Chapter 1

I have been a middle school teacher for all of my adult life. Yes, your typical middle-aged, old maid schoolmarm. Forty-five with no prospects or desire to get married. I have even taken to dressing the part. I wear my hair in a bun. Loose-fitting long-sleeve dresses that button up to my neck with a hem that goes well below my knees. I wore my Plus1 reading glasses on a chain around my neck to enhance the look.

I was always a loner, as my mother often called me. I did not mind being alone. I had my books. My mind could go anywhere and do anything I desired when I curled up in bed with a good novel. I even have some very good French erotica for those special occasions when my imagination takes flight, and my fingers caress that special spot between my legs.

I was fourteen when I started to figure out what boys and girls were all about. A sixteen-year-old boy lived down the street from me, and we would go in the woods, and I would let him touch me between my legs. I would let him rub me with his hand while I masturbated him. But he often stopped touching me before I got that really good feeling I wanted. As soon as he would cum he would leave and only come to see me when he wanted to do it again. After a few weeks, I realized it was better to do it myself. I stopped going in the woods with him and decided I did not need a boy to feel good. Except for a couple of brief affairs in college, a couple of one-night stands, and a torrid nine-month romance that ended amicably eleven years ago, going hands-solo has pretty much been Patricia Holland’s philosophy.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I clean up pretty well when the occasion calls for it. I have a decent figure for a woman my age. Perhaps a bit on the thin side, but I don’t think that is anything to concern myself about. A little makeup, and I easily pass for someone in her thirties.

Like many teachers, I offer tutoring services to help the students and make a few extra dollars. For the past few weeks, I have been tutoring Jimmy Peters, a fourteen-year-old who was sick for a month and needed to catch up on his classes. He lived across town. His twenty-year-old brother Ed would drive him to my house for a one-hour tutoring session.

Ed would sit in the living room and watch TV while Jimmy and I worked on his lessons in the kitchen. At home and while tutoring, I usually let my hair down or put it in a ponytail and only wear T-shirts and designer jeans.

In the middle of our lesson, Jimmy said something that made me chuckle. Jimmy had a smirk on his face as he told me, “My brother thinks you’re pretty.”

I was flattered but knew it was a ploy to delay having to work on his lessons. I gave him a mild scolding, “Jimmy, I think it would be much better if you concentrated on the lesson rather than gossiping.”