Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By JetBoy

To begin at the beginning: I was a woman in love. That was my problem. What made it a problem was the object of my romantic obsession: Veronica, my neighbors’ daughter, a child of twelve.

She was exquisite, a willowy girl with long blonde hair and china-blue eyes. Since her mother was one of my closest friends, I was able to see her now and again when I dropped by to visit; but I also spent more time than I’m willing to admit simply observing her. Catching a glimpse of Veronica was always a highlight of my day. Oh, I had it bad, without a doubt.

Veronica was a vision of loveliness in pleated gray and red skirts and matching blazers, white knee-highs and plain cotton blouses. Some mornings I used to find myself getting up early, stationing myself by the upstairs window to watch as she made her way to the street corner, where she waited for the school bus with a few other neighborhood kids. She would strut defiantly down the sidewalk; hair bouncing, arms swinging at her sides, backpack dangling adventurously from one shoulder.

The way she moved at those times seemed so knowing — like the young girl she was, yet somehow strangely sexual. The hunger I felt at those moments was all but unbearable, and I often succumbed to the urge to masturbate as I spied on her from my bedroom.

I was especially mesmerized by the sight of those slender legs of hers, the soft, pale flesh visible between her stockings and the hem of the skirt. How many times had I longed for the wind to whip up around her, lifting that skirt to reveal those bare thighs all the way up to her white panties? I imagined they were white, anyway — the only proper color for a twelve-year-old’s underthings.

Until I fell in love with Veronica, I’d never even entertained the idea of sexual intimacy with a little girl. Women, yes — I’d certainly had my share of female bed partners, and an occasional man for those times when I craved a cock not made of latex. So when I first laid eyes upon this elegant child, back when she was a mere sapling of eight, the sudden unexpected warmth I felt inside only confused me. It took several more encounters with Veronica before I divined my true feelings for her, a realization that left me completely unnerved.

Veronica always seemed to be present when I was spending time with her mother Ellen. We’d be seated in the living room sipping coffee, and she’d be sprawled carelessly on the floor in shorts, nose buried in a book. It was all I could do to hold up my end of the conversation, what with those beautiful bare legs stretched out before me. I’d steal quick glances here and there, a deep-banked heat pulsing between my thighs all the while. Inevitably, soon as I strolled back across the street and through my front door, I’d climb the stairs to my bedroom, strip down and finger myself to climax, taunted by images of that flawless child and the memory of Ellen’s amused voice that time she said, when her daughter left the room for a moment, “I swear, that girl’s got some kind of crush on you. She only ever hangs around like that when you’re here.”

I knew it was wrong for a grown woman to feel this way, but little Veronica had ensnared me, body and soul. I’d lie awake at night, fantasies of cradling her in my arms and kissing her soft, sweet mouth flickering through my head like an endlessly repeating film loop. This forbidden desire seemed to consume me, like no passion I’d known since I was a confused girl of fourteen, hopelessly in love with my math teacher Mrs. Sloan.

I hungered for Veronica, longed to make her mine. Today, right out of the blue, my wish came true.

This story really began a few days earlier, though. It was 3:45 last Wednesday afternoon when the doorbell rang. I was engaged in a phone conversation and, pausing with a hand covering the receiver, called out: “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Miss Parsons!” Veronica’s sweetly childish voice rang out.

Startled, I lost my grip on the cell phone, and barely managed to snatch it from the air before it clattered to the parquet floor.

“I’ll call you back,” I said hurriedly to my publisher and started for the foyer. Reaching the door, pausing to hold my breath and then letting it out slowly, telling my heartbeat to behave itself, I opened the door and faced my youthful enchantress.

“Hello, Veronica,” I said, “is something the matter?”

She stood with her hands clasped behind her back, toes together, looking somewhat shamefaced.

“What is it, dear?” I asked her gently.

“I… I’m locked out,” she said simply.

“Locked out?” Peering across the court to her house, I saw no one –because, of course, no one was home. Veronica was a latch key child.

I knew what I wanted to do — invite her inside, tell her to relax, to make herself at home. But confronted with the object of my illicit desire, I was suddenly terrified. Of her. Of myself. Of the lust that crackled and hissed inside me. Of what I might do to this innocent little girl, given the chance. So I panicked.

Pointedly glancing at my watch, I told her, “I’m sorry, Veronica, but I’m just on my way to a meeting with my publisher about the new book. Can I, um, drop you somewhere?”

At the mention of my book, her eyes brightened. Veronica, through her mother, was one of the few souls who knew that yours truly, Chloe Parsons, was also Daniela White, author of the Jessica Hightower adolescent mysteries. I’d just completed book number six in what was to be an eight volume series, and my publishing house was scheduled to print the first run in less than a week.

“New book? You mean The Sleepover Puzzle?” she said excitedly.

I had to laugh at her youthful exuberance, knowing that in a few short years she’d probably regard the books as did most of the world: juvenile garbage.

“Yes, dear, The Sleepover Puzzle. And I didn’t forget –the first autographed copy goes to you.”

I expected her to jump up and down, clapping excitedly, and was not disappointed. Veronica’s skirt moved along with her bounces, and the quick peek I got of her pale thighs had me lightheaded with lust. Still, I really did have that meeting, though I actually didn’t need to leave for another half hour.

Then I had a thought. “I don’t mind if you wait here while I’m gone, you know. Would you like to hang around until your parents get home?”

She pondered, then shook her head. “No, thanks, Miss Parsons. All I need is to use your telephone.”

“The telephone?” I echoed inanely. Honestly, Chloe, I chided myself. Repeating after a twelve-year-old? Are you that addled?

“Who do you want to call, sweetheart?” I asked.

“My dad has a key hidden somewhere. He told me if I ever needed it, I should just call him — and he’d tell me where to look.”

I suppose that made some kind of sense, though not to me, really. Making a locked-out girl of twelve call to find out the whereabouts of a spare key to her own home?

Reading my expression, she shrugged. “Dad thinks I’d just blab where it was to all my friends… and then he might as well just leave the house unlocked.”

I nodded. Her dad, bless him, had a point. But then, he was a parent.

“Well, come in,” I said. “You can’t phone him from the doorstep.”

Although, of course, she could. After all, the cell phone I’d been using moments ago was in the pocket of the jacket I wore. Letting Veronica pass, then closing the door behind her, I forced myself to refrain from even touching that pocket. My heart was hammering again. All I could think about was the downstairs extension and how it had conked out on me yesterday. The only other phone in the house was upstairs on the second floor in my bedroom.

In my bedroom, on the table next to my bed.

Heart racing, I led Veronica into the living room and lifted the dead extension, pretending to be taken aback when it didn’t work. “Oh, dear… we’ll have to go upstairs,” I explained.

With perfect innocence, she asked, “Don’t you have a cell phone?”

With perfect subterfuge, I replied, “Oh, I do — but it’s in the car. My bedroom is much closer.” Smiling, I bid the way up the stairs with a sweeping gesture.

Girlishly skipping up the narrow flight, Veronica leaped ahead of me by five or six steps, enough that I could glance up her skirt to see yellow cotton panties covering her delectable rear end. Though foolishly disappointed they weren’t white, my regret was dwarfed by the warmth that now blossomed between my legs. An image of lifting her skirt and pressing my face into that delectable little bottom had me so wet, it seemed as if I could smell myself. I guiltily wondered if Veronica could detect the scent of a woman in heat.

At the bedroom door, I ushered Veronica in and watched her cross the floor to the bedside table. Here then, was the best chance I’d ever have of kissing this exquisite girl’s soft shoulders, caressing her smooth, boyish chest, brushing her delicate vulva with my lips and tongue. I wanted to moan, and almost did.

Receiver in hand, forefinger poised over the number pad, Veronica gave me a look of concern. “Miss Parsons? Are you all right?”

Damn. I swallowed, composed myself. “Oh, I’m fine,” I murmured. “A b-bit out of breath, that’s all.”

“Oh. Okay.” Veronica turned back to the phone, punching in the number as she’d surely done hundreds of times before. She held the receiver to her ear, her head tilted adorably to one side, and waited.

“May I please speak to Mr. Moyer in Accounting?” she asked in a perfect, Father’s Little Girl voice… but as her eyes met mine, she shook her head, a tiny smirk attached. “Daddy insists on good phone manners,” she whispered.

She suddenly turned toward the window, peering across at her house. “Daddy? It’s me.” A pause as she listened to the voice on the other end.

“Um, I forgot my key, so I’m locked out.” She turned to smile at me, rather sheepishly. “I’m at Miss Parsons’ house. She’s letting me use her phone.”

Veronica’s father spoke again, and the child sighed. “I know, Daddy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to forget… Can you tell me where the key is? Pleeease…?”

There was a pause, and Veronica pursed her lips in concentration as she listened to her father’s instructions, finally breaking into a smile. “Thanks, Daddy! I love you… okay, I will. Bye!” She made several kissing sounds, and then jammed the receiver back into its cradle. “Daddy told me to say ‘thank you’, Miss Parsons.”

I couldn’t help but grin. “Tell him he’s very welcome.”

She sighed. “He gets so grumpy when I forget things.” Shifting from one foot to the other, she mumbled, “Um, okay. You still have to leave, don’t you? Well, I guess I ought to…” She gestured toward the door.

Now, I knew very well what I should do at that moment: take Veronica downstairs, give her a goodbye and a pat on the shoulder; then send this lovely child on her way.

Of course, I did no such thing.

Instead I replied, as casually as I was able, “Oh, I’m not in that big a hurry, sweetheart. You don’t have to leave right away, if you don’t want.” I gestured at the Picasso print I’d had mounted and framed a few weeks ago. “What do you think of this? I just picked it up.”

Pursing her lips, Veronica studied the colorful print, and then giggled in delight. “I love it,” she chirped. “It’s sort of like… a cartoon!” Then she gazed around the room for the first time, eyes widening at what she saw.

I love to collect beautiful things, and had placed some of my favorites in the bedroom. I watched as Veronica studied the Japanese Noh masks that adorned the wall, the Streamline Moderne lamp I got for five dollars from a junk shop, the cat-shaped salt and pepper shakers that rested on each end of my writing desk, the walnut bookcase filled with dozens of snow globes I’d accumulated through the years. These treasures and more had transformed what had been an ordinary room into my own little corner of paradise.

Now I had a new treasure, her face alight with awe as she slowly turned where she stood, taking it all in. “Wow, Miss Parsons!” she gushed. “I like everything in here. What a cool place.”

She sat down on the edge of my bed. “And this feels soooo soft!” she cooed, giving it a tentative bounce. Bashfully, she asked: “Can I lie down and see how it feels? I’ll take my shoes off first, promise.”

My throat felt as if I’d taken a gulp of baking powder, but somehow I managed to say, “Sure you can, sweetheart.”

Grinning widely, Veronica bent down to slip off her Mary Janes, then swung her stocking-clad legs onto the bed. She laid back, the gold of her hair shining all the more brightly when spread out against my white pillow.

“Mmmm… This is really comfy, Miss Parsons — way nicer than my bed!” She sighed, wiggling her toes.

“I’ve always slept very well on it,” was my reply, as if I were in a mattress commercial. Gracious, I must have sounded like a perfect fool.

Resting her clasped hands on her tummy, Veronica asked: “Miss Parsons…?”

“Yes, dear?” Keep calm. Relax, damn it.

“Ummm… do you think I’m pretty?”

Well. So much for being calm. Yet the words came far more easily than I would have suspected.

“Yes, I do, Veronica, dear. I think you’re one of the prettiest, most adorable little girls I’ve ever seen.” I was shy, feeling my face go hot as I spoke.

Veronica blushed too, her cheeks pinking with pleasure. “Thank you, Miss Parsons. And I think you’re the… the loveliest lady I know!”

I was genuinely dazzled. My, she does know how to turn a woman’s head, I thought. “That’s very sweet of you, Veronica. Thanks.”

She was grinning, more confident now. “I mean it… you’re so pretty — sexy, even!”

I was on fire, aching to climb onto the bed with this flawless little nymph, draw her into my arms and kiss that sweet, smooth mouth. Would it taste like lip gloss, Life Savers, bubble gum? I wondered.

There was something in Veronica’s eyes, her smile, her body language — something I saw told me that if I did kiss her, she wouldn’t mind it at all.

But then that old demon Fear began to whisper in my ear once again.

What in the name of everything holy was I thinking of? Making a play for my next-door neighbors’ twelve-year-old daughter? What if she freaked out, or began to cry? Was I prepared to face the consequences if Veronica told her parents that I’d attempted to make love to her?

I swallowed with difficulty, and then spoke. “Goodness, Veronica… if you keep showering me with such lovely compliments, I might get a swelled head.” Then I pretended to get an idea. “Why don’t we go down to the kitchen, sweetheart? We can have cookies and a glass of milk before I leave.”

For an instant I thought I caught a flash of regret in Veronica’s eyes; then it was gone. Was she actually disappointed at having to leave my bed?

“Okay,” she agreed, and sat up, pausing to slip into her shoes before rising to her feet.

“Shall we?” I offered, extending a hand to her. Veronica accepted it, and we left the bedroom, heading downstairs to the kitchen… and for me, safety.

Veronica seated herself at the table while I opened a box of chocolate chip cookies and arranged them on a plate, then poured two glasses of milk. I felt a mad impulse to sneak a splash of scotch into my glass, enough to loosen the knot of tension in my belly.

Reluctantly tearing my eyes away from the bottle of Glenlivet, I handed Veronica her glass, seating myself in the chair opposite hers. “Help yourself,” I told her, then we tucked into our little snack.

Three cookies and an empty glass later, my adorable little neighbor sat back in her chair, patting her tummy. “You have such an awesome place, Miss Parsons,” she sighed dreamily, glancing around my kitchen.

“Why, thank you, Veronica,” I replied. “I grew up in this house, you know. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else… it would be like losing a piece of myself.”

The youngster was staring down at the table top, poking at a stray cookie crumb. “May I – do you think I could maybe, um, come by again someday, and you could show me around some more?” She was blushing very prettily.

Trying to make it seem perfectly innocent, I placed a hand upon hers. “Of course you can, sweetheart. I’d love to give you the grand tour –don’t know why I’ve never offered to do it before, actually. You can drop by anytime.”

“Cool!” she squealed, breaking into a huge grin. “I c-can’t wait!”

Neither can I, little one, I thought, enthralled by the elegant line of her neck. I ached to kiss her there, to breathe in the faint perfume of her skin.

“I really like all those glass ball thingies,” she said, “the ones that snow inside. How’d you get so many?”

“That’s an interesting question… and they’re called snow globes, by the way.” She nodded, listening raptly, and I plowed on. “Five years ago I had a profile in the New York Times, and I don’t know how the subject came up – but I happened to mention that I liked snow globes. I only had about twenty at the time, but after that, folks started sending them to me — well, to my agent, really, since they don’t know my real name. There were dozens, from all over the world. I’ve got over three hundred by now. Most of them are in the library, but I keep my favorites up in the bedroom.”

Veronica’s eyes were huge. “Three hundred? Wow!”

That’s when I had a flash of inspiration. Rising from my seat, I said, “Wait here, sweetheart. I’ve got something you might like.”

I hastened down the hallway to this huge storage closet of mine. Opening the heavy oaken door, I searched through the crammed shelves until I found what I wanted: a duplicate of one of my nicest snow globes, at least four decades old: a little Dutch girl on ice skates.

Emerging with my prize, giddy with excitement, I positively raced back to the kitchen and Veronica, who was nibbling at a fourth cookie.

“Here.” I pressed the glass treasure into her small hands. “For you, my dear.”

Veronica stared at the globe in utter astonishment, then up at me. “You can’t!” she gasped. “I… I couldn’t!”

I laughed joyously. “Yes, I can… and yes, you could.” Taking the child’s hands in mine, I closed her fingers around the globe. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got another one just the same. Now, every time I look at mine, I’ll think of you.”

Blinking, her eyes suddenly moist, Veronica carefully placed her gift upon the table, and then slowly stood. She made as if to speak, then suddenly flung herself around my waist, pressing her face against my breasts. My heart stuttered wildly as she swayed against me, and I twined both arms around the child’s back, gently hugging her.

“Oh, thank you, Miss Parsons, thank you!” Veronica sobbed, trembling as I held her. She tilted her face up to mine. “You’re so nice to me,” she whispered. “I… I really like you!”

“I like you too, Veronica,” I breathed, nearly overcome by an urge to let my hands drift down her back, inching lower and lower until I was cradling that exquisite little bottom. Or kiss her, I could do that much, couldn’t I? Just one tiny kiss on that flawless mouth.

My lustful reverie was shattered when I caught a glimpse of the kitchen clock, realizing with a start how much time had flown by. Shit.

As gently as I could, I extricated myself from Veronica’s arms. “Sweetheart… I hate to say this, but I really do have to leave for my meeting.”

“It’s okay,” she replied, giving me a brave little smile as she turned to retrieve the globe, clutching her prize with both hands. “I understand.”

“But it was a real treat, having you visit… and you know that you’re welcome to drop by at any time, don’t you?”

She gave me the most charmingly wry smile. “Any time…?”

I laughed as we made our way to the foyer, my hand resting on her shoulder. “Well, best not pop in between midnight and seven. I’m quite the she-bear when roused from my slumbers!” We both laughed.

She turned to me as we reached the door, and I reached out for her hand. “Goodbye, Veronica. I hope to see you again, very soon.”

Shifting the snow globe to the crook of her arm, she took my hand in both of hers, gazing warmly up at me. I could feel myself falling into the blue pools of her irises. “Thank you, Miss Parsons. I had a wonderful time.”

I opened the door for her. She gave me one last smile, then turned to go. I watched as she skipped her way down the sidewalk, my eyes drawn, as they so often were, to her flawless little bottom. I pictured it jiggling delightfully beneath that pleated skirt.

Shutting the door, I shrugged into a jacket and picked up my handbag and key ring. The good news was that, barring an accident on the freeway, I would make the meeting on time. The bad news? I didn’t have time to masturbate before I left. But I’ll damn well make up for it when I get back, I thought, absently jingling my keys as I made for the garage.

*****

Two days later, Veronica appeared again on my porch. I’d only been home for a few minutes from a long lunch with my editor, and gave a silent thank-you to Providence that I hadn’t stayed for dessert.

Assuming Veronica had come by for the house tour I’d promised, I was all smiles when opening the door to her — only to falter when I spied the glum expression on her face.

“I forgot my key again,” she mumbled, “and Daddy changed his hiding place.”

I hastened to reassure her that she was more than welcome to call her dad again as I drew her inside. Of course, there had been no opportunity to repair the downstairs phone and, a bit embarrassed, I indicated that, once again, Veronica should precede me up the stairs to the bedroom. She did so, though anything but gaily this time, leaving me no opportunity for a peek at her underwear.

“Daddy’s going to kill me,” she said, her voice sullen.

“Of course he’s not, Veronica,” I told her soothingly; hoping Paul had no intention of spanking that precious little behind.

I happened to know that spankings had been a part of Veronica’s disciplinary life until the previous year, when her mother had put a stop to it. “Can’t have a developing young lady going without underpants across her daddy’s knee,” Ellen confided in me one day over tea. Upon hearing that, I’d imagined Veronica stretched across my own lap instead of her father’s, that pale bottom bare beneath my hand –and shivered at the thought.

Reluctantly, nibbling her lower lip, Veronica picked up the handset and punched in the number. From where I stood I could hear the faint double ringing, then a tiny click as the line was picked up.

“May I speak to Mr. Moyer in Accounting?” Shoulders hunched, Veronica went to stand before the window facing her house. “Daddy? It’s Veronica. Um… I lost my key again.” I saw her wince at the sound of her father’s voice, and felt bad for the child.

Holding out the phone, she indicated that her dad wanted to speak to me.

“Hello, Paul,” I said, taking the handset.

“Chloe? Thank you so much, and I’m sorry for bothering you. I knew Veronica would forget that damn key again. I apologize for not letting you know beforehand where it was. I swear, I don’t know what’s come over that child lately…” His voice trailed off into an exasperated sigh. “Well, whatever. Tell her the key is in a plastic baggie under the runoff tray just beneath the downspout on the front of the garage. She’ll know exactly where that is. Thanks again, Chloe. I’ll be having a little discussion with Veronica tonight concerning all this inconvenience.”

“I’ll let her know. And really, Paul, this has been no inconvenience at all. Believe me; if I had a daughter, I’d want her to be just like Veronica.”

He chuckled. “Well, thanks for that. Take care, Chloe.”

“Bye, Paul.”

Replacing the handset on the cradle, I turned to accompany Veronica back downstairs — then froze in mid-motion, my heart thumping wildly.

“Veronica!” I gasped. “What are you doing?”

Her hand on the knob, clad in only her white panties and cute little socks, Veronica smiled at me timidly as she closed the bedroom door behind her.

Continue on to Part Two