Miss Moore was my home room teacher in the seventh grade, and she also taught English. She was twenty eight years old and was unmarried, although I'm sure that she had received many proposals, because she was slender and beautiful. She had dark hair, and at school she always dressed conservatively. Still, one could see her bare calves and lower arms, which were so perfectly shaped that one could imagine, as I did, that she was perfect all over. She had modest breasts, and when she wore a jacket over her blouse, one could not detect any sign of them. Her face was so pretty, so lovely, yet one could discern strength in it. She knew what teaching was all about, and she was devoted to her job, her profession. Miss Moore did not tolerate any disorder or horse play in her classroom. Usually her stern demeanor was sufficient to maintain order. But when a situation got out of hand, she could be subtly, yet effectively punishing. Once, when I repeatedly disrupted the class with stupid observations about what we were studying, Miss Moore came over to me, placed her hand on my head and told me gently to calm down and to behave. What my classmates didn't know was that she pulled on my hair with her fingers and caused me a great deal of pain.
When I was half way through the seventh grade, I masturbated for the first time. I was then twelve, going on thirteen. We all remember that first time. For me it was unintended. I lay in the bathtub and played with my cock, soaping it and pulling on it with my fingers. It felt so good doing that. I continued until my little pecker erupted with a sting and enormous pleasure. I cried out in surprise, which caused my mom to bang on the bathroom door and inquire if there were a problem. I yelled that I had burned myself with the hot water. I knew about jacking off. Half of the guys in my class were doing it and talking about it. I sat in the tepid water and looked at the white globules of my semen floating in front of me. I washed out the tub after the bath, destroying any evidence of my sin.
I was a paper boy, and every Thursday morning, before school, I delivered 58 papers in my neighborhood. Miss Moore was one of my customers. I developed such a crush on her, especially after I had become sexually active. One Thursday morning I went up onto her porch to place the paper behind the storm door, as she had insisted that I do. I peeked through the window and saw her descending the staircase clad in just her bra and panties. She was, indeed, perfect all over. I sprung a stiffie immediately, and I pulled myself away from the window with the greatest reluctance. Every Thursday morning after that I peeked through her window, but I didn't see her again.
In class I came to stare at Miss Moore, smug in my knowledge of what was beneath her skirt and blouse. When I masturbated, I imagined her rubbing her naked body against mine. I became obsessed with the woman.
I was a pretty boy with a hairless body that was just developing. I know that now, decades later, but then I was not so aware of my beauty, although I knew that I was attractive. The skittish girls in my class did not interest me. I wanted a woman, Miss Moore, to teach me all about sex. I hadn't a clue about how to approach her, but I was determined to find a way.
My first ploy was to arrange to be with her, alone, at every opportunity. I stayed after class to ask her dumb questions about the day's lesson. I lingered on her porch, when I collected for the newspaper. I rode my bike past her house almost every day and stopped to talk with her, when I saw her in the yard. I thought that I had made real progress, when Miss Moore invited me into her kitchen for hot cocao on a particularly cold and rainy April Saturday as I was collecting for the newspaper. I stood next to the stove, looking up at her in open admiration of her beauty. I was then about five feet tall, but she was a head taller. She smiled warmly at me, and when she handed me the mug of cacao, I was able to touch her hand.
She must have been really amused at me, I realize now, for pursuing her so obviously, although then I thought that I was being so clever and subtle. When I left her kitchen that morning, she briefly petted my flaxen head, so affectionately, and she gave me a wan smile.
As the school year drew to an end I was troubled by the fact that soon I would not see Miss Moore every day. I went to her and offered to do her yard work over the Summer, requesting just a very small compensation for my efforts. She grinned at me, like never before, giving me a smile that told me that I was special to her. She agreed to hire my services, and I left the school that day walking on air.
It was a hot and humid day in late May when I first cut Miss Moore's lawn. I labored behind the push mower, almost naked, clad just in shorts and shoes. It was not intentional, my semi nakedness. I did not mean to attract her attention with my flesh, because I did not know how sexually attractive my body was. It was just the heat.
After I finished the mowing, Miss Moore invited me into her cool house for a glass of lemonade. I was dripping wet with sweat. We stood in her kitchen. She handed me the glass and then ran her hand across my chest, lingering for a moment on my flat tummy. She said that I was very sweaty and could use a cold shower to refresh myself. She showed me the shower, the one off her bedroom, and I routinely locked the door before I stripped naked. The experience was indeed very refreshing, and I lingered under the water, soaping my groin, which then had a few strands of pubic hair. I massaged my soapy cock, already stiff, and I masturbated in Miss Moore's shower stall, shooting my stuff all over the wall, stifling my grunts.
When I emerged from her bathroom, I encountered Miss Moore standing next to her bed. She had changed her clothes. Before she had worn jeans and a short sleeve shirt. Now she was in shorts and a halter that did not conceal her belly button. She was barefoot. I stared at her exquisite legs, then at her bare midrift, then at the slight bulge of her breasts, and finally at her face. She smiled at me in a very familiar way, as though there were no secrets between us. She excited me and I sprouted a stiffie, which I am sure that she noticed. I was excited, but also very nervous and unsure of myself. I told her that I had to go home, and she said that she understood. She put her arm around my bare shoulders as we walked to the front door and held me a bit close to her. My arm angled down awkwardly in her slight embrace, and the back of my hand rubbed against the flesh of her thigh. At the door she asked me to come back later, when it was cooler, to trim her bushes. She took my cheeks in her hands and kissed my forehead.
I rode my bike home furiously, recklessly. I could not believe what had happened. I wondered whether I was reading too much into her behavior. It could have been entirely innocent; the affection of an adult who likes me after knowing me for so long. I hoped not.
As soon as supper was over I rode my bike over to Miss Moore's house, eager to resume what I thought was a major breakthrough in our relationship. When I got there I saw her just coming out of her house, followed by a guy, an adult, a big man with a smug look about him. I braked my bike at her driveway and she waved to me. She came over to me and pointed out the bushes that she wanted trimmed. Then she patted me on the head, turned and went with the guy to his fancy car. I watched them drive off, that guy with my girl. I thought that I would die. I felt bitter and betrayed.
I hacked at her bushes, did a half-assed job of it and then went home. I could not understand it. She had touched me and I thought that there was some meaning in it. Then she treated like a yard boy, and went off with her Mr. Wonderful.
I lay on my bed in a funk. I knew that I could not compete with Mr. Wonderful and his Jaguar. I was just a kid who rode a Schwinn. I lay there and imaged her beautiful face, those lovely dark eyes and fresh cheeks, her expressive mouth and rosy lips. My hand was pushed into my shorts, grasping my hard cock, pulling on it as I remembered the softness of Miss Moore's thigh. I stopped, undressed, not wanting to mess my clothes, and then I masturbated, dreaming of the most perfect woman in the entire world.
The next day I rode to Miss Moore's house, where I found her in the front yard. I stopped, of course, and said hello. She was not pleased. She said that I had not done a proper job on her bushes and she wanted me to finish it correctly. I felt sheepish and hung my head. I worked on her bushes, after she went inside the house, leaving me to feel miserable once again. I snipped at the bushes in a sullen mood. As I was finishing the job, Miss Moore came onto the porch and hailed me, inviting me to have some lemonade. She looked at my work and said that I had done a good job. I was not mollified. I still seethed with anger at her betrayal of me. She seemed to notice that I was in a foul mood, as we stood in her kitchen drinking lemonade, and I think that she knew why. She palmed my cheek and then petted my head, looking into my face with the most marvelous expression, but she did not volunteer to explain Mr. Wonderful. I was so distraught. I loved her so much. I put my arms around her, pulled her to me and rested my cheek on her shoulder. I felt her stiffen and she pushed me away a bit brusquely. Miss Moore then put her hand on my head, smiled at me sweetly, told me to behave myself and pulled painfully on my hair. She told me to go home and to return in a week to mow the lawn. I rode home on my bike totally deflated, realizing that she thought of me as just a kid.
My next ploy was to ignore her, to pretend that she didn't exist. For three weeks I did her yard work, but I refused to go into her house, when she offered me refreshment. It didn't seem to work; she didn't come after me, and I wound up with a lot of hard work and no lemonade. Then one day, as I was pushing the lawn mower in the July heat, she came out onto the lawn with a glass of lemonade. I didn't see her coming. She approached me from behind, put her hand on my bare shoulder and I started. I turned to her and she smiled beautifully at me. I took the lemonade, thanking her for it, and I drank it down in a long swallow. She then said that she wanted me to come into the house, when I was finished, because she had some things to say to me. She gave me a grin and then left, going up the front stairs and into the house. I wondered what was on her mind, but I didn't hope for much. I had lost my naivete.
We sat on her couch, a bit apart, facing each other. After a few banal comments about the heat, Miss Moore got to the point. She said that she liked me more than any other boy in the school. She said that I was very good looking and that she found me quite attractive. I knew that tone of voice and I waited for the other shoe to fall, which it soon did with a thud. She observed that she was twice my age, that I was just thirteen years old and not sufficiently mature to make important personal decisions. She said that, in any case, the law was such that she could be put in prison for just kissing me on the lips. She seemed nervous, saying those words. Although I was in a sullen mood, I spoke out boldly. I told her that I would very much like to kiss her on the lips, and that I could never imagine ever telling another person about it. I looked directly into her face and asked her if she wanted to kiss me. She clasped her hands together and looked flustered. It's really not up to us, she stammered. We're here alone in this room, I argued with more composure than I knew I had. The rest of the world is outside, I added. Miss Moore, a woman whom I had always known as a strong, even domineering person, suddenly seemed to deflate.
I took her hand and moved close to her. Out bodies touched. She did not object or move away from me, and I felt that she might have leaned slighty toward me. She stared at her shoes. I want to kiss you, I said, and she suddenly looked into my face. It distressed me that she appeared to be so unhappy at the prospect of our kissing. I palmed her cheek, which was moist from tears, and I told her that I loved her. She did not resist my embrace nor my kiss. She sat limply as I pressed my lips inexpertly against hers. Then she reacted. She put her arms around me and kissed me back passionately. Her tongue invaded my mouth, and within seconds I learned the ways of kissing properly. When I cupped her right breast in my passion, she brushed me away. Her tittie was smaller than I had thought; it scarcely filled my hand. But we kissed some more, tangling our tongues. Then she suddenly stood and said that I had to return home. Her face was flushed and her voice was uncertain. I got up and we went to the front door hand in hand. She suddenly grasped me to her, sucked strongly on one of my ear lobes and pushed me out the door, which she opened and shut in a snap.
I was not at all certain that I had achieved a significant victory in my quest to have Miss Moore. She had responded to my advances with the greatest reluctance, and her momentary passionate embrace and kiss was no true indicator of her intentions. I was just a kid with little to offer beyond my fresh prettiness and she was a teacher, a serious person, an adult who had everything to lose. I suppose that, then, at age thirteen I was aware of such considerations, although I certainly never though that clearly. My adult self is intruding into this story of my youth.
I rode home on my bike elated that I had kissed her and had felt her boob. I hurried, because I wanted to lock myself in my room, strip naked and jack off. Which I did. I was not particularly large, although my cock was more impressive than many of my class mades, some of whom still had baby dicks, skinny, flabby appendanges that grew to little more than three inches. I was certainly not as large as Jack Simpson, who had an adult-sized cock that could probably smash coconuts. My cock was large enough that I could fist it, when I jacked off, and it was reasonably thick. There were a few strands of hair above it then, but one could scarcely notice them, because I was so blond.
After I jacked off and cleaned up the mess, I lay on my bed, still naked, and played with myself. I poked at my ass hole and flipped my dick back and forth until it got hard again. I stared at it and thought that it was big enough to satisfy Miss Moore, although I didn't have a clue about pleasuring a woman. I didn't even know the anatomy. I thought about jacking off again, but decided to save it for later. At that time I masturbated three and four times a day.
Most days that Summer I was on my own. My mom worked and there was just the two of us. I hung out and played games with neighborhood guys, although I had never had a best buddy. Not once was I tempted to tell them about my love for Miss Moore, because most of them thought that she was a demon, and I certainly would not reveal that I had kissed her and felt her boob. I loved Miss Moore and I would do anything to protect her. I was troubled about my feelings for her, because they seemed to be so stupid, but I wanted her. I wanted to experience again her scent and touch, her softness. I wanted to taste her.
The morning after we had kissed, I rode my bike to her house, but she was not there. Nor was she at home that afternoon. My mom wouldn't let me go out that night, although I nagged her and whined. She insisted that I stay home and clean my room, which was, indeed, filthy.
The next morning, after my mom went off to work, I climbed the stairs to Miss Moore's porch and pushed the door bell. I waited and then pushed it again. I was about to leave in frustration, when I heard the door opening. Miss Moore poked her head out and stared at me. It's not yet nine o'clock, she said with a bit of annoyance in her voice. Her brown hair was tangled, her face pale, unmade. She had a bathrobe pulled around her and was barefoot. She looked so beautiful to me. She let me come in, although she did not appear to be particularly eager about it. We went to the kitchen, where Miss Moore prepared coffee. I rejected her offer of a glass of milk, although I accepted orange juice. I sat at the kitchen table and watched her put together a breakfast of coffee and toast. Then she sat opposite me and I stared at her as she ate. She gave me a scowl and then a grin. I giggled like a child; I couldn't help it. I focused on her neck, so graceful and smooth looking. I would like to taste her there, I thought. We never spoke much to each other, because we had so little in common to discuss. She was not the kind of an adult who would pretend to know about kid stuff. She read books in foreign languages and listened to classical music.
What brings you here so early, she asked me, looking into my face. I told her the truth. I want to kiss you again, I said. She flushed and looked nervously at me. That was all a mistake, what we did, she retorted a bit gruffly and busied herself with her toast. I then decided that Miss Moore was not a morning person. I reached my hand across the table and placed it on top of hers. She did not pull away, but she gave me a troubled look. I realized that I was causing her great discomfort, and I removed my hand from hers. I'm sorry, I apologized. She then grabbed my hand, smiled at me wanly, brought it to her face and rubbed it against her cheek. This excited me and I sprung a stiffie. She did not let go of my hand. She played with my fingers as she looked into my face, unblinking. Her other hand carressed my forearm, up and down most gently. She stared at me so intently that I had to look down and examine the empty glass before me.
I'm going away, she almost whispered. I'm going to California to a new job in three weeks. I looked up at her suddenly and sensed a wave of panic looming above me. I felt tears welling, and I forced myself not to cry. She put her mouth on my hand and kissed it, looking at me all the while. She stood up, still holding my hand. Her robe parted a bit and I glimpsed part of a bare breast. She pulled me to my feet. Staring straight ahead, my eyes were level with her neck, the neck that I so wanted to taste. She put her arms around me and held me. She let me lick her neck. She squeezed me gently and whispered into my ear, you must keep our secret. Our secret! I knew what the words promised. Yes, I whispered back, I will keep our secret.
Miss Moore led me by the hand out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Although I knew what was about to happen, and although the prospect of it excited me no end, I was almost in tears. She was going away. I was losing her. We entered her bed room, a frilly, feminine place that smelled of powder and perfume. She put both hands on my head and stroked my hair as if I were a kitten. I looked into her face and I saw my teacher, the woman who would teach me everything. She palmed my cheek and gave me a wonderous smile. She leaned her head down and we kissed, first chastely, then gently, then passionately. We clung to each other and traded spit.
She sat on the bed with me in front of her. She looked as excited as I felt. She pushed up at my t shirt and I took it off. She then ran her hands over my chest, my shoulders and my arms. She seemed to marvel at them. She pulled me to her and tongued my belly button. I reached down and pulled the robe from her shoulders, which then fell to her waist. Her small breasts made her look younger. She undid my shorts and they dropped to my ankles. Then she pulled down my underpants. For some time Miss Moore rubbed my legs up and down and fondled my buttocks. My erect penis pointed straight at her nose. She explored my body with her hands as it it were something precious. Then, without warning, her mouth was on my cock, sucking it with intent. I did not have time to relish the pleasure of her mouth on me; I came after no more than twenty seconds. I spewed forth copiously. My stuff drooled from her mouth and dripped onto the carpet. She spat a gob onto my thigh, but I saw her swallow. She finished me by hand, somehow knowing how to end it properly, so that the last pleasure is squeezed out. Miss Moore then got up and went into her bathroom, where I heard her turn on the water in the sink and brush her teeth. I lay naked on the bed with two pilows behind my head. My skin tingled in satisfaction, my cock lay against my body, half hard. I knew that there was more to come.
Miss Moore returned to the bed room naked. I could not tear my attention from her pubic bush, which was, in itself, not alluring. But it seemed to define her femininity, her mystery. She smiled grandly at me and lay beside me. We embraced, pushed out bodies together and kissed. I tasted toothpaste. I loved her so profoundly. She told me to put my face between her legs, which I did without question. She reached down and spread her vaginal lips with her fingers. She showed me what she and other women had, and she explained it all to me. I liked her unusual smell down there. She told me to lap her clit, which I did, and she gave me running instructions on how to do it properly. The taste was tart, and I wondered if it were piss. I got it right finally, and Miss Moore stopped talking, stopped giving me instruction. I lapped on her and she moaned. She was so wet down there. My face became smeared by her precious slime. She then went wild, yelling and squeezing my head with her thighs. It lasted only seconds, but it seemed to endure for a long time. My head hurt, after she released me, but I was so proud to have given her pleasure.
I loved the touch of her flesh. I lay beside her, suckling a tit like a baby, as I ran my hand up and down her side, her buttock and her upper thigh, feeling her softness. Miss Moore fondled my head and cooed sighs of contentment. I wanted to freeze time to that moment.
Miss Moore pulled me from her tit and urged me to move up so that we could kiss, which we did with abandon. Get on top of me, she said softly into my ear. I rolled onto her and felt her soft body beneath me, relishing it. Lean on your elbows. You're crushing me, she barked. I did as she ordered, feeling a bit stupid. She spread her legs and raised her knees high. My face was an inch above hers. As we kissed I felt her hand take hold of my hard cock and place the head of it at a warm, slippery opening. I knew where it was! I pushed in instinctively and penetrated her fully. The pleasure was incredible and I began to pump her wildly, slipping out repeatedly. Slow down, slow down, she advised me as she licked my cheek. Don't fuck me. Make love to me, she breathed into my ear. I actually understood what she meant. We kissed as we set up a rhythm of mutual pushing. It ws so marvelous. Don't come too soon, she murmured. Make it last. I thought of algebra problems to take my mind off my cock as it slipped in and out of her. Then Miss Moore began to push at me rather desperately, moaning and gripping my shoulders. She started to expell her breath in brief, high pitched eeks, and then she wailed into my ear, throwing her legs around my body. Something inside of her clenched the head of my cock, and that set me off. I yelped loudly with each spurt.
Miss Moore pushed me off of her gently and then held me to her. We lay quietly together, kissing and touching each other. I dozed for a bit with my face in her neck. We made love two more times before noon, and I wanted to do it again, but she said that I should save something for tomorrow morning.
I kept count. Before she left for California three weeks later, I had eighty three orgasm with Miss Moore; fifteen in her mouth, three in her hand, once in her ass and the rest in the usual place. She was a magnificent teacher. I learned to deal with females, to understand them, to pleasure them. Our final lovemaking lasted for almost an hour; we didn't want it to end. Then we parted tearfully, but I took her advice and sought out a new girl, a cute sixteen year old who lived down the block. I set out to have her.