Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By eloquent delinquent

It’s dark and stuffy in the closet, kneeling among the shoes, her head pressed between ranks of her outgrown dresses and last winter’s coats. But it’s become Charlotte’s favorite place. She finds herself slipping in here more and more, carefully unseen, drawing the door nearly shut behind her, only a thin wedge of light left. She can just see the fuzzy shapes of hanging clothes and scattered shoes, her hands and arms ghostly as they smooth down her body, deliciously squishing the sensitive swell of her breasts through the school shirt and tight training bra, over her budding hips and thighs wrapped in their mandatory knee-length denim skirt. She can barely see her fingers as they curl under the hem and draw it up, slipping underneath to hook frantic fingers or thumbs through the waistband of her panties and force them down to her knees. And then she glides her fingers back up her legs, in between, sometimes trembling, and the fingertips of her right hand press home into that sweet wet spot and begin her touching.

It’s the touching that makes Charlotte so fond of the closet, and so in need of it. The touching that made her Mom so mad and mean, that makes Jesus think she’s a slut and a hussy. The closet is secret, at least from Mom if not from Jesus (and He might forgive her someday if she turns out good), it’s dark and secret even on a spring afternoon like this.

And so far, it’s safe.

Dark and secret like her kitty, nestled cozy between her legs. Even at school, when it starts buzzing for attention, going all wet and soft, it’s a secret, no one knows. And when she gives it that attention, here in the closet, fingertips pressing against her slick, warm, creamy kitty, sliding and pushing, touching it everywhere, the feeling, that hot feeling, like she’s melting and somehow getting wound up even tighter, that’s a secret too.

It’s Charlotte’s secret, and she keeps it locked up tight, except when she’s in here. Because it’s wrong. The Bible says it’s wrong, somewhere. And Reverend Bealing says that all that stuff that happens down there, all of the “carnal” feelings, are wrong and doors for the Devil to walk in and sweep you away from Jesus. And most of all, Mom says it’s wrong. She doesn’t just say it, she screams it, and she slaps her and calls her awful things. For almost a year after her Mom caught her with her hand there (not once but twice), Charlotte was so good, even though her kitty got so wet and tender that even sitting was almost like the touching. She’d nearly cried, she wanted to so bad.

But then, halfway between 12 and 13, the urges got so much stronger and the feelings, even just from clamping her legs together, got so much better, that she couldn’t stop herself. Charlotte remembers that night last winter when Mom sent her out to the garage to get a box of Christmas decorations. And she went down the hall like a zombie in her flannel pj’s, heart thumping and nearly dizzy because she’d been melty all day (well, since she saw Jennifer Dwyer dressed up as Santa’s elf in that tiny red skirt and the tall black boots, but she tried not to remember that part), and when she got in the garage, in the dark, her breasts pressed against a rolled up sleeping bag as she reached for the box on the top shelf. Her aching nipples sent sparks shivering straight into her, it was shocking, so much pleasure at once. She staggered back a step, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, panting. Then she bit her lip, pulled her shoulders back, and did it again.

She gasped as she leaned into the firm softness of the bag, her breasts spreading a luscious pressure, and suddenly her hands were pushing into her pajama bottoms, cupping her slick kitty and squeezing herself, she had to, she had to, her butt and her hips and her tummy, her whole body, all rolling together to push her plump wetness into her grasping, fumbling hand. It was so, so much nicer than she remembered it as her fingers slid up and down through the cleft, and when she reached the spot, that spot, at the top, the one that got her started touching to begin with, the good feeling just billowed up inside her like a cloud of liquid fire, and she was bucking now and her fingers were rubbing her kitty and others were in her mouth and there wasn’t anything else but what her body told her.

And then came the shock, the clenching, blissful shock, she stiffened against it, rigid, suspended, the feeling from her kitty filling her, overflowing, and she strained to let it go through her, mouth gaping as if in a scream. And then all at once everything came unwound, loosened and slowed and became gentle, and there she was, Charlotte, breathless, wobbly legs barely holding her up, in the chilly dark garage. It occurred to her that only maybe five minutes had passed. No one had seen her, or missed her. Not her parents, or her sisters. No one knew. A secret.

She kept that secret, still keeps it, here in the closet, because she has to have that feeling again, a lot. So she slips away from her tidy bedroom, drawing the door almost shut behind her, and kneels on the floor among the shoes. And here she is, Charlotte, almost thirteen, with her white cotton panties a shadowy tangle around her knees, right hand slowly but firmly squeezing her slippery cleft while the other absently strokes her thigh. She gently bobs up and down, butt pushing out, back arching rhythmically as her breath catches. Her face is wedged between the hanging clothes, hot damp hair pressed to her face, feeling each urgent breath as it escapes and is trapped with her. She smells wool and leather and her own smell, musky and sharp from her sweaty body and her wet kitty, and it’s also a secret, and being secret only makes it smell better.

She rises up as she feels her tummy tighten, her thighs tighten, her right hand plays faster in that wonderful spot, building and winding and then the shock, oh, the shock yes and her eyes squeeze tightly shut, her hips buck and shudder. She gasps and moans softly into the pretty dresses she has outgrown. Charlotte comes all undone, relaxes, bends languidly over until her face is pressing into the floor, the shoes. And as her sweaty cheek rests on her Mary Janes, the dim light barely reveals her relieved, delighted smile.

The smile will stay in the closet, though. With the rest of it. Charlotte knows something about herself now. She can’t stop… no, that’s not true. If she were good, she could stop. No, Charlotte knows she doesn’t want to stop. The urges are stronger than her, and the feelings she gets from touching make her squirm with bliss even when she just thinks about them. If anything, the feelings get better the more she touches it.

And she knows she’s alone in this secret playtime, this shameful pleasure, because everyone else can only talk about how wrong it is and how nobody should do it.

It’s bad. And she’s bad. And she’s going to do it again, be bad again, because nothing else makes her feel as good.

Her mother calls “Charlotte!” from downstairs. She gulps a sharp breath, lurches to her feet. She bends and awkwardly rucks her panties back up over her hips, smooths her skirt.

She steps out of the closet carefully, looking to see if something is out of place, something that might give her away. But it’s all the same ~ even the bedroom door, standing wide open, as it’s been since last year when Mom caught her standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, nearly naked, curiously watching herself as her fingers slid gently back and forth over the crotch of her panties. The rage which followed nearly swept that memory away.

A sharp pang of shame jolts through her. The air here is open and she feels the light sheen of sweat wick away like steam. Charlotte nervously runs her left hand over her hair, straightening it. With even less thought she puts the fingers from her right hand into her mouth, the smell of herself filling her head briefly as she sucks, gently flicks at her fingertips with her tongue. Making them clean, so no one will know. If she were to look into the mirror at that moment, she would see the hot blush in her cheeks.

I was bad then, and I’m just as bad now, she thinks. But if no one finds out, if no one ever finds out how bad I am or how much I like it, everything might be okay.

Her fingers come out of her mouth, clearing the way for her to call, “I’ll be right there!”

She shuts the closet door firmly and heads downstairs.

Charlotte arrives in the kitchen to find her mother’s back is turned, cutting potatoes to go with tonight’s roast. Her Mom’s name is Eleanor, and she is thin and tall, stands very straight, with the same ruddy brown hair as her daughter’s, only hers is kept bound tight in a bun at the nape of her neck, like the Church prefers. Thinking of this, Charlotte nervously runs a hand over hair, fiddling with the ends almost at her elbow.

She waits to be acknowledged. Since their fights last year, Charlotte is cowed by her Mom’s capacity for anger, unexpected and scary. She tries to present as small a target as possible. Meekly pulling out a chair at the table, she sits and glances up at the light. Even though the sun’s still out, the light is on. It’s Mom’s way, turning on lights everywhere she goes, day or night. Like she doesn’t want anything to escape her, Charlotte suddenly thinks, and worries.

“I got a call,” her Mom says without turning, still cutting and sweeping the chunks into a bowl. “Just before you came home from school. Mrs Carmody needs someone to look after her little Megan tonight.”

Charlotte knows them from Wednesday Bible study. Megan is seven or so. Both she and Mrs Carmody are blonde, both wear glasses. They’re sweet but shy, and even though they’ve been around as long as Charlotte could remember, they are new by Congregation standards, outsiders. And now they live under a shadow.

“Short notice, she has to work,” her Mom says. “She thought of you.”

Charlotte thinks, After no one else would help her, and feels uncomfortable, the thought like a bad taste. She tries to think of something to say.

“What time?”

“You need to be there by 5:00. She says she’ll have something for you for supper there. Your father won’t be home till later.”

“All right, Momma.” Charlotte says, then a possibility occurs to her. “Does it pay?”

Eleanor reaches for a dish towel and turns around as she dries her hands. When she looks down on Charlotte, it feels like she’s swooping. “Why are you such a selfish girl? You know the money she gets from Mr Carmody barely keeps that roof over their heads. Service to others is Christlike. Serving unto others is as serving unto Him, like the Reverend says.”

“Yes Momma.”

She waits for her Mom to say something more, but she just looks at her, a scrutinizing, judging gaze. Charlotte wants to put her knees together, wants to fold her hands in her lap. She forces herself to keep still, can feel her neck stiffening. Can she tell?

Jodie bursts in, her boots clomping to a stop, out of breath, short hair just about an unkempt cloud around her head, with a big, goofy triumphant smile on her 9-year-old face.

Eleanor’s attention turns. “Did you run all the way home?”

“Had to.”

“You were still almost late.”

Jodie rolls her eyes, “That’s called being on time, Momma.” Charlotte can’t help but smirk.

“Don’t be sassy with me, young lady,” Mom says. “And those boots are filthy. You go back into the mudroom and take them off.”

Charlotte’s sister deflates. “Okay,” and she clomps sullenly out of the kitchen. “You girls act more like animals every day,” Mom says generally, then focuses back to Charlotte. “Go upstairs and get your books. And you put your hair up before you leave this house.”

Continue on to Chapter 2