By handheld
{ This story was originally posted at Lesbian Lolita in July 2010 }
Brenda was eleven, would be twelve in September. It was summer, and she was in Rochester, Minnesota, seeing doctors. She was crazy. Her parents believed so, at least. They’d spent a week there already, sending her around for tests, making her talk endlessly about herself as they sat in the corners of rooms, frowning, weeping, grinding teeth.
“Why do you want to be a boy?” the doctors always asked.
“How long have you wanted to be a boy?” was another standby.
“Do you wish you had a penis?” was her favorite irritation, along with “Do you dream about having a penis?” Both questions always made her giggle, despite herself, and that often made her twice as angry as she’d been the second before.
“Have you ever been… touched… down there? Has anyone ever molested you? Have you ever been forced to… touch… someone else’s private parts?” those were always trotted out in some form or other sooner or later, sometimes with her parents present, sometimes after they were asked to go down the hall for a bit. The times her mother heard it were always the same: a gasp, a choking sound, leather creaking as her grip tightened on her purse. Her father would cough, shuffle his feet.
“I feel like a boy” she always answered.
“Since forever” she shrugged.
“Not at all” she tittered behind her hands, blushing. “I don’t remember” she rolled her eyes a lot, tried to show how silly it all was, to be asked about penises!
“No” and “No” and “NO!” she squirmed, feeling icky, dirty, irritated by it all.
Which answers they believed would vary, with interesting results.
The vaginal examinations were horrible, fascinating, and endless. Her clitoris was measured for length, girth, sensitivity and response. Her pelvis was x-rayed, magnetically imaged, ultrasonically bombarded, and digitally manipulated. Her anus was fingered repeatedly, deeply.
Every doctor was male, and every examination left her soaking wet, breathless, and anxious to get to a bathroom.
After the first full week, her parents decided she needed a break. There was a rodeo barely over an hour’s ride away; Brenda’s parents drove her out there on Saturday morning in silence, exhausted. It was an all-women’s rodeo – “Barrels and Breakaway”, it was called. Her mother told her plainly why they picked it. At least, she more or less did.
“Maybe we should take you to these… kinds of things, Brenda. There are so many girls out there living normal lives. You need to see more of that, I think.” Her mother was tall and beautiful, a former model in New York City. She played tennis three times a week and still did shoots for the JC Penney catalog and the Sear’s Women’s Wear Sunday circulars three or four times a year. She didn’t move her head at all when she talked. She kept her face pointing straight ahead, her back stiff.
“It’s Ben, Mom,” Brenda muttered from the back seat, flipping angrily through the copy of The Hobbit that she’d finished three nights before, trying not to look at all the cows. “And rodeo girls aren’t girly-girls, anyway. What kind of normal do you want me to be?”
“Brenda,” her father sighed, glancing back at her as he drove. He reached a hand back and patted her knee gently. Then he squeezed her knee, not so gently. “Stop sassing your mother.”
“Sorry,” Brenda mumbled, ashamed. She really did love her parents. They were the ones with the problem. She was just being who she was. Why was that so hard for people to accept? Why were they so embarrassed? So worried and angry and… weird about it all?
Her father was a stock broker, accustomed to analysis, risk, and volatility. He took surprises a lot better than her mother. Nevertheless, he lived in the world of math versus emotion, history versus mystery. A girl was a girl was a girl, no matter how she might feel otherwise about the matter.
“You’re just confused and scared, aren’t you? Getting your period now, it’s worried you.” He was sure her declarations of maleness stemmed from that – a fearful reaction to her newfound monthly bleed.
It was true, in a way: she hated her periods, and they did frighten her. They hurt so badly! The cramps kept her nearly incapacitated for days, and her panties would be such a disgusting mess. Super-thick pads didn’t sop it all up. She’d broken her hymen on the thickest tampon the supermarket sold, and that didn’t soak enough, either. Finally, at their family doctor’s suggestion, she’d put on a diaper. That, along with the pad and tampon, finally let her go out of the house on her heaviest days. Mortified. It was a hellish last three months of fifth grade. Everyone had to know when she was on the rag – those were the only days she ever wore a dress to school!
The doctor almost sent her to Minnesota about her periods, actually. But a heavy dosing of Motrin and a good supply of extra-duty Get-Around Adult Diapers seemed to do the trick. Brenda finally began to handle her periods with something approaching control. After all, it wasn’t impossible for an eleven year-old, even one in fifth grade, to start menstruating; why make a girl feel like a freak when what she needed was simply more pain medication and better absorption?
The rodeo featured girls from age four all the way up to a seniors class, with elderly ladies in tight blue denim jeans and ornate western-wear shirts hanging halfway off slathering mares with their white hair a-flutter, their little stetsons flipping onto their backs and bouncing madly, caught by the strap pulling at their wrinkled stretching throats. They twirled rope and made after terrified calves with war cries and whoops of joy that sent shivers down Brenda’s spine. These were her kind of women!
In the teen class, a tall, blonde girl in particular held Brenda mesmerized. Her hair was long and hung in a thick golden braid all the way down to her waist. Her jeans were so tight and so sweetly worn at the seat and knees, thinner there, lighter denim, the muscles of her thighs practically ripping the seams as she bent and swayed and thrust atop her horse. Her western shirt was simple, baby blue, with her name sequined on the back, just above the paper they’d pinned on that held her competitor number. Her name was Samantha. She raced barrels.
Brenda sat in the jittery wooden bleachers in a trance. At one point her father reached over, chuckling, and placed his finger beneath her chin, pushing her gaping mouth closed. “Maybe she should get into sports, baby,” he stage whispered to her mother. “Or… horses, at least?”
Then he leaned into Brenda’s shoulder and jostled her playfully. “Think you’d like to try this kind of thing out?”
Brenda, watching Samantha dismount behind the chutes, nodded. “Yeah. I think so….”
Shortly after that they let her go down alone to get them some hot dogs and drinks. It didn’t take Brenda long to find Samantha. She was heading up out of the stables, coming toward the concession stand, with a miniature copy of herself running behind, trying to keep up – a little sister, a cousin, maybe. A girl Brenda’s age. She had the same blonde hair, the same braid, the same baby-blue shirt.
Brenda ducked beneath the bleachers and stood breathlessly, watching them approach. She wondered if they’d seen her. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, not too girly, but not boyish, either. Despite her flat chest, the shape of her legs and her waist – although not terribly feminine – were fair enough giveaways that she wasn’t a boy. She couldn’t bear the thought of this tall, perfect girl seeing her that way.
Samantha was probably sixteen or seventeen, maybe older. Up close her breasts were evident enough despite her masculinizing cowgirl shirt – she had the kind of round handfuls that Brenda often found herself dreaming about in the middle of class, in the bathtub, as she watched TV and tried to do her homework. Samantha’s hips were nearly full, so nicely rounded, flaring out from a narrow belted waist.
Then she passed by, and her ass made Brenda clutch at the metal bleacher supports. Samantha’s cheeks separated deeply as her ass curved down and in, the seam of her denim marking off two lobes of flesh that pulled apart mightily as they came down around her anus. She had the kind of gap between her legs that boys coveted. She walked like she’d just been fucked hard.
The tag-along girl was cussing Samantha lustily as they cleared the port-a-potties and honed in on the hot dog stand.
“Well, fuck all, Sam! Just walk off and leave me why don’t you? What the hell kinda shit is that?” The girl stuck out her bottom lip and kicked dirt at Samantha’s heels. The bigger girl stopped short, and the smaller one ran right into her backside, bumped off, and nearly fell down.
Samantha coldly eyed the younger girl for several seconds. The tag-along ducked her head and pulled her hat down low over her brow. She was pinned with a number 19, and the sequins on the back of her shirt declared her name: Stacy. Her jeans weren’t nearly as tight or rounded out as Samantha’s. She was practically a stick in her clothes, long arms and legs, but the resemblance was too strong to deny. The girl was blood kin of some kind. They had the same face, the same hair, the same complexion. They stood the same way, facing off, hips cocked, jaw set, chest thrust out.
“Momma told you to stay with Starlight. Not follow me every damn where. Now you get on back before I swat you one.” Samantha stepped toward Stacy, but the smaller girl backed away.
“I just wanted to tell you don’t worry, is all,” Stacy protested. “You ain’t got the best time, I know. But it ain’t the worst, neither. And that got you into Sunday, don’t it? You can catch that skanky bitch tomorrow. I just know it.” She kept backing up and Samantha kept slowly coming, until Stacy’s back pressed against the crossed girders at the edge of the bleacher supports, just a few feet from where Brenda stood. Stacy thrust her hands into her pockets and fixed her eyes on her boots, shoulders slumped.
“That’s… that’s all I wanted to tell you, Sam. God damn.” Her voice was thick, and Brenda could see tears rolling down her cheeks. “Why you gotta be so fucking serious all the time, anyway?”
Then she turned abruptly and glared at Brenda. “And what the fuck do you think you’re staring at, huh?” She ducked under the crossed girders and came right at Brenda, who was now the one backing up, terrified. “You one of that bitch Courtney’s friends, huh? Some little fan? Some spying little dipshit?”
Brenda found a finger on her chest, poking hard. Up close, even in the shadows, Brenda could see how puffy Stacy’s eyes were, how pink on the edges and hurt. The tears made her blotchy. She had white, crooked teeth, missing a few where the baby ones had fallen out. Her breath smelled like peanuts.
“Hey, now. Stop that. Come on,” Samantha said, suddenly at Brenda’s side, prying Stacy away from her. She turned and apologized. “I’m sorry, kid. Really. My sister’s kind of crazy.”
Brenda managed to nod, swallow, and kind of smile. Samantha didn’t notice. She was already piloting Stacy out from under the bleachers and away from the concession stand. “You stupid littlebiddy,” she snarled at her little sister, holding her by the back of her jeans, fist clenched around her belt. “You go yelling at fans like that and they’ll kick you flat out of competition for sure. Don’tnever do that again.”
Stacy flapped her arms and squealed “Sorry!” over and over, but Samantha wasn’t letting go. “Now listen here. I’m taking you back to watch over Starlight, and you will stay there!”
Brenda made her way around and back up into the bleachers, shaking, the hot dogs and drinks forgotten. Her parents asked what was wrong, but she wouldn’t answer except to shrug and say she’d gotten to see “lots of cool stuff”. She watched the rest of the competition with her knees grinding slowly together, her thighs pressing sweetly against each other.
Up close, she’d seen Samantha up close! Her eyes were so blue! They were like lakes, like the sky in a lake in the mountains! And her teeth were white and straight – with braces – but still perfect! Sure, her breath stank. It was like onions, maybe a little like old potato chips and just waking up, but Brenda wanted terribly to kiss her. She’d only been six inches away. Oh, if only!
On the ride home Brenda begged her parents to let her go back the next day, and they happily agreed. Anything to get their girl around some role models.
Brenda was careful to dress as boyishly that day as possible. Her hair was always cut extremely short, anyway, so all she had to do was throw on her number 34 Oilers t-shirt with her loose-fitting jeans and tennis shoes, and she was every bit the slobby boy. Her mother appeared to actually swallow her own tongue when Brenda finished dressing, but her dad just laughed. “Well, one thing at a time, baby. One thing at a time.”
Her parents bought better seats that second day, so Brenda was much closer to the action. On the way in they bought her a pair of cowboy boots from the vendor who’d set up shop from the back of a pickup truck in the parking lot, plus a straw stetson from the pickup next to that one. She wore the hat but not the boots, afraid they’d make her fall over.
Her mother couldn’t help but tell her how cute she looked in the hat. Brenda knew she blushed for a long time after that.
Stacy’s group went out just before noon, and, Brenda had to admit, the skinny girl was really good. She seemed to float above and around her horse more than sit on it; the horse barely appeared to notice she was even there. They tore around the barrels to a new record time, and as the ribbon got pinned on her proud chest Brenda couldn’t help but clap for all she was worth. The girl’s eyes were on fire now, and her smile wasn’t a bit bad at all.
Soon after that Brenda went down with her family get some food. “I’m going to go see… more stuff while you’re in line,” Brenda told them, not waiting for their permission nor their refusal before she walked directly away, beyond the port-a-potties. “I’ll see you back up in the seats later!” she called back over her shoulder. Her heart pounded as she made her break for it. She was all eyes for blue shirts with sequins on the back.
Several rows of trailers and pickup trucks were parked a hundred yards or so beyond the stables and the maze of temporary pens at the back of the ring. There wasn’t any kind of fence to separate the competitors’ area from the spectators, and soon Brenda found herself right in the midst of all kinds of rodeo gals and a handful of men and boys, getting friendly grins, courteous little nods. It was the lunch break for the entire rodeo, so a lot of fans and family were milling around the trailers, too. Brenda felt comfortable just wandering around, trying to nod back and touch fingers to the brim of her hat now and then, feeling kind of cool. She found herself wishing she’d put on her new boots, after all.
At the far end of the last row of trailers was a sizable pond, set back behind a stand of river birch. A low pier extended fifty feet out across the water, with a rowboat tethered at the end. Brenda wandered aimlessly to the bank of the little lake, trying to decide whether or not she should walk out onto the planks.
“You got rocks in your socks or what?” came a voice. Brenda froze, then spun around. There was a covered concrete slab in among the trees, with a picnic table at the center, a small grill beside. A woman in a baby-blue western shirt was flipping a burger, talking back over her shoulder. “Get me them buns out of the bag! You might’a just won a damn race, girl, but you still got to help with lunch.”
Stacy came out from behind the woman, then, making faces and swinging a bag of hamburger buns like a lasso. “Aw, Momma, don’t shit your britches or nothin’. I got ya’ covered.” She set the buns out to her mother’s satisfaction, then went back out of sight on the other side of the picnic area. Several other females were there, all in the same kind of baby blue western shirts, a few generations-worth of relations, apparently. Stacy wasn’t the youngest, and her mother wasn’t the oldest. There wasn’t a man in sight.
“Well now. Howdy,” said Stacy’s mother, eying her cautiously, a lot like Brenda was a skittish horse. Brenda nearly jumped out of her sneakers. She stood only about a hundred feet away, though, so she should have expected to be spotted. She hung her head, feeling like a trespasser, and made to leave. Stacy’s mom smiled, though, and said, “You hungry for a burger?”
Brenda managed to call out, “No, thanks!” and fled.
She didn’t risk a glance back until she got all the way through the trees, nearly to the trailers. There were the blue shirts, the smoke coming off the grill. How could she have missed seeing that before? There was Stacy, showing off for a couple of younger girls sitting on a cooler. They squealed with delight, it seemed, at Stacy’s every move.
“You’re that kid from yesterday,” a voice rose from nearby. It came from the trailer closest to the trees, at the very end of the row. A figure came up on the other side of the screen door, wearing a baby-blue shirt. “What brings you back ’round here? Ain’t much to see, you know.”
It was Samantha. Brenda gulped for air and slowly approached the trailer’s steps, plunging her hands in her pockets and making her best boy-scowl.
“I got bored,” she said, shrugging. “Thought I’d check things out back here.”
Samantha snorted, rolling her eyes. Brenda thought she’d die. Couldn’t she even get two sentences right?
“Only thing back this-a-way is a bunch a’ crazy rodeo gals,” Samantha chuckled. “And I do mean crazy.” She opened the screen door and stood in the doorway, looking down at Brenda, smiling. “Shoot, you already met crazy number one yesterday, didn’t you?”
Brenda tried to smile back, cocking her head in what she hoped was a handsome way. “You mean your sister?” she laughed, honestly. “Yeah, she was pretty crazy.”
Samantha rolled her eyes. “Shoot, that yesterday weren’t nothin’. You should’a seen her at Mason City last year. Damn girl punched old Courtney right in the eye. They suspended her all season for that one.” She stepped back a little, still holding the screen door open. Brenda didn’t know what to say.
But the older girl smiled and shook her head, apparently used to stares. She was that pretty.
There was something else, too. Something Brenda couldn’t quite identify, but it was there in that glance, the long look the two of them took at one another. Later on, as she gained experience and confidence – especially after Dr. Bodson would take her under her wing – Brenda would know what was going on in those kinds of looks, that kind of eye contact – the almost feral intensity of the attraction, the silent questioning, the growing certainty, the shimmering desire that quickly caught and completely changed a girl’s entire demeanor, from her expression to her posture to the way she breathed, talked, and waited for the next move.
Brenda finally broke eye contact, blushing, and Samantha made the move quickly. “Why don’t you come on up here and sit a spell? Have a Coke?” She backed farther into the trailer as Brenda slowly ascended, unable to feel her feet move at all. A tingling between her legs surged through her so strongly she almost felt nauseated, her belly quivering. Her pussy began to rapidly soak her panties right through. Brenda thought she could almost hear it squishing around as she stepped across the threshold into the trailer.
It was then that Brenda noticed Samantha’s shirt. It wasn’t what the other girls and women were wearing at the picnic area. The teenager had on a simple t-shirt, the same baby blue as her western shirt, but a plain old t-shirt all the same. On the front was a screen-printed silhouette of a girl bent low over a flowing, graceful horse. Soderlund Stables arched above the horse and rider in pleasant script.
And then Brenda noticed something else: Samantha wasn’t wearing any jeans. Or shorts. Her t-shirt didn’t make it even halfway over her hips, and her panties were a plain white cotton.
Barefoot, she was a lot shorter out of her boots. Her head was only a hand higher than Brenda’s. Her toes were painted bright red.
Her legs were covered with a thin sheen of blonde hair, almost like fur. It looked so fine, so silky, and Brenda suddenly wanted more than anything to stroke the girl’s legs. She wanted to rub her cheeks against them. She wanted to lick them, suck the hairs into her mouth, tasting every fiber.
Samantha was just turning to the nearby fridge as Brenda stepped fully into the trailer and let the screen door close behind her, heart in her throat. She was alone. The trailer was still and silent. There weren’t even any lights on.
“I was just gettin’ myself ready to ride,” the teenager said, opening the refrigerator and bending over. Brenda stared hard at Samantha’s perfect, splitting ass. It was like an upside-down heart. The cheeks were tilted toward each other at the top, away from each other at the bottom. She was so open, her panties didn’t cover much but the empty crack between, and her tight musky holes.
“Already ate my lunch, you know, just chicken salad,” Samantha said, still bent halfway into the fridge, her torso out of sight around the door, the sole of one foot rubbing the top of the other as she rummaged around. “That’s how I do it, ‘fore I ride.”
She came back up with a bottle of Coca-Cola in hand, smiling. It was then that Brenda finally noticed that Samantha wasn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples were stiff, poking against the underside of her t-shirt like hard little fingers.
“I like some alone time,” Samantha purred, still holding out the Coke. Brenda finally reached for it, but the older girl abruptly pulled it back, stepping farther along into the kitchenette.
“No, now wait a sec,” she said, opening drawers. “We need that dang opener….”
“I- It’s OK,” Brenda stuttered. “I should just go, you know. Let you get ready.”
Samantha turned back to her, concerned. “Hey now, I don’t need to go nowheres for a whole ‘nother hour.” She shook her head. “I got plenty a’ time to get dressed and such.”
She waved the Coke in the direction of the picnic table and all her relations. “That’s why they gone and got out of my way, see? I need to get myself focused before they swoop on in to ‘help’ with all their noise and stupid crap.” She shook her head even harder and looked Brenda hard in the face. “I just can’t stand all the crap, you know?”
Brenda didn’t know, but she managed a shrug that seemed to say a lot to Samantha. The teenager set the Coca-Cola down on the counter and smiled. “What’s your name, anyway?” she asked, her eyes roaming Brenda up and down.
“Ben!” Brenda blurted, her voice cracking. “I’m Ben.”
Samantha frowned a little, but only for a moment. She went back to the fridge and popped the bottle cap using the door handle. “It’s got a thing built-in,” she said, shrugging, passing the fizzy soda to her. “Guess I forgot.”
Brenda wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but it suddenly felt very different in the trailer. Samantha was looking her over again. Studying her. Brenda busied herself drinking the Coke, hoping to show off her manly adam’s apple, make a convincing display of Mean Joe Green-style gulping.
She finished quickly, proud of herself despite forcing down the painful urge to belch, and handed the bottle back. Samantha took it and ran her tongue around the bottle’s mouth, then slid the tip of her tongue inside. She never took her eyes off Brenda’s face.
“You know what I like to do with these Coke bottles, Ben? When I’m gettin’ ready to ride? Matter-a-fact, I was just about to do it when you walked up….”
Samantha put her mouth around the bottle, got her lips way down on the neck, and held them there for several seconds. Her eyes were watering when she finally pulled off the glass with a little gasp. Two long strings of saliva ran from the Coke bottle back up to her lips.
“First I get it wet,” she murmured, slowly licking the bottle neck up and down, pausing several times to load her tongue with a plentiful supply of spit.
“Then …” she continued, reaching down and pulling the crotch of her panties aside, “I shove …” she put the mouth of the bottle against her pussy with her other hand, pressing upward, “… and I shove …” she pulled it out, then pushed it back in, then did it again, “… until I can’t shove no more.”
The teenager sank against the counter, moaning, working the bottle farther and farther up inside herself. She watched Brenda and smiled, flashing her perfect teeth behind those braces in the dim trailer light.
Brenda could barely stand still and watch. She wanted to touch herself, to slide a hand in her jeans and slop around inside her soaked panties. Did girls really do this to… to things? Stick things up inside? Brenda watched the bottle disappear and reappear over and over under Samantha’s experienced, agile fingers and imagined herself doing it, too. She flashed to other objects she could use, things back at her house, right now, just waiting for her to fuck. An empty beer bottle. A hot dog. A cucumber. The handle of a hairbrush. Her bedpost.
Brenda swayed, almost overwhelmed. A shiver took hold of her, head to toe. She began sweating profusely. Her entire body seemed to itch, all at once.
“You wanna take a taste of this bottle now?” Samantha panted. She slowly pulled the Coke bottle out of herself, raising it between them. “Bet you’ll love it.”
Brenda wanted to jump toward the older girl, to leap at her and… and… she didn’t know quite what! But she was ready to move! Mastering every ounce of her eroding self-control, the child stepped in closer and put her hands lightly around Samantha’s wrist, pulling the bottle slowly toward her own mouth. Her tongue found the neck. The glass was slick, almost slimy. It smelled faintly sweet, faintly fishy, and it tasted like nothing Brenda had ever known before. She tipped the mouth of the bottle into her own mouth, then pushed it as far inside as she could get, imitating Samantha’s mouth from a few moments before.
“I like seeing you do that,” Samantha crooned, sliding her body up against Brenda’s side. Her breasts pushed hotly against Brenda’s arm. Her leg crooked itself around Brenda’s, her cunt squishing hard against Brenda’s hip. Her mouth breathed fire on Brenda’s neck, her ear.
“I like to fuck myself before I ride, Ben. I fuck whatever’s around. You ever do that?”
Brenda shivered, turning her face away from the bottle, opening her mouth to Samantha’s, their tongues dancing. The teenager moaned her approval. Brenda knew how to kiss. She’d spied on her mom and dad plenty of times. She knew a lot. And she had kissed other girls before, too. That was what had landed her in Rochester: her mom caught her frenching Adriana, the daughter of the Puerto Rican lady who cleaned their house. It was the third girl she’d been caught kissing that spring, in fact, and that was simply three times too much.
Samantha’s arms slipped around Brenda’s neck as the girl turned herself fully into the teenager’s embrace. Brenda’s nipples rubbed against the inside of her shirt as it slid slowly back and forth. Samantha’s firm, round breasts rose and fell against her own flat ones, sending cascades of pleasure down to her toes and back, funneling it all, finally, deep into her center.
Her clit throbbed. Samantha was grinding her thigh against it, through her jeans. Brenda could barely stand. Samantha broke off their kiss and laughed, pulling back just enough to look Brenda in the eye.
“Why is your name Ben?” she whispered.
Brenda came accidentally. Samantha had reached down, the moment the question left her lips, and used her hand to squeeze and knead on Brenda’s swollen, needful pussy. Her big clit was caught between her own pubic bone and the heel of Samantha’s hand as it drove against her through her rapidly dampening jeans. The girl’s knees buckled. She hit the floor shaking, her legs jelly.
“BRENDA WILLIAMS, PLEASE REPORT TO THE CONCESSION STAND IMMEDIATELY.”
The public address system blared harshly in the distance, rattling through the trailer like a sonic wrecking ball. Brenda couldn’t help but jerk herself up straight the moment she heard her name. Samantha laughed and helped Brenda steady herself.
“Hey, I think that’s you,” she said, kissing the tip of Brenda’s nose. “Must’a wandered off, huh?”
Brenda could barely breathe, but she managed to gasp, “No… no. That isn’t me.” She shook her head, eyes burning, knees still shaking. “I’m Ben. Ben.”
Samantha clucked her tongue, then leaned in and licked the girl on her ear. “Sure, honey. Whatever you want.”
Brenda knew she was caught in her lie. She knew it was stupid to lie. But she didn’t feel like Brenda. She wasn’t Brenda. She was Ben – a silly fucked-up dickless boy with periods that hurt and parents who wanted her fixed.
Brenda knew she was lost. Crazy. She didn’t even want a dick. She liked what she had. Her body felt just right to her. But not her identity. She wanted a name, a place. A role in the world. She wanted a life. The one that fit.
And there was Samantha. Brenda certainly wanted her. And any other girl, really. Older, younger, whatever. She wanted them badly. She’d burned for them for as long as she could remember, never questioning her need. Now she had her chance, but why did it have to be so hard? Why couldn’t she just be a girl, too, let her guard down, would it really be so bad?
Brenda leaned into the teenager, hugging herself, letting Samantha wrap her arms around her and nuzzle her neck. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to stay. She had to go.
She could smell her pussy, feel her juices smearing everywhere inside her jeans, her soaked panties pulled up into the crack of her ass. She throbbed.
Samantha slid her hands beneath Brenda’s shirt, slowly running her fingers up and over the girl’s rigid, fat nipples. Brenda moaned. She leaned back into the counter, steadying herself with her hands to either side of the counter top, opening her entire front to whatever Samantha wanted to do.
“Oh God,” Brenda whispered. “Oh God.”
Samantha’s other hand slid inside the front of Brenda’s jeans, fingers slipping cautiously under the waistband of her panties. The teenager pulled off a nipple with a loud pop. She ran her tongue up Brenda’s throat, then kissed her deeply again. Brenda moaned into the older girl’s mouth as Samantha’s fingers finally found her clit. They paused, trembling, over the girl’s engorged, slippery nob of flesh. Samantha broke off the kiss and leaned back, studying Brenda’s face.
Brenda wept a little and tried to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Samantha smiled, though, and once again kissed the tip of her nose. “For what?” she asked. “Feels just right to me. Feels fuckin’ amazing.”
Then Samantha grinned and knelt before her. She pulled her hand out of Brenda’s pants and set herself to work on the girl’s button-fly. Brenda watched, bewildered, longing. Samantha sighed with satisfaction, glancing up, as the last button gave way before her long, nimble fingers.
“Think I can see it, honey?” she asked. “Think I can get a little taste?”
Brenda nodded and stepped out of her shoes and socks, out of her jeans, out of her panties. Samantha helped her with it all, grinning hungrily. Brenda finally pulled her shirt off over her head and leaned back against the counter, nude, dripping, ready.
Samantha leaned over, spreading Brenda’s knees apart, wiggling up close between them. The teenager lightly, tenderly kissed Brenda’s clit. Then licked. Sucked.
And Brenda came again.
