TITLE    : Unwrapping Beth
STORYID  : unwrapping-beth
SUMMARY  : Sometimes, it's better to both give and receive.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2013-05-28
CATEGORY : lesbian-sex-stories
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |lesbian oral|naked|breasts|topless|kiss|


She sat in the chair, facing forward. I sat upon her thighs, facing her. Both of us were topless, having shed our blouses and bras. My hands spread over her breasts, my fingers squeezing the sleek, firm-soft globes, my bright-red nails making deep indentations in her ivory flesh. At the same time, she mirrored my actions, her own fingers kneading my breasts as if the full, high mounds were dough or clay that she could shape to her own purpose and will.

Her breath was warm upon my face, as mine was upon hers, as we kissed each other's soft, luscious lips.

I heard her moan--or, maybe, I thought, it was I who had groaned.

My thumbs strummed her nipples, finding them as stiff and swollen with desire as my own.

As we continued to kiss, our bodies, already close, drew nearer still, and, as our breasts touched, an electric thrill streaked along my nerves. In unison, our lips parted, and our tongues extended, each thrusting between the other's lips and teeth to whirl and swirl within the deep, wet caverns of our respective mouths.

Her breathing quickened; so did mine.

The tips of our noses touched, as our deep, open-mouthed kiss continued, and, tickled, I drew away, giggling.

"I've tickled your fancy," Beth quipped.

You've tickled more than that, I thought--a lot more. I grinned at her, thinking how delightfully smoky her eyes seemed. Did as an intense a fire burn within her loins as flamed within my own?

I was aware--fully, even painfully, aware--of her hard nipples against the smooth flesh of my breasts. Her nipples were rosebud-soft, but they seemed, in the intensity of my awareness, as sharp as thorns.

I let the tip of my left forefinger trail down her side, over her ribs, along her waist, over her crotch. . . .

She stopped me, gently, but firmly, before I reached her sex. "No, Gwen," she said.

"I want you," I told her. "All of you."

"We've talked about this," she reminded me, as she had, it seemed, a hundred times already.

We had talked about this matter, though, and I had agreed to honor and abide by her request that we not get naked--or at least not altogether naked--going topless together was all she'd permit. I had agreed with her that, until she was ready to do so, we would go no further than kissing and caressing. Unfortunately, it was becoming harder and harder to honor my word.

"I'm sorry," I told her.

She smiled at me, looking gorgeous. "You're not," she teased.

I returned her grin. "You're right," I admitted. "I'm not."

"You will have more," she promised, "when the time is right."

I toyed with the nipple of her right breast. "I wish that time were now."

"Me, too."

In the movie My Little Chickadee, Cuthbert J. Twillie, having married Flower Belle Lee, is disappointed when, on the night of their honeymoon, she insists upon sleeping in separate hotel rooms. As Twillie peers at her through the keyhole to her room while she is getting undressed. a Native American acquaintance asks him, "Chief gottem new squaw?" to which Twillie replies, "New is right: she hasn't been unwrapped yet."

Sexist and crude, yes; funny, perhaps--but the scene pretty much summarizes my relationship, to date, with Beth--except that, of course, we haven't married.

Rising from my perch upon her lovely thighs, I knelt before her, between her parted legs, wishing that they were as naked as her upper body. Leaning forward, she offered me her breasts. This action had become something of a ritual between us. I pressed my lips to first one nipple and then the other of her magnificent bosoms, kissing them softly, reverently, lovingly. Then, opening my mouth around one, I flicked its standing nipple with the tip of my tongue, and Beth moaned. I imagined that, below, she was more than damp; she was probably drenched in the juices of her own succulent sex.

She stroked my hair, as I suckled her breast, gorging myself upon her sensuality.

After a few moments, she patted my shoulder. Reluctantly, I stood. She rose from her seat, a princess rising from her throne, and we returned, each of us, to our respective places of work, our lunch break over for another day.

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I suppose one could say that Beth is "playing hard to get," but that doesn't really explain her behavior.

Her reluctance to "go all the way" cannot be attributed to either shyness or a "fear of commitment," either.

Nor do I regard her as being a "tease."

I think she makes me wait for another reason altogether. I think she is afraid.

I think she's been hurt before.

And badly.

So badly that she never wants to be hurt that way again, by anyone--not that I would ever hurt her, or could. She knows that, I think, rationally. But she has to believe it, too; she has to feel it. Trust too easily won on one occasion is exceedingly difficult to extend to anyone else on later occasions.

I had given her time. We had been lovers for months now, talking, holding hands, kissing, and, now, only lately, getting half-naked and caressing, face to face and breasts to breasts. We'd made progress. I could be patient. I could wait.

I would give her all the time she needed, all the time in the world.

I know something myself of the pain of rejection, of being judged, of being mocked and scorned. It isn't easy being a girl--or, at least, it's not as easy as some guys seem to think it is. Being "different" never is.

Besides, Beth is worth the wait.

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My strategy--being patient and giving Beth the time she needed to develop trust in me--has paid off. Big time!

"I'm ready, Gwen," she announced last night, as I was reading Beebo Brinker, a lesbian pulp fiction novel by Ann Bannon. Infamous in its time (but rather tame by today's standards), the novel, according to the blurb on its front cover, which features a full-color illustration of the protagonist herself wearing a blazer, a pencil skirt, and sensible heels, as she stands, looking gorgeous but forlorn, under a streetlamp on Gay Street, holding a ratty wicker suitcase, concerns "a lost, lonely, boyishly appealing" protagonist "who never knew what she wanted--until she came to Greenwich Village and found the love that smoulders in the shadows of the twilight world." Although outdated, its themes of loneliness, of isolation, of alienation, and of forbidden and tragic love still resonated with me, as they had with Beth, who recommended that I read the book. She'd found it in a second-hand bookstore, a few months ago. Reading it, she said, had been a life-changing event for her. I wouldn't characterize it in quite those terms, perhaps, but I could see why the novel had spoken so powerfully to Beth; in some ways, she was the modern-day equivalent of Beebo, only, unlike Beebo, Beth is totally femme, rather than butch, a "lipstick lesbian," in today's lesbian-sexist terms. It is I, who was never (or was never as) "lost" and "lonely" as either Beebo or Beth, but who am much more "boyishly appealing"--who am blatantly butch.

"At least," she qualified, "I think I'm ready."

I closed Beebo Brinker's quest of self-discovery upon the bookmark--a lavender ribbon decorated with a column of inverted pink triangles of diminishing sizes--and gave Beth my full and undivided attention. "Ready for what?"

She looked embarrassed, or shy--or both. She averted her eyes. "You know." A blush made her apple cheeks glow.

"You mean?"

She nodded, glancing at me before looking back at her feet. Her blush deepened.

I grinned. "That's fantastic, Beth! When?"

"Tonight," she asserted. She hesitated. "Maybe."

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I wanted to laugh, or chuckle, at least, but I dared not.

Beth looked ridiculous. She wore a wide band of ribbon around her waist, tied in a huge, elaborate bow over her genitals.

But she was baring more than her body--or most of it, anyway--she was baring her very soul. In offering herself to me--all of herself, without reservation--she was also making herself vulnerable. She was risking rejection, and rejection by someone for whom she cared deeply. Had I even smiled, she would have been devastated. Had I laughed, she would have been annihilated.

"Like it?" She looked uncertain.

"It's beautiful," I said. "You're beautiful!"

She beamed--and looked at her toes. They were painted the same shade of pink as her fingernails--and her bow. "I thought I'd be your present," she declared.

"I see," I said. "It's a costume as cute as it is clever."

She blushed more deeply. "Really?"

"Really."

"I want you to unwrap me," she suggested.

"All right." I wanted to rip the ribbon from her waist, but I would force myself to remove it carefully, with the reverence that Beth deserved.

"And, then," she blurted, emboldened by my compliments, "I want to unwrap you."

Now, I did smile. "But I'm not wearing a costume."

"You're wearing clothes, though," she observed.

"Come here, sweetie," I said, and Beth, wearing her ribbon, approached.

I patted my knee. "Sit, darling Beth."

She complied.

Slowly, with deepest respect, I untied the bow. Unfastened, the ribbon fell apart, and I lifted the great looped knot away.

I noticed that Beth was watching me intently, holding her breath, silent and motionless, awaiting my response to her unveiling. My eyes widened, and my mouth gaped, and I saw the look of fear in her eyes as panic spread across her beautiful face.

She started to rise, but I caught her around the waist and hung on tightly. "No!" I told her. "Stay! Don't leave me!"

Her resistance melted at my words, and she settled back into my lap, her head down, tears spilling from her eyes.

"Don't you ever, ever leave me!" I commanded.

I kissed her cheek. She turned away.

I took her chin in my hand and turned her head back toward me. "I love you, Beth."

"No," she murmured, as if such a feeling were impossible, "no, no, no, no."

"Yes," I said, kissing her again and again, between each renewed affirmation, "yes, yes, yes, yes!"

She sniffed. Her tears, for the moment, at least, had abated. "How could you love me?" she asked, "after I've lied to you?"

"You never lied to me," I said.

She wiped her eyes. Her nipples, I saw, were hard. She was probably chilly, rather than excited. She looked down, where the bow had been, at her exposed genitals. "That's not a lie?"

"Why would it be?"

"I misled you."

"When?"

"Always. Since the day we first met."

"No you haven't."

"I let you believe I'm a girl."

"You are a girl," I told her. "You're a chick with a dick."

"A t-girl isn't a real girl."

"Who told you that?"

"Everybody knows that," Beth asserted, but without blushing. She was beyond blushing now, it seemed, just as she was beyond tears. Perhaps she thought she was doomed to a life or rejections and believed that, sooner or later, I, too, would reject her, label her, judge her, condemn her.

Instead, I kissed her again. "You're not only all girl," I assured her, "but you are gorgeous as well."

She didn't answer, but she didn't turn away from me again, either, or look down, or blush, or frown.

"Now, I've unwrapped my present," I told her. "Aren't you going to open yours?"

Now, she blushed again, and deeply. She also smiled--no, make that grinned. Her fingers trembling, she unbuttoned my blouse, and I shrugged out of its short sleeves. She unhooked and removed my bra, and my breasts, freed, bounded into fullness, their nipples as stiff and swollen as Beth's own, albeit, in my case, with arousal, not cold.

She unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, and unzipped my fly. I stood, and she pulled the denim down my legs, exposing, in turn, my groin and hips, my thighs, my knees, my calves, and my ankles. I stepped out of the jeans, and she pitched them aside. 

I hadn't worn shoes, so, now, I was as naked as Beth, and she saw the thick, rigid cock that stood upright against my belly, above the small clump of testicles inside the tight, risen pouch of my scrotum.

Her eyes were huge as she stared, open-mouthed, at my male genitals. "You're a transsexual!"

I grinned. "We're both transsexuals," I agreed, "lesbian transsexuals."

She said nothing, continuing only to stare.

"I hope you don't think I deceived you?" I asked.

She shook her head, and her wavy blonde hair bounced against her shoulders, her breasts jiggling. "No, I don't think so, not at all."

"Neither have you deceived me," I declared. "You never said you were anyone or anything other than yourself, and that's more than enough for me."

"Me, too," she said.

And we made sweet love, again and again, all night long.

Beth and I are the best presents we have ever unwrapped--or ever will. 

