Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By eloquent delinquent

{ This story was originally posted at Lesbian Lolita in January 2015 }

I suppose it should tip me off,the way she’s moving around in her booster seat in the back. Bianca’s not normally a fussy kid, and the chair’s new for her and I think maybe she’s just exploring her limits in it. Six-year-olds are always up to something. It’s raining on the way to the shopping center so I can’t look back. I say her name sharply a couple of times, but it hardly slows her down. When we park and I come around to get her out, one of her pink rubber boots is dangling.

“I know you don’t like the boots, honey, but you can’t take them off just because we’re in the car.” Raindrops spackle on my umbrella.

“Sorry, Momma,” she replies very sweetly. Tip off number two sails right past me. I guess I’m distracted, thinking of my lengthy to-do list.

“Can you get it back on?”

“Uh-huh.”

While she takes care of it, I look in the salon’s plate glass window. Thankfully, it’s not too busy. When I glance back down at her, she’s ready, so I unbuckle her, shelter her under the umbrella with me, and we scamper to the salon.

And she’s such an angel while she gets her holiday cut, charming the stylist with her coy demeanor, shy but just barely. When she’s done she’s all smiles, and my daughter is so adorable in her green tartan dress, her thick, straight brown hair cut square at the middle of her back, fresh bangs sheared neatly just a little above her delicate eyebrows. She got that hair from her father, but I like it better on her. When I help her get her gray wool coat on, she carefully scoops her hair out of her collar, swishing it slightly as it bounces down, enjoying the feel.

Good thing Thanksgiving’s on Thursday, because in a week Bianca will have mussed that hairdo irreparably, and it’ll be pony tails and braids until Christmas. But seeing her right now, so pretty and so happy, I know it’s still worth it.

I smile back at her. “Come on, Bon-bon, one more stop and we’re done.”

We walk through the puddles along the face of the shopping center to the supermarket, where she insists on being in the seat on the cart.

“Aren’t you getting a little old for that?”

“Please, Momma…”

And I relent, partly because she was so sweet and patient at the salon, and partly because I don’t want her running around loose in here. So I pack her in, and between her dress and her coat it takes some arranging, and in the end her coat comes off, gets piled in her lap, with most of it spilling over the handrail, the hem brushing the top of her wet boots.

I get out my list and we wheel down the aisles. It’s pretty crowded, even though it’s not even noon on a Sunday, but, you know, Thanksgiving. Bianca’s still in her happy mood, by turns preening proudly and feeling playful. She keeps holding my hands down with hers, trapping me when I’m about to reach up to pull something from the shelves, feisty, giggling.

I can’t help but laugh. “What’s gotten into you, Miss Silly?”

Bianca’s reply is to give me an aggressively silly smile, and it’s terribly cute. After I tug free the next time, she grabs the scoop neck of my blue sweater and pulls down, exposing my cleavage and a good amount of my teal bra before she gets her other hand on it and pulls me physically toward her. I almost drop my bag of pasta.

“What are you doing?!”

“Gimme kisses Momma!” she says excitedly.

Close to her face, I level a scolding look right into her eyes and sternly say, “Grabby girls don’t get kisses.”

She’s instantly repentant, releasing my collar, putting her hands on top of the coat in her lap. She ducks her head and gives me big, sorrowful eyes from under her feathery bangs. I let her stew, pretending to compare a couple labels. I put my choice in the cart, and she’s following me with her eyes.

When I start to push again, she says in a small voice, “I’m sorry Momma.”

“Because I got mad at you?”

Shaking her head, she replies, “Cause I shouldn’t be grabby.”

I put a finger under her chin and lift it. “That’s okay, honey. All better.”

She looks off to one side. “I just wanted kisses.”

“Then why didn’t you ask me nicely?”

At this, she looks back to me, melting me with her big wet brown eyes. “Please, Momma?”

I stop the cart. As I lean in, her eyelids drift closed, lips slightly parted like mine, and I give her three soft kisses on the mouth, our usual. She sighs. But when we part after the third kiss, I feel her little fingertips gently touch my jawline, urging me back, and she makes a tiny begging sound.

Opening my eyes, I look past the top of her head. There’s only three other people on the aisle, two are a couple heading away from us, the third is a woman bent over, checking dates on lids. I let my eyes close again, and let Bianca’s fingers guide me back to her mouth. Our lips meet, a bit firmer but still so soft. She moves her dainty mouth a bit and I follow along. This is more affection than I usually allow outside the house, and I’m sure she knows it. Her back arches in response to the pleasure, causing her to sit up. I know how she feels, as I grip the cart’s rail, my butt involuntarily lifting slightly. I ever so briefly touch the tiny wet tip of her six year old tongue with the tip of mine, and then pull away.

Bianca takes a deep breath and smiles up at me. I squint my eyes and grin lovingly back.

We move on, and my daughter gets quiet. All through the produce section, she seems thoughtful, but after I finish there she starts to fidget. A little at first, then more. By the time we get into the bakery, she looks pretty uncomfortable.

“You need to go potty, sweetheart?”

She shakes her head slowly, not even meeting my eye, distracted. I keep going. Maybe she’s bored. So I tell her, “We’ll be done soon, okay?”

She nods, just as absently. She’s still for a moment, then adjusts again. I turn back from the French rolls to see her looking at me a bit plaintively.

“What is it, Bianca?”

“Momma, could you give me honey loves?”

That gives me pause. We stare at each other for a second, the request hanging in the air between us. My cheeks feel warm, I might be blushing. Then I put the rolls into the cart as casually as I can manage. “You know honey loves are for private time, right?”

“I know…” she admits. “But, I wanted them before we left, but you were really busy and I didn’t ask ’cause you were really busy.”

My stomach flutters a bit, pulse quickening. And there’s a warming tingle, further down. God, I feel so awful for the way I react, but I can’t deny that I do. “So… you’ve been thinking about it all morning?”

She shrugs shyly. “Kinda.”

I start moving the cart again, smirking at her. “Kinda, huh?”

She rolls her eyes and blushes, adorably, then confesses. “Okay, a lot. A lot a lot.”

My smirk turns to a smile. This part of my daughter amazes me.

Bianca looks to her coat pocket, rummages around in it. We’re back by the dairy case, but I hold off getting the sharp cheddar until I see what she’s up to. She slowly draws her hand out, and for a second I see a stretch of white fabric with black stripes on it. Then, quickly, it disappears back into her pocket.

“Are those your tights?!”

She gives me an enormous, mischievous smile. “A lot a lot!”

It all falls together. “Is that what you were doing in the back seat, Bon-bon?”

She giggles hugely, shaking with it, and then lifts the hem of her coat and dress. Above the pink rubber rain boots, her legs are smooth and bare.

“You scamp!” I tease, and lean to get the cheese. On the way back up, I swoop up next to her head and place a hand between my mouth and her ear, a schoolgirl telling secrets, and whisper, “Such a naughty girl.”

She giggles again, and any more I’m not sure if it’s because she’s delighted at being called naughty, or because she knows she has her Mom turned on, or both.

I take in my situation. This is a consumer sanctuary, everyone wrapped up in their own little mission. Their eyes are on the products, on the shelves, not on each other. They see people as carts, obstacles to maneuver around on their way to the next thing. A young mother and her little girl, cart half full of stuff, what could we possibly be up to? Or so I’m convincing myself as my heart thumps high in my chest.

“You know we’re not at home, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

I start to push the cart, and surreptitiously reach under her coat and wrap my hand around the warm flesh of her calf above the boot, my index finger nestled in the crook of her knee. She starts, locks eyes with me, alert.

“You’ll have to be quiet, keep still. It has to be a secret, no matter what. You know that, right?”

“I can keep secrets, Momma.”

That’s for sure. “And you still want it? A lot a lot?”

Bianca fidgets again and now I can feel what she’s doing is spreading her knees wider. “I really really want you to. Gimme honey loves, Momma, please?”

I take in a deep breath to steel myself, knowing that I’m crossing a line with her, giving in to these tendencies in public. I told myself I’d never let it go this far, but that’s something I’ve told myself how many times before?

Truth is, I can’t help it any more than she can. Maybe I don’t want to. She’s been thinking about it all morning, trying to get me to notice, scheming in her impish way to make it happen. The tights in her pocket, so cute! She wants it so bad. How can I say no?

So, turning the cart and slowly wheeling our way up the ethnic foods aisle, I ease my hand up over her knee, smoothing up the inside of her thigh, deeper into the cozy, closely warm space created by coat and dress and the bare skin of an excited little girl. I caress back and forth up her leg, savoring the sensation of her flesh, plush and firm at the same time. Her skin is so fine, silky. Working my wrist through the leg divider of the cart seat is a little awkward, but I make sure my fingertips never lose contact with her body, it’s too delicious. And now I’m stroking the impossibly soft juncture between her thigh and her smooth little sex.

She squirms a bit, happily frustrated by my teasing. I can see her chest rising and falling. She breathes with her mouth open, lips upturned slightly at the corners, and inside I see her little tongue slipping around, as if she’s trying to control my fingers with it.

I draw my touch slowly across her lower tummy, between her immature mound and her navel, and settle in to rub the crease of her other leg.

“Momma…” Bianca begs, starting to quiver.

Stopping the cart in front of a selection of sesame oils, I hold up my list with my free hand and turn to it. But I glance sidelong at my daughter’s face as I place my index and ring fingers to either side of her puffy vulva and press, parting her cunt. Then I ease the pad of my middle finger into the soft, hot, wet confines of her tiny pussy. It’s a snug fit.

That first touch is so electric, so delectable, we both sigh and melt a little.

I gently slide through her tender folds, moving her wetness around, slicking her up, and her expression opens up into pure joy. Her breath catches for a long second, eyes sparkling, and I nod at her slowly as I glide up and down her luscious little slit, giving her a sly, affectionate grin.

I start pushing the cart again and she’s jolted out of her reverie, but when she realizes my pleasuring fingers aren’t leaving the damp little treat of her quim, she relaxes into it and coos, eyelids dreamily drooping, content to receive the honey loves she’s been longing for all morning.

As I softly, secretly masturbate my six year old daughter, we drift down the aisles. Exploring her creamy pussy with my loving finger, I can’t help picturing how her sex looks, tiny and bare and pouting and pretty… which in turn reminds me of the other little girl pussies I’ve seen. I know I’m a pervert, but I’ve been one forever. What’s happening with my little girl was probably inevitable, given the kind of person I am.

I’ve been sexual as long as I can recall. One of my earliest vivid memories was standing in the big sunny backyard at my grandparents’ place, as my Mom gently took my wrist and pulled my hand out from underneath my Easter dress. I looked up as she made embarrassed apologies to my glaring Aunt Ruth. I must’ve been younger than Bianca is now, and I remember feeling frustrated, and that Aunt Ruth was a stiff-lipped meanie, but not ashamed. Soon I stopped doing it, mostly because my Mom would pull my diddling fingers away from my delighted weewee every time she caught me, usually with an exasperated, “Alli-son…” and I got the picture that those touches were a no-no.

But I think that only made me more curious. I heard my name said in that drawn-out way a lot as a kid, “Alli- son…” but usually it ended with girlishly demure giggle as another playmate took off their pants for me. I had an insatiable desire to see the privates of anyone I took a liking to, and I got good at finding secret spots, and the art of convincing. It always helped that I was willing to show mine first.

Boys were easy, a lot had boners before they even agreed, after looking at me half-naked. And gazing at their jutting little peckers made me so gleeful I think I clapped a couple of times while I looked at them. I was so tempted to touch one, fascinated by the thought of what a dick felt like when it was so hard like that, but I never did. Boys my own age were a little scary and I always worried they would brag or tell, so I picked ones a year or two younger than me, and they were usually happy to play. And even if they were just six or seven, their little dicks got so stiff I suspected I could’ve stood tiptoe on the tip of one like a diver.

The girls were more tricky, which only made me more desperate to see their bald little muffs. I learned the combinations of flattery, cajoling, and tantalizing that melted their resistance and made them strip. There was lots of giggling involved with our undressing, and some half-hearted protesting, usually just my name, “Alli- son…” And then I would squat in front of them and gaze up enraptured by their childish charms. Each pussy was a little different, but I loved them all.

Some of the braver girls would insist on inspecting my little pussy too, and I was happy to comply. Some girls wanted to kiss, and that was really special, playful smooches as our naked bodies brushed against each other. Every new girl was her own adventure, and I always felt so clever every time I talked another playmate into shyly pulling down her panties for me, using their own naughty curiosity to overcome their modesty.

Now we’re cruising by the fridge cases, and despite my focus on my memories, my caressing fingertip, and Bianca’s sexual response, it occurs to me I need frozen pie shells and blueberries. I find the the shells, and by kind of circling to the corner of the cart, I’m able to reach in, get the shells, and toss them in with my other stuff without even pausing in my service to her delicate puss.

I come back around and glance at Bianca. Her eyes are unfocused and half-open, and though it’s completely concealed I can feel her pelvis beginning to instinctively rock against my hand in a gentle hump motion. She’s blissed out by her Momma’s honey loves. I’m not even sure she’s aware I’m doing anything other than fingering her.

A prankish thought sails into my head, watching her as I approach the frozen blueberries. And as it is with so much in my life, it’s like I can’t help myself. I casually position the cart the way I want it, so that my daughter is angled almost facing the freezer. Her bliss bubble pops as my hand withdraws from her slippery slit, her eyes flashing wide open in an expression halfway between pleading and accusing. But I’m already moving, and in one swift motion I open the glass freezer door partway, use my recently naughty hand to lift Bianca’s coat and skirt, and step deftly to one side.

With me blocking the way, almost all the frigid air is channeled straight at Bianca, wafting right up her lifted skirt between her bare, spread thighs and onto her overheated little sex. Her six year old face is comically surprised – mouth a wide ‘O’, eyebrows disappearing up into her bangs. She tries to close her legs, but the cart’s divider won’t let her. She parts them and squeezes, parts them and squeezes, squirming. But now I see, at the corners of her eyes and mouth, the telltale signs of laughter.

And suddenly it bursts out of her, a big piercing peal of fun, and I drop her clothes back over the rail and grab the berries as quickly as I can while she recovers.

The plastic bag flops into our cart, the door thunks shut. Bianca’s still giggling, almost bouncing in the seat.

“Mom-ma!” she giggles, reminding me of my own childhood naughtiness.

Everyone in the aisle has turned to look. I smirk and shush her and whisk us out of there, to the comparative anonymity of organic foods a little ways down. The aisle’s momentarily deserted. She looks at me with a disbelieving smile.

“What did you think of that?” I ask.

“Funny! But sooo cold!” she responds playfully. “I’m still all shivery down there.”

“Poor Bon-Bon, is your little bonbon chilly?” I babytalk, then I slip my index finger in my mouth and suck, working my tongue against it, warming it up.

She nods, but her eyes are fixed on my pursed lips. Removing my finger, I murmur, “I think I can make it better for little bonbon…”

Bianca takes a gasp in anticipation and spreads her knees very wide as my hand disappears under her coat again. My knuckles glide up her goosepimply thigh, wiggle past the cart’s divider, and with intuitive aim my warm, spit-slicked fingertip settles into the cool, moist plushness of her cunt. She jerks softly at the contact, my heated touch radiating into her. Her pretty eyes roll up, and she quietly moans, “ohhhhhh…”

Pushing the cart again, I return to stroking up and down her smooth little slit, a little quicker than before, and almost instantly the heat down there is all hers. We round the corner and Bianca’s head lolls forward. She holds the rail and raises her knees slightly, urging me to continue.

Like I could stop. I’m as turned on as she is. I wonder if she understands that, but she probably does. I know at some point she’ll enter a modesty phase, all girls do. So I savor these moments as best I can, because I never want to make my little girl uncomfortable with herself or her body. Obviously, that point hasn’t come yet. And I find myself reveling in her pleasure and her girlish demands, suspecting she’s very aware of my arousal.

Continue on to Chapter 2