Holley Picket's maturation story begins as an infatuation with her high school algebra teacher. It becomes sexual at eighteen with some classmates, then blooms into family incest with her parents once they are aware of her sexual awaking. Her chance encounter with an elderly shut-in rekindles her fondness for her former teacher. Sexual activities included are: intercourse, oral sex, bondage, edging, dad/mom/Holley, Holley/Professor, and light touching of Holley/elderly shut-in.
This version parallels the Tutoring Miss Picket first story-line told from the professor's point of view. Reading that version first will give you a good sense of the professors attributes, but this version can be read as a stand-a-lone without loss of continuity.
Please, please remember to take a moment and rate this story for me!
+++++
"Shirt!"
The word tumbled ever-so-quietly out of my mouth, like tail over teakettle in my turbulent mind, as I uttered the curse while just blankly staring at the last exam question. Fifteen points! This is going to kill my grade point average for the semester! I'd probably wind up on the B honor roll instead of the A-B honor roll for the last grades of the year. I'd chewed up my eraser and was working on gnawing the yellow off of my number two pencil as I tried to conjure up an answer - it just would not - come - out - of - my - head!
Look! I know that you know 'shirt' isn't a curse word, but my mom doesn't allow me use 'that other word' because I'm not eighteen, so 'shirt' will have to do - what! You think that's 'shirty' of my mom to limit my vocabulary BEFORE I turn eighteen? Well, welcome to my 'forking' world, sugar!
"Problem, Miss Picket?"
I found myself jolted out of my agonizing, mental rant and looked up to see Doctor Von Goethe and two or three others staring in my direction. I just realized 'Shirt!' had escaped out of my internal dialogue and into the real world of the ninth-grade final algebra exam. I felt the simmering in my cheeks and could imagine them seeing my face bloom pink with embarrassment.
"No, sir, Doctor Von Goethe, sir." I managed to whisper so as not to disturb the remainder of the classroom and put my head back down trying to look as though I was working the problem. I could feel the beginnings of tears starting to pool in my eyes, but I succeeded in keeping the water drops from cascading down my eyelids, just barely. The clock said five minutes to finish. Biting my lower lip, I knew the answer wasn't coming. And I was sure the passengers on train A and on train B didn't know the answer either! They wouldn't care! So that's what I wrote: 'I don't think it matters to the people in the trains where they pass each other, just as long as they are on different tracks - that's all they would be concerned about!' Putting my pencil down, I closed my frigg'n mind to algebra for the last time!
I spent the last five minutes wondering how I found myself so infatuated with a man with a magical name like Doctor Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe. It was so - magical - like a prince from the middle ages. I was certain he felt the same way about me as well. I knew, because he always addressed me as Miss Picket or Miss Holley Picket so frequently. I just knew he loved the way my name rolled off his tongue when he called roll. That wonderful, delightful European accent would send tingles to my soul every time he spoke my name. I could have stayed in his classroom for hours just watching him glance over at me with that warm smile. And the way he always came down my row to check on answers - always, well almost always, stopping to edit my work. I could tell he loved me - he just couldn't show it with all the others in the room.
Coming back to school in the fall for tenth grade, I didn't have any more classes with Dr. Von Goethe. He only taught one beginning math class and all the others were about - somethings much higher than train A and train B passing one another. I knew I had reached the end of the line and had to get off when my train pulled into the last algebra station. Math was not for me. But that didn't keep me from going to look in on him the first day back to school as I passed his room to read that magical name, Doctor Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe for the first time this year.
It was a shock; a jolt of reality; and with much dismay that he wasn't in his room. His name had been replaced by another commoner's name placard. I found out from the office clerk that my doctor had retired. He left, never having kissed me, and left a hole in my heart for the remainder of my time at Barrington's Center for Advanced Knowledge.
+++++
By the middle of twelfth grade and turning eighteen, the hole in my heart had healed, quite a bit, but there were some fleeting memories rolling around in my head about my unrequited love, Johann. He remained always a gentleman in my mind, unlike the fuck heads that pass me in the hallway nearly every day. A few continued to make snide remarks about my late blooming tits needing their attention or making under breath comments about giving me, in the back seat of their Daddy's car, what my pussy really needed. I grew tired of the harassment and stopped that shit, promptly, but not as quietly as I had planned.
'How,' you ask?
I gave Charles Anderson, the two-hundred-twenty-pound weight lifter and my art class partner, my virginity in exchange for pounding the shit out of three major football assholes who constantly harassed me. Charlie let them know that there would be more ass pounding if he got wind of any more shit from them coming my way. When they reappeared in school two days later, battered and bruised, somehow word got around as to how that happened and magically my harassment stopped. It wasn't just solely a cold utilitarian action or a quid pro quo thing on my part, if that's what you're thinking. I had some 'girl feelings' for Charlie as well. It was, admittedly, also a case of a girl has an itch that needs a scratch in the snatch sort of feeling, that fingers and vibrators just couldn't resolve satisfactorily. So, yeah, I was an evolving woman with raging hormones trying to figure out what sex was about and Charles Anderson eagerly obliged me by fulfilling both my objectives single-handedly.
It's not like I was using Charlie as a fuck stick - okay, yeah it was somewhat like that. But he was okay with it and never told his girlfriend about our short-term relationship. We stayed friends and when he needed some comfort that Jennie wasn't available for, I helped out. And with my virginity issue taken care of, I branched out to other boys, although it took some convincing for them to finally believe that Charlie won't show up at their doorsteps, unless I sent him.
There was also some new development at home when I turned eighteen that further enlightened my concepts of familial love. Eventually my mom found out about my sexual activities; they always do don't they? Naturally, she told Dad. Surprisingly, he wasn't as jacked out of shape about it as I thought he might be. That evening, I reached a new level of enlightenment as we had 'the talk' about family values.
