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, eighteen-year-old kid, in my 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,liltingstep, 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 fiancé 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 thepoliticsbehind 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 guy that age, 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 aPaynein 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."