Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By Eva

{ This story was originally posted at Lesbian Lolita in December 2007 }

In summer the beach at Drifton Bay was crowded with people. Tourists, people on holiday. Noisy and frantic and unlovely.

For the rest of the year, outside those four months or so, it was empty and that was the way Sonia Miller preferred it. The great expanse of pure, bleached sand all to herself, the ocean rolling its endless waves just for her pleasure. No crowds, no one interrupting her thoughts. Even the distant crash of the rollers and the surf breaking on the shoreline was soothing. Reassuring in its own way, as if the world was always there and always unhurried. It gave her time to herself to think.

And she thought about many things in the quiet contemplation of winter and early spring, wondering not least of all why her work as an artist had become stale. Puzzling over why her work as one of the country’s foremost landscape and seascape artists had seemed to her to be flat and uninspired. She had already postponed a forthcoming major exhibition, citing family stresses as to the reason she couldn’t complete a half-dozen new canvasses.

But it wasn’t the family. Sonia’s son and daughter – and especially her ex-husband – all left her alone. They never visited her house perched on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. Not outside summer at any rate. It wasn’t depressing in itself – Sonia had faced worse – but it was lonely at times and when she had doubts about her work, as she seemed to have often these days, then she wondered what lay ahead. The woman said to the one true friend she had, Christine Morris, that she needed a new direction in her life. Christine wasn’t sure what that would be. But then, neither was Sonia. You need a break, said Christine. Look at things anew after a break.

I’m forty two, argued Sonia. I’ve been painting for twenty three years. It was all those hours painting that cost me my marriage and alienated from my family and friends are hard to find out here on the “coast. It’s my fault, she said bitterly.

No, said Christine: Larry was a fool. The kids are selfish. So-called friends are fickle. You just need a break.

Sonia agreed and gave herself a break. Three months she had been waiting for inspiration and a way to stop her work being repetitive. Her agent Molly didn’t like what Sonia was doing, or agreed it was necessary. But Molly Harper was paid by paintings sold, and sales could never be anything when Sonia’s brushes had virtually dried up. The demand for the woman’s paintings would gradually wane. Some new artist would grab the attention in the vacuum the artist had left. That was inevitable in the world of art, and it worried Molly. She may get famous after she was dead as so many artists had, but Sonia needed to pay bills now. She needed the reassurance her work was selling.

Molly didn’t have an artist on her books as well-known, or as productive, as Sonia so she was getting anxious. The agent called every other day, to see how things were, asking when the woman might start painting again.

Sonia was glad today she was out breathing the clear, fresh sea air, away from the studio. Away from the phone. Molly may call but she wouldn’t be coming in person if she could help it. Only rarely the 58 year old female came out here to the coast: she was a city woman more used to the pace and the bustle of urban life. The emptiness, as she called it, troubled her. But money was money and even this early in the morning no doubt Molly would be trying to call, perhaps no longer asking if Sonia felt better today. Just asking when she might pick up a brush and start her work going.

It still wasn’t going anywhere, Sonia knew. The brushes remained untouched, the tubes of paint unsqueezed. The vision dulled.

Alone on the beach, the woman walked alone by the water’s edge, idly looking for interesting shaped driftwood cast on the shore by last night’s storm. It wasn’t that she needed the wood for her work but her studio was full of it. Gnarled and twisted branches mostly, bleached by sun and salt-water – grotesque shapes that reminded her of vague, dark thoughts. People writhing in agony, she thought sometimes.

Dreamwood, she called her collection. Or Nightwood, when the light caught it at different times of the day and the shapes looked like figures twisting and stretched in some primitive pain. Reaching out and begging for release.

Occasionally Sonia glanced up from the wet, flat sand at the rolling waves, so much calmer than a few hours ago. But storms here on this stretch of coast were like that: they could rise quickly and calm almost as soon as they began. That was why here – unlike twenty miles down the coast – there were no yachts or speedboats. Amateur and inexperienced sailors suspected they should keep away from this bay, these cliffs. Professional sailors knew to keep away.

Among the flotsam and jetsam littering the high waterline there was something unusual, a pale mound of something. Sonia stopped and stared. It was something she hadn’t seen before. Not seaweed, or the usual washed up junk. Not even a twisted branch. This was a body, a child’s body, curled up.

The body of a girl, her face hidden by long black hair. A naked body, her almost white skin dry but blotched where sea salt had dried on her, seaweed clinging to her like she had been created by the gods of the deep.

The woman bent over the pathetic looking bundle of flesh, feeling both a pang of anguish that she should find the body of someone who had drowned and a certain intrigue as to this strangest of finds. Though she painted landscapes and seascapes she was familiar with life and death in nature. Plants and animals grew and died here where land and sea met. Sonia’s her best work tried to capture those moments of hope and change, but she had never seen death like this close up. Not a dead human.

But the body wasn’t cold to the woman’s tentative touch. The child had warmth, and stirred faintly under her fingers. A faint moan escaped the girl. Sonia cast round, to see if there was help even though she didn’t expect to see anyone else on this lonely beach. She was, as always, completely alone.

Sonia knew that naked the girl would die without warmth and protection. Without a second’s thought, Sonia decided that she should take the child to her home. Years of carrying driftwood up from the beach had kept her in condition and the woman hoisted the child up in her arms and hurried across the sand and to the stairs.

Once she got the girl in her house Sonia carried her to the guest bedroom to lay the girl on the bed, but she didn’t cover her up. For a few minutes she stood staring down, taking in the sight of the girl. For the first time the artist was absorbing the look of the girl. She was about twelve, with small, high mounds for breasts and, all too obviously, no hair at her sex: just a little pink slit showing where her legs were apart. She even, when the hair was brushed from her face, looked attractive with a nice shaped nose and full lips. A little makeup, her hair combed through and she would look beautiful enough to kiss and hold…

Heart pounding, Sonia jumped up with shock at her unbidden thoughts. Why would she think this? She wasn’t gay – she wasn’t anything. She was a painter, about to be a failed painter. She had never (unlike several of her contemporaries in London) been to bed with another female. There was no political agenda in her, no feminist cause, no ambitions to turn over the norms of society. She had no wish to challenge anything.

But this girl was beautiful and Sonia’s staid and self-doubting world shattered as she looked at her and a pulse grew in her deepest, hottest place.

—

Sonia called the girl Driftwood, almost from the start. She called her that in her mind as she carried the naked girl up from the beach. She knew, in some instinctive way, that the black-haired, beautiful child would be a stranger. A foreign girl, unable to speak English. She didn’t try to talk to her when she fed her, never attempted to explain anything. Not even her name. The girl for her part seemed content to be naked, happy to lie on the bed. Sometimes she would stand on the bed and stare out of the angled roof window for hours at the sea and the sky, sometimes watching the rain fall and the rivulets run down the glass, lost in thoughts. But she never tried to leave even this room, never seemed to be in any hurry to do anything. She ate in her room, politely and silently as Sonia watched, and always finished everything put in front of her. She was pale, but her colour improved over those important first few days.

At night Sonia locked the door to the guest room. Not because she wanted to keep the girl a prisoner, but because she didn’t want to lose her. As far as Sonia knew, the girl never tried the door. She was happy to just be there. Sonia would go into the room and look at the girl as she slept, and when the girl woke sometimes the artist would talk to her, though the naked girl never responded with a word, though sometimes she smiled as if she recognised a word or sound. It was cathartic for Sonia, being able to unburden herself: she talked about her divorce, the disappointment she felt in her children, the pressures of having to keep on painting when she felt burnt out. the loneliness of her life, and the girl never spoke back and listened as if in awe.

Twice a day Sonia took Driftwood to the bathroom and bathed her, always with while she used the toilet (which the girl did without embarrassment) and then lay soaking in the bath. Sonia would wash the girl’s long black hair, wash her back and front and especially between the child’s legs, carefully soaping and washing and rubbing gently. Driftwood would lie back with her eyes closed, a purr in her throat. Sonia also spent time gently feeling the girl’s small breasts and tenderly washing them clean. Repeatedly washing them, as if fascinated by their shape and youth. The girl, for her part, made no effort to stop her and even (and this pulsed more in Sonia’s sex) seemed to be eagerly pushing her chest forward for the touch of Sonia’s fingers, spread her legs wide for the caress of the bath sponge and Sonia’s long, strong fingers.

Sonia knew she may never, unless she taught the girl her language, be able to find out her name and where she was from. Never know what sequence of events would have brought the child to the brink of death and rescue, what fates deposited her on this lonely beach. Sonia scoured the news in the days following the discovery, as the child recovered in the guest room. She was looking for a story about slave-trading and illegal smuggling of foreigners into the country, looking for anything about a shipwreck off the coast of Drifton Bay or news of an air-sea search.

There was nothing, and Sonia – despite being troubled by guilt at hiding an illegal immigrant – called no one. She didn’t tell her agent when Molly called, either. Driftwood was to be her secret, and to preserve their secret world Sonia unplugged the telephone.

The girl was a gift for Sonia from the sea. Driftwood had been washed ashore for herself, and Sonia was not in any hurry to share her good fortune. At night, when she tucked the pre-teen into the bed with clean sheets, she would stroke the girl’s hair and run her hands over the child’s face, and then down under the sheets to feel those perfect little breasts, and then daring herself, reach down further to the girl’s flat little belly and down between the preteen’s open legs and caress the slit. Driftwood never complained, never brought her hand up to push Sonia away. But on the fourth night, the girl moved her hand to hold Sonia’s hand against her immature sex, and looked up into her eyes.

That was when they kissed for the first time, as naturally and as easily as two long-term lovers might. That was the night when Sonia stood and took off her clothes (for the first time before Driftwood) in front of the girl and let the child see in the fleeting moonlight through the high window, the swell of Sonia’s own body, see the shape of the 42 year old woman’s breasts and the weight she wanted the girl to feel.

They did not sleep much that night, and though a storm sprang up and rain and wind rattled the window above them, they made love as if it was what they should have done all along. What they had always done, with the girl happy to kiss the lips of Sonia’s sex, put her tongue into the sweet-tasting, juice-laden folds, suck and nibble Sonia’s long nipples, and finally as an act of total giving, the girl slid between Sonia’s own open legs and without going to the woman’s cunt, put her young strong tongue into Sonia’s back passage and reamed her with devotion. Love, almost.

They breakfasted the next morning naked, looking at the sea through the large window by the dining table, their chairs close together so they could touch and kiss and feel each other the way they had all night. They spent the day naked, alone to the world, laughing without speaking. Sonia wondered if the girl was dumb, but apart from a moan when fingered or sucked or licked, apart from a purr in the girl’s throat when held and handled, Driftwood made no sound apart from her young, light laughing. She concluded Driftwood was not dumb and could speak if she wanted, so what then she mused might be the first word she would teach her?

Whatever it might be, it could wait, until Sonia needed to talk. And she had no need at the moment: the sea and the sky and the soft moans of pleasure from the lips of this beautiful child were enough.

Sometimes, as Driftwood stood at the window, watching the sea and sky, Sonia would lie on the bed so the child stood over her, legs apart. Sonia would reach up, left hand at the child’s slit, working her fingers into the girl while her right hand stroked the perfect shape of Driftwood’s bottom cheeks, toying and lingering in the smooth valley, pushing against the tight little anal muscle until it relaxed and let her fingertip in. And the girl would sigh quietly and watch the world outside dreamily as she was fingered and explored and brought to pleasure’s peak. Like a wave breaking on the shoreline.

But the change in Sonia was in her work too. Rejuvenated, Sonia picked up her brushes and colours again, for when Driftwood saw the paintings the woman had done and unbidden, lay down among the agonised, twisted bleached wood, draping herself open. Standing naked herself in front of her easel, Sonia felt free and open. She worked with renewed enthusiasm, the girl happily lying back as if born to be a model. Unmoving and relaxed, Driftwood allowed Sonia to paint her portrait – a full length portrait of the girl naked and legs apart with one hand over her slit as if about to play with herself, her nipples hard and swollen with anticipation of sex. Eyes wide and on the viewer, at once inviting someone to draw close and showing herself. Showing her young perfection.

It was when the portrait was finished, three days later (three long days interrupted by making love on the studio floor, or in the bath, or across the dining table in view of the sea and sky) Sonia said to Driftwood something she had thought was foreign to her. Three words in fact: “I love you.”

Driftwood smiled and said nothing back. In the absence of words, they brought each other to a shattering orgasm with their tongues deep in each other’s slits, the older woman tasting the child’s wetness, the twelve year old lapping up Sonia’s torrent of cum.

—

Sonia would have painted like a demon possessed from then on, but lovemaking got in the way, as did Christine. Five years younger than her friend Sonia – a woman who once had tried to paint herself but given up for the lure of men – she arrived on Driftwood’s eleventh day, someone from the outside who Sonia had all but forgotten.

The woman stood at Sonia’s door and blinked at Sonia, who had dragged an old dressing gown around her when she had gone to answer the knock. “Are you okay? You’re not ill? We were so worried… the phone wasn’t working. And you won’t have a computer so we couldn’t email you. Sometimes you’re so selfish, Sonia – you never think about anyone but yourself. Oh it’s so good to see you well.” The words of relief and accusation tumbled out from Christine. Then, she said, seeing the flush in her friend’s face: “Are you alone?”

“No,” said Sonia. “Not any more.”

Sonia would have sent anyone else away, but she let Christine in, escorted into the house and showed her Driftwood, naked among the driftwood in the studio, a half-finished painting on the easel. A painting of a naked girl rubbing a piece of bleached, smooth but gnarled wood against her hairless crotch. Masturbating with nature’s cast-offs.

“This,” said Sonia with pride in her voice, “is my lover and my inspiration. Her name’s Driftwood. I found her on the beach, washed up for me, and I just want to be with her.”

Christine stared and gulped at the sight, and the way Sonia dropped her dressing gown to reveal her nakedness. For the wont of something to say, she whispered: “But… you’re painting again.”

Sonia laughed. “With a passion,” she said, and resumed her work.

—

The three of them were in bed, finished with climbing on top of each other, with licking and sucking and pleasuring each other. Fingers and tongues inside and around and wet, soft sexes pressed to each other. Christine was exhilarated: she had never experienced a woman’s caress before and though she was clumsy and hurried, Sonia was patient as her friend discovered the joys of oral sex, the way a woman could put her fingers in you and make you cum. Driftwood was patient too, yelping just a little when Christine carelessly bit the folds of her labia too hard, and allowed Christine to do anything she wanted – which soon enough was everything.

“I had no idea,” said Sonia’s friend as they shared breakfast the next morning, leaving Driftwood asleep on the bed, as if exhausted by all she had to do into the small hours. Sonia was naked of course, but Christine had put on her underwear – still not at ease with showing off her body even though both her friend and the girl in bed had got to know every inch, every hole. “I had no idea what it was like to… you know.”

“I know,” said Sonia, “and I didn’t know until she arrived.”

“It seems like a dream,” said Christine, staring out to the sea. “Who is she? You must have some idea.”

“No idea,” said Sonia. “And in a way I don’t want to. If I knew I would feel different. I mean, she’s twelve. Possibly thirteen, but in any event she’s under age. You see, if I don’t know about her I can’t feel guilty. If I don’t know her name, about her, she only exists for me. She might have family somewhere, someone who loves her as much as I do. Or there are people who own her. Perhaps she was a slave of some kind, an illegal immigrant destined for some brothel. Any knowledge of her might make me look deeper, start asking questions I don’t want to know the answers to. I might try to do something and it would all fall apart without me meaning it to.”

“Like how?”

“I have no idea… I just want this to be perfect. As it is.”

Christine could see the studio from where they sat, the unfinished painting of Driftwood masturbating, already a deep-seated pleasure on her pretty face. “Your paintings – you’ve done four now, well will have when that one’s done. I can imagine a collection of your work at a gallery, people wanting to buy your work again.”

“But then people would know,” said Sonia with a sigh. “Driftwood would be public knowledge. She would be seen and people would connect her with me and my home.”

“No criminal gang is going to go into a gallery and start to think–”

“But I’d know.” Sonia looked grim. “I’d feel bad about her being seen and people knowing it was me who had used Driftwood as a model. They might want to come here and then they might see her. Someone might wonder how I got a model like her, then they’d take her away from me.”

Christine thought for a minute. “There is another way.”

“For what? Another way to lose Driftwood?”

“No, to make money from your paintings, to stay alone with her. When I painted, I used to do nudes. I could pretend I’d done them, and when they sold – as they will – I’d give you the money.”

“But it isn’t your style.”

Christine smiled. “Fifteen years away from painting has given me time to develop a new style, right? I sign these paintings, have them shown… if anyone asks about the model I say it’s a woman I know. But the thing is, Driftwood isn’t at my home: if anyone wanted to go there there’s nothing to hide because there’s no one else at my place.” Sonia’s friend grinned. “It’s a way of getting you money to live on, safe with Driftwood here on the coast.”

Sonia looked at Christine. “And your reward?”

“I get to come here every so often, for a lesbian holiday. Oh, and pick up a few canvasses to take back.”

Sonia nodded. Driftwood emerged from the bedroom, naked as always, her slim child-like hips swaying and the merest tremble in the small mounds that were her breasts, her hairless slit all too obvious and tempting. Her long black hair shining and healthy about her naked, slender shoulders. Driftwood looked every bit the twelve-year old, a girl who wouldn’t grow much more. Skinny and pale but sensuous. Driftwood smiled at the two women she had made love to last night, first bending to kiss Sonia and reach down and caress the woman’s naked breasts and then moving over to Christine to sit on the younger woman’s knee and kiss her too, tugging at Christine’s bra as if to say ‘we don’t allow clothes here.’

The bra came off and Sonia watched her friend and her little lover kiss and cuddle and Christine’s hands slip up into the girl’s sex. She tore her eyes away and stared out at the ocean and the sky, wondering if there were any more out there like Driftwood. But one was enough for them both, and Sonia stood and went round to where the woman and the girl were playing with each other’s cunts and joined in with fingers worming into back passages so the two of them gasped and smiled.

Sonia would look for driftwood later perhaps, but she had Driftwood in her hands now and couldn’t think of anything better.