“Michelle, baby,” Sonya said to me one afternoon over coffee at her house. She regularly calls me baby when she wants my attention, and I’ve stopped correcting her. “If I write ‘bear with me,’ do I spell it B-E-A-R? Like a big furry creature with claws?”
She hid her face behind her coffee mug, steam rising over her eyes and front bangs. She’s a stunning blonde with small breasts and big hair, and bright green eyes. Her high cheekbones made her elegant looking, even though that’s the feature she hates the most about herself. That afternoon, she wore a leopard print sleeveless top under a pink vest, and black tights.
I sipped my coffee, shrugged, and told her I didn’t know for sure. Then I asked if she were writing novels again.
At the time, Sonya was an off-again on-again aspiring mystery and western novelist. Now days, she writes a book a month, and many of them are mysteries set in the old west, the rest are steamy erotic romances.
“But,” Sonya said, “it makes more sense if it’s spelled B-A-R-E.”
I told her bare wasn’t the right word in the phrase “bear with me,” unless you’re in a nudist colony. We shared a good chuckle, the kind that comes from the bottom of the belly. A naughty thought found a back door in my head. Sonya had nice hips, round and plump in a way you could grab onto.
Damn the random neuron firings. Sonya was my bestie, why had I ever thought about grabbing her?
The wicked way her green eyes looked me up and down told me she was thinking something similar about me. At least I hoped. Certainly wasn’t the first time we’d had this semi-awkward and sexually charged silence. I’d always been the skinny awkward girl with the big nose and mousy brown hair. I hid the awkwardness in adult curves now, but the nose and hair still didn’t do me favors.
“Let’s make a bet,” Sonya said. “If you’re right, I’ll buy you a steak dinner.”
I asked about what happened if I wasn’t right.
“Then you have to bare with me.”
I didn’t need to clarify what kind of bare she was talking about. A lump formed in my throat. Sure, a steak dinner sounded lovely, but Sonya couldn’t afford that. At various points, we’d joked around about having a “lesbo night,” with lots of alcohol and stripping, but that had remained a joke.
So I got out my phone and we dived into an internet rabbit hole of looking up the difference between bear and bare. Turns out Sonya owed me a steak dinner. My win felt hollow.
“Congratulations, baby,” Sonya said. Then she did the almost unthinkable. She leaned toward me and kissed me on the lips. Not just a peck, but a full kiss with lipstick smears and a taste of tongue action. Sonya pulled away first, lovely cheekbones bright red. She tried to apologize, but the words came out unsmooth and stuttering. Clearly she felt the same as I did—a sharp electrifying jolt that wired my entire body, and a hot flush that burned my skin.
My arms and legs went jittery, like a weird kind of stage fright with an audience of one. I wanted to run and hide, at the same time I fought the desire to fall into Sonya’s arms.
I didn’t put up much of a fight, much to her surprise.
Grasping both her elbows, I pulled her to me. She smelled of sweet perfume, coffee, and sweaty nervous female. Sonya loosened up, and melted into my embrace. In turn, I relaxed as her strong fingers massaged my upper back and shoulders. Making out with her was so different from kissing a man, yet entirely different. More gentle, soothing and affirming, Sonya seemed to know exactly how my body worked, and diligently pulled all my strings like a puppet master.
When she cupped one of my breasts, I nearly went up the wall. Her skinny hand seemed to be made for me. Then she pinched my nipple, and I melted.
Primal urges took over. In a blur, I pushed her back on the couch, my head between her legs, and landed kisses up her thighs. Sonya giggled, and grabbed a fistful of my hair, urging me onward. Then I did the unexpected—both for me and her—I pulled down her tights around her ankles. My naughty best friend wasn’t even wearing panties. Her bare bush had obviously been shaved not long ago, but was now prickly like a cactus.
Sonya squirmed as I went down on her. I did all the things I enjoy doing to myself, plus all the tongue action I wish someone would give me. I lapped up her juices like a woman dying of thirst in the desert. Pretty soon, the room seemed to heat up a hundred degrees, and my clothes became too hot and heavy to wear.
I stripped fast, desperate to give in for Sonya. She bared with me. Next I know, we’re on the living room floor in a sixty-nine position. I pinned Sonya down, wrapping my legs around her head, and eating her out like the best meal ever.
Where I’m slobbering and spitting all her, Sonya appeared to be a fucking expert on rug munching. Her lips teased and played all over my flower, across my clit, near my ass, and then all the way up. Finally she entered me with two fingers, and curled them inside, hitting my G-spot perfectly. My skin was slick with sweat, almost like I had a fever. I squirmed and wiggled my hips on Sonya’s face, wanting it deeper and faster.
She complied, pumping me to new heights.
My body jolted and spasmed with an orgasm, wave after wave crashing through me. I muffled my scream in Sonya’s pussy, and returned the favor as best I could.
Afterward, she lay in my arms on the floor, our bodies tangled together. I stroked her hair, and kissed her forehead. Lesbo night had finally become a reality, all because of a stupid bet.
I just made sure that my win became Sonya’s win, too.
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