Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

Note from JetBoy: Friends, I’m delighted to present a new erotic story from hornykate — her first in many years, far as I know. She turned out some lovely tales back in the day for Leslita, several of which can be found in our Archive. She was on a real streak for a few months, then vanished. I was one of her biggest cheerleaders at the time, so it was a genuine thrill to receive the story you see below. 

One complication, however: hornykate seems to have vanished once more. I’ve not had a response to multiple emails, and have no idea if she’s even seen the final draft I sent her. But since she did submit the story with the desire to see it posted, I’ve chosen to make this version public, with the understanding that she can request that it be revised or taken down at any time.

Thank you for your beautiful story, Kate. Hope I’ve done it justice… and I also hope to hear from you again some day. 

***

By hornykate

My dear darling daughter,

I’ve read somewhere about how writing a letter, even one that will never be sent, can be cathartic. I think it’s time for me to compose such a letter. I’m not sure you’ll ever read it, but it will be good for me to get these thoughts and impressions set down in print.

You’re now twelve years old, just beginning to find your own way in the world. You have your very own girlfriend, along with the freedom to explore your own sexuality, to walk life’s roads with new people, new friends, and, yes, new lovers.

I hope you have many lovers, whether male or female. That doesn’t mean I want you to be promiscuous. Instead, I want you to experience the bohemian way of life, the life I’d always wanted for myself. To be confident, courageous, and flirtatious. To fully explore your erotic side, like a character from an Anais Nin story.

But let me get to the point of this letter. I want to explain to you, and myself, how I started out as a mother who loved you with undying affection, then found myself feeling something more. Without meaning or expecting to, I fell completely in love with you. .

Let me tell you about your father. He was French (still is, I expect), a traveling artist with whom I had a brief but passionate affair. One night, we threw caution to the winds after a bottle of wine, declared our love for one another, and, through our unprotected union that night, created you.

Unfortunately, as soon as he found out I was carrying his child, he fled back to the country of his birth, and there he remains. If you meet him in later life, be kind and forgiving. He wasn’t a bad man. But he did leave us, and then we were our own – just you and me.

Now I want to write about my love for you.

I adored you from the moment you came into being, of course. You were my little miracle. My eighth wonder of the world. My alpha, my omega, my all. I felt incapable of containing the love I felt. It overwhelmed me. Sometimes it was frightening, but mostly I was filled with unbounded joy, as if you were an elixir that gave me an unshakable sense of self. There’s a quote from Love Labour’s Lost that always stuck with me: “When love speaks, the voice of all the gods make heaven drowsy with the harmony.” That’s how I felt.

But I loved you even before you were born. I loved you in my womb, I loved you in my heart, my soul, everything that constituted who I am. My very DNA was filled with love for you. I believe you existed before you were even conceived – and I adored you then. too.

As a little girl, you would often come to my bed at night. Sometimes I’d lie awake, wanting you to join me. Some nights you did, other nights you didn’t.

On those nights you shared my bed, I found enormous satisfaction in lulling you back to sleep. You would lie there – restless, even fidgety – and I’d be above you, resting on an elbow, doing my best to coax you back into the land of Nod. I’d stroke your face with the backs of my fingers, caress your ears, your neck, your shoulders. I’d kiss your forehead, your cheeks, your nose. Sometimes, I felt a strange impulse to kiss you in other places, too, but of course, I didn’t.

Even when you were a toddler, I realized there was something inappropriate about my feelings for you and how I indulged them. The few times I kissed your lips and allowed it to linger, I remonstrated with myself that I shouldn’t, really. A mother wasn’t meant to kiss her child like that. Then I’d tell myself it was just a maternal impulse… and honestly, what harm could there possibly be in a mother’s kisses? I was never completely certain about the right and wrong of it, but still took immense pleasure in the sensation of your sweet lips against mine.

Then you turned seven.

You actually helped me make your birthday cake. It was a two-layered chocolate sponge that we filled with whipped cream and strawberry jam, and decorated, with wild abandon, with chocolate ganache, chocolate buttons, and all sorts of crazy sugared decorations. We had such fun! I still think back to that day, warmed inside by the joy it brought us.

I suspect an extra-large helping of cake contributed to you feeling restless that night. And so you came to me. But before that, I remember lying in bed, waiting for you to slowly open my door, to tiptoe across the room and slip into my bed. I remember. I remember as if it were only yesterday.

I’ll also confess here and now, in this letter that will never be sent, that I ached for you. I wanted you. You were just seven years old. Still, I longed for you. And you came.

I heard the door, the familiar high-pitched whine of squeaky hinges. The light padding of feet, you clambering onto the bed, me pushing the covers down. And then you were in my arms, and I held you like I never wanted to let go. You were my strength and my weakness.

I’d chosen to sleep in the nude that evening, and when I asked if you wanted to be naked too, you didn’t reply, just took your oversized t-shirt off, leaving you in Hello Kitty knickers.

You know how much I love you as a mother, of course… but there’s more, much more to my love than meets the eye. That’s the reason I’m writing this letter, to confess, to open my soul and reveal all manner of inner truths.

You see, my darling, I was sexually attracted to you. I think I always have been. Certainly for some years. The beauty of your face, the flawless lines and curves of your body.

Remember the red two-piece swimsuit you wore when you were five? That was as much for my pleasure as yours. I loved watching you frolic around the garden, running through the sprinkler and getting wet, the water running in rivulets down your body, droplets that remained like jewels on your skin, only enhancing your fairytale beauty. Did I want to be your lover, even then? I think so, even if I had yet to understand the true nature of my feelings.

Now there you were, sharing Mommy’s bed, wearing nothing but cute underpants. I stroked your face, your shoulders, your flat chest. I was delighted by your tiny nipples, how quickly they responded to my touch. I felt them stiffen, ever so slightly. I kissed one, then the other. I licked them. I gently took one between my teeth, then raised my head to meet your surprised gaze. I told you how much I loved you, how beautiful you were.

Then I kissed your mouth. It was a motherly kiss, I told myself. But it wasn’t. I wanted it to be more, a lover’s kiss. I longed for you to respond. And on this night, you did. As my lips parted, so did yours, and our tongues touched. I suppose it’s a cliché to describe such a pivotal, breathtaking moment as being like an electric shock, but I can’t think of any words that describe it better.

My hand rested on your hip, but what I really wanted was to touch between your legs. I ached for sexual contact, but at the same time, I was genuinely fearful – of your response, of the consequences of my actions, of how it might affect our relationship. So instead, I began to run my hand up and down your leg, steadily moving higher until I was stroking the softness of my little girl’s thigh.

I was taken by surprise when you began to slowly spread your legs. Our eyes met, and I saw something in them that stole my breath away. It was a needful look, as if you hungered for more of Mommy’s touches. Was that really what you wanted, or was my imagination running away with me?

I got my answer when you reached down to take my hand, pressing it to your tummy. The tips of my fingers were less than an inch away from my secret, forbidden desire.

How to describe the excitement I felt at that moment? No words could do it justice.

It was raining, I remember. My window was open, and I could hear the patter of rain on the leaves, on the windowsill. My senses were so alive right then that every drop seemed to make itself felt. That’s when I  touched you there for the first time. I touched your slit through your underpants, gently stroking up and down, feeling the warmth of your little-girl cunt underneath.

It was a beautiful moment, one that had me glowing inside. But I wanted this to be more than just my own experience, I wanted you to feel it too. I wanted you to know pleasure, to share this bliss.

Almost before I had the chance to think about what I was doing, I began to nuzzle your flat chest again… but this time it was more than a mother’s playful kisses. Now I was making love to you, showering your childish body with the same lustful attention I might lavish on a woman.

Did you understand that I was showing you a whole new kind of love? Were you conscious of the difference? It seemed so to me. I heard it in the way you whispered, “Yes, Mommy, yes!” while I was kissing, licking, sucking your penny-sized nipples. I felt your fingers twine through my hair as I trailed kisses down your body, lips brushing each ridge of your rib cage, your belly button, your tummy, stopping and lingering at the cleft of your sex, still gently stroking it through the soft cotton.

I was in a trance, mesmerized by your beauty, by my dizzying love for you, by my hunger for you. And that night, I confess, that hunger overcame all. Giving you every chance to stop me, I slowly, slowly tugged your panties down and off, and it felt like a symbolic event of gargantuan proportion.

I could hardly believe it was happening at the time, but I lay down before you, paused to draw in a noseful of that enchanting little-girl scent… and kissed your cunt. Yes, I kissed you there. And just as unbelievably, you drew your thighs even farther apart, and I gazed in awe as my precious child opened herself up to me. So I kissed you there again, running my tongue along your slit. With my fingers I parted your outer lips, those sweet puffy outer lips, then covered your opening with my mouth. I was stroking your thighs, feeling the firm flesh, taut and unblemished.

I felt your hips move in response, gently at first: a clenching of the muscles, a slight twitching of the legs, then a whimper escaping your lips. I urged you on, the pressure of my tongue increasing little by little, your motions becoming more urgent.

Raising my head from between your legs, I whispered to you, my precious girl. Saying how much I loved you, how much I wanted you. Then I returned to my work, applying my tongue to the tiny jewel of your clit.

There I was, literally making love to you, to my child. By then, I’d crossed the line of what most would see as the boundary between right and wrong, but at that moment, such distinctions meant nothing to me. All I cared about was your happiness

I heard your breathing quicken, become short and staccato, and knew my little girl was experiencing sexual pleasure for the very first time. I was thinking, Come for me, baby. Come for Mummy, let Mummy give you the good feeling, the special feeling.

And just like that, your body stiffened for a few seconds, a long, drawn-out cry breaking from your lips. Then you relaxed, sinking back into the sheets as if drained of all energy, legs slowly closing as I sat up. I could hear your breathing; heavier, more laboured, like you’d just run to me across the park… and I rejoiced. My little girl had experienced her first orgasm, and I’d been the one to make it happen.

I took you in my arms, brushing your cheek with a tender kiss. With my left hand I caressed your back, your neck, ran my fingers through your hair – a mother’s touch. But my right hand drifted down to stroke and cup your bottom, fingers straying between those angel-soft cheeks to touch your rosebud. This was purely sexual; nothing maternal about it, though it was done with all the love in my heart.

That was when I knew this couldn’t be a one-time thing. If you were willing, my beautiful child, then from that day forward, the two of us would be lovers.

You shyly asked me why I’d kissed you ‘down there’ and at first I was at a loss as to how best to respond. Finally I asked “Did you enjoy it?”

You gave a bashful nod. “It was nice, Mummy.”

“I’m glad, baby girl,” I murmured, cradling you to me. “I did that to you because… well, I wanted to love you in a new way. A different way.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Different…?”

I chose my words carefully, knowing our relationship was at a potential crossroads. “You already know how much I love you more than anyone or anything. The kind of love a mum naturally has for her child. When I hold you…” I cuddle you to me, nuzzling your neck. “…you feel that love, don’t you?” I gave your ear a playful nibble.

“Yes, Mummy!” you squealed, giggling and squirming deliciously in my arms.

“Good. Well, tonight, I wanted to do more than just love you. So… I made love to you. Remember how we kissed just now?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, nodding eagerly. “I liked those kisses. Can we do them all the time?”

“I’m glad to hear you ask for that, baby girl. It’s how lovers kiss. And that’s how I want to be with you.”

A glimpse of understanding appeared in your eyes. “You mean… like girlfriends?”

My heart was pounding, knowing we’d reached the point of no return. “Yes… yes, that’s right. See, I’m in love with you, dearest. I’ll always, always be your mum, but I’d like it very much if we could be girlfriends, too. Then we could share those nice kisses and touch each other and do all the things I just did to you whenever we like. But only if that’s what you want, okay?”

You were silent for a long while, but finally gave a thoughtful nod. “I’d like that, Mummy.”

I went from frightened to exhilarated in an instant. Hugging you to me, I whispered, “Oh, my darling child, you’ve made me the happiest mother in the world.” I buried my lips in your sweet-smelling hair.

“Mummy?” you said in a whisper, as though we were in danger of being overheard.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Could you maybe… do it to me some more?”

Oh, my precious daughter. We came together in a tender kiss. This time you were first to respond with your tongue, and I could have wept from joy as it hesitantly touched mine. The kiss soon deepened, and we melted into each other’s arms.

My love was a boundless ocean, my love was a poem that filled a thousand volumes, my love held the universe. All that and more was in our kiss.

When our lips finally parted, I began to nuzzle my way downward again – your chin, your throat, your chest, and lower; your tummy, your hips, your legs, then down to your toes, kissing each one like I was performing a ritual. Finally I lay between your parted legs, stroking your most private of places. And like the gatekeeper of a secret garden, you let me in.

I was making love to you for the second time, and it felt different. It was different. Because you’d asked me to.

Should I have justified myself that way? You wanted it, but did that give me the right to go down on my seven-year-old child? Probably not. No, definitely not. But I’d already fallen down the rabbit hole. And I looked up at you as you looked down at me, and when I kissed your smooth slit, you closed your eyes and your head fell back on the pillow, wearing an expression of purest bliss.

I kissed your cunt. I licked your cunt. I made love to your cunt. You were my daughter, my little girl, the life force I’d carried for nine months, that I’d fed and sustained, and painfully but gratefully given birth to, the little girl with whom I’d made a cake a few hours earlier. Now there I was, loving you, wanting you to feel the pleasure of sexual release, doing my utmost to make you come. Yes, this was for my pleasure, for my joy, my ecstasy, but that could only be realized through your pleasure, joy and ecstasy.

And you came.

This time, the signs of impending orgasm were more obvious, as though our first time was a trial run, a practice. Your legs threatened to close, but kept springing open like a bear trap in reverse, your back arched, your short breaths punctured the air, your hips moved forward and back, forward and back, I felt your hands on my head, and I was thinking of how I wanted you to want me like I wanted you, to need me like I needed you. And in the midst of these erratic thoughts, you came. You came delicately and beautifully, legs spread wide for me.

Then we held each other again, sharing a few deep, juicy kisses. You asked me about the unusual flavour of my lips, and I explained that you were tasting yourself, your essence. “I like it,” you whispered.

We settled in for the night, your arms around my neck, our bare bodies nestled together beneath the damp sheets, and you fell asleep. I lay awake for a few minutes, happier than I’ve ever been.

There. I’ve written enough about our first time. If I carry on I feel I’ll become mawkish and sentimental, and I feel as if I’ve already gushed about you enough.

Then there are the many, many times you and I have made love since then. The last five years have seen you ripen into a passionate, giving lover who knows every way to make her mummy feel good. But that’s for another day. .

I’ll want to write more, that much I know. This exercise did me a world of good. Yes, it was cathartic. Yes, it helped. Oh, my baby girl, my love, my lover. This story is far from over.

Love, Mummy

xxxooo

The End