Lesbian - 'Betty' decides to seduce 'Wilma'
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Author's notes: Warning! This is a lesbian sex story, without any direct male sexual involvement. This hopefully will be hot enough to be a 'Jill' off story for the people who like these themes, as it does have a lot of sex in it. For those who don't like these themes please move along. Constructive comments are appreciated, hate speech will be deleted.
There is some non-consent/reluctance subject matter near the end. If you don't like these themes please move on.
All characters are eighteen or older at the time any sexual contact in this story takes place.
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I'm Carol and I look a lot like Jane Krakowski except with long dark black hair. My co-worker and friend Leigh looks a lot like Elizabeth Perkins, with long fiery red natural hair. So our co-workers started pestering us to go to the company Halloween party as 'Betty' and 'Wilma'. We had weeks to decide but Leigh agreed right away so I was stuck. I so wanted to be HER Betty. Like Jane, I don't have much up top, little perky pointy B cups. Like Elizabeth, she has a pretty good rack, at least C cups. I've also seen up her skirt a time or two and she has quite the fire bush forest in her valley. That doesn't bother me at all, because I'm a carpet muncher. Have been since high school, where it got me into a lot of trouble.
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Yvette and I met in my junior year of high school, and I was instantly intrigued by the slim dark haired girl with the delicious french accent. We both made the cheerleading team junior year, myself because I was the pixie Kewpie doll that almost anyone on the team could throw in the air. We were both very curious about boys, but our parents were both very strict, holding us back from dating and we hadn't even been kissed yet. It took us until senior year, after we were eighteen (we'd both been held back a year as children) to come up with a solution.
Yvette's solution was simple. Her luscious thick lips would teach my thin excuses for lips, and I would teach hers. She explained this to me in her bedroom, as we were supposed to be 'studying'. She and I were both compulsive A students, but it gave us lots of time to 'practice' for boys. In senior year cheerleading practice, we had to shower just like the boys. I got the strangest feelings watching Yvette in the showers, like a tingling in my groin, coupled with a stiffening of my nipples, and was lucky enough to be picked as her shower buddy. We washed each other down quick at first, so we could get out of there as fast as we could. We raced home to start our own private 'practice'. Our first kiss was a little strange, kind of intimate, kind of hot, and it left my lips buzzing. We did a lot of that, but it didn't seem to be the be all and end all that other girls claimed it was.
It became obvious we needed to learn about french kissing, and Yvette taught me about that too. This was the big deal we'd been promised. I got so excited I nearly peed myself, I certainly got wet. This was worth more study!
Then we learned about making out together, petting and fondling and caressing. Yvette told me we both better be prepared for boys in cars, so we went out into the garage, in an old Mercedes they didn't drive much anymore, and made out in the back seat, practicing taking off each others clothes, kissing and fondling the parts we uncovered, and generally spending a lot of time kissing and making out, most of it naked in the back seat of a car older than either of us. But it had leather seats, and the proof of our passion often had to be cleaned up so the seats didn't stain.
Then we learned about Jilling off, and had to experiment on each other. It was like learning there was another head down between my legs, and that head could make my body SING! Yvette fingered me to my first orgasm, in light deft touches. It was like a new chapter of my life opened that day, before I knew I could cum, and after I knew I could cum. But I was oh, so willing to learn. I fingered Yvette every moment I could, and fingered myself morning, noon, and night. I loved the sweet taste of her juices on my fingers and my own sweet juices.
Especially during my period, my body seemed to be so responsive and so tightly strung - like a bow - ready to pop off, almost any rubbing of my clit would produce an orgasm. This is when we mutually discovered tribadism, or tribbing, where we rubbed our clits together while we kissed and came together. I thought that was heaven, but little did I know that soon a much larger gateway to heaven would be at my command. Our time in the showers got longer and longer until the coach said the next time we were the last ones to go she'd be joining us. As a well known lesbian, that sparked some very interesting fantasies when I was alone and Jilling off.
One weekend Yvette's folks went on a ski trip and we had a school function, so we got into the wine, stripped off, then kissed, caressed, and fondled each other all weekend. Very early into the festivities, Yvette showed me a new way of Jilling off, using her tongue and fingers on me, while I did the same to her. Soixante-neuf she called it, I called it heaven. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, we barely ate or drank, only as necessary to fuel our return rocket to heaven. We often fell asleep with our heads between each other's legs, I awoke twice to an orgasm already in progress, trying desperately not to pee in her face.
Life was bliss, until one day, I confided in another girl on the team about what Yvette and I had done. "Lesbians!", "Lesbians!" she cried out and the scarlet "L" was metaphorically placed on our chests. Not too surprisingly, the girl who blew the whistle on us became one of my sorority sisters in college, with a great deal of dedication to studying "Soixante-neuf" under me. But the damage was done, Yvette and I were forbidden by our parents to see each other outside of school. Since the other girls were already giving blowjobs, my mother arranged for a series of "boyfriends" to teach me about how to give a proper blowjob at the movies. Then she picked the stud to deflower me after the prom. I was going to be a proper heterosexual girl now, as far as they were concerned, so I could be shipped off to college.
But at the prom in the women's bathroom, Yvette and I kissed each other goodbye in a stall, each of us crying at the loss of the woman we loved. Her parents were moving back to France, and she would study at the Sorbonne, far better than the State university where I was destined to serve my time. I did spend time with both men and women, trying to find out if I was bisexual or not. I studied Camille Paglia, who had a very different, and to my mind more liberating, view of feminism, that broadly embraced bisexuality. I found that I fell in love with people, not genders, but women made me sit up and take notice, while guys had to work at it. I eventually ended up identifying as lesbian, with an openness to being bi. But that was before New York.
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New York is an all you can eat lesbian buffet. The problem with it is there are women attached. I know it seems strange, but my fellow girlfriends are batshit crazy when they get into a relationship. Since they don't have the 'Did you get knocked up?' signal that guys do, looks, gestures, simple conversations will start the green eyed monster of jealousy rolling in to smash your relationship. Bisexuals are considered even worse, like cheating slut wives or something, perhaps hookers (or gutter sluts!) working both sides of the street. While I heard a great deal about "LGBTQ Unity!", in practice I found identifying as lesbian, with an openness to being bi, as a quick ticket to social ostracization. Then I found heaven again.
There was a wave of interest in 'soft core' lesbianism, the so called 'lipstick lesbian' bars that still exist to this day. 'Straight' women would come in droves, bi-curious, some looking for someone to share a threesome with a husband they were about to lose to his twenty year younger, much tighter, much hotter secretary. Bi-sexuality was not seen as an obstacle, but as necessary, to help the well and truly fucked to see the 'Way of the Bearded Clam' as their salvation. Some went fully lez, some stayed bi. The social environment no longer cared about purity, and I could relax and be my bisexual self. But I found myself obsessing over pure conversions, a woman who wanted me, and only me, no dick (other than plastic) required. I could have my cake, I could eat it too, but the cake wasn't mine and it went home to someone else at the end of the night. I craved a woman of my own.
I hadn't even thought about any of this, it was just there bubbling beneath the surface, when I started looking for costumes for 'Wilma' and 'Betty'. It might surprise you to know there is a great deal of lesbian porn on-line, some for men, and some for women, and some, just hot no matter who the fuck you are. I had dumped some long ass query into the Google, and since my safe search is always off, it brought back a lot of stuff, including cosplay stuff (easy to copy), and the images that would sear my soul: Wilma and Betty having pure lesbian sex. I lost about three days that week (luckily over a three day weekend) Jilling my nub so much I had rug burn when it was over. Gotta remember to use more lube. I also had a few gigabytes of Wilma/Betty porn and a severely dented credit card. But even better, I had a plan. Unfortunately, I had to go back to work to make it happen instead of diddling my clit all day (and night!).
I looked at Leigh, I mean really looked at her as we went into the office. When she noticed me ogling her body, I simply explained I was trying to envision how to make the costumes I found online over the weekend fit her body. I did not tell her how I wanted to make them easy to remove, nor what I wanted to do to her once I removed them. Her red hair cascades down to her shoulders in a straight effortless style that Elizabeth often wore during "Weeds" (and yes, I also found her lesbian scenes there, which cost me one of those three days). I could see her beautiful breasts in the gauzy bra and nearly transparent white blouse - we have to dress to impress if we want good quarterly ratings. Our manager doesn't touch us, but he sure likes his eye candy, and rewards the ones who visually 'put out'. Since I have even less up top, I have a half cup Wonderbra, and a four inch shorter skirt. Most women would not wear the heels I do to work even to go out dancing, but the way they shape my legs and butt has been worth every penny and every moment of unsteadiness (plus it makes me tall enough to talk to co-workers over office partitions without having to stand on my tip toes).
"Hey, Leigh, there is a new club in the neighborhood, want to go check it out this week. You in?" I offer nonchalantly.
"Sure, anything's better than another night staring at the Tube." she replies bleakly.
