Heather Pearce is the prettiest girl in school. She has long blonde hair, that she usually wears in a ponytail, and blue eyes, the color of the summer sky. That much I know by looking at her.
She’s 5’5″ tall, weighs 120 pounds, has a 3.95 grade point average, has a perfect attendance record, and not a single detention. That I know from hacking into the school computer
She wears a 34C bra. That I know from paying her kid brother, Kevin, five dollars to look in her underwear drawer. And another five dollars a week to keep him from telling her; blackmailing, mercenary little shit.
We were born three days apart, and we both celebrated our eighteenth birthdays last month.
She’s one of the “Good Girls,” both by appearance and reputation. She wears nice clothes, but nothing tight or revealing like some girls at school. She doesn’t wear mini-skirts; hers are hemmed just above the knee. She doesn’t wear tight or revealing tops, usually a white or colored blouse, with only the top button undone. And no skin-tight jeans that look like they were painted on.
She’s got really shapely, toned legs. I know this from watching her, through the chain-link fence, in the P.E. outfit that the school makes the girls wear. She’s got a really fine, rounded butt; her gym shorts ride up into the cleft between her cheeks, and she has to constantly pull them out. Her breasts bounce up and down when she runs.
There are absolutely no rumors or any locker room trash talk about Heather. She is as wholesome and pure as the driven snow. She had better be, because her father keeps her on a very short leash. Her dad is Howard “Tank” Pearce who used to be a defensive end for the Oakland Raiders, and there isn’t a guy in our school who wants to fuck with Tank Pearce.
Actually, Mr. Pearce and I get along pretty good, because been they’ve been on my paper route for the last ten years. He and my dad shoot hoops together in a neighborhood league.
My dad asked him once why he keeps such a wary eye on Heather, and he said, “Because I was a horny teenager myself, and I know what they’re after.” It is common knowledge that Tank made it with at least half the Raiders’ cheerleaders before he settled down and married Heather’s mom.
I have been in love with her since the third grade, but I have always worshipped her from afar. We were friends when we were kids in grammar school. We live on the same block, so we’d walk to school together.
We’d sit for hours for hours on the porch swing, talking about all kinds of interesting things. We both had insatiable curiosities, and could ponder at length all the mysteries of the universe.
Once we got into high school, kids started forming cliques. Heather was in the popular group, and because I played the saxophone in the marching band, and had to wear those stupid-ass uniforms, I was a dork.
Actually, my instrument is the guitar, and I’m really fucking good at it. So good that I’ve got scholarship offers both from Julliard and the California Academy of the Arts. There’s no place for a guitar in a school band, so to get the music credit I need, I play the sax.
I’m also a dork because I have a paper route. My dad thought everyone should develop a work ethic, even kids, so I’ve had the route since I was eight. I saved enough to buy my own car, a ten-year-old Toyota Corolla. That’s a dork car, too, but it gets me to school, and wherever else I want to go. It’s definitely not a chick magnet.
Physically, I’m pretty okay. I’m just a shade under 6’2″, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. I run three miles a day and workout with my dad to stay in shape. I’m lean and lanky, with pretty good muscle tone.
Heather is really into drama, and she sings like an angel. She had the lead role in our school’s production of “The Sound of Music,” and I joined the orchestra just so I could watch her rehearse every day. And moon.
Heather is not stuck-up or anything; she’s always friendly and says “hi” to me. We just don’t hang out in the same group. She doesn’t have a steady boyfriend, and she doesn’t date a lot. Her father insists on meeting any guy she goes out with, and most guys are too chickenshit to endure the Tank Pearce Inquisition.
My parents think I’m the perfect son. I work hard, study hard, get good grades, and never get in trouble. I play lead guitar in a garage band, with a bunch of guys who are a little older than I am. They don’t know about the beer we drink, or the dope we smoke, while we’re playing. I’m a total rock star after I’ve smoked a little weed.
I’m also your typical horny teenager; my libido is stuck on overdrive. I download porn on my computer and jerk-off daily. Sometimes more than once a day. My sexual fantasy life is exotic. Except when it comes to Heather. I force her image out of my mind any time it pops up. She is too clean, too pure, for me to tarnish her image. You don’t use a Good Girl as sexual object.
Heather and I have the same history class, and the teacher, Mr. Allen, is a total hardass. He assigns kartal escort a monster research project at the end of every semester. Half our grade depends on it, and I really need to score an A to keep up my GPA for my scholarship.
It’s such a big project, that Mr. Allen assigns two students to work together on it. I held my breath when he assigned study partners; I didn’t want to get stuck with some dumb jock who would bog me down.
I almost shit my pants when he called my name along with Heather’s! We were going to work together. Which meant we were going to spend time together. Lots of time together. Close to each other.
My emotions ran between pure joy and absolute terror. I just knew I would blurt out something really stupid, or trip over a shoelace, or do something that’s really dorky. We decided to do our project at my house, because I have a better computer, a MacPro with a thirty-inch monitor and a laser printer.
The first time she came over, her father brought her. He and my dad were going out to play basketball.
“Hey, there, Davie, how’re they hangin’?” he asked. He held out a hand that was as wide as a large pizza, and I could swear I heard bones crunch when he squeezed mine. My bones.
“Uh, hi Mr. P,” I replied, completely ignoring his question. As far as he’s concerned, I don’t have anything hanging; I’m a eunuch. And he’s the only person on the planet that calls me “Davie.” Everyone else calls me David.
When all the pleasantries had been exchanged, I followed Heather up the stairs to my room. I watched her round butt sway, and her ponytail swing as she walked. She was wearing a modest pair of cargo shorts and a crisp white blouse, tucked in and accenting her narrow waist. God, I loved her!
“Gee, David, I’m so glad I got you as a partner; I was afraid I was going to get stuck with one of those moron jocks or a brainless cheerleader.”
“Instead, you got the dork.”
“You’re not a dork, David, you’re the smartest person in our class. And you’re a really good musician, you played circles around those other people in the orchestra for the school play.”
“I didn’t think anyone noticed.” I was really flattered that she had.
We started to get into our project. Our assigned topic was the Crusades, and it was a really complex subject, spanning more than two centuries. We sat side-by-side at my desk. I was doing the online research, and Heather was taking notes and making an outline.
As we worked, I couldn’t help taking frequent sidelong glances at her. She had the most delicate hands, a long slender neck, and a face that reminded me of Florence Colgate, with full lips, accented by a light pink lip-gloss. She stretched her legs out under the table; long, sleek, and well muscled, after years of ballet lessons.
When she arched her back and stretched, the prominent swell of her breasts strained the fabric of her blouse. With the reverence in which I held Heather, there weren’t such things as tits and ass; she had breasts and a butt. I couldn’t even make myself think about what treasures she might hide between her legs. She was a Good Girl.
After a couple hours, we were burned out on the project for the day, and sat back and just chatted for awhile, about school, books we’d read, and plans for the future.
“You know, David, I used to really enjoy talking to you when we were younger; we used to have great conversations about all kinds of things. I really miss it. What ever happened to that?”
“I miss it, too. I guess we just kind of socially drifted apart.”
“All guys want to talk about is sports, or cars, or some other kind of mindless drivel. And all the girls talk about is how far they go with their boyfriends.”
It was time for Heather to go home. I walked her to the door, and just before leaving, she gave my arm a little squeeze.
“I really like talking to you again, David.”
My God, she touched me. This golden haired angel actually touched me.
The friendship we’d had as kids began to renew itself. We walked together down the halls at school, ate lunch together in the cafeteria, always talking away. We were both hungry for intelligent conversation.
The next time we got together to work on our term project, she wore a pair of hot pink shorts; not short shorts, they came down to mid thigh, and a sleeveless blouse. There was one more button undone. I wondered if there was any significance to that?
Heather took over the computer that night. She was good at doing spreadsheets, and I didn’t know anything about them. She listed all the different Crusades, the countries they went into, who was the Pope at that time, and all kinds of relevant details.
I loved watching her work. When she was concentrating, sometimes she’d frown at the screen, or tip her head at an angle that caught the light in her eyes. She’d draw her lower lip between her teeth, or wet her lips with a flick of her pink tongue.
One of her bra straps had slid out of the top of her sleeveless maltepe escort bayan blouse, and rested on her creamy white shoulder. I fixated on it; the strap is connected to the cups; the cups cover her creamy white breasts. I wondered what color her nipples were? Probably pink. Were they puffy? How big were her areolas?
When she scooched forward in her chair, her shorts pulled up tight into her crotch. Was that a real camel toe, or was I just imagining it? All of a sudden Heather, even if she a Good Girl, was no longer off limits in my sexual fantasies. My cock started to swell.
I lost track of time the next night we were scheduled to work. I was playing my classical guitar, working on a piece called “Capricho Arabe,” a very intense and spirited Spanish piece, that has one of the most beautiful melodies you will ever hear in your life.
When I finished the number, I was startled by the sound of applause coming from the doorway.
“Oh, David, that was absolutely beautiful. Look, I’ve got goose bumps on my arms.”
I blushed, and stammered a “Thank you,” then wondered if she’d get goose bumps if I blew gently in her ear.
“I’ve always wanted to learn to play the guitar, so I could accompany myself when I sing.”
“Actually, it’s really simple. All you need are three chords, G, C, and D, and you can play almost anything. Sit down and I’ll show you the fingering.”
She plunked herself down on the stool, and I set the guitar in her lap. I moved behind her so I could guide her hands. I got momentarily lost in her scent; the sweet strawberry rinse she used in her hair, and the lilac soap she used on her body. Her ponytail was tied up with a velvet ribbon; I wanted to untie it and run my fingers through her loose hair.
Looking over her shoulder, I could barely see the swell of her breasts down the front of her blouse. God, I could just slide my hand down there, under her bra, and feel that beautiful soft flesh. Then I could tweak her nipple and……..
I reached around her and took her left hand in mine, to guide her fingers toward the right frets. Her soft, sensual hand was actually in mine. Her fingers were long and supple. I wrapped her hand around the neck of the guitar, wondering how it would feel wrapped around my cock.
As I guided her hand, my cheek was resting against hers. Did I just imagine it, or did press hers against mine. When I guided her right hand, to show her how to strum the strings, my arm brushed against her breast. My jerk-off fantasies had taken on a whole new dimension.
When I saw her to the door, when it was time for her to go home, I summoned up every ounce of courage I could muster. I put my arms around her and kissed her firmly on the mouth. She looked startled for a moment, then put her arms around my neck and kissed me back.
We stood there in a firm liplock for what seemed to me to be an eternity.
Suddenly, she shouted “NO,” broke away from me, and ran down the sidewalk as fast as she cold go.
I had royally fucked up. I had let my fantasies trump my common sense. She didn’t want me that way, and I had totally blown a wonderful friendship. I didn’t go to school the next day; I couldn’t face her. I couldn’t eat. I didn’t sleep the night before. I couldn’t get the image of the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen out of my mind. I felt like shit. She was a Good Girl, and Good Girls don’t do that.
I sat there for awhile staring blankly at my computer screen. Without Heather, I had no desire to work on our history project. Or much of anything else, for that matter. I did what I usually do when I’ve got the blues; I picked up my guitar and started playing. I don’t even remember what it was I played, just an open-ended improvisation with no beginning and no end. I was lost in the music, and suddenly there was a voice in the doorway.
Heather was standing behind me. I jumped to my feet and went over to her.
“Heather, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me, but I promise I’ll never do it again, and…….”
“Shh,” she said, and put her arms around my neck. She pulled my face to hers, and kissed me deeply, her lips so soft and supple. I returned the kiss, and she slipped her tongue between my lips. I met her tongue with mine, and we held each other for the longest time.
She pulled me close and held me tight, her firm breasts pressed into my chest. I tilted my pelvis back, so she wouldn’t feel my hard-on; at this point I was terrified to do anything to offend her, or turn her off.
“David, I’m so sorry I ran away from you yesterday. Then, when I didn’t see you in school, I was terrified that I’d never see you again.”
“I guess I’m a little confused.” Flummoxed is more the word.
“I want to kiss you. I want to make-out with you, but I’ve never kissed a guy before, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t want you to think I’m the dumbest girl on the planet. Then, yesterday, it kind of overwhelmed me, and I got scared.”
“I’ve never kissed a escort pendik girl either. But I have to say, for two morons, we were improvising pretty good there. I think with a little practice, we’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah, that’s what my mom said.”
“Don’t worry, she’s cool.”
“This is the same mom who’s married to Tank Pearce?”
“Oh, Daddy’s just a big teddy bear.” Yeah, I thought; a teddy bear that eats barbed wire sandwiches.
From then on, making-out was a daily ritual, and we did get damned good at it. Lots of lips, tongues, and heavy breathing. It was all I could do to keep my hands above her neck, but I made a concentrated effort to do just that. You don’t grope a Good Girl. Which resulted in many attacks of blue balls, that had to be relieved by my good right hand.
Heather picked up the guitar really quickly, and it added a lot to her vocals. She was partial to folk-rock singers from the sixties and seventies, like Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, and Judy Collins, or the timeless Emmy Lou Harris. She also liked country singers like Carrie Underwood and Taylor Swift.
I have a pretty good voice myself, and we would harmonize to songs done by Peter, Paul, and Mary, The Mamas and Papas, and some of the Beatles ballads, like “Imagine”, “Michelle,” and “Norwegian Wood.” We performed occasionally at a local coffee shop, and usually ended a duet with a kiss.
We were working right along on our project, when Heather caught me flat-footed.
“David, do ever look at porn on your computer?”
“Uh, um….occasionally.” I had promised myself that I would never lie to her.
“Do you masturbate when you watch it?”
“Uhhhh….occasionally.” The occasion being days of the week that end in “y.”
“I’ve never seen any porn. I masturbate when I read romance novels.”
Her tone was totally matter-of-fact, and that conversation ended right there. She went right back into the history project. Good Girls masturbate too?
I couldn’t get the image of Heather doing it out of my mind. Her fingers rubbing her pussy. Her pussy. I wondered if her pubic hair is blonde, too? Maybe she shaves it? I rubbed the shit out of myself, thinking about her rubbing herself.
I was never a believer in coincidences, but the next day, her little brother, Kevin, showed up on my doorstep.
“Hey David, I got something you might like to buy.”
“And what would that be?”
He pulled something out of his pocket. A pair of white lace bikini panties.
“Yup. Here, smell them,” he said handing them to me. I held them up to my nose. A heavenly sweet, musky scent assaulted my senses. Pussy juice! Heather’s pussy juice! My cock immediately got hard. Must be those pheromones that I read about. I had to have them.
“How much do you want for them, Kevin?”
“And how much blackmail money are you going to hit me for?”
“Nothing. This’ll be just a straight deal.”
I’m not sure I totally trusted the little fucker. He’d have a great future collecting vig for the mob. But I had to have the panties, so I forked over the money. When I spanked my monkey that night, I laid them over my face. I had both the image and the scent of her pussy.
Heather wanted to go to one of our garage band rehearsals. I was a little hesitant, because some of the guys are a little weird, but she insisted. Our band isn’t into grunge, or heavy metal or any of the new wave music; we pretty much do classic rock.
She had never heard me play electric guitar, so we set up a couple solo numbers to impress her. I did a killer version of Eric Clapton’s “Layla” and then really kicked ass on Jimi Hendricks’ “Purple Haze.”
During a break, Tommy dragged out a cooler full of beer. He passed a bunch of Michelob’s around, and when Heather stuck her hand out, he gave her one, too. I was sure she’d never had any alcohol before, but she chugged it right on down, and got another one.
I had mentioned that she was a good singer, so one of the guys handed her a mike and pushed her front and center. She did a couple of Annie Lennox and Stevie Nicks covers that blew them away. Then she did a spot-on version of Janis Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee” that knocked everyone’s socks off. We had talked about getting a girl singer, and it looked like we found one.
When we were all sitting around again, Monk pulled out a really fat joint, and fired it up. Oh shit, I thought. Drugs! Good Girls don’t do drugs! She’s gonna bolt for the door. But she didn’t, and when the doobie got passed to her, she took a big hit, and sucked it right in. She didn’t cough or anything. Then she took another hit. And another one. When it was apparent she was going to Bogart that one and not pass it around, Monk chuckled and lit another one.
“Wow, I really like that pot. I am soo buzzed,” she said.
We stopped for a pizza on the way home. Heather couldn’t decide what she wanted on it, so we got everything. She ate three-quarters of it. “Wow, best pie I ever had,” she giggled, and then ordered a banana split.
When I took her home, we parked halfway down the block, under some big trees, so her father couldn’t see us making out. She was particularly amorous, and went about kissing with a frenzy.