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Iwould get caught in an unguarded moment.When my bedroom door opened and my mother walked into my room all I coulddo was squeal in shock. I covered the blue panties I was wearing with myhands and looked down at my smooth and hairless legs. I was in a state ofdress that could not be undone in a hurry.My dark raven hair was in a high pony tail, with a curled tendril hangingdown both sides of my very lightly made up face. The cups of the matchingblue bra I wore were filled with my breast forms and I had already pulleda blue sweater on. The only thing I had left to put on was a pleated midthigh skirt.The skirt was hung over a chair near to where mum was now standing. Itensed up in anticipation of the screaming and yelling that I wasexpecting. But mum just stood there. Why hadn't she started to yell at me?I had started to tear up as my head hung down. And as soon as mum saw themshe rushed over and gently touched my chin as she lifted my head up andsoftly said, "Honey, please don't cry.. I’m so sorry please forgive me?” I couldn’t speak; I was overwhelmed by the strength of my own feelings. My only response was to take his hand in mine as I led him into my home. Neither of us spoke a word as we climbed the stairs to my bedroom, both appreciating the magnitude of what we were admitting. When we reached the bedroom we stood at the edge of my bed our hands still clasped, and I knew. I reached out to him tracing my fingers down his cheek and across his lips, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, heard his sharp intake of breath as I leaned into him my lips seeking his. I ran my hand through his hair and down to his shoulders, his hand snaking around my waist to the small of my back pulling me into him. I tugged at his shirt, wanting to feel his broad masculine chest against me, he let me take control as I kissed his neck, tracing my tongue along his collarbone and slowly working my way down his chest. Dropping to my knees in-front of him, my hands are trembling as.
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There were going to be more than a few bitter wanna-be writers hating me for being in the class though. ‘I want to do another draft on one of the pieces, Professor Ryan,’ I heard myself say. I was not one to spit in the face of opportunity. I had a couple of pieces I could submit on the moment’s notice Professor Ryan gave me. ‘I put it in your mailbox this morning, sir,’ Melisa replied. She was a college student that addressed older people with polite sirs and ma’ams. Something about the way Melisa said those words made her more attractive. Our classmates were still looking at us suspiciously when the critiques began. I smiled, wondering if it would make them feel better to know I was more lost than anyone else in the room. As I was leaving, Melisa asked if I wanted the notes to one of the classes I skipped. It was the first time she ever made the offer. I watched as she weaved a strand into the web directly under my feet. Melisa was even more tempting bait than Doris Alex. I told.

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