Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

by Jacqueline Jillinghoff

Sister Katherine George joined the order when she was eighteen, and she’d only been teaching for a couple of years when, on my first day of seventh grade — and her first day at our school — she laid her grade book on her desk and wrote her name on the board. If I wasn’t quite an adolescent, she wasn’t quite an adult.

The sisters still wore habits when I was a girl, elaborate contraptions that covered them head to foot in black and white. The only skin we were allowed to see was their hands and faces, and Sister’s face was beautiful. She had smooth olive skin, flawless, really, with strong cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes. But what I noticed more than anything was her figure, the way her body filled her habit as she moved about the room.

The habit was supposed to take your mind off her body, but for me, it did just the opposite: it made me curious. I wanted to peek behind the curtain. And the curtain was practically molded to her. The details were hidden, but the form was obvious. The sash across her waist, which held a string of black rosary beads that hung down her leg, brought out the curve in her hips, and the white satin guimpe — what we called the bib — lay flat against the slope of her breasts, like fresh snow on a hillside.

Sometimes when she was teaching, diagramming a sentence or working out a math problem, I forgot what she was saying, and I daydreamed about what she must look like when she took a shower — sisters had to take showers, didn’t they? — shedding that portable prison one piece at a time and standing there naked at last, with nobody but God looking at her, admiring His handiwork. And I thought about how her boobs would bounce and bobble when she rubbed them with soap.

Her breasts fascinated me. All breasts did, really, because mine were just beginning to grow. I was always comparing myself to grown women, thinking, Will mine be like hers? Or hers? Some of the girls in class had been showing since fifth grade, and their bosoms were already full, which provided the boys with an endless topic for discussion. Mine were still nothing more than a pair of puffy pink buttons. Once, as an experiment, I covered them with tablespoons, to see how much overage there was. I was thrilled when I spotted the trace of a bulge along the rims, like slivers of the moon.

I still didn’t have any hair on my pussy, and just to show how much sex was not talked about at our house, I didn’t know I was going to grow any. I knew I’d probably get my period soon, because one day in sixth grade, Sister Joan Ignatius took us all to the girls’ room and showed us how to work the Kotex dispenser, but that was all they ever told us.

Whenever I pictured Sister Katherine naked, I imagined her lips were bare like mine, with a shadowy line between them that would catch the suds that washed down her body.

I’d never heard the word “lesbian,” and the idea that girls could love each other the way boys and girls did never occurred to me. But I liked thinking about Sister Katherine, imagining her body, wondering what her boobs would feel like in my hands, or her pretty bottom. Sometimes I’d lie awake and hug myself, pretending it was her.

About me. I was one of the tallest girls in my class, and skinny, with long legs and a thin face. I had long black hair and brown eyes. My skin was pale, but there was always a rosy blush in my cheeks. I’d actually begun to think of myself as pretty, because my skin was so clear, and boys had started getting crushes on me. At least that was the rumor spread by the other girls. No boy ever worked up the courage to tell me to my face.

All that’s left to describe is our school uniform, which is a big detail in any Catholic-schoolgirl story. Ours was a blue plaid jumper, with a deep V in front that plunged to the waist, worn over a soft white blouse with a round collar. The material, a kind of fuzzy flannel, was hot in the spring and cold in the winter, when the wind blew up our skirts. Dark blue knee socks and clunky blue-on-white saddle shoes — we called them clown shoes — completed the ensemble.

The uniforms were supposed to hide our bodies the way the nuns’ habits were supposed to hide theirs. It didn’t always work, especially on a girl with big boobs, but in my case it did: the only part of my body anybody ever saw was my knees.

So that’s what Sister Katherine and I looked like on the day in November when she asked me to stay after school and discuss my answers on our latest essay test. The questions were all about Christian morality and what men and women were supposed to do, or not do, about dating and marriage and babies, and I couldn’t remember any of it from class.

The book we used was confusing, too. It was one of those new Vatican II things that emphasized discussion over memorization (they’d thrown out the catechism when I was small), and almost every sentence was followed by one that started with, “On the other hand.” I didn’t care about men or women or babies anyway, so I left most of the questions blank. On a couple I wrote, “I don’t know,” and on the last one, I wrote, “I’ve never been kissed. How should I know what men and women are supposed to do?”

After all the lines had been called, and everyone had left for the day, Sister Katherine sat me down at an empty desk at the front of the center aisle and leaned against the edge of her own desk, with my paper in her hand.

She started by reading my name at the top of the page, like she was calling roll.

“Barbara Scheide,” she said. “Is everything all right at home?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“Are you sure? You seem very distracted, and your grades are slipping. I don’t want to fail you, but I have no choice if we don’t find a reason.”

I could have told her my parents were giving each other the silent treatment, and my dad was drinking more than usual — and for him, usual was a lot — but that was nothing new, and it had never interfered with school before. How could I tell her the real reason? That if I seemed distracted, it was because I was having sinful thoughts about my own teacher. And I was sure they were sinful. They must have been. Everything was. If you’re Catholic, and you’re having a thought, it’s a safe bet you’re committing a sin.

I kept my hands folded on the desk, the universal sign of obedience and submission. Sister put my paper down and came over. She genuflected next to me, bringing her eyes level with mine.

“Are you sure nothing’s the matter? I know it doesn’t seem important now, but you’re growing up, and soon you’ll be thinking about boys, and dating, and you’ll be having all kinds of new feelings. Maybe you’re having them now. Are you? Is there someone you think about a lot? Somebody in class maybe? Let me help you through it.”

It was hard to swallow, and my vision was getting blurry.

“Oh, don’t cry, sweetheart.”

She brushed my hair back and laid a hand on my bare neck. As light and cool as her touch was, it sent a hot charge all through me.

“You know, I get crushes too, sometimes,” she went on.

“Really? Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, we have to deal with it — in a Christlike way.”

With every word, she leaned in closer, until I could feel her breath on my face.

“And you,” she said. “You’ll learn. All you need is experience. If you understand what you can feel, you’ll be better prepared to handle it. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“You don’t, but you will.”

Her lips were next to mine, almost brushing them as she spoke. Then she stopped speaking. We were still, and the room was silent while I focused my whole being on the textured softness against my mouth. I’d never been tempted to kiss a boy. Now I never would be.

“There,” she said, after all too brief a time. “Now you’ve been kissed. Not such a big deal, is it?”

But it was, and it wasn’t enough. I swung around in my seat and ducked my head, murmuring, “No, no, no.”

This time her tongue met mine. Her arms went around me, and she pulled me out of my chair. We dropped side by side to the floor, our legs curled under us, and she buried her lips into the crook of my neck. When she licked me there, I threw my head back and sighed, “Oh.”

Her tongue traced a delicate line back to my mouth., where my own tongue was waiting. For a girl who had never been kissed, I was becoming quite the little expert. But it was easy. All I had to do was mirror her — kneading my lips, rolling my tongue just the way she did.

I can’t say I was turned on, since I didn’t know what turned on was, but I was awfully confused. My head was swimming, the room was zipping around, and my arms, hanging on her shoulders, felt heavy, so I was in no condition to resist when Sister Katherine started taking off my clothes.

I hardly noticed when she unzipped me and pulled the jumper off my shoulders, but when she unbuttoned my blouse and put her hand down my bra, I thought I should at least ask where this was going.

But all I got out was, “Sister—”

“Shhhh,” she said, stopping my mouth with her fingers. “I’ve been wrapped in this shroud for so long. All I want is to be touched, all over, with no… barriers. I need to feel someone’s body against mine.”

Apparently, I was that someone. I barely understood what was happening, but if she was saying what I thought she was saying, what she couldn’t possibly be saying, my fantasy was about to come true. I was going to see Sister Katherine George naked. And all I had to do was let her see me, which seemed like a fair trade.

“Nobody will see us,” she said as if that was the big sticking point. She stopped pulling at my clothes while we looked at one another. Now, I understood, she was leaving it up to me — the kissing, the touching, the stripping, and all of it sinful. The hypothetical situation of getting naked with your teacher had never come up in class, but even a kid can extrapolate. I was being promoted from seventh-grader to grownup. It was the biggest decision of my short, sheltered life. Bite the apple. Be like God. My heart was beating like crazy.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes, what?” she teased me.

“Yes, Sister.”

She undressed me lovingly, gazing at me the whole time with a kind of wonder, as though my string-bean body was truly the temple of the Holy Spirit. (That’s what they told us our bodies were.) I remember every piece of my uniform coming off — the way my blouse felt as it slid down my arms, and the sense of release, the sudden freedom, when she unhooked my tight, useless bra. Reflexively, I crossed my arms over my chest, ever the modest Catholic girl.

“Come on,” she said, tugging at my wrists. “Let me see.”

“I don’t have anything,” I said.

“No, you’re beautiful. You’re just starting to develop. It’s a wonderful time.”

She took my pink nipples in her fingers and squeezed, her grip growing slowly, steadily firmer. Then she twisted them, outward, in opposite directions. The sensation washed down my legs and spread my toes apart.

Sister stood me up, lifting me under the arms, and pulled down my jumper, along with my embarrassing little-girl panties with the pink rosebuds, which caught on my shoes when she tried to get them all the way off.

“Should have done these first,” she said, and she undid my laces. I raised each foot in turn while she held my ankle and pulled off the shoe. Finally, she rolled down my socks and, balling them up, threw them away far across the room — the last symbol of my oppression, she called them. I had only the vaguest notion of what she was talking about.

But I loved being naked — and in school, too, with Sister Katherine kneeling in front of me, worshipping my bald pussy and my budding chest like Saint Teresa entranced by a vision. I’d never felt more free, more beautiful, more petrified.

Sister reached around, took my bottom in both hands, and drew me closer. I was wondering when she was going to get naked, but when she planted her mouth on my slit, I forgot about that.

It was an expectant, fluttery feeling, the kind you get at the top of the roller coaster, just before the big plunge. Sister’s wet tongue parted my tight outer lips and slithered over that funny spot that had been tempting me since I was little. Sometimes I’d tried stroking it, or just rested my hand on it, but it had never tickled like this. I shivered, my knees kind of gave, and I had to hold myself up by Sister’s shoulders. It was awkward, though, with that sharp headpiece of hers poking me in the stomach.

“Here,” she said. “Sit down.”

The floor was cold on my butt. I sat with my legs open and watched in fascination while she lifted the white crown and black veil from her head. Her hair was short and spiky — of course, she didn’t need to wear it long — and the crown left an angry red groove across her forehead. I touched it, gently, to see how deep it went.

“Touch my wounds and believe,” she said. “And you wonder why we’re so mean?”

“More,” I said, tugging at her habit. She smiled wider than I’d ever seen before. In class, she was always so serious.

“Help me,” she said. She spun around and knelt in front of me, bowing her head. The zipper and buttons came together just below the nape of her neck — the keys to the forbidden kingdom.

Stripping her was surprisingly easy. The bib had two buttons in the back, and the habit unzipped and came off in one piece. The rest was like any other girl — a black bra and pantyhose, and boring white panties that went up to her navel. They were big enough to cover a sofa. She also had a silver crucifix around her neck, which she kissed before taking it off.

Exploring her body was like exploring my own, discovering what I would become. I was taken aback by the thick bush between her legs. It was like an Afro. I couldn’t imagine kissing her there the way she’d kissed me, and getting all that hair in my mouth. A bright pink bulb like bubble gum peeped through the tangles, and I saw where her magic spot must be, but at the moment I was more interested in her breasts. They weren’t as big as I’d imagined, but they were beautifully shaped, with pale brown rings around the hard, dark nipples.

“C cups,” she said. I jiggled and squeezed them and pulled on the tips, while the itch between my legs grew ever more insistent.

“I don’t think mine will ever be this nice,” I said.

“You know,” she said, “one of the sacrifices of being a sister is that you can never have children. I’ll never know what it feels like to have a baby suckle at my breast.”

“Aw,” I said. I was so busy playing with those bouncy cushions that I didn’t catch on.

“It would be nice to have a baby,” she persisted.

“It would,” I said, still not getting it.

“Would you be my baby?” she asked.

“Yes!” I said. “Sure.”

I honestly thought she meant “baby” like “sweetheart,” and went on playing. Finally, she stopped me by clamping her hands over mine.

“You little dummy,” she said. “I’m asking you to suck my breasts.”

“Huh?”

“Please,” she said. She spun halfway around, sideways between the rows of desks, and crossed her legs. I could see more of her pink parts through the hair. Kissing her down there might not be so weird after all.

“Come,” she said, patting her leg. I scooted around and lay back across her lap. She caught me, cradling me in one arm, and pinched her nipple between two extended fingers. In our religious art books, Mary held out her nipple just like that when she offered it to Baby Jesus, and, miraculously, stars and beams of light shot out of it.

I took it in my mouth.

“That’s right, darling, suck it,” she said. “Move your tongue, like you’re sipping through a straw. Don’t be afraid to bite. You can’t hurt me. Oh… my little baby.”

I’d dreamed of seeing her naked, of feeling her breasts, and now I understood that she’d been dreaming, too — dreaming of nursing a baby, even if that baby was twelve years old. We both got our wish that afternoon.

My legs fell open, and the hand that had held her nipple found my creamy center. She cooed over me, telling me not to be afraid to let go and come. I didn’t know what that meant. I thought she was asking me to suck harder, so I did, and the harder I sucked, the faster she jiggled my bud. The mystery was how wet I was, the juice that was dousing her hand. Where was it all coming from? Wherever it was, I was glad it was there, because it made it easy for Sister Katherine to slide her fingers deep inside me.

She started tentatively, just feeling around, but when she heard my breathing change, and the little grunts and squeaks I was making, and felt how wet I was, and knew I was okay, and I wanted it, she went at me hard. I could hear the sloshing between my legs as she pumped my hole, like a footrace through a swamp.

Something was growing inside me — something I always suspected was there, but was afraid to let loose. Well, it was loose now, and I couldn’t put it back in its cage. And I didn’t want to. I squealed into Sister’s tit.

“That’s it, baby… come for me.”

And now I knew what “come” meant, because it was happening right then — a sensation, like nothing I’d ever known, that radiated from the tips of Sister Katherine’s fingers. My first orgasm, big and terrifying and wonderful. For an ecstatic moment I was aware of only two things: the wild spasms in my cunt, and Sister’s nipple, which seemed to swell in my mouth the harder I sucked.

But I couldn’t ride the wave forever. It had lifted me up high, and it was going to drop me a long way down. I crashed, rolling my head away, losing Sister’s breast.

“Good girl,” she said, easing off with her hand, talking me down. “That’s it, just let go. Not so bad, is it?”

She drew her fingers from my hole and held me in both arms as the shuddering died away.

“Have you ever felt anything so good?” she whispered.

“No,” I said. “What was it?”

“I’ll tell you all about it,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything. Right now, I just want to look at you.”

And she did, rocking me with an expression I’d never seen before in anyone. I felt safe in her arms, yet poised on the brink of something exciting and dangerous, innocent yet decidedly dirty, and wholly new, as though my body and I had just been introduced. At the same time, I suddenly felt more mature than anyone else in the seventh grade.

On the less complicated side, I got an A on the test.

On to Part Two!