Dare To Resist

My romance story with Ms. Malone, my English teacher, started on an early spring day in Maine; She had just completed her lecture on contemporary American literature. Throughout her talk, all I could see were her boobs bouncing up and down inside her blouse. I tried, but failed, to decide whether they were enclosed in a bra or not. If I imagine a romance with her, how will the story end? Sometimes her boobs appeared to act independently, other times they appeared to work in tandem. The indecision did not really matter - regardless of what contained them, they looked romantic and great from my seat.

Every move she made added to my growing romantic imagination of what I would like to do to her. Not only her tits, but her ass - how it flowed beneath her dress. And that slight hump just above her crotch, promising delights beyond my imagination if only they would all be exposed. But I was only 18, and she must have been 27. There would never be such a chance.         
        The period bell ended my romantic imagination. Class was over, the story was over and another day ended. Scrambling to pull myself back to reality, I knocked over the books on my desk. By the time I had picked them all up, I was the last to leave the classroom. Ms. Malone, looking at me in a strange manner, drifted over to my desk.