Miss Goodsey

I’d heard about her throughout my first year (Year 7) at my secondary school. She became my teacher at the beginning of my second year.

Miss Goodsey was the history teacher everyone (or every boy at least) wanted. Slim, 5ft 6in tall, with long blonde hair that looked best done up in a bun, bright, blue eyes and a dazzling smile that made every boy ache with desire. She had a pretty face that melted the heart, and large tits that stiffened many a cock. Not too big, but not too small either: perfect. I would guess her bra size was 34D. At that time, she must have been about 30. To match her brilliant looks, Miss Goodsey had been bestowed with a friendly personality, intent upon helping every last child to succeed. Though she was inherently loud, and often strict, she was good-natured, and not at all malicious. Her preference for a trouser-suit complemented her teacher/secretary look. The boys in any class of hers paid no attention to the history.

At the start of my first lesson with her, my friend, Dave, and I took a seat at the back of the class, in an effort to act as normal as possible. We quickly realised what every other boy had been fantasising about for the past year. Miss Goodsey was not patronising, despite the fact we were all 12 year olds. We were treated like adults, even if the subject matter was perhaps a little immature.

Over the next few months, Miss Goodsey began to know the class better, and we started to feel more confident. Dave and I would often be told off for talking by her, but we always thought that she might not have been too serious, as not once was either of us moved. I found her to have a hidden wicked side, expressed primarily when, after asking for an extension on a homework assignment, Miss Goodsey smiled sweetly and said “I don’t think so Joe. We’ll need that work for next lesson.” This side did not hinder her kindness, but certainly hinted at a ‘naughty’ side to contrast with her nice one.

A boy in the class, Nick, one day asked for some help on a question he was stuck on. Obliging, Miss Goodsey stood up, removed her blazer in the heat of the Sun, revealing a loose white blouse that, if you looked hard enough, you could see her bra through, and walked over to Nick’s desk. Bending down in front of him, her blouse fell away ever so slightly. On view to anyone who cared to look was now a firm, lightly tanned cleavage. And everyone cared to look. Nick’s eyes visibly flitted upwards, and the back down at his work. He continued to do this in an effort to take the mental picture while appearing as though nothing had happened to Miss Goodsey. I myself was also transfixed. I felt a familiar stirring in my trousers, and, as the bell was fast-approaching, concentrated as much as humanly possible on getting my erection down again. Needless to say, I failed. Every time I closed my eyes, Miss Goodsey flashed before my eyes. Suddenly, the bell rang, and after packing my bag, I stood up with my hands in my pockets to try to cover up for the bulge in my trousers. How Miss Goodsey failed to notice is beyond me. I almost got the feeling, though, that perhaps she was aware of 15 sets of eyes on her breasts.

It wasn’t until towards the end of my third year at secondary school that there were any further events in my sexual thoughts of Miss Goodsey (apart from the frequent masturbations over the thought of her body). A rumour spread like wildfire that she had started dating Mr Hazel, the infamous PE teacher. A prematurely balding, violent man, who spat when he talked, which was little, and sprayed you when he shouted, which was often. I struggled to see why Miss Goodsey had chosen him, when she could have had any man she wanted.

When my class next had history, Nick, who was the most daring in the class, asked her about the rumours.

“Is it true that you’re going out with Mr Hazel, Miss?”

Smiling serenely, Miss Goodsey replied, “Maybe I am, and maybe I’m not.”

The class broke out in to talk, because obviously that answer could only mean yes. Nick, on the other hand, continued.

“How come you’re going out with him?” he asked, coming dangerously close to blurting out “You could have anyone you wanted.”

Keeping a sparkle in her eye, and a smile on her pretty face, Miss Goodsey tutted, saying “That’s none of your business, Nick.” Feeling that she’d got a little too personal with a group of 14 year olds, Miss Goodsey quickly recovered, her face becoming stern, and saying loudly, “Get on with your work.”

At the beginning of Year 10 (my fourth year, and the start of my GCSEs), I was moved away from Miss Goodsey, being put into Mr Stone’s class.