Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By Cheryl Taggert

There’s something I must tell you about. It began the night of my party, my twenty-first birthday party. To put it more accurately, it began the next day, but I am getting ahead of myself.

I had stumbled to bed, fairly drunk from celebrating my birthday. The big two-one. Legal in every state of the union. Hell, now I was legal in every country of the world! I was also horny as hell, typical for my rare drunk evenings, but my attempts at masturbation were short-lived due to my intoxicated state. I can remember thinking that it was ridiculous that I should be alone on my birthday. The partiers had all gone home, and I was alone. A lonely lesbian trying to drunkenly masturbate herself, without much success.

As usual when I was drunk, which really was a rarity but not unheard of, I was getting depressed in my unresolved horniness. And the thought that depressed me most was not that I was alone necessarily, it was who it was that I wanted to be with, for I am a rare girl indeed. I am a lesbian who is attracted to young girls. Very young. Like nine or ten even. And I am not sure I would turn down one even younger if she was a willing partner. There are thousands of girls who discover their sexuality very early and enjoy it. I know this for a fact, since I was one of those girls. The fact was I didn’t want to be with any of the girls who had helped me celebrate my birthday. I would have gladly taken my friend Anne’s little sister Becky to my bed, however.

Becky was nine and a little doll. Anne, an eighteen-year-old freshman who lived at home and was in my astronomy class, had brought Becky along because she had been forced to watch her while her parents went out, and she didn’t want to miss the party. Everyone else had wondered if Anne was an idiot for bringing her kid sister to a drinking party, but I was secretly happy about it. I had even managed, under the effects of alcohol, which was a good thing to blame for silly “mistakes,” to enter the bathroom when little Becky was peeing.

I had gotten a glimpse of her little puss as the yellow liquid had streamed into the bowl. Furthermore, I had been quick on the draw, so to speak, and had managed to expose my own trimmed pussy to her astonished gaze, dropping my shorts and panties to pee when she was finished. I acted like everyone peed in front of others, and I noticed that she didn’t leave but remained while I finished my business and flushed. She was washing her hands, but I could see her eyes as they cast their gaze on me and held there. I even talked to her some.

I think I may be in love.

But believe it or not, that is not what I must tell you about, although I feel certain the opportunity is there for some fun if I can just figure out how to go about it. What I want to tell you about began the next morning.

My last thoughts that night had been about my own body. Not my twenty-one-year-old body. My body as it had been when I was a little girl. I realized, with the unhappiness that can only be felt over missed opportunities, that I had not paid enough attention to my smooth, hairless, soft little missy when I had had the chance. Here I was longing to be able to touch one, and I had spent some twelve years on this earth with a bare one at my constant disposal. It had been there when I was Becky’s age, and while I certainly had not ignored her charms, I had not realized the extent to which I would miss it once it was gone. I longed to touch myself when I was nine. I wanted desperately to be able to go back to that time and spend as much time as I liked falling madly in love with my smooth little girl’s pussy. I realized, as I drifted into a deep sleep, that I would, given the chance, spend nearly every day, every available minute, playing with my pussy if I could have re-lived those years.

I looked outside my window as the last thing I did upon going to sleep and saw a bright meteorite streak across the sky. I guess I made a wish.

Opening my eyes the next day, I noticed they felt unusually fresh for having peered through a drunken haze the night before. I stretched and leaned over to the side of the bed, sitting up as I did.

Then I realized just how strange I felt. Something was VERY wrong here. The room looked all wrong, but I couldn’t figure out why. Everything seemed in the right place, but something was wrong. Then the reason for the disorientation started to occur to me. The room was different because I was seeing it from a slightly different angle. I felt shorter, as if my head were not reaching its full height or something.

Then I looked down.

And screamed.

My breasts were gone. It was as though a total mastectomy had been performed in the night. And my pajama top was loose, and not just because my titties were gone. The shoulders were all wrong, dangling halfway down my upper arms. The sleeves swallowed my hands entirely.

I had the unusual sensation of having shrunk during the night. I thought of the movie with Lily Tomlin, “The Incredible Shrinking Woman.” For some reason, it wasn’t so funny now. I extended my hands and drew the sleeves up.

Oh my God. My hands. Not only did they look small. They looked–young. They were little-girl hands.

I grabbed my top and peered down into it. My boobs were there, but they were only nipples. And small ones at that.

Oh dear lord. I stood up, intending to drop my pajama bottoms to look at the rest of myself, but I didn’t need to pull them down at all. They fell off me, gathering in a small cotton bundle on the floor, along with my panties. I was now nude from the waist down.

My pussy was hairless. Smooth. Soft. Small. A tender mound of flesh that protruded from what was now my little girl belly and the dark slit that cleaved its softness, hiding my little girl pleasures inside.

It was my pre-pubescent pussy. The one I had longed to reacquaint myself with last night.

Stepping slowly out of the circle of material at my still dainty, but decidedly smaller feet, I walked into the bathroom in a daze. I looked into the bottom half of the mirror that hung over my medicine cabinet, marveling again at how different things looked from down here at a child’s height.

My youthful face stared back.

It was me. But it was the me I had known when I was nine years old.

I looked down at my little missy. It was just like the one I had seen last night on little Becky, who was also nine.

God, oh God, oh God. My wish had come true.

I was nine years old again.

At first I was frightened. Scared as hell. What would I do? How would I explain this? How would I get around town? I had a driver’s license and a car, but the picture on the license looked only vaguely like me now, and I could no longer reach the pedals in the car, I was sure. Or if I could, it would be a tricky thing getting around barely able to touch them.

I sat down and peed.

Panic welled up in me, but I fought it off. That wouldn’t help anything. I decided to think about this for a minute. I could think while I took a shower.

Slipping easily out of the top, I turned on the shower and stepped in. I was reaching up for the shower massager when it hit me.

As I stood there in the shower, the reason I made the wish in the first place came back to me. I looked down at my bald little pussy and then at the shower massager that I frequently used for more than showering.

Despite the steamy enclosure, my mouth became dry. I could masturbate at least while I was trying to figure this out. There was my little nine-year-old pussy that I had longed for last night. I hadn’t even touched it yet, except to wipe it after peeing, and that hardly counted. I decided to change that.

Reaching down, I spread my small outer labia with two fingers and, having set the massager to a dull pulse, aimed it at my tiny pearl of a clitty.

My body began to respond immediately. My little flesh button had been switched on. It occurred to me that I could change back to an adult at any moment, and I should take advantage of this while I still could. After all, it was not taking the time to enjoy my little pussy that had started all this in the first place. I didn’t want to go back to my adult-sized body without fulfilling my wish this time.

While the shower head massaged my slit, my other hand was very busy. It seemed to have a life of its own. I rubbed and massaged the little mound of flesh between my coltish legs. My clit, much smaller than it had been last night in spite of its erect state, was red with the activity of my hand and the shower massager.

In the midst of this, I decided to check something. I had taken my own virginity at age thirteen with a vibrator I had found when I was babysitting a neighbor’s little boy and had grown bored and began to search the parents’ bedroom.

(We won’t go there, at least not now beyond saying that I hadn’t realized there would be blood and I had been forced to make up this stupid story about starting my period without knowing it while lying in their bed, and I think the mom knew all the time what the truth had been, especially when she’d asked if I had fallen asleep and like a ninny I had said no. I mean who has THAT much blood leak out of their pussies without noticing it? Looking back, I realize it wasn’t like some flood, which it had appeared to me to be at the time, but it was enough. Not to mention that my mom had been nice enough to tell her the next WEEK that I had to turn down the job because I was cramping really badly from having started my period. But as I said, we won’t go there.) Anyway, I reached up and felt myself, slipping my finger into my vagina, and I could feel that my hymen was now fully intact. It was as if it had never been torn by my daring moves that day at the Henderson’s. I had truly returned to my nine-year-old body.

Well, I decided that I didn’t need to take my cherry again, so I contented myself with a wonderful clitoral massage. My puffy little lips were so soft to touch. And the fact that my mind was still twenty-one made the erotic images that I fantasized about much better than they had been when I was nine and had masturbated. And the best part was that I was imagining touching Becky’s pussy, and there was a twin right there in my hand.

I stayed in that shower until the hot water began to run out and then made my way to the bed again. I lay there inspecting my re-flowered, long-lost little friend, getting my hand mirror and inspecting it the way I had in my youth, but with decidedly more interest in the memory of the images my pussy brought me. I wanted to remember this.

A sudden inspiration hit me. Jumping out of bed, I went to my closet and retrieved my video camera. I was going to get this on tape. I set it up, ensuring the focus was correct and shooting where I would by lying, and leapt back into bed, exposing my slit to the camera’s watchful eye.

I lay back again and massaged my ever reddening pussy and clit. I had not even come yet, but I was getting very close. My hand sought the center of my womanhood–well, girlhood now. My fingers played at the opening of my vagina and dipped to my tiny asshole, which I had been too disgusted to touch at age nine. I found that the stimulation was as erotic as it was when I had finally done it the first time at age sixteen. This time, though, it was even more exciting. I was touching a nine-year-old’s puckered flower and its matching virginal pussy. I began to squeeze my butt cheeks with my other hand, delighting in their boyish firmness.

I feasted on the image of my body. I burned the memory of my bare pussy into my brain. I had to remember this, I kept telling myself. I had to, even beyond what the video camera would record for me. I wanted to remember the sensations, the feel of the bald little mound that was there for the taking at any time I chose.

It was then my eyes fell on the digital camera I had gotten for my birthday last night. At least I was the only thing in the apartment that had changed. Everything else was as it had been that previous evening.

Of course! I could also take pictures of myself in the nude. (There had been plenty of jokes about that last night, ironically.) I would take the pictures and store them on my computer. Hell, I might even get on web cam and let the whole world see me. The possibilities for erotic fun mounted as my imagination grasped the situation in all its glory. Video, digital pictures, web cams. The pleasure in my center increased at the thought.

My hands fairly flew against my pussy. I was having a hard time coming, but it was almost certainly because at age nine my body had not learned yet how to reach an orgasm. I could feel it there, just out of reach, as I had numerous times before finally coming at age ten.

I closed my eyes and thought of the fun I would have. Maybe I could get Becky to spend the night or something and I could seduce her. Perhaps I could go out and find some older woman who might be interested in young pussy the way I was and give her a memory of a lifetime.

Oh, yes. That was definitely something I wanted to do. I recalled the time in the YWCA that a woman had watched me showering and dressing. I had wondered about it at the time, but of course grown women weren’t interested in sex with a young girl. That was for men only. Or that is what I convinced myself at the time. Now I know she WAS looking at me sexually. I could have had her on the floor and worshiping my body in a matter of seconds had I wanted that. Of course I had wanted that, but I had also convinced myself that there was no way she was interested in the same thing, and I would just be making a fool of myself at the tender age of twelve.

The image of that woman played in my mind. I pictured her licking my little pussy right now. Her face between my thighs. Her tongue teasing my swollen clitty. Making her day. No, her life!

I could feel the sensations building to the waiting climax. Vaguely I wondered if I could then count nine as the age of my first orgasm, but I decided to let that wait until I had actually achieved one.

My pussy was burning. My clit was on fire. My fluids were sloshing around in my little slit, lubricating things for me, although there wasn’t as much as I had had at twenty. But there was enough.

Finally, I felt it. The orgasm approached swiftly, running up on me and then cascading over a wall, burning itself into my mental and physical memory. My belly hunched and spasmed with the sensations. I was rocked with it. At least that hadn’t changed. The orgasm was intense, shooting throughout my body like an electric current. I shuddered with it. I had always had intense orgasms.

I was sweating now. I lay there and wondered what in the world I would wear. Then I remembered. Becky had brought an overnight bag the night before but hadn’t used it since Anne had decided to go home earlier than she had thought she might. I had noticed last night that Becky had left the bag. I went to it and opened it up. I was in luck. Inside there were not only some pajamas, but also a pair of shorts and a top, along with fresh panties and sandals. There was even a swimsuit in case we had used the apartment’s pool. The clothes had obviously been meant for today had she ended up staying the night.

I dressed in her clothes and marveled at the fact that I wore her sizes, down to the sandals. Reaching in for a last little squeeze on my hairless pussy before heading out to seduce some older woman, I felt an erotic bolt hit me and, horny again, I went out the door and headed for the YWCA, carrying a backpack with the swimsuit and a towel in it. This was going to be fun.

Continue on to Chapter 2