Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

by Shy Mom

“Mommy?”

My maternal instincts rose with that word and the shaky way it fell from my little girl’s lips. My shocking desire to taste the wet spot on her panties vanished.

“Olivia,” I breathed. She stood frozen just outside the open door to my bedroom.

Tenderly, instinctively, I said, “Come here, honey.” I patted gently on the bed, just in front of where I sat against the headboard. I was fearful she might take flight.

But Olivia was only eight, and I was still her mom. Reflex and routine drew her toward me. I enfolded her in a protective hug as she wrapped her arms and legs around me. All I had on was my flimsy thong.

My lips brushed her ear. “I love you, Olivia.”

She began to cry. Sobs shook her slender frame. “Oh, Mommy!”

“Baby.” I hugged her tighter and began to inhale and exhale slowly, deeply. Her breathing soon matched mine. Her tears wet my naked breasts as her sobbing faded.

“Olivia … Olivia … I love you.”

“I love you, Mommy.” She hugged me back tightly, her cheek pressing against my nipple. I felt a tug, maternal and something more.

“Don’t cry …” I sniffed her hair. Shampoo and girl scent, like mixed flowers. “You did nothing wrong, my sweet.”

“I—I didn’t mean to see …” She started shaking again. I reached under her nightgown and caressed her back. My girls always found comfort in skin to skin contact. So did I.

“Tell Mommy what you saw,” I encouraged. “It’s okay. Mommy can help.”

She took a breath. “I couldn’t sleep … and I heard … and I thought … but you weren’t hurt … and I couldn’t stop when I saw …”

Olivia seemed on the edge of another burst of sobs. She turned into me to hide her face. Her lips almost brushed my nipple. Her breath and tears stiffened it.

I’ve never hidden anything from my daughters, and they’re mostly open with me, too. But the subject of Mommy’s Sex Life had not come up in conversation before. Now it seemed unavoidable.

I dove in with the direct approach. “You saw Mommy masturbating, darling.”

“Mass … stir … bating?” Olivia tried to sound it out.

“Yes, masturbating.” Anticipating her next question, I added, “Mommy was having sex with herself.”

Olivia fell silent. This was a lot for her eight-year-old mind to process.

The only time I remember us discussing sex was last summer, after we had attended a lesbian friend’s wedding. During the drive home, the topic of the honeymoon came up. Olivia asked what people do on honeymoons.

“Have sex, silly!” declared Ashley, her big sister.

As seven- and nine-year-olds then, the girls had a general sense what sex was and how babies were made (no stork nonsense in our household). But uncertain of specifics, Olivia asked, “Can two ladies have sex?”

“Of course!” her sister answered, proud to display her superior but limited knowledge.

It fell on me to fill in the rest. “Women can kiss and touch each other to express their love. And if they kiss and touch each other’s girl parts, they’re having sex.”

“Oh,” Olivia said.

The next likely question—“Have you had sex with another lady, Mommy?”—did not get asked. Ashley spotted a shaved ice stand, and I gave in. A part of me was relieved to delay the details of my lesbian sex life for another day, but strangely, another part felt something like disappointment.

I thought of my college lover Alyssa as I sat at a picnic table with the girls, licking the shaved ice and crossing my legs. How did her life turn out? I wondered.

Olivia kept quiet the rest of the ride. Always the thinker. But Ashley, amped up on sugar, jumped from topic to topic all the way home, the idea of Sex Between Ladies long forgotten.

Now, I ran my fingers lightly up and down Olivia’s back. I wanted (I told myself) to convey that what she had witnessed was just as normal, natural, and nice as my touching her like this.

She sighed.

“You saw Mommy having sex with herself,” I repeated. “It’s something Mommy loves to do.”

Olivia didn’t say anything. Her head rested against my breast like it was story time. Without my robe between us, her breath directly enveloped my nipple in its warmth. The sensation made my nipple strain out even further. I caught myself turning it toward her reflexively. Olivia stared in wonder.

Of course, she’d seen me naked many times, or just in a thong or g-string. Though the girls had their own bathroom down the hall, it was not as spacious as mine. When they were younger, they liked to “swim” in the hot tub or run around the master suite while I showered and dressed. They still came in every now and then to lotion themselves after showering. Their soft young skin didn’t need it, but they enjoyed mimicking the grown-up things that I did.

I never minded. As I said, ours is an open relationship. I also wanted my girls to feel good about their bodies. There’s too much body-shaming in this world as it is.

Besides, I felt motherly joy and pride at seeing my girls in all their glory. Their tangles of honey-gold hair, their bright sea-blue eyes, their flawless pale skin, and even, I noticed—and why not, being their mother?—their tiny pink nipples, their smooth little-girl slits, and their tight round bottoms. My daughters are heedless of their own heart-fluttering beauty.

My fingers played down Olivia’s back, then tickled her bottom before coming back up. She giggled and ticked mine. Two can play, I see. I smiled at her mischievousness.

“The thing is,” I continued, “when Mommy makes herself feel good, her voice can get awfully loud. That’s what you heard.”

“You said ‘fuck me,’” she tittered. “That’s what I heard!”

“I did say that,” I conceded, trying not to seem shocked. “Mommy says that when she gets excited during sex.”

“And what you did was sex, Mommy?”

“Yes, baby,” I replied. “I was having sex with myself. I was fucking myself. That’s what masturbation is.”

Repetition is reinforcement, and I could tell it was sinking in. The teacher in me continued, “There are many kinds of sex. Remember sex between girls—the kind that we talked about after the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“And there’s sex between boys and girls too.”

She blurted, “You mean when they stick their wee-wee in your pee-pee?”

Hmm. “Did your sister tell you that?” I didn’t remember going into those kinds of details with Olivia.

“Yes,” she admitted, retreating a little further into my arms. Still so shy! And so close to my tit, she could kiss it.

“I’m impressed you know so much!” I reassured her. “One thing, though. Grown-ups call wee-wees ‘cocks’ and pee-pees ‘pussies.’ Especially when they’re fucking.”

I dropped my hands back down to her bottom. This time, instead of tickling, I massaged.

“Mmm,” Olivia moaned.

“You like?”

She didn’t answer. At least, not verbally. Instead, she gave my taut nipple an approving peck.

My God.

She looked up and I looked back. I could fall into those eyes if I gazed into them too long.

“And Mommy likes …” I took a breath. “Mommy likes to call her pussy her ‘cunt.’”

“Cunt,” Olivia repeated.

It was like she was trying a magic word. And it was magic, coming from her darling eight-year-old mouth. My floodgates were opening.

“Yes, cunt. Especially when Mommy’s fucking her cunt. Fucking her cunt with her fingers.”

“I saw that,” Olivia said, eyes widening.

“Tell me what you saw.”

“You were … slapping your cunt.”

Precious.

“Yes, Mommy was ‘slapping’ her cunt.” My voice turned husky. “Slapping it hard.” It was all I could do not to touch myself. “Do you know where Mommy’s fingers were?”

“Inside your undies?”

“Deeper. Inside my pussy. Inside my cunt. Mommy’s. Wet. Cunt.”

Silence.

“Say it for me, honey. Please.”

“Mommy’s … wet cunt.”

My heart skipped a beat.

I was still massaging Olivia’s bottom. My fingers had worked their way inside her panties. Skin to skin, how we like it.

“It gets wet, Mommy?”

“It does. Mommy’s cunt gets very wet when she gets excited. It gets soaked.”

“Why?”

Good question. Always the learner, my Olivia.

“To make it easy to fuck.”

“Oh.”

“Easy to pump Mommy’s fingers in and out of her wet cunt. In and out of her mommy cunt.”

“Is it wet now?” Olivia asked.

Another good question. “Is what wet?” I wanted to hear her say it again.

“Your cunt. Your mommy cunt.”

God, she learns fast.

“Yes, Olivia. My mommy cunt is wet.” I hesitated. “You made it wet.”

“I did?” she breathed, hardly believing.

“You did.”

“How?”

“First, I saw you at the door.”

“And that … it made you excited?”

“My heart always leaps to see you, love. But something else made me excited in a different way.” I paused, recollecting. “Made my cunt tingle.”

“Something else? What?”

“Remember how you were holding up your nightgown?”

“No.”

“Well, you were, poor dear! You had it bunched up in your hands.”

“Oh … I was scared, I think.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Just scared?”

“Maybe … excited, too?”

“I think so.”

Realization dawned on Olivia’s face. She looked down at her panties.

“Yes, I could see your panties. Your lovely white little-girl panties. That’s not all I saw, though. Look, there it is. Right on the front.”

“I see it! A wet spot!”

“Your very own. It’s even wetter now.”

I was bursting with maternal pride and—no mistaking it, now—maternal lust. Like mother, like daughter!

“Is that bad?” Olivia looked up at me for assurance. “Like … like pee?”

“No, darling. And it’s not bad at all. Quite the opposite.”

She waited for me to continue, as if anticipating the next plot twist. The girls loved when storytime involved a thinly-veiled version of themselves (“a courageous princess with honey-blonde locks”) or a fairytale incarnation of me (“a beautiful queen with hair like sunshine”). Now the two of us were the actual characters.

“It’s good that your cunt can get so very wet. It means that, like Mommy, you’ll have great sex.”

“I will?!” Awe and disbelief washed over Olivia. Her cheeks flushed. Being “like Mommy” was always tops in her book. This enlarged the comparison in ways she had yet to imagine.

But trust Olivia to take two steps ahead, once she found her footing.

“Mommy … what if I don’t want boys putting their wee-wees in my cunt?”

My baby! Her eyes filled with worry.

“It’ll be your choice, angel!” I put on my most affirming mommy voice. “No one can make you have sex if you don’t want. And if you don’t want to have sex with boys, not ever, that’s perfectly fine!”

Olivia looked relieved. She still had a child’s faith in my words.

“There are other kinds of sex, remember?”

She pondered, then cried out, “With girls!”

“Yes! With girls!”

As a mother, encouraging my girls’ enthusiasm had become second nature. But my heart fluttered at how she glowed with excitement at the idea of sex with other girls. Of course, at her age, she didn’t want anything to do with boys, and her life and love revolved entirely around our all-female family. Still.

“And with yourself!” I added. After all, that’s what started this little mommy-daughter talk!

Olivia turned it over. “With myself.”

“You know, like Mommy. Fucking her cunt. Her mommy cunt.”

She giggled. “I don’t have a mommy cunt.”

“No. You have something better.” It was pure maternal reflex, intended to give her positive reinforcement. But saying it made its truth apparent, like a revelation.

“I do?”

“Yes, you do. You have a precious little-girl pussy. A girl cunt.”

“A girl cunt.” She seemed to like how it sounded. “A girl cunt!”

I wanted to fuck myself then and there in front of Olivia. In front of my eight-year-old daughter with her wet girl cunt.

“But why is it better, Mommy?”

I should have seen that question coming. I could definitely see where it was going. A responsible part of me asked if things were getting out of hand—too far, too fast for me to assess possible consequences. But a more responsible part (so I decided) replied, Teach her. Show her. You’re her mother.

“Well … why don’t we get out of our undies so we can see?”

The question hung in the air. She looked eager, but suddenly shy.

“Here, I’ll go first.”

I lifted Olivia from my lap, giving her a quick reassuring kiss, and set her down in front of me.

Olivia crossed her legs to get comfy, and the hem of her nightgown fell over her crotch. I felt a touch of disappointment, but also anticipation. Soon, I would see much more of her than this.

I slipped out of my thong as nonchalantly as I could. But my attempt at easing us into I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours took an unexpected turn that I should have foreseen. My cunt had gotten so juicy that strings of wetness stretched from me to the soaked thong. A long glistening strand fell on my inner thigh.

I couldn’t help but laugh, and Olivia followed suit. Well, that broke the ice!

I also couldn’t resist the teaching opportunity—or, to be honest, a chance to taste myself.

“We shouldn’t let this go to waste,” I said cheerfully.

Olivia’s rapt face told me she suspected what might come next. Her mouth hung open.

I slowly ran two fingers up my inner thigh, so Olivia could see me scoop up the thick wet strand. I brought my fingers within inches of Olivia’s face. Her eyes grew as large as quarters.

“See? You made Mommy wet.”

“You mean … when you saw my panties?”

“That started it.”

I brought my fingers to Olivia’s nose. She inhaled. Her eyes fluttered. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips.

“Like how it smells?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“It tastes even better.”

She remembered. “I saw you licking your fingers!”

“Yes. I was licking my pussy juice. My cunt juice.” Wait—even better: “My mommy juice.”

My dreamy-eyed child whispered, “Mommy juice …”

I had to let my daughter see this.

With long, wet licks, I ran my tongue up and down and around my fingers. Then I plunged them into my mouth, slurping and sucking until they were clean.

I kept my eyes fixed on Olivia the whole time. She started back in shock. Her breath quickened. Her hands dropped to her crotch, cupping it.

I took one last slow suck. Through hooded eyes, I saw my child moisten her lips again.

“Darling,” I said. “Want a taste?”

Olivia didn’t say anything. But I knew, as surely as she was my daughter.

Sliding my ass forward, I inserted the same two fingers, very slowly, into my dripping cunt. Olivia could clearly see them, buried up to the knuckles. They were drowning inside.

Mmm.

I pulled my fingers out. My cunt contracted. Gooey strands trailed my soaked fingers all the way back to the source.

I held them in front of her. “Yours, love.”

She sat frozen. Her gaze went from my fingers to my eyes. I gazed back fondly. I gave her a nod. That broke the spell.

Olivia leaned forward and grabbed my hand. I expected her to taste-test first, as she does with more exotic foods. But whether owing to her trust in my motherly lead, or to the tug of her newly inflamed lust—I could plainly see unabashed desire in her child’s eyes—she didn’t hesitate for a second.

Olivia licked and sucked the “mommy juice” off my fingers like it was melting ice-cream. Her mouth felt even hotter than my cunt. Her little-girl tongue swirled and darted with surprising agility. My heart raced as my pussy gushed.

When Olivia started licking up and down my fingers with the urgency of a lover, I lost it.

I began to maul my cunt with my free hand as waves of pleasure rippled through me. My hips started bucking. Olivia gripped my other hand tighter, sucking the fingers with surprising force.

My hips flopped uncontrollably. I must have screamed because my ears rang. My God. Oh my God. Oh my FUCKING God …

Finally, I collapsed.

“Olivia!” I gasped.

“Mommy!” She fell on me and hugged for dear life. I hugged back harder.

“I love you, baby.” I cried. “I love you so much!”

On to Chapter Three!