Sophia and I had been friends since high school. We were on the Wordsmith Team together (she was a poet, I wrote fiction), and in various classes. After graduation, we’d gone our separate ways, adrift at a large university, losing touch with old friends, making new ones. Years later, we found ourselves living in the same apartment complex, and our friendship picked up where we’d left it, so many, yet so few, years before.
We were alone on my back patio; it was an evening at the end of Indian Summer, when the leaves had turned and a moist chill had snuck into the air while we humans were admiring the stately progression of the seasons. The moon was sliding between silvery clouds, and in the soft light, Sophia’s skin was a satiny, smooth, perfect, creamy mocha, like something you’d see in a fine chocolate shop, only better. Her mother was black and her father white, and she’d inherited the most beautiful skin I’d ever seen.
“Listen,” she said. “You know I’m between boyfriends, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So… do you mind if I suck your cock?”
“No problem,” I stammered.
“Cool. Thanks.”
The End
