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 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 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."
