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It started my senior year in school. Her name was Mrs. Winifred Wilton and she’d been my Algebra teacher the year before.

This year I didn’t have her for any classes, but she was an institution at the school and in the community. She’d grown up in the town and after college came back, married and taught at the school. Now, she was a sixty-year-old widow.

I’m Marty Tremont and I lived a few blocks from Mrs. Wilton. I had a part time job at the local grocery store stocking shelves, bringing in carts from the parking lot, whatever was needed. I even helped older customers put their groceries in their car.

One day, I saw Mrs. Wilton struggling to put her grocery bags in her trunk while I was gathering up runaway carts. “Here Mrs. Wilton, let me give you a hand.” This was nothing unusual, I did stuff like this all the time.

“Thank you, Marty. I wonder if you could help me with some things at home. I’d gladly pay you. Can you stop by Saturday morning?”

Of course I could. I didn’t have any social life. Although I was smart and going to a prestigious university next year, I was shy. I was afraid to ask a girl out and had never had a date.

I thought Mrs. Wilton wanted me to mow her lawn or something like that. Well, she did, but it wasn’t just the lawn. Her old house had ten-foot ceilings, and there were three ceiling lights out that needed to be replaced. “And Marty, all these ceiling fans need to be dusted. Can you do it?”

“Sure, if you have a ladder.”

“In the cellar.”

I found the ladder and brought it upstairs. Mrs. Wilton had replacement bulbs, and I climbed the ladder which was more rickety than I was comfortable with. Mrs. Wilton realized that and held the ladder.

I unscrewed the bulb, handed it to her, and she handed me a new one. No problem.

The problem was the second light. The floor of the old house wasn’t quite level, and Mrs. Wilton held my leg as I climbed the ladder. The ladder wobbled, and she grabbed my leg tighter, “hold on Marty.” Except her hand wasn’t on my leg; it slid up to my crotch. At the moment, I didn’t think anything of it. It was unintentional, right?

I noticed but didn’t say anything. Mrs. Wilton didn’t seem to notice at all.

Then she did. By the time I was ready to use a dust cloth on those fans, she was holding me by the crotch, and involuntarily I was getting hard.

“I haven’t used these fans since last summer. There’s dust everywhere.”

Mrs. Wilton, to my surprise, wasn’t just holding my crotch, she was rubbing it or you might say exploring what I had in my pants.

As I got down from the ladder after I’d dusted the last ceiling fan, “Marty, thank you. I must tell you, I’ve always thought of you as a boy, but what I felt in your pants does not belong to a boy. And look at you, look in the mirror.”

I did.

I was covered with dust; my shirt, my face and dust was in my hair. “I can’t send you back to your mother like this. Why don’t you take a shower?”

Mrs. Wilton was using her teacher’s voice; it sounded like an order.

She led me to her bathroom; “just put your clothes on the floor and I’ll wash them while you get cleaned up.”

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