Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By Una

When summer came, I joined Ann in Edinburgh. I’d hadn’t seen my sister since Christmas. It had been more than a year since we had “been together,” a euphemism she used for our sisterly intimacy. On that occasion, our lovemaking had been hurried. It was as though we were both frightened of  — yet we couldn’t do without.

Our strong emotional attachment was still there, but we were growing apart. We had different friends, were separated by hundreds of miles as we studied, and our passionate trysts were confined to clandestine embraces, a few stolen kisses and hurried fumblings whenever we were out of Mother’s sight.

The only chance we had to be together was at home, whenever we returned for Christmas or Easter. The last contact that had satisfied us both had been in Ann’s bedroom, where she stood with her back to the door, leaning on it in case Mother chose to enter. Fully clothed, we kissed hungrily, hands fumbling under our clothing until we reached and fondled the moist centres of each other’s passion.

That night, as Ann and I sat with our parents for the last dinner we would share for another few months, I wondered about my sanity. What was it that made me so desperate in my craving for the pleasures I got from embracing and kissing my sister?

Why did her touch thrill me like nothing else? Why did every stroke of my finger in her wetness etch itself in my memory, so that when in those half-asleep moments in bed, when reaching into my inner being for comfort, it was Ann’s wetness I felt, not my own? Why, when I took myself to the summit of satisfaction, was it always Ann who I dreamed of — lying beside me in my lonely bed, her fingers magically turning my raised legs to jelly as she plumbed the sinful depths of my soul?

I had a boyfriend, of sorts. Other girls envied me. Sean was attractive, the life and soul of any party — and he had money, or his father had. At least that was the myth at that time.

He was also sexually undemanding, which I found his biggest attraction. We could go to the cinema, and I wouldn’t be harassed by his wandering hand. He would sit in my flat for ages, talking to Judith and I — and never attempt to entice me into bed. Even when we were alone in the flat, he seemed indifferent to such things.

Later, I discovered that far from being a gentleman and respecting my person, he was a repressed gay. For all the time we were a couple, he never got up the courage to explore intimacy with a man, so far as I know. He simply avoided all sex.

I needed far more than Sean was capable of giving. I got fed up trying to excite him — soon relying on pleasuring myself in times of need, which was most nights. It wasn’t possible to touch myself without a picture of my sister Ann appearing. Oh, I’d fight it, and try to conjure up some lustful fantasy of a virile, handsome man to stimulate my brain and arouse my body.

But always, always, memories of my adventures with Ann would appear, until I finally had to surrender and allow myself to enjoy them. Sometimes they were highly erotic, other times they were mental snapshots of my sister’s nakedness, of the parts of her that made me shiver to recall. The gentle slope of Ann’s back, the curve of her hips, the creamy globes that were her breasts.

I’d see us both, giggling conspiratorially as we pleasured ourselves, staring intently into each other’s eyes, seeing the blissful thoughts reflected there until, with barely audible sighs, we would both ascend to our peaks — sharing a secret moment of satisfaction.

These images would intrude as I struggled to concentrate on some more acceptable daydream. But as a finger moved among my folds, the picture would be replaced by one of Ann emerging from the bathroom, topless, tight knickers silhouetting the rift valley along her mound. It was a vision that never failed to grant me the sweet release of orgasm.

Ann was on a five-year course in Edinburgh. Now 22, she had settled in well. It looked as though she would live permanently in Scotland upon graduation. I missed her desperately. We’d been so close at one time. I missed her sisterly comfort and affection, but most of all I missed our forbidden love.

During our late teens, our secret romance had waxed, then waned. Looking back, it’s clear that both of us felt that we should leave behind the carnal part of our relationship — the sly touching, the clandestine looks, the forbidden embraces, the mutual masturbation.

Invariably, when I lay with Ann, glowing in the aftermath of our lovemaking, guilt and fear would well up in my mind. Ann’s hunger for me was huge. I worried that she would be unable to have a family relationship later in life — a husband and children. I didn’t want her to rely on only me for love, for satisfaction.

I was different, I felt. I could marry Sean, and still retain my secret longing for Ann. I couldn’t marry my sister, but I was happy to imagine her face, to smell her excitement, to remember the warmth of her naked body against mine as I drifted off to sleep, face down, a comforting pillow tucked between my thighs.

I’d sit with my boyfriend for hours in his car looking out to sea, occasionally kissing, sometimes even petting. All the while, my mind would be filled with sexual thoughts of Ann. I’d see us in some exotic setting — kissing, hugging, fondling, using fingers and mouths to gratify each other.

These thoughts were on my mind as I hung up the phone and noticed that I was breathless. Ann had just told me that her housemates were going to a festival. She would be alone for the weekend. Making my way into the bedroom, I took down a suitcase and began to pack. I had to be there, with my sister.

*****

Ann greeted me in prim, sisterly fashion — a warm hug, a kiss on the cheek, an inquiry about my flight, and the offer of coffee. We sat in the kitchen, catching up with the latest news and gossip.

Later, she showed me around the house. It was huge compared with the dingy little flat I shared with Judith. The bathroom was delightful, if a little untidy. But it was Ann’s bedroom that thrilled me most. It was large and airy, with a big bay window and a double bed.

We stood awkwardly for a moment in the centre of the room. She didn’t need to tell me that I would be sleeping there. Although there were spare beds, I knew that was what she wanted, and what I wanted.

I turned to her, and our eyes met. Love and desire were there to see in Ann’s gaze, as well as the sweet dark fire of lust.

Wrapping both arms around my sister’s neck, I drew her mouth to mine. My tongue entered her like a lance. Her hands cradled my face between them as she responded to my kiss with a hunger so intense that it felt like fury.

Our breasts were pressed tightly together as we thrust against each other. Then her hands were on my arse, raising the back of the new skirt I’d bought to wear for her until my knickers were exposed. She slipped a hand beneath the front of them, her fingers seeking and finding my sex.

I felt a finger press against the soft, wet warmth between my legs. Then Ann flung her head back and laughed — not the soft, girly giggle which used to mark our secret touchings, but a loud guffaw of unrestrained mirth.

I freed my arms from about her neck and she stepped back. Smacking me playfully on the backside, she said, “You’re a dirty bitch, Una. Your cunt is dripping!”

To which I replied, “It was you doing the fingering, sister!”

We were still laughing as we went downstairs to eat the meal Ann had prepared. My ankles seemed to have wings. I couldn’t remember when I’d last been so happy. Ann and I were going to sleep together for the first time since I was about sixteen.

We’d had our moments since then, of course: but they were mere passing flights of passion, stolen moments in unsatisfactory surroundings, when we lived in fear of discovery and wrestled with the torments of guilt.

A stranger would have known from our babbling over dinner how excited we were. We pretended, to each other and ourselves, that we were two sisters who hadn’t met for ages, having a leisurely meal. But it was hard to pretend — my beetroot cheeks and lobster-pink neck were giveaways. Ann knew me well enough to read the signs. Thankfully, she could not see the other clue to my lustful anticipation: the uncomfortably hot moisture between my thighs.

I needed a shower and an early night. I said so as I laid my fork and knife to one side.

Ann agreed. I ignored the way she was twirling one finger around another, trying not to look directly at me — a sure signs that her libido had gone into overdrive. I knew how she felt down there. I’d felt that warm, hidden puddle before, many times. Especially right then.

I offered to do the dishes. She wouldn’t hear of it. She offered a dressing gown. I told her it wasn’t necessary. I was hoping she’d join me in the shower. The thought of that was thrilling, but she didn’t.

After drying myself, I padded barefoot across the big room and sat at the dressing table fixing my long hair for bed. Ann arrived, fussed about, asked if I needed anything. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to tell her about going to bed with my flatmate Judith. I wanted to say to her, Yes, by Christ, I need a fuck. But I didn’t. This was not the time or the place. I would choose my moment in bed.

She asked about Charlie, my stuffed toy panda. In a moment of madness when I was about fifteen, I’d told her how I pleasured myself with Charlie — lying in bed, face down, his leg stuck between mine as I thrust. At the time, she’d laughed: a superior, big-sister sort of laugh.

Now Ann was teasing me about Charlie. I suspected that it made her feel better about her own passionate hunger. I gave a snort of laughter and called her an old bitch. It was a term of endearment, but I knew she didn’t like to be reminded that she was the older sister, even if it was only by two years. My sister would never be a teen again, but then neither would I.

The bed was crisply fresh. Cool linen sheets. They smelled newly laundered. I knew that Ann had prepared them for my visit. She’d left out a three-quarters-length traditional cotton nightie — for appearance’s sake, I supposed. We were still playing girlish games, pretending each time we made love that we weren’t having sex, merely indulging in a unique game we’d invented during childhood.

I climbed into her bed naked, smiling at the very thought of wearing a nightie.

I was almost asleep when she came to bed. The tiredness from a long day and the flight had me exhausted. I watched from under drooping lids as she undressed. It was like old times. Sharing a room, sharing a bed, sharing love with my sister.

But things had changed since we were children. Ann’s shape was different, the fuller figure of a mature woman — hips wider, buttocks broader. When she removed her bra and faced me, I could see that the high, perfect spheres had been replaced by two pear-shaped breasts. They were still small enough to belong to a fourteen-year-old, but they had lost their pyramid shape.

Who cares? I thought. They are part of Ann, an intimate, wonderful part of my sister.

Keeping her knickers on, Ann slipped into bed beside me. I took her into my arms, starved for her embrace. We kissed; a subdued, sisterly kiss. I was breathless with excitement, instantly wanting more.

Her hand was on my back — tenderly stroking me, as a mother would her baby. We kissed again, our lips parting, just a little at first.

Oh, my God. Ann’s hand had slipped down to my bare bum, and she was caressing it in the most indescribable way. Her thigh ground steadily against my crotch, making my nectar flow.

I was lost in a world of helpless lust. How could I have forgotten how sweet, how perfect this was? Why had I allowed what I had with Ann to fall by the wayside?

I’d had enough of these gentle kisses. My lips parted like a wild animal about to devour its prey. I bit her lower lip, then plunged my tongue deep into her mouth.

She responded by thrusting into my mound, moving her thigh so my cleft was parted, then closed, then parted again. The most wonderful sensations rolled over me, like an ocean wave lifting, carrying me away, tossing my quivering body hither and thither.

My hand was between Ann’s legs — cupping her, pushing against the warm moistness of her gusset. I wriggled a finger lower, seeking to part her, to open her inner sanctum to my probing. The humidity of her sex was soooo… arousing. It was as though my finger had been wrapped in a warm, soaking washcloth.

We thrashed about, turning, twisting — Ann on top, then me, then her again, like two cats fighting. We were struggling to get her wet knickers off, me tugging at one side, she at the other. Never had so much energy been spent trying to roll a pair of light cotton panties down a woman’s thighs. We were giggling, laughing in our frantic haste, the two of us almost hysterical.

She had no sooner kicked them off her ankles than I took charge. Kneeling alongside, I parted her raised knees. We had fallen silent. Ann sensed that what we used to call the Sacred Kiss was about to happen again for the first time in years.

I lowered my head until it was between her legs, kissing one thigh and then the other. She shivered. Delicious. I could smell her need, that wonderful musky fragrance so like my own, a natural scent I recalled from our earliest days.

I teased her. I wanted to tease her — as she’d done to me many times when she was Big Sister, the one who had to be obeyed. I licked to one side of her slit, a long slow lick like a fat, lazy cat drinking milk.

She shivered as my mouth passed by, tensing herself for the warm wetness of a lover’s tongue on her cavern. But it didn’t arrive. Instead, I placed my cheek on her vulva, using it as a resting place while my tongue traced a thin line on her inner thigh.

She groaned. The sweet sighs of earlier were gone — now she was articulating her hunger, desperate to rise to the heights of rapture.

I relished the plaintive moans, savored the convulsive squeezes of her thighs on either side of my head as I continued to toy with Ann. Was I being needlessly cruel? Or was I taking her further, prolonging her anticipation, promising with each kiss that she would soon be transported into a world where she’d never been before, not with any other lover.

I turned my head slowly. So slowly that I doubt if she felt my lips on her vulva. her thatch was well-trimmed but prickly. I didn’t mind. Her scent was assailing my nostrils, intoxicating me. Was there anything naughty, anything bold, that I hadn’t yet tried to please my sister?

I wriggled my nose, easing the stubbled lips apart, feeling the hot wetness on its tip. I slowly drew my tongue upwards, parting the inner folds, uncovering the tiny pearl of Anne’s clit.

Above me, Ann’s voice was muffled. Her thighs obscured my hearing, closing my ears as they spasmed — tightening, then relaxing. I could hear my name, along with repeated cries of, “Please.”

I knew she was near the point of no return. Her back was arching, hips squirming, her buttocks moving this way and that. I put my hands between her legs and parted the lust-puffed lips with two fingers.

It lay before me, the nerve centre of her sexuality. Parting my lips, I placed a tiny kiss on the love button. Slowly, as if drinking through a straw, I drew it between my tightened lips.

She cried out on the second intake. I held the fleshy pearl in my mouth, tickling it with the tip of the tongue. I pushed as if to expel, to relieve her agony of passion. But it was a tease. As she relaxed in anticipation of regaining her senses, I sucked the slippery nub hard, as if intending to swallow it, to eat her inner core.

She climaxed instantly, nearly throwing me aside as a violent orgasm overwhelmed her.

Soon, I lay between my sister’s legs, listening to her breath-catching gasps. Once Ann had returned to me from the ether, I crawled into her arms.

I’d never felt so close to anyone, before or since. We spoke of love, of how only sisters could love each other in such a special way. We talked of an upside-down world, where people killed and were killed, where cruelty and evil were everywhere, a world that would not allow us to openly express our closeness as sisters, as lovers.

That night, the barricades of guilt and shame were finally broken down for good. Until then, we had been held back by our inhibitions, our loving mired in a juvenile, eyes-shut world. But now it was as if my sister’s clitoris had become a magic button — once pushed, it opened doors in her mind, and in mine.

We were no longer clumsy, impressionable teens — Ann and I were two women in love, mature enough now to know it, eager to explore every side of our grownup needs and desires. I told Ann about Judith, how my roommate and I had made love on the night of the power cut. She seemed a little jealous at first. But as we lay together naked, stroking one another, my fingers running through her hair, Ann teasing my nipple, a wonderful calm descended on the room.

We listened to a distant church clock chime. Ann said it was nine PM. I marvelled that we’d been in bed only two hours.

We spent another couple of hours baring our souls to one another, exchanging thoughts. Men were okay. They were simple creatures, really — good for giving babies and sharing a home, bad to share a bed with. Women were lovely in bed. Some women were wonderful, the only source of real sexual thrills and satisfaction. Sisters were best, Ann declared, nuzzling my cheek.

I wanted to know how Ann could say this. Had she been in bed with other women?

“Not for a while,” she said. I quizzed her. Ann told me that she and her best friend Maura had made love many times.

It happened, she told me, during sleepovers. But Maura had to go to England. We all knew the story about her aunt needing her in London wasn’t true. She was expecting. She’d fallen pregnant at seventeen, when she and my sister were leading lights in a chastity group.

I felt my own pangs of jealousy, but it would hardly be fair to become angry, not after my relationship with Judith.

We lay silent. The special fragrance of the sex we’d had was everywhere: our faces, our fingers, our skin, on the bedclothes. It was the aroma of nature, of womanly love and desire.

I snuggled closer to Ann and put a hand between my sister’s thighs, dipping a finger into the humid valley of her cunt. There was an instant reaction. Like an underground spring, she began to flow freely, baptizing me with her essence.

Languidly peeling the fleshy hood back, I tipped the pearl of Ann’s clitoris. It felt so like mine. And why not? We were sisters, alike in so many ways.

The Goddess of Lust tempted me. I began to caress my own clit with my unoccupied hand, sighing as the need for satisfaction turned to passion.

Removing my fingers from her sex, Ann got on her knees beside me. “Let me watch you,” she whispered. I moved to one side and opened my legs. She shook her head. “No, let me see you, properly. Kneel up.”

I turned to face her, as wide open as could be. I looked into her eyes as she took in the view, enjoying the spectacle of her young sister masturbating. I felt like a slut — an unbridled slave to sex. But I needed this adventure with Ann. We hadn’t done this since we were kids, yet it was so much a part of what made us lovers.

I closed my eyes, surrendering myself to the pleasures of the flesh, warmed by Ann’s gaze. The escalator was climbing, carrying me step by step toward blissful release. I cupped my left breast, teasing the excited nipple between finger and thumb.

Wanting a glimpse of my sister, I allowed my eyes to open again. Ann was lying back on the pillow, her face flushed. I couldn’t see, but knew her hand was between her legs, enjoying what I was enjoying, experiencing it with me.

A stab of intense pleasure gripped me. My finger slowed and paused, resting on the magic button. I’d almost gone overboard, drowned in a sea of satisfaction before my head was ready for it.

I raised myself up on all fours, crouching in a most unladylike manner. Of course, at that moment I had no intention of behaving like a lady.  I turned myself around, bringing my face towards Ann’s lower half. My feet were on each side of the pillow behind her head. I placed my knees near her ears — then slowly, like guiding a ship into dock, lowered my cunt to Ann’s mouth.

I could sense her breath, cool on the fiery wetness along my cleft.

Her head lifted from the pillow. Gripping my hips, she drew me down and plunged her tongue between the vulva lips, forcing them apart so the tip slithered about in my hidden folds.

Gasping, I thrust a hand between my legs, using two fingers to spread myself open for Ann. I wanted her tongue to love me, to match its wetness with mine, to caress the tingling pearl until my brain went out of control.

I don’t know for how long Ann licked, sucked and kissed me. I was lost in dreamland, running to catch a will-o-the-wisp that appeared and then disappeared in the most unusual places, carrying me along in its wake.

My climax frightened me. I don’t know why. I was safe, comfortable, there with my sister. And yet it hit me like an express train. As its might swept through me, I ascended to the ultimate heights of ecstasy. When it passed, tears were rolling down my cheeks.

Ann and I lay awake for hours. We talked and made love, then talked again, made love again. Our hunger seemed boundless.

When morning came, Ann and I knew that what we’d found in each other’s arms was the real thing. That we were meant to be as one. We still are.

The End