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

By eloquent delinquent

The sun is settling in the hills in a big golden flare as Charlotte walks across the neighborhood, past budding trees and lawns cut just that day, probably for the first time since it thawed. One or two mowers are still puttering around the block, and it sounds and smells like spring to her. It’s not too long a walk to the Carmodys, only a few blocks, almost everyone in the Congregation lives in this neighborhood on the western side of town.

And when she turns on Pine and Logan, there is the Church, the warehouse-like Calvarian Reformed Church, rising unadorned from the expanse of its parking lot. Like most kids here, it’s the center of her life. She goes to school there, and Sunday service, and Bible study two nights a week. The Congregation is only about 200, and they keep to themselves, so it seems like everyone knows everyone else’s business.

A ways down, out of sight of the Church, and she’s headed up Whitcomb Circle. The houses here aren’t as nice as the ones on her street, were built later, manufactured homes. Charlotte notices that she’s done up her hair too quickly, and now the bun is coming loose, drooping, brushing her shoulder. The Carmodys live toward the back of the circle, next to the woods, and beyond them she can hear the frogs start to chirp and ribbit down in the runoff pond. The house looks small in its wide yard, blue and plain except for a big window in the front.

The door opens just before Charlotte can knock, and in the opening, just a little above the knob, the solemn face of a girl with round-lensed glasses and a mop of shoulder-length lazy blonde curls leans out. “Hi,” she says timidly, leaning out a little more, but her hands still gripping the knob. “I saw you coming up. You’re Charlotte, right?”

Charlotte smiles brightly into the younger girl’s shyness. “Yeah, and you must be Megan. I’m here to take care of you tonight. Won’t that be fun?”

Megan’s face lights up a little bit, she grins slightly and nods, opening the door wide to let the new babysitter in. “What’s in the bag?”

Charlotte adjusts the shoulder strap. “Books for school. Do you have homework too?” “A little.”

Stepping into the living room, the house is different than she’s used to. There are toys, books, magazines, dishes, scattered around. A stack of folded laundry rests on the arm of an overstuffed couch. As she’s glancing around, a door opens in the nearby hallway, and she sees a figure pass quickly through it, a woman’s plump golden body, in nothing but a black bra and panties. Black. Bra and panties. She gazes, rapt, as the woman’s hips switch, bare feet padding away from her, for about three steps before she turns into another doorway, disappears.

Charlotte’s heart thumps, and something inside flutters happily, crazily. Megan had her back to the hall and has no idea.

She inhales, tries to recover her thought. “Erm, we can do it together, if you want.”

The girl blinks her brown eyes, maybe a bit confused. “Okay. I wanna have supper first, though.”

That brings her smile back. “You know, I’ve got a sister about your age. What are you? Seven?”

“No, I’m eight now,” Megan says proudly.

“Exactly! Let me talk to your Mom for a minute, then we’ll eat.”

Megan veers off toward the little dining area, and Charlotte starts toward the hallway. She knows which door to use. Her heart thumps harder and her cheeks feel hot, it’s hard to get her feet to move forward. The door is open, she can smell hints of soap and perfume coming from it. What would she see when she looked in? Would Mrs Carmody still be in just her bra and panties? Less?! The flutter comes back stronger, settling between her belly button and her kitty and beginning to purr.

Mrs Carmody rushes out from that open doorway, stops short, both of them jumping as they startle each other. Megan’s mother freezes for a second, still barefoot but now in a floral skirt and peach top, her green eyes wide behind her pretty rectangular glasses, brows lifting over the frames, elbows out, hands freezing where they’re fiddling with her hair. “Oh! Oh goodness, Charlotte! I didn’t hear you knock.”

Charlotte struggles with the snarl of things in her mind. Oh gosh I almost peeked on her does she know I almost did does she know I wanted to? “Megan. Megan opened the door when I walked up.”

“Well, hello,” Megan’s mom says, laughing a bit nervously. She awkwardly works her way around Charlotte and into the living room. “Sorry I’m in such a rush. Somebody quit at the fabric store and I have a chance to pick up some hours. I really need them.”

She’s looking around distractedly as she says this, all the while using two long lacquered pins to secure her own, much larger mass of blonde curls into a pile on her head. “Megan, have you seen my shoes?”

“Under the coffee table, I think.”

Mrs Carmody steps next to the couch, kneels, and bends down to reach beneath the low table. Charlotte is helpless to do anything but notice how nicely the skirt shows off her rear when she bends down deep like that. Thinks about her figure in the hall, feels a shiver knowing that those black panties (black!) are under that skirt, and she’s struck with the recognition of how young Mrs Carmody actually is. She can’t be more than twenty five.

Standing, she leans against the couch and slips on her practical black shoes. “There’s supper in the container on the top shelf of the fridge, just microwave it. Oh, and could you make her a salad? She should have her homework done, cleaned up and be in bed around nine, and I’ll be home just after eleven.” She pauses as Charlotte nods, “It’s okay. I look after my sister Jodie all the time.”

Mrs Carmody’s look softens. “Thank you so much, Charlotte. This really helps us out.”

Then she crosses over to the dining area, where Megan stands up. Mrs Carmody squats down to her level. “Honey, let me know when someone’s at the door, okay? I can’t have you just opening it up.” She smirks at her daughter. “She might’ve seen me in my undies.”

Megan giggles. “Okay, Mom.”

“Gotta go, honey roll,” she says, and sweeps her daughter into a hug. Parting, Mrs Carmody cups Megan’s face, and delivers three brief kisses – left cheek, right cheek, and one on the mouth. They smile at each other as the mother stands. “See you in the morning.”

She crosses to the door, gives Charlotte another grateful look, and is gone.

Charlotte spends most of the subsequent dinnertime recovering from her encounter with Mrs Carmody. This wasn’t like her friends’ houses, which were spare and uncluttered and always tidy. She wasn’t like her friends’ parents, and not just younger, either. Charlotte’s three closest friends were like her, third generation in the Church, raised together, and now she realized that both they, and their parents, were very similar. Mrs Carmody is different. And so is Megan.

Their supper is a beef and noodle casserole that Charlotte suspects had its origin in a box. Megan helps with the salad and eats wolfishly, almost like it’s a game. The young girl’s shyness breaks down pretty quickly, since Charlotte can guess the topics that most interest, using experience from her own sister. She becomes a bit of a chatterbox with her new audience, and it’s quickly established that she likes nature and animals (especially birds and raccoons), likes games but also likes making up her own rules, reads almost like a high schooler, knows a lot of big words, thinks sports are dumb and wonders if Jesus ever laughed.

At first, Charlotte compares Megan to Jodie, but gradually decides that Megan is brighter than her sister. And less noisy. And less crazy. And sweeter.

And that’s it, really, that’s what’s at the center of the difference, Megan and her Mom are sweeter than anyone in her family, or in any of the families she’s close to. Megan frequently looks at Charlotte’s face, meets her eye and smiles. While they’re doing dishes side by side, Megan bumps her hips into Charlotte’s thigh, and she bumps back, knocking the smaller girl off-balance a bit, then they both giggle. And then while they take care of their homework at the dining room table, Megan reaches out and pinches Charlotte’s pencil by the eraser while she’s writing, then falls back into her chair and tries to look innocent. Charlotte tries to scowl at her, but that only makes Megan snicker and before long they’re both shaking with laughter. Finally, Charlotte closes the book she’s reading for English. Megan’s been done for a while, but has stayed at the table, doodling in a notebook and quietly fidgeting, humming to herself. Charlotte asks to see what she’s drawing and Megan holds up the notebook, showing a pretty accurate sketch of a bird’s wing, large feathers nestling into smaller as they approach the body.

“Wow, that’s really good.”

“I have a book, this bird watching book, with all these pictures in them. No photos, somebody painted them. I wanted to do that too, so I practice, and…” she trails off with an exaggerated, single-shoulder shrug.

They spend a moment smiling at each other, and it stretches out and out until Charlotte says, “What.”

“You’re pretty,” Megan says. Charlotte’s a bit stunned. Nobody calls her pretty unless she’s dressed up for Sunday service or Easter pageant, and then they’re talking about her clothes, not her. She feels the smile blooming on her face, but can’t think of anything to say.

Megan notes, “Your hair is falling down.”

Chuckling, she replies, “Yeah, I was in a hurry.” She reaches back, “I should just take it down and try again, huh?”

“Wow, your hair is really long. Mom tells me soon I won’t be able to have my hair short anymore, but I like it this way.”

“It looks good on you like that. All curly.”

Megan beams, then suddenly leans forward. “Can I braid it? I’ve been trying to get better, but I hardly ever get to.”

How can she resist this ball of eagerness? “Sure, I guess.”

Megan bounds out of her chair, grabs Charlotte’s hand, and leads her over to the couch, where the younger girl plops down with her legs tucked under. She instructs Charlotte to sit sideways, back to her. After a few false starts, Charlotte helps her with the pattern and Megan picks it right up. She tries big, loose, messy braids and tight, delicate ones. Charlotte shows her how to do a four-strand, surprised she remembers how because she hasn’t done any of this since Confirmation when she was ten.

They sit quietly for a while, Megan fiddling and Charlotte having to admit she likes all this attention, the pleasant tugging of her hair. It’s going to be frizzy later, but right now she doesn’t care.

Getting up on her knees, Megan announces she’s going to try a braid fringe, like she’s seen in the magazine on the coffee table. She leans over, drawing strands away from Charlotte’s forehead, and behind her glasses her brow is knit in concentration. Charlotte feels the warmth of Megan’s body pressing against her back, aware of every shift the girl makes as she busies herself above. It feels great, having another girl close like this, she’s never had much in the way of hugs and cuddles, often imagines her arms around someone, holding them close. And when she’s in the closet, she imagines hands moving all over each other’s bodies, undressing, touching… sliding her fingertips down a smooth golden back until they trace the soft curve wrapped up in those tight black panties…

Charlotte snaps back to herself. Now the buzzing’s starting again, and the feel of the girl’s body against her is intense, confusing. She can smell Megan’s fruity shampoo, the gentle scent of her skin. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, getting increasingly unnerved, guilty. Megan seems perfectly comfortable. Where does that come from?

“Do you braid your mom’s hair?”

“Nah, it’s too curly,” Megan says distractedly. The braid goes in, plait by plait. “Lori’s the only one I still play with a lot, and she lets me, sometimes, but she gets bored.”

“Well, I’m not bored,” she says, and it’s true. She’s more excited than she thinks she should be.

“You’re fun!” the girl enthuses. “Normally I get Mrs Baxter watching me, and she’s old and crabby.”

“Ew, why her?”

“The same reason I only get to play with Lori, I guess,” Megan says, shrugs. “After Dad left, things changed.” She pauses, her hands stop working. “Done.”

She smooths her hands over Charlotte’s hair, tracing the outline of the braid. Then she settles lower, arms suddenly wrapping around the older girl’s chest, and with a soft thrill Charlotte feels Megan kiss her cheek, then settle her chin on Charlotte’s shoulder. It’s marvelous and terrible and why can’t she stop thinking about the bad thing? This should be normal, it shouldn’t be so mixed up with all this other stuff that should just stay in the closet. It’s normal for Megan, right?

“Do you and your mom hug and kiss a lot?”

Megan’s head turns, her warm cheek brushing Charlotte’s ear. “I guess so,” she says. “She wants me to know she always cares, even when things aren’t so great. Like, she said goodnight when she left, but I know she’ll look in on me and kiss me goodnight again when she gets home.”

“My family doesn’t do much of that. Not even my parents. Is that weird?”

She feels Megan’s shrug against her back. Then there’s a delightful squeeze (her arms are right across my boobies) and another kiss on her cheek, this one big and pressing and achingly sincere. And then she draws away and Charlotte immediately misses it.

Megan’s poking at the braid she created. “I think I messed it up.”

Charlotte reaches up and starts unplaiting it, and Megan swoops in to help, and in no time their fingers are bumping into each other, getting knotted together, and they’re both giggling by the time it’s undone. “It’s okay, my hair’s going to be a big old tangled mess anyway.”

“Sorry,” she says, then leans over Charlotte’s shoulder, face bright. “I know! You could rinse it out in the sink while I take my bath. My mom washes her hair in the sink all the time!”

The feeling she’s been trying so hard to banish rises up, spills over. The implications wash over Charlotte like a tidal wave, and she comes unmoored by the force of it, her whole body lighting up, tightening, pulse in her ears, and a deep melting heaviness between her legs. I could see her naked.

Megan’s practically inviting her to. Charlotte will go into the bathroom with her and Megan will take off all her clothes and Charlotte will be able to see her naked. The thought of girls had always made her a little tingly, which she thinks is a bit weird but kind of refused to consider too closely. Now she has a chance to see this bright girl, so sweet and friendly, so much like a little version of her disconcertingly pretty mother, nude and slippery wet, and her need to do it is so strong she feels like she’ll pass out or catch fire if she doesn’t. But she knows it’s wrong; it’s even more bad than what she does in the closet. Her knees rub against each other as she squeezes her legs together, but she’s not sure if she’s trying to prevent the feeling from getting any further in, or to keep it from getting out.

The sensation of thigh brushing thigh just below her panties is delicious. I’ll just be looking. She doesn’t mind. Why should I? Charlotte gets to her feet.

Megan leads her to the bathroom with a pleased look on her face. The doorway’s just off the hall, the same one she saw Mrs Carmody emerge from when she arrived. The bathroom is very small ~ the girls can barely stand a couple feet apart. It’s cluttered here, too ~ toiletries strewn around the sink, a half-full laundry hamper nevertheless having some clothes (little girl clothes, exclusively) heaped around it rather than in it. The tub takes up most of the right hand wall next to the potty, and the vanity sink is just beside it, opposite the door.

“See?” Megan points. “The shower head thingy has a hose attached, and it reaches all the way over to the sink. Mom says it’s the only advantage to having such a tiny bathroom, we can both get ready at once.”

Charlotte nods dumbly. It’s hard to speak with your heart in your throat.

“Are you okay? You’re all pink.”

Her hand shoots up to her face, feels the heat there. “Um, yeah. I’ll just, uh, get started I guess.” She moves toward the shower.

“No, wait. You have to let me run the tub first. Then I’ll get in, and I’ll turn the shower on and off for you. That way we can do it at the same time.”

Megan kneels down and turns the tap on, testing the water as it warms, then closes the drain. Charlotte’s bottom is pressed against the vanity, Megan’s between her and the door. Feeling distant, woozy, Charlotte looks on passively as Megan stands, takes a step back, and wiggles her feet out of her sneakers. It’s only when the younger girl lifts one foot back next to her bottom and pulls the little sock off with her thumb, that Charlotte says, “Should I, um…” she gestures toward the doorway.

“You don’t have to, I’ll only take a minute.” The other sock comes off. “Clean off the counter, so everything doesn’t get all wet.” Water splashes noisily in the tub.

“Yeah, okay.” She turns around, tries to focus as she takes items from the counter and piles them onto an equally overloaded shelving rack next to it. But her eyes keep glancing in the mirror, and she gets lingering glimpses of Megan; her curls flopping down from the neck of her shirt as she lifts it over her head, revealing a plump torso, skin a paler gold than her mother’s, a cute tummy and a pair of tiny, bright pink nipples; the girl twisting her skirt around to get at the zip; tossing her clothes in the general direction of the hamper. Then with a nonchalant dip and the snap of elastic, she’s pulling her white panties off, and Charlotte can see all of her, and there’s an adorable curve and swell to her bottom that leads to her firm, fleshy legs, and oh, oh, the crease of her little kitty and it’s delicate and bare as hers was when she was small. She realizes she’s staring and looks away, clumsily grabbing at one of the last bottles on the counter.

When she feels the hand on the small of her back Charlotte jumps a little. She turns herself around, and Megan is there, grinning at her babysitter’s silly behavior. Megan removes her glasses, now even her face is naked, and she’s so soft and beautiful, she seems more whole undressed, her nudity innocent and content. Megan hands her glasses to the older girl. “Put them out of the way, too.”

Charlotte turns again, trying to find a place to put them on the cluttered shelf, and it takes longer than it should because she can’t think. She hears Megan stepping into the tub. Her eyes practically drag over to look in the mirror, and watch as naked Megan settles into the half-full tub, as she gets a bottle from the corner, pours some in, splashes it into a frothy mound of suds. She pulls her gaze away, looks down at her own shaking hands, wanting and guilty and so, so torn.

There’s a sloshing and Megan lets out a giggle and a sigh, a strangely deep sigh that causes Charlotte to finally turn around and face her. The girl’s holding onto the tub spout, her body pulled close underneath it, knees drawn up to her shoulders and her kitty directly under the flow, hot water pouring and bouncing off the tender pink flesh. Her eyes are closed, head back, trailing the ends of her curls in the bubbles, and her mouth is open in what looks like an endless, happy gasp.

Charlotte slumps back against the counter for support as a surge of liquid heat pummels her. What Megan’s doing is shocking and beautiful and amazing and it makes everything so much better and worse. Her hand absently rises to her breast, squeezes, as she stares.

Megan squeaks out a high pitched sigh and her brown eyes open, sparkling with pleasure. She spies Charlotte looking at her and smiles hugely, sloshing back from the faucet into a cross-legged sitting position, holding her ankles, bubbles bobbling around her. “It feels yummy,” she chuckles. Then she takes a deep breath and turns off the water.

Unable to bear looking at Megan any more, Charlotte quickly takes the shower head off the bracket, stretching it over the sink. She wants to drown, to dissolve. “I’m ready.”

“No you’re not,” Megan chides. “Take off your top, silly. Put a towel around your, you know,” she gestures around her neck and shoulders.

Between her rapid breath and trembling fingers, unbuttoning her blouse is a challenge. She’s keenly aware of Megan steadily watching her, adding something new and thrilling to the cauldron churning inside. Finally it’s off, hanging on the rack, and a towel is drawn around her. She looks beseechingly at Megan. The girl kneels up, bubbles sliding down her exposed bottom. She turns on the tap and tests the water.

“Okay, ready,” Megan says. “Put your head over the sink and I’ll switch it over. Wave at me when you want me to switch it off.”

Charlotte does as she’s told (like a good girl) and the hot water splutters then rushes out of the shower she holds over her head, sluicing through her hair. The tangles sag, soak, unwind. She combs her fingers through it, loosening the peskier snarls. Gradually, it begins to straighten, hanging like a drape down into the basin. The spray of water on her scalp sends tingles down the back of her neck, makes her think of Megan’s fingers in her hair, Megan’s body wrapped around hers, Megan naked in the tub behind her, watching. She hoped this would clear her head, but nothing helps, nothing. She waves, and the water is choked off.

She lifts the towel over her head and scrubs at her scalp. The little room is close and steamy now. She can hear gentle laps and splashes as Megan washes herself. Once she towels off, she picks a hairbrush out of the rack and starts pulling it through her locks with long, straight strokes. In the foggy mirror, Megan is leaning back, soaping up a foot. Charlotte’s own face looks desperate to her, the feverish color in her cheeks, breathing through her mouth. She needs the closet so much right now. She needs to hide. She needs her secret, the hidden, wonderful, frantic touching. She needs to be bad.

Continue on to Chapter 3

By eloquent delinquent

“Will you wash my back?”

Charlotte freezes. The shoulder strap on her training bra droops down her arm. Carefully, she sets down the brush and begins a slow retreat from the room. Megan’s back is already turned, bent forward, she’s looking up over her shoulder. Charlotte takes another halting step. “I – I don’t I, think that maybe…”

Megan’s expectant face falls, eyes plaintive. “Mrs Baxter won’t, either. She won’t even come in here with me.”

Without a single thought Charlotte stops in her tracks and kneels next to Megan, and the little girl’s disappointment blossoms into pure sunshine. She looks away, wiggling her shoulders invitingly, as Charlotte takes the body wash in one hand and a loofah in the other. She pumps a little soap onto it, but the second it touches Megan, she jerks away. “No! It’s too scratchy.”

For a second Charlotte looks desperately around for a washcloth, but then something switches in her head, she inhales deeply, holds it, pumps the soap directly onto her hand, and places it on Megan’s back.

The breath escapes her in a long, astonished sigh, as the sensation of Megan’s slick, warm, soft, impossibly fine skin comes through to her. Her hand moves slowly, savoring, across the girl’s shoulder blades in long circles. She’s touching her, she’s touching this lovely naked girl. Charlotte dips her other hand in the sudsy bathwater, then adds it to the first, and she’s more stroking and rubbing than washing, exploring her flesh, but from Megan’s soft little “Mmm”s she doesn’t seem to mind. Her pleasure is mine, and mine, hers. It’s a circuit, she thinks, and her body glows so hotly it blots out her doubt.

“Stand up,” she finds herself saying.

Megan obediently pulls herself to her feet, a foamy sheen sliding slowly down her silky bottom and legs, and Charlotte gets up on her knees to match her, soapy hands following the bubbles down her body. At first she just lathers Megan’s pert bottom, mesmerized by its yielding firmness, by seeing her own hands doing this. But gradually her soaping gets more general, returning to her back, her shoulders, that magical curve above her bottom, the backs of her legs. Megan lets out little contented hums and coos. Then Charlotte dips her hand in the warm water and reaches around to Megan’s tummy, gliding all over the vulnerable, satiny flesh and then up to her chest, over the little pads of her undeveloped breasts, running again and again over the hot hard points of her nipples.

Now she’s soaping her back and her front at the same, and can feel Megan’s breathing getting deeper, faster. The girl’s arms rest at her sides, but her hands make little rubbing motions over her hips. Charlotte leans closer, her front getting a little wet, her stroking getting relaxed, more luxurious. Charlotte’s own bottom is rolling in slow thoughtless pumps, her breath so ragged she can hear it.

“Turn around.”

When Megan does her eyes search out Charlotte’s, and there’s confusion there, and hunger, and pleasure, but mostly there’s sweetness. They gaze at each other, feelings mirrored, as Charlotte rinses her hands, cups them with water, and begins gently rinsing away the lather. Starting at the shoulders, she brings the water up again and again, pouring the little handfuls down Megan’s body, then smoothing her clean and sleek. Megan’s eyes fall dreamily shut. Charlotte watches her own hands as she does this, seeing everywhere she’s touching Megan, rinsing her chest then placing a hand on it. She reaches around and sluices her back, and this she can only do by feel. As the last handful of water back there pours over Megan’s bottom, Charlotte slides her hand all around the luscious swell. And when she runs a finger slowly down through the snug crack between her cheeks, she touches her tight little butthole, fingertip exploring its texture, and Megan gives a sigh and a shiver.

Leaning back, removing one hand from Megan’s chest and scooping them both into the water, Charlotte rinses the foam down the girl’s tummy, over her plump pelvis, and down her legs. But her gaze is fixed on that secret little place, the shiny bare cleft of her kitty, shy between her legs. Charlotte’s heart begins to pound, pulse singing in her ears, as she considers it, staring. She dips into the tub, wraps both wet hands around one soft leg, starts at the top rinses down. Dips again, and does the other. Back and forth, one then the other.

She dips once more, but this time only one hand comes up, trailing up the inside of young girl’s leg, until it comes to rest on the hot delicate squishy softness of Megan’s kitty. Charlotte squeezes gently and Megan gasps, mouth an ‘O’, brows high in surprise. Her eyes pop open wide and lock onto Charlotte’s. Megan’s hands leave her hips, move as if to push Charlotte’s searching hand away, but she hesitates and Charlotte squeezes the girl’s kitty again, starts a rhythm, middle finger settling into the wet tender cleft and sliding softly. Megan’s hips rock slightly in response, she lets out a broken, “Ah-ahhhh,” and her hands waver over Charlotte’s wrist for a moment. Then she raises them, pulls them in against her shoulders, like she’s draping an invisible towel across her front.

Charlotte continues stroking Megan’s kitty, pressing a bit harder, diddling her fingertips. She knows what she likes, and is fascinated at what it’s doing to the girl, her loins starting to move against her hand in their own time. She watches Megan’s face, her mouth slackening as she breathes hard, the color blooming on her cheeks, and the way her eyelids droop even as her brows stay arched in shock. Oh, look at her, she feels so good as I rub her kitty, so tender and wet…

When she pulls her hand way, Megan snaps alert. “Why’d you stop?” she urgently whispers. Charlotte is roughly rucking her skirt up to her waist, forcing her panties down. Megan gazes fascinated at Charlotte’s naked hips and fuzzy kitty, realization dawning as the older girl slips her hand between her own legs. She looks back to Megan, grinning, panting, sliding her other hand up Megan’s leg and nestling it back in her kitty, and the girl sighs with something like relief.

She matches the time for both of them, cupping, stroking, squeezing, fiddling. Her own body urges her on, and she speeds up, applying more pressure. Her own kitty is as wet as Megan’s, she can hear the slick noises her hands make in both of them, her hips thrust against her fingers in sharp, demanding jerks. And it’s so good, so good as she watches Megan begin to stiffen, back arching, winding up with tension. She goes, “Uh, Uh, Uh-huh,” and her hands shake. Charlotte imagines the pleasure building inside her, so much like her own, and her hands move even faster and she wonders, will she get the shock can a little girl get the shock oh I want to give her the shock

But instead, the shock rushes up on her, sudden and huge and electrifying, she cries out as her body desperately humps her busy hand. It grips her for a long time, continually erupting, the most she’s ever felt, and when it lets go of her she’s floaty. She looks up sleepily to Megan as the waves start to subside, her hand still working the girl’s kitty as if on its own. Megan looks on, her expression mixed up but excited by what’s happened to Charlotte. And the tight rhythm gets stronger, straining toward something, her voice climbing in pitch as she goes “Oh, Oooh, Uh-huh, Uh-huh!” Charlotte sees the girl’s face and chest flush bright pink, and suddenly Megan’s legs clamp tight around her hand, she lets out a squeak, and the girl’s hand flashes down and clutches Charlotte’s wrist, pressing her fingers hard to her kitty as her whole body shudders against it.

Her breathless panting slows, her body unwinds and sags, and Charlotte uses the hand still in her groin to lower the trembling girl back into the soothing water. They lay there for a while, Charlotte’s head resting on the edge of the tub, Megan lying back, lazily sending little waves over herself.

And then, as if waking, Charlotte’s awareness of what she’s done begins to creep back in. She’s here, on Mrs Carmody’s bathroom floor, with her panties around her knees and fingers that smell of the bad thing. She’s done it, she’s been bad in front of somebody, somebody knows what she does, her secret is out. Even worse, she’s done something bad to somebody, to Mrs Carmody’s little daughter, the one she’s supposed to be babysitting, the one she’s supposed to take care of, and she did it to her anyway.

Megan opens the drain, and the water gurgling, wasted, matches her sinking feeling. Almost queasy with shame, she gropes at her own panties and pulls them up, starts unrumpling her skirt. Oh no what time is it what happens when Mrs Carmody gets home oh no oh no. She reaches for her top and clutches it to her chest, her eyes wide.

Behind her, Megan asks, “Will you help me dry off?”

Almost mechanically, Charlotte lays her top over the hamper and reaches up for one of the yellow bath sheets hanging from the bar. Of course she’ll help Megan dry off, she thinks, resigned. She’ll use any excuse to handle the young girl’s naked body; she’s the most horrible babysitter that ever lived. Megan’s still a little shaky, holding onto the edge of the tub as she climbs out, her sleek golden body posing in such a darling, pouting curve that Charlotte can’t help but stare. The older girl fluffs the towel over her hands, stretches out her arms with it draped between them as if to receive Megan in an embrace, which Megan unhesitatingly steps into, her eyes wide and searching Charlotte’s face.

Charlotte lifts the towel over the girl’s head, enveloping her, separating her, hiding from her. She dries her scalp even though it wasn’t very wet, and the rest of the initial toweling is a scrubbing, a little brusque, rougher than necessary, and she’s careful to make sure that the terrycloth stays between her and the girl’s skin. Megan meekly accepts this jostling. Eventually, it’s time to do her legs, and as she wraps a corner of the towel around the girl’s right ankle, her careful wrapping comes unraveled, Megan catches it in the crooks of her elbows and it’s swathed across her back, and Charlotte is confronted by her body, nude and glowing and smelling sweetly of soap.

She averts her eyes quickly, bending down to focus just on the leg she’s rubbing dry. Don’t look up don’t look don’t look at her kitty haven’t you done enough? She gropes for the other banner end of the towel, repeats the process on Megan’s left leg, starting at the ankle and working up, but quitting just above the knee, unable to bring herself to face what she couldn’t resist just minutes before.

She’s done all she can. Sighing, Charlotte reluctantly glances up at Megan’s face, but the girl’s gaze is fixed on Charlotte’s chest, where her current position reveals most of her budding breasts in the sling of her training bra. She tries for a second to make eye contact, but Megan is fascinated, and Charlotte is touched and flattered, surprised by the girl’s curiosity, is tempted to let herself stare at Megan some more, but that thought curdles into disgust with herself before she’s done thinking it.

“Here, finish,” she places the ends of the towel into Megan’s hands. “Where are your pajamas?”

“On the bed,” Megan replies, absently wiping the places Charlotte neglected. “I just wear on of my mom’s old t-shirts, she says I outgrow my clothes too fast.”

Charlotte stands, picks up her top, and edges out of the bathroom, Megan’s gaze following her every move. It’s a relief when she turns the corner out of her sight. A little simple deduction takes her to Megan’s room, where switching on the bedside lamp reveals a level of disorder that makes the rest of the house look tidy. The sky blue t-shirt is in a rumpled heap exactly where Megan said it would be, so she retrieves it and heads back to the bathroom.

Seeing her, Megan drops the towel, lets it gather around her feet almost like a dare. Charlotte can’t help the gasp she makes. She holds the nightshirt out at arm’s length, and Megan plucks it from her almost as diffidently, stretches it out over her head, lets it slip lightly over her body, swishing as it comes to rest just below her knees. Charlotte can’t help the pang she feels as the girl’s body is concealed any more than she could help the gasp. Megan chews her lip and looks inquisitively at the older girl. In return, Charlotte takes her hand and, without a word, leads her to bed and tucks her in.

Folding the sheet down over the coverlet, she can’t escape the concern on Megan’s face. Or is it wary? Is she afraid of me now? Charlotte’s own fears rise up like smoke.

“You can’t tell anyone what happened. Not even your mom, okay?”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“No, it’s important. No one can ever find out. You have to swear.”

“Okay. I swear. I won’t tell.”

Charlotte can’t doubt the girl’s sincerity. But looking into her troubled face, all the other words just seem to block themselves up, jammed in a snarl. What can she say? What could possibly excuse what she just did? “It’s late. Go to sleep.”

She darts up from the bed and quickly crosses to the door when she hears Megan timidly say, “Charlotte?” She pinches her eyes shut, but turns, and watches a moment as the young girl hesitates, struggles, and finally says, “Could you leave the door open? Just a crack, okay?”

“Okay. Goodnight, Megan.”

“Goodnight,” Megan replies, immediately, urgently. Charlotte draws the door nearly closed.

The next hour and a half are agonizing. She goes through the bathroom, trying to set everything back the way it was, but she doesn’t really remember, so it’s as frustrating as it is useless. So she wraps her hair up into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, staring accusingly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror the whole time. She sits on the couch, chewing her lip, and when she can’t stand it anymore, she stands up and looks out the window at the street, and when nothing happens, she starts to pace, and at the end of each length, she’s standing in the hallway, looking at the crack left open in Megan’s door. Then, she sits back down and gnaws her lip some more.

She’s at this point in her anxious cycle when Mrs Carmody comes home, Charlotte feels a hollowness spread through her middle.

“Sorry I’m a little late.” Mrs Carmody says quietly. “Sometimes I have trouble getting the car started.”

“Oh, it’s okay.”

“How was she?”

“Fine. She was great, really.” Until I molested her.

“She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she? Well, mostly. Did she fight you on bedtime?”

“No, no. She went straight to bed right after, um, she had her bath.”

Mrs Carmody gives her an admiring glance, “Well, you must be quite the charmer. I practically have to peel her off the couch and tie her into bed.”

Charlotte laughs a little, and it sounds really nervous to her.

The mother shakes her keys. “Come on, let’s get you home. I can’t imagine what your mother will do if we get you home too late.”

In the car, she’s mostly quiet as she stares out the window, stealing occasional glances at Mrs Carmody’s profile as the streetlights shift across it. She’s so pretty, with her strong straight jaw, pouty lower lip and the stray curl dangling along her cheek. Once, Mrs Carmody catches her looking and makes a catlike grin and it’s electrifying, Charlotte can’t look away fast enough.

“I’ll bet you two got along really well,” Mrs Carmody says. “You’re both so smart, and so quiet in public. I’ll bet you’re just like her in private, though, chirping away like a bird singing in a tree.”

“I guess so. We did have fun talking, and she showed me her drawing. It’s really good. Then she wanted to braid my hair.”

The mother smiles. “It’s like you’re friends more than a babysitter. That’s okay, though. She’s probably old enough to do without, but I just feel better with someone else there. And besides, I’d like it if she had more girls to spend time with. So many of the mothers started keeping their kids away from Megan, after… after Mr Carmody and I split. I think she could use some more friends.” She sighs. “I know I could.”

They’re passing the Church now, a few lights still on in the office area. The darkened windows in front are like eyes as they pass.

Charlotte tries to recall what’s happening with the Carmodys. She knows that Oliver… er, Mr Carmody, met Mrs Carmody on mission to a big city, and that Reverend Bealing married them shortly after they returned. Then, a little over a year ago, Mr Carmody moved out, and got a divorce, even though Reverend Bealing counseled against it, causing a lot of conflict amongst the Congregation, at least at first. Less than a month later, though, Mr Carmody married Miss Roeder, the Reverend’s cousin, and suddenly all was right between the Reverend and Mr Carmody again, and Mrs Carmody had to move out of the big house on Knoxville Street and into a little one on Whitcomb Circle.

Her Dad gave his passing judgment of the whole thing one night at dinner, when the scandal was just coming to an end: “That’s the way Oliver’s always been, softhearted, more pity than sense, always taking in strays. But now he’s seen the light about that woman, and is coming back to us.”

But what happened between them, what scandalized the Congregation? It was never mentioned to Charlotte. She supposes grownups have secrets of their own. What else do they hide?

“Do you have Bible study tomorrow night?”

“No. Only on Monday and Wednesday.”

“I’ve got a few more shifts coming up. Do you think you could come back tomorrow, a little earlier? I’d really like it if you could.”

You may not feel that way after you talk to your daughter. “Um, maybe? You’ll have to call my mom first, I think.”

“Of course, sure.”

There’s a pause while Mrs Carmody turns up Pine Street.

“Everything okay, Charlotte?”

“Um. Yeah. It’s fine.”

Mrs Carmody says, “I see you every week at Bible study, and you seem… I don’t know, a little sad? Subdued.”

She shrugs uncomfortably. “Sometimes, what Christ wants from us seems so hard. I want to be true in my faith, but how can I when it seems like every week we’re finding out how full of sin everything is? Especially us. I don’t really get it, and I guess I feel dumb.”

“Can I confess something?”

Charlotte nods.

“I think sometimes the Church is too harsh on girls. Women. I know I’ve been in it for a long time, everyone I know anymore is there, but still. Doesn’t it seem strange that women have to have their hair and their clothes just so, but not the men?” She sets her chin. “I don’t know. I went to church plenty when I was young, and it wasn’t anything like this.”

“Really? I guess it seems weird, but… what else is there?”

And Mrs Carmody reaches out and she’s squeezing Charlotte’s hand. “Yeah. Exactly.”

They’re pulling up to Charlotte’s house.

“You’re a sharp girl, Charlotte Geist. I hope you and Megan do become friends. Maybe we can be, too.” She squeezes her hand again, and Charlotte, against all her shame and anxiety, feels a thrill at her attention.

“Me too. Thanks, Mrs Carmody.”

“Call me Miss Wells. No, you know what? Call me Amy.” She smiles again and cups Charlotte’s surprised face. “I’ll call your mom tomorrow. Take care, okay?”

The smile that comes to her own face is also a surprise. “I will. Goodnight.”

Charlotte’s mother is awake in her armchair and reading God’s Plan for You, but doesn’t say a word as Charlotte crosses to the stairs and goes straight up to her room. She changes into her pj’s (it’s still strange undressing in front of the open door) and climbs into bed, but spends a largely sleepless night staring into the dark, imagining the events at the Carmodys that would bring disaster to her. Imagining what her mother & the Reverend would do when they found out how awful she was.

When she finally sleeps she dreams she’s standing nervously before the Congregation, but then a heavenly, feminine voice begins to sing, the Song of Solomon 4:10, and with amazement she realizes it’s her own voice erupting out of her. And while she sings, her clothes begin to crumble and fall away as if they were made of old paper or ashes. The Congregation is riveted, shocked and rapt. Her mother is scowling, promising dreadful things. To her left, the Reverend has taken the stage, stabbing a finger at her and shouting, but she can’t hear it. Her voice rises over all of it, grips her, flows from her, and even as the last of her clothes crumble away, leaving her naked and mortified and judged, she continues to sing. She remembers it when she awakens, drifting in and out as the light slowly creeps in, letting the last hours till dawn pass in a reverie.

Then she hears the phone ring downstairs. She bolts up in a panic, stumbling into her robe and slippers, dashing downstairs, but her mother’s already hanging up the phone and it’s too late, too late.

“That was Mrs Carmody,” her mother says. “She seems pleased with the way you took care of her daughter. Wants you back today by 4:00. You should probably head straight there after school, the Church is halfway to their place already.”

Waves of relief and apprehension crash around inside of her, and there’s a swirl of other feelings beneath them that she barely recognizes yet. She finds herself numbly nodding.

“I’ll fix an extra snack for you for after school,” Charlotte’s mother says.

“Okay, Momma.” She turns to head back upstairs.

“Charlotte,” her mother says and she stops. “It’s good to see you doing something useful with your time.”

“Thank you, Momma.”

Continue on to Chapter 4

By eloquent delinquent

It isn’t until she’s walking back up Whitcomb Circle that Charlotte realizes that school was a blur, she remembers nothing she was taught, just the occasional rebukes to pay attention, and, of course, the confusion. She could barely sort out how she felt from one hour to the next – the relief at not getting caught being overwhelmed by guilt of having done something that so needed to be hidden, the fear of having to face Megan constantly flipping with the desire to see her, regret at what she’d done wrestling with the excitement of having done it. At this point, she was mostly just exhausted and unsure about everything.

That uncertainty only grows as she goes up the walk to the Carmody’s … er, to Amy’s, house. It takes two tries before she’s able to knock. She can hear her pulse in her ears when the door open and Mrs, Amy is there, smiling around a peach she’s bitten into. Her hair’s in a tumble around her shoulders, which are bare since she’s wearing a pink tank top. Charlotte sees some freckles there. Her sweatpants are also pink, and all her clothes are just snug enough that they accentuate all her curves, not fat but full and ripe, and make Charlotte certain that she’s not wearing a bra at all, and maybe not even panties. Looking at her, the girl twists the toe of one sneaker into the porch step.

Amy wipes away the juice from her lower lip and chews for a moment before she says, “Hi Charlotte. Thanks for coming again. Megan’s in back playing, why don’t you go around and say hello?”

“Okay,” she replies, stepping off without really thinking and making her way across the big lawn to the tall fence that divides Amy’s house from the next one over. And that’s when she hears Megan laughing. No, that’s not quite it, Charlotte thinks, that’s more like maniacal shrieking.

Megan’s racing around the broad backyard and even into the edge of the woods that back the house, brandishing what looks like a pillowcase over her head, whipping it at random moments, completely caught up. Charlotte can’t help but smile as she watches her run full tilt, barefoot, chasing… what?

That’s when Megan spots her and comes to an abrupt halt, pillowcase dangling at her side, chest heaving, her mouth open and eyes staring. She stays like this for a moment, as if measuring Charlotte’s effect on her. The older girl goes very still, trying to brace herself for whatever accusations might come next. Then Megan says, “I’m trying to catch butterflies.”

Charlotte smiles and steps toward her, noticing the golden flitting shapes above the grass for the first time. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“The fiery skippers are migrating, I want to get a close at them before they’re all gone.”

“Any luck?”

“No, they’re too fast and they flutter all over like a bunch of stupid leaves.” She holds out the pillowcase. “Want to help me?”

Charlotte feels almost giddy, she wants to hug Megan, but she has an idea. She sets down her book bag. “No, but I’ll help you. You can’t catch a butterfly by acting like a butterfly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Give me a minute. In the meantime, pick all the yellow and purple flowers you can find. Just the yellow and purple ones though, okay?”

Megan smiles, intrigued, “Okay.” She dashes off to the wildflowers at the edge of the woods.

Charlotte goes up onto the deck, opens the back door tentatively and finds Amy rinsing a plate in the sink. The mother lifts an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“Uh, Amy? Can I borrow one of the yellow towels from the bathroom for a minute?”

“Sure, I guess. Should I -?” but Charlotte’s charged right past her, infected by Megan’s excitement, by the elation that things might be okay, they might just go back to normal, grateful for this chance to be Megan’s friend again. She snatches a hand towel from the bar and is back out the door, barely noticing Amy’s quizzical expression.

Outside, she kneels next to her bag, rummaging till she finds the small tube of hand lotion she carries. One of the ladies in the Church makes them special to request, and made Charlotte’s with natural lavender oil. She heads over to where Megan is still eagerly plucking blossoms. She’s collecting them in her skirt, has it pulled out and up, and Charlotte can see all the way up her legs, the panties just a shadowy hint. It adds another flutter to her excitement.

“This enough?”

“Plenty. Come over here,” Charlotte says, leading the girl to the dappled shade on the edge of the lawn. “Now sit down.”

Megan plops the pile of flowers on the grass, sits cross-legged next to it, looking expectantly to the older girl.

“If you act like a butterfly, the butterflies always run away. If you want to see a butterfly close up, you have to act like what it likes. You have to act like a flower.”

Charlotte wraps the towel over Megan’s shoulder and chest, like a bib. “Start putting those flowers all over yourself,” she says, and while the girl’s doing this, she takes a daub of the lavender lotion and rubs it on Megan’s bare arms, the back of her hands. Megan stops moving and closely observes Charlotte’s hands touching her.

“Here,” Charlotte says, and when Megan looks up the older girl rubs a little speck of lotion into either cheek. Their eyes meet, Megan’s with something of the searching look from the night before, but Charlotte smiles back happily and Megan relaxes and grins. “Now you smell like a flower, too.”

They both giggle as Charlotte stands up and begins backing away, “But the most important thing a flower does is sit still. Just stay put, and let them come to you.”

Kneeling over by her bag, she watches as Megan finishes with the blossoms and settles. The flowers are scattered in her hair, on the towel, on either shoulder, in her lap, tucked into the crooks of her knees, gripped between her knuckles. She looks something like a fairy in the dappled light as she looks up keenly and waits.

It takes a few minutes, and Charlotte starts to think it won’t work, Megan glances sidelong at her more and more frequently, eyes questioning but remaining still. But then, it happens. The little gold butterflies gather, flitting in circles above her at first, then the first one descends curiously onto the top of Megan’s head. The girl’s eyes widen, strain upward to see what quickly escapes her sight, Charlotte sees her biting the tip of her tongue to contain herself, but she doesn’t move, and soon more of the soft-winged critters are lighting on her and her flowers – touching down on her knee, her hair, her shoulder, her thumb. One lights on the rim of her glasses. Megan’s face blooms into pure, overwhelming delight. The sidelong glance she sends Charlotte now is dazzling.

Charlotte covers her mouth to stifle the laughter that’s boiling up from her, she can’t help it. Then she hears the click, and looks up to the deck where Amy is standing with an old camera with a great big lens, snapping picture after picture of Megan. She pauses and looks Charlotte’s way, her expression full of admiration, and maybe a little wonder.

Finally, Megan just can’t stand it anymore. With a peal of glee, she explodes into motion, wiggling free of the butterflies, tossing the blossoms into the air, leaping to her feet. And before Charlotte even registers it Megan has bounded over to her and slammed into an embrace that nearly knocks her over. Recovering her balance, she wraps her arms around the younger girl, feels her body shake with uncontrollable laughter. Charlotte’s smile actually hurts her face a little.

She hears a click, and sees as Amy lowers her camera, gives them a warm, wistful look, and returns to the house.

Eventually, Megan calms down enough to disentangle from Charlotte, but her excited chatter about her experience continues beyond the point where her mom has to leave, and well into dinner, where she finally pauses, and asks, “How did you know to do that?”

“I learned it at Bible camp.” She tells her about an older boy named Aaron who was a counselor and nature guide, but doesn’t tell her that as soon as he finished school, he left the Church and disappeared.

“He sounds nice. Most boys can’t be good with girls, too. They’re only good with other boys.”

Despite their age difference, Charlotte can’t help but agree. She’s always found boys to be mostly loud, proud, bossy, sulky, and messy. Girls appeal to her more… and she’s suddenly struck by what that might actually mean about her. She’s been trying hard not to notice how she gets that deep quiver when she remembers what Megan looks like naked, and when she thinks about Amy, the way she gets when Amy even looks at her… She glances at Megan furtively, her feelings tangling up all over again.

Is she one of those girls? The kind Reverend Bealing say are taunting the Church and turning their backs on Jesus? The kind that want to turn marriage into something blasphemous?

She dwells on this thought through dishes and homework, a whole new dimension of anxiety gnawing at her. Why does she feel this way? Where did she go wrong? Why does she ache to do the bad thing again and again? What makes her want to touch Megan again, to do it to her and make her like it? Why does it have to make her feel so good?

Somehow, Charlotte still manages to help Megan with her homework, the girl’s dealing with fractions for the first time, but it doesn’t take much explanation before Megan begins to sort out how they work. Charlotte stands behind Megan at the dining room table, leaning over to watch her pencil work its way through the problems, glancing at her mop of blonde curls, bending closer, following the scent of the girl, trying to catch a little more, shampoo and grass and sweat and lavender and strawberry Jolly Rancher. Her breasts gently come to rest on the back of Megan’s shoulders, chin almost resting on her head, she feels her nipples stiffening against the girl’s warmth.

Megan goes very still for a moment, then leans forward, breaking the contact, turning, meeting Charlotte’s eyes and, blinking a lot, she says, “I need to finish.”

Rebuffed, Charlotte straightens, dithers, puts her books back in her bag. She goes over to the sofa, plops down, and starts chewing her lip like she did the night before. She can’t make it right, can’t stop thinking about Megan the bad way. She can’t help herself. It would be best if she just went back to the closet, where she could have her bad thoughts and touch herself in that right but wrong way, went in the closet and never came out.

Behind her, she hears Megan set her assignment aside, the chair scrape as she gets up, her bare feet padding as she comes over next to the couch. It takes an effort for Charlotte to look at her, she feels tears pricking at her eyes.

Megan’s mouth is set, her brown eyes serious behind the lenses, she’s wringing her hands in front of her pelvis. “Charlotte,” she says, “you touched me in the bath last night.”

Charlotte finds she can only nod slowly. The lump in her throat wouldn’t let her speak anyway. What can she possibly say?

“You washed my back. You washed my back and then you washed me all over and then you weren’t really washing me anymore,” Megan says, and Charlotte understands that the girl’s talking her way through it, wrestling with it even as she says it. “You were just touching me all over. And then… and then, you touched me down there.”

Megan looks down at her knotted hands, and what’s behind them. Charlotte’s gaze follows, and her heart is pounding, with remorse, with longing, with self-loathing.

“You shouldn’t have touched me there. No one’s supposed to touch me there. Mom told me that place is only for me, it’s my private place, and I’m not supposed to let anyone touch me there. Mom says if I let somebody touch me there I could get hurt real bad, but…” she gets lost for a second, turning her hands over. “But you touched me there anyway.”

Charlotte’s voice cracks when she says, “I know.”

Megan doesn’t look up, but goes on.

“It was naughty, the way you kept touching me. It was naughty of me to let you keep doing that. And then you pulled up your skirt and let me watch while you touched yourself too, and then you got all shaky and pink and that was really naughty, even though it’s your private place, I could still see it, and see you touching it like you were touching mine.

“It’s naughty. I know that. You and me, we both were naughty in the tub, I know that. You aren’t supposed to touch me there and you did and that’s naughty. I know it’s naughty.”

Megan raises her head just a bit, looks at Charlotte from under her eyebrows, under the rim of her glasses, her eyes big and nervous. “But… could you do that to me some more?”

Charlotte chokes out a sob as she’s standing, blinking out a tear from each eye as she crosses the tiny space between them, then Megan’s pressed tight and soft against her and Charlotte’s arms are around her and her face is in those delicate blonde curls and the secret is hidden between them, exactly where their bodies touch together. She kisses Megan’s hair over and over, and after a moment, Megan’s arms close around her waist, she feels the young girl’s nose press against her throat, and her little, dainty lips kiss blindly all around where the hollow of her neck meets the collar of her blouse.

Charlotte lowers her head, Megan tips hers back and up, their eyes meet just inches from one another, and they stare as their quickening breath mixes, seeing the guilty, exciting secret reflected there, and behind it, a glow, a banked fire that’s about to be allowed to run loose. Charlotte’s hands run up Megan’s back, over her shoulders, until her fingertips run along under Megan’s delicate jaw, drawing her closer, drawing her in.

And then there is a fever of kissing between them, on mouths, chins, cheeks, eyelids, breath damp and sighing against each other’s skin, their hands running over one another’s clothes, occasionally squeezing the tender flesh beneath. They press their chests and tummies more tightly together, swaying awkwardly, trying to get even closer.

Megan lets out a little squeak when Charlotte kisses her ears, but Charlotte feels the girl smiling against her cheek as her lips squish out a trail down the pulsing line on the side of Megan’s neck. Megan chuckles softly and pushes the older girl back.

Charlotte shakes her hair back from her face, and Megan has this mischievous look on her face and says, “I want to see you with no clothes on.”

Charlotte smiles wildly and she starts unbuttoning her blouse, toppling a bit as she kicks off her sneakers at the same time. “You too.”

Megan pulls off her t-shirt, and Charlotte drinks in her plump, pale gold body again, its innocent, sensuous curves, the adorably pink nipples already standing out. Charlotte’s wrestling out of her sleeves, haste making her awkward, as the young girl deftly unzips her jean skirt and lets it drop. She stands watching as the older girl bends, lowering her much longer denim skirt, stepping out of it, tossing it on the couch, straightens and faces her.

“Your panties,” Charlotte says, pointing, flushing.

Megan sways coyly, crossing her hands over her panties. “Yours first,” she smiles.

She doesn’t know why she hesitates when her thumbs loop through the elastic at her hips, but she does. Then she sees the young girl’s eager face, and the quiver deep down comes harder than ever before, and Charlotte grins slyly, watching Megan’s expression bloom as she slides the panties slowly down over her rump, thighs, knees, ankles, and off. She stands, quickly unclipping the front clasp of her training bra and shrugging out of it.

Megan’s jaw hangs slack and her eyes dance delighted, and they stand that way for a minute, neither moving at all, and Charlotte feels her excitement tightening inside her. Finally, she stands up straight, shakes her hair back, squares her shoulders and pushes out her chest, her pert, small, hard-nippled breasts jutting, proudly naked, almost a dare.

This seems to jar something awake in Megan, her expression grows intent. Unceremoniously, she dips down, slips her panties down and off, tosses them aside, and steps close enough to Charlotte that each can faintly feel the heat from the other’s skin. Megan’s hands come up, but hover inches from Charlotte, as her eyes rove everywhere on the older girl’s body.

Megan says, “You have hair there.”

Charlotte glances down at the dusting of brown hair on her mound, and it strikes her that she’s really naked in front of someone else, in front of Megan. The feeling, the anticipation, is indescribable. “A little,” she breathes. “Why don’t you touch it?”

Megan’s hands settle gently, like birds, like butterflies, on Charlotte’s belly. One of them slides down, fingers brushing the downy hair tentatively, then more openly curious. Just slightly below, Charlotte’s kitty flares with excitement and it races up through her body, making her gasp.

“It’s so soft,” Megan whispers, looks up at Charlotte’s glowing face and sees the reassurance there, encouragement, and her gaze drifts down to the older girl’s breasts. Her hands begin to graze their way up over Charlotte’s belly, and she looks back up, her eyes questioning.

Charlotte nods.

Megan gasps in amazement as her fingers touch the silky, yielding warmth of her breasts. Charlotte groans, and Megan moves closer, cupping them, her hands covering them completely, the hard little nipples grazing her palms. Charlotte’s eyes droop shut and her chest heaves, pressing her boobies more firmly into Megan’s grasp, their bellies touching, Megan feeling Charlotte’s nest of soft fur against her navel.

Megan’s hand lifts off Charlotte’s left breast and her eyes snap open to see Megan removing her glasses, setting them carefully on the magazine-strewn coffee table. She replaces her hand, then strokes the older girl’s breasts deliberately, sliding her palms in circles over the top and around the sides, coming to rest by cupping them from below.

Then her head dips and her small, hot mouth closes over one of the nipples before her, and Charlotte shudders, fire surges out through her chest and a deep happy ache opens in her stomach. Megan’s doing something with her mouth, sucking or kissing or licking Charlotte can’t tell which but the feeling overwhelms her and she falters back, her leg striking the couch and she collapses sitting onto it. Megan follows her right down, her lips and hands fixed to the girl’s breasts despite the slip, bending a little forward to adjust, her cute pale rump jutting up into Charlotte’s largely unfocused gaze.

Megan plants little kisses across Charlotte’s chest, then begins doing the same thing to her other nipple. The older girl’s body rocks once, involuntarily, and she gasps, “Wh-what are you doing, Megan?”

The young girl pauses, her mouth still deliciously close to its desire, and Charlotte can feel her warm breath on her breast when Megan replies, “It’s like I’m a baby, I’m your baby and I’m tasting your pretty boobies.” She sighs, “It’s so nice,” and her lips close back around the nipple and Charlotte’s head drops back with a groan.

Continue on to Chapter 5

By eloquent delinquent

Charlotte’s never felt this, never imagined feeling this, someone else touching her, giving her the feeling stronger than she ever gave it to herself. But it’s happening. Her nipples tingle, they prickle, they ache with pleasure, and she finds her hand tangling in Megan’s curls, holding her there, pulling her closer. Megan does something with her tongue and Charlotte heaves and her bottom slips off the couch, and slowly, helplessly, they both slide down until Charlotte’s behind bumps against the carpet and Megan sort of falls on top of her, their legs tangled together between each other. They both giggle.

Megan meets Charlotte’s eye, watches the older girl’s reaction as she places firm, popping kisses all over her boobies. Charlotte’s eyes light up with each one, she’s breathing hard, her cheeks are bright pink, Megan can see her tongue when she smiles. She likes the feel of Charlotte’s body squirming a bit beneath her, trying to make more contact.

Charlotte runs her hands over Megan’s back, relishing the feel of her, then puts one hand on the back of her head and forces her back down onto the nipple. Megan fidgets a bit, and one of her thighs slips between Charlotte’s legs, the young girl’s firm flesh squishing up onto her hot, wet kitty. She lets out an “Ah!” at the surprising pleasure, and her hips rock upward into it, sending out a flare of gratification. She knows this is the touching, another kind of the delicious bad touching, only this time its Megan’s satiny leg doing it. Her hips start that rhythm they know so well. Megan’s so intent on mouthing her tender nipple, she doesn’t seem to notice what’s going on. Charlotte draws one of her knees up, feels her thigh sliding up along the inside of the girl’s legs until it bumps into her bare little kitty, and she’s surprised how slick and puffy it feels against her, how hot. Megan goes, “Mmph,” her mouth stops sucking, and Charlotte lifts a little more, putting pressure on the tender wet morsel between the little girl’s legs.

Charlotte untangles her hand from the girl’s hair and runs it down the smooth curve of her spine, coming to rest in the crease where the pert swell of her bottom meets her thigh. She pulls, putting more force, more sensation, against her own kitty, pulls in time with the rolling of her pelvis. Now Megan picks up on what’s happening down there, and flexes her own hips against Charlotte’s thigh, uncertainly at first, but as the sensations rush in she develops a rhythm of her own, thrusting against the older girl’s leg with increasing urgency.

They lay there for some time, writhing naked on the living room floor together with an animal eagerness. Charlotte grips the young girl tight, grinding her kitty against her, even though she’s overheating, sweat beginning to run along her back and making their bellies slippery. Megan is lost in her own pleasure, eyes shut tight, thrusting her hips mindlessly into Charlotte’s firm thigh, one hand clutching the older girl’s waist, her breath a series of happy grunts as she drools onto Charlotte’s breasts.

Charlotte pants and strains, but as she pushes her damp hair out of her face, she realizes it isn’t enough. This delicious pressure is maddening, exciting her more and more, but offering no hope of giving her the shock. And she needs the shock, she feels more wound up and naughty than she ever did in the closet, more than last night in the tub. Having Megan on her, against her, being as bad as her, feeling the same, wanting to feel the same. This was some kind of guilty, sensual paradise. And she needed the best feeling, the naughtiest feeling, right now.

She let go of Megan’s bottom, shifting to get access to her own sloppy kitty. “Unf, Megan. I have to – I have to touch it.”

Megan looks up, curls spilling heavily across her flushed face, her eyes plead as she gasps, “Touch me too. Please, touch me too. Please.”

The younger girl lifts up and Charlotte wriggles her arm between them, her fingers finally cupping Megan’s slippery kitty, as she poises her hand between her own sweaty legs. The two girls never lose eye contact, and when Charlotte’s hands start the touching, oh, oh yes, the wonderful perfect touching, they not only feel their bodies shiver together, they watch those same feelings wash over their faces. Megan’s eyebrows arch even as her eyes go drowsy, she licks her lips again and again, panting. Charlotte’s gaze intensifies with her pleasure, her eyes blazing as she nods, slowly and continually. Yes. YES.

As she finds their tenderest, most ready spots, she speeds up her fingers, racing over their kitties, electrifying them both. Charlotte moans and Megan sighs, “Uh-huh, uh-huh” as their tummies coil tight, Megan arching her back into her babysitter’s pleasuring hand.

Megan begins to tremble violently. Her eyes widen in alarm, “Oh Charlotte, ah, ah! It’s gonna, it’s gonna~” then her face turns bright pink, her eyes pinch shut and her mouth opens wide enough to scream, and her whole body clamps down on those playing fingers, bucking and spasming, forcing herself down until she’s practically sitting on Charlotte’s hand.

Watching Megan get the shock, feeling her little body writhe against hers, causes Charlotte’s own pleasure to suddenly spiral up and up, her body straining, going rigid, hand strumming fervently on her kitty, and then the shock gets her too, hugely, and she grabs Megan’s bottom and pulls the girl close, humping through the delightful convulsions against her, loving the sensation of the weight of her soft, sweaty body, hot sleek flash pressed together. The sounds that get wrung from her are almost like sobs.

Gradually, they both come to rest, Megan drooping onto the older girl’s steamy body, breathless, while Charlotte’s arms fall limply to her sides, her eyes rolled shut in bliss. They are still for a few moments, little moans of contentment escaping them. The sweat begins to cool, Charlotte absently kisses Megan’s shoulder for a bit, then her head drops back.

Then Megan begins to giggle.

It’s a deep, throaty giggle, her whole body shakes with it. Charlotte lifts her head and props it on one hand, her blue eyes amused but quizzical. Megan opens hers, and they are sparkling with joy.

“Oh, Charlotte. That felt so pretty. I don’t care if it’s naughty. So pretty. It’s my private place, and I say you can touch me like that every time you come over. I want you to. Mmm,” and she nuzzles into the softness of Charlotte’s breast.

It’s Charlotte’s turn to giggle, “You’re bad like me,” she says, “You’re so naughty.” Then they giggle in turn, the tickling sensation of one girl’s laughing body setting the other one off, back and forth.

Sitting up with a start, Charlotte realizes it’s dark outside now. “What time is it?!”

Megan, twists to look at the wall clock. “Oh! It’s almost ten!”

Charlotte begins disentangling herself from Megan, and they woozily get to their feet. “Come on, pick up your clothes. We gotta get you in bed.”

“Ew, no. I’m all sweaty and gross. I need a bath.”

“There isn’t enough time. If your mom comes home and you’re not in bed, she might not let me come back.”

“I can take a shower. I’ll be really fast.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yeah,” Megan’s gathered up her clothes and holds them against her body, but instead of taking them to her room, she just stands there. Charlotte sits in the couch, one leg crooked in the air, ready to get back into her panties. “What, Megan?”

“Come take a shower with me,” she grins. “You’re all sweaty too.”

Charlotte looks doubtful, but the panties don’t get any closer to going back on.

“It’ll feel good to get all soapy. We can help each other.”

And just like that, the wet swollen feeling is back in her kitty, the naughty excitement rising like they hadn’t done anything yet. Charlotte laughs in spite of herself. “You’re so bad,” she says, dropping her panties back on the couch.

Megan blushes. “It feels so pretty though. Come on.”

“Get your clothes to your room. I’ll start the water.”

The shower is steamy and cleansing and as wonderful as Megan promised, but in no time their hands are wandering all over each other’s slippery smooth warm wet bodies, and they’re so excited that even though Charlotte tries to keep track of time, there’s no turning back for either of them.

Charlotte kneels down under the stream, so Megan bends a little as they kiss and soap each other. Megan focuses almost entirely on Charlotte’s breasts, which feels so good it’s hard to breathe, but Charlotte soaps the younger girl all over, and in the end Megan’s arm is around Charlotte’s shoulder, and the older girl spreads lather all over Megan’s tummy and chest with one hand, while the other is behind and beneath and between her legs, fingers diddling her soapy kitty, while her thumb rests in the tight groove of her bottom.

Megan squats down a little, rocking her hips against Charlotte’s hand, breathing deep, her face blissful. Her eyelids open halfway and she looks dreamily at her babysitter. “I like it when you touch my butthole.” Charlotte doesn’t know why this causes her stomach to flutter, but she moves to comply, the pad of her thumb rubbing the wrinkled, sensitive flesh of Megan’s most private spot. Megan responds be arching her back, lifting her bottom into the pleasure Charlotte’s giving her.

Charlotte matches the motion of the girl’s hips, only firmer, forcing more out of each thrust, and Megan’s excitement grows. Charlotte recognizes that giving the feeling and the touching to Megan is as satisfying as having it herself, and she relishes as the 8-year-old abandons herself to the naughty delights in her kitty and her bottom, grunting and moaning as her pelvis flexes harder, grinds down, legs trembling, and then she throws back her head and her wet curls as the shock takes her, harder than the first time, Charlotte feels the contractions in the hand that strokes Megan’s belly, around the thumb in the crease of her bottom. Megan clings to Charlotte as she loosens, unwinds, gradually comes back to herself. She nuzzles Charlotte’s neck and Charlotte strokes her gently, all the while feeling her own urgency.

She shuts off the water, and as Megan watches, she sits on the edge of the tub facing her and parts her sleek legs, showing the young girl all of her kitty, the cute pink spot that she’d once looked at in the bathroom mirror, until all the trouble started.

Megan is clearly fascinated, and to have her kitty studied so closely gives her a feeling that’s almost like touching. Charlotte’s excitement emboldens her, she puts one hand on her knee, spreading herself wider, and with the other she strokes her own breast, sending tingles and waves through her. Her hips roll a little, on their own. She looks steadily at Megan.

She hears herself say, “Will you touch it for me?”

Seemingly mesmerized, Megan immediately moves forward, her hands taking Charlotte’s thighs, sliding up, her eyebrows climbing in amazement as she gets closer and closer. Charlotte’s trembling with anticipation.

Then, with a gust of nervous giggles, Megan shies away, backing against the tile wall, pushing her hands between her knees. With an apologetic smile she says, “I can’t.”

Charlotte doesn’t feel any real disappointment, only the need, the blood singing in her ears. Caring about the time has vanished. She slips her own hands up her thighs until they both come to rest on her aching kitty. “Just watch me then. Watch me do it.”

Megan whispers, “Okay.”

She starts the touching again, the pleasure teasing and warm at first, then settling deeper, taking hold, filling her up. She’s never done it with her legs spread so wide, and she finds surprising sensations as her fingers play over her sensitive kitty, pressing and stroking and rubbing. But the strongest sensation is what she gets from Megan watching her, curious and aroused and utterly absorbed by what she’s seeing. Her hands seem to move absently, touching her mouth, stroking her tummy.

Megan’s voice is shaky, “Are you getting the pretty feeling?”

This is also new. “Uh-huh. Oh, it’s so – so pretty, when I touch my kitty.”

“You wanna touch your kitty a lot, huh?”

“Yeah. Mm. I’m not supposed to, but I do it too. I’m, uhn, I’m naughty like you.”

Megan’s hand is drifting down her belly, lower, lower. “I like how you’re naughty.”

“You like watching me?”

The little girl nods. “I can see how it makes you feel pretty, when you do it.”

“I like you watching. I feel, ah, uhn, extra naughty.” It’s almost impossible to speak now, the pleasure’s filled her up, and is still growing. Her knees shake in the air.

Megan touches her own kitty now, and Charlotte watches the wave of pleasure move up through her body, rocking it gently forward. She gingerly mirrors Charlotte, squeezing, stroking.

“Yeah, Megan. You can touch yourself too.”

“It’s nice. Do you like watching me?”

“Oh, oh yes.” Her stomach and her hips are both beginning to buck, she’s finding it hard to perch on the tub, uses one hand to steady yourself.

“The feeling’s coming, isn’t it Charlotte?”

“Uuuhhhn, ooo, yes.”

Megan’s hand is busier between her legs, but all her attention is on Charlotte. “I wanna see you get the pretty feeling. I like it when you do.”

Then Megan kind of goes out of focus and she overflows and the shock comes and she’s out of control still stroking her kitty and it comes harder, and Megan’s still rubbing herself as Charlotte slides off the edge of the tub and back into the basin, shuddering, humping her own hand, making heaving sighs.

Her eyes flutter open as she recovers, her body relaxing and starting to feel chilly. She sees Megan still lightly touching herself, intrigued by the feelings she’s getting from it. The girl grins down at Charlotte. Charlotte pulls her fingers out from between her own legs and, watching Megan steadily, lifts them to her mouth and sucks on them, tasting her own kitty. It’s bad and wonderful and she can’t believe she’s showing Megan how naughty she is.

Not missing a beat, Megan removes her fingers from her kitty, lifts them up, and after a brief sniff, sticks them into her mouth, going “Mmm,” when she tastes herself for the first time.

Charlotte gets unsteadily to her feet. Megan offers a hand in support.

“Let’s get you dried off and into bed. And hurry up, there’s only ten minutes left till your mom comes home.”

In reply, Megan wraps her arms around the older girl’s waist, squeezes her tight. “Oh, Charlotte. That was all so pretty. Thank you!”

Charlotte pulls a towel from the rod and gently begins drying Megan’s hair. And as the girl lets her go, allowing herself to be toweled innocently by her babysitter, Charlotte smiles lopsidedly. “Yeah, it really was. Pretty,” and something very light, light as a butterfly, climbs from her heart right into her head.

Continue on to Chapter 6

By eloquent delinquent

In the cramped bathroom Charlotte and Megan furiously fluff themselves dry, bare shoulders and elbows and bottoms bumping as they do, and in moments they are giddy, silly, gusts of giggles filling the room. Charlotte’s smile is just stuck to her face, and Megan’s beaming right back at her. As they hang the towels, she can’t remember ever being so happy. She glows.

With a wild smile, Megan declares, “I’m never getting dressed again!” and runs naked from the bathroom to her bedroom, shrieking with laughter. Charlotte gives chase, thrilling at the delicious feel of the air slipping over her bare body on her brief trip through Amy’s house.

She finds the nude 8-year-old kneeling on the bed, bouncing on it, blonde curls dancing like crazy. Charlotte laughingly says, “Get your jammies on.”

“Never!” comes the defiant response.

“Really?” Charlotte scans through the mess on the floor for Megan’s giant blue t-shirt, spots it and snatches it up.

“Never! No clothes on forever!” still bouncing, now on hands and knees, watchfully eyeing her babysitter through the swinging curls.

Gathering the fabric from hem toward the sleeves, holding it out like a net, Charlotte says, “I’ll have to catch you then!”

Megan just giggles louder.

Charlotte inches slowly toward the bed, Megan bounces faster in her excitement, and with a rush the naked 12-year-old leaps onto the mattress and Megan. The younger girl screams with distress and delight as Charlotte uses her larger body to trap her own squirming one, and gradually, with much rubbing and tickling, wrestles her into the shirt. As the babysitter tugs the hem down over Megan’s bottom, the two push apart and sit up at opposite ends of the bed, panting and giggling at each other.

“Megan, Megan,” Charlotte says as the younger girl quiets down. “Remember, you have to keep this a secret.”

“Because it’s sexy, right?”

“What?” She’s flummoxed. She never thought about what they were doing with that word. It was something the Reverend used, and it was always bad. ‘Sexy’ was how they tempted you to buy stuff on TV. ‘Sexy’ was something wives did to distract their husbands from Important Things.

“Sexy stuff is a secret,” Megan says in a singsong way, scooting a bit and lifting the covers.

“That’s right. It has to be a secret. Okay?”

The younger girl shimmies her way into bed, saying, “I like it being a secret. Then it’s only for you and me.”

Charlotte squeezes Megan’s ankle through the covers and gets up. “Okay.”

“If secret time means we get to take off all our clothes and touch each other, I wanna have lots of secrets.”

Charlotte giggles, very much aware of how naked she is, now that Megan’s covered up. “We’ll see.”

Megan suddenly looks stricken. “I won’t see you tomorrow. Mom has Saturdays off.”

“I’ll see you at Congregation on Sunday.”

“Not like this,” she pouts.

Charlotte squats down and rests her chin on the mattress. “I’ll check with your mom and see when she works again. I want to babysit you as bad as you do.”

Megan smiles in a really melty way and Charlotte leans over and kisses her on the mouth, lingering there for one breath, two, three, and finally parting. “Go to sleep, butterfly.”

“You’re my butterfly,” she replies.

“You want the door open again?”

“Please, just a little.” She starts. “My glasses. I left them out in the living room.”

“I’ll get them.” Charlotte pads down the hall, and as she passes Amy’s open bedroom she feels this crazy urge to sneak in while she’s still naked and just… just… roll all over her bed and press her body against her clothes. It sends a shiver through her. Could I do it? Is there time? She doesn’t see the mischievous grin that crosses her face at the thought, her slim gait slowing.

She plucks the little glasses off the coffee table and is stunned when headlights sweep over the front window. She freezes in fear for a breathless moment, then ducks behind the couch, clutching her blouse off the back where it’s been hastily thrown. Heart pounding, she struggles to get the sleeves pulled right side out, then wrenches it on. Oh! No bra, no bra! No time!

Peeking up, Charlotte darts around the edge of the sofa and can just barely reach her skirt. She snatches it and squirms her bare rump on the floor as she pulls it up. She hears the muffled sound of a car door closing, pops up, and dashes to her book bag, heaves it onto the couch. Grabbing her white bra and panties, she jams them deep into the bag and zips it shut.

From the bedroom, “Charlotte?”

She gets the glasses and scurries to Megan, setting them on her cluttered nightstand. “Your mom’s home,” she whispers urgently. “Pretend you’re asleep.” She snaps off the light and draws the door almost shut.

As she’s emerging from the hall, Amy comes in, carrying a couple grocery bags. “Let me set these down and we’ll go, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll, um, get my shoes on.”

Amy nods absently on the way to the kitchen. She’s on the sofa tying the laces when Megan’s mom comes back to the living room. “How was she?”

So amazing! she thinks, but she says, “Good. A little bit excited, maybe?”

“How could she not be?” Amy replies, settling next to her on the couch. “After that thing with the butterflies? I’ve never seen her more thrilled.”

“Yeah, it was cool.”

“It was beautiful, and you’re impressive.” Charlotte blushes enormously, which Amy notices with an amused grin and it just makes her blush more. “I just hope the pictures come out.”

“Oh yeah, you have one of those old-fashioned cameras. The kind with the film.”

Amy chuckles, “The kind with the film. I develop them right in the laundry room.”

“I’d really like to see them.”

“I’ll show you when they’re done.” Charlotte sits up, and sees Amy alertly scanning the room, as if she’s noticed something out of place. She desperately tries to think of anything they could have moved and can’t, and worry yawns open inside her.

Amy comes back to herself and just says, “Ready?”
In the car, Charlotte is keenly aware that she has no underwear on. It’s another secret, and it feels as naughty as the others, guilty and exciting. If only Amy unbuttoned my blouse, she thinks. If only she pulled up my skirt. Then she would know. She fidgets, presses her bottom into the seat, feels the denim against her tender kitty and a little lusciousness pulses up, like she just ate a spoonful of ice cream.

Amy’s telling her about how she got into photography in high school, that she was on the school paper and just kept with it. Most of the equipment she has is left over from when she was a teenager. Charlotte listens, but just barely, while looking at Amy, her image shifting under the streetlights, and she pushes her bottom down again, her kitty sinking into the plushness of the seat. Oh, oh. If only she felt me underneath my top. She does it again. Ice cream. Imagining Amy as a high schooler, imagining Amy as young as herself. She does it again. Mmf. Watching her big green eyes when the glare leaves her glasses, watching her mouth move. She does it again. Secret.

“Would you like that?” Amy asks.

Maybe she was listening less than barely. “What?”

“How to work the camera. I want to show Megan when she’s a little older, so she can show me all the birds she’s always telling me about.” Amy grins. “You’d be good practice for me.”

“Sure.”

“Was Megan trying to braid your hair again?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s still sorta wet, and falling apart.”

Charlotte reaches up, and sure enough it’s a total wreck, slouching down lopsidedly above the nape of her neck, long red-brown strands dangling all around her ears and temples. She laughs nervously as she feels around, “Yeah,” she says, but she’s thinking that with everything she got up to tonight, she’s amazed it’s still up at all.

“You’d better fix it before I get you home. Your mom will think I’ve got you cleaning chimneys or something.”

They’re already partway up Pine Street, so Amy pulls over and says, “There’s a mirror on the visor.”

Charlotte pulls it down and her eyes widen. “What a bird’s nest.” She starts taking out the clips, setting them in a little line on the dashboard.

Amy shifts the book bag sitting between them and unzips it. “Do you have a brush?”

Her heart is in her throat when she says, too loudly, “I’ll get it!”

“No, it’s okay,” Amy soothes, reaching in. Charlotte’s hands have stopped, she’s looking at the bag with something close to terror. If only she pulls out my undies. This is nothing like her fantasy. She feels her fingers trembling in her hair.

As she’s feeling around, Amy’s shapely eyebrows knit, then arch, and she pulls Charlotte’s brush out and sets it on the dash. “Here.”

She tries not to let her breath out in one great gust of relief, and goes back to work. After a few minutes of fingering through the tangles, and snarling passes with the brush, it starts to comb out smooth.

Amy sighs. “You hair is lovely, so long and straight. I always wanted hair like that.”

Charlotte grins helplessly and feels the heat in her cheeks again. “Thank you.”

“That’s what I love and hate about the Church. They tell you not to cut your hair, so it gets long and beautiful, but then they tell you to coop it all up in a knot on your head.” She shrugs. “It’s kinda full of shhh… shuffleboard.”

Teasing laughter bursts from the 12-year-old. “You almost said a naughty word!”

“But I didn’t!” the young mother defends amiably. “I have to do that a lot. Curbing my naughtier tendencies is kind of a constant thing in my life.”

“Yeah, you kinda get used to it here.”

“Do you?” Amy playfully challenges, and Charlotte shrinks back, blushing and giggling like a moron. She awkwardly finishes brushing out her hair and it makes her feel a little weird how Amy is watching her. It’s not like her own mom. Not bad weird. Fluttery.

She’s reaching out for the hair clips when Amy says, “Wait.” She hesitates, glancing sidelong, when she feels Amy’s fingers in her hair, coursing through the length of it.

“I hope it’s okay,” Amy says, reaching in and running through it again. Her touch is gentle and firm, tingling sensations run all through Charlotte’s scalp and down her spine. “It’s just so lovely.”

“Um. Um, yeah,” Charlotte breathes, feeling so light and dizzy. “It’s fine.”

“Thank you,” she says, continuing to stroke. “Isn’t it true, girls with curly hair always want straight hair, and girls with straight hair always want curly hair?”

Charlotte makes a noise that’s half chuckle, half sigh. “Your… your hair is pretty, too.”

“Aw, thanks. But I can never let it down anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Amy releases Charlotte’s hair and reaches up to her own, removing the two pins that are holding it up. She looks at the babysitter and says, “Watch.” The ‘do tumbles and unfurls in an avalanche of snaky blonde twists.

Charlotte stares with a little pleased smile. “It’s really pretty.”

Amy gets a wry grin on her lips and then shakes her head. The curls fly everywhere and remind her of Megan bouncing on the bed just a little bit ago. When Amy stops, her face is almost obscured behind a curtain of loose golden ringlets. “It’s wild! I look like a sheepdog.” And then she shakes her head again and laughs in a way that sounds really girlish to Charlotte.

When she stops, a playful smile behind that wild hair, it’s not so hard for Charlotte to imagine Amy in high school.

“You do,” Charlotte nods, “Like a blonde sheepdog.” They giggle some more, and as they quiet, she finds the older woman’s fingers running another long pass through her hair.

“I just couldn’t help myself. You’re so adorable, but I don’t want to make you nervous. I’m not, am I?”

She sees something so sweet, so vulnerable, in Amy’s face when she asks this, that Charlotte’s heart swells. She stares into Amy’s eyes, but no words come. She places her hand over Amy’s, drawing it slowly down the length of her hair.

Amy’s lips part, and they’re just trapped in each other for a moment. Charlotte’s heart thumps, her bare, hard nipples scratch maddeningly against her blouse. Finally, Amy withdraws her hand and averts her gaze, head cocking a little like she just remembered something.

“Okay,” Amy says. “We’re both undone. Let’s fix it.” She blows a few ringlets out of her face, but they stubbornly spring right back where they were.

They laugh at that, then Charlotte reaches out and takes the clips off the dashboard.

* * *

She never thought a week could pass so slowly.

Amy wouldn’t work again when Charlotte could babysit until the following Thursday at 4:00, and since then, she’s kept up with her old routine, but it just isn’t the same. Now she has something more, and it aches to wait.

Saturday she meets with her best friends Sarah and Bethany after they all have choir practice together. Normally they would go to Sarah’s dad’s shop and listen to non-religious songs like Taylor Swift or Carrie Underwood or Faith Hill, then sing their own versions. Charlotte likes to listen to Sarah McLachlan, but she can’t really sing it. It’s forbidden, she supposes, but everybody knows everybody does it.

That day, though, the other girls get to gossiping about older boys, especially the rumors swirling around Noah Watts and Jenny Dwyer, and she just lets herself fade into the background. It all sounds so mean-spirited, as if Sarah and Bethany are almost hoping the young couple will get caught making a terrible mistake. She nods in the right places, but all this gossipy stuff is new to her, it makes her uneasy, and she doesn’t really like it. She makes an excuse to go home, and dawdles around the public park, the boys playing baseball on one diamond, the girls playing softball on the other. She kind of pretends to watch, but she mostly thinks about Megan and Amy.

She spends a lot of her time that week thinking about Megan and Amy.

Sunday is Congregation, with prayer meeting after lunch. The sermon is from John 18, when Simon Peter denies knowing Jesus. Reverend Bealing tells them that the denial of righteousness is sin, to continue in sin is to omit Jesus from your heart. Charlotte looks away feeling just awful, twining her fingers together in her lap. But later she sings in the choir and sees her new blonde friends sitting in the audience. Megan smiles at her, a big gleaming smile just for her, and she feels lifted inside. It’s all so confusing.

Then it’s the school week, and her time is even more regimented. It’s spring for real now, and lots of kids are getting rowdy, acting up, making trouble. Charlotte’s dreaminess and lack of attention go unnoticed in class.

At home it’s different. Charlotte’s mom is reprimanding her more than usual, and Charlotte feels terribly guilty because she knows she’s earning it. The only night that goes well is Monday, because it’s her turn to make supper, and cooking is one of the few things she really, really enjoys that her mom approves of. Otherwise, she’s a bit of a mess and she can’t seem to fix it. Her chores are done sloppily, she’s wool gathering when she should be studying. She forgets things constantly. She forgot her Bible for Bible study – Bible study, of all things – and had to go back home to get it, making herself late.

It’s all super embarrassing.

Of course, Amy is at Bible study. It’s kind of weird to see her now, in her white blouse and ankle-length denim skirt, but when she’s at Church she dresses the same as everybody else. They don’t speak, other than to say a friendly hello, and at first, Charlotte’s hurt by this. But then she notices that Amy doesn’t speak much to anyone at study. And no one really speaks to her. They sit in that circle of chairs in the classroom facing each other, but it’s like no one sees Amy. As they’re following passages in the Scripture, Charlotte occasionally glances up, and once or twice Amy looks back and gives her this little, sweet grin and Charlotte feels all warm and glowy and Amy really likes her after all. What’s happening with Amy at study is something strange and grownup, but Charlotte still doesn’t know what or why.

It’s another kind of secret. Her life seems to be filling with secrets. Gentle and quiet, Charlotte keeps them all. But inside, there’s so much confusion and longing and joy and need and guilt, it’s no wonder she’s distracted. She likes Megan so much. But what she’s doing with her is so bad. But Megan liked it and asked for it. But after they did it she knew they had to hide it. But how can it be bad when it makes them feel so good? But what if she’s just making Megan worse, by helping her be bad the same way she’s bad? But she only wants her to be happy. But what about the way she feels about Amy? But how does Amy feel about her? But what if she found out about Megan, what then? But what if feeling like that about Amy is mean to Megan?

But, but, but.

Even more difficult to manage than the secrets, though, is her body.

Since her nights with Megan, it’s like the urgency of her body, an almost desperate need to be touched and stroked and gratified, has taken control of most of her waking life. Because woven through these days and nights of routine, hidden away in the moments no one sees, is the touching, or thinking about touching, or wanting so bad not to think about touching, or needing to touch herself and not being able to. She really, really wants to be good (at least when Megan’s not around), but she’s never needed to be bad in the closet like she does now.

On Saturday she snuck in twice; once when it was barely light in the morning, before anyone else was up, and again that night. She’s never needed it twice in one day, but that night she was in there for almost half an hour, nightdress up to her chin, face down in her loose shoes squeezing her little breasts while her fingers desperately stroked that slick, delicious, demanding cleft between her legs, and it seemed like barely long enough, even after she got the shock.

Monday at school was the most troubling. She still can’t remember what came first – that warm, tender feeling dampening her underpants, or imagining Amy undressing her, caressing what she uncovered. But once those feelings started, they wouldn’t stop. All day. She wriggled around in her seat, trying to find a way to sit that wasn’t frustratingly sensitive, but it didn’t help. In her stall in the girl’s room, she felt her little kitty, and it was so wet, so eager for her touch, it was scary.

When she finally got home she scurried through the house upstairs without even checking who was home, and went straight into the closet, pulling the door nearly shut and squatting in the dark, forcing the hung clothes to either side as she attacked her skirt and plunged her fingers into her panties. And oh, oh, the pleasure of her first touch after so much waiting just melted her, she rolled her head back into her clothes and let her hips pump themselves into her waiting fingertips, hardly able to catch her breath, so frantic, so naughty, so bad. And, ooo, uhmm, so close.

She heard the clomping boots approach and she froze, eyes snapping open and staring anxiously through the crack as Jodie came into the room through its always open door. Her 9-year-old sister clomped to a stop, and stood there, puzzled. Charlotte’s hips, only knowing her body’s need, began to gently rock the slick lips of her kitty against her paralyzed hand, and she realized that she couldn’t stop, couldn’t, not even with her little sister right there. She felt ashamed as her hand began to rub at the hot little button at the top of her kitty seemingly on its own, helplessly giving the bad touching to herself.

Jodie looked over her shoulder at the open doorway, then back, her sandy brown bob swishing around her head, then she tromped two more steps into the room, out of Charlotte’s sight and said, “Charlotte?”

Despite the startling intrusion, hearing her own name called somehow only made her more excited, and suddenly and inexplicably she was just as close, just as hot, as before. Jodie stepped back into view, and in that unbearably naughty moment Charlotte thought that even her sister looked touchable, it might just be fun stroking those strong little legs up underneath her denim skirt, Jodie might just be curious if Charlotte slid that skirt up to her hips, she might just enjoy a gentle rub on her panties…

Jodie shrugged and left the room, thumping down the stairs, and Charlotte closed her eyes, lost in her bad, bad thoughts, in the sensations she gave her wet little pink spot, and the shock swept in, hips jolting, thighs shuddering, her face pressed into the clothes to muffle her gasping moans.

Because of her close call after school, over the next couple days she tries to find other options, in the bathroom while showering, or on the toilet, but there’s not enough time and it just excites her with no finish which only makes things worse. After Monday, she tries to hold off, to keep the thoughts in check, but by Wednesday before supper she’s back in the closet on her knees, dreaming of Megan’s golden body against her, her bad fingers fiddling down there when she should be studying.

Naughtiness of every kind crowds her head, and the more she denies it, the stronger it comes. She never knows when it might happen – walking to school, at the dinner table, with the good book in her lap in the circle of seats at Bible study. Thoughts she never imagined before now flare up, fully formed, without her ever having considered them. Smooth sweaty bodies moving and pressing against each other, hair falling onto her skin, skimming over her. Kisses all over, how they might feel, how they might taste. Sighs and cries and urgent pleas. And the smell, that secret scent that comes from being naughty, rising from between aroused legs or lingering on slippery hands or drifting from a darkened door that’s been left open, just a little.

Oh the thoughts are bad, so, so bad, and she never asked for them. They come to her anyway, showing her wicked things, reminding her how bad she really is. But when she’s in the midst of them, they seem more like promises. She’s humiliated by how much she likes them, how much she looks forward to them.

And all this she keeps hidden from view. Sometimes she hears Megan’s little singsong, ‘Sexy stuff is a secret’. She wonders where the girl heard it. She wonders if she can do it, in the face of how unmanageable her naughtiness is becoming. She wonders what happens if she can’t. And then she gets so scared she stops wondering altogether.

Continue on to Chapter 7