I celebrated my eighteenth birthday during the middle of my senior year in high school in 1988. Soon after this, I had an experience I will never forget.
Miss Pikes was my English Composition teacher. She had just recently turned 40, but she was hot. There was a rumor that at one point in her life she had posed for Playboy. I hadn't seen any of the glossy photos of her in print as proof positive, so I couldn't attest to the truth of the rumor. But I certainly saw how it could be possible.
Her mother was a full-blooded Native American, and Miss Pikes took pride in her Cherokee ancestry. She was tall, with olive skin, high cheek bones, and deep set bright brown eyes. Her silky black hair fell to the level of her well-rounded breasts. The short skirts she would often wear to class revealed long firm thighs and a nice ass.
She had never married, and that fueled another rumor, one concerning her sexual orientation. Actually, it was about this very issue that precipitated my experience.
It happened on a Monday in April. I was sitting in Miss Pikes class busily watching her ass wiggle in her short skirt as she wrote on the blackboard. Suddenly, I had a funny thought, the kind that needed to be shared immediately. I tore a sheet from my notebook and wrote, if she's a lesbian, I would be willing to put on a dress and shave my legs to get a chance to lick that pussy. I chuckled and passed the note to Bill, who sat beside me in class. I didn't expect him to laugh out loud, but he did. This caught Miss Pikes attention, and before Bill could hide the note, she saw it.
"Bill, would you please bring that piece of paper to me," Miss Pikes said, holding out her hand.
"Uh, I'd better not, Miss Pikes," Bill said, squirming in his seat.
"Bring it to me now, Bill," she said. He slowly rose from his seat and started toward the front of the class. I couldn't believe this was happening. The sound of giggling filled the classroom. I wanted to get up and grab the note from Bill and tear it to pieces before he reached her, but found myself frozen in my seat.
Miss Pikes took the paper from Bill, read it without any change in her expression, then placed it in her desk drawer.
"Was that your note, did you write it?" she asked Bill.
"No . . . Miss Pikes . . ."
She looked out over the class and asked, "Who wrote it?"
I couldn't let Bill or anyone else take the blame for what I had done. Feeling the flush in my cheeks, I slowly raised my hand.
"Christopher, it was your note?" she asked, as her gaze never left my face.
"Uh huh," I said. I felt like I was going to puke.
"Well, I want to see you after school today. Four O'clock in this classroom, understand?"
"I understand"
She continued the rest of the class period as though nothing unusual had happened. I knew I was in for trouble. I just didn't know how much. I spent the rest of her class and the three that followed, going over in my mind the possible forms of punishment I might receive. Certainly being expelled was close to the top of the list.
At precisely four O'clock I lightly tapped on her classroom door. My knees felt rubbery, and it seemed like my heart was going to explode out of my chest. I heard the sound of her heels on the floor as she approached the door.
"Come in, Christopher," she said, as she opened the door. She walked to her desk, without turning around, and pointed to a chair on the front row.
"Sit there," she said. I sat down and folded my hands together on top of the desk trying to look as innocent as possible. She took a seat atop her desk facing in my direction. She crossed her legs, giving me a nice view of her long legs, along with quite a bit of her upper thighs. She looked at me for several seconds without speaking. The silence deafening. Then she leaned backwards and retrieved the note I had written from her desk drawer. As she did this, her short red skirt rode an inch or two higher on her thighs, and I got a momentary glimpse of the white outline of her panties. Despite my fear, I could feel my cock growing inside my jeans.
"I think we need some privacy to discuss the issue of this note, don't you?" she asked. I simply nodded.
She rose from her desk, and I watched as she locked the classroom door, and then lowered the blinds to cover the windows. After she finished, she again sat on her desk facing me, holding the note I had written firmly in her hand.
"Now," she said. "Would you like to explain this, or shall I give you my interpretation?"
"I . . . don't know what to say," I said, shifting nervously in my seat. Even under the circumstances, I couldn't force myself to look away from her legs.
