Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By eloquent delinquent

Even I had a modest phase. It started late and ended early, but it happened. When puberty hit at 11, it seemed like I got boobs, and my period, and grew two inches, all in the course of a month. I never went taller than five foot six, and when I filled out my breasts weren’t much more than a handful, while the curves of my hips and ass were much more generous. My hair went from straight and straw blond to nearly brown and wavy. Occasionally I’d get a rash of zits on my forehead.

Although the girl I saw every day in the mirror looked okay I guess, and I got a lot of attentive looks, it didn’t matter to me. The body I’d adored and had so much fun with was now confusing, awkward, and sometimes mortifying. I felt betrayed. I was emotional, erratic, as massive quantities of hormones were dumped into my nervous system. I was a wreck. I put on a brave face, acting like everything was just peachy, but I got shy. I got depressed.

And, I got these… these, urges.

It would start with a thought, some erotic image or situation would leap into my head out of nowhere, and my body would get flush and sweaty. My heart would pound, I’d tingle all over, feel weird like I needed to pee, and just get restless and peevish. It all made me very nervous. I didn’t know what to do about the urges. I’d internalized my early no-no training so well, it didn’t occur to me to touch myself. The way I played when I was younger, sex was something I saw, not something I touched. I longed to see those naked bodies from childhood again, the urges made me think about them all the time, but I didn’t dare because I didn’t know what to do about my awkward body, or what my body was doing to me, other than driving me crazy.

But the funny thing is, those urges have a way of getting what they want.

At a friend’s pool party, I was watching a bunch of kids my age splash and frolic in their skimpy swimsuits, and you better believe I was having urges. I was straddling an inflatable shark, and the combination of my thoughts, the undulating water, and my tingling pussy pressed up against the puffy vinyl gave me a sudden revelation. This delightful surge just welled up through me, making me gasp. I remember that I faked sick and rushed home so I could explore these unimaginable sensations I’d just experienced.

Exploring my fuzzy quim with my fingers brought me intense, almost overwhelming pleasure. It also brought those distant memories back – the Easter in that sunlit backyard, and others which were blurrier but just as suggestive. All at once, it was like I’d solved an obstinate, frustrating riddle, and re-connected to that innocently sexual girl I’d been.

It probably took a couple weeks of masturbating at least once every day before I had my first real cum. It left me naked and jerking helplessly with my knees up in my window seat one morning, but I’m not exaggerating when I say it changed my life. After I gave myself a second cum, and a third, I found that now I had a purpose, and that was to arrange the rest of my life so I could indulge my eager naughty bits as often as possible.

Orgasms turned out to be the cure for my pubescent melancholy. At age 12 I was already free.

My puckish curiosity about other people’s bodies came flooding back. But this time, I wanted to do more than look. My scouting and cajoling skills needed a bit of polish, but often seduction is as simple letting someone know how attractive you think they are and letting them lead, showing them affection every step of the way. Within a year, I was up to my old tricks.

Boys were easier than ever. Most of them couldn’t wait to show me their cocks, and oh! How they’d changed! So much bigger and more exciting to me. When they discovered I was eager to touch them, the boys let me do whatever the hell I wanted. It wasn’t complicated to make them squirt, but I experimented constantly as I jerked their hard, hot, amazing dicks, and I loved it when my new move drove a guy into straining ecstasy, his boner getting thicker and harder in my stroking hand. I was instantly a fan of their thick, hot, salty cum, seeing it spurt and gush, the taste of it. It was like their offering to me, my reward for pleasing them. No surprise, I guess, that I took to sucking cock very early and very enthusiastically.

But boys had their downsides. Some of them would try to hook me up with their friends and snigger behind my back. Others would suddenly think I was their girlfriend, and give me all kinds of undesired attention. Either way, I found it possessive and creepy. I was just playing, I didn’t want to be somebody’s property. In order to make some of them get the picture, I had to be mean, which was very unpleasant.

And even worse, as much as they loved me worshiping their horny pricks, they had no idea what to do with me and my pussy. Some of them made earnest, fumbling efforts, and a couple improved remarkably with effort and some gentle instruction. But frankly most were afraid, intimidated by cunt, and to get real satisfaction I had to turn to people who had pussies of their own.

Girls my age were more skittish than ever, but if I could win them over, I could rely on them to be discrete. It took as much emotional closeness and trust as it did flirting to get a girl to undress and let me touch her, but it was worth it. Looking back, I see that I made quite a few close friends simply because I wanted to get them naked.

Later, some bitchy prude girls tried to hang a whorish reputation on me in high school. But so many of my partners came to my defense that the whole thing kind of stalemated, and fizzled out.

I wasn’t a whore, I was a slut. A whore would fuck anyone, just for the attention. A slut, in my eyes, chose her partners carefully, and then enjoyed them with total abandon. Whores were dependent, sluts were in charge. No matter how demanding my sexuality became, I was the one guiding it. The girls I was with sensed that in me, and wanted me to teach them that as much as anything else.

It turned out that a lot of the girls, especially early on, were so anxious about nudity and sexual touching because they were still stuck on that riddle that I’d already solved. I showed them how, sometimes by demonstrating, or even better, doing it for them, to them. Watching their faces, their bodies melt and spasm in sheer bliss, knowing it was me making them feel that way, was marvelously empowering. I was a 13 year old apostle of girly masturbation, and I made a lot of converts. Teenagers were eager to become sluts.

Once I made them cum once or twice, most girls proved to be just as horny as me, with curiosities of their own. I hadn’t even imagined licking a pussy until one of my teammates did it to me, tentatively sniffing and tasting before introducing me to an ecstasy I could barely withstand. I couldn’t wait to return the favor, and honed that naughty skill on the wet delicious cunts of my special friends whenever I could.

When I first saw butt play on the internet, I even had a couple of girls willing to explore that kink with me, and we tumbled on our beds, tongues and fingers discovering the thrills of our tight, tender little assholes, and the profound sensations that lay deeper inside.

I think my parents were aware of my activities on some level, but because I kept my grades up, stayed out of trouble, and didn’t turn into an emotional basket case, they just let me grow in my own way. And aside from my constant sexual desires, I behaved almost normally. I was bright, and school was easy for me, especially math and science. Being blonde, pretty, and from a well-off family didn’t hurt socially, but I got more popular by being in sports, playing varsity volleyball in the fall, and JV tennis every spring.

So long as I could cum my brains out about a dozen times a week, either by myself, or preferably, with a partner, I was golden. I was in the zone.

The only thing nobody really knew about me, was how much I still longed to see the secret places of little kids. I knew it was pervy but I missed it, and I got so horny thinking about it now that I was an adolescent. Like lots of girls, I picked up babysitting to earn a little money, and most of those jobs were just as Sweet-Valley-High-innocent as you would think. But once in a while my little charges would show a flirty, precocious side, and, heart fluttering nervously, I would see how far I could go.

There were a few tantalizing bath times, nude gleaming children whose bodies I could gently lather, and their blushy cheeks, sighs, and gasps are things I’ll never forget.

Even better was the Berger’s 8 year old boy, Noah, who got a stiffie from my flirting, and worriedly asked me to “check on it.” I was frigging him off in no time, to his astounded delight, and every other Friday I would babysit and masturbate his cute pink little pecker, often with my pants down and my free hand rubbing myself off under my panties while he watched. He’d cum twice to my once, no sperm, just throbbing bliss, and he’d barely flag as I continuously stroked him, getting that little dick hard and hot all over again.

But the best were the Halliday twins, 5 year old charmers who’d just discovered that everyone is naked underneath their clothes. I let the girls undress me that first night, helping them with the bra, and they explored me however they wanted. When they spread my legs to investigate my “fuzzy,” I showed them how I could make myself feel sooo good. When I was done cumming, they wanted me to do it for them, and from eighth grade til my junior year at high school, we played naked games every time I visited. Once a month, undressing would become cuddling and kissing, melting into mutual masturbation and pussy licking, and by the end the little twin sisters were joyfully committing incest with each other while I watched, furiously fingering myself.

They were about the same age in the beginning as Bianca is now, and as I rub her increasingly wet little slit, I notice how similar they feel, so beautiful, and her reaction is just as blissful and arousing as theirs had been. Plus, she’s my precious baby girl, and these honey touches give me this deep emotional connection, a physical expression of my affection for her, lovingly given and innocently received. I press into her pussy tenderly and she coos, brown hair draping around her downturned face.

I realize that while I’ve been reminiscing and relishing my daughter’s pleasure, I’ve wandered past the olives three times. I quietly take the cans and put them in the cart. As I do, Bianca shifts her hips suddenly, almost pinning my fingertip beneath her soft steamy cunt, and begins pressing down, subtly grinding against it.

“Mmmmm, Momma,” she sighs.

I know what she wants, but I let her thrust against my finger for a bit as we cross into the next aisle, enjoying the feel of her body finding its own pleasure. God, it turns me on to know she enjoys this like I do. My panties are soaked, upper thighs getting damp.

As we turn down the cereal aisle, I spot another young mother with two boys. She’s quite a bit older than me (most mothers are) dark haired and attractive even with her hair pulled back and no makeup. One of the boys is my daughter’s age, hanging off the edge of their cart, the other probably a couple years older, and they’re arguing.

“I want Fruit Loops,” insists the younger as we approach.

“You’ll have Cheerios,” his brother counters.

“Mo-ooom,” the little one whines, turning to the voice of authority.

“Figure it out amongst yourselves,” she replies calmly.

“No fair!” accuses the younger, jerking the cart. “You never take my side.”

“Oh please,” snarks his brother, rolling his eyes, “you always get whatever you want.”

We pass by, and I take a box of granola bars while Bianca rouses at the sound of the brothers bickering. She glances at them, then up to me. Hidden inside, I raise my naughty finger against her slickness and wiggle it a bit, and her eyes sparkle with gratification and gratitude.

Then she looks back at the family across the aisle, and freezes. One of her eyebrows goes up, a signal for me to pay attention to what she’s looking at. I stop the cart, and with a suddenly stiff spine and a pit dropping out in my stomach, I slowly turn around.

The three of them are looking right at us, and the boys have gone quiet. I realize in a rush that I’ve met the mother once or twice before at school events. With all the dread I’m feeling, I can’t remember her name. The older boy looks frustrated at the interruption in his fight, but the younger brother stares sheepishly at my daughter.

“Hi, Bianca,” he says in a flat tone, obligatory.

“Hi, Jayden,” she replies, just as formally, then coughs once. Her puss contracts gently around my nestled fingertip.

“You get your turkey yet?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re getting ours today. It’s gonna be really big, cause we’re having all the family come to our house.”

“Neat!”

All I can think of during this exchange is the mother as she meets my eye. I can tell she recognizes me too. How much can she see? Is my body blocking my hand? Does the coat cover enough? Because no excuse is good enough for being up your six year old daughter’s dress to your elbow.

But filtering through my own self-absorbed panic, I gradually discern the look on her face. It’s not suspicious, or disgusted. She’s wistful. And now I know that all she sees is a doting mother, a rosy cheeked daughter, gazing fondly at each other on a routine errand. She’s comparing us to her own squabbling boys, and they’re not doing too well.

Grinning slightly, she inclines her head toward me and says, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

I muster a surprised smile. At least the surprise is real. “Thanks, the same to you.”

Looking to Bianca, the mother’s grin blooms into a little smile. My daughter returns it glowingly, and lifts her hand to give them a finger waggling, ‘toodles’ wave. I swear I feel her little cunt getting wetter now.

We all start to move on, moving in opposite directions. The boys shove to get their cereal boxes into their cart. Their mother sighs. Bianca and I squint our eyes and grin slyly at each other.

“That was good, Bon-Bon. Momma’s impressed.”

She shrugs and says, “They don’t need to know. Honey loves are just for us.” Then she makes an adorable shushing gesture, finger over her lips.

I wiggle my finger between her other wet lips and she gasps. But she recovers quickly, and a moment later she shimmies her hips back into place to put more of her hot little cunt into my hand.

She’s getting really excited now.

“Come on honey,” I tell her, moving down the main aisle. “Time to find a good spot.”

I know I can’t hold off giving her what she needs for much longer. In that, she’s just like me. A mind for erotic pleasure and very little impulse control. And one thing I’ve learned, knowing you’re like that doesn’t make it any easier to control or resist.

For example, you don’t have to be your high school’s resident nymphomaniac to get pregnant at 17, but it sure helps. I never got into any trouble until I got all of it. My parents were disappointed, but resigned to my choice. And Mitch – who I’m pretty sure was the one responsible – stepped up and owned it. He was one I always liked best anyway, and even though I dropped out, I got my GED before Bianca was even born, which got my folks okay with it. It looked like things were going to work out.

A year later, everything had changed. No plan, no matter how good, survives first contact with a baby. Mitch took off eight months after Bianca came along. I’d shed my pregnancy weight and started feeling sexual again, but Mitch didn’t see me that way any more. And even though he was okay with me fucking our couple-friends Ryan and Kayla back in high school, he wasn’t okay when I took it back up. Honestly, I think he was looking for a way out, and I gave him one. Being a dad at 19 was too much for him.

I’ll admit, after he was gone, I had some dark days. All my high school friends and lovers had moved on and moved out, and my life with a newborn wasn’t anything like theirs. I felt isolated with all the demands of my baby for the first time. Desperate for partnership, I made some really bad decisions. I drank too much. I fucked some real pieces of work.

Eventually, I got so self-destructive that my family stepped in. Even my big brother and kid sister, who I’d never felt that close to, came to my aid, and our relationships got better by the day. Bianca was a happy baby, easy to love, and that made my life even better. My parents agreed to support me so long as I went back to school, so I started attending tech college part-time while they babysat my little Bon-Bon.

As things got back on track, I made a bit of a vow to myself and my daughter. I’d never get sexually involved with anyone until Bianca was old enough to look after herself for a while. It hasn’t always been easy – I got a lot of looks, from both sexes, and I couldn’t help but wonder. Motherhood changed my body a bit, a little softer, a little curvier, my ass especially. I attract different people than I used to. It’s interesting. But my role as a mother became my priority, and temptation didn’t get the best of me, for once.

That vow is a promise I’ve never broken. Well, almost.

I thought my sex drive would taper off as I reached my twenties, but it’s only gotten stronger. I tried and tried to repress those desires, but every time I did, within a month I broke down and went at my needy, demanding pussy like an animal, cumming in an all-day frenzy to make up for what I’d denied myself.

The internet became my best friend and worst enemy, as I so easily discovered porn and erotica that catered to my most depraved instincts. So very distracting. I spent a lot of time alone in my apartment with my baby girl, and nap time for her was frequently masturbation time for me, feet propped up wide against the desk, a hot video or dirty story feeding my lust. I used my fingers or a vibrator I got from an old classmate, frantically pleasing my pussy and anus. I always tried to get in one good hard cum before Bianca woke up.

On top of that, I sexualized everything. The tapered neck of an olive oil bottle, the plush roundness of the arm of my sofa, the sleek wooden handle of my hairbrush, the deep warm vibration of my clothes dryer, the firm girth of a cucumber, even the ball shaped newel post at the bottom of the stairs – all of these got pressed into service during my desperately horny solo time as a young mom, and as I fucked these objects I’d fantasize about the times I’d had, and yearned to have again.

Continue on to Chapter 3