Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By cs.unwin

The downpour came suddenly, as they often do in spring in the southeast of England. One moment it was sunny, and the next the sky was full of dark menacing clouds. Fiona ran as fast as she could along the narrow country road which she had follow to get home from school every day. The rain began to pour down and in minutes soaked her school uniform. It was so wet she could feel her cotton underpants clammy and cold against the skin of her bottom. Fiona held her satchel above her head but it offered little protection against the heavy rain.

Ahead, around the next bend in the road and partly hidden by hedges, the 12-year-old saw an old bus shelter. Fiona quickened her pace and raced to the small hut, arriving there as the heavens burst, disgorging thick drops that bounced off the surface of the road and gave it a silver glassy sheen. The bus shelter was very old, small and decrepit. Now that the decade of the 60s was nearly half over, most old bus shelters had been upgraded to new structures of steel and glass. Not so in the depths of rural Kent, this shelter was a holdover from the 30s or 40s, and was of the most simple and practical of its kind. Three sides were peeling green paint, it had a tile roof, and inside was a built-in wooden bench on which three could sit.

Relieved, Fiona took a seat on the dry bench and caught her breath. She was out of the rain, but still uncomfortable. She felt the cold wet cotton of her underpants push in between her legs and into the cleft of her crotch. Fiona was soaked to the skin and miserable. She blamed her mother for her discomfort. Why couldn’t she have picked me up? she thought. Why is her job so damned important that she can’t drive me home from school like other girls?

After a few minutes watching the rain splash against the pavement, Fiona noticed a small blue car carefully making its way along. The car’s primitive wipers seemed unable to cope with the deluge of water pouring onto the windscreen. The driver could barely see through the rain and was carefully edging the car along the country lane. It slowly passed in front of the bus shelter and stopped about ten feet beyond it.

The door opened and a dark-haired woman peered out at her through the downpour. Fiona recognized the driver as Miss Soames, her next door neighbour. She called out to Fiona in a distinctive London accent:

“Hallo! Would you like a lift?”

Fiona didn’t have to think twice. Grabbing her school satchel, she raced around to the passenger side of the car, opened the door and leapt in.

Inside, the car was still cold and damp, but at least dry. The small interior smelled of cigarettes and female scent. The driver put the shift in gear and they set off at a snail’s pace down the winding country road.

“Poor dear, you are simply soaked to the skin. Your name is Fiona, isn’t it?”

“Yes Miss Soames,” Fiona answered. “Beastly rain, I have gotten frightfully wet.

“Don’t Miss Soames me, Fiona. Call me Edith. I recognize your uniform, it’s Grammar school isn’t it? Which form are you in?”

“First Form,” Fiona replied. “I’m 12 years old. Nearly 13.” She had only recently turned 12, but like most girls her age, was used to rounding up.

Fiona tried to look at Edith without appearing to stare. She had only met the woman once, when Edith had come over to her house to introduce herself. It had been dark, and Fiona’s mother had for some reason not wanted to invite their new neighbour inside. When Fiona asked her why, her mother had muttered something about ‘Bent London women’ and had offered no further explanation. Her mother was like that, Fiona thought. Always busy and bossy and treating her like a child. She had been like that since her husband, Fiona’s father, had left her two years previously.

The girl could not understand her mother’s antipathy. Edith seemed nice, stylish, and refreshingly modern. Fiona did not know Edith’s age. She was younger than her mother, who was 33, and therefore guessed her to be in her mid or late twenties. Edith’s clothes were rather chic, unlike her mother’s and that of most women she knew, who dressed horridly. That afternoon she had on fashionable pleated trousers, a tight fitting jumper, and the type of bra which had recently become popular that lifted her full breasts and brought them to a point. Edith’s dark hair was cut short, nearly as short as a man’s, and she wore red lipstick which accented her full, sensuous lips. Fiona, who knew very little about fashion, guessed that was how women dressed in London in the ‘Swinging 60s’, in sharp contrast to the rather old-fashioned styles popular in the part of Kent where she lived.

Edith glanced at Fiona while she tried to peer out of the windscreen and watch the road. The car’s windscreen wipers swished anaemically and the windows kept fogging. She saw a very pretty girl with long brown hair and beautiful pale skin, on the cusp of adolescence. Fiona was that perfect age when girls are at their prettiest before their bodies begin the tortuous and difficult journey into womanhood. Edith noted the absence of any obvious bumps on her chest, the sylph-like curve of her legs, and the delicious shape of her bottom where the wet school uniform skirt clung to her thighs.

“Fiona, you are completely soaked! I simply cannot let you go home like that. I’m going to take you to my house and get you dried out and then we can have tea together. I have some treacle tart which I know you are going to adore. I won’t take no for an answer!”

“Yes Miss… I mean Edith. That would be nice. I love treacle tarts,” Fiona answered.

The small car followed a muddy narrow lane for 100 yards to a small cottage surrounded by hedges. A large apple tree, pink flowers in bloom, grew in front of the cottage and partly obscured the entrance. A large rose bush blossomed beside the door. The cottage was built 50 years earlier and had been well maintained; it had mostly been used as a weekend getaway for people who wanted to escape the city on weekends.

Edith decided to rent the cosy property after a painful breakup with her most recent lover, a much older woman who was the editor of a women’s fashion magazine where Edith had worked. She was now on her own, freelancing, and happy to be away from London’s hectic and sometimes vicious social life. In the several months she had occupied the cottage, Edith had come to terms with her solitary existence, but she still sometimes missed the lack of companionship and the feel of a woman’s body in her bed. She had no real hope of being able to fit into the narrow-minded and tightly knit English country society around her. Here, deep in the county of Kent, single women were looked on with suspicion, especially those who were well-educated, stylish, attractive, and from the city.

By the time they had arrived at the cottage, the deluge had subsided into a dull drizzle. Edith opened the front door which was seldom locked and invited Fiona inside. She took off her muddy shoes in the small entrance and while doing so put her hand on Fiona’s thin shoulder, briefly, for support.

“Look at these shoes, they are practically ruined,” she said as she removed her black pumps with their low ‘kitten heels’.

Fiona took off her own brown shoes which were Clarks like most girls her age wore, with plain rounded toes and a small buckle on the side. As she followed Edith into the house, her grey knee socks, which had fallen around her ankles, made wet tread marks on the granite flagstone floor. Edith went directly to the kitchen where she filled a pewter kettle and used matches to light the burner on top of a small two element gas cooker. Fiona stood shivering in the living room, feeling awkward and unsure of herself.

Now that the kettle was sorted, Edith paused and noticed her young guest’s predicament.

“I am so sorry, Fiona,” she said, approaching the girl and putting an arm around her shoulder. “What a terrible host you must think I am. We have got to get you out of those wet clothes or you will catch your death of cold. Let me find you something dry to wear.”

Edith disappeared into her bedroom, emerging a minute later with a large fluffy towel and a maroon coloured dressing gown. “Fiona, take your clothes off and I will light a fire so we can dry them while we have tea together.” She handed Fiona her robe and the towel and knelt down to build a fire in the hearth.

Fiona, whose clothes were sopping wet, began to disrobe. She unfastened the buttons at the back of her dark blue, sleeveless, knee-length school uniform smock. Loosened, the wet garment fell off her shoulders and to the floor in a damp heap. Edith glanced up from her kneeling position by the fireplace and drew in her breath when she looked at the young girl’s thin legs and cotton knickers.

Rain, soaking through Fiona’s outer clothes, had made her underwear wet and semi-transparent. The fabric was pressed tightly against her sex, outlining her girl-like cleft. Edith could see right through her underpants and what she saw there looked delicious, pink and inviting.

As Fiona quickly removed the rest of her wet clothing, unselfconsciously and with purpose, Edith felt a shiver of need pass through her. It had been far too long since she had felt the touch of another woman, or a girl.

She worked at the fire, coaxing a steady flame from the twigs and adding smaller pieces of wood to build up a blaze. But she managed to sneak several more glances at Fiona, who stood naked now, carefully drying her pale slender body with the towel. The young girl did this slowly and deliberately, as if determined to remove the water from her skin drop by drop. Her light brown hair hid her face as she looked down in concentration. Fiona’s chest was so thin Edith could see her ribs. She had dark brown slightly puffy nipples the size of ha’penny coins. Edith guessed her nipples were stiff from the cold, and were the only feature which disturbed the pale flatness of her chest.

Fiona turned away modestly as she lifted one foot and then another to dry herself. Edith, on her knees, caught a glimpse from behind of her small shapely bottom and the outline of her smooth hairless crease. Edith barely kept herself from reaching out to touch her as she remembered the first time she herself had been touched by another girl, when she was still a young teenager.

It happened during a dance at Saint Hilda’s, a prep school for girls where Edith had been a boarder. Since there were no boys available, it had been a ‘girls only’ dance; she and her schoolmates had been jiving and be-bopping to 45rpm records in the gym specially decorated for the dance. Someone had put on a slow number and Edith ended up in the arms of Lesley, a stout girl two classes ahead of her. As Lesley held her close and the two swayed to the music, Edith had been electrified by her partner’s warm body and its soft curves pressing against her. When the song ended, Lesley took her by the hand and led her outside into the garden and the two kissed each other her behind the hedgerows. Edith had melted in her arms.

Edith would forever remember her first time, the warmth of Lesley’s body against the cold of autumn, the thrill of abundant soft breasts pressing against her own. She also remembered Lesley’s hand reaching under her dress, sliding past the waistband of her knickers and touching her in that private place only her own fingers had ever explored. Her young body had shuddered to its first real orgasm that evening. She became Lesley’s girlfriend that night and lost her hymen to her a short time later.

Lesley had been an avid amateur photographer and captain of the school camera club. On Saturdays, after sports, the Biology Lab became a darkroom for the club; members were permitted to lock the Lab’s doors while developing film. One day, Lesley invited Edith inside and shut the lock after her. The two girls fell into each other’s arms, hastily removing clothing. Edith latched on to Lesley’s large and well developed breasts. As she feasted on the older girl’s nipples, Edith felt Lesley’s chubby fingers parting her legs and beginning to rub her moist cleft. At age 14, Edith was thin, her labia still smooth and almost as hairless as a young girl’s. Only a wispy patch of dark hair crested her vulva, giving a hint of the woman she would become.

Lesley lifted her slender young lover onto the Bakelite top of a biology lab station and began pushing her fingers inside her. Edith lay back and opened her legs, inviting the older girl to invade her body. She was eager to give herself to the pleasure coursing through her loins and to her lover. Lesley’s fingers pushed deeper, opening her tight vagina until Edith experienced a sharp pain followed by a feeling of being stretched in a way she never had been. Her pain melted away as two thick fingers pushed their way inside her, sliding back and forth as Lesley masturbated her wet vagina.

While Edith lay panting in the aftermath of her climax, Lesley climbed onto the counter and straddled her head. At first unsure of her intention, Edith quickly realized that Lesley wanted her to lick the hairy folds that were being lowered onto her face. Without needing further encouragement, Edith opened her mouth and used her tongue to part the thick fleshy lips offered her. She knew her own taste from furtive under the cover experiments alone in her bed, but the flavour of Lesley’s wet furrow was new and different to her. Her tongue and taste buds delighted in the slick silky surface of the secret place that was hers to savour. She tasted the pungent flavour of her lover for the first time, an experience she later repeated as often as the two could find a moment and place to be alone together.

“Where would you like me to hang up this towel, Edith? It’s rather wet.”

Edith glanced up at Fiona, then got to her feet, slightly flustered. She’d been reminiscing about her first love and this had made her quite randy. Without answering, she took the towel and stood looking at the 12-year-old, now clad in a maroon dressing gown several sizes too large.

The room seemed to have become darker and the shadows favoured the young girl’s fragile and delicate beauty. Without her school uniform and in the partial darkness, she appeared to have lost some of her school girl innocence. To Edith she had taken on a wraith or fairy like quality. Fiona’s thin face peered out from behind a curtain of long light brown hair, and the pale skin beneath her neck seemed to shine with a luminescent glow. This vision of Fiona caused Edith to take in her breath sharply.

The magic moment was interrupted by the tea kettle whistling. Edith came out of her spell and began to fuss with the tea service. She went into the tiny kitchen, poured hot water into the tea pot and carefully arranged treacle tarts on a plate. She placed the teapot, cups, milk, sugar, and the tarts on a tray and brought them into the living room. She set down the tray on an old steamer trunk which doubled as a coffee table for a stylish but well worn sofa.

“Please make yourself comfortable, Fiona, while I hang your clothes to dry,” Edith said.

Edith fussed with the the fire and then strung up a clothes line on which she draped Fiona’s things along with the towel.

“Give me half a moment, dear, I’m dying to get out of these clothes,” she said to Fiona, who was now comfortably ensconced on the sofa.

Edith had worked herself into a state of agitation. Having a mostly undressed young girl in her house had brought back memories of her own sexual awakening and had aroused her. She realized how long she had been celibate, and how much she was attracted to her guest. She forced herself to walk slowly into her bedroom, but once there nearly tore off all her clothes and threw them on the bed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and paused for a moment as she wondered what to wear.

Edith studied her reflection and saw a pretty dark haired woman with wide hips and a flat stomach under which nested a dark thatch of curly pubic hair. She admired her full breasts crowned by brown nipples and large matching aureoles; they were her best features. Edith worried if Fiona found her attractive. Of course you are lusting after Fiona, why else would you care how you look to her? she thought to herself.

In a feminine gesture, she plumped her breasts and gave her nipples a twist to make them stand erect. Edith then dabbed a smidgen of Arpège perfume on her neck; she loved its rich floral aromatic scent. She chose a man’s plaid, buttoned, long sleeve shirt to wear, its hem half-way to her knees and the top buttons open. Edith left her knickers lying on the bed where she had thrown them and went back out to Fiona.

Continue on to Part Two