Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

Note from Jetboy: Merry Christmas, dear readers! Here’s a surprise Yuletide gift for you, one that’s been in the works for weeks — a brand new story from lesbian fiction legend Louisa May!

Her name may not mean much to you youngsters, but back in the day, Louisa May posted a series of burn-your-fingers-hot stories at the Nifty Archive (later appearing at Lesbian Lolita) that caused a sensation in our little erotic universe. Readers eagerly devoured her writings and clamored for more. Her many fans included all three founders of Juicy Secrets, your humble servant being one of them.

She posted her last story at Leslita in 2012, then tragically vanished from the world of lesbian erotica. Recently, however, Louisa May discovered Juicy Secrets, and was delighted to realize that her legacy was alive and thriving here. What a thrill it was to see the first comments she left!

She and I began to correspond, and it quickly became clear that she had more to say as an author. This amazing new story is living proof. Welcome back, Louisa May. We are honored to have you here, more than can be expressed in mere words.

 

Note from Louisa May: Hello, my dear, dear readers. I’ve missed you! After years and years away, filling my time on our strange planet with projects whose degrees of importance varied wildly — but busy, always busy… I hit a skid, a patch of Life’s Black Ice… and I came to the realization that if I didn’t take the Time for Myself — I may not have any left! Time, that is…

So… I went looking for my old Soul Companions: the lusty women, and girls, and readers, and characters. I couldn’t find them at the venues I’d frequented in the past: Lesbian Lolita, old Mr. Double (God help him), other places, other dark corner clubs…

And then I came upon Juicy Secrets. Oh my, there’s Cheryl! And JetBoy! Androgyne, Babykeiko…I saw my name in the archives, read some very nice comments — and responded! JetBoy answered. And has been a gem of an editor.

A few readers, Kim and Sue, graciously informed me of dear Cheryl’s recent passing. Oh, Cheryl. We first met through asstr.org; she’d just finished a story called “Little”, and wanted my opinion. Lovely. So hot, and just lovely. As she was.

Finally — I’ll leave this for those who may not know of it: my site on asstr.org. It’s 

https://www.asstr.org/files/Collections/leslita/www/authors/lll.html 

Under ‘Louisa May’, of course.

Have fun!

By Louisa May

I used to keep a diary when I was a girl. For a little over two years; from age nine or so, up until I was eleven. When everything became so very, very difficult for me; when my entire young life seemed just wrapped in turmoil, and I felt so bereft… and alone…

Up until that time, my life seemed the exact opposite: at first, just normal — much playing, much love, toys, games. Both of my parents were professionals, in government work, and spent a good amount of time either at work or at dinners, parties, ‘diplomatic affairs’… so I did spend a lot of time on my own. But I enjoyed it tremendously. I had a very active and fertile imagination, and so my lack of actual ‘friends’ did not seem a problem to me; in fact, I had many, many friends, even though they were, at least the vast majority of them, purely imaginary.

And in that bubble of imagination, I was the star. This was one of the reasons I loved this state of affairs so. I could boss, demand, decree every single one of my imaginary ‘friends’ — and they would acquiesce without a second thought. This contrasted drastically with the few times my mother wangled some kind of ‘play date’ (dreadful term) — and the new ‘friend’ (a real little girl) did not behave correctly, in my severe opinion, at all. Why, she had the nerve to say ‘no’ to me on several unfortunate occasions, which I felt was completely unacceptable. Needless to say, after a few unpleasant trial play dates I was left to enjoy myself… which was what I wanted anyway.

It was around this time that I decided to start writing a diary. It began, as I vaguely recall, with a comment from my mother at the breakfast table about some Queen or Princess or other having written her memoirs, and how it was all the talk of the town. Or country, or whatever. I queried her about the meaning of the word ‘memoir’, and upon learning that it was basically a written record of her life — I immediately determined that I, as one of the most Important Beings on this earth at present, should start writing a record of my own important life without delay. And so I rushed up to my room, got out one of the many girly blank notebooks I’d been gifted over my sparse years, and began writing.

I titled the world’s future treasure tome “My Memoirs” (I had to ask my mother how to spell it. Remember, I was only nine). And I began writing:

First entry: ‘Monday, October 25 — 6 days until my birth day. [I was serious about serious things, and my birthday was, in my mind, very much one of these — so I didn’t play around with exclamation points and smiley faces and the like. I left that to my imaginary friends, who had enough of that kind of enthusiasm for us all] I have desided that my mother is a witch. A very nice witch. But, I think she pretends to be other peple and then goes back to her mommy self. I need to find out how.

And my diary continued on in that fanciful yet serious vein for another year or so, alternating between little-girl curiosity, pomposity and utter fancy.

Until…

Until the day I was told I would be having a babysitter (the term was immediately changed to ‘sitter’ after my highly indignant rejection of the first). Up until then, my mother had employed a ‘housekeeper’, another malleable term, who’d had her own room, and among whose many tasks included, yes, babysitter. That woman had found other employment, and, as my parents now decided to scale down a bit, they hired a young woman, a nineteen-year-old daughter of friends from the ‘Club’, as my part-time babysitter. I was a bit older, my parents were staying in a bit more often (maybe 2-3 times a week instead of one), so Marcia was hired. Marcia Dalloway.

Sunday, June 2 — I have been given a sitter. Or as SHE calls it — a BABYsitter — but I will not have that. Her name is Marcia and my mother says she is the youngest girl of a good frend of theres. Marcia is nice I guess. She wants to read alot but I don’t want her to. So I jump on her and kiss her and pretend she is my very frendly pony. I think shes kind of scared of me. Good! She shoud be!

As the weeks went by, I came to have a very distinct and peculiar relationship to my new ‘sitter’. Marcia was, indeed, somewhat intimidated by me, as I was a handful. Not in the bratty, obstreperous fashion of common young charges, mind you. Instead, I was unusually imaginative, and whereas she had expected to sit comfortably and read while I occupied myself, instead she found herself recruited as an active participant into whatever world I wanted to explore at the moment.

I must admit to myself that, at ten years old, I was intensely curious about sex and womanhood and all its fascinating ins and outs. I was an inveterate ‘peeker’. I loved to spy on whatever struck my fancy, and my fancy was piqued indeed, when, weeks before, I’d been creeping around the bedrooms, and had come upon my mother’s slightly open door one morning.

My father, as usual, had gone off to work, and my mother was, I thought, getting ready to go out. I crept, as was my preferred mode of movement at the time, towards their room, and was intrigued to hear soft cries, sighs… Hmm. Investigation time. I moved to kneel by her open door… and saw my mother, naked on the bed, with a strange object between her legs, which she was pushing into her nonny. That’s what I was told to call it then, God knows why. But there she was, moaning and snuffling, tunneling this thing in and out of her. It looked painful, but fun at the same time. I determined to find out more.

And I did, though not why she was doing what she was doing. That afternoon, I raided my mother’s bedside table, and found not only the very strange object (a toy rocket? In your nonny??), but also a vial of tablets called ‘Addyi’, which purported to ‘treat low sexual desire disorder’. Hmm. So, if you took these, it would make you… what, high sexual desire? Disorder? I really didn’t know. But I thought, better steal some, just in case. Which I did.

Now, as I said, Marcia was a bit intimidated. But not just by me. What I instinctively intuited, at ten, was her compulsive desire to please. Marcia was a girl, a woman, who had very little sense of self worth, I now think, and though she was quite attractive — blond hair parted in the middle to her shoulders; large, wide-set blue, stunned-looking eyes; high, fat cheeks; upturned nose, a bit wide; large lips that were pursed, and chapped, but always ready to smile; a cleft, small chin.

She had a rather large bust, but always seemed to be hunched over as if to hide it; and an unusually well-formed bottom, which she also hid by wearing saggy sweatpants and the like. All in all, and objectively — she was a very attractive young woman.

At ten, I was anything but objective. But I sensed something, some window. And I went for it.

The entry in my diary opens with: June 26 — Marcia gives me a Bath.

Now I, not my ten-year-old diary keeper, will give you the perverse run-down: after a few weeks of holding, and hugging, and kissing, and general constant contact — I wanted to see how far my sitter companion would go… so I thought, why not try what my mother tried — that Addyi stuff that I’d stolen? I was nothing if not willing to experiment. We’d taken to having hot cocoa before bath, so I just crumbled some of that Mom stuff into her cocoa. I thought, I’m a witch too, as I did it.

And I did notice, as the evening progressed, that Marcia had become a bit flushed, and a bit more… confused as to her own responses to my insistent intimacies. At one point, after a bout of playful wrestling on the couch, I found myself lying on top of her. “Marcia,” I panted, “your boobies are so big!” She immediately blushed. “Can I see them? Please?”

And my poor sitter was just at a loss.“Ohh, Sasha, no, I can’t…”

“Please?” And I actually put my little hands on them, over her sweatshirt. “I just want to see.”

Now, I haven’t said it before, but I was a beautiful child — huge eyes, dark and squirrel-like, an angelic face; long, black, lustrous hair; and a precocious little body. So I could imagine how, to someone with Marcia’s predilections, I might be quite the temptation.

And indeed, with the added medicinal boost, she relented. “Well… I guess it’s okay…” She was blushing madly, her blue eyes a bit wild. “But, Sasha, you can’t tell your mom and dad, okay? Right?”

“I know. Yes. Okay.” I had become quite solemn.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Ohh-kay…” And she pulled herself up to the end of the couch. “Ready?” I nodded, smiling in anticipation. And she pulled her sweatshirt over her head and presented herself. Her breasts were indeed large, but so were her nipples, and the aureoles around them. As if the nipples and their holders had decided to just take over the breasts themselves. I gasped, and immediately grabbed them with both hands.

“No! No, Sasha, no…” But I would not take No for an answer, and continued to squeeze and knead those fascinatingly soft, fleshy orbs. Her hands caught my wrists, weakly, and held them as I continued to play with her boobies. “Ohh…” was all she could say.

Then I popped back up. “Bath time!” Something in me knew to strike while the Marcia-iron was hot, and I sensed that seeing me naked would even improve the situation. And I ran upstairs.

I had gotten naked, turned on the faucet, and was standing by the tub waiting when she came in. Her look was even wilder, and more confused. She’d put her sweatshirt back on, but was still quite flushed.

I stepped into the tub and stood naked. “Wash me!”

Marcia slowly sat on the stool by the tub. She picked up a washcloth, and began running the wet flannel lightly over my body.

I faced her and deliberately spread myself in front of her face. “You need to wash my nonny.” And I opened my little pussy lips to her. She gasped, then began to lather my thighs. I took her soapy hand in mine and brought it up to my open slit. “Here,” I said, and watched her blush and rub.

It felt very good, very good, to feel her rub at my pussy, my nonny — but I was after bigger game, so after a good few moments, I had a suggestion: “Now I do you!” And my poor Marcia looked at me, thunderstruck — cautious as a mouse, but also, awkwardly conscious of her own desire for little old me.

“Umm… no, Sasha, I can’t–”

“Ohh, come on, I want to! You washed me, so I get to wash you!” I put my big brown innocent eyes to very good use.

I watched her decide. She nodded her head. “Okay,” and again, she started to pull her sweatshirt over her head. And, again, she began, “and remember–”

“Don’t tell my parents, I know, I know…” I was too focused on her, on how, after throwing her sweatshirt to the floor, she pulled those awful sweatpants down. White panties! Just plain old white! How pathetic! I thought. Where is her sense of Style?

“Marcia,” I said, with just a hint of royalty, “we need to get you some nice underpants.”

She looked down sheepishly at her panties and actually blushed. Again. “I know. Sorry.”

I grinned. “So… take them off!” She gasped again, and did what she was told — took them off. And, oh, it was such a brilliant presentation — her sweet juvenile curly pubes, the pink slit beneath…

“Come on, get in,” I commanded — and she did, clumsily, her nakedness as much a hindrance to her as her embarrassment. She stood in the tub. The bathwater came to just below her knees. I looked up at her. She was biting her lower lip, and blushing from her face all the way down to her soft belly.

I had the washcloth. “So… should I wash you..here?” And I rubbed the cloth up and down her thigh. She shuddered. “Aaand… here?” I ran the washcloth upwards, to touch her closed thighs, brushing against her blond pubic hair. She gave a little yelp, and nodded. Then she slowly opened her legs to me. I ran the washcloth down between them.

“Okay… yeah, okay…” Marcia didn’t really know how to deal with this, I could tell even then, but was okay with me taking charge. At ten! But that’s just the little girl I was. I continued to move my hand around, the cloth rubbing against her pussy. I remembered what I’d seen my mother do that morning, so I started rubbing in, more insistently in.

And apparently, this was the way to go, as very soon, Marcia started to act very differently from her usual self — that is, she began to hum, and to moan, and to make the same kinds of noises I’d heard my mother make when I’d spied on her. I think I was doing a good job. And it made me feel good, too. I rubbed harder. “Ohhh, oh my God…” Marcia’s legs began to shake, and she fell, slowly, to kneel in the lukewarm water, and my hand went with her, still rubbing…

And soon, Marcia fell back into the water, away from my hand. She looked spent, shaken. She was panting. She looked up at me, as if she’d just done something awful. She was crying. “Oh, Sasha. I’m so sorry. I’m… I’m sorry..” And she broke down, crying even harder.

I splashed over, little wet, naked me, and hugged her. “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia… shhh… it’s okay… we were just having fun… right?” And she looked up at my angelic ten-year-old face and smiled bravely. “Yes, sweet girl… yes… it’s just… it was fun. Right? Sure.” She accepted my hug.

I thought, We’re okay. She’s pathetic… but we’re okay.

And I knew we were okay when, after our bath, and after our toweling off and ablutions, she came to tuck me into my bed. She was back in her old worn sweat suit, a bit damp. I was dressed only in my favorite Boden pink heart panties. I threw my covers off and patted the bed beside me. She sat, and leaned in to kiss me.

“Marcia.” It stopped her. She immediately blushed. Oh my God, if I only knew how well trained she already was! I slithered out of my fresh panties, and kicked them to the side. Then I spread my thighs. “Nonny wants you to kiss her goodnight, too.” I lifted my hips for emphasis.

She looked hungrily at my pink pudenda, then back up at me. “Sasha…” She said it like she knew it was futile, that she had to do what I wanted, but was begging me to somehow stop it from happening. I only looked at her.

So she lowered her head, and I opened my legs, and oh my… I had no idea what I might discover here, but it was super. I mean, yes, the feeling of her mouth, her breath, then her yearning tongue on my pussy — what an interesting feeling! Yes! But even more than that, what stirred me, what actually gave me a feeling that I could say was close to orgasmic– was how much I knew that this eating of my pussy, this abandonment of all to taste my girly bits, was an acknowledgement that yes, I was most definitely in charge here; that what I wanted was what mattered. I liked that.

***

Soon, in the next few days, and weeks, this status was affirmed. At one point, after we’d had a few glasses of wine (Marcia had subsequently dropped her taboo against allowing me to imbibe), while watching an episode of Animaniacs, I said, “Marcia — could you take off your clothes?”

She looked at me, puzzled. “What?”

“Take off your clothes.” I was lying on the couch in my jammies.

“What? Sasha… I’m not going to take off my clothes!” She looked at me, a bit scared. That’s what I wanted.

I innocently studied the ceiling. “We do stuff, you know… I just think you should take off your clothes.” And I looked at her.

“Sasha… people might see. They might come over…”

“Nobody ever comes over. And my parents won’t be back until late.”

She stood, and swallowed. “I… I just..okay..” And she started unbuttoning the sweater she was wearing. She’d also started blushing like crazy. “Umm..” She looked at me again, then whisked off her top. Such pretty boobs! She glanced at me again. I looked back at her, wide-eyed. She took a deep breath, then shuffled out of her sweatpants. After one last look, and a roll of her eyes, she peeled herself out of her panties. She now stood before me naked.

I looked at her and bit my lip. She started to sit down.

“Wait,” I said. She looked at me. “Can you get me some more of this?” I held out my glass. She huffed, then took it and headed for the kitchen. Oh, I just loved that she was walking naked around my house getting me stuff!

When she came back, she handed me the glass. “Okay?” And she sat on the other end of the couch.

I looked at her. She was naked. And I made her get naked! “Marcia…”

She looked at me and rolled her eyes. “What?”

I looked at her. God, I was such a devil. “Open your legs.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“Open up your legs. I want to see your nonny.”

That tell-tale blush blossomed all over her. “Ohh, Sasha…” I continued to stare at her, and eventually she let her knees fall open, and revealed her teen-aged bush; almost that of a full-fledged woman — and her face betrayed her lust. She was breathing heavily now, trying to pretend it was exasperation. But her full-body flush told. “What?”

I scrambled over to her. My ten-year-old jammy body was small before her own lush nudity. “I just wanted to… to taste you here.”

“Ohh… Sash…” She touched the top of my head. “Go ahead, baby…” And she opened herself even further.

I licked. Hmm. Salty. But different. A spicy kind of taste. I licked again. She moaned. I liked this. So I started licking, and licking, then sucking, like I’d seen her do to me, and soon my whole face got into the act, and she was pressing me into her, and I could feel her pulse, and hear her moan and moan…

And I thought, she is so silly. But I fell madly in love with her.

And we continued in this blissful state, kissing, hugging, alternately licking and being licked, and exploring our own newly discovered hearts’ desires, until:

August 10 — Marcia has left me, and gone away to college. And to make things even more weird — we are MOVING to LONDON ENGLAND. So I dont even know what to do now really.

And that was my last diary entry. And, as the girl said — I didn’t even know what to do then, really.

***

It was true, I did not know what to do. I hadn’t realized how very deeply I had fallen in love, until my love had gone. I had thought, in my own ten-year-old, self-centered mind, that my relationship with this ‘Marcia’ sitter person had been all my own doing — my desires, my choices, my inclinations… and, in retrospect, even if that was true — well, it didn’t matter. I was devastated. I missed her enormously. Massively. More than I could understand.

My parents chalked up my morose behavior to being the new kid once again. But I didn’t bounce back, as I usually had. They took me to plays, brought me to museums, even let me attend some of their parties. Nothing. I was bereft. I was even, after a year or so, sent to a therapist who, because I had no intention of revealing to anyone what my real issue was, resorted to what she said was a ‘hypnotic stress-relieving rest interval.” Which mainly consisted of a bunch of useless chatter, me waking up on her couch, then being sent home.

So. What was to be done? I resigned myself to misery. Perhaps if I killed myself, I would come back again as me and be able to relive what I’d lost. Hmm, I thought. Not a guarantee… 

It wasn’t until a week or so after I’d started therapy that I discovered something: while undressing for bed, I noticed — Wait… my Boden panties are inside out — and where’s the bow? Why — they’re backwards, too! Now how would that — And it came to me. The therapist! Dr. Finch! My ‘hypnotic stress-relieving rest intervals’! Ohh… now that’s interesting. I thought of how, before she would usher me to the couch, we’d have tea together. Yes. Very interesting indeed… And I felt myself immediately, if perhaps temporarily, lifted out of my slough of despair. Well… she didn’t know the little girl she was dealing with!

At my next appointment with the good doctor, I sat on the chair and accepted her offer of tea. As we talked (well, she talked, mostly), I studied her. She was, well, old. (At twelve, I hadn’t much basis for comparison; one was either young or old. And in my mind, old pretty much meant over… 30? 25?) But by old, I meant old — why, Dr. Finch had gray hair! Or at least, streaks of it, mostly along the tendrils around her ears, as the rest of it was held up in a schoolmarm bun. She wore glasses, too. But she had a very trim figure, and always dressed very properly, in fine dark suits: jacket, blouse and skirt.

I pretended to drink the tea I’d been offered, then waited for the moment when she would return to her desk to put her notes into a drawer, and then escort me to the couch. The moment she turned, I poured the tea into a potted fern next to me, then handed her the empty cup and followed her to the couch.

Dr. Finch sat behind me, speaking softly, lulling me into what she thought was an innocent sleep. And I let her believe that, eventually letting my eyes close… a light snoring. I even let a bit of drool roll down my chin. Presently, she said, “Sasha?” I heard her voice now, closer. “Sasha?” I continued to snore.

A rustling of her skirt, and then her voice came from right in front of me, a bit louder. “Sasha? Are you awake?” A hand on my skirted hip. I always came from school, and so was wearing my school uniform of skirt and blouse. The hand shook me. “Sasha?” Still I slept. Then… I felt the hem of my skirt being lifted, felt it being draped over my midsection. I felt the cool air of her office on my skin. Then, fingers on the skin of my belly, tucking into the waistband of my panties. It tickled, and I had to concentrate hard on being fully unconscious.

My panties were coming down, down my thighs, my legs; I felt her fumble a bit as my shoes caught. Then they were off. I was naked below my waist. And now hands slid under my calves, my knees, and began to lift my legs up, and outwards. I felt a warmth on my pussy; I let my eyes open just a crack… and it was her breath! Dr. Finch was gazing at my open pussy.

That was when I spoke. “I’m gonna tell on you.” My eyes were open. And the look she gave me behind those glasses… as if she’d just been told she was going to die right at that very moment.

She stumbled up, and back, staring at me. Her hands were up, flailing, as if to ward off a blow. “No, I just — I had to–” She bent to the floor to retrieve my panties, then stood looking down at me, pathetic, holding them in her hands.

I lay there, my bare pussy open to her. “You were doing stuff to me.” She shook her head, mouth hanging open. I nodded. “You took off my underpants, and you were gonna do stuff.”

“No…” She actually held my panties open for me as if to help me put them on. “Please, Sasha…”

I lifted my legs for her and let her slide the panties over my saddle shoes, then up to my thighs. I lifted my hips for her as she completed her task. Weakly, she brushed my skirt down. I watched her.

“Sasha, listen…” She actually paced. “Umm… I was just–”

“Take off your clothes.”

She stopped. “What?”

I looked at her. She had a hand on her pearls, worrying them. Her bun had come a bit undone. “I think you should do what I want you to do.”

She stood staring at me. Her mouth formed a small O.

Dr. Finch’s look reminded me of Marcia’s after our bath night, when I’d asked her to do the same thing. It gave me the same kind of tingly feeling. “I want you to take your clothes off.”

Dr. Finch’s face had flushed, and her eyes were wide, like a scared rabbit. She started nodding, shakily. “A-all right…” She removed her jacket, then unbuttoned her blouse. Her eyes stayed on mine. Each garment she carefully folded and placed on a chair behind her. She took off her ballet flats, then unzipped her skirt and slid out of it. She stood now in her bra and panties. “Please. Sasha.”

“I want to see your boobies. And everything else.”

She gave a pitiful moan, then reached back and undid her bra. Her breasts were small, but quite pointy. Very large dark circles around her nipples, which stuck out like little fingers. She stood for a moment, and I could see her dark eyes tearing up. Then, resigned, she tucked those fingers into the waistband of her panties, looking straight into my eyes. She took a deep breath and slid them down.

“Wait.”

Dr. Finch was startled, her panties at her knees.

“Stop.”

She looked puzzled.

“Leave them there. Stand up straight.” Because, I don’t know why, I just decided I wanted to see her, my eminent doctor, standing with her underpants at her knees, looking at me. It made my nonny feel so good and weird.

She was looking completely at a loss, with her panties hanging at her knees. She seemed so… helpless. So… Marcia.

“Okay, take them all the way off.” She did. “Now… come here.” Looking lost and rather terrified, Dr. Finch shuffled to the foot of my couch. Her bush was more furry and extensive than Marcia’s was. She tried to cover it with her hands. “No, take your hands away, I want to see.” She let her arms fall and stood, again resigned.

I looked up at her. “Okay, now I want to see inside. Sit here and open your legs.” I patted the couch. She took a breath, and I could see she was about to protest. I just raised my eyebrows. So she lowered herself, butt first, then turned and lifted her leg over so she was straddling the couch. Her vulva was open to me.

Leaning in, I touched a fingertip to the plump pussy lip hidden among the hair. She gasped. “Wow…” I murmured. Then I looked at her. “Now… I want you to take off my underpants and kiss my nonny until I say stop.” Her eyes widened. I grinned. “Wasn’t that what you were going to do anyway?”

Dr. Finch uttered a strangled little bark of a laugh. She leaned forward and, rather roughly I thought, pulled off my panties again. I spread my legs wide for her. She looked at me and shook her head, whispering, “Ohh, my God…” then lowered her head and started eating my pussy. It did feel tremendous, and made my pussy very happy. She was very slurpy, making all sorts of rude noises. I especially liked putting my hands on her old-lady hair bun and pressing her into me.

After that revelatory afternoon, we spent many months discovering ways to sexually satisfy each other. Well… to make me satisfied. Which, after a while, included making her satisfied. It was, I was discovering about myself, all about the power I felt over her. And, eventually, that seemed to transfer itself to her — pleasing me made her happy. And in return, I felt pleasure in giving her rewards. Which just sent her to the moon… 

Over the months… and years… I continued as her patient. My parents were quite happy, as I seemed to be growing less depressed. I told them, in so many tactful words, that I did indeed enjoy my time with Dr. Luna Finch, and considered her therapy quite helpful. Which I did, in a way.

We contrived so many ways to please ourselves, a good many of which involved role-playing, wherein, of course, I was the little girl, and she the older woman in authority. Which tickled us both, as we both knew who the real authority figure was — me. Hence, little Princess Sasha is brought before the Queen to be taught etiquette; poor little Sasha is caught shoplifting by a rough security guard; little Sasha, the budding gymnast, is given intimate lessons by her coach. Part of the fun was my peremptory direction of these scenes, especially if I felt she wasn’t performing well — then, well… she needed correction.

These luscious scenarios, and so many more, were brought to liquid life by Luna and me over a span of years; three, to be exact. And they were truly providential, in many ways. For by the natural end of this period — when I recognized my readiness for the next phase of my journey, and dear Luna had, in truth, begun to lose sexual interest in someone who was now exhibiting the traits of actual womanhood — I decided that I wanted to pursue the very same career on which she’d based her life: therapy. Sex therapy, in particular. I thought it was right up my street.

And here I had a ready-made mentor who was more than happy to show me the ropes, as it were, and to guide me. For we had, as the subsequent years progressed, become very good ‘friends’, as much as that common appellation could apply to me, and she was determined to see that I reached my goal.

Which I did, after quite a few more years: a Masters degree, internships, a PhD (Thesis: The Nature and Nurture of Child Sexuality), and clinical positions in various institutions. At twenty-nine, I was a full-fledged Sex Therapist, CST (certified). And quite successful at it. I took a job back in the states, then another. And ended up near where I’d lived as a child. I hung out my shingle and was pleased to get a very enthusiastic response. I had found my niche.

So on a mild morning in October, I was in my usual professional mode when I asked my assistant to give me the list of the day’s new patients. I sat at my desk and perused. Huh, I thought, a Marcia. My mind, almost unconsciously, made note of the name, and I looked her up. Marcia D. Plimpton.

Huh. Marcia D… no, it can’t be. I looked up at the ceiling. Marcia D. Marcia Dalloway. I am in the same area, though… I shook myself, looked back down at the register. No. No. Good lord, no. Then I went on to study the other names on the list.

But at 2:30 PM, after saying goodbye to my 1:00 patient, I heard a knock, said, “Come in,” and she entered. Marcia. The Marcia. She wore pink capris, a mint polo shirt, and a knitted V-neck sweater with a string of pearls around her neck. I sat, transfixed.

“Hi,” she said, modestly. She looked at me. “Umm, are you okay?”

I shook myself. She didn’t recognize me. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” I chuckled. “Long day, I apologize. Please,” and I gestured to the couch, “have a seat.”

Marcia smiled. “Thank you,” and sat. She looked at me again, still smiling. “I know,” she added, making herself comfortable. “Me, too. I have had a day.”

“Really.” I took a breath and put a strong-but-understanding smile on my face.

She blushed and pushed her blond hair off her brow. She was the same Marcia, just a little fuller, in face and body. But the same wide-set, stunned blue eyes, plump cheeks and full, chapped lips. “Yeah,” she sighed.

I tilted my head. “So… how can I help?”

She took a deep, calming breath… then another. “Oh, God… I don’t know.” She blushed again. Oh, Marcia, that same blush, from face to neck to…

“This is your safe place, Marcia.” Just saying her name. To her. My whole body vibrated. “Just say it.”

She nodded, looking at me hopefully. “Thank you. Yes. Well, I just… I’m a, I guess you would say, a soccer mom.” She laughed weakly. I didn’t. “So, umm… I have a daughter–”

“How old is she?”

“What? Oh, she’s… she’s eleven… and, umm, well–”

“You’re concerned because you feel attracted to her?”

Marcia’s eyes went wide. Her mouth opened. She tried to speak, but no words came.

I leaned forward. “Do you?”

Marcia took a shaky breath. “How… how did you know?”

I gazed steadily at her. “Hasn’t it happened before?”

Her eyes got even bigger. “Oh, my.” She began shaking her head back and forth. “How, how–”

“Do you know my name, Marcia? What’s my name?”

“What? I don’t — umm… Dr. Laval?

“Yes. And my first name?”

“I don’t, I don’t know–”

“There’s a card on the table in front of you. Pick it up. Read it to me.”

Marcia, confused, saw the card, picked it up and began to read. “Certified Sex Therapy Services, Dr. Sasha Lava–” Her head jerked up. Then she gasped, the card dropping to the floor. She covered her mouth, her eyes huge behind her hand. Finally, she shook her head. “No… it couldn’t — Sasha?”

I smiled, and nodded. “Hello, Marcia.”

She gasped again, and squeaked. “Oh!” She quickly stood, and held out her arms. “Sasha!” I rose, too, and came around my desk. We hugged.

She whispered as we embraced. “Sasha, oh my God, Sasha…”

I hummed affectionately.

She drew back and studied me. “Oh my God… look at you! You’re beautiful!”

I patted her shoulders. “You’re sweet.”

“No, you are!” She stepped back. “Like… movie-star beautiful.” She giggled, wiping a tear away.

“And you still look like you could play a whole soccer match with miles to spare.”

“Ohh…” Marcia waved away the compliment, then took a deep breath. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“Me, too, Marcia.” I took her arm. “I would love to catch up–”

“Oh, no, I know, it’s your work, it’s–”

“No, I just feel that maybe, if you want, we could have coffee? Just chat. Would you like that?”

Marcia grinned. “Yes, very much. Do you, umm–”

“Tell you what. Let my assistant out there know when is a good time for you, and we can meet. Okay?”

“Absolutely. And, umm, about the session–”

“Oh, don’t worry, we can talk about all that later. All right?”

She looked at me like a happy golden retriever. “Yes! Good!” She hugged me again. “Oh, Sasha…” Then one last confused-but-happy look and Marcia was out the door.

***

So we did make that date for coffee. And another. Then we met at her country club. We were on our second bottle of wine, and she’d begun telling me about her daughter Amy. Not about what she’d come to talk to me about at my office, but about Amy herself.

“She’s just so shy.” Marcia reached for the bottle and poured.

“Well, a lot of girls her age–”

“No, I mean, SHY. Like, she can hardly talk to people, she gets so shy.” She took a swig. “I just feel so bad for her, you know? She just gets, like, paralyzed. Around pretty much anyone. It’s almost like she’s autistic. Well, no, I’ve looked into that. But on the, um, specter, probably.”

“It’s spectrum. As in ‘on the spectrum.’”

“Right, right, the spectrum.” Sip.

I tapped my fingernail on the table. “Hmm. Well, has she ever seen anyone?”

“What, you mean… well, what do you mean?”

“I mean, a therapist?”

Marcia blew out her cheeks. “Umm… no?” She took another swig of wine. “Should she, do you think?”

“Well… I mean, it’s good to have someone to talk to. If she can’t talk to anyone else in her life. You know?”

“Yeah…” She put a hand on mine. “Could you talk to her? Do you think?”

I took a swallow from my own glass. “Well, Marcia, I do have a PhD in child psychology…”

Marcia clumsily hit my hand. “Get out! Really?” I nodded, moving my hand to my lap. “Well, then? Could you? See her, I mean?”

“I’ll have to check my schedule. But I’m sure we can arrange something.” I glanced at my watch. “And I also have to go, my friend.”

“Ohh!” Marcia made a sad face. “Ohh-kaay..” She got up to kiss me, stumbling a bit. She gave me a hug. “Hey!” Holding me out to look at me. “How about… you come over to my house? That would be so cool!”

“All right. When?”

“Umm…” She sat to think. “I know! Mark goes away on a business trip next… Friday? So, how ‘bout then?”

I nodded, smiling. “Sounds good. Call my assistant just to confirm it.”

She buzzed her lips. “Your assistant. Such a big boss lady!” She laughed. “Okay, I will.”

I patted her arm and headed toward the door. “Bye!”

Marcia waved. “See you soon!”

***

She’d had her hair done. It was now quite professionally blown to the sides, and her blond was now even more blond — streaks, tips, feathering, the works.

“Hi, hi, hi!” Marcia wore an aquatic-patterned tunic dress with a simple strand of cultured pearls. “Oh, you look so smart in your dark suit, so… Matrix.” She laughed nervously. “Come in, come in!”

I allowed myself to be ushered through the front door, which she closed behind us. “Well… this is it! Our humble little abode.” Which it was so obviously not. Humble, or little. The place was huge, reeking of high prosperity. “Can I get you something? Some wine? Or…?”

“No, thank you. I’m good.” I spied pictures on the wall. “Your family?”

She laughed. “Yeah, here we are…”

“Aaand… is this Amy here?”

Marcia took a breath. “Yes… yes, that’s Amy, that’s my daughter, yes–”

“She is adorable.”

Marcia laughed again, weakly. “Yes, she is, isn’t she… this was at our place up in New England.”

“How old is she in this one?”

“Amy? Ohh…” Marcia was clearly a bit uncomfortable. “Well, that was about two years ago, so… nine? I think?” She flashed a tight smile, gesturing to all the photos. “So many pictures, my gosh. I know. Silly.” She looked around. “Well, I guess I’ll… here is the living room,” gesturing to our left, “and the dining room, over here…” She was obviously quite nervous. Marcia walked briskly towards the back, and I followed her into a huge, gleaming white kitchen. She turned and smiled, ala Vanna White. She even made the gesture. “The kitchen…”

“Oh, you have a pool.” It shone in the sun, bright and capacious, through the large kitchen window.

“Yes, our pool.” She looked at it, then back at me. “It’s so nice to have that, you know?”

“Nice.” I looked around. “So… Mark, is it? Your husband.” Marcia nodded. “He isn’t here?”

“No, as I said, I think he had to fly out to, oh, where was it… Denver? I think? Anyway, yes, he’ll be gone all week, so… yes.”

“But Amy’s here.”

Marcia seemed to be apologetic and expectant at the same time. “Well, no, actually, Amy had a field trip for her soccer team. It was on our schedule, I just forgot. So… she won’t be back until late tomorrow. Sorry…”

I tilted my head. “You’re all alone here.”

Marcia grinned nervously. “I kind of am, yes…”

“Huh.” I leaned against the island in the middle of the kitchen. “I have a request.”

Marcia looked at me, curious. “Oh yes? What?”

“I want you to take off your dress.”

Her eyebrows rose. “What?”

I nodded. “Take off your dress.” I tilted my head. “And it’s not actually a request.”

She stared at me for a moment, then laughed. “Sasha… you are such a hoot. I thought–”

“I mean it, Marcia. Off.”

Now she looked shocked. She took a shaky breath. “Now, wait, Sasha, I can’t–”

“Do I really need to spell it out? Why you need to do what I tell you?”

She looked at me, shaking her head. “But… but Sasha, that was all so long–”

“I was ten.” A long moment of silence.

Marcia took another breath, deeper this time. “Yes… I know… but – but I’m a different person, Sasha. I’m a mother, and a wife… I’m a respected woman in the comm–”

“Ten. Years. Old.”

She looked at me, resigned. “Yes, I know, I… all right.” Her hands shook as they went to the tie at her neck. She undid the bow, then the buttons below. Slowly pulling the material outward, it slid down her shoulders, then fell to her feet.

“Kick it away.”

“It’s Diane Von–”

“Away!” Marcia hurriedly kicked the dress away from her. She stood in her pink bra and panties.

“Nice.” She blushed. I continued to stare at her until she reached behind her back to undo the bra. Her full breasts spilled out. Fuller than I remembered — but she still had those same large, pink nipples. And they were hard. She dropped the bra.

“Lose the sandals.”

She stepped out of them, then looked at me again. “Sasha, please…”

I lifted my chin. She sighed, then pulled her panties down and off. Now she stood before me, her eyes lowered, wearing nothing but her pearls. Her bush was dark blond and trimmed. Landscaped, I would say.

“Let’s go to the dining room.” I said. She looked up, eyes wide. “I’ll follow you.” Hesitantly, she shuffled out of the kitchen. Her creamy white backside was beautiful to watch as she walked in front of me.

The dining room’s main feature was a very long dark wood table covered by an embroidered cloth. At the moment there were just three chairs, all at the other end.

I patted the table. “Lean over, Marcia.”

She began shaking her head. “No, no, I… what are you going to do?”

“Marcia…”

She let out her breath in a huff, but then did as she was told. She carefully leaned over, resting her upper body on the end of the long table. Her hands hung down.

“Hands on the table, above your head.”

She did so. I put a hand on her bare bottom. It flinched. “You’ve always had such an amazing bottom…” I patted a cheek. “But you were always covering it up.” I circled her cheek with my palm. “Cesarean?”

She nodded, adding, “Yes,” in a small voice.

“Mmm-hmm… that’s how you keep this pretty butt so fresh and perky, huh…?” And I gave the cheek a mighty slap!

“Owww! Why’d you do–”

“You left me!”

“No, Sasha, no, no, I had to go to college and–”

SLAP!

“Owww, my God… Sasha! That really hurts!”

“You never even tried to contact me!”

Marcia was sniffling. She wriggled her bottom. “I’m… I know, but I just–”

SLAP!

“Auughh! No, please, Sasha, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” She was crying now. “Please…”

I rubbed her bottom. Hard. Then I trailed my finger down her crack. She tightened her cheeks.

“Let go.” She whimpered, then relented. I slid further until my finger was brushing her asshole. I leaned into her, and put my thumb in her face. “Suck on this, Marcia.”

She turned, looking confused. “Wh-what?”

“Get a lot of spit on it.” I poked her lip with my thumb tip. “The wetter you get it, the easier it’ll go in.”

Her eyes grew wide and she tried to look around at me. I pushed her head down.

“No, please, Sasha, don’t–” I forced my thumb between her lips. I felt her hold it for a moment, then she began to suck, coating it with saliva.

“Good girl..” I withdrew my newly lubed thumb, pressed it to her asshole and pushed. Tight. Corkscrewing. It started to sink in.

Marcia was bucking against me. “Noo! No, please! Oh my God…!” Then I pushed my thumb deep into her rectum. She made a weird, groaning sound. “Ugghh! Ohhgodohgod… uugggghh!” Her anus looked amazing, enveloping my thumb. She was gripping that tablecloth tightly.

I brought my fingers into play. I have large hands — and long fingers. Two of them slid into her nearby pussy. Which needed no lubrication. I leaned in to whisper into her ear. “Ohh, you are so wet! Aren’t you? Your pussy is dripping, Marcia! Isn’t it?”

She was bucking under me, crying and panting, nodding like an epileptic. “Yes! Yes!” I drove a third finger into her hot, oily pussy and started working them. My thumb, too, was now moving in and out.

Marcia was making a lot of noise now. Crying, groaning, squealing… I immediately pulled my hand away, making a slurping sound.

Oh, Marcia was a creamy mess down there. She gave a little squeak, then let out a shaky sigh. She looked around. I gave her bottom a light slap. “Meet me in the living room.” I leaned in. “No clothes.” I walked to the archway, and before I left, said, “And bring me a glass of ice water.”

Such a treat to lean back in the middle of Marcia’s very expensive couch and watch her walk in, cowed, slightly hunched, her treated blond hair all sweaty, naked but for socks and jewelry — bearing a glass of ice water. With a slice of lemon, no less. And a napkin. Such a well-bred girl.

She looked at me with huge eyes, hesitated, then put the glass down on the coffee table in front of me. She stood, then, unsure what to do next. Which was good. But then she moved to cover herself.

“Hands away,” I said, taking a refreshing sip. She let her hands fall and stood, her lower lip quivering. I put the glass down and took a breath. “Now… tell me about your daughter.”

Marcia’s mouth opened and she began shaking her head slowly. “Oh, I don’t, I don’t really think–”

“Marcia.”

Immediately she stopped. “Hm?”

“I am telling you… to talk about your daughter.” She was panting lightly, like a scared rabbit. “Tell me about the first time you found yourself looking at her in a sexual way.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know that–”

I clapped my hands together. And she jumped, with a small cry. “Stop this NOW,” I said, pointing a finger at her. “You answer me truthfully.” She cringed. “Yes?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m sorry, I… yes…”

I looked at her. Pathetic. She sniffled. I shook my head. “All right, Tell you what.” I pointed to a large armchair. “Bring that over here and set it in front of me.”

She looked puzzled, but knew by then to hop when I told her to, so she wrestled the heavy armchair over, then leaned on its back awaiting further instructions. Her breasts were squashed against the velour.

“Good. Now, come around and sit.” She did, perching primly on the edge. “Now lean back and put both legs over the arms, so you’re completely open to me.” She opened her mouth, then closed it and licked her chapped lips. Then she put one foot, then the other, over the arm rests. Her pussy was a bit red from its latest exercise, oozing a bit. I could smell her. Marcia was blushing from face to belly. She could barely look at me.

“Very good.” I leaned back. “Now. While you tell me about the first time you were sexually attracted to Amy, I want you to masturbate.” She groaned quietly. “Yes. Go.”

“Umm… well, I guess–”

“Play with yourself, Marcia. Masturbate. Start now, before you talk.”

She seemed to be shell-shocked. Slowly, she slid her right hand down her leg, gently placing it over her vulva. I nodded. She began to knead the lips of her wet pussy with her fingertips. She sighed.

“Now begin. And remember. Be absolutely truthful, Marcia. I will know. You know that.” She nodded, looking scared. Good.

“Well, umm… it was at our place up north, on the island, and… Amy and I were on the beach. And the thing is, it’s quite a private place, our island, so we do, umm, skinny dip quite a bit. You know, just… being naked on the beach. Feels very free, and just… well, umm, anyway, Mark was working, of course, so it was just Amy and me.” She took a long, shaky breath. I could tell that her masturbating was already affecting her memory of that day.

“Ohh, my…” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, it was just us, and we were down by the water, and I was sitting in my beach chair reading, just lazing, looking out at the water… watching Amy.” She must have hit an especially nice spot, for she arched her back slightly. “Mmmn…” She took a deeper breath. “Okay. Well, the thing is, Amy–”

“How old was she?”

“What? Oh… um, nine. She was nine. Yes… and she was, you know, building a sandcastle right in front of me, and digging this deep moat for it…” Marcia closed her eyes for a moment, and her fingers sank deeper between the folds of her pussy. “Mmm, and, she was naked… and I just… I just could not take my eyes off her body. Her bottom, oh my heavens… ohhh… ohhhh…”

She closed her eyes again, took a few quick, short breaths through her nose, then opened them again and looked at me. “God help me, every time she bent down to dig, her little butthole was just… right there, and I couldn’t… I mean, it felt so… wrong, but I was just so aroused, too. And I found my fingers wandering down to my, my pussy here… and just started touching, barely touching, with just the tip of my finger.”

I watched her pace those orgasmic rushes – letting the waves build, then subside. An accomplished little masturbator, my Marcia. “And when was the next time?”

She looked at me innocently. “Oh, I don’t think–”

“Marcia.”

She nodded, blushing deeply. “I know, I know, yes, I’m sorry.” She petted herself for comfort. “I was just… no, I know. Okay.” She began stroking herself again, more deeply this time. “It was… we were here, actually, watching TV upstairs in my room–”

“Just you and Amy?”

She nodded. “Yes, Mark was… somewhere. So, we were watching… oh, I don’t even remember, some Disney show or other, I should think… and I was lying on the bed, with a book, and watching the show a bit, and… well, all right… Amy had on her sleep outfit — and no matter what jammies I buy her, or nightgown… she just insists that she’s not going to wear anything but her t-shirt and panties. And that’s final!” Marcia giggled, then sighed plaintively. “Ohhh… so… uhh, there she was, lying in front of me on the bed, on her tummy. Her feet were in the air, you know, waving about like girls do… and her t-shirt was bunched up around her middle… Oh, I wanted to bury my face in her cute little bottom! Just… burrow, like a hedgehog! Ooh, ooh, mm, mmm…” She breathed deeply, and looked at me, anxious, but definitely on the brink.

“I can’t wait to meet her. Next.”

“No, there isn’t, that’s–”

“Marcia, what did I say?” She was close to tears. “Really.” I took a sip of ice water and watched her.

So much conflict going on in my little soccer-mom’s body! “Sasha, I… it’s just, so, so… I don’t like to think about it.”

“After this, you won’t.”

“But it’s…” She heaved a huge sigh, ran her index finger down her slit and shuddered. “Well, I… it was just recently, really, the beginning of the summer. And it was late, like eleven or something, and I’d had quite a few glasses of wine–”

“Let me guess. Mark was… out of town?”

She smiled weakly. “How’d you know?” Another finger met the first, and both began to squeeze her slick pussy lips, squeezing and sliding. “Anyway, umm, Amy was asleep. And see, she’s a very heavy sleeper, I mean, nothing can wake her up. It’s hard enough getting her up for school…” Deep sigh. She cleared her throat. “And, I looked in on her… the nightlight was on…” She looked at me, almost defiant by then. Her fingers moved faster. “Okay, I just couldn’t… I pulled down the sheets, and looked at her sleeping, like she always does, on her tummy… and I just, just took hold of her panties and pulled them down. Okay?” She was frigging faster. “And I looked at her beautiful, beautiful bottom, and I started rubbing myself, and I…”

She whispered urgently, “Ohh, ohh, ohhh, God, I’m coming, I’m coming n’ coming…! Oh, ohh, nnnnggg!” And her back arched up, lifting her bottom clear off the chair, as she frigged herself madly. The sound was wonderful, such a wickedly wet, lubricious noise in the midst of all this suburban opulence.

Marcia sat panting on the armchair. Her legs still hung limply over the arms.

I took a sip of water and put the glass down. “I want to meet your daughter.”

Her head came up, her eyes refocused. “Wh-when? I can bring her–”

“No, here. I’d like to meet her here. Monday evening, 5:00 PM.”

“Oh–kaay…” Marcia looked down at herself, smiled. “Could I go and clean up a little? Get some clothes on?” She began to raise her leg from the armrest.

“No. You’re fine right there.”

Her smile froze. “But–” At my steady gaze, she closed her mouth. Her leg remained on the armrest. Her juices oozed onto the chair’s cushion.

“I will meet her, have dinner with you both, then spend the night here.” I stood. “She will have a special session with me at my office on Tuesday at 2:00 PM. You will arrange things with her school. You will also come to the session.”

“Yes, I’ll bring her and wait for–”

“No. I’ll explain it all later, but you should know that I think it would be highly beneficial for you both if you were to view her session. Unseen by her, but there.”

“How would–”

“As I say, I’ll explain. Later.” She nodded dutifully. I kicked off my heels, unbuttoned my pants and pulled them off, showing Marcia my panties. “Boden. Remember?”

Marcia was looking at me, puzzled but nodding. “What are you doing?”

I peeled off the panties, then sat back down and spread my legs. “Come here. I need your pretty mouth down here.”

Her mouth was open, expectant. She swallowed. “Can I…?” She wanted to know the rules, to follow them exactly. Good girl…

“Yes, come around.” I gestured around the coffee table to pat the couch beside me. As she rose from the stained armchair, I turned on the couch and she came to sit on the edge. She looked down at me, at my unreadable face, and my open thighs. I smiled. “Come down here, Marcia. Nonny wants you to kiss her…”

She blushed fiercely, and gasped. I grinned. “How many times have you masturbated to that memory?”

“Oh, my God,” she murmured. She slowly shook her head as she lowered it. “You are… evil.” Her blue eyes gazed up as she opened her mouth to taste me. She licked. “Mmm… I don’t remember all this hair…” She licked again. “Oh, my God, you’re so gorgeous…” Then she opened her mouth and covered my vulva with it. I felt her tongue enter me and run lazily up and down. She sucked greedily at my labia.

“Mmm, you still do this wonderfully,” I murmured. I pulled her head into me while she noisily slurped and sucked. And I felt the delicious sensations build; my orgasm on its way. “Ohhhh, good girl, Marcia. Good girl…”

On to Part Two!