Alyssa spills the beans

Alyssa lifts her hips off my cock, long threads of my cum trailing from her reddened pussymouth. She drops down beside me onto the bed, throws an arm across my chest, and hitches her leg across my hips. She settles down and snuggles into me with a contented sigh. I look at her and hesitate for a moment, then think, Oh, fuck it. She’s not going to kick me out of bed for asking.

“Alyssa?” I ask quietly.

She raises her head. “Yes, Andrew?”

“Would you—I don’t know why this is so hard for me still . . . Would you like to go out sometime? Maybe dinner and a movie?”

Alyssa is silent for a few moments, looking me right in the eyes with an unreadable expression. She finally sighs again and rests her head on my shoulder. “Andrew . . . I would love to if I could, but I can’t.” I think I keep my face from twitching—much. What the fuck does that mean? “You see . . .” she continues, then falls silent. I wait patiently until she resumes, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I think you need to know. But don’t let on that I told you”—her voice turns fierce—“or else I’m going to be in trouble, which means you’re going to be in big trouble. You like your balls, right? You like having them attached?”

I can’t help it—I giggle. Alyssa tickles me, and I giggle even harder and swat at her hand. “OK, OK,” I gasp. “I yield.”

“Good,” she says smugly.

“Besides, you know I can keep a secret,” I tell her; I realize I’m a little put out that she doesn’t trust me.

“I know, Andrew, I know,” Alyssa says. “But this is . . . different. It will be harder.”

“Just spill, already,” I say, trying to sound gruff. “Difficult woman.”

Now it’s Alyssa’s turn to giggle. She gets herself under control quickly. “Andrew, I would have asked you to go exclusive with me a while ago except—Heather wants you.” I look at her in blank disbelief. 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.

The idea that Heather could want me is too good to be true. Way too good to be true. I look at Alyssa and shake my head in dumb disbelief. She shakes her head back at me in fierce negation.

“It’s true,” she insists. “Andrew, she’s always thought you were cute; it’s why she wanted to be your friend in sixth grade.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “I’ve been telling her for years that she should ask you out—that it was you she liked, not any of her macho-fucking-loser so-called boyfriends.” Well, we agree about them, anyway. “When she went off to Metternich without you, she suddenly realized I’d been right all along.” Alyssa can’t help herself—she looks smug, saying that. “She started asking about you . . . I told her about the business, and how well you eat pussy . . .” Now Alyssa sounds dreamy; her voice trails off in distraction. She visibly shakes herself to pull herself together.

“She’s been talking to me regularly about you. When I told her about Noelle, she was devastated—she started weeping on the phone. As bad as I felt for you after that cunt two-timed you, I can’t tell you how happy I was to be able to tell Heather about it. She was over the moon—said she felt like she’d been given a second chance. She asked me to do whatever I could to ensure you didn’t start dating anyone else—she said she didn’t think she could take that twice in one semester. She even asked me to start dating you myself just to keep anyone else from landing you.

“But . . . Andrew, I can’t do that,” Alyssa says soberly. “No, I’m not in love with you myself, like Heather is. But I think I could fall in love with you, if I gave myself half a chance—and now that I’ve had a taste of that cock, I’m really tempted. But right now, I’d only be doing it for the sex, and it would break Heather’s heart, but it won’t break mine if I just never let it happen.”

My head is spinning; it feels like the basic premises of my world just changed—like all the colors have inverted and gravity just reversed. I have spent most of seven years ruthlessly trying to kill hope, because it hurt too much. I never managed it, but I guess I managed to make that one of the laws I lived by—and Alyssa just struck down that law. “Disoriented” isn’t anything like strong enough.

“So, Andrew,” Alyssa continues, “the only sure way I could think of to do what Heather asked was to tell you she’s in love with you—which she explicitly told me not to do . . . but I think keeping you from dating anyone else is more important. So, just . . . don’t let on, OK? I mean, I know it’s not that simple—you’re going to have to do a hell of an acting job when we go home for Christmas; but hey, you have a little time to practice . . .”