Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

By Jeneee

Being a waitress sure has its moments. Couples eating out together sometimes fascinate me, no matter their age. And I don’t believe I mentioned my age yet so just so as you know, I’m twenty-two, a high school graduate and hoping to save enough money to eventually go to college to study photography – maybe even open my own studio once I get some experience. A lofty goal, I know but it has been a dream of mine for several years. I’ve always loved taking pictures, especially portraits, and I enjoy looking at the works of other photographers, marvelling at the poses and expressions they seem to be able to coax from their subjects.

But my life changed drastically when, a few months after I’d finished high school, my mom came home from a visit to her doctor and informed me that she had cancer – and that it was terminal. She had maybe a year to live. I was in shock. Deep shock. We hugged each other and cried together for a long time until we both eventually ran out of tears. My college plans were put on hold indefinitely.

Mom and I had always been close, especially after dad left us when I was in my early teens. She’d helped me to deal with the realization that I was a lesbian, and had supported me all the way. Mom even confided to me that she was bisexual, and although she didn’t really come out altogether, it was one of the contributing factors to dad leaving us. That and learning that his daughter was a lesbian, for which he also blamed my mom for not bringing me up right. We could never figure out what he meant by that. Men! He at least had the decency to come to mom’s funeral, and I still see him occasionally, but he’s never accepted me for what I am, and never wanted to meet any of my girlfriends – even though I’ve only had two or three since I was in my teens.

Anyway, my mom was able to hang on for two more years with me putting my life on hold to look after her at home. Even though I knew what was going to happen I was still devastated when she eventually passed away. It took me quite a while to get my life back in order and I was lucky our house was paid off and we had a bit of money saved, so with that and the life insurance I inherited I was able to get by for a little while.

But I knew it wouldn’t last for long. I had to get some money coming in especially if I eventually planned to go to college. That’s when a girlfriend suggested I take a job as a waitress where she worked. Tips were not bad, she told me, and who knows, she laughed, you might even meet a guy. So now you know she was a girlfriend, but not a ‘girlfriend.’ She had no idea I was a lesbian. I eventually took the job and even though it was tiring it wasn’t all that bad. She was right, tips were good most days, and I was able to make enough money to live on and was also able to put a little away for my college tuition.

As I said a while ago, couples eating out sometimes fascinate me. I’m not all that bad looking – even though I don’t match up to Kayla – and I do get my fair share of looks from diners at the restaurant. From men especially. Our waitress outfits are attractive and close fitting and I enjoy the tightly strained smiles wives or girlfriends send my way when they notice their men giving me the eye – I’ve been told my butt looks great in tight pants. Little do they know that it’s them I’m eyeing back though, and not their boyfriends – at least if I find them attractive, that is. Some of them are so insecure that they often go out of their way to try to regain the attention of their partner, showing a little more cleavage or leg, all of which plays right into my hands. If they only knew I was a lesbian, I’d chuckle to myself.

From my recent encounter with Kayla and Amanda you’ve probably guessed that I also don’t discriminate as far as age is concerned – young girls have appealed to me since I was a teen. I had several babysitting opportunities when I was in high school and frequently found myself with a sweet seven or eight year old princess snuggled in my arms slowly falling asleep on my lap as we watched television together before her bedtime, often after having helped her with her bath. Tickling games were always popular with the younger ones and I often feigned being super ticklish in order for them to explore and discover my most sensitive spots – which of course included my boobs.

Young girls are so curious about the bodies of older girls and when they discovered, usually by accident at first, that my boobs were very ticklish – which of course they really aren’t – they’d do all they could to have me in fits so that they could continue to explore what they would eventually develop themselves. I wasn’t exactly voluptuous as a teen – nor am I now – and since my boobs were rather small I’d usually not bother wearing a bra. I do, however, have prominent nipples which rapidly hardened during these playful sessions and were another source of fascination for some of my younger sweethearts. I remember the time one particular little nine year old girl who had continually groped my breasts – yes, her tickling had progressed to groping once my giggles had died down a bit – shyly asked if she could see them.

“Only if you let me see yours too, sweetie,” was my quick-thinking response. She was a little too old for me to have ever had the need to bathe her so I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of seeing her naked young body which, although small for her age, was quite nubile. Now was my chance.

“But I don’t have any boobies,” she replied. “See?” And she quickly lifted up her loose pyjama top for me to see her almost flat, pale chest. I peered closely at her and ran the tip of my index finger over one of her tiny pink nipples. Together we watched it harden into a cute little point.

“I think it wants to start growing now,” I teased, “don’t you? Want me to help it even more?” I asked, with a sly smile on my face. She giggled and nodded. Bending down I first kissed the tiny tip of her sweet little bud and then swirled my tongue around it as she giggled even louder. Then I sucked harder on it, drawing it out from her chest, softly pinching it with my fingers. Her giggles died down and I heard the start of a moan deep in her throat – the little fox was enjoying it. “Does that feel good, honey?” I asked as I drew away and looked into her deep blue eyes.

“Mmmm,” she murmured, her face a little flushed. “But you said I could see yours too,” she quickly remembered, reaching out to touch one of my boobs through my tee. “Can I?”

“You sure can, honey,” I told her, lifting my shirt up over my firm boobs, nipples now hard and winking at her. She shyly reached up and ran a hand over one, tentatively squeezing it in her tiny palm, then reaching up with her other hand to delicately pinch the nipple of my other breast, drawing it out even further. I lifted her up onto my lap so that she could comfortably continue her exploration while my right hand slipped beneath her pyjama top again to caress her almost flat little chest.

She looked at me with a cute smile on her pretty face. “Do you think mine will grow to look like yours soon?” she asked, “If you keep playing with them like that?” she added hopefully.

I nodded. “I’m sure they will, hon. And they may even grow bigger than mine,” I added.

“Will yours grow bigger yet, too?” she wanted to know.

“Maybe,” I responded. “But my mom’s were small like mine, so I’m not really sure.”

“My mommy’s are big and they bounce all around when I play with them,” she giggled.

“Your mom lets you play with her boobies?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

“Yes, and it’s so much fun to see them jiggle,” she said. “And she even let’s me suck on them, too,” she told me proudly.

She cupped one of mine in her tiny hand and tried to jiggle it around but without success. “Mine are too small to bounce, sweetie,” I explained somewhat ruefully.

“What if I kiss them like you did mine? Would that help make them grow bigger?” she asked shyly. Now I ask you, can you see me refusing an offer like that?

“It might,” I winked at her with a smile. And needing no further encouragement she immediately stuck out her tongue and started to lick the dark brown, wrinkled nipple of my left breast. Then, copying what I’d done to her, she closed her mouth around it and sucked it like a baby. I shut my eyes, moaning softly, telling her how good it felt. Spurred on by my encouragement she sucked even harder and my hand then automatically increased the range of the caresses I was administering to her chest, circling down lower over her soft tummy, squeezing it gently as her mouth and tongue aroused me even further. My hand continued its downward journey and eventually met the waistband of her panties under her pyjama top. Debating whether to slide under the silky material or not I elected to move my hand down over her panties until I was cupping her prominent mound beneath, squeezing it softly, causing her to almost bite my nipple as this new sensation overtook her.

She pulled back from my breast and looked at me, a glazed expression on her face as I ran a finger gently between her lubricating lips through her panties. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “That makes me feel so kinda funny. Like I gotta pee or something.” I kissed her softly on her pretty mouth.

“No, sweetie, you don’t have to pee,” I explained. “That’s just the feeling that big girls get when they play with each other like that.”

“But I’m not a big girl yet,” she stammered, still unsure of what she was beginning to feel.

“Do you want me to stop then?” I asked her.

“N-no. It makes me feel so good, but like funny.” And with that she pushed back harder against my hand as if to assure me that it was okay for me to continue. Not needing any more encouragement than that I once again began to caress her hot little pussy through her silky panties and leaned down to kiss her again, this time not pulling away from her sweet lips, but opening them slightly so that my tongue could begin to explore her mouth even more. She kissed me back even harder and my hand felt her panties becoming damp from my caresses as she started to squirm a little in my lap. Pulling the crotch of her panties aside I now felt the soft wetness of her delicate lips on my fingers for the first time as I slid one gently between them. She was so wet and slippery and I could feel her little button becoming hard. Our kisses became even more intense now as I fingered her sweet pussy, soon managing to slip the tip of my index finger inside her tight vagina up to the first knuckle, feeling the soft silkiness of her now soaking little treasure. At that moment she squealed and stopped kissing me, snuggling her head firmly against my shoulder, her mouth against my neck, urging her pussy harder against my probing hand.

“Ohhh, Gloria!” she cried. “Please, don’t stop, that feels…oh…so good…I…ohh…” She didn’t have to worry – I wasn’t about to stop. Her hot breath came in short, quick bursts against the side of my neck as she alternately whimpered and squealed, squirming urgently against my probing finger, her arms wrapped tightly around me. When her orgasm finally hit her she froze, and except for the slight, uncontrolled spasming of her hips it was as if I were holding onto a statue – a very hot and sweaty statue. I held her lovingly until she started to breathe again. Slowly she released her stranglehold from around my neck and drew back looking in wondrous confusion into my eyes.

“W-what happened to me?” she half whispered. “I never felt anything like that before.”

I brushed back the hair from her eyes and smiled. “You had your first orgasm, sweetie,” I told her.

“My first what?” she asked, her eyes widening in amazement.

“Orgasm,” I repeated. “That’s what big girls have when they play with themselves, or when someone else plays with them like I did with you. Did you like it?”

“It felt like I was going to explode or something,” she told me. “But I didn’t want it to stop. No, I mean, I couldn’t stop. It felt like waves going through me…like…” she trailed off.

I giggled. “That’s a pretty good way to describe it, sweetie,” I said. “It’s hard to put into words how good it feels.”

“Does that mean I’m a big girl now too, then?” she asked. She smiled big when I nodded yes.

And I remember how she looked when I finally put her into bed that evening – such a contented, glowing expression on her sweet face. As I bent down to kiss her goodnight she asked if we could do it again next time I babysat her. I told her yes, and much more too. She was asleep almost immediately. And yes, we did much more the next time. But that’s another story.

Now, five years later, here I was dreaming about what might happen next Sunday, when Amanda and Kayla came to visit. Somehow I sensed it might turn out to be a little more than just a thong fitting session. I sure hoped so.

Continue on to Chapter 3

By Eva

{ This story was originally posted at Lesbian Lolita in December 2007 }

In summer the beach at Drifton Bay was crowded with people. Tourists, people on holiday. Noisy and frantic and unlovely.

For the rest of the year, outside those four months or so, it was empty and that was the way Sonia Miller preferred it. The great expanse of pure, bleached sand all to herself, the ocean rolling its endless waves just for her pleasure. No crowds, no one interrupting her thoughts. Even the distant crash of the rollers and the surf breaking on the shoreline was soothing. Reassuring in its own way, as if the world was always there and always unhurried. It gave her time to herself to think.

And she thought about many things in the quiet contemplation of winter and early spring, wondering not least of all why her work as an artist had become stale. Puzzling over why her work as one of the country’s foremost landscape and seascape artists had seemed to her to be flat and uninspired. She had already postponed a forthcoming major exhibition, citing family stresses as to the reason she couldn’t complete a half-dozen new canvasses.

But it wasn’t the family. Sonia’s son and daughter – and especially her ex-husband – all left her alone. They never visited her house perched on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. Not outside summer at any rate. It wasn’t depressing in itself – Sonia had faced worse – but it was lonely at times and when she had doubts about her work, as she seemed to have often these days, then she wondered what lay ahead. The woman said to the one true friend she had, Christine Morris, that she needed a new direction in her life. Christine wasn’t sure what that would be. But then, neither was Sonia. You need a break, said Christine. Look at things anew after a break.

I’m forty two, argued Sonia. I’ve been painting for twenty three years. It was all those hours painting that cost me my marriage and alienated from my family and friends are hard to find out here on the “coast. It’s my fault, she said bitterly.

No, said Christine: Larry was a fool. The kids are selfish. So-called friends are fickle. You just need a break.

Sonia agreed and gave herself a break. Three months she had been waiting for inspiration and a way to stop her work being repetitive. Her agent Molly didn’t like what Sonia was doing, or agreed it was necessary. But Molly Harper was paid by paintings sold, and sales could never be anything when Sonia’s brushes had virtually dried up. The demand for the woman’s paintings would gradually wane. Some new artist would grab the attention in the vacuum the artist had left. That was inevitable in the world of art, and it worried Molly. She may get famous after she was dead as so many artists had, but Sonia needed to pay bills now. She needed the reassurance her work was selling.

Molly didn’t have an artist on her books as well-known, or as productive, as Sonia so she was getting anxious. The agent called every other day, to see how things were, asking when the woman might start painting again.

Sonia was glad today she was out breathing the clear, fresh sea air, away from the studio. Away from the phone. Molly may call but she wouldn’t be coming in person if she could help it. Only rarely the 58 year old female came out here to the coast: she was a city woman more used to the pace and the bustle of urban life. The emptiness, as she called it, troubled her. But money was money and even this early in the morning no doubt Molly would be trying to call, perhaps no longer asking if Sonia felt better today. Just asking when she might pick up a brush and start her work going.

It still wasn’t going anywhere, Sonia knew. The brushes remained untouched, the tubes of paint unsqueezed. The vision dulled.

Alone on the beach, the woman walked alone by the water’s edge, idly looking for interesting shaped driftwood cast on the shore by last night’s storm. It wasn’t that she needed the wood for her work but her studio was full of it. Gnarled and twisted branches mostly, bleached by sun and salt-water – grotesque shapes that reminded her of vague, dark thoughts. People writhing in agony, she thought sometimes.

Dreamwood, she called her collection. Or Nightwood, when the light caught it at different times of the day and the shapes looked like figures twisting and stretched in some primitive pain. Reaching out and begging for release.

Occasionally Sonia glanced up from the wet, flat sand at the rolling waves, so much calmer than a few hours ago. But storms here on this stretch of coast were like that: they could rise quickly and calm almost as soon as they began. That was why here – unlike twenty miles down the coast – there were no yachts or speedboats. Amateur and inexperienced sailors suspected they should keep away from this bay, these cliffs. Professional sailors knew to keep away.

Among the flotsam and jetsam littering the high waterline there was something unusual, a pale mound of something. Sonia stopped and stared. It was something she hadn’t seen before. Not seaweed, or the usual washed up junk. Not even a twisted branch. This was a body, a child’s body, curled up.

The body of a girl, her face hidden by long black hair. A naked body, her almost white skin dry but blotched where sea salt had dried on her, seaweed clinging to her like she had been created by the gods of the deep.

The woman bent over the pathetic looking bundle of flesh, feeling both a pang of anguish that she should find the body of someone who had drowned and a certain intrigue as to this strangest of finds. Though she painted landscapes and seascapes she was familiar with life and death in nature. Plants and animals grew and died here where land and sea met. Sonia’s her best work tried to capture those moments of hope and change, but she had never seen death like this close up. Not a dead human.

But the body wasn’t cold to the woman’s tentative touch. The child had warmth, and stirred faintly under her fingers. A faint moan escaped the girl. Sonia cast round, to see if there was help even though she didn’t expect to see anyone else on this lonely beach. She was, as always, completely alone.

Sonia knew that naked the girl would die without warmth and protection. Without a second’s thought, Sonia decided that she should take the child to her home. Years of carrying driftwood up from the beach had kept her in condition and the woman hoisted the child up in her arms and hurried across the sand and to the stairs.

Once she got the girl in her house Sonia carried her to the guest bedroom to lay the girl on the bed, but she didn’t cover her up. For a few minutes she stood staring down, taking in the sight of the girl. For the first time the artist was absorbing the look of the girl. She was about twelve, with small, high mounds for breasts and, all too obviously, no hair at her sex: just a little pink slit showing where her legs were apart. She even, when the hair was brushed from her face, looked attractive with a nice shaped nose and full lips. A little makeup, her hair combed through and she would look beautiful enough to kiss and hold…

Heart pounding, Sonia jumped up with shock at her unbidden thoughts. Why would she think this? She wasn’t gay – she wasn’t anything. She was a painter, about to be a failed painter. She had never (unlike several of her contemporaries in London) been to bed with another female. There was no political agenda in her, no feminist cause, no ambitions to turn over the norms of society. She had no wish to challenge anything.

But this girl was beautiful and Sonia’s staid and self-doubting world shattered as she looked at her and a pulse grew in her deepest, hottest place.

—

Sonia called the girl Driftwood, almost from the start. She called her that in her mind as she carried the naked girl up from the beach. She knew, in some instinctive way, that the black-haired, beautiful child would be a stranger. A foreign girl, unable to speak English. She didn’t try to talk to her when she fed her, never attempted to explain anything. Not even her name. The girl for her part seemed content to be naked, happy to lie on the bed. Sometimes she would stand on the bed and stare out of the angled roof window for hours at the sea and the sky, sometimes watching the rain fall and the rivulets run down the glass, lost in thoughts. But she never tried to leave even this room, never seemed to be in any hurry to do anything. She ate in her room, politely and silently as Sonia watched, and always finished everything put in front of her. She was pale, but her colour improved over those important first few days.

At night Sonia locked the door to the guest room. Not because she wanted to keep the girl a prisoner, but because she didn’t want to lose her. As far as Sonia knew, the girl never tried the door. She was happy to just be there. Sonia would go into the room and look at the girl as she slept, and when the girl woke sometimes the artist would talk to her, though the naked girl never responded with a word, though sometimes she smiled as if she recognised a word or sound. It was cathartic for Sonia, being able to unburden herself: she talked about her divorce, the disappointment she felt in her children, the pressures of having to keep on painting when she felt burnt out. the loneliness of her life, and the girl never spoke back and listened as if in awe.

Twice a day Sonia took Driftwood to the bathroom and bathed her, always with while she used the toilet (which the girl did without embarrassment) and then lay soaking in the bath. Sonia would wash the girl’s long black hair, wash her back and front and especially between the child’s legs, carefully soaping and washing and rubbing gently. Driftwood would lie back with her eyes closed, a purr in her throat. Sonia also spent time gently feeling the girl’s small breasts and tenderly washing them clean. Repeatedly washing them, as if fascinated by their shape and youth. The girl, for her part, made no effort to stop her and even (and this pulsed more in Sonia’s sex) seemed to be eagerly pushing her chest forward for the touch of Sonia’s fingers, spread her legs wide for the caress of the bath sponge and Sonia’s long, strong fingers.

Sonia knew she may never, unless she taught the girl her language, be able to find out her name and where she was from. Never know what sequence of events would have brought the child to the brink of death and rescue, what fates deposited her on this lonely beach. Sonia scoured the news in the days following the discovery, as the child recovered in the guest room. She was looking for a story about slave-trading and illegal smuggling of foreigners into the country, looking for anything about a shipwreck off the coast of Drifton Bay or news of an air-sea search.

There was nothing, and Sonia – despite being troubled by guilt at hiding an illegal immigrant – called no one. She didn’t tell her agent when Molly called, either. Driftwood was to be her secret, and to preserve their secret world Sonia unplugged the telephone.

The girl was a gift for Sonia from the sea. Driftwood had been washed ashore for herself, and Sonia was not in any hurry to share her good fortune. At night, when she tucked the pre-teen into the bed with clean sheets, she would stroke the girl’s hair and run her hands over the child’s face, and then down under the sheets to feel those perfect little breasts, and then daring herself, reach down further to the girl’s flat little belly and down between the preteen’s open legs and caress the slit. Driftwood never complained, never brought her hand up to push Sonia away. But on the fourth night, the girl moved her hand to hold Sonia’s hand against her immature sex, and looked up into her eyes.

That was when they kissed for the first time, as naturally and as easily as two long-term lovers might. That was the night when Sonia stood and took off her clothes (for the first time before Driftwood) in front of the girl and let the child see in the fleeting moonlight through the high window, the swell of Sonia’s own body, see the shape of the 42 year old woman’s breasts and the weight she wanted the girl to feel.

They did not sleep much that night, and though a storm sprang up and rain and wind rattled the window above them, they made love as if it was what they should have done all along. What they had always done, with the girl happy to kiss the lips of Sonia’s sex, put her tongue into the sweet-tasting, juice-laden folds, suck and nibble Sonia’s long nipples, and finally as an act of total giving, the girl slid between Sonia’s own open legs and without going to the woman’s cunt, put her young strong tongue into Sonia’s back passage and reamed her with devotion. Love, almost.

They breakfasted the next morning naked, looking at the sea through the large window by the dining table, their chairs close together so they could touch and kiss and feel each other the way they had all night. They spent the day naked, alone to the world, laughing without speaking. Sonia wondered if the girl was dumb, but apart from a moan when fingered or sucked or licked, apart from a purr in the girl’s throat when held and handled, Driftwood made no sound apart from her young, light laughing. She concluded Driftwood was not dumb and could speak if she wanted, so what then she mused might be the first word she would teach her?

Whatever it might be, it could wait, until Sonia needed to talk. And she had no need at the moment: the sea and the sky and the soft moans of pleasure from the lips of this beautiful child were enough.

Sometimes, as Driftwood stood at the window, watching the sea and sky, Sonia would lie on the bed so the child stood over her, legs apart. Sonia would reach up, left hand at the child’s slit, working her fingers into the girl while her right hand stroked the perfect shape of Driftwood’s bottom cheeks, toying and lingering in the smooth valley, pushing against the tight little anal muscle until it relaxed and let her fingertip in. And the girl would sigh quietly and watch the world outside dreamily as she was fingered and explored and brought to pleasure’s peak. Like a wave breaking on the shoreline.

But the change in Sonia was in her work too. Rejuvenated, Sonia picked up her brushes and colours again, for when Driftwood saw the paintings the woman had done and unbidden, lay down among the agonised, twisted bleached wood, draping herself open. Standing naked herself in front of her easel, Sonia felt free and open. She worked with renewed enthusiasm, the girl happily lying back as if born to be a model. Unmoving and relaxed, Driftwood allowed Sonia to paint her portrait – a full length portrait of the girl naked and legs apart with one hand over her slit as if about to play with herself, her nipples hard and swollen with anticipation of sex. Eyes wide and on the viewer, at once inviting someone to draw close and showing herself. Showing her young perfection.

It was when the portrait was finished, three days later (three long days interrupted by making love on the studio floor, or in the bath, or across the dining table in view of the sea and sky) Sonia said to Driftwood something she had thought was foreign to her. Three words in fact: “I love you.”

Driftwood smiled and said nothing back. In the absence of words, they brought each other to a shattering orgasm with their tongues deep in each other’s slits, the older woman tasting the child’s wetness, the twelve year old lapping up Sonia’s torrent of cum.

—

Sonia would have painted like a demon possessed from then on, but lovemaking got in the way, as did Christine. Five years younger than her friend Sonia – a woman who once had tried to paint herself but given up for the lure of men – she arrived on Driftwood’s eleventh day, someone from the outside who Sonia had all but forgotten.

The woman stood at Sonia’s door and blinked at Sonia, who had dragged an old dressing gown around her when she had gone to answer the knock. “Are you okay? You’re not ill? We were so worried… the phone wasn’t working. And you won’t have a computer so we couldn’t email you. Sometimes you’re so selfish, Sonia – you never think about anyone but yourself. Oh it’s so good to see you well.” The words of relief and accusation tumbled out from Christine. Then, she said, seeing the flush in her friend’s face: “Are you alone?”

“No,” said Sonia. “Not any more.”

Sonia would have sent anyone else away, but she let Christine in, escorted into the house and showed her Driftwood, naked among the driftwood in the studio, a half-finished painting on the easel. A painting of a naked girl rubbing a piece of bleached, smooth but gnarled wood against her hairless crotch. Masturbating with nature’s cast-offs.

“This,” said Sonia with pride in her voice, “is my lover and my inspiration. Her name’s Driftwood. I found her on the beach, washed up for me, and I just want to be with her.”

Christine stared and gulped at the sight, and the way Sonia dropped her dressing gown to reveal her nakedness. For the wont of something to say, she whispered: “But… you’re painting again.”

Sonia laughed. “With a passion,” she said, and resumed her work.

—

The three of them were in bed, finished with climbing on top of each other, with licking and sucking and pleasuring each other. Fingers and tongues inside and around and wet, soft sexes pressed to each other. Christine was exhilarated: she had never experienced a woman’s caress before and though she was clumsy and hurried, Sonia was patient as her friend discovered the joys of oral sex, the way a woman could put her fingers in you and make you cum. Driftwood was patient too, yelping just a little when Christine carelessly bit the folds of her labia too hard, and allowed Christine to do anything she wanted – which soon enough was everything.

“I had no idea,” said Sonia’s friend as they shared breakfast the next morning, leaving Driftwood asleep on the bed, as if exhausted by all she had to do into the small hours. Sonia was naked of course, but Christine had put on her underwear – still not at ease with showing off her body even though both her friend and the girl in bed had got to know every inch, every hole. “I had no idea what it was like to… you know.”

“I know,” said Sonia, “and I didn’t know until she arrived.”

“It seems like a dream,” said Christine, staring out to the sea. “Who is she? You must have some idea.”

“No idea,” said Sonia. “And in a way I don’t want to. If I knew I would feel different. I mean, she’s twelve. Possibly thirteen, but in any event she’s under age. You see, if I don’t know about her I can’t feel guilty. If I don’t know her name, about her, she only exists for me. She might have family somewhere, someone who loves her as much as I do. Or there are people who own her. Perhaps she was a slave of some kind, an illegal immigrant destined for some brothel. Any knowledge of her might make me look deeper, start asking questions I don’t want to know the answers to. I might try to do something and it would all fall apart without me meaning it to.”

“Like how?”

“I have no idea… I just want this to be perfect. As it is.”

Christine could see the studio from where they sat, the unfinished painting of Driftwood masturbating, already a deep-seated pleasure on her pretty face. “Your paintings – you’ve done four now, well will have when that one’s done. I can imagine a collection of your work at a gallery, people wanting to buy your work again.”

“But then people would know,” said Sonia with a sigh. “Driftwood would be public knowledge. She would be seen and people would connect her with me and my home.”

“No criminal gang is going to go into a gallery and start to think–”

“But I’d know.” Sonia looked grim. “I’d feel bad about her being seen and people knowing it was me who had used Driftwood as a model. They might want to come here and then they might see her. Someone might wonder how I got a model like her, then they’d take her away from me.”

Christine thought for a minute. “There is another way.”

“For what? Another way to lose Driftwood?”

“No, to make money from your paintings, to stay alone with her. When I painted, I used to do nudes. I could pretend I’d done them, and when they sold – as they will – I’d give you the money.”

“But it isn’t your style.”

Christine smiled. “Fifteen years away from painting has given me time to develop a new style, right? I sign these paintings, have them shown… if anyone asks about the model I say it’s a woman I know. But the thing is, Driftwood isn’t at my home: if anyone wanted to go there there’s nothing to hide because there’s no one else at my place.” Sonia’s friend grinned. “It’s a way of getting you money to live on, safe with Driftwood here on the coast.”

Sonia looked at Christine. “And your reward?”

“I get to come here every so often, for a lesbian holiday. Oh, and pick up a few canvasses to take back.”

Sonia nodded. Driftwood emerged from the bedroom, naked as always, her slim child-like hips swaying and the merest tremble in the small mounds that were her breasts, her hairless slit all too obvious and tempting. Her long black hair shining and healthy about her naked, slender shoulders. Driftwood looked every bit the twelve-year old, a girl who wouldn’t grow much more. Skinny and pale but sensuous. Driftwood smiled at the two women she had made love to last night, first bending to kiss Sonia and reach down and caress the woman’s naked breasts and then moving over to Christine to sit on the younger woman’s knee and kiss her too, tugging at Christine’s bra as if to say ‘we don’t allow clothes here.’

The bra came off and Sonia watched her friend and her little lover kiss and cuddle and Christine’s hands slip up into the girl’s sex. She tore her eyes away and stared out at the ocean and the sky, wondering if there were any more out there like Driftwood. But one was enough for them both, and Sonia stood and went round to where the woman and the girl were playing with each other’s cunts and joined in with fingers worming into back passages so the two of them gasped and smiled.

Sonia would look for driftwood later perhaps, but she had Driftwood in her hands now and couldn’t think of anything better.