Hi!!I’m Ashu,18 ,male, from Mumbai. This is another of my creations for all your readers enjoy!!! And mail your comments on
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 second-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, lilting step, to the front of the classroom, and said, “Good morning, class. I’m Miss Martin.”
As soon as she spoke, emphasizing 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 going to 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,
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