Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

Note from JetBoy: A fascinating wrinkle on lesbian erotica from our newest Juicy Secrets contributor. Very few editing changes were needed with this one. Please enjoy, and do give Emma a rousing welcome to the family.

by Emma

Chapter One: Hentai First, Crying and Cocoa Later

Hi there, I’m Bunny! Wanna see my tushy?

Well, hang on, I have some stuff I need to get done before Mommy gets home, but don’t worry. I love showing my bottom to everyone, so you’ll be seeing a lot of it! (Also, shhh, I’m only twelve in real life, but I always say I’m eighteen when I show off my bottom to strangers, usually nice ladies. See, that way they can just claim I told them I was eighteen. (Wait, wait, wait, I’m getting distracted again!)

Okay, okay, so maybe tonight there’s laundry to fold and a suspicious number of glittery paw prints to clean off the entryway floor. But I’m lonely, and antsy, and the couch is soft, and my favorite hentai is glowing on the TV in soft pinks and sparkles, and… yeah. My little bunny bottom wanted me to put a little bunny butt plug inside, and I didn’t want to wait for Mommy to get home, so I got it and put it in and now I’m too horny and I just caaan’t do any chores, I need to come…

Besides, Mommy’s out on one of her Very Important Dates with someone that she thinks can become part of Lollipop Lane…but I’m bored and needy and, ugh…so twitchy with waiting, I can barely sit still.

I mean, have you ever tried to focus on setting the table when your head is full of anime centaur girls with perfect tushies and legs that go on forever? Didn’t think so.

So now it’s me, the couch, my favorite stuffy Theodore (he’s a big teddy bear with stitching on him that says Good Girls Get Kisses, but I took a marker and crossed out Kisses and scribbled in Pussy Licks, which has all my neighborhood friends dissolve into giggling fits, it’s great!), and I keep replaying the same two-minute scene where the wolf-girl sniffs the centaur’s pussy and whispers, “I missed this.” It’s supposed to be romantic. It’s definitely not appropriate for girls my age. I’ve watched it five times. Seven. Actually, nine…okay, nineteen.

I know I’m just setting myself up, falling in love with fictional characters (from cartoons, even!), but then the centauress lifts up the wolf-girl’s tail so high and we see her oh, so cute little bottom hole and, well… my horny little heart gets swept away on a sea of lust.

I tell myself I’m just relaxing. I deserve it! Outside of Lollipop Lane, everything’s so, so boring, and I have to do dumb schoolwork all the time… God, what a stupid world.

And I start wondering what Mommy would say if she saw me bouncing on my tail like this when she gets home? Would she roll her eyes? Would she give me that I ‘m-finally-really-smiling smile and say, “Again, Bunny?” with that mommy voice that makes me feel like I’m already forgiven, yet really, really in trouble at the same time?

I kind of hope she walks in before I decide to behave myself. Just barges through the door in her sexy date-night dress and finds me without a stitch of clothing, curled up on the rug watching cartoons I’m not supposed to watch, a cute little butt plug in my tushie. Makes me shiver, just picturing it.

I rock a little…juuust enough to feel my tail go further in. It’s really hard to come from just my bottom, and I’m not touching my pussy. I’m not, I swear…

I imagine Mommy stepping through the door right now, catching me mid-rock, taking in the glint of surprise in my eyes, the wolf-girl sniffing and licking the centaur-girl’s tushy on the TV screen. Maybe Mommy would lean down, sniff my hair, sigh like she’s disappointed but not surprised. Maybe she’d whisper in my ear, “How many times did you edge today, baby girl?”

It isn’t easy, but I force myself to stop rocking. Breathe. Breathe.

I want Mommy to see me like this. I’ve been so good, saving myself for her. By now, my whole body is screaming pretty please notice me!

And then I imagine Mommy walking through the door, only this time, there’s someone with her —maybe a big sister for me, or better still, a littler sister, littler than I am! When I picture that, it’s so, SO hard not to just let myself go and come. It’s been building up inside me for hours, and my entire body is screaming for it.

I can’t help it. I need to call Mommy. I need to know when she’s getting home…

♡ ⚢ ♡ ⚢ ♡

 

My name is Lilliana Ferris. I turned thirteen yesterday, and the first thing that I learned as a “young adult” is that it’s the most depressing thing in the world.

I don’t even like Halloween parties. Too many expectations, too many girls in carefully curated slutty costumes pretending it’s all an exercise irony. Meanwhile, I was sitting on a freezing bus bench at eight in the evening, drenched in rain, crying into the shredded remains of my dollar-store zombie goth-girl outfit, which, spoiler alert, wasn’t water resistant.

I’m a teenager. I’m supposed to be, I don’t know, sexy now, right?

Mascara streamed down my cheeks like war paint drawn by a raccoon having a breakdown. Valerie, my one “friend” who was supposed to get me into the party, ditched me as soon as someone said, “Ugh, who invited HER?” loud enough for everyone to hear.

So yeah. I got kicked out of a Halloween party for being unpopular. Welcome to adulthood.

When the rain started pouring down, I was half-hoping the next bus would be a metaphorical one. As in: my one-way ticket to the big goodbye. If I stretched myself out in the street, would the bus just roll right over me? Right then, it was a tempting notion.

Yeah, that’s how bad it was. I was done with everything.

My grades were terrible. Everyone at school made fun of me for carelessly saying that a couple of our female teachers were really, really pretty. I more or less got bullied every day. My mom said this would happen when I came out.

Well, really, she hadn’t said much. She’d yelled a lot, that was for sure. I could still hear her words, echoing in my head. “It’s all gonna lead towards those stupid scam art schools and being surrounded by a bunch of queers! Is that what you want, Lily? Get yourself a crew cut, quit wearing makeup, stop shaving your legs, dress in baggy clothes and tell the world you’re a man-hating dyke? You make me sick.”

My dad said nothing, but only because he was too busy being a piece of shit with the other women he’s got stashed around town. He’s even had kids with some of them. My mom can’t get him to keep it in his pants, so she takes it out on me because, according to her, I’m the one who messed up her figure when I was born.

I sniffled. The rain was getting colder. I wondered how much it would cost to buy a gun and a bullet. One was all I’d need.

A voice brought me out of my miserable reverie. “Excuse me.”

I looked up, sniffling…and just like that, I forgot about wanting to die.

“Oh, you look positively drowned, poor thing…”

A woman stood in front of me, holding a massive black umbrella, elegant as a movie still. Like a black-and-white movie still from the 1920’s where the femme fatale meets a boarding school teacher, if the teacher had the habit of spanking her students and kissing them afterwards.

Hair in a tight, perfect bun. Emerald eyes framed by lashes long enough to trip over. Her high heels clicked against the wet concrete as she stepped closer – heels that didn’t even pretend to be practical, but somehow her balance in the rain was perfect. Her clothes were all elegance and poise – a long coat, pencil skirt, matching gloves – gloves! – and a large, sleek purse that reminded me of a traveler’s satchel.

I blinked at her. “I’m… fine.”

“Oh of course you are,” she said, a hint of amusement. “That’s why you’re half-naked on a bus bench in the rain, crying like a soggy cupcake.”

I pulled my legs up, shivering. “I w-wasn’t crying.”

Her eyes strayed to my thighs. Maybe… up my skirt? I wasn’t exactly being coy.

“Oh, darling.” She sat next to me, her umbrella eclipsing the storm clouds until I was, blessedly, out of the shower for the moment. Her gloved hand tilted my chin upward, eyes scanning me with clinical warmth, like she was diagnosing the exact kind of attention I’d been starved of. “You’ve been abandoned, haven’t you?”

I swallowed. This was… so forward, yet polite.

“I know the mien of being cast aside, dear.”

My throat made a pathetic little sound.

Her smile turned indulgent. “Fortunately for you, I’ve found discarded things make delightful company.” She offered me the umbrella. “Hold this for me, little one. My name is Miss Ashcroft. You’re mine, now.”

“I’m Lily… I… what did you say…?”

She opened her purse and produced a silver thermos. Then two small metal cups, hardly big enough for Victorian tea time. “Lily, you should know that I despise drinking alone. It feels bourgeois.”

I blinked. “Wh-what is it?”

She was unscrewing the lid and pouring steaming liquid into one cup. “Hot cocoa. I brought it to the theater, intending to share it with a gorgeous friend during intermission. But, alas…” She offered me one cup, warm as her smile. “I was, as your generation phrases it, ghosted. She stood me up.”

I took the cup, mostly because I was freezing, half-sure I was hallucinating this anyway.

She continued, voice comforting as a lullaby. “A disappointing start to the evening, but serendipitous in its way. You see, this benefits you.”

“How?”

“Because…” She turned to me fully, one gloved hand brushing wet hair off my cheek. “I have enough cocoa for two.”

The first sip hit like a chocolate kiss in a cup: sweet, warm, creamy, like every snow day and bedtime story I thought I’d forgotten. It coated my tongue, thick chocolate soaked in cream. My eyes fluttered shut without meaning to, and for a moment I wasn’t a stupid emotional mess in the rain. I was safe, small, and wanted, wanted by someone bigger and better than me.

I licked my lips, practically dazed by how lovely the drink was, and risked a look into her emerald eyes. The way she watched me drink made funny things happen in my heart and between my legs. She seemed to be waiting for me to say something, so I finally came out with, “This is…literally the greatest thing that’s happened to me my entire young-adult life.” I paused. “Which has lasted an entire day, so far.”

“Tragic,” she said, sipping. Then, with terrifying gentleness: “Tell me everything.”

“I’m failing school,” I said, after three sips of the cocoa and zero seconds of resistance. “I have no friends. And my mom hates me for being gay. She doesn’t want me to be a ‘man-hating dyke’. Her words.”

“This is terrible.” She inclined her head as she tilted her teacup.

“…and tonight, I got kicked out of a party that I wasn’t technically invited to in the first place.” I studied the steam that rose from my cup.

“Let me guess. You wore that delicious little costume, hoping someone would notice the lovely girl under the greasepaint and fishnets.”

I blinked. “I… what?”

She plucked at my jacket. “And yet, despite every effort, no one even nibbled.” Her gloved hand lingered just a moment too long, nearly a millimeter from my right breast. “That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“I’m not usually like this,” I whispered. “I don’t… talk to strangers. Like, ever.”

“But I’m not a stranger,” she said, eyes glinting. “Not any more. My name is Clarissa Ashcroft. I was ghosted tonight by a bitch with no self-respect. And I’m the kind of woman who will take advantage of an opportunity, especially when she’s beautiful and lonely. Hold still.”

Words fumbled on my tongue as, with exquisite calm, she slipped a hand into her blouse and produced a silk handkerchief from between her breasts. I felt its warmth when she wiped my cheek. “There. I knew there was a pretty face under all that ruin.”

I felt my face grow hot. “I’m not pretty…”

“Don’t make me break out synonyms, child. My vocabulary is quite extensive, and we would be shivering here all evening.”

Then Clarissa… Miss Ashcroft rose with the elegance of someone who’d just finished hosting a gala, instead of consoling a would-be goth-girl going through puberty meltdown on a rain-soaked bench. She extended her hand like I was royalty. “Ordinarily, one should frown upon the notion of getting into the vehicle of a stranger one has just met. However, at this moment, I must insist you do just that.”

I blinked.

This wasn’t the 20th century. Even kids younger than me had phones and the internet and ways to get around the parental locks and age restrictions on all of it. I’d never had so much as a first date, but even I understood this situation. I knew what she was insisting on.

I was getting picked up.

What the hell?

I literally had nothing left to lose but my clothes. And my life, I figured, but that wasn’t such a big deal. “Do you… live far from here?”

Her smile curved, slow and knowing. “Not at all. I live on Lollipop Lane.”

My brain went bluescreen.

Every whispered rumor, every overheard bit of gossip, every NSFW Reddit thread involving the phrase, “Has anyone actually BEEN to Lollipop Lane?” came roaring through my mind.

Words flashed in front of my eyes: Incest. Underage girl pets. Lover. Lesbian. Sister. Mommy. Precious little daughter. Daughter. DAUGHTER.

I threw all sense of caution directly into the nearest metaphorical dumpster and placed my hand in hers. Even wearing gloves, her grip was warm.

We walked together, Miss Ashcroft’s umbrella sheltering us both. Halfway to her car – of course it was a vintage black sedan that looked like it might’ve been purloined from a noir film – I did something thrilling and very much not me.

I slipped an arm around her waist, tentative at first, then bolder. My fingers drifted lower, stopping right on the curve of her surprisingly firm backside, the fabric of her coat cool and immaculate beneath my palm. “Thank you,” I said, speaking softly.

Her step didn’t falter, but her emerald eyes cut to me, flashing. She purred. A slow, rich purr, like something feline and amused and vaguely carnivorous. The sound of someone deeply pleased, perhaps mildly aroused by being touched without having given permission.

I looked down and saw that Miss Ashcroft’s coat had shifted open just enough at the collar, the delicate silk of her blouse clinging to her skin, sheer and damp with rain. And there, visible in the soft sway of movement and light, was the dark, unmistakable outline of a bare nipple, taut and firm, unapologetically present without the cup of a brassiere to hide behind.

It could have something to do with the cold rain. But I knew it didn’t.

She said nothing more.

And neither did I.

But my hand stayed where it was, and hers never moved to stop me.

Soon to come: Chapter Two!