Sexy Briefs: Stocking Stuffers

When the Giving Got Good by M. Christian

"Hope you like it," Ophelia said, crossed-legged on their scratchy bulls eye rug, a wide, sweet smile on her face. She was good at a lot of things, finding a parking space on even the most insanely crowded street, making a rum cake that would make the Pope cry, giggling at cartoons, but she wasn't that good at hiding her excitement-not when the perfect spot opened up right in front of her, not when she made a rum cake that actually made her cry, not on Saturday morning just before the PowerPuff Girls, and definitely not on Christmas morning.

"Well, I hope you like mine, too" Henri said, perched on the edge of her favorite chair, a simple blue rocker, fingers knitted together in elegant contemplation. She was good at a lot of things, singing an aria from La Boheme, expounding on Aboriginal culture, debugging Windows — but even she wasn't that good at hiding excitement — not when she hit that note just right, not when she suddenly understood what the Dreamtime was really about, or when she got the damned thing to boot, and definitely not on Christmas morning.

"I know I will," Ophelia said, her tones musical, a wind chime caught in a warm, breeze wind. In photos, she was the beaming one, the bright and shinning one. Hair the color of polished gold, cut into a precious bowl, Ophelia was a sprite, a faery, a nymph: marzipan and spun sugar. Something that should be dancing on the top of the tree.

"And you know that whatever you give me will be wonderful," said Henri, her voice low and rumbling, thunder and deep ocean waves. In photos, she was the dark one, a great mahogany Budha. Hair kinked and curled, only a little blacker than her gleaming obsidian skin, Henri was strength, determination, caution and concentration. She was a mighty oak, a stately sequoia.

In the nearby kitchen, stuck to the white, pebbled metal of the fridge by a magnet disguised as sashimi, surrounded by similarly magnetic letters spelling out elegant haiku (Henri) and girlish dirty words (Ophelia) was one photograph: the sprite with thin white arms around the black Budha. Despite their differences there was a commonality about them, in spite of their different ways of doing it, smiling, and being it, happy, they were doing it obviously with each other, together.

But there was just one picture on the fridge, a photograph of the two of them. Just one. And it wasn't that old: Less than a year, no more than a few months.

“Our first Christmas together. I so excited!” Ophelia said, reaching for her clowns and balloons coffee mug for an experimental sip of still-too-hot-to-really-drink coco.

“I can tell, sweetness,” Henri said, taking a bite of run cake from the plate precariously balanced on the arm of her rocker. “And so am I.”

“I can’t wait for you to see what I got you. I’m sure you’re going to love it.”

“I’m sure I will. I just hope you like mine.”

“Oh, I know it’s going to be fabu,” Ophelia giggled, stretching out to grab a big box wrapped with gold and silver stars, curly ribbons, and a miniature snow-frosted tree, from in front of their cold, unworking fireplace. “’cause it’ll come from you!”

“Oh, you say that,” Henri said, taking another bike of cake and moving the plate down to her feet, “but I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You won’t, silly!” Ophelia slid her big box over to her lover’s sandaled feet, touching unpainted toes to wrapping paper. “Open! Open! Open!”

“Not yet, sweetness,” purred Henri, bending down to retrieve a small brown box from where it had been carefully hidden under her chair. “This is for you.”

“Oooooh,” cooed Ophelia accepting it with reverence, but then shook it once, good and hard, next to her tiny ears, listening for any incriminating sounds. “I can’t wait!”

Henri laughed, a base drum in the small room, the sound rolling off the walls. “It’s a little something, but I hope it shows how much I care for you.”

The sprite looked sad with joy for a moment, but the face wouldn’t hold against her animated features. When it collapsed with a wide grin she bent down, picked up the big box and presented it to Henri. “Ditto! Let’s open them together.”

“Okay, that’s be fun,” Henri’s voice was softer than usual, hushed by nerves. “I just hope you didn’t spend that much, you know we don’t have a lot of money.”

“I know, I know — but it’s Christmas, and Christmas is about giving and getting stuff. Can’t have Christmas without giving and getting, right?”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right, sweetness” Now her great voice was a low squeak. She surreptitiously wiped the back of her right hand under her eyes, hoping that the other girl didn’t notice.

“Besides, silly, it didn’t cost me anything! Not that you’re not worth a lot, I mean.”

Opehlia laughed, a bit deeper, a bit more assured. “I know what you mean. That’s what I did with your gift as well. But you’re priceless.”

“Oh, silly!” Opelia continued to rattle the box, trying to decipher the contents. “I was in the Community Exchange just the other day when I saw it. Your present, I mean. It leaped right out at me, saying ‘I’m just the right thing for Henri! Take me! Take me! You know me, I can never say no to just the right thing,” she stopped rattling, scooted over to rest her head against the big woman’s thigh.

Henri stroked her blond hair. “You are a precious girl, sweetness,” she said, voice cracking yet again. She juggled her own present. “It is awfully heavy. I wonder what it could be?”

“Open! Open! Open!” chirped Ophelia, lifting her head and smiling. “I can’t wait.”

“Do yours too. Come on, we’ll open it together. Funny that you mention the Exchange, because that’s where I got yours. Mary even said that it was the perfect present for you.”

“That’s so funny, Mary said the same about yours as well. She is such a sweetheart, isn’t she?”

“One of the best things in this world, I think. Right up there with you, sweetness.” Tape popped; stretched until it broke over her finger, a bit of cardboard under the wrapping was revealed.

“Oh, you!” Ophelia giggled, while she worked the top off her box.

Paper rustled, some tore, cotton was lifted aside. During, dark eyes glanced over at blue, blue back at dark, watching each other watching each other, hoping for flashes of excitement and happiness, praying against disappointment.

Ophelia first, Henri handicapped by colorful wrapping paper. She held it up in front of her eyes: tiny, silver, and elegant, the soft music it made in their tiny room was clear and sharp. “It’s a bell!” giggled Ophelia, chiming it gently with a rose and gold colored nail. “It’s beautiful!”

“It’s for your nipple ring,” Henri said, bending down to be closer. “So you can wear it always, and so every time it rings you can remember me.”

The sprite sniffled. “Oh, oh, oh,” she said, unable to continue. “It’s really lovely. Really, it’s just that, well, I don’t have my ring anymore, Henri. I’m so sorry! I traded it for… for what I got you.”

Henri was dumb. She looked at the tiny silver chime, listened to the single clear note it still gently played between Ophelia’s fingers. “Oh, sweetness, I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, it really is. I’ll keep it in my pocket. I’ll put it on a strong around my neck. It’s wonderful, so special,” she sniffled, loud and long, then looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said, not really understanding why she said it. “Now you open yours. Open it! I’m sure you’ll love it.”

“Okay,” the numb Henri said. Papers peeled completely away, revealing a box. The box was opened, revealing newspapers. Newspapers were pulled out showing something dark and wooden.

Henri held it up. “It’s, it’s — “ she started to say, but didn’t finish.

“It’s a rack! A whip rack! I was it in the Community Exchange and just had to have it. Won’t it be perfect for your flogger? You know, your favorite Jay Marsten toy? Won’t it look wonderful?”

“My flogger? Oh, dear… sweetness…”

“Don’t you like it? I thought it was just right for you. Isn’t it?”

“I think it wonderful. Really, it’s perfect. It’s just that, well, sweetness, I don’t have the flogger anymore. I traded it in… for your bell.”

Ophelia looked at Henri. Henri did the same back at Ophelia. The air grew clear, fragile, like it was going to shatter with tension.

Then Henri bellow with delight, a great explosion of happiness, and dropped down off her chair to grab the little blond sprite. Then Ophelia shrieked with joy, and rose to wrap arms around the big black Buddha while they both laughed and cried, cried and laughed, until they both fell over into a black and white, black and white tumble on the rug.

"My sweetness," Henri said, between long, soulful and quick, innocent kisses, her big arms wrapped around thin, little Ophelia.

"No," Ophelia, dreamy grin on her face, "you're the sweet one. Sweet as anything. As sugar," a kiss on Henri's nose, "as honey," another kiss, same nose, "as frosting on a big piece of cake," another kiss — much longer, much deeper, lips to lips. After a long, slow time, it broke, and Ophelia finished her list with "as love."

Henri smiled, lifting down to lift the thin girl's t-shirt, exposing a buttery expanse of soft tummy. "Au contraire," she said, lifting her head just long enough to playfully wag a finger, "you are the one who is sugar, honey, and frosting. All the good and precious stuff in this world is right here." Back to her rise of belly, a kiss to the silken skin.

"Oh," Ophelia said, voice tender and slightly lost.

"— and right here, of course." Ophelia had started the day out in t-shirt, still on, though pushed up, and comfy, slightly threadbare sweat pants. But not for long. Dark fingers slipped between skin and pants, Henri gently tugged, persistently tugged, and then, when they were down to her ankles, off — tossed into a far corner without a further thought.

"Oh," Ophelia, said voice even more tender, even more lost.

Hands on her thighs, with very little insistence, Henry parted her legs. Eyes wide with glee, and more than a little wonder, she stopped to look, to simply look. After a time she said, repeating but meaning more: "All that's precious and good in the world. Well, my world, at any rate. I could just eat you up."

Another kiss, different set of lips: Henri to Ophelia. Fingers gently stroking down, touching the smaller girl's outer lips, then holding them, pulling just enough to part. Again, a look, a watch, an admiration, before that kiss. After the kiss, lips to clit this time, Henri to Ophelia, another kiss. But then it was more than a kiss, or just a different form of a kiss: lips and tongue, stroking, flicking, washing, following the lifts and tucks, the silken contours of her. In applause, Ophelia cooed and purred, a great blond kitty, and spread her legs a bit more.

No time. Nothing in the world but Henry, kneeling down, lips and tongue, then fingers, playing her lover, playing with her lover. It really wasn't a goal, per se, but it happened anyway: Ophelia's breathing quickened, her thighs tensed, her fingers gripped the rug in itch-filled fists, and then it came out, hissed and screamed out of her.

"Sweet, deliciously sweet — " cooed Henri, running her fingers up and down Ophelia's thighs, tactile applause. "I could just eat you up, nibble on you all day."

"Whew!" the thin blond girl said, springing up — elbows on the rug, propping herself up. A thin strand of gold hair lazily dripped down her forehead. "I do exclaim, I do: whew!"

Henri didn't say anything, she just traced slow, lazy circles on Ophelia's tummy and smiled.

"— and as for who's the tasty one!" Quick, giggling like a maniac, hands suddenly on Henri's wide shoulders, pushing, toppling the bigger woman back. Tangled, this time it was Ophelia on top, Ophelia's hands that were tugging at clothing, revealing the other woman's mountainous, black breasts and even darker, already hardening nipples.

"Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no

…" Henri said, eyes wide, mouth open. "You're not going to — "

"I most certainly am," Ophelia said, her words slurred, her teeth cleanly locked around Henri's nipple. "Asfolutery, ah am."

"Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no," Henri said, her deep voice breaking, straining as the spill of denial flowed from her mouth.

"Weady?" the other girl said, delight and mischief winking in her pale blue eyes.

"Oh, no — " Henri started, but didn't finish. The next words — probably "Oh, no" — were cut off, washed away by a sharp, long hiss as Ophelia's teeth carefully, methodically, bit down onto her swollen nipple.

The squeeze was consummate, the control expert. Pearly white's like exact tools, perfect clamps. Slowly, glacially, Ophelia bit down just a bit more, anywhere else on the body unnoticeable-on Henri's fat, erect nipple, it was like a steel trap teasing at one of her most sensitive points.

Again, a bit more force, again the low hiss that steam whistled out from between Henri's lips, but this time there was something more: a flick, a touch of warm wetness as Ophelia's tongue touched, then grazed, then stroked at the very tip.

The teeth went on, squeezing down harder and harder, the tongue went on, licking, adding something subtle and sweet to the ferocious bite. Sometimes, Henri would come this way, from just Ophelia's precise nibbles to her breasts and nipples. But sometimes she needed, or just wanted something more.

Still leaning back, she freed one arm, turning herself so she wouldn't loose balance, and grabbed hold of Ophelia's left arm. At the touch, the other woman allowed herself to be led: hand grazing the front of Henri's jeans. "Rub me… please," Henri managed to hiss out, the fear of having to move with Ophelia's teeth still locked around her nipple almost pushing her other the edge.

Ophelia smiled, never once releasing her grip, and with that guided arm, she undid Henri's belt, unbuttoned her fly, and snaked her hand down between her thighs.

Warm, at first, then hot. Humid, at first, then steamy — then wet as Ophelia's fingers deftly slipped between her lover's great thighs. There, down among slippery lips, she found what she was looking for, what both of them were hoping for: a hard kernel, a very firm clit.

Lips and teeth tight and relentless, tongue magically adding to it all, Ophelia rubbed Henri's clit, building it all up, pushing her lover up higher and higher — until there was nowhere else to go.

Henri's version was a bellow, a roar, a scream that tensed and released through the whole body. Even one of her legs was sucked into the wonderful release: it kicked and jerked in perfect tune with her heavy breaths, beat of moans and sighs.

She collapsed, falling back onto the rug, arms out at her sides, legs recklessly apart. On top, snuggling up to her breasts, curling around her thighs, Ophelia curled and folded herself so that as much of her was touching the other woman, and that way they both faded, drifted off, and slept, dreaming of sugar, sweetness, heat, steam, and, of course, each other.

Sometime later, one woke — with the other following right after. Grinning just just as they stumbled they got drinks, went to the bathroom, but mostly just stood in the middle of their tiny apartment and kissed: lips to lips, back to white, big to small, love and love.

Few minutes later, after some relief and sips of water, they decided to take a little walk, to enjoy something amazing and absolutely free: the sights and sounds of their nice neighborhood, their lovely city.

When they opened the door they saw the box. Wrapped in pretty, and somewhat familiar, paper: gold stars, pale blue. Very pretty.

Puzzling, they took it inside, tore and peeled back the paper, opened the box. Inside were two simple, but very special, things: a lovely leather flogger, and a tiny silver ring — just perfect for a nipple.

There was also a card. Merry Christmas, my lovely friends. I hope you liked what I gave you. Never forget that presents are just things, and love, and who you love, is the most special gift anyone can give and get in this world. The card was from the Community Exchange, and the signature said Love, Mary.