Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By Karen Cypher

The bus station, as I recall, is not a place where a woman wants to linger for long, particularly in November. Cool days quickly turn to bitterly cold evenings. In New York, the wind has a way of reaching out between the overflowing trash cans and finding its way up boot-clad calves, up bare thighs, and between the layers of the wrap-around skirt that I’d mistakenly thought would be warm enough for the bus trip back to Ashford.

I’d had fun that weekend in Greenwich Village. It was before the Thanksgiving break in my first semester of college. Trish, my best friend since forever, had been begging me to visit her for ages, and I’d finally bought a ticket and caught a Greyhound from Ashford to New York. We’d shopped in funky boutiques and bought crotchless panties and lace bras. We laughed at the bras — none seemed to be able to hide the fact that my nipples always seemed to want to stand straight up and poke out over the top of the lace edging. But she had money back then, and shared it liberally. We party-hopped with her artist friends, drew chalk pictures on slate tables at cafes, and rubbed bodies with men and women of extremely varied persuasions.

But even then, I realized, the trip was partly an escape. I was just as horny waiting for the bus to take me home as I’d been when I’d set out for the city. I was looking for some kind of release, but I couldn’t define it.

On the Thursday night before I left to visit Trish, I’d driven out to the sandpits and the weekly bonfire. The town of Ashford had one traffic light, three cop cars, and approximately two dozen places where bonfires could be built and massive quantities of beer could be consumed. The location varied, but even in those pre-cell phone days, we all seemed to know where to find the party. It had been a while since I’d been to the bonfire, though.

I’d just gone through a stretch of time where I’d dated older men exclusively. Searching, I guess, for someone who could turn me on and get me off better than I could do it myself. Certainly, at least do it better than the twenty-somethings I knew who, to their credit, fucked hard — but with little imagination.

For me, it just wasn’t all about penetration in any place of my body, no matter how forbidden. I wanted the foreplay, the teasing, the build-up before the act. I think that’s how I eventually discovered my true feelings for women. I’d always liked girls and there was only one girl I could honestly say I had loved. But with older guys, there was some success, I guess, as far as the sex went.

Hot nights, however, invariably led to emotionally vacant dawns. Something was always missing. Part of me wanted a ‘relationship’, but I also craved risk and excitement. I wanted someone to tell me what to do and then make me do it, without trying to control me all the time.

But sometimes, I wanted to have the upper hand myself. Seems totally clear to me now — I was young and didn’t know what the hell I wanted or what I was looking for. I just kept moving.

I was restless on this particular bonfire night. I drank too many beers, probably. No, definitely. Then at one point, I remember reaching into a cooler for yet another bottle — and a hand grabbed my wrist. I looked up and saw Jim Morrison sitting on a boulder. Not really — it was a guy I knew from around town — we’ll call him D.C. for now. But I’d had a sort-of crush on him for a while. Partly because he looked like the Morrison poster I had once — the one where he’s bare-chested, with long dark curly hair, brown eyes; sexy and yummy as hell. I’d also heard a rumor that D.C. was into some rougher stuff — liked to tie his women to the bed and play games. Liked to spank. So I was intrigued. Maybe I was bored of the same old stuff, I don’t know.

Anyway, he grabbed my wrist, and steered my hand to his face. I was about to pull away, but his eyes drew me in — felt like they actually reached into my skull and grabbed hold of my eyeballs. Then he slid my fingers, one after the other, between his lips, licking and sucking each one, never letting his gaze drop from mine. I remember holding my breath — a throbbing starting between my legs.

And then he ruined it all and said, “So, you wanna fuck?”

I snatched my hand back and slapped him across the face.

Things suddenly kicked into warp speed.

D.C. grabbed both my wrists and yanked me down face-first into his lap.

“If you ever try to hit me again,” he spat, releasing my wrists to shove my face in his crotch, “I’ll fuck you so hard…”

I shoved him away, got up and ran for my car.

I couldn’t explain exactly why I’d slapped him. Something snapped. And one second I was glad I’d done it; then I wished I’d said, “Yes, fuck me now.” I felt like one messed up, mixed up girl.

The next day I bought a bus ticket and set off for New York to see Trish. So yeah, back to the bus… that’s where the real story begins.

It’s not a long ride back from New York to Ashford. Maybe about six hours. But it can take longer if it’s snowing and the roads are bad; fender benders on the turnpike would cause delays, the driver told us. And on that night, sure enough, it was bad. So I’ll blame what happened on the delays and the weather and the fact that I’d decided to carry a half pint of brandy in my purse and sit at the very back of a very uncrowded bus.

Most of the other passengers were seated near the front. A couple of times someone shuffled to the back to use the john, but after a few miles, all was still. The bus made a few early stops, then we were rumbling down the highway. I could hear snores from the people up front. I felt secluded and cut off from all of them.

I kicked off my boots and arranged myself sideways on the bus seat. Those rear seats were long, like benches, and I stretched my legs out and took a few swigs from the brandy bottle. It was warm, and I could feel the vibrations the bus made beneath my ass. And if I rolled a bit more, pushed forward and pressed my crotch down hard into the seat, the humming sensations soon took on a life of their own, thrumming through my body.

I supposed I dozed a little, waking to sip the brandy now and then. I was aware that the wrapped end of my skirt had slipped to the side as I sat up, exposing most of my legs. I liked the feeling of the air on my skin. The vibrations continued to work their magic as I slid my hand between my legs. Very warm now. With my other hand I undid the top two buttons of my cashmere sweater. The low-cut camisole I wore beneath felt silky smooth. The bra was useless — my tits were already half-free of the fabric. I felt my nipples harden beneath my fingers as I squirmed on the seat.

Not here, I thought, knowing that once I started, I would have to see things through to completion. It took concentration to keep my breathing quiet, as I squeezed each nipple in turn, making small circles with my middle finger. I started to play a little game with myself — how long could I take it before actually sliding a finger between my pussy lips?

I opened my eyes right about then — and froze.

Across from me, a dark-haired girl of about thirteen sat with her back against the bus window, legs stretched out on her own seat — a mirror image of my own position. One hand rested on her crotch and her fingers moved slowly back and forth.

We stared at each other across the aisle. And then she smiled and put one finger up across her lips as if to say, “Shhhh…”

Her gaze dropped a little lower to where my fingers were grasping a round, half-exposed breast. She made a sideways, pointing gesture, motioning for me to push the sweater to one side.

“Show me,” she whispered. I didn’t hear her words so much as read her lips. Luscious, full, inviting lips. Her teeth gleamed in the muted light.

I shivered and watched as her tongue briefly flicked out. She smiled again, and I felt a kind of warm, electrical charge pulse through my body.

Yeah, I thought, I’ll show you…

I undid two more buttons and the sweater fell away. I pulled down on the camisole and my tits swelled out, nipples hardening even further in the air. I pinched and caressed, and felt the current of pleasure that I knew so well begin to surge through me.

I stole a look at the girl across the aisle. She caught me looking and smiled — then her hand was busy at her belt buckle. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as she opened and unbuttoned. I couldn’t tell, but I thought she wasn’t wearing panties. Still, the sparse covering of hair adorning her sex was exposed my gaze. Briefly, she slid her fingers lower and then gestured again. She put the backs of her hands together and then spread them apart. Her meaning was clear. Open your legs. Let me see you.

I was lost in the moment, a feeling I couldn’t describe, but one that meshed perfectly with my own mood, so I obeyed.

I wondered if she could tell, in the semi-darkness, that my panties were already soaked. I closed my eyes and let my fingers wander down under the lace of the panties Trish and I bought, to my smooth, shaved cunt. God, I was so fucking twitchy-close… but I wanted this feeling to last.

And then she was there, sliding onto the end of my seat. As excited as I was, her movement made me very aware of my surroundings and I froze. She gently, but firmly grasped my ankles, one in each hand – and pushed me into a sitting position, knees pointed at the roof. Her hands were warm and her fingers were long — pianist hands, dexterous hands, I remember thinking. Slowly, one hand moved up to my thigh. Her fingers trailed over my hip bone, then her hand found mine, gently moving my fingers to the top of my panties.

“Take them off,” she said, pressing her palm down on my pussy, which throbbed with anticipation. Sitting back, she gave me room to pull the lingerie off. Idiotically, I was suddenly embarrassed to be wearing crotchless panties.

“Touch yourself,” she commanded. “I want to watch you make yourself cum.”

I made a half-hearted attempt at a protest — someone might see, someone might come back here and catch us — all the while dreamily wondering why I was letting the girl take charge of me. Wondering why I wanted her to take charge of me. Wondering why it felt so good to have the fabric of the panties slide across the gobes of my ass as I took them off.

I had no choice.

“No one’s coming,” she said. “I’ll watch out. And I’ll watch you. Now do it — rub your pussy for me.”

She guided my hand back to the now fully exposed space between my legs. I did what I was told and started to press my fingers down over my wet snatch, pressing harder and making circular motions. I could feel liquid warmth seeping down and between my ass cheeks. I closed my eyes.

“Faster,” came her breathy instructions. “I want to watch you squirt.”

I don’t squirt, but I didn’t correct her; that wasn’t my place. My fingers got to work — this I knew how to do. As if miles away, I heard myself moan, and bit down on my lower lip to keep from crying out. My fingers were moving at one speed while the bus vibrated beneath me, keeping its own time. I was nearly there, synchronizing motions and trying lamely to time my need to climax.

I thrust my cunt forward, pressing down even harder with my fingers.

Suddenly the girl’s hand was between my legs, and I gasped as her fingers plunged into my hot, dripping cunt. They slid in easily, and she quickly found the right rhythm, giving it to me hard and fast.

I rubbed at my clit, and she finger-fucked me over the moon.

A timeless eternity later, I struggled to regain my breath — had I made any noise? It sure felt like I’d screamed… and I was certain that anyone watching would have thought me to be in the grips of a seizure. But no, the bus was still quiet. And there she was, capturing my attention with her very exposed, very wet pussy.

“See something you like?” she asked.

Instead of answering, I shifted onto my knees and lowered my mouth onto her crotch, my senses immediately responding to the intense, rich, unwashed earthy tartness of her scent. I grasped her jeans at the bottom of the unbuttoned ‘V’ in one hand and pulled them to her knees — eventually, impatiently, down to her booted ankles. I ran my lips over the silky hair; licking and then taking her pussy into my mouth. I was vaguely aware of her hands beneath me… squeezing my nipples as I sucked on her labia, trying with every fiber of my being to pleasure her. I heard her moan then, and she pulled my hair back, moving me away from her. I think I whimpered helplessly.

“The bus will be stopping soon,” she said, trying to keep her voice controlled — and failing. “Mine is the next stop, so you have to hurry.”

We both looked around at our current cramped up situation on the bus seat — trying to keep our heads below the top of the seat. I had to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep wild laughter from escaping — this was insanity land.

“Turn around,” I said, my voice sounding wild and strange. Still kneeling on the seat, I twisted her around to where she was facing the window. My hands cupping her ass and fingers probing between her legs, and to my surprise I felt a new surge of lust coursing through me. And then I was pressing my face against her, stiffening my tongue, moving my head forward and back, harder and more insistent with each forward thrust.

She lay face down on the seat, kept her ass in the air, arched her back and offered me full access to her hot slit. I grazed a thumb over the soft hairs ringing her bottom hole and felt her shiver. Pausing only long enough to wet my thumb, I slid easily into her anus, and it felt as if her whole body seemed to gasp. Then I sucked her pussy hard; pulsing with my suction again and again. She pushed back and I could feel my thumb hit deep inside her — and my pussy seemed to spasm all on its own. Again, I reached that orgasmic moment — a first for me, climaxing because my partner was, no stimulation to my own cunt. And then I heard her barely muffled groan as she exploded. Together we collapsed in a sweaty, sticky heap of arms and legs and tits and thighs.

“Oh, fuck!” I don’t remember if I said that, or if she did. Or if we both said it together. But we both realized that there were suddenly streetlights and traffic signals shining outside the bus window.

We scrambled into our clothes as travellers headed toward us to use the facilities.

She got herself back together before I did. My boots were lost below the seat, underwear nowhere to be found. I buttoned my sweater up, ran my fingers through my mussed hair and tried to figure out how a simple wrap-around skirt could get so tangled up.

With a screeching of brakes, the bus pulled into the station on Route 9. I felt a hand gently cup my chin, and we kissed for the first — and last — time.

And then she was gone.