Some thought of her as a more solid version of Marilyn Monroe, or of the sort of bikini model that definitely wasn’t anorexic. That image gave me a ...ostalgic flashback, as I remembered that Monroe had died in the previous month. Arlene’s ancestry actually was Sicilian.Arlene wore a white, thin, ribbed, scoop-neck sweater, flowing below the waistband of her skirt. Her top emphasized large and proud breasts, which were, at most, covered and shaped by a delicate bra. While she was younger her. I considered pleading with her, telling her that I wasn't a lesbian, that I didn't do those kinds of things, that she had the wrong girl. But I said nothing. Deep down, I knew that such protestations would be futile at best and dishonest at worst. Instead, my eyes dropped below her desk once more and fixated on the slowly swinging shoe that hung from her foot; the curve of her arch, the perplexing softness of her sole flashing into view as her foot dipped slowly up and down.I felt my body. As soon as I entered I shut the door, took off my clothes and got into my pajamas. I then hopped on the bed, got under the covers, and then got on my stomach, put my right hand down my pajama bottoms and started rubbing my penis.Normally when I did this I would fantasize about Heather Grubb. In my opinion, she was the hottest girl in our class. She had long black hair and always wore tight designer jeans. I wanted her so bad. But this time was different, this time I kept on switching between my. Told myself to breathe.I huffed out a breath when his hand didn't touch me. Instead, I felt the refrigerator shake slightly and a blast of cool air hit my face. I looked to my left to see that he'd pulled open the other half of the two doors."It's not much, but that should be sufficient for twenty-four hours." I-I was supposed to go to my parents' house for dinner tomorrow." A resurgence of tears threatened my eyes. I would probably be spending Christmas Day in the ICU. No turkey and dressing.