Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

by PanWhoWrites

Reworked by JetBoy for Juicy Secrets

{ This story was originally posted at Literotica in November 2018 }

Joanna

I should start by pointing out that I’m not a lesbian.

At least, I don’t think I am. I mean, I’ve never really had any experience with girls to test it; until recently. I’ve been perfectly happy with my husband, and before him I didn’t really have any experience with anyone at all. My first time was with him. Six months later we were married, and three months after that the twins came along.

So I when my girls turned sixteen, I was surprised to discover myself wondering what they looked like naked.

A physical description seems to be the standard way to start these stories — I’ll begin with myself. My name is Joanna, I’m forty-three, the happily married mother of two beautiful girls. I’ve been told that I look a bit like Meryl Streep, though I don’t particularly see it myself. I’m in fair shape for a woman of my age; I’m not going to lie and say I have the body of a 30-year old, but I can honestly say that I have the attractive body of a forty-three-year-old.

I’m tall, but not too tall. Red hair, which my daughters inherited. 36C breasts with just a hint of sag (they were smaller before the pregnancy, but I’ve never had any complaints), and while there’s a bit of weight around my middle, my husband has never seemed to be put off by it.

I’ll describe the girls, too: Brianna and Rebecca. Brianna’s older by a few minutes — they’re twins, but not identical. Redheads, obviously. They’re both in good shape — not sporty, but active enough for their age. I haven’t been bra-shopping with them for a few years, but I still do their laundry, so I know that Rebecca is a 34B and Brianna is a 34C and that they both prefer white underwear. I think that black would be a better contrast against their pale skin… but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Beyond that, it was all imagination.

The exact date escapes me, but it was a few weeks after the twins’ birthday that I started picturing them nude. I think I know what caused it — boredom.

I was bored. Bored with life, bored with sex, bored with everything. Joshua and I had more or less stopped having sex a few years prior; god knows that we’d put the effort in. Costumes, underwear, toys. We cracked out the Kama Sutra once or twice, but none of it did any good.

We had reached the point where we were even talking about getting a third party in, but we couldn’t agree on a gender — as I mentioned, I’m not a lesbian, and Joshua wouldn’t even entertain the idea of sharing me with another man. Eventually, we dropped the idea, and our sex life petered off shortly afterward.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband. But, ignoring anniversaries (which we sometimes did anyhow), we hadn’t had sex in years. There was no question of divorce — we were still happy together, but inactivity in the bedroom had led to me taking care of my own needs. Once a week, twice on special occasions. I can only assume Joshua was doing the same; I couldn’t imagine him cheating on me.

And so I can only assume that it was my bored mind’s way of entertaining itself, perhaps attempting to give my libido a kick start. I started watching the girls, watched how they moved their young bodies around the house. Often awkward, occasionally with a grace beyond their years. Whether they were relaxing on the couch, playing tennis outside, running for the bus, I started to notice them. They never spotted me, their boring, stuck-in-a-rut mother, watching, but the whole time I was imagining them naked.

I hadn’t actually seen my girls in a state of undress for years now — the last time I remembered helping Rebecca in the bath was when she was twelve, and Brianna was probably even a few years before then. So I truly was using my imagination: I pictured them running down the hallway in the nude, their small budding breasts bouncing, unrestrained. I wondered how much pubic hair they had; I remembered, at that age, being hairy as a mink down there — but things are different these days, aren’t they?

For a while, I tried to stop. It wasn’t right, I reasoned, for a mother to think about her daughters that way. Wondering what Brianna looked like in the shower, water running down her back, picturing Rebecca, naked in front of the mirror, assessing herself, leaning forwards and pouting in a youthful attempt to look sexy. It wasn’t how a mother should be thinking about her offspring.

But after a few days, I gave into it. After all, I reasoned, it was completely harmless. And, as I may have mentioned, I was bored.

I don’t remember exactly when I started picturing my daughters during my weekly masturbation session, but that was when I knew I had crossed a line.

Friday night was “my” night; Joshua would go out with his pals, the girls had youth group and would frequently stay at a friend’s house. I’d set up a few candles, run myself a nice bath… if there was wine in the house I’d have a glass, and try not to think about how boring and cliched even fingering myself was.

Typically I would visualize a soap star, or the Australian man who had done our windows a few times, but this particular Friday, a mental image of the girls popped into my head.

At first I tried to shake it. I’d force it out of my head, try to think of rippling muscles covered in suds, or a burly wrestler taking me in the ring… but it kept coming back. The closer I got, the more it persisted, until eventually I just embraced it and let out a climactic sigh, a vision of my own daughters in my head.

After all, who was I hurting?

After that, it became a regular fantasy. And, as I’m sure many of you reading this will have encountered, over time fantasies require escalation. Soon just the image of my daughters wasn’t enough — they had to be taking part in in all manner of sexual escapades. Brianna at school, flashing her panties to the boys. Rebecca playing tennis in the nude, bouncing as she served the ball.

A month later, I was pleasuring myself two or three times a week, imagining the girls in more and more depraved situations — Rebecca sneaking off from youth group with the minister’s son, letting him feel her up behind the pulpit. Brianna, on her knees at her school, sucking off the school football star. Rebecca, bent over a desk at school, fucking a teacher for a better grade, Brianna watching and playing with herself…

The rest of my life was still as boring as ever, but my fantasy life had suddenly exploded.

I wish I could be more precise with dates, but it’s not something I particularly needed to keep track of. When you have nothing to fill your days with, they blur into each other, weeks becoming months becoming years, until you find yourself middle-aged, counting down the years until menopause, playing with yourself with images of the new fertile generation in your head.

While I don’t remember exactly what date or week it was, I remember it was another Friday when an image came into my head that would change my life forever.

I don’t know if this is true of all teenage girls, but it sure was with me — my girlfriends and I used to practice kissing. My friends were all gorgeous, and I suppose I wasn’t too bad myself — a lot of men would have paid a lot of good money to see what went on behind closed doors, but I’d forgotten about it myself until I was in the tub, my hands doing their usual job between my thighs.

It occurred to me, you see, that if I’d had a twin sister, I know we would have used each other for kissing practice. And while things have changed since my day, surely death and taxes aren’t the only constants — I feel that my girls would have taken after their old mother in at least one regard.

The second I had that image in my head, the mental picture of my twin girls kissing, sharing their tongues, pressing their bodies against each other, maybe using their hands to explore… I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And not just in my own private time, either — whenever the two girls and I were in the room, I was scanning their faces for signals, secret flirtations between them. Whenever I left my daughters in a room together, I couldn’t help but imagine them passionately locking lips the second I left. Every time we were sat around the dinner table, I imagined their hands sneaking up each other’s legs, fingers pumping in and out of each other as we made small talk over supper…

At this point, my fantasies stopped being completely harmless.

I was aware of the change, too, and I tried to put it out of my head. I tried to think about something, anything else, but it was like a pink elephant. Trying not to think about it consumed my waking hours, and there was no room for any other thoughts.

I don’t know if my girls suspected anything. I tried not to let on, but when your sixteen-year old daughter come to you for help on a math problem and you’re doing everything you can (and failing) to stop picturing her naked, locked in a sweaty incestuous embrace with her twin, you don’t have the spare mental energy to see if they’ve noticed a change in your behavior.

I should tell you about my husband at this point — he’s a good man, and it’s not his fault that we’ve sexually drifted away from one another. He’s reliable, earns enough to keep us in the lifestyle that we’re accustomed to, and god bless him and his hobbies.

Ever since I’ve known him, almost eighteen years now, he’s discovered a new hobby every few months. When I first met him, it was inventing (which he’s come back to several times over the years, always managing to get distracted just before he can actually create something.) Right now it’s photography, a few months ago it was home-brewing beer, and before that he was seriously considering getting into beekeeping.

But the hobby relevant to this tale, and probably the reason you’ve clicked through to hear my tale in the first place, is hypnosis. Not “watch dangled in front of your face” hypnosis, though he did try that for a few weeks before giving up. Instead, he invested in a subliminal hypnosis kit, to try to stop smoking, partially at my request — his previous hobby had been cigars. They stank.

I don’t really understand how the tapes work — you record your voice, or a voice that you trust, and put it into a special tape deck. The deck layers it over the music, and so when you’re listening you’d never know that it was anything but a song. All the while, your subconscious brain is processing the messages — you have to listen to the same message for at least a few nights before it kicks in, but when it does you see results quickly.

The kit included some relaxation music, instructions on what sort of subliminal messages worked best, and speakers that attached to the bed. I have no idea if it was the tapes, or my threats to divorce and/or castrate my husband if I found one more cigar burn on the couch, but less than a month after he started the program, he was off the Cubans. By then, we’d both grown accustomed to falling asleep to the music, so we’d kept it and put everything else in the basement.

The girls refer to the basement as, “Daddy’s Forgotten Toy Chest” — there’s a remnant of every hobby Joshua’s ever had down there, from the ventriloquist dummy to the stamp collection to the “Start Your Own T-Shirt Company,” starter’s kit, along with thirty-five unsold “Born to be Wilde” shirts.

Obviously I never intended for it to go as far as it did. I was just curious. I just needed to know — I thought I’d just get by daughters to confide in their mom, find out what was happening under my own roof. Just a bit of information to fuel my fantasies.

Honestly, I never planned for it to go any further than that.

It was a pretty simple system. Easy to find, too; right under the jam-making equipment, above the “golf from home” kit. The provided messages were for weight loss and nail-biting, but gave you an idea of the sort of tone you had to use.

“Mom,” Brianna asked, “Why are you moving your stupid sleep-tapes into our room?”

The twins have always shared a room. Neither Joshua or I grew up with any siblings and we felt it was something that our childhoods lacked.

“They’re good for you,” I replied, “They’ll help you sleep better, you’ll be more rested for school.”

Brianna rolled her eyes. Rebecca didn’t even look up from her laptop as I attached one set of speakers to each bed.

The message I’d recorded was simple, and the same for both of them:

You trust your mother. You trust your mother. Mother knows best. You can share things with your mother. You must always answer mother’s questions. Mom knows best. Help Mom out around the house more. Whatever Mom says, goes. If Mom asks a question, you must answer. Never lie to your mother. Never lie to Mom.

I hoped that switching between mother, my role, and Mom, my “name” to the girls would help it work no matter how much they thought of me, whether as a person or just as their mother. (I know that at that age, my mother was an obstacle first and a person a distant second.)

I didn’t notice any difference for the first few days, and even after that it was subtle. If I hadn’t been looking for it, intently examining their faces and their bodies every time they entered the room (the bodies were less relevant to what I was looking for, but it had become a habit, ) I probably wouldn’t have said there was any difference, but by the end of the week, they were coming home and telling me about their day. It was nice.

After a week, I switched the tapes out.

You trust your mother. You trust Mom. You can tell her anything. You can ask her woman questions. You can talk to her about sex. Do your assignments more than a night before they’re due. Mom is cool. You can trust Mom with secrets. Tell your mother about sex. Never lie to your mother. Always tell Mom the truth. Your mother knows about sex. You can tell your mother anything.

This one was less successful. For the first week, absolutely nothing. I was waiting for a hint, anything that would open up a conversation, anything where I could get some details from my daughters to help fuel my fantasies.

I was starting to get frustrated. As well as that, without our own sleep-tapes, Joshua and I were both having trouble sleeping. One night I think he woke up while I was pleasuring myself (I had been unable to sleep and unable to get images of my daughters out of my mind, so I had done what came naturally.) I lay still, and after a few minutes he started snoring.

The next day, two things happened. I bought a tape and speaker set for our room, just to get back into a normal sleeping pattern, and I decided to be more direct with my next tape.

Your mother is someone you can talk to about sex. Discuss sex with your mother. Ask her questions. Tell her secrets. Your Mom loves to talk about sex. You love to talk about sex with Mom. You will remember to wash the dishes after breakfast. You will wear less clothes around the house. It’s okay to dress like a tramp at home. You will ask Mom about sex.

I don’t really understand the brain psychology of it, but if I had to guess I’d say the tapes work best on things you already want to do. If you want to quit smoking enough to buy a tape, they’ll help you achieve that. No amount of listening to these tapes will help you do something you’re opposed to — or if they will, you have to introduce it slowly and gradually.

This one had one immediate effect — the girls were wearing less and less clothes. As a mother, I felt I should say something, but I can’t deny that I was enjoying it. Joshua didn’t even seem to notice — had our husband’s member become so dead that it didn’t even notice two gorgeous and scantily-clad young ladies running around the house?

I have no idea where Brianna got a mini-skirt, but she certainly had the legs for it, and it wasn’t until I saw Rebecca in a v-neck that I realized how much she’d filled out.

One little nudge from a tape, and they were happy to let their inner tramp out. I suspect most attractive women are looking for the first excuse they can find to show off the goods — I know that when my body was in its prime, just the mention of the beach would get me into a bikini — I loved the feel of everyone’s eyes on my body — and even a hint of interest from a guy would get that bikini off.

But though there was more teenage flesh around the house since Joshua’s attempt to turn our basement into a weekend wrestling school, I continued to find myself washing breakfast dishes every day that week, and still neither of them were asking me about sex.

It was possible, I realized, that they just weren’t having any. Not with each other, not with anyone else. Perhaps it was for the best; if I could just confirm that no, my girls weren’t the sex-charged maniacs that I was at that age, I could get this sick obsession out of my head, and go back to fantasizing about hunky wrestlers.

But I needed to know for sure.

One last tape, I told myself. One more, then I’d give up and return to my humdrum, sexless, adventureless life.

You trust your mother. You trust Mom. You will answer all of her questions. You will not lie to mother. You will not lie to Mom. You will not be embarrassed. It’s okay to talk to Mom about sex. You must be honest to mother. You must be honest to Mom. There is no need to make the house smell like a perfume shop every time you have a shower. You will dress like a tramp. You will dress like a slut.

One last tape.

***

“Brianna, honey, can I talk to you?”

“Yeah, what’s up, Mom?”

“I want to talk about sex.”

“Uh… okay.”

“It’s okay to talk to your mom about sex.”

“Well, sure. I guess so. Is this about how we’ve been dressing? Because I can explain…”

“No darling, that’s fine. Wear whatever you want.”

“Oh, good, because it’s just that… -”

“Bri, it’s absolutely fine. I love that, by the way. When did tube tops come back into style?”

“Mom, can I…”

“Sit down, Bri!”

“Fine.”

“I just wanted to know…”

“Mom, this is…”

“You will not be embarrassed.”

“Fine. I won’t be embarrassed. What do you want to know?”

“And you know dear, you must be honest with me.”

“I… know.”

“I just had some questions. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, Mom, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Do you have a… girlfriend?”

“Eww! No!”

“Don’t be like that. I had a girlfriend when I was your age.”

“What?”

“Not for long. Evetta, her name was. Oh my, I’d completely forgotten about her. We were together for two weeks, and then she was gone.”

“Mom, ewww.”

“Oh, come now. She was my first kiss. I can’t believe how long it’s been since I thought about her…”

“Is that all? Can I go now?”

“Oh, yes. Brianna, I just want to know. How far have you… well, how far have you been with someone?” She only mumbled. “Speak up Brianna, I can’t hear you. You must be honest with me. You do trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I trust my mother.”

“So tell me how… well, tell me what you’ve done. In as much detail as you like.”

“Mom, I’ve never even kissed anyone.”

“What?”

“There’s no need to sound so disappointed, Mom.”

“Sorry dear, I just… sweet sixteen and never been kissed?”

“No.”

“Not even Rebecca?”

“What!? Mom!!”

“Well, all girls do it, you know. All girls practice.”

“Mo-om!”

“So… have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Have you ever… practiced with Rebecca?”

“No!”

“I just… I’m just surprised, I suppose. It almost… it almost seems like a waste.”

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m just thinking. Some of my fondest memories are of those boarding school days. Practicing kissing, with the girls. God, we’d go on for hours…”

“Mom!”

“It just… it just seems like a pity that you’re going to miss out.”

“Miss out on what?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you talking about, Mom?”

“Oh, nothing dear. I’m just… thinking. Mother knows best, you know.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yes. Yes, certainly. Just… close the door behind, would you dear?”

***

Brianna

I should start by pointing out that I’m not a lesbian, y’know?

That might sound like a weird thing to start with, but it’s important. Me and my sis Bec had been raised to be all “gay yay” and all that and honestly I’ve got no issues with it — until lately, I always thought it was a bit weird, but whatever. Do what you gotta do, y’know?

And I mean, you hear that one in ten people are gay or whatever, and you wonder if you’re that one. And I did wonder for a while, but then I’d think about a girl and I’d think about a guy and there was just no competition, y’know? I like guys, and always have.

But then I heard there’s a thing where you can fall in love with a person and not a gender, I guess… but then I’m not really talking about love, just sex, so…

This isn’t making any sense. I’ll start at the beginning.

My name’s Brianna, but everyone just calls me Bri. I’m 16 and four months, and I have a twin sister named Rebecca (who’s the same age as me, surprise surprise.) We’re not identical twins, but you can tell that we’re sisters. We’ve always been close — not creepy close or anything like that, but we’ve always got along.

About a month or two ago, Bec and I went through our own little sexual revolution, if that makes sense. We were talking, and we both came up with the same idea at the same time — we decided that we were sick of wearing what society says we have to wear in order to be “good girls”. We’re both sexy women, and we decided that we wanted to start showing it, so we decided to start wearing what we wanted when we wanted, y’know?

I think part of us wanted it to be a big “fuck you” to our parents, too, for telling us what we can and can’t do, but it didn’t really work out like that. For one, our Mom’s pretty cool — recently we’ve realized that she’s the kind of person you can talk to about anything you like, and Dad’s so harmless that it’s really hard to rebel against him. It’s like trying to fight a piece of soggy toast — it’s not really worth it. Dad’s like that.

So me and Bec started wearing our “out” clothes around the house, waiting for Mom or Dad to say something, but neither of them did. Dad didn’t even seem to notice, and Mom… almost admired us? It was weird, I saw her checking out our legs a few times. Maybe she was just remembering the days when she used to look like that. I’ve seen the pictures — Mom used to be a major hottie. Even now, she’s kind of sexy in a mature kinda way.

So I was waiting for Mom to start lecturing us, but it never happened. Instead, she and I had this really weird conversation about an old girlfriend she used to have, and asked me the oddest question you could imagine — she wanted to know if Bec and I ever practiced kissing! With each other!

At first, I was grossed out. I told Bec about it later, and she started laughing, and then I started laughing, and we couldn’t stop. It was just so weird — Mom telling me about how she used to kiss girls, and then asking if I did. After Bec and I finished laughing, there was a weird silence, and we haven’t really spoken about it since. She probably didn’t even think about it again after that, and I completely forgot the whole incident… for about a week.

I dunno why, but after a week I started thinking about it again, and the thought just got stuck in my head. Kissing Bec. Kissing my twin. Kissing my twin would be hot.

You see why I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t a lesbian? I mean, I’ve never kissed a guy, but I’ve defs thought about it. A lot. But then the image of kissing a guy sort of got displaced by the idea of kissing Bec, and the thought wouldn’t go away.

What’s worse is that I was starting to notice how good Bec looked in her more slutty clothes (which she was starting to wear, more and more.) It was an unexpected side-effect from our little sex revolution; I’d find myself staring at her cleavage, or checking out her ass as she bent over to pick something up. I even considered going in and watching her shower, pretending that I was just brushing my teeth or something. If she caught me, I could just be like, “We’re sisters, it’s cool.”

I had this weird crush on my sister. It should have bothered me more than it did, but… I kind of liked it.

Bec’s always been better with guys than I have. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think she’s hot and I can definitely see what guys would see in her, but I’m not exactly Queen Ugly myself. If I had to put it down to one thing, I’d say it’s her boobs. The difference between a B and a C cup, y’know? Guys notice that sort of thing, and when you’re in front of two similar-looking redheads, you’re going to go with the one with the bigger cans.

So I’ve never kissed a guy. I’ve been on a few awkward dates, and I’ve had crushes before, but it’s just never happened for me. Bad luck, I guess, or maybe I’m uglier than I think I am. How much would that suck? If I was the one teenager in the world without low self-esteem, and it turned out that I was ugly.

Bec’s had better luck with guys; she had a boyfriend once for two whole months, and she told me that they kissed a bunch of times, and once he even put his hand up her top.

So yeah, if we were going to practice kissing, it would be me asking Bec. She’s got the experience, and has never been a bitch about it or anything. She always answers questions that I ask her, and one time she even showed me what it had felt like when her ex-boyfriend Mark had felt her up. Well, she started to, but it was a bit weird so we stopped.

This next bit really is weird, though. Just warning you ahead of time. It shouldn’t have happened the way it did, but it did, and I’m not complaining.

So it was a Sunday night, and Bec and I were sitting on our beds, in our shared room, chatting about what we were going to wear the next day to school. I was pushing for her to mix it up a bit and try one of my miniskirts. She was saying I should go without a bra and see if anyone noticed.

Anyhow, I just… asked. It had been going around my head like a chant for days, and I guess I just had a moment of weakness and couldn’t resist it anymore, y’know?

“Hey Bec,” I said quickly, before I let myself change my own mind, “could you teach me how to kiss?”

It could have gone any way. She could have laughed, she could have been grossed out, she could have… hell, she could have done anything. It’s a weird question, especially from your twin, and especially when we’d laughed so hard at the idea just two weeks ago, y’know?

But she just stared at me, with those dark brown eyes, and nodded.

If I’d been thinking about it, maybe I would have suspected that she was kidding, or that she’d misunderstood me. But I’d had the image of kissing Bec, kissing my own twin, running through my head for days, so I didn’t question it for a second. I just got up, moved over to her bed, and sat directly in front of her.

We were wearing matching nighties that Mom had bought us a few weeks ago. Pink and frilly; when we’d first opened the box, we’d thought she was trying to dress us up as little girls, as moms sometimes do.

It wasn’t until we’d tried them on that we’d realized how drop-dead sexy they were — they were so short that if we weren’t wearing panties underneath, bending over would completely expose us, and the neckline was low-cut enough that a boob would occasionally pop out (Bec’s more often than mine.) Mom mustn’t have noticed how short these were when she got them.

Turned out that Bec and I both looked h-o-double-t hot wearing them, and they quickly became our favorite choice of nightwear.

So we were sitting on Bec’s bed, in our sexy nighties, just staring at each other, saying nothing for a few minutes. My heart was beating so hard I thought Bec must be able to hear it, and I think at this stage we both knew that this was about more than “learning how to kiss.” Maybe a lot more.

Maybe I hadn’t been as subtle as I thought, and Bec had picked up on my crush and decided to help me get over it, or maybe she’d had the same reaction to my recent style of dress as I’d had to hers. Maybe she had a weird crush on me, just like I did on her?

She leaned in, without a word, and pushed her lips against mine. They were soft, slightly moist, and made my mouth feel all tingly. My first kiss. After a few seconds, she pulled back, and looked at me questioningly. I don’t think I reacted, but I must have nodded or something, because she was suddenly kissing me like her life depended on it.

She was kissing me like I was the hottest boy in class, and I was kissing her back just as hard. At some point, my tongue came out (or maybe hers came out first?) and we started using our tongues to play with each other’s tongues, y’know? I don’t know if there’s a word for that, but it felt amazing.

Bec’s smell is one that I’m used to; it’s been there my whole life. Maybe I smell just like her and just can’t smell myself, but at that moment, with my tongue in my twin sister’s mouth, I felt like I was swimming in her smell, or drowning in it. Drowning in a good way though. Like… drowning in sexiness. I’d never been so turned on. I loved it.

The next hour or so was a total haze. I remember kissing her, passionately, at length, and I remember her hands roaming all over my body. I remember feeling, for the first time, exactly what her boobs felt like, what it was like to handle boobs slightly bigger than mine. I remember grasping her ass (it felt great!) and her groping mine. And I remember that my knee was the only part of my body that went near her pussy, but even through her panties and her nightie, even though I was only feeling with my leg, I remember feeling that she was turned on. It turned me on so much, to know that she was as turned on by me as I was by her.

I remember that I didn’t want to stop.

But after what must have been an hour, an hour and a half, we detached, and we just lay back on her bed, panting, covered in sweat. We just lay there for a while, holding hands, before a shyness that I’d never felt with Bec before, the shyness that normally overcomes me when Mr Phillips asks me to answer a question in class, or when I have to talk to my crush. It overcame me and I mumbled “Thanks,” leapt over to my bed, and turned the light off.

Bec didn’t say anything, or try to follow. I don’t know if I hurt her feelings, or if she was feeling just as shy, but I’m glad she didn’t say anything, ‘cos if it had been bad I would have died of embarrassment, and if it had been anything else, I would have jumped straight back into her bed — and neither of us would have slept that night.

Ever since we started sharing a room, we’ve an unspoken rule about masturbating: If the other person can hear you, you’re doing it wrong. It’s a manners thing, mostly. It just prevents embarrassment, or any weirdness.

That night, we both broke that rule.

On to Part Two!