Out to coffee with a friend

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.

Mom sticks her head in the door, startling me. “Get up, sleepyhead,” she says with a grin, “you have a phone call.”

“I didn’t hear the phone ring,” I say in surprise.

“Deep in thought again, huh?” she laughs. “Seriously, kiddo, get up, you want to take this. It’s your friend Heather.”

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.

I’m surprised to hear from her so soon, though. 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 didn’t expect her to be so eager to see me. I only got home last night; this is about the earliest Heather could have called me without staking out my house. I knew she would want to get together, but I wouldn’t have figured I’d be her top priority—and yet, it appears I am.

Still, I’m not going to complain about that, or even waste time expressing my surprise. I take the phone from Mom, who waves herself out and closes the door behind her. “Hey, beautiful,” I greet Heather. “How are you doing?”

“Oooh,” she coos happily, “I like that. You’re getting smooth, Andrew. Not smooth enough to answer your cell when I call you”—I can hear the smirk in her voice—“but pretty smooth, anyway.”

“Sorry about that, Heather,” I say with chagrin. “I got in late and the battery was dead. I left it off to charge, and I haven’t turned it back on yet. I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet, actually.”

“Mmm,” she purrs. Not a reaction I would have expected . . . “Well, I’d better help you recover from finals, then. How about coffee this afternoon?”

“Sure! My treat?”

“Of course,” she responds, delight glimmering and glinting in her voice.

“Where do you want to meet? Espress Yourself or Common Grounds?” We have Starbucks in our supermarkets, but they don’t even try to compete with our local coffee shops. Espress Yourself is an extroverted sort of place, with upbeat music and bright décor; my friends all thought it had slightly better coffee. Common Grounds is more the dark-wood-paneling-and-overstuffed-chairs kind of place, with much softer music (often jazz) and more subdued lighting. They’re both great, but Heather has always preferred Espress Yourself.

“Common Grounds,” she responds promptly, leaving me blinking in surprise. “One o’clock?”

“Sounds wonderful,” I tell her. “I look forward to seeing you, as always.”

“Such a gentleman,” she says softly. “See you then.”

*******

I get there a few minutes before one and get in line to order. During the day, Heather invariably orders the same thing: on Espress Yourself’s menu, it’s called a Depth Charge, but Common Grounds calls it a Shot in the Dark. It’s a shot of espresso in a mug of regular coffee.

I feel long, slender arms wrap around me from behind and hear a musical voice in my ear say, “It’s really good to see you.” I turn in Heather’s embrace and wrap my arms around her in return. I’m acutely aware of the pressure of her big, soft breasts against my chest. We hold each other tightly for a moment, then let go. “You know what I want?” she asks happily.

“I ought to, after all the repetition,” I tell her with a grin.

Heather grins back at me and says, “I’ll go get us a table,” then heads off with a distinct bounce in her step. I hold back a bittersweet sigh as I watch her go, then turn my attention back toward the barista.

*******

To my surprise, I find Heather sitting in the most secluded corner of the shop. I sit down and give her her coffee, then lift my own in salute. We touch our cups together gently and each take a drink. She sets her cup down first; before I can say anything, she looks at me with an oddly bright gleam in her eye and says, “So, I’ve been talking to Alyssa about you.”