History With Miss Martin

Warning: This is a long story with a slow build-up.

1980 was a long time ago. A lot of history has happened since then, but there are parts of that year I remember like it was yesterday. I remember being a shy, seventeen-year-old kid, in my second-last year of high school, and I remember that I was not exactly Mister Popularity, either. I remember that feeling of not always fitting in, although I still had a few friends of my own, and I wasn’t a total misfit, and I remember being a virgin, even though I had sexual thoughts on my mind a lot of the time. I also remember knowing that was a situation that was unlikely to change any time soon, but most of all, I remember the first time I saw Miss Martin.

First period on Tuesday mornings was modern history, and our teacher was Mrs Weston. She was tall, with wavy, dark hair, and probably aged around her late thirties, or maybe even early forties, for all I knew. She had pretty eyes, and high cheekbones, and she probably would have been quite good looking, except she had a receding chin that kind of spoiled everything. I guess Mr Weston didn’t think so, after all, he married her, and he was also a teacher, in the mathematics department of the same high school. My dad was a friend of Mr Weston, and they would get together for a few beers now and then, and occasionally I would see him and his wife outside of school hours.

I remember we shuffled into class as usual that day, a room full of teenage kids, with the scraping sounds of chairs being moved around, books being placed on desks, and the murmur of conversation, along with occasional giggles from around the room, as we waited for Mrs Weston to come in and start the lesson. My desk was in the second row from the front, and I was turned around in my chair to talk to my friend, Donnie Selwyn, sitting behind me, and we were laughing about something stupid that one of our friends had done on the weekend.

Normally, as the teacher walked in, the murmur of conversation would tail off, as gradually everyone in the room became aware his or her presence. This time, all conversation stopped in an instant, and I looked up at the door, at the back of the classroom. Instead of Mrs Weston, conservatively dressed, middle aged, and by now comfortably familiar to us, I saw a real, live, actual goddess walking in.

I think my own mouth fell open, and in fact I would not be surprised if every male jaw in the room dropped with the precision and singularity of movement of a US Marine drill squad. This exquisite woman walked, with a sexy, swaying, lilting step, to the front of the classroom, and said, “Good morning, class. I’m Miss Martin.”

As soon as she spoke, emphasising the “r” in “morning,” and pronouncing “class” so it rhymed with “ass,” we knew she was from the United States, and at first I thought she was African-American, but she was later to tell us that she actually had Egyptian in her ancestry. She looked like was about five feet six, with a curvy figure, smooth, golden brown skin, wavy, dark brown hair that was halfway down her back, and pulled into a ponytail, big brown eyes, in an oval-shaped face, with a sexy mouth, and an incredible smile. Her breasts were round, beautifully-shaped, and perfectly in proportion to her frame. Moving down, her legs were shapely, and smooth-muscled, with that shiny, golden-brown skin just adding the final touch of perfection.

She was wearing a short-sleeved dress, made of a crepe-like material, in pale lilac, with a swirling pattern of pale blue and purple flowers all over it. It looked a whole lot better on her than it sounds, and it was short, coming to about five inches above her knees, so you could see her sexy legs, and it was shaped at the waist, with a belt made of matching material, so it hugged her figure, all the way. On her feet, she had open-toed leather sandals.

Miss Martin was a walking wet dream, and to say she oozed sex would be like saying “Star Wars” was a movie with some space ships in it. She turned to the blackboard, and wrote her name for us to see, and as she wrote, reaching over her head towards the top of the blackboard, her butt jiggled, and her crepe dress swished, and I felt a tingly feeling in my gut as watched her. I don’t think I was Robinson Crusoe in that room, either, and I’m sure every male student had his eyes riveted on that butt, as he mentally undressed our new teacher.

Miss Martin turned to face us again, with that big smile, and said, “I’m gonna be taking some of Mrs Weston’s classes for a few weeks, while I’m over here on an exchange program. I’ll be taking up where she left off, so some of you guys might have to help me out, and show me where you’re up to. Is that okay?”

In Australia in 1980, teachers never addressed their classes as, “you guys,” so, straight away, we knew history lessons would be different with Miss Martin.

“Just so you know,” she started, “My name is Katy Martin, and I’m from the United States. I come from little town called Branxton, in Northern California, but since I qualified as a teacher, I’ve been working in a city called Sacramento, which is our state capital. I’m twenty-six years old, and I’m gonna be in Australia for three months.” She finished with that smile again, and added, “And, by the way, I just love this place.”

She moved across to the teacher’s desk, and looked at some papers, and then looked back up at us, and said, “Now, I know you’ve probably got a million things you want to ask me, but first up, I have to collect your history assignments. Mrs Weston tells me they’re due today, so I want you all to put them on your desks and I’ll walk round and get them.”

We all put our assignments on our desks, with a shuffling of papers, and Miss Martin started to walk around the room, picking them up one by one. I could see the other guys, and a few of the girls, exchanging meaningful glances at each other, as she walked past, and there was that murmur of voices again. I turned to face Donnie, and he said, “Look at that! She’s incredible.” I didn’t answer, and just watched her swaying walk from behind, as she moved around the back of the room. I saw her pick up an assignment from the desk in front of David Buckley, the class clown, and as she walked to the next desk, he started making pelvic thrusts in his chair, behind her back, to the amusement of some of his tough-guy mates sitting nearby. Miss Martin was certainly making an impression, and I actually felt butterflies in my stomach when she walked past me, and bent down to pick up my assignment, as I smelt her sexy perfume smell, and got a close-up view of those smooth, sexy thighs.

After she had collected our assignments, Miss Martin stood at the front of the class again, and she said, “Now, I don’t know the rules around here, so you guys might have to help me out with a few things,” but she was interrupted by Buckley, the self-styled clown, who said, “Well, for a start, Miss, we’re allowed to smoke in class, and in Australia, school finishes at midday.” There was a ripple of laughter around the room, as she looked at him, and smiled sweetly, like she was talking to a six-year-old, and said, “Something tells me I might have to check that one out with the principal,” and then she looked around, and added, “Now, any other special rules I should know about?”

There were no answers, so she began to tell us a little about how she came to be in Australia, and how the exchange program worked. She told us a few other things, like how she kept forgetting where she was, and driving onto the wrong side of the road, and how some of the people in her country don’t even know we speak English in Australia, and the rest of our history lesson was a kind of question and answer session about her country, and our country. She also told us a little more about herself, and that was when he told us she was part Egyptian, but it went way back, so she regarded herself as an All-American girl from California.

Miss Martin told us she had been engaged back home, but her fiance had broken it off, (Why on earth would anyone do that to her? I thought), so when the opportunity to go on the exchange program came up, she had jumped at it, thinking a change of scene might do her some good for a while. I was mesmerised by her the whole time, and even though I’ve had a few women in my life since then, and I’ve been married to the love of my life for just over twenty years now, I can honestly say that no woman has ever made a first impression on me like Miss Martin did that day, all those years ago.

The lesson ended, and we moved to another class, but I’m sure there were a lot of schoolyard discussions that day, about this new American teacher, with the hot body.

Our next modern history period was on Thursday morning, and after we had all settled in, Miss Martin walked into the room, wearing a pair of snug-fitting stone wash jeans, and a black blouse. Those jeans followed every curve of her round, shapely bottom, and at the front, they followed the contour of her crotch, and the sexy shape of her thighs. Once again, I got a butterflies feeling in my gut, just looking at her, and after she had said, “Good morning,” she placed our marked assignments in a pile on her desk.”

After a moment or two of small talk, she invited the class to pick up our assignments from her desk. We got up in an excited gaggle, and as each student found his or her assignment on the desk, we would retreat to our own desks, to see how we went. The assignment had been to write an essay on the factors leading up to World War I, and I had gotten so interested in the topic, I had put way more work in than I would have done normally, and I was pleased to see Miss Martin had rewarded my efforts with an A+. At the and of the assignment, she had added a comment in red pen, that said, Justin, you have offered some interesting perspectives and gone into further detail than the assignment required. I think I would enjoy discussing this topic with you. Very good effort!

I wasn’t really a bookworm, but I liked history and I was pretty pleased with the A+ and the comment, especially coming from this beautiful new teacher, and I thought to myself, I’d like to talk to you, but not necessarily about history.

“Now, today,” Miss Martin said, “I’d like to have a class discussion about your assignments.” She walked around the room, placing a piece of paper on each desk, and said, “I want each of you to write your name on the piece of paper I’ve given you, and fold it over so I can see it from the front, because I don’t know any of your names yet. That way, I can call each person by name, and we can get to know each other a little better.”

We all did that, and Miss Martin began her discussion with us. She walked around the room, asking questions about the topic of our assignment, and, calling students by name, she would get them to stand up and offer some opinions or ideas, and share them with the class. She walked past my desk, and looked down at my name on the paper, and with a smile, she said, “Oh, so you’re Justin Payne.”

“Yes,” I answered, a little nervously, as often happened when a teacher singled me out in front of the class. “Your assignment was very good, in fact I’d probably say, exceptional,” she said, looking around the room as she said it. That just made me more nervous, because not only was the whole class looking at me, but I was being singled out for attention by this absolute vision of loveliness, and I suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “Thank you,” I mumbled, hoping she wouldn’t ask me to share my ideas with the class. I saw her taking a breath, and I knew she was going to ask me a question, and that would mean I’d have to get up and say something in front of everybody, and I got those butterflies again, big time.

I saw Miss Martin giving me a funny look, as though she suddenly understood how nervous I was, and she tilted her head as though he was thinking. Quickly, she stepped out in front of the class again, and said, “Justin made some very good points in his assignment, but I won’t go into that now. All I’ll say was that he was one of the few people in the class who really explained the politics behind the First World War. I suggest you all get hold of his assignment and read it.” She flicked a glance at me, with a quick, almost imperceptible raising of her eyebrows, as if to say, “Okay?” and went back to our discussion.

The period ended, and the class shuffled out the door, while Miss Martin picked up some folders from her desk. I was the last person to leave the room, and she called out to me, as I was about to walk outside. “Justin,” she said, and I turned to face her, as she walked over with her folders. It was lunchtime, so I guess there was time for a talk. “That was a really good assignment,” she said, “But, you seemed very nervous during the discussion.”

“A bit,” I said, half-heartedly. I was both nervous and excited, speaking to her, with no-one else around, but my nerves were winning at that time. “Look,” she said, “You better go to lunch. I won’t hold you up, but just remember, there’s no need to be nervous here.” She smiled encouragingly, and added, “We’re all on your side.” I left the room, and went to find my friends and have lunch, feeling like a bit of a goofball.

We had one more history period that week, and then of course, three more the following week, and each time I saw Miss Martin, always dressed in clothes that showed off her awesome figure, I’d get that roller-coaster feeling. I wouldn’t mind betting a lot of guys at that school were going home and wanking themselves over the thought of her, but believe it or not, I wasn’t one of them. Not that I wasn’t as keen on wanking as any other seventeen-year old boy, but somehow I just couldn’t bring myself to sully the thought if this vision of sexual loveliness by masturbating over her. I know it sounds crazy, but I would masturbate to my heart’s content over dirty magazines my friends and I swapped around, or to the thought of some of the sexier girls at my school, but I would keep all thoughts of Miss Martin out of my mind while I was doing it. I didn’t say I was normal, did I?

Saturday rolled around, as it always does, and of course, there was no school for two days. Over breakfast, my dad said, “Eric Weston’s invited us over to his place for lunch today. He’s having a barbeque.” I looked up over my muesli, and he added, “I want to get over there at midday, so can you fellows be ready?”

By “you fellows,” he meant my brother, Craig, and me, and we gave our half-hearted acknowledgement that we’d heard him. Mr and Mrs Weston lived just outside town, and they had bought the place when they first got married. There had been a little, old, two-bedroom house there when they bought it, and they lived there until they could afford to build their dream home on the block, but instead of demolishing the old place, they left it standing, as a kind of guest house. Mr Weston came from a family of eleven brothers and sisters, so he always had family staying over, and he kept the “back shack” for guests to stay in. It was old, but quite liveable, and the electricity and water were still connected, so it was a comfortable place to stay.

I knew that if we went to Mr Weston’s place, he and my dad would start drinking beer together, and we’d be there until about midnight, and that meant I would be in the company of his daughter, Suzy. She was two years younger than me, and was a conceited bitch, who hung out with that group of conceited bitches that every school year has, and at school she and all her friends would give me a hard time, over my shyness I guess, calling out things like, “I got a Payne in the arse!” and stuff like that, when I walked past. If Suzy came across me on her own at school, she might say something like, “God, you’re ugly,” but when I visited Mr Weston’s house, she just ignored me, which was fine by me. What I’m saying here is that visiting Mr Weston’s place was not on my list of favourite things to do on a weekend.

A little before midday, the four of us, my dad, my mother, Craig, and me, travelled in our car over to the Weston’s place, where Suzy met us at the front door. She greeted my parents, but ignored me as usual, and we headed inside. After a few minutes of small talk, my mother and Mrs Weston went out onto the back patio with a bottle of white wine, while Craig and the Weston’s son, David, disappeared into his bedroom, and Suzy went up to the stable to check on her horse, leaving me with my dad and Mr Weston in the lounge room. I could sense that this was going to be a boring afternoon for me, and as I contemplated that, Mr Weston asked me to go to the fridge in the kitchen, and get a couple of beers for him and my dad. “Grab one yourself, if you like,” he added, as I walked out the door.

I walked to the kitchen, and as I took three beers out, I heard a car coming down the Weston’s long driveway, and as it passed the window, I saw it was Mrs Weston’s silver Ford Escort. I wondered idly who was driving it, because Mrs Weston was sitting out on the patio with my mother, drinking white wine, and the car went into the carport and out of sight. I kind of guessed one of Mr Weston’s many family members might be staying over, and it occurred to me that another person might make things more interesting, at least.

Just then, the back door opened, and I was totally astonished to see Miss Martin walking in from the carport. Once again, I think my jaw dropped at the sight of her, this time because she was probably the last person I would have expected to meet at the Weston residence. “Well, fancy meeting you here,” she said, in her American accent, giving me that smile again.

I didn’t answer straight away, and she stepped forward, and gently placed her left hand under my chin, closing my mouth for me, and saying, “Come on, it’s not that big a shock.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, as she stepped past me to place a shopping bag on the kitchen bench, and I added, “I was a bit surprised.” I felt like a complete idiot. Miss Martin was wearing a pair of cut-off denim shorts, and a white T-shirt with a picture of Devo on it, but at the time, I’d never heard of them, and I wondered briefly what it meant. However, the effect of seeing this living sexual fantasy of a woman when I least expected it was outweighing any need to ask what her T-shirt was all about. Those denim shorts were hugging her butt so tightly, they might have well have been painted on, and her shirt was moulding itself to her tits and upper body, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Miss Martin turned from the bench, and saw me looking. She smiled, cocked her head slightly, and said, “Is it rude in this country to stare, or is that something else that’s different over here?” She glanced down at herself, and then back up at me, and I could tell she knew why I was looking. “You don’t say much, do you, Justin?” she said, as she stepped forward, and took one of the beers from me, and said, “Is one of those for me?” She took the twist-top off and took a sip, but I still didn’t say anything.

She looked at my chest for a moment, like she was looking for something, and then looked back at me, and said, “Is there a button on you somewhere that I’ve gotta push to get you to talk? Maybe, I’ve gotta put a coin in a slot or something.”

“Sorry,” I said again, “I, umm, just got a surprise.”

“Well, you didn’t sneak that past me,” she said, and she looked at the two beers in my hand and said, “I’m guessing one of those is for Eric, but who’s the other one for?”

“My dad,” I said, “He’s in the front room with Mr Weston.”

“So,” she answered, still with that smile, “you do talk.” She nodded towards the front of the house, and said, “Well, come on, you’ve got thirsty men out there, and you’ve got to introduce me to your dad.”

We walked down the short corridor to the lounge room, where we found my dad and Mr Weston talking and laughing together, and as we walked in, I saw my father doing a cartoon double-take when he saw Miss Martin.

“This is Katy Martin,” I heard Mr Weston saying, to my dad, “She’s from the United States, on a teacher exchange program. She’ll be here for three months, and we had the back shack vacant, so she’s staying in there with us for the duration.” My dad shook hands with her, and as Miss Martin stepped back across the room, I saw my dad’s eyes go straight to her crotch, for moment. I couldn’t really blame him, but he was so obvious about it, I felt a little embarrassed.

The four of us stood there for few minutes, as Mr Weston explained to my dad about how Miss Martin came to be here, and how he was a co-ordinator on the program, and my dad asked her a few questions about her own country, and she told him how I was in her history class at school, and that’s why we knew each other. Then, she said, “Look, I think I’ll go out and get the barbeque going, and Justin here can help me.” She looked at me, and said, “We were having a very interesting conversation out in the kitchen, weren’t we?” She made eye contact, and smiled at me, and I mumbled, “Yeah, it was pretty interesting.” I couldn’t help smiling, though.

I followed Miss Martin back out to the patio, getting an eyeful of her bottom in those shorts, and we started to get the barbeque ready. My mother and Mrs Weston were already on their second bottle of white wine, and were having an earnest discussion at the outdoor dining table, and as we set up the barbeque and lit it, Miss Martin looked at me, and said, “I get the impression you would have been in for a pretty boring afternoon if I wasn’t here. Am I right?”

“Pretty much,” I said, watching as she lit the burners.

“Well, you’ll have me to talk to now,” she said, looking up from what she was doing. I felt a little swell of excitement to think that this gorgeous woman seemed interested in talking to me, and she added, “That essay you did, that was pretty darn good, but getting a word out of you is like pulling teeth. Are you always like this?”

“Umm, most of the time,” I answered, honestly, “Until I get to know people.”

She gave her head one shake, and said, “That day at school, when I was about to get you to stand up and talk to the class, I realised how nervous you were. Back home, we’d say you looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I don’t know what you say over here, but I had to let you off the hook.”

“Thanks for that, Miss Martin,” I said, handing her the metal spatula.

“Please,” she said, looking at me as she took it, “Call me Katy here. Miss Martin sounds so formal.”

“Okay,” I said, pausing and adding, “Katy.” It felt so strange to call her that. I helped her to cook the steaks on the barbeque, and to bring out the salads and other stuff, while my dad, along with my mother and Mr and Mrs Weston, continued drinking beer and white wine, and then we had our lunch.

There wasn’t enough room at the Weston’s outdoor dining table for all of us, including Suzy and the other two boys, so Katy and I sat on two garden chairs, away from everyone else, with our plates on our laps. We talked together about all sorts of things, while the others drank and ate, and Katy asked me a few things about growing up in Australia, and she told me a little about growing up in Small Town, U.S.A. We talked a little about politics, and she told how it was exciting back home because it was an election year, and I told her a few things about Australian politics, or at least as much as I knew, as a seventeen-year old. It seemed like we discussed all sorts of things as we sat there, and we had a few laughs as well. I was really enjoying myself, talking to Katy like that, and my nerves were completely forgotten

After lunch, I helped Katy clean up, while my parents and the Weston’s continued with their drinking, and we went to the lounge room to watch some afternoon television and continue talking. Now and again, I’d sneak a look at her in those denim shorts and that white T-shirt, and I’d find it hard to imagine that I was actually here with this incredibly beautiful woman, or I’d look her way, and get a lump in my throat at the mere sight of her, dressed like that, so close to me.

Later in the evening, as we sat there discussing a new movie we had both seen recently, called “Xanadu,” Mr Weston came in the room, with my dad in tow. The beer was obviously getting the better of both of them by this time, and when Mr Weston had a few on board, he used to speak dramatically, and exaggerate everything. “Justin, my man,” he said, as my dad stood swaying behind him, “There has been a disaster!”

I saw a look of alarm on Katy’s face, but I knew it was just the way Mr Weston talked when he was tipsy, and he went on with, “We’ve run out of beer,” announcing it with the gravity of a man saying, “There’s been a terrible earthquake in Peru.” He took a set of car keys from a hook on the wall, and held them out to me, saying, “I request that you chauffer your dear old papa and me to the nearest intoxatorium, so we can continue with our bacchanalian revelry. You may drive us there in my Valiant. It’s time you got behind the wheel of an engineering thoroughbred for a change.” I took the keys, and looked at Katy, who smiled, and said, “I think I’ll come along for the ride.”

We walked out to the front of Mr Weston’s house, and I got in the driver’s seat of his beige Valiant, and Mr Weston opened the back door, and then said to my dad, “Malcolm, my old comrade, seeing this fruit of your loins is acting as our chauffer tonight, it is only fitting that we ride in the back of this limousine.” He stood back and said, “After you,” letting my dad in first. They both stumbled into the back seat, and Katy climbed in the left hand front passenger seat, saying, “Looks like I get the shotgun seat.” I started the engine, and my mother and Mrs Weston came around the side of the house, walking fast, but taking small steps because they too were already intoxicated, and Mrs Weston called out, “Wait for us!”

They walked to the car and Mrs Weston opened the front passenger’s door, while my mother opened the back door, and they also climbed in. As Mrs Weston got in the left-hand front seat, Katy slid over to the middle of the seat, next to me, and she said, “This is cosy,” giving me her bright smile as she said it. I put the car into Drive, and headed out onto the road, acutely aware of Katy sitting next to me, squeezed into the front seat of Mr Weston’s Valiant.

The nearest hotel was about four miles down the road, and as I drove along with a car full of drunks, Katy giggled in my ear at the absurdity of it all. Her warm breath on the left side of my face alone was so exciting I could barely concentrate on my driving, and after I stopped outside the hotel, my parents and the Weston’s piled out. “Are you coming, Katy?” Mr Weston said, but she replied with, “No thanks, I think I’ll just go back and keep Justin company. You guys can ring us when you want to come home.” Mr Weston leant in the driver’s window, breathing his beery breath all over me, and he said, “I’ll leave you to be entertained by this vision of loveliness, young man.” He stepped back, slapped the roof of his car twice with the palm of his hand, and said, “I bid you adieu, adios and goodbye. We’ll ring you when the premises close, or we get kicked out, which ever comes first. Now, be gone, young man, until your services are again required.” I turned the car back towards his house, and off we went.

Katy had slid back over to the left hand front seat of the car, now that there were only two of us in it, but after only a few hundred yards, she giggled and said, “I feel really weird over here, like I should be driving.” I chuckled at her myself, and she said, “No, I mean it. It’s really strange, sitting here, where the driver normally sits in my country, but with no steering wheel to hang onto.” She slid back to the centre of the bench seat, and said, “I think I’ll sit here, instead.” As I drove, I could feel the warmth from her body on my left side, and that lump in the throat feeling returned.

We drove into Mr Weston’s driveway, and after we got out, Katy said, “Do you want to come up to the shack for a while? I’ve got some records you might like.” In those days, or course, there were no CD’s.

“Sounds good,” I said, and we walked up to the old house, and Katy took me inside. The back shack was furnished quite comfortably with some of the Weston’s’ old furniture, and Katy went to the fridge in the shack’s kitchen, and got two beers, handing one to me. “I had a little secret stash,” she said, as I took it. We sat around, listening to some of her records and talking for a long while, and later on, as we both sat on the floor, resting our backs against the front of the couch, Katy said, “You surprise me.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“You seem to be able to talk about all kinds of things, but it’s so hard to get you started,” she said. She took a mouthful of her beer and went on with, “After this afternoon, I feel like I can talk to you about anything. You just need to work on your confidence.”

“I don’t know, I just get nervous sometimes,” I mumbled, “but once I get to know people, it’s different.” I felt awkward talking about it, but she said, “Don’t worry, we all get nervous sometimes.”

After a little more talk, Katy said, “I got a new record the other day. I think you’ll like this.” She got up and looked through her records, and found a new Dire Straits record, and put it on the turntable. “This is lovely,” she said, “Just listen to it,” and a song I’d never heard, called, “Tunnel Of Love,” started playing. We both sat there for a moment or two, listening to the sweet, longing music, and the lyrics, and Katy got up and said, “Do you want to dance with me, Justin?”

I had been feeling really at ease by then, but my nerves suddenly kicked in, and went off the scale. “I can’t dance,” I said, looking up at her.

“Come on,” Katy said, reaching down and smiling, “It’s easy, let me show you.” I was so nervous, I felt my stomach drop, but I got awkwardly to my feet, and Katy said, “What’s there to be nervous about, there’s no-one else here to see you.” I stood there, like an awkward lump, and Katy said, “I won’t bite, I promise.” She stepped closer, and took hold of me in the waltzing position. “Just move to the music,” she said, in a soft voice, “Just hold me like this, and step in time with the music.” She reached around with her left hand, and adjusted my right hand into the proper place on her back, and she said, “Move with me, Justin. Just move with the music.”

Katy must have known the effect she would have on a young teenage boy, dressed like that, slow-dancing around her room on our own. We danced like that for few minutes, as she patiently instructed me on how to step with the beat of the music, and another song from the same record came on. It was called “Romeo and Juliet,” and it was even sweeter than the first. As I held Katy’s beautiful body like that, I had a mixture of butterflies in my stomach, sheer sexual excitement, and a lump in my throat. “You’re doing great,” she said, softly, holding me close, swaying her body, and then she looked up at me and said, “Justin, have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“No,” I said, looking down to avoid her gaze, and shaking my head, ”Girls aren’t really interested in me.”

Katy swallowed, and said, “Don’t worry, it’ll happen. Trust me.” She gave me the sweetest smile, and then asked, “Have you ever kissed a girl?”

The only girl I’d ever kissed was my cousin, Rhonda, who asked me to do it one time when we were both twelve. We’d had a juvenile make out session that day, even though all we had done was kiss and hug each other, but I didn’t think that counted, so I answered, “No,” to Katy’s question.

“Don’t worry, that’ll happen too,” Katy said, as we swayed to the music in that little room in the back shack. Then, as hard as it was to believe that I was actually holding this beautiful sex goddess, alone like that, slow-dancing, swaying together with the music, she took my disbelief up another notch, and held me closer, resting her head on my chest as we danced.

I felt like I was dreaming, but it was true. I was holding a woman, and not just any woman, but a heart-stoppingly beautiful woman, and she was resting her head on me, as though she liked it as much as I did. I had to swallow, as I got that feeling you get as the roller-coaster drops, and you lose touch with gravity for a moment. Then, even more incredibly, Katy looked up and kissed me on the mouth. This was my first real kiss, forget all about Rhonda, this was the first time I had ever kissed a woman. I felt like I was about to explode.

We held the kiss for a brief, exciting moment, and then Katy seemed to come to her senses, and after the kiss, she stiffened, although we were still holding each other. “I’m sorry,” she said, loosening her hold on me, but not letting go, and adding, “I’m sorry, Justin.” Her voice was still soft, but more serious. She made eye contact, and continued with, “Right now, I’m an employee of the Department of Education in this state. I can’t do that.” She let go of me, and stepped back slightly, and said, “I feel terrible, like I’ve led you on, but,” and she paused, clearing her throat, “I could get into all kinds of trouble.” She shook her head, and said, “I’m really sorry.”

We both sat back down on the couch, and she said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m okay. Don’t worry about it.” I smiled, but then I realised I was shaking.

Katy took a breath, sitting on the opposite end of the couch, and she said, “Justin, you are a beautiful young man. If I wasn’t your teacher, believe me, I’d take you into my room, and I’d drag you into bed with me.” She gestured towards her bedroom, and burst out laughing, shaking her head at the same time, and said, “I can’t believe what I was thinking just a few moments ago.”

“I can’t either,” I said, as the truth of what she was saying dawned on me, but I had a dry little laugh as well.

We sat there for a few minutes, just talking, and then the phone rang. There was an extension in the back shack, and Katy answered it. It was Mrs Weston, asking me to come and pick them up from the hotel, so Katy and I drove back in Mr Weston’s car to get them again. After I dropped them back home, I took my parents and Craig back home to our place in our own car, and that night, I lay in my bed, running the events of the evening through my head, thinking, The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen almost took me to bed tonight. I was a little disappointed we hadn’t gone further, but just getting to hold her like that was enough to fuel my fantasies for the rest of the weekend. In fact, that’s about all I thought about for the next couple of days.

Our next history period of course was Tuesday morning, and we had to hand in another assignment. That day, Miss Martin was wearing a short, pale blue skirt and a cream coloured blouse, and as always, she looked totally hot. She gave me a special smile as she entered the room, and a couple of times, she made eye contact and smiled again. I didn’t tell my friends about Saturday night, partly because I didn’t think they’d believe me, but also because I saw it as a special memory that was too precious to go sharing around with just anyone. However, there was still a lot of talk from guys around the school about what they would like to do with Miss Martin, and when I heard them talking big, I would think to myself that I had been privileged to hold that beautiful body, and I had kissed that pretty mouth.

On Thursday morning, we had yet another history period, and after we got our assignments back, Miss Martin held a class discussion about the topic. A few people got up to answer questions, and share ideas, and then she said to the class, “Justin had a few good ideas on this assignment,” and as everyone looked my way, she asked ...

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