Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By BabyKeiko

I am over sixty… just over sixty, but still, I am over sixty and I have experienced a long and mostly happy life. I remained single, as I am lesbian and just never really connected with someone enough to sacrifice my privacy and be all “out and open” to everyone about me being gay.

It is also because I have been a teacher all my life, and especially earlier in my career, it wasn’t all that acceptable to be gay… that is not to say I lived without love. I have had my share of short-term flings and long-term relationships… but none of them compelled me to go all in on that relationship.

What I’ve now realized is that when I started having gay relationships in my late teens they were, of course, with girls my age (around 13, 14, and 15). In the very beginning it was all very innocent… you know… “let’s practice kissing” and then you’d have make-out sessions with a girl. Or “Look what magazine I found under my brother’s bed” and it was a lesbian mag… it was exploring and learning.

But what happened was, that as I grew older, my true affection remained focused on girls that age, or girls that looked that age.

I so fondly remember being with this girl or that who looked like she’d just developed into womanhood. You know the type, high and firm boobs, flat tummy, flared hips, all the womanly treats in all the right places but without the impact of age.

I myself meanwhile, am (and was) quite the opposite. I was born, and have been throughout my life, a rather full-figured person, not fat, just… well, a friend called it “round” and another “Rubenesque”. I’ll take it, ha!

When I went into puberty my pudgy baby fat transformed me quite quickly into a rather large-breasted, expressive-hips-and-thighs body type. I believe there was one summer, when I was thirteen, that my boobs had not been attacked by gravity. After that, they were not saggy per se, but I guess the word is pendulous. I am also big-nippled, so both breast size and prominent nipples made a bra a very necessary accessory.

Boys loved me. I was truly far ahead of most of my classmates, but it was this interest that helped me understand that I had absolutely no interest in boys. I was far more enthralled when I got a compliment from a girl rather than a boy.

So, all my life I have fallen for girls… or rather they were women that looked like girls. In my younger years, they were girls, and as I got older they just reflected that look. I never admitted to any of them what my attraction was… but I knew, and it turned me on so much.

I am retired now, and live in a medium-sized town. And yes, I am sixty now… I thought that sixty would make me feel old as, in my mind, there would be a clear demarcation line between fifty and sixty… but it turns out there isn’t.

I have my own home. I drive a tricked out pick-up truck for no other reason than that I have always wanted one. I volunteer at the library and I tutor kids in middle school. I go online frequently and read stories of women and girls, watch lesbian videos that look like it could be of women and girls, and that is about it. It is not an exciting or remarkable life, but it is just fine for me.

That was… until about 6 months ago… that was when Emma came into my life… a 14-year-old who embodied everything, and I mean EVERYTHING I so adore in my secret fantasies. She’s tall, slim, prominent high small boobs, feminine, super-intelligent, great sense of humor… I think you’re seeing that I am in love.

I tutor her as she’s getting ready to move a class or two forward… she is THAT intelligent.

Initially, I just quietly adored her as she sat at my dinner table. I am good at that… I have done it all my life, when there were “Emma’s” in my class. I would never have risked career and jail for anything… but that was in school… and now it occurred in my house… at my dinner table… right there… close to me… I could smell her… I could see every muscle move when she wrote, smiled, read, tapped on her phone… I was hopeless.

And as she is so smart, she caught on to it.

Instead of sitting across the table, she started sitting next to me. If she asked me a question or asked for clarification on this subject or that, she’d touch my arm… and her clothing became a little more provocative… a little more inviting… an extra button loose on her shirt, or a tight tank T… short shorts that exposed a length of ballerina legs that were suitably tanned.

And her face… close, next to me as we talked… as I explained and she’d listen… her looks on me, kind of questioning but also with a hint of irony and sarcasm… like: “I am on to you, lady. I know what is in your head.”

It turns out she knew exactly what was in my head… at the end of one study session she quizzed me on my personal life and love life. Why did I not have a husband? How did you know you were lesbian? Was it hard to be lesbian back then? Have you ever been with a woman for a really long time, like in a serious relationship?

The questions came and I decided, blushing and stuttering, to be honest. Because, if anything, I have learned that today’s youth are (a) far more open-minded than adults, and (b) if I am not honest in situations like this, I am teaching girls that being a lesbian should be shrouded in mystery and secrecy… and it should not.

She left me in a puddle of despair after that afternoon with the 1,000 questions. My mind was reeling with my own questions. “Will she tell her parents? Will that be the end of my tutoring career? Will she not like me anymore and request a new tutor?”

But Emma came back as per normal and at the end of her tutoring session peppered me with another whirlwind of questions “When did you know? How old were you? When did you… for the first time… you know… kiss a girl?” On that last one, she blushed… but her eyes were also focused on my face… with a “tell me the truth, lady teacher, because I will know when you don’t.”

I told her I was 14… and the girl I kissed was 13. I told her about it being a practice session. I blushed furiously… and then lost my breath completely when Emma asked “Can we try?”

I felt my heart pounding… and I said the sensible thing.

“That would be so wrong, Emma.”

This was followed by a relatively short argument about why it would be wrong (my argument) and why it would be just fine. (Hers: “I know and trust you. If I can’t trust you, who can I trust? Besides, you’re a teacher so you should teach me.”)

Not only did I lose the argument, I lost it because she just kissed me.

Seated next to me at my dining room table, her lips came onto mine.

And we just sat there. Me frozen in fear and desire and turmoil. Emma in excitement and curiosity. Two worlds colliding, and I knew that in my world, the real world, this was wrong. It should stop. I should chastise her. Send her away. Call her parents. Cancel the agreement. Possibly move to the other side of the country. Perhaps the world.

But I did none of that. I let her kiss me… and when her lips came away from my mouth she said: “Aren’t we supposed to use tongues?”

And then the lips were back, soft, wet, pliant, youthful… and a tongue tapped on my lips. Helplessly, I opened my mouth.

***

It was perhaps two weeks since that first kiss.

We had ended, no, I should say, she had made us end our sessions (twice weekly on Tuesday and Thursday) with kissing. Each time I protested. Each time she smothered my protests with kissing… and I gave in. How could I not? I was so in love.

The initial kissing was just that, kissing. It was exciting. It made my heart thump. It made my head swim, but all we did was kiss.

But the second week, she became more insistent. More aggressive (in a good way.) She pushed herself onto my lap. I mumbled for her not to do it, but of course, she just did it. Her legs astride of mine, her arms resting on my shoulders, her smell intoxicating me to dizziness, and when we came up for air, she looked at me with that same look I had seen before. A look of excitement, sarcasm, and knowing.

“Tell me you don’t just love this?” She whispered hoarsely, at one point.

“It is wrong,” I said. “We shouldn’t be doing this, we could both get into so much trouble.”

“But you love this, don’t you?”

And all I could do was hang my head in shame.

“No,” I whispered.

She placed her hand under my chin and lifted my head. She was so so close, her face, but also her body. Her body heat seared mine, her smell, her touch, I was so lost.

As she lifted my face to hers, her mouth attacked me again. She nibbled on my lips. She sucked on them and tongued my mouth, and then she pulled back.

“See? You love teaching me how to kiss! Say it!” And she looked me in the eye. “‘Kiss,’ say it!”

And when I didn’t.

Another. “‘Kiss!’ Now say it!” Followed by an even hungrier kiss.

“I love teaching you how to kiss,” I whispered, in shame and despair, because it was true.

With a mewl, she attacked my mouth even harder, pressing her body full-on against me. Her hands behind my head to push me into her mouth.

I felt her breasts, small, high, and firm against my chest. I felt her legs, long and tanned and muscular, push my legs tight together. I felt her hand caressing my neck and hairline at the back of my head. I was lost forever.

We came up for air, again. Her cheeks blushed and I am sure mine were deep red from sheer excitement and taboo.

She looked at me. “How old were you when you had your first orgasm?”

I looked away from her pretty face, her expressive eyes that managed to get everything out of me each time. Her eyebrows were so pretty. They seemed to be dancing with each facial expression.

“How old?” She insisted, lifting my face up again to hers. It was torture.

“12,” I said.

“Wow,” she said, “just like me!”

“Did someone teach you?” She asked.

I nodded “No.”

“Did you do it yourself?” In between each question and answer, was a short, electrifying kiss.

I nodded “Yes.”

“How did you know how to do it?”

I shrugged my shoulders. It was true. Another short but impossibly exciting kiss.

“So how then did you know?” She insisted.

“I somehow figured it out… all by myself,” I said. “I guess I was just always very curious about female anatomy.”

“I am gay, too, you know,” said Emma, and kissed me deeply… my head swam.

When the kiss broke, she said, “I‘m not very good at it… having an orgasm, I mean. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t… and you’re my teacher so you should teach me.”

I nearly fainted, as that statement again was followed by an urgent kiss while she pushed her young body up against my much older body.

***

“You’re the teacher, so you should show me.”

It was another afternoon with Emma, and we had kissed until my head swam. Her face was flushed too, and then she’d asked if I ever, “you know… like, touch yourself?”

I had initially tried to not answer but she’s waaaay too smart for that… so in the end, I admitted that I did, on occasion.

“So how often?”

“Eerrmm… when I feel like it?” I tried to cop-out.

“Does that mean every day or once a month?”

“Not every day,” I said, even though, since we had started kissing, it was pretty much every day. “Perhaps a few times per week.”

“And do you always come?”

“Oh yes!” I answered, far too quickly and eagerly… immediately turning crimson.

“I don’t,” she said. “Sometimes I do, but often I get like… really close, but it, like… doesn’t come fully.”

And then she said, “You’re the teacher, so you should show me.”

I thought I’d die on the spot. A bolt of lightning would strike me down. The earth would open and swallow me whole, but none of that transpired.

“Show me,” she said, again.

“Emma,” I started to list all my objections, but then she kissed me again and that shut me up.

“You’re my teacher in everything,” she said, “and I trust you and I like you and I think you like me, so why wouldn’t you show me?”

I blushed, again, from her compliments.

“I like you too,” I said, “but showing you is so much more than just kissing.”

“You’re not doing anything to me,” she said. “You’re just showing how you do it, like… as a teacher.”

In my mind, I wanted to do everything and anything with her, and Emma kissed me again, with passion and fire and need.

We came up for air.

“Here, I will sit at this end of the couch and you sit where you are now, and then you show me.”

It wasn’t a request, nor a command, more a statement of fact.

She shuffled her pretty self over to the far end of my roomy comfy sectional, leaving me at the other end.

“Go on,” she said.

I was flustered. I was lost. I was bad. I was under her spell. I was useless. I was… I was… I was her toy.

“Take off your clothes,” she said, eyeing me with those piercing eyes, her gorgeous, expressive eyebrows adding effect.

“Go on, take them off!” She insisted.

What could I do? I unbuttoned my shirt… I pulled down my stretchy pants… I was now in my underwear… in front of my young-girl obsession. I was so lost.

“Undies too,” she said, with a smirk, as if to indicate that I was not very smart for a teacher of 60.

I took off my panties… left my bra on… for some reason my pendulous boobs that did not defy gravity in any sense of the word embarrassed me more than my hairy pubes.

I sat back against the far end of my sectional… she sat and studied me… I had my left leg stretched out on the sectional, and my right leg folded in a V, with the foot of my right leg against the thigh of my left leg

All of a sudden I realized, with a gush of mortifying embarrassment that I was wet… very wet… and very open. My pussy is very “lippy”. It is all on the outside so to speak, and my flower was open and in full bloom.

“Oh, God!” I whispered, more to myself than to Emma.

She simply said, “Take off your bra.”

I did… and my breasts tumbled down free and happy… nipples erect and pointing slightly south.

“You are pretty everywhere,” whispered Emma, “now show me.”

And, so there I was, at one end of my sectional, naked, aroused, afraid, mesmerized… and there was Emma at the other end, clothed, beautiful, clever, focused… focused on me.

“Go on,” she said.

I moved my hand on my thigh. I felt my pussy waiting… wanting. In fact, my pussy was weeping for attention. Mortified, I felt a drop of my vaginal essence pool at the bottom of my open-lipped puss… and then it drooled downward towards the couch. I felt it with all my being.

But I couldn’t, shouldn’t go there. Right?

As in slow motion, I saw Emma lean forward, and her elfin hand reached out to mine, placing it on top of my hand, picking it up, and then moving it to between my legs. She laid the mouse of my hand on my pubic hair, and my fingers folded against my own wetness.

“There,” she said, “now.”

What could I do? I pulled my index and middle finger up between my open, flappy labia… open like a butterfly, like a flower.

God, I was wet, so very very wet. I think the last time I was this wet was when I was a teen myself. My pussy responded to my fingers with a welcoming warmth, and by expelling another dollop of wetness. I felt it well up and come out, slicking my fingers even more… and then my fingers reached the top of my wetness, where my clitty was waiting and yearning. I shuddered and moaned as my index and middle finger ran over it, capturing it between my two fingers.

As the saying goes, anything that goes up must come down, and so it was with my index and middle fingers. After spreading wetness along the length of my wide-open puss, from birth opening to clit, back down in reverse they went. I moaned again… or perhaps I just moaned now all the time. I was so into the moment that I kind of forgot everything around me… that was, until I heard Emma say “So beautiful… I love seeing you do that.”

I looked up and focused my eyes on the young teen. Feelings… so many feelings.

Wrong!

Desire!

Submission!

Need!

Love!

Love? Yes: love!

My fingers now worked in earnest. Diddling the way I like it best, lengthwise up and down with two fingers, from clit to opening, teasing my urethra along the way, dipping into the opening with my first two digits, and then back up again. Slowly at first, but generally ever-increasing in pace and pressure, until I got so close it was there for the taking, but I didn’t take it, not yet, not yet.

I slowed down and released the pressure to start all over again, and again until the inevitable would happen.

I looked up at Emma. Her face flushed, her left hand folded in a fist against her clothed crotch. I saw her gently pressing her crotch… clearly in need of release herself. Almost impossible to detect but the gentle movement was there. I knew what she felt because I felt it myself a hundred million times stronger.

Emma’s other hand unbuttoned her summer dress, and then I saw her small, simple, white bra, the top half of her dress falling open.

My hand rubbed and played… I masturbated hard while Emma exposed her bra… so close… so close… slow down… God, slow down… not yet.

And then she fumbled in the middle of the bra… and I noticed it had a front clasp. Oh, God! I was going to come… slow down… must see… must focus… slow down.

The front became undone, and like two little doors, Emma’s bra opened and I saw her small, high, perfect breasts capped with two equally perfect and prominent puffy nipples.

“Oh Emma,” I cried.

And then I couldn’t see anything anymore as my eyes went into the back of my sockets, my back fell into the sectional, I stiffened… could not breathe until I was all moans… and while discharging even more wetness out of my pussy, my whole body spasmed into the biggest orgasm of my 60-year life.

The End