She answered the door in her robe and I knew I was in trouble. Control was going to have to be my thought of the day no matter what she wanted to talk about.I sat down on the couch as she undid her robe. She had lotions laid out and a box I had never seen. "Whenever you are ready...." so she stood up and dropped her robe. I didn't let my jaw drop but it should have. She was wearing a string bikini. She had been working out and had lost about 20 pounds. She laid down on the floor and got comfortable.In trying to hold my composure I asked, "What am I focusing on?" Yes."I had her roll over so I could start with her head in my lap for two reasons. The first was my hands weren't greasy yet and the second was, I was not way turned on yet, emitting a scent that was undeniable but looking at her, it wouldn't take long.I started the massage and she was very quiet. She reached for her stereo remote and turned it on. Soothing, relaxing music came wafting out. I had heard it before but I could. I bet that fucker could dance, though.But this was the first day back, and no dances were scheduled for weeks. I could breath the clear air without the impending doom of a social occasion. My excitement may have been a little over the top, but isolation with do that to you. Even better, I was a junior. One rung down from the Olympian heights of seniorhood, another year away from giving serious thought to 'what happens after'.My first period class after homeroom was Literature. The same old same old, diagramming sentences, the elements of language, all that crapola which held as much allure for me as typhoid fever. Speaking of which, I always excelled at biology or science courses, things that actually could engage my mind. Don't get me wrong, I love to read, but the mechanics of writing sucked the big one. I liked to drive too, when I got a chance, but it doesn't mean I want to overhaul an engine.I had Ms. Oren for Literature which was kewl. She was as tall as myself, very slender.
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