italy at the time of the play."

"Social hierarchy?"

Amelia took a sip of juice from the new carton, and pulled off a piece of fresh bread from the loaf her mother had just bought. Her mother tutted.

"Get a glass."

"The society they lived in fuelled the jealousy and prejudice that instigated the drama."

"And you couldn't just look up those things on the internet?"

"Wikipedia mother? I want my essay to stand out. Why else pay for a tutor?"

"That's not what I'm saying."

Amelia rolled her eyes as she chewed some more bread.

"It's so ridiculous that I even have to do this essay, such a waste of my summer. I had the highest marks in my class."

Her mother handed her a glass.

"You did, Amelia, and then you decided to take a gap year, sit on beaches and go to parties for a year, which universities take as a flighty attitude to studies, which is why you are being asked for proof of a certain academic standard."

"I know."

"And it is nice of your tutor to stay on for an extra lesson, but be wary."

"What do you mean?"

Her mother frowned at her. "There are a lot of things a man will do for a beautiful young girl or for the opportunity of time with her."

"Oh?" Said Amelia and took another handful of bread.

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