Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By Unfastened Belts

Watching porn and playing with myself became regular things for me. I did it whenever no one was around; weekend nights when my parents and Bo were asleep, or after school if I was the first one home. I quickly found a few websites that I really liked. You had to say you were eighteen or older, but they wouldn’t know if you lied. I kept a rigid browser cache-cleaning routine, so I wouldn’t get caught.

Usually I played with my pussy while I was watching porn, but I always held back and waited to make myself come with a proper session in bed afterwards. I found out early that I loved to tease and restrain myself. For some reason, it turned me on so much more. Sometimes I’d even start touching myself in the morning, then stop before I came because I enjoyed going to school horny. I liked being aware of my pussy.

This horny side of myself took me by surprise. I’d always thought of myself as a good girl with nothing to hide. I didn’t think masturbating was evil anymore, but I still kept it a secret from everybody, and I didn’t know anybody who said they did it. I wondered how many of the people in my class masturbated. Probably most of them, I decided.

I also figured out that I was very picky with the videos I watched. I found that I loved homemade videos best, like the first one I saw. I kept going back to that one, and I liked to imagine that the cameraman was Melanie’s boyfriend. I disliked most videos that seemed overly produced or exaggerated.

I especially loved videos of girls masturbating, and lesbians having sex. I watched videos of guys jerking off and having sex with girls, too, but while I enjoyed them, they didn’t excite me nearly as much. I’d always been pretty reflective, so I became aware of that right away. For a good while, I reasoned that I probably preferred to watch videos with just girls because I loved seeing someone like myself experience pleasure, and identified with them. Sex will never feel the same for me as it does for a guy, I thought, but with girls, I can imagine I’m them.

I still loved to read masturbation stories too, but I only acted out some of them. For some vague reason I didn’t feel comfortable with the thought of losing my hymen, so I never fingered my vagina except for some cautious, curious poking. I was very content with the sensations I was getting just from toying with my clit, anyway.

I did come to love some of the classics, like humping my pillow or a big plush tiger that lived on my bedside. Its tail was covered with incredibly soft fur, and I loved brushing myself with it between the legs, back and forth over my mound. I couldn’t come from that, but it turned me on like crazy. Sometimes when I went to bed, I’d pull down my pyjama pants underneath the blankets, then tuck Tigger’s tail (yeah, I know, really original) between my legs and go to sleep like that. I’d wake up turned on and walk around with the phantom sensation still between my legs. Our showerhead felt intense too, but it was too hard for me not to moan, so I couldn’t use that one when my family was around.

*****

I took the train to school every morning. The ride was only five minutes, and the station was a two-minute walk from our apartment. My school was right outside the station at the next stop.

When I got into eighth grade in September 2004, I started seeing a girl I’d never noticed before at the station in my home town. She took the same train as me in the mornings and got off at the next stop, too. On Wednesdays, I had to take a bus to the gym for sports class. The bus station was right next to my school and the train station. The girl went there every day, probably to take a bus to her own school.

I caught myself looking every time I saw her. She had long blonde hair and a beautiful face. I’d try to sit near her on the train. At the bus station, she waited at the stop just across the way from me, and I’d get to look at her for five or ten minutes.

After a few days, I realized that I had a crush on her.

That was devastating news. Having a crush on someone of the same sex means you’re homosexual, I thought. Am I a lesbian?

Homosexuality was unequivocally wrong and sinful, according to Jehovah’s Witnesses. I knew what the Bible said about it, too. In the Old Testament, there was a law that said two men caught having sex should be put to death, right then and there. Paul condemned homosexuality in general in the New Testament.

I’d grown up being taught these things, but had never even considered that they might apply to me. I mulled it over and over in my head for a few days, finally astounded to realize that there had always been girls I was attracted to, I’d just never thought of it that way.

The earliest memory I came up with was of a girl in congregation. One day she wore a pretty blue dress. I kept looking at her during service and told my parents how beautiful I thought she looked. I must have been around three or four.

I had both male and female friends throughout elementary school, but was much closer to the girls. That never seemed noteworthy to me. Most girls I knew were best friends with other girls. I loved being around my girl friends because we had great times together, but also because I admired the way they looked; that never happened with boys. But back then, I reasoned that it was because I aspired to be like my girl friends. I was even quite proud of myself for not getting crushes on boys, which I thought of as immature.

I didn’t have a lot of friends in secondary school, which starts with grade five in Germany. My grades were good, but others thought of me as weird, and I ended up as an outcast. A lot of guys bullied me because I was a geek. The first male friend I made was Mark, who protected me from the guys who hounded me. I ended up sitting between him and his friend Fabian, who also became good friends with me. I wasn’t attracted to them or any other guys, but my isolation had me disillusioned about romantic feelings, anyway. Mere friendship was hard enough to come by.

Once a year, we went on one-week school trips where our class would stay at a youth hostel. Four to six people would share a room. On our first trip, I wanted to room with Mark and Fabian, but there was a policy against mixed-sex rooms, so I got paired up with a bunch of girls. I was something of an outsider, because they’d all been friends with each other before already. There was no animosity between us, but I felt excluded. They knew that my clique was with Mark and Fabian, so they didn’t reach out to me, and I was too shy to try making friends.

I hung out with Mark and Fabian during the day trips and kept to myself when I was in the hostel room with the girls. I always got fully dressed in the bathroom right after showering, because I felt embarrassed about changing in front of them. I got strange looks for that.

The other girls would come out of the shower in their bras and panties, waiting till they were fully dry before putting on the rest of their clothes. I admired their lack of inhibition and stole glances at them whenever they weren’t looking, which gave me a strange, shaky feeling in my tummy. Once again, I thought it was because I was a weirdo, watching the normal girls because I wanted to be one of them.

With Train Girl, as I came to call her in my thoughts, when I understood how I felt about her, it hit me so hard that it was like being punched in the stomach. There were no two ways around it, I was attracted to another girl.

I’d always hated sports class. I was lanky and uncoordinated, and I don’t think locker rooms are a pleasant experience for any awkward teenager. Still, Wednesday came to be my favourite day of the week, because of her. I was obsessed with gazing at Train Girl and felt sad every time that she wasn’t on the train. If she wasn’t there on Wednesday, it ruined my entire week. Those ten minutes in her presence at the bus station became holy to me.

I’d fantasize about her all throughout my classes. This newfound realization that I was attracted to a girl also changed the way I experienced the locker room. I kept sneaking peeks at the other girls as we changed, wondering why I’d never paid attention to them before.

I felt like a kid in a candy store, even if it was one where I never actually got to eat any sweets. I was pretty good at being covert about my interest in girls, even though my horniness got pretty intense at times. Occasionally, I’d even play with my clit in the restroom. I never allowed myself to come at school, though. Orgasms were sacred experiences I’d only grant myself in the privacy of my bed — and just being turned on in school was enjoyable in its own way.

At the same time, my feelings of guilt were pretty intense. Masturbation seemed like peanuts by comparison. I was homosexual; sinful and worthy of death in God’s eyes. My family had stopped going to congregation by then and we didn’t discuss religion at home, but I was still really frightened. There was no way I could confide in my parents or anyone else I knew, so I turned to my trusted online forums.

I was surprised how upset these people got when I shared my guilty feelings. They said that I’d been brainwashed, and that homosexuality was something completely natural. I got a lot of helpful links. I tried to be unbiased in learning about the topic, pretending to read the articles like they didn’t have anything to do with me.

I came away with the conclusion that, scientifically speaking, your sexuality was partially something you were just born with, and partially influenced by your toddler years. In either case, you couldn’t change it just by wanting to.

I felt better, but still somewhat troubled. On the one hand, it meant that at the very least, it wasn’t my fault I was different. On the other hand, God was judging me either way.

That seemed fishy, though. Jehovah was supposed to be a loving god. Would a loving god really condemn people for something that’s completely out of their hands? I wondered. It doesn’t seem right. But if God was wrong about sexuality, to me that either meant he was evil, or that the Bible wasn’t God’s word at all and that everything I’d been taught was wrong.

Either option seemed pretty hard to swallow. It felt like two hearts were beating in my chest. Rationally, I was pretty certain that I wasn’t a bad person for liking girls, but my subconscious still squirmed whenever I got turned on. When I watched the other girls undress in the locker room, I felt almost like a sexual predator.

I never mustered up the guts to talk to Train Girl. What was I gonna say to her, anyway? Hey, I have a crush on you, do you happen to be a lesbian too? Or maybe, Hey, do you wanna hang out later and get ice cream? You know, like you do with people you’ve never met before?

I did find out her name, though. I once saw her talk to a girl at the train station, but when the train arrived, they got in on different entrances. I followed Train Girl’s friend to where she sat down. Still standing, I bluntly asked her, “Hey, what’s the name of that girl you just talked to at the station?”

She looked pretty bewildered, but she said, “Uhhh, Lena.” Before she could ask me why I wanted to know, I said thanks and just continued down the aisle to find a seat.

I knew Lena was out of reach, but that didn’t stop me from fantasizing about her. I’d sit on the bed listening to music, imagining she was next to me holding my hand. I even had a dream once about my dad taking me over to her house for a date, with our parents bonding and saying we made “such a cute couple.” Waking up from that one was really rough.

*****

I think I’d recently turned fourteen when I came home from school one day and noticed that the door to Bo’s room, which you could only enter through mine, was open — although she wasn’t home. That usually meant our cat Max was in there.

I was in the mood for some quality cuddle time, so I ventured into my sister’s room and sure enough, there was Max, idling on Bo’s bed like it was nobody’s business, which I guess it wasn’t. Either way, he was happy to see me and started purring before I even began to pet him. I lay down next to him and we cuddled for five minutes or so before I let go of him and got up.

I was about to leave when I looked at the chair next to Bo’s bed. It was a baby’s chair from when we were much younger. Now it served as a place for Bo to drop off her dirty clothes before Mom came to fetch them for the washer. What caught my interest was a thong.

Somewhat shocked, I picked it up. It wasn’t really anything frisky. It had a cute picture of a cat in the front and a little ribbon sewed onto the hem. It wasn’t a G-string — it was all cotton, but very narrow around the waist and bottom. A children’s thong.

I didn’t have any panties like that, and I was three years older than Bo. I was sure Mom wouldn’t have bought something like this for her, and I suspected I knew where it came from. My grandma’s neighbours had a granddaughter who was two years older than Bo, and they regularly gave us clothes she’d grown out of. Our mother might not yet have sifted through a new bunch of clothes, so Bo had decided to try on the thong, not suspecting that maybe Mom wouldn’t approve of it.

I was in a sort of trance, not consciously thinking about what I was doing. I stripped out of my jeans and panties and put on the thong. It was too small for me, so in pulling it up all the way, the narrow bottom part slipped into my butt crack instead of covering it. I felt sexy, but uneasy too — not only for wearing a thong, but for wearing a pair of my little sister’s used panties. In a twisted way, that uneasiness made me feel even sexier, though.

I walked around a couple steps, reveling in the feeling of what little material there was covering my sex. Max watched lazily out of the corner of an eye.

I slipped out of the thong again. While I put my panties and jeans back on, I thought about how awesome it would feel to wear this thong all day, maybe at school – being naughty without anyone around suspecting. I’d be horny all day long!

I contemplated stealing the thong. Mom would never know it was gone, since she was probably unaware of its existence in the first place, and Bo might think that Mom had just gotten rid of it without telling her. In any case, I felt sure she’d be too embarrassed to ask Mom about it. I just had to keep the thong in a place where it wouldn’t be found. That meant I couldn’t put it in the laundry where Mom would see it. How long could I wear this before it becomes icky? I pondered.

I picked it up again, still not really conscious about what I was doing. I turned it inside out and brought the crotch to my nose. The scent hit me instantly.

Bo had peed in this. The thong wasn’t soaking wet, and there were no pants on her chair, so she was still wearing those. No major accident, then. It had probably happened while she was doing sports, maybe taking a ball to the belly during soccer practice, or during a major giggling fit, soon enough that she could excuse herself to a bathroom and empty her bladder. Still, it smelled strongly of her pee. I looked at the gusset and it confirmed what I already knew. One spot was slightly darker than the material surrounding it. No visible signs on the outside, and the smell was fainter there.

Despite my comprehensive investigation, I brought up the gusset to my nose again. It smelled differently from what I’d have expected. I knew the smell of urine from alleyways and underpasses, but that was more pungent and stinging than this. Instead, the smell was musky and warm. I actually seemed to like it.

I inhaled a couple more times. It was almost addictive. Once again, my conscious thoughts followed my actions. I’m standing in my sister’s room, holding her worn panties to my face and breathing in the smell of her pee.

The realization made me feel wrong, and at the same time, incredibly horny. Without thinking, I went over to my room, stripped out of my jeans and panties once more and lay down on my bed. I held Bo’s thong to my nose with one hand, stroking my pussy with the other.

Then I thought of something even naughtier. I pulled the thong over my head so that its back part went on my forehead and the front underneath my chin. The waistband went behind my ears around the side of my head and the gusset was right over my nose. It fit perfectly. When I inhaled, I could not smell anything but Bo. The thought of that and the aroma of her got me so aroused that it only took me a minute to bring myself to one of the most intense orgasms I’d had yet.

That settled it. This thong was now mine, and I would never give it back.

*****

After a week or so, it turned out that I could barely smell Bo on the thong anymore, which surprised and disappointed me a little. Of course, I still kept it.

I only wore the thong to class once. It distracted me too much. I couldn’t concentrate, and all day long I felt anxious to get home and masturbate. I did wear it at home sometimes — the very idea of being around my straitlaced parents in my sister’s soiled underwear turned me on no end. I wondered if Mom and Dad would still hug me lovingly and stroke my hair, comfortable in the knowledge that I was a good girl, if they knew that in that moment, I was wearing a children’s thong because their younger daughter Bo had peed in it.

That was just the beginning, though. I soon developed another sinful habit. Almost every day, I’d sneak into Bo’s room to check if there were new worn panties on her chair for me to sniff. Whenever I found a pair, I’d either just stand there for what felt like hours, closing my eyes, holding the crotch to my nose and breathing in my baby sister’s scent… or I’d take it to my room, wrap it around my face, lie down and masturbate.

Sometimes her panties seemed to have been barely worn, other times there was a faint smell that was enough to trigger my lust, and every once in a blue moon the panties were literally still damp, maybe from a long car drive where Bo was too timid to ask for a restroom stop. Those rare occasions were like heaven to me. I never would have thought that one day, not only would I not mind the smell of urine, but I’d actually crave it, seeking out my little sister’s used panties to achieve sexual bliss.

I contemplated leaving my own panties on while I peed to find out if it smelled the same, but the idea seemed risky to me. I was fourteen, not a little girl. I was supposed to be able to control my bladder. What would Mom think if she found my drenched panties in the laundry basket? So I didn’t go all out, but sometimes I held it for a little longer than necessary. I’d read a funny comic or play tickle games with Bo, letting myself leak just a little before going to the bathroom and relieving myself properly, without my panties on.

I did like the smell of my own damp underwear, but it was definitely different from smelling Bo’s panties and, ultimately, didn’t hold the same magic. Maybe (for sure), knowing who had peed the panties was part of the turn-on. So I only resorted to sniffing my own panties when there weren’t any on the chair in Bo’s room.

Continue on to Chapter 3