Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By Naughty Mommy

“So, Amanda, what did you learn in school today?”

I set a plate of hot spaghetti in front of my 10-year-old daughter, along with another plate at my own place, and sat down next to her. We were eating dinner at the small table in the kitchen, which we normally did, and I began our evening conversation the way I usually did as well.

“Tell me what you learned today.”

Just as typically, Amanda would wrinkle her nose at this request, complaining that she’d learned nothing interesting and would prefer to talk about almost anything else.

But this time she surprised me.

“Oh, I’m glad you asked, Mom, I almost forgot.”

“Forgot what, honey? Do you have a special assignment or something?” I took a bite of green salad, which I’d served with our spaghetti, and waited for her response.

“No, but, um, there’s a question I want to ask.”

“Okay, what is it?”

She twirled a single strand of spaghetti around her fork, along with a bit of sauce, and put it in her mouth. Amanda was not a big eater.

As she began to chew the bite, she said, “Um, in science today, the teacher showed us a video. Only they made all the boys go to a different room and they saw a different video, I guess. You know, one made for boys. Because the one we saw was about girls.”

“About girls?”

“Yeah. It was called, um, Female Health and Reproduction. It told how girls get mature and stuff. You know, all that junk about how babies are made.”

“Right, right, I remember now. They sent a permission slip home a few weeks ago that I had to sign so you could view that. I’d forgotten about it. Was it interesting?”

Now she gave the typical nose wrinkle. “Most of it was boring. Just stuff I already know.”

“Okay, well, if you have any questions…” I’d already begun telling her some things about menstruation and reproduction, based on what I thought was appropriate for her age. I found it very difficult, but still I tried my best.

“I do have a question, though. About one thing they said.” She took another tiny bite of spaghetti.

“And that is?”

“Well, um, there was this doctor in the video, a lady doctor, and she was talking about the sex part, about, you know, um, safe sex and contra… um, contra…”

“You mean ‘contraception’?”

“Yeah,” she giggled. “I was gonna say ‘contradiction’ except I knew that wasn’t right.”

I smiled at her. I loved her cute sense of humor. “But you know what contraception is, right?”

“Well, yeah, the pill, I mean, like, birth control pills, and those things, uh, condoms, and stuff…”

“Okay, good.”

“But the lady doctor said something else too. When she was talking about girls having sex, she said that one way you can have sex is, like, by yourself. You know, masturbating.”

I almost choked on the sip of wine I was about to swallow. This was the first time I’d ever heard my little girl use that word. I took another drink from the wine glass. Not a sip this time, but a gulp.

I gave my daughter a forced smile, doing my best to project a calm demeanor, even though I was feeling very nervous inside. She didn’t seem to have noticed my anxiety, luckily.

“So, um, the video told us that, like, masturbation is normal and healthy and everything. That’s true, right?” She looked up at me.

I took a big bite of spaghetti and used that as an excuse to simply nod my head and not say anything.

“And they showed all these numbers and stuff,” Amanda continued, “where it said that, um, that 90% of grown women masturbate at least once a week.”

She put down her fork and looked up at me again. “Is that true, Mom? I mean, like, do you do it too?”

“Oh, um…” I swallowed my bite and then carefully cleared my throat, stalling for time while I decided how to answer her.

“Yes, honey, I suppose it is true. I imagine that nearly all women masturbate… uh, some maybe more than others, but sure, yes.”

“But — do you?”

“Well, yes, like I said, I think just about everyone does.”

“Really?”

I nodded my head, trying to be nonchalant about the issue, to behave like I thought an adult ought to behave and to be a good parent to my growing child. I use the word trying, however, because it wasn’t easy staying cool. Amanda’s question made me feel extremely anxious inside.

When I was a girl, my mother had taken a strict, shame-based approach toward sexual activity of any kind and had warned me that it was ‘dirty’ to play with myself. As a result, I grew up uneasy about my natural urges, and although I was unable to keep myself from masturbating, I tried to limit how often I touched myself, and of course I kept it a secret from my mother.

I never talked with any of my school friends about the topic either (I was shy and didn’t have many close friends anyway). And I certainly never let on to anyone, least of all my mother, that when I did masturbate, my fantasies were always about kissing other girls or about having my favorite female teachers touch me in a sexual way. I was convinced that those kinds of fantasies were especially wrong and sinful — and yet, when I indulged in them, my orgasms would be immensely powerful, and would keep on coming, one after another.

If I tried to imagine boys kissing me when I masturbated, I could never get fully aroused. But every time I thought about someone like Ms. Simmons, the tall, slender, blonde Social Studies teacher with the beautiful blue eyes, and when I visualized her watching me begin to undress, and then putting her hand inside my panties, I —

“Can you show me how?”

My daughter’s question jolted me back to the present. For a few moments, I’d become lost in a reverie of my adolescent sexuality.

“Um, you…” I stammered, “what do you mean?”

“I want you to show me how to do it.”

“Show you how to what?”

“To masturbate.”

I laughed nervously. I knew I shouldn’t laugh, but I didn’t know how else to react. “Oh, well, sweetie, that’s not usually the kind of thing mothers do with their daughters.”

“Why not?”

She was the picture of virginal innocence, her sweet face gazing at me with complete trust. Her big blue eyes, her pink lips, her clear skin; she seemed so young, still just a girl, and yet here she was, on the cusp of womanhood, or at least adolescence, asking me to tutor her in the ways of feminine sexuality.

“I — it’s just….”

“Please?”

I glanced at the clock. “Whoa, honey, look at the time! You don’t want to miss your show, do you?”

“Oh, yeah! Okay — but you can’t get out of it that easy.” She jumped up from the table and headed for the living room, calling over her shoulder, “I’m gonna ask you about it again!”

I quickly did the dishes, then stopped by to see her. She was deeply immersed in the program, an HBO series about teenage vampires or something. I kissed her on top of the head, whispering. “I’ve got some work to do on the computer. I’ll check on you again in a little bit.”

She squeezed my hand, “Okay, Mom.”

As I walked toward my bedroom, where the computer was, I thought to myself, It’s just the two of us, all we have is each other.

My mother had died unexpectedly from cancer the year I graduated from high school. My father, perennially unemployed and an abusive drunk, had left us when I was 7 years old, and I never saw him after that. So, at age 18, I was on my own. Luckily, I was a bright student and my 4.0 GPA was enough to get me a good scholarship for college.

Being on my own in the semi-adult world, and having a chance to start all over again, somehow allowed me to blossom. Maybe I simply grew into my face and body, or maybe I began to develop some confidence, but in college suddenly people were telling me how pretty I was, and boys were asking me for dates.

Of course, my masturbation continued, almost nightly by then, and my fantasies were always of girls or women kissing me and touching me. But the lessons my mother had drummed into me over all those years had taken hold, and so I still was convinced not only that lesbianism was a sin, but that there was not even the remotest possibility that I could be a lesbian.

Believing that, I began going out on a few dates with college boys, and on one fateful night in my sophomore year, I finally lost my virginity.

Jeremy was tall, blonde, and handsome, a popular student-athlete with top grades, rich parents, and plenty of young women eager to throw themselves at him. I realize now that I wasn’t really anyone special to Jeremy, just another pretty girl. But the fact that I was still somewhat reticent and seemingly hard-to-get may have increased his desire for me.

When I did finally accept his invitation for a date (after he’d asked me three or four times), I was nervous and excited. Knowing that he was so popular, perhaps I thought that being seen with him might make me popular too.

After dinner at a fancy restaurant and then a late movie, he took me back to his apartment and changed my life. I wanted sex with him to be wonderful; I wanted my first time to be magical; I wanted us to fall in love and get married and live happily ever after.

But I didn’t love Jeremy. I didn’t even like him much. He really wasn’t very nice to me. He seemed shallow, and making love with him was not special at all. It was quick and rough and unpleasant. I felt used and dirty. I cried in the car as he drove me back to the dorm, and he never spoke one more word to me after that night.

Of course, when I discovered I was expecting a child, I never told him about it. I arranged a transfer to another college in a nearby city and before I’d begun to show very much, I was around people who hadn’t known me before.

Those early years were difficult. I refused to drop out of school, and although I had to reduce my course load so that I could work part-time and earn money, I kept up my studies.

Having Amanda in my life made the tough times worthwhile, though. We had hardly anything, but we had each other. Every spare penny I could get my hands on, I spent making her happy, giving her as joyous and carefree a childhood as I could manage.

After eight long years, I had a Masters Degree in Social Work. Then I succeeded in getting a good job with the state government; not a great salary at first, but a challenging and rewarding position with plenty of future potential. I’ve done quite well there, too, moving up quickly. Now, at age 32, I’m a Section Supervisor, with more than twenty people working under me.

The only thing missing from my life is romance. Not that I haven’t had opportunities. That is, I’ve been asked out over the years by one nice-looking man after another. But it has never felt right, and not once have I gone on a date with anyone while raising Amanda.

And even though I masturbate frequently, and even though all my fantasies are of the lesbian variety, I still have never really allowed myself to accept that I’m not straight. After all, I look straight, don’t I? And men certainly seemed to find me attractive. So how could I be a lesbian?

No, I keep telling myself, I am what I always have been: a shy, pretty woman who isn’t comfortable being with men, and who has unusual erotic fantasies, but who is not a lesbian.

I’m just not cut out for love, it seems, excepting my love for my child.

And speaking of my child, what should I do now, with a young daughter just 10 years old openly expressing curiosity about female sexual practices — should I even consider teaching my little girl how to masturbate?

That’s what I was pondering that night as I sat down at the computer. I opened Google and typed in the question: “Should a mother teach her daughter how to masturbate?”

I was stunned to discover that I was not the only person wondering about this strange subject. Apparently there were lots of other mothers like me, with curious daughters, who wanted to know if they should do this or not.

According to Google, there were more than 2.7 million pages that addressed this question, or some variation of it. I clicked on the top three results, opening separate tabs for each of them, and started reading.

Here is some of what I read that night:

If a mother and daughter have a good relationship otherwise, then yes, I am a firm believer in parents instructing their offspring on sexual things. Who better to teach her daughter how to masturbate than her mother?
……

I have shown my daughter the way to masturbate. She saw me masturbating, one time, and asked me about it, and so I showed her. My mother also taught me how to masturbate when I was 10.
……

Well, my mother did it for me. When I was around 11 she asked to come with her and we went into her bedroom. She said she knew I was curious and she wanted to make sure I was doing it right. So she pulled down her panties, showed me her pussy, and told me to watch carefully. I was really intrigued as I watched her rub herself and get excited. After she had a climax she told me to try. So I took my clothes off and did it the same as she had done. While she was watching she started doing it again too. It was so intense and I had my first big orgasm. After that I knew what I was doing and I thanked my mom for her openness. Then I decided it was up to me to teach my little sisters how to do it. So I think it is fine and if I ever have a daughter of my own I will do the same for her.

As I skimmed through the various pages about mothers teaching their daughters to masturbate, I started touching myself. That was a common enough practice for me; I usually gave myself an orgasm at least once a day, and often at night I would search for erotic stories about lesbianism or for pictures of young women playing with themselves or having lesbian sex and I would make myself come while sitting at the computer.

But I hadn’t really planned to masturbate just then. I almost never did it before Amanda was asleep in bed. Still, as I read about mothers showing their daughters how to pleasure themselves, I found it irresistibly arousing. And by the time I reached the third entry above, after I’d been reading assorted answers for about five minutes, I was already quite wet.

The description the writer gave of her mother masturbating in front of her and then of the two of them doing it together pushed me over the edge. I came hard and loudly, with several recurring orgasms.

A few moments later, as I sat staring at my computer, breathing hard and still slowly sliding two fingers in and out of my wet vagina, I heard a knock at the door. “Mom, the show’s over. I’m going to bed now.”

“Um — okay!” I hurriedly tried to button up my jeans, hoping she wouldn’t come into the room and discover what I’d been doing. My fingers were slippery with my juices, though, and I fumbled with the buttons. “I’ll…I’ll…come in and kiss you goodnight… um, in a minute, sweetie!”

“All right…” then, after a pause, “are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine!” Still trying to catch my breath, I walked quickly to the door and opened it, trying to appear perfectly normal. I patted Amanda on the cheek. “You get ready for bed now, and then I’ll come in and say goodnight.”

“Okay, but…” She cocked her head, looking at my reddened face. “Are you sure you’re okay? Not sick or anything?”

“Of course, I’m fine, sweetheart,” I assured her, patting her cheek again — then suddenly I realized that I was touching her face with the fingers that moments before had been deep inside my cunt! I pulled my hand away and slid it in my pocket, hoping she’d not been able to smell the evidence of what I’d been doing.

Fifteen minutes later, after I’d thoroughly washed my hands, then tucked my little girl into bed and kissed her goodnight, I was back in my room, undressing quickly and sliding naked under the covers. Usually I would not get in bed quite so early, but I had a lot to think about that night.

Why had the things I was reading about been so exciting to me?

Why was I so nervous when Amanda asked me about masturbation?

Why was I so concerned about hiding what I’d been doing before she knocked on the door?

Why did I feel so guilty about everything?

The answer to my questions seemed obvious: it was because of the way I’d been raised by my mother, to think of sex and masturbation as shameful. And yet, that still didn’t explain why I’d found myself so incredibly aroused by what I was reading. The stories about mothers teaching their daughters to masturbate had a powerful affect on me, but why?

Why, when I pictured a woman taking off her panties and spreading her legs and showing her naked pussy to her 11-year-old daughter and then touching herself, why did that make me want to come? Was that normal?

Why, when I pictured the woman climaxing in front of her daughter, and then urging the little girl to take off her clothes so her mother could see her naked pussy, and then the two of them masturbating together, why did that get me so hot?

I was rubbing myself again as I thought about these questions and pictured the situations. What would it be like, I wondered, for me to show Amanda — and then I came again.

I rolled onto my side, clenching my thighs together around my hands, climaxing over and over again as I imagined my little girl watching me. It was a long night, and I didn’t get very much sleep, but over several hours I must have brought myself to at least a dozen orgasms, and perhaps many more. I wasn’t counting.

When morning came, I was exhausted. My pussy was sore and my fingers had such a strong scent of female arousal that I thought I might never be able to wash them clean. Fortunately it was a Saturday, so I didn’t have to go to work.

About 9:30, I finally dragged myself out of bed and into the shower — where I proceeded to masturbate several times again.

Slipping into a robe and a pair of panties, I went out and found Amanda sitting on the couch watching MTV and eating a bowl of cereal. I kissed her on top of the head. “Good morning, sweetie.”

“Hi, Mom,” she said around a mouthful of Fruity Pebbles.

I made myself some coffee and sat at the kitchen table slowly sipping it, still trying to figure out what was going on with me. After a few minutes, Amanda came in. She put her cereal bowl in the sink and then sat down at the table. She reached out her hand and smoothed down my hair. It was still wet from the shower and I had not combed it very well.

“Are you okay?” She looked at me with concern.

“Sure, honey, I’m fine,” I smiled. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You just look tired.”

“Well,” I chuckled, “I didn’t really sleep that well. But don’t you worry, Mommy’s going to be just fine.” I tweaked her nose.

She giggled, then crossed her arms on the table and laid set her chin down on them, looking up at me with her big blue eyes. “Um, so, can you show me, you know, about masturbation today?”

“Oh, well, it’s, I… I’ve been thinking about that.”

Amanda’s eyes lit up.

I felt a stirring between my legs. And without making a conscious decision, I heard my voice give her the answer that she wanted. Which, apparently, was also the answer that I wanted.

“Yes. Sure. We can do that.” Involuntarily I clenched my thighs together, hard, and shivered with erotic pleasure. I knew could make myself come again very quickly, already was I so aroused just from thinking about doing it in front of her.

She smiled at me. I wanted to kiss her pretty mouth, and that thought got me even wetter.

“But, first, um, I’ve got a couple of things I need to do, so you can watch TV, or, I don’t know, do you have homework?”

She was shaking her head and I was standing up, a little unsteadily, and then starting for my bedroom, my unfinished cup of coffee still on the table. “Let me… I’ll just… do this stuff, and then come back in a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay.” I heard her answer as the kitchen door swung shut behind me.

Before I’d even reached my room, I had my robe open and my hand inside my panties. I shut the door, fell face down onto the bed, and masturbated furiously, humping my hand, thinking about my daughter. Over and over I made myself come, first while lying on my stomach, then on my side, then on my back.

After one last intense climax had passed, I sat up groggily, pulled my panties back up from around my knees, then struggled over to my computer and turned it on.

I opened a folder I had with pictures of Amanda. I found a recent one of her pretty face with a big smile and enlarged it. Then I opened a second folder with explicit shots of young women masturbating. I found one that looked like it was of a very young girl, with a tiny pink shaved pussy, and I put it side by side with Amanda’s picture. I imagined that I was watching my little girl touch herself, and that she was watching me, and then that we were kissing each other — and as I fantasized, I touched myself and came again and again and again.

Finally, when I realized that I’d been in my room for over an hour after I’d said I’d be gone for only a few minutes, I decided it wasn’t fair for me to shut Amanda out like this, just when she was asking to be included, wanting me to share with her some of the most important and special parts of my life.

I convinced myself that since I loved her so and since all I wanted was what was best for her, surely no harm could come from a loving mother sharing her intimate secrets with her darling daughter.

Then I licked my fingers clean, not bothering to wash them this time, and turned off the computer. Before I left the room, I decided to change from the old terry robe I was wearing. I went to the closet and got out my nicest silk robe. After a moment’s hesitation, I pulled off my panties and left them on the floor. And then I went back out to see my little girl.

Amanda was in her bedroom, with the door open, looking at herself in the mirror and brushing her hair. I leaned against the door jamb. “You look so pretty.”

She smiled, “Of course you would say that. You’re my mom.”

I walked over to stand behind her, taking the brush and pulling it slowly through her shiny blonde tresses. I caught her eyes in the mirror, “No, I really mean it. You are a very pretty girl, and you’re going to be a beautiful young woman.”

She blushed. “Thank you.”

There was silence between us for a few moments as I gently brushed her hair and she gazed at her reflection in the mirror and then back up at me.

“So,” I asked, “have you been thinking about this stuff for a while? About masturbating, I mean, or did it just come up because of your class?”

“Well, no, I mean, I’ve thought about it some, ‘cuz, you know, the kids at school talk about it and stuff. But not really.”

I knew, of course, that in our modern sex-obsessed culture, most children had plenty of exposure to the idea of masturbation by the time they were 10. I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t, so I said, “And, at this point, you’re really sure you want to learn about it? I’m happy to tell you, but only if you’re ready.”

“Not tell me. Show me.”

“Oh. Yes. All right.” My pussy started heating up again. I wondered why she was so insistent about being shown.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, not at all, honey, it’s fine. I want to make sure you know everything you need to know to be happy and well-adjusted and everything. That’s part of my job as a mommy.”

She smiled. “Good.”

I put down the hairbrush, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay, then, are you ready?”

She turned around and looked up at me, her face beaming. “Yeah!”

“All right, so, let’s go over to your bed and sit down.”

Continue on to Chapter 2