Miss Foster was my home room teacher in the seventh grade, and she also taught English. She was twenty seven 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 Foster 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, Mis Forster 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 Foster 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 Foster, 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 Foster, 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 Foster 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 Foster 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 Foster'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 Foster 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 Foster's shower stall, shooting my stuff all over the wall, stifling my grunts.

When I emerged from her bathroom, I encountered Miss Foster 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 Foster'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 Foster'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 Foster'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 Foster 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 Foster 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 Foster 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 Foster, 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.