On the first day of Christmas, Alyssa scheduled me . . .

It’s good to be home, but not as good as my parents think. I enjoyed my classes, and I think I should have a 4.0 (or close) for the semester. More than that, at school, I get to eat a lot of pussy, I’ve made a lot of money doing it, and I get to fuck a lot of those girls to boot. It will be good to have two weeks to catch up on sleep, but a lot of that will be because I won’t have anything else to do in bed. (Except read, of course.) I’m going to miss my clients quite a bit.

Still, I tell myself, I should get up and get moving. I swing my legs out of bed and pivot myself upright. I fumble for my phone and turn it on—it was dead when I got in last night, so I left it off when I plugged it in. Not that it should be a problem, I think when it powers up. It’s not like I’ll be getting any business—

The business line rings, startling me. Fortunately, no one seems to be close enough to my bedroom to hear Marvin Gaye, or I’d have some explaining to do. After a shocked moment, I register that it’s Alyssa calling, which at least makes some sense.

“Hey, Alyssa,” I say, not bothering to hide my surprise. “What’s up?”

“I have a job for you,” Alyssa responds, sounding utterly smug. “This afternoon. Heather and I are throwing a bachelorette party for Whitney—Heather’s hosting it; her parents are out of town for a couple days. We’re hiring you to eat Whitney’s pussy. She and her fiancé are still virgins—she’s pretty anxious about sex, and she’s never even had an orgasm. Don’t know about him. We decided to remedy that with her, have you blow her mind a few times so she’s really looking forward to fucking her husband.

“Once you’ve done that, it will be the other girls’ turn. A few have already paid up—eagerly—and I’m sure by the time you’re done with Whitney, they’ll all want in. You’re last on the schedule, so when you’re done, I’ll get everyone on their way, and Heather will take care of you.”

My mind is reeling. Trying to reestablish a little control, I ask Alyssa, “What if I’m not available this afternoon?”

“You’re available,” she replies with complete assurance. “One, I know you. Two, I have your calendar, and if you had something planned, it would be on there. And three, if you did have something planned, you’d cancel it for an opportunity like this.”

She knows me, all right, I think wryly. “OK, OK, I surrender,” I say. Alyssa giggles. “Heather’s house, you said? When do I need to be there?”

“2 o’clock,” she answers. “Just let yourself in quietly and sit down in the front room until I come get you. I want to have you right there when it’s time.”

I promise to be prompt and hang up the phone. Heather, Whitney, and Alyssa . . . Whitney’s a few years older, but she and Heather have always been close. She’s been Alyssa’s next-door neighbor since they were kids, which I think is how Alyssa and Heather got to be friends. I don’t know Whitney well, but whenever Heather or Alyssa would throw a party, I was usually there, and so was she. I have a vague impression of her as fairly tall, willowy, and quiet, a sweetly pretty girl with a soft, shy smile.

Heather, on the other hand . . . Heather Innis-Jones is my oldest real friend. Aside from a girl named Emily who lived next door when I was a kid, she was my first real friend—and Emily didn’t go to my school. (She went to some private school; the only thing I remember about it was that it seemed really odd to me.)

When I say I was part of a great circle of friends that included some of the hottest girls in school—Heather was the reason. All through elementary school, I got teased and picked on (unless one of the popular kids wanted help with their work) . . . until sixth grade, when Heather changed all that. For some combination of reasons still unknown to me, she decided I was cool and she wanted to be my friend. It wasn’t that she needed help in school, because she was the other top student in our class. That was part of the reason for our friendship, as we discovered that we were interested in a lot of the same things—but that only happened after she decided I was going to be her new best friend. Maybe she hoped that would be true and figured it would be worth a shot, I don’t know.

What I do know is that after we started spending a lot of time hanging out and talking, the teasing and harassment stopped. Heather, unlike me, was socially gifted and popular, and if she said I was cool, nobody was going to cross her. Over the years, she taught me a lot of social skills, which made things a lot easier for me.

The other thing I know is that when I say “some of the hottest girls in school,” Heather was at the head of that list. Even after a semester spent eating pussy, she’s still the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. Having been at pool parties with her, I can tell you that Heather Innis-Jones in a bikini is absolutely unfair. Imagine Mia Malkova with Kylie Page’s tits and ass, and you have the general idea. She’s fairly tall for a woman—only a couple inches shorter than me—with long, lustrous, wavy golden-blonde hair, flawless skin, a warm creamy complexion, large, deep blue-green eyes, and a sweet smile.

Actually, everything about Heather is sweet, but not saccharine. Partly that’s because there’s nothing fake about her, it’s just how she’s always been. Partly it’s because she’s not just sweet; she has a wry, tart sense of humor, though it’s never aimed at tearing down anyone she knows. She’s always loved teasing me in various ways, and she’s always taken as good as she gives.

I fantasized about a number of my high-school classmates, but Heather was the one I always fantasized about. She was also, all the way through, the best friend I had. At the same time, she was highly sexually active. No one ever called her a slut because she never slept around—and because she was far too well-liked—but she went through a lot of boyfriends in succession. All of them were handsome, athletic, etc. I’ve had a major crush on her for years, but I never asked her out because I could never compete with “handsome, athletic, etc.,” and I knew it. All I could have done was mess up our friendship, and that wasn’t worth anything. Besides, other than the sex, I think I usually got more of the best of her than her boyfriend of any given moment anyway.

She’s still the best friend I have at home, we both enjoy spending time together, and I’d assumed we’d get together a few times over break, but I never would have imagined anything like this. Maybe I’ll get to eat Heather’s pussy . . . My heart starts pounding wildly at the thought. Maybe I’ll get a chance with her . . .

I shut down that line of thinking as quickly as I can. Not a good idea, getting my hopes up. But still . . .