Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

I regard myself as a lesbian, but my sexuality is more wrapped up with my sister Ann, who I have been in love with for most of my life. We grew up in Ireland and now live in London.

For a long time, I really believed that Ann and I were the only two females in the world, and in the whole of time, who had the sort of feelings we had for each other, and who got up to the things that we got up to.

Ann is two years older than me, we are both Pisces. We fought like cats at times when we were young, and yet we were really close, sharing a large bedroom with two single beds until Ann got her period at age 13 and mother moved her to an adjoining room. While we still slept in the same room, a fierce storm woke us one night.

Terrified of the lightning, I went to Ann’s bed and we snuggled together, huddled close because of the small width of the single bed. Long after the storm ended, I was still awake. So was Ann. I cuddled her back, spoon fashion, my arm around her, a hand on her tummy, resting on the puckered waistband of her knickers.

I couldn’t get to sleep. The smell of her freshly-washed long hair, a delicious apple-blossom fragrance, was really distracting. All of Ann seemed to enchant me. The softness of her skin, the vague hint of perfume where she had dusted Cussons talcum powder on her body after her bedtime bath, her warmth.

I snuggled close, pressing my tummy against her back, cuddling my nether regions against the roundness of her bottom. I pulled her towards me, driven by the urge which made me hunger for the sensation of being astride the spider’s web. As I unconsciously thrust my mound against her soft buttocks, she pushed back suddenly.

The sensation of her body pressing into me like that was overwhelming. I could feel my face burning in the darkness, and some little voice cried out for just one chance to feel that wonderful sensation again.

I pressed close against her, feeling my vulva flatten on the solid part of her buttock below her hip. She pushed back again. This time she didn’t say, “Go to sleep.” She merely wriggled, re-positioning herself so we were both comfortable with what was happening. From that point on, who pressed what and when is lost in the mists of time now.

What can never be forgotten, though, is the heat which we both generated and the wonderful feeling of an out-of-body experience which overwhelmed me as I humped my young Mound of Venus against Ann.

I must have orgasmed. I don’t know. At age nine, as I was then, I had never heard of an orgasm. What we were doing was a mystery: a secret mystery; a taboo that was so sacred that we couldn’t even think we were breaking it.

My most vivid memory was of rolling away from Ann, onto my back, breathing deeply and feeling so, so satisfied. The sensations which had convulsed my body had ebbed almost to the point of disappearing. But they were being replaced with a mood of satisfaction, every part of me seemed relaxed, the world felt a perfect place. I had never known such happiness and contentment.

I lay there listening to the rain beating against the dormer window of our room, thinking that I wanted to stay here, in this bed, always — with Ann. I wanted forever to be enveloped in her blend of personal scents, her perfumed soap, her girlie perspiration and her fragrant hair. Looking back, I wonder was there another aroma there — the heady smell of her female arousal that enticed me, but which was then unfamiliar. I was to savor it when my sister and I lay together in later times, but that stormy night must have been the first occasion when Ann’s excitement wafted on the air that I was breathing.

Still unable to sleep, I delighted in the heat of the bed and the after-glow of tingles in places I’d never had tingles before. The back of my knees, the small of my back, around my chest, all were still alive in a way which was new.

Ann was sighing softly, a whispering, tell-tale sigh which was to become familiar as we grew older. There were subtle vibrations under the bed-clothes. I put my hand on her cotton nightdress, and felt her tummy moving in a pulsing beat. Her forearm indicated that her hand was between her legs: one knee was holding the bed-clothes high.

Instinctively, I ran the hand upwards, across her bust, stopping to palm her budding breasts. My finger circled their roundness beneath the nightie, brushing the unfamiliar hardness of her nipple. I stretched the tiny bud, my finger and thumb pulling gently to test the elasticity of this new discovery of my sister’s erect nipple. She moaned, not in pain but in ecstasy — a moan that had my temperature soaring again. Sighing deeply, her hand moving faster as I tugged her nipple, she slipped into a paroxysm of shivers which would have frightened me a few days earlier. But I shared the joy I knew she was having. I knew that Ann was having the same wonderful out-of-body experience I’d had a short time earlier.

As her orgasm died, she hugged me and whispered: “I love you, Una.” She kissed me on the cheek, I brushed her hair back from her moist cheek and kissed her chastely back. Then we turned back to back, as though we felt we had already gone too far. The sense of peace, contentment and satisfaction I had from feeling and hearing Ann come alongside me was as great as I’d got from my own climax. Somehow, I knew that I was in the grip of something so intense that it would be with me for life. I loved Ann, from that night onwards, in a way that I could never love any other creature.

*****

It wasn’t my sister Ann who introduced me to the pleasures of passionate kissing, though; it was my best friend Mags.

We were both eleven years old when it happened. We were having a sleep-over at her house, sharing a double bed, as we had done many times for the four years we had known each other.

I always loved a sleepover. There was the adventure of being away from home, the sights and smells and atmosphere of a different family — and the giggling companionship which came from sharing a bed with a soul-mate.

Mags was more developed than I, she knew more of life. She was the youngest of three sisters, more street-wise. She’d been places and done things which I hadn’t yet got around to, like going to the cinema with her big sister. She’d also learned to kiss.

We huddled together chastely in the double bed, in long nighties and cotton knickers. Our talk of kissing and romance waxed and waned. The conversation roamed: there were singers we fancied — Elvis, Paul McCartney — songs we loved and some we didn’t. We talked of great films we had seen, of daring scenes when a heroine had been swept into the arms of a lover, of how he had kissed her while she lay back in surrender.

Then we were talking about kissing. Mags was bursting to tell me more, to show off her vast experience! I was curious, desperate for more information, intoxicated by the intimacy between us in the murmuring dark.

I told Mags about my first and only kiss, which had been an awful experience. Even then, I didn’t understand why anyone would want to do such things with boys. She had much to say in agreement with me, including revealing that one of her first kissing partners had put his hand under her clothes and had touched her knickers, “like this,” she said, before she pushed him away.

As we lay facing each other in the secret darkness, her hand moved under my nightdress and touched the back of my pants. I felt her fingers press into my buttock.

To say that I was thrilled would be wrong; stunned would be a better description. It was as though that soft girly hand had mesmerized me. Perhaps I felt aroused. I wasn’t aware of it. What I did feel was a vague sensation that was going down a road I wanted to explore more.

Margaret’s lips were close to my ear as she extolled the delights of real kissing which made you tingle. Her damp breath was moistening my ear lobe. I turned my face a little — and her mouth was on mine. We touched closed lips. Guilt swept through me. I’d have to tell this in confession. This awful sin would haunt me.

And then nature, and the common sense which has descended to all of us from countless generations of women, clicked in. This wasn’t a sin. I pressed my lips against Mag’s — then relaxed them, allowing her to take her turn at pressing against mine.

When she did, my temperature rose. My face flushed. Down there, some previously unknown hunger stirred. I was reminded instantly of the games my sister Ann and I played that one night when we shared a bed.

Margaret moved now, rolling on top, pushing back hair from my forehead, pressing her still-closed lips hard on mine. I opened my legs, arms around her neck. I could feel her tummy, warm and soft against mine. It gave delightful little goose-pimples around my budding bust and creeping tingles near my crotch where her thighs were holding mine open. I liked it. This was wonderful.

But there was more to come. As our heads moved from side to side, her lips slid across mine, and mine across hers. Then I felt the tip of Margaret’s tongue, teasing my lower lip. Oh my God! There was a flood of sensation within me. I was on fire.

I pressed my mouth against the wet, triangular sliver of flesh. Margaret pressed also, until the tongue forced its way in — penetrating my soul as well as my lips. We thrashed about, consumed by young, newly-found passion. Now I knew what a real kiss was.

My body heaved as our mouths devoured each other. My tongue had instinctively followed hers as it retreated. It explored every part of her mouth, as she had done with mine. Mags was pressing her tummy on mine. Of their own accord, my knees rose as my thighs opened wider to bring her nearer, before closing tight in a fierce hug on her hips.

Her hand was under my nightdress now, cupping my buttock, drawing me towards her as we clasped each other in a passionate embrace. Despite our thick undies and modest nighties, we could feel our mounds, touching, then pressing hard.

My forehead was moist with perspiration, my cheeks were on fire. But the heat and dampness of my face were as nothing compared with the warm wetness between my legs. I knew I was sinning, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted Mags to touch me everywhere — to stroke my bare skin inside my knickers. My hunger was unbelievable.

I took my arms from around her neck. Placing a hand under her nightclothes, I caressed her rounded bottom, as she was doing with mine. We must have been making sounds of some sort. I had gone beyond caring about where I was. I was not in Margaret’s bedroom a few steps away from her sleeping parents — I was in wonderland, in some magic place where only Mags and I existed.

And then our secret world suddenly turned upside down. The voice of Mags’s mother was moving across the room. The bedside light clicked on. How she had done it I didn’t know. One minute Margaret was writhing on top of me, the next she was lying alongside, innocently greeting her mother.

I knew my face was a dead giveaway. I could feel it burning with incredible heat. I knew my forehead and beetroot red neck were coated in perspiration. I hoped Margaret’s mother wouldn’t notice.

We were told it was long after midnight. We should have been asleep. Somehow, I had lowered my knees and was surreptitiously tugging the hem of my nightdress below my knee. I was terrified Margaret’s mother would pull aside the bedclothes and see our nightclothes had ridden up.

There was some scolding. We had been talking and making noise. In fact we had not been talking at all for at least five minutes, but I was conscious that one or both of us had been sighing and moaning in passion. We must have been overheard. Had she listened at the door before entering?

Mags remained uncharacteristically quiet. I wondered if this was the first time her mum had heard sounds during sleep-overs with other girls. And then, hands on hips, she was ordering Mags into her empty brother’s bedroom next door, so we both could get to sleep.

I accepted the explanation that it was to prevent us talking and keeping each other awake. Years later, I wondered if Mags’ mother was more knowledgeable than I believed then. After all, she had been a curious young girl herself.

Margaret’s instruction in the art of passionate kissing was a lesson well learned… and a step along the road to a deeper, more intense relationship with my sister Ann.

Mags soon became mad about boys as we got older, although her passion could be, and was, directed at those who attracted her, of either gender. But Ann and I, while outwardly flirting with boys, and secretly having regular crushes on other girls, had something too precious between us for words. We had long been like that, from those times when, not much older than toddlers, we had fought in catty combat — and then found intense comfort in reconciliation cuddles and kisses.

Ann was apparently growing away from me. She was older now. We no longer shared a room since her monthly visitor had arrived. But despite that, we remained secretly close — trading special smiles when no one was around, sharing the bathroom from time to time, me peeing, stealing glances while she luxuriated in the bath preparing for the disco. It was as though we could read each other’s minds.

We could no longer share a bedroom, but there were ways we could get together intimately which no one knew about. By the time I was twelve, with the benefit of Mags’ tuition in kissing, I had discovered other things about my body. Having once learned the pleasures of self-examination of my budding breasts and swelling vulva, I was becoming addicted to the habit of self-satisfaction. And Ann had found a way to express her sisterly love. But I’m getting ahead of the story…