Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

Note from JetBoy: This is a new and extended version of a story posted here over a year ago. It got a mostly rapturous response, and deservedly so… though a goodly percentage of the readers openly wished for more, just as a fine meal sometimes leaves you wishing you’d had a larger portion. Well, author and Site Friend Jacqueline Jillinghoff elected to give her hungry public what it clamored for, and reworked her tale into this luscious expanded edition. Your Chief Editor was so delighted with the result that an executive decision was made to present this as a brand-new post, instead of simply swapping one version for another.
So don’t pass this one by, even if you’ve read it before. “Floor Show,” was well worth investigating the first time around, and it’s even better now.

by Jacqueline Jillinghoff

“Mom, this is Kimberly.”

“So this is Kimberly. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” the little girl said, offering her fingers for a squeeze. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

The words sounded rehearsed, but she played the part well, speaking distinctly and looking me in the eye. I half-expected her to curtsey, and when that didn’t happen, I said, “You don’t need to be so formal. Please call me Vickie.”

“Thank you … Vickie.”

I hadn’t liked being called ma’am — I’m only twenty-eight — but I wasn’t sure about “Vickie,” either. It created a strange imbalance. It wasn’t that she was being overly familiar. It was that, strangely, I felt I was the one who was being forward, putting myself on a first-name basis with such a beautiful little girl.

And it was eerie, how beautiful she was. Her face was too mature-looking, as though some mad scientist had grafted the head of a nineteen-year-old onto the body of a skinny fifth-grader. She had a wide mouth, a broad forehead, and deep-set brown eyes that bored into me from under a pair of long, dark brows. Her hair was short and thick, like a skirt around her neck, held in place by a white headband embossed with three lace blossoms.

I made myself glance away before she caught me staring.

“Billie’s told me a lot about you,” I said.

In fact, my daughter had spoken of nothing but her new friend for weeks. I’d heard all about how cool and smart Kimberly was, how she played piano and oboe and her mother sang opera and they’d lived all over and even in Europe for a year and on and on. She was my daughter’s first big-girl crush, and here she was, making a personal appearance in our home. Billie had made it clear, well in advance, that I was to treat her like royalty.

What I found, though, beyond the unsettling good looks, was an ordinary kid who didn’t have much to say. Her answers to my questions, like that first greeting, sounded like she’d memorized them, or repeated them so often that they no longer interested her, and they never went beyond a few words. I couldn’t make up my mind whether she was hostile, empty-headed, or just shy.

I asked her where she had lived in Europe.

Brussels, she said.

Did she like it?

It was okay.

Did she learn any French?

A little.

Does she play piano in recital?

Sometimes.

Has she joined the band at school?

Not yet. But her mom wanted her to.

Why the oboe?

Her dad used to play it.

There it was. Used to. Past tense. So her father was out of her life, like Billie’s. They had that in common, at least.

These girls were inseparable. Literally. Billie leaned into Kimberly all through dinner, reaching for her hand under the table and swinging her leg, seeking Kimberly’s stockinged foot with her own. Kimberly didn’t encourage her, but she didn’t pull away, either. She simply accepted the attention as her due.

When the dishes were done, and we were playing Scrabble on the living room floor, the girls sat shoulder to shoulder. I told them to spread out, so they couldn’t see each other’s tiles, but after only a few moments apart, they would knock together again, like rowboats moored at a dock.

We were already dressed for bed. Billie sat cross-legged in her brief yellow nightie, which rode up her thighs, revealing the stark white crotch of her panties. My daughter’s a cute, freckle-faced kid with a gap-toothed smile, pale blue eyes, and a bob of fine, wheat-colored hair. What makes her my darling, though, is her outgoing nature. She laughed and chattered as we played, making up silly words entirely out of consonants (No, sweetie, “flsznk” is not in the dictionary) before she played for real.

Kimberly hardly spoke. Every so often, the corners of her mouth would draw back into a kind of vacant grin at something Billie said, but they reset at once as she studied the board, her chin on her knees. She certainly looked like visiting royalty, crowned with her white-lace blossoms and draped in an Old-World gown of shimmering green that hid everything but her toes.

I remember thinking, My daughter is in love with this girl — but only as much as one little girl could be in love with another. It was an innocent infatuation, and apparently one-sided. The notion that it might be anything more would have to be forced on me.

The game broke up when Billie got a triple word score and fifty bonus points for “pissing,” and a hail of giggles broke out. Kimberly finally caught the bug, showing her teeth (perfect, of course) for the first time. She threw an arm around Billie’s shoulders and kissed her on the cheek — quickly, as though she was afraid I’d notice. Billie blushed to the ears, the brown freckles on her nose turning white, but she clasped Kimberly in both arms and returned the kiss.

“All right,” I said. “Time for bed. Billie’s the champ. I don’t think we’re going to catch her.”

Kimberly stood up, and it seemed the evening had truly come to an end when her toes disappeared beneath the gown.

“May I use your bathroom?” she asked.

“Of course you may.”

While she was off brushing and peeing, Billie and I put the game away and picked up the snack bowls and glasses. The girls had been drinking orange soda. I’d had some chilled pinot grigio. Maybe it was the wine, but the surge of affection for my daughter was genuine. I grabbed her impulsively and held her to my breasts.

“It’s so sweet, what you’re doing,” I said.

“What?”

“That poor girl doesn’t have any friends, does she?”

“She doesn’t talk to anybody.”

“Well, it’s wonderful you’re reaching out to her. You’re a special person, and I love you.”

“Mo-om!”

“Oh, stop. Let me kiss you.”

Billie and I live in a one-bedroom apartment, which is all I can afford at the moment. She sleeps on the fold-out in the living room, or with me when we’re too tired to pull out the bed. Tonight there was no discussion: Billie went straight for the sofa, tearing at the cushions with a will. She and her guest would share the convertible, and Mom would discreetly get lost.

Kimberly helped lay out the covers and arrange the pillows. Her regal bearing had returned, her moment of hilarity forgotten. She moved slowly, and sometimes, when she turned or leaned over, the contours of her thighs or her bottom rose briefly beneath the surface of her gown.

When I left them, they were lying on opposite sides of the bed, like twin effigies, with the sheets tight across their chests and their hands folded modestly over their hearts.

“Good night now,” I said.

I kissed Billie on the forehead and, still sorry for Kimberly, and worried she might be feeling left out, I circled the bed and kissed her, too. I expected her to pull away, or at least lie there passively, the way kids do when they’re subjected to unwanted attention. After all, I was a stranger who had no business tucking her in, but to my surprise, she shot up from the pillow and kissed me hard on the corner of the mouth, clutching the back of my neck. The move was so abrupt it felt desperate.

“Thank you for letting me stay over,” she said.

“Oh, honey, you’re welcome. We’re happy to have you.”

“’Night, Mom.”

“Good night, Vickie.”

“Sleep well, you two,” I said. “Don’t stay up too late talking.”

That last was a vain formality. The whole point of a sleepover is for little girls to laugh and gossip long after the lights go out, and I expected they’d keep me up for a while.

To say I wasn’t disappointed would be, well, an understatement.

The chatter began as soon as I lay down in my room. Billie’s voice came through strongly, though I couldn’t make out the words. Kimberly’s was no more than a sporadic murmur. Billie laughed out loud. There was a distinct shhh, followed by a rushed sentence that contained the words “your mom.” Kimberly whispered something, and I heard Billie say No! emphatically, and then, Really?

The whispers went on, punctuated with giggling and shushing, and each time I made out Kimberly’s voice, the image of her toes appeared to me in the dark. Ten pretty toes, peeping from beneath the green gown in a perfect curve, like pearls on a lace fan. Absently, I slipped a hand into my pajamas. And I saw the double cabochon of her ass, pressing up beneath the jade-colored satin. Ah.

My pajama bottoms had to come off, or they’d get soggy and stick to me all night. I unbuttoned my top, too, to give my nipples some standing room. Then I listened again for the hushed voices. They seemed fainter, but the words were clearer — words like please and how and want to — or maybe I was only imagining them, the way I imagined Kimberly’s sensuous mouth. Oh. And the joyous kiss she gave my daughter. Oh! And the imploring kiss she’d given me …

Fuck.

The orgasm balled me up tight, then ratcheted me down an inch at a time. It was a quiet one — it would have to be, under the circumstances — but I couldn’t remember the last time a climax had soaked so deeply into my bones. I lay there warm and weak, a puddle of post-masturbatory languor.

But once my head cleared, I had to wonder why. I had never come thinking of a girl so young. My fantasy women had always been age-appropriate. Something about this child, though — her stunning face, her sadness, or maybe just her pretty toes — had touched me. Unfortunate word choice, but there’s no other way to say it.

Of course, I could never betray my daughter. Kimberly was Billie’s special friend, not mine. Still, there was no harm in fantasy, was there? I could picture her a little longer while I tugged on my nipples and squeezed my clit between my fingers.

I was preoccupied, to say the least, and only gradually began to suspect something was off. I stopped teasing myself and listened in the dark. The girls were quiet enough in there — but that was just it. They were quiet. Were they asleep already? It hadn’t taken me that long to come. Billie had been so giddy when she went to bed, it was hard to believe she’d settled down so soon. Maybe Kimberly’s self-restraint was rubbing off on her.

I kept an ear out for any small sound, and finally I heard one — the sofa-bed creaked. Then nothing. Okay, I thought, they’ve called it a night. Now I wouldn’t have to work so hard to muffle my orgasms, and I was sure there’d be at least one more. With my pussy simmering under my fingers, it would be no time at all before —

“Huh!”

The cry came from the living room. It was Billie. She sounded hurt. Kimberly went shhhh, and Billie said something back. Now she sounded fine. Probably went to the kitchen and stubbed her toe on the way back. No use playing mother hen and embarrassing her, and besides, my pussy still needed attention. I circled my clit, raising a soft scratching sound from my pubes, and let out a contented sigh.

Except that I didn’t. The sigh wasn’t mine. It had come from the living room. My hand froze, and I tensed up, straining to listen. There it was again — it sounded like Kimberly. She hummed a little, too, as though she was sampling a yummy dessert.

The girls’ voices rose. They shushed each other and went on quietly. The bed squeaked again — not once, but repeatedly — and I distinctly heard Kimberly say, in a delirious stage whisper, “I like it!”

What did she like?

Shhh, Billie cautioned her, and the whispers stopped.

This wasn’t the silly bedtime chatter of two little girls. What it was, I couldn’t allow myself to guess.

The room spun as I stood up. I had to lean against the bedroom door to steady myself. I took a breath, waiting for the dizziness to pass, and buttoned my pajama top. The bottoms were somewhere, untraceable in the dark. It didn’t matter. Checking up on the girls would only take a second. They wouldn’t have enough time or enough light to notice my thatch.

The sofa-bed was in the middle of the living room, pointed toward the little balcony my landlord advertises as a life-enhancing amenity. The vertical blinds stood half open, and the distant lights from the parking lot and the buildings across the courtyard were just enough to see by.

I came up behind, looming over the girls’ heads, and looked down.

The covers were heaped at the far end of the bed. Beneath me, two dim figures huddled together with only a thin shadow between them. The larger figure was turned toward the smaller one, who lay on her back with her eyes shut and her dark lips thrust forward.

Details grew more distinct as I watched. I made out the round whiteness of the larger girl’s shoulder, and her outstretched arm, which ended where the smaller girl’s legs were parted. And at last, a spot of motion: the larger girl’s knuckles, flashing in a scalloped ridge one instant, dipping and vanishing the next, again and again and again.

To be blunt about it: the girls were naked, and Billie was jilling off her little friend.

I promised myself, when my daughter was born, I would not freak out over her sexual development the way my mother freaked out over mine. The woman threw me out of the house when I told her I was pregnant, and we haven’t spoken since. She’s never known what a joy her granddaughter is. I’m sure at some level I let myself get knocked up to prove to her I was straight. That backfired, of course. In one violent outburst, I graduated from suspected pervert to confirmed slut.

So I vowed, even before the epidural wore off, that I would be forthright and open with my little girl, and when the time came, I would reassure her that everyone who ever lived had the same feelings she had, and there was no reason to be ashamed about anything, ever. But I always figured it could wait, at least until she grew tits.

I should have put a stop to this. Even in the most progressive homes, little girls should not be fingering each other’s pussies. But the words died in my throat. We could talk about it later, but I couldn’t humiliate them right now. Besides, Kimberly was about to come — and so was I. My cunt was a wet sponge, sucking up my fingers.

I was frightened to death I would sigh or stumble or knock against the sofa, but fear only heightened the rush. The girls must have felt the same way, afraid they’d wake me up but too excited to stop, carried away by the risk and the awareness of how naughty they were being. We were all bad little girls, half-scared of getting caught, half wanting to be.

Billie bore down on Kimberly’s pussy, circling with her fingertips. Kimberly was sinking deep within herself. She breathed deeply, and long shadow-fingers spread through the gullies between her ribs, as though her chest was in the grip of two enormous black and skeletal hands. Her heels dug into the bed, lifting her bottom. Then all at once, the strength poured out of her. She let out a strangled cry, collapsed on the bed and, shaking all over, flipped onto her side, into Billie’s arms.

I came, too, almost falling over the back of the bed. I managed to pull back, unseen and unheard, and when I looked again, Kimberly had buried her face in Billie’s shoulder. At first, I thought she was crying, but it wasn’t crying. It was a prolonged whimper that spoke of the hunger to be loved.

“Was it nice?” Billie whispered.

Kimberly whined in the affirmative, and her lace-blossom crown bobbed in the dark. Billie cooed over her, stroking her back, holding her bottom. Kimberly crooked a knee between Billie’s legs, and Billie, accepting the invitation, began to grind against the slanted thigh.

She must have been close already, because it took only a few moments of concentrated humping before she was quaking and shuddering the way Kimberly had. But she didn’t whimper like Kimberly. My daughter came like a steam engine, with a chain of heavy puffs that ended in a drawn-out sigh. She was the dominant one here, owning her own pleasure, taking responsibility for her partner’s. My baby girl. I was proud of her, in a perverse way.

They were so into each other they never glanced up once. I was invisible to them, like an angel looking down from on high — an angel coming for the third time.

I stood watch as they fell asleep, nose to nose, holding hands beneath their chins. Before I left them, I sent forth a silent wish, which I’m sure they heard in their dreams, because they did just as their angel instructed.

They kissed goodnight.

On to Part Two!