Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

by Shy Mom

I miss swimming and spinning, in that order. Our nearby YMCA, where I’ve exercised for years, has been closed, due to the pandemic. While my dear little girls have been keeping my tummy, ass, and cunt tight with a doubling (at least) of daily orgasms, I find myself missing the diverse community one finds at the Y.

If you were to observe my regular visits, you might find it surprising that I feel any connection with people there. An introvert by nature, I keep mostly to myself in public, including in spin classes and at the pool.

To be sure, I come out of that shell for my third-grade girls, who expect and deserve affection and vivacity from their teacher and look on me as a surrogate mother. For their sake, I can also put on a show for their parents—though I certainly never anticipated the kind that Genette enticed me into perform during our extremely lewd Zoom session.

Within the bounds of our Catholic school dress code, I enjoy modeling provocative styles and fashions for my little ladies. There is no rule, for example, against form-fitting blouses and pencil skirts. Nor is there one against thongs, g-strings, or going completely bare below to keep my backside smooth, especially when I lean over a desk to assist a student with her lesson.

At the Y, I could indulge in this seemingly contradictory urge to keep to myself and expose my body. Perhaps my predilection for exhibitionism is rooted in vanity, and I admit to taking pride in my figure after three decades and two daughters. But I believe my motives are simpler and purer.

I abhor selfishness, and keeping something beautiful to oneself, like caging a butterfly, seems a crime against nature. Bringing a smidgen of joy to those who find beauty in my body makes our corner of the world happier for all concerned, if only for a brief while. I don’t think I’m alone in my views, as I’ve shared smiles with other lovely women—and sometimes little girls—with whom I’ve exchanged looks of mutual admiration.

There are three things I enjoyed about spin class, none of which was spinning itself, which is grueling. First, I liked the results. A firm ass and taut legs are features a woman my age can no longer take for granted. Second, I liked the instructor, Carly. True, she inflicted escalating degrees of pain as our sessions progressed, and did so with an inhuman level of good cheer. I couldn’t hold a grudge against her, however, as she put in as much effort as she demanded from us. Moreover, she was stunning. As Carly rode her cycle, her ass flexed in a mesmerizing tempo, and her shapely boobs bounced in time.

She was among the women with whom I exchanged appreciative glances at the Y, which leads to my third reason for enjoying spin class: the opportunity to put myself on display. I always arrived early to take a bicycle in the front row. My favorite bikes were just to the right or left of Carly, where I got a prime view down her sports bra and, from the wall mirror behind her, a fine reflection of her ass. Spinning from the front row also allowed me to show off my own curves and crevices—revealed more than hidden by the skintight workout wear I favored—to those ladies who always seemed to pick spots behind me when they worked out.

Swimming has always been a favored form of exercise for me. The sense of weightlessness and freedom as the cool watercourses past while caressing every inch of my body… it’s a pleasure unmatched by anything else that burns calories and tones muscles—except fucking, of course. What especially enhances the joy of swimming is the opportunity to expose myself.

The Y, of course, was a family establishment, and the dress code for the pool area expressly forbade “thong bikinis.” I happily complied with the letter of the rule, which made no mention of one-piece swimsuits. Accordingly, I bought an attractive one-piece with a thong-cut in every available hue—white, aqua, violet, and my favorite, watermelon. Though a small would have suited, I got mine in extra-small for the curve-hugging, crevice-invading fit.

What makes these swimsuits especially racy is their fabric, which turns sheer when it gets wet. From experience, as I shall relate, I can attest that the thin material does not distinguish between chlorinated water and a juicy cunt.

In all my years at the Y, I never heard a single complaint against my swimwear. Instead, I frequently felt eyes on me as I climbed in and out of the lap pool. I was happy to linger for anyone who wanted a glimpse, especially female patrons. They ranged from seniors getting daily exercise, to mothers keeping in shape, to high schoolers improving lap times. Their interest in me seemed to vary, from intrigue or admiration to envy or lust.

Perhaps my greatest fans were the teenage lifeguards, all of whom were girls. One of them, a lithesome sixteen-year-old named Gwen, had actually been a third-grader in my class. Back then, the blonde still had quite a bit of baby fat, but puberty and swimming had transformed her into someone whom I might have recognized in my own mirror during my high school days. When I did the backstroke past the lifeguard perch, I occasionally caught Gwen hastily crossing her legs. Sometimes I wondered if she might be willing to moonlight as a babysitter.

***

Reminiscing on my displays at the Y inspired me one evening to suggest a fashion show as our family activity. Like most little girls, mine loved dressing up, so they jumped at the proposal. I had plenty of swimwear and lingerie to go around, most of it so skimpy that the size wouldn’t matter.

I’d done this kind of thing before, back in college. Every year, my sorority put on a hugely popular fashion show as a fundraiser for a local women’s shelter, but the ones we held for ourselves, in the sworn privacy of our sorority house, were the most memorable. They were also the wildest.

At those events, we modeled sexy party dresses, daring swimsuits, and racy lingerie. Because we all pitched in to help each other look our best, the shows were a feast for the eyes. Often, girls would pair up to walk down the runway, teasing each other and their audience with kissing, groping, and sometimes more as the alcohol flowed and the catcalling swelled.

As a new pledge, it surprised me at first that my sorority sisters seemed to have dirtier minds and mouths than most men, but I soon became as naughty as they were. I supposed my libido was fanned from living among so many sweet and desirable girls, whom I grew to love as family.

One evening, Alyssa and I were on the runway when we gave our sorority even more to see. Of course, there were no secrets within our tight-knit community, so it was common knowledge that the two of us were an item. The hooting and hollering predictably rose when we strutted down our improvised catwalk, two blondes in scanty bras and g-strings. At the end of the runway, we locked lips in a sizzling kiss and rubbed tits, then flossed each other’s asses with the g-strings. For the coup de grace, we fingered one another and, as cheers erupted, fed one another our honey. On the way out, our bare bottoms got plenty of affectionate slaps, then we practically raced back to our room and fucked like cats in heat.

Now, as I collected an armful of titillating swimwear and lingerie, I was anticipating how far my little girls and I would take our mother-daughter fashion show.

***

Ashley and Olivia sat side by side on the plush velvet sofa in our living room. They wore matching white terry robes—gifts from Genette, the same style Bella had worn during our parent-teacher Zoom. In return, I’d given the Flambeau family three lacy green thongs, imagining how the color would complement their auburn hair. That was when we shed our clothes and came together in a two-family lesbian sex party that lasted for hours. Maybe I’ll share that story with the world one day.

In our adjacent kitchen, which served as the staging area, I got ready for my part of the show. Our plan called for me to model three outfits before turning over the floor to the girls, and to keep our choices a secret, to heighten the anticipation. For my first round, I chose my one-piece swimsuit in white.

Slipping into character, I strutted into the living room like a model, placing one leg in front of the other, hips swaying. My daughters’ eyes lit up as I paraded back and forth. Pausing in front of the girls, I stopped to present my thong-cut backside, then cupped and shook it for them.

OIivia and Ashley squealed in delight. I blew kisses over my shoulder, which they blew back, their puckered lips both girlish and sexy in the hot pink lip gloss I’d selected for them.

Because my daughters didn’t go with me to the Y, they had no idea that my swimsuit turned sheer when damp, and the prospect of exposing myself that way aroused me no end. Extending a finger to each of their luscious mouths, I instructed, “Get them nice and wet for me.”

A tingle ran through me as the girls coated my fingers with their warm saliva. They sighed when I withdrew, stared when I coated my nipples through the swimsuit, and gasped when they saw the effect that had.

“I didn’t know they made those!” exclaimed Ashley.

“I want one!” Olivia announced.

I laughed. “Well, if you’re good—or maybe bad—I’ll let you borrow mine when you’re big enough.” I could imagine a teenage Olivia turning heads in it, especially mine.

Then, like a late-night commercial, I added, “But wait! There’s more…”

The girls watched as I pulled up the high-waisted front panel. It stretched snugly against my vulva, bringing the folds of my moist sex into vivid relief.

I ran a finger up my slit, then wafted it under my daughters’ noses. Olivia opened her mouth expectantly, like a little bird, and Ashley lunged for that finger like she was trying to bite it. I drew my hand back just in time, and licked it myself. The girls made faces and protested, but it was all good fun.

Taking one last sexy stroll through the living , I bowed and exited.

Next, I put on a black “slingkini.” If you’ve never encountered one, it consists of a small patch just big enough to conceal my shaved cunt. From that tiny bit of material, one string runs up my ass crack and over my spine, then divides into two and wraps around my body, leading to a pair of even tinier patches that cover my nipples (but nothing else) before plunging down to hold up the pubic patch from the front. I should add that nearly every move I make causes the immodest patch down below to wriggle a bit into my cleft.

On a dare, I once modeled this swimsuit for my sorority sisters, but had never mustered the courage to flaunt it in public, even with my exhibitionist streak. I was pleased that my body still showed to good advantage in the slingkini, which made me feel sexier than going completely nude.

Taking a breath, I entered the living room. My daughters were spellbound at the sight. I prowled in front of them, feeling as wicked as I looked. Stopping in front of the sofa, I paused to stroke my nipples through the gauze-thin fabric, making them even stiffer than they already were. The girls squealed and applauded in approval.

I turned around and spread my legs. Then, I bent over slowly, sliding my hands down my limbs as I thrust my ass up. I couldn’t see the girls’ faces, but heard their inhaled breaths as the rear string bisected my bottom.

The suddenly familiar position triggered a flashback to my college days: Alyssa behind me, on the floor of my sorority bedroom, her face buried in my upturned ass, devouring my cunt with such hunger that I was sure she’d eat right through me.

Burning with that memory, I bowed and made my second exit.

In the kitchen, I furiously pawed myself to a quick orgasm, then downed a swig of ice water. After recovering my breath, I stripped off the slingkini and reentered the living room for my big finish.

The girls gawked at me quizzically, for I wore nothing but a smile. As they took in my nakedness, however, their looks of confusion turned into stares of longing.

I was pleased that my body produced the desired effect, but I was far from done. I had one more surprise, a lewd little secret to reveal. Standing before my daughters, I raised an eyebrow to get their attention. I had it, of course, one hundred percent.

Lowering myself into a squat, I reached down with one hand to spread my lips wide, exposing the maw of my cunt. My daughters gaped. With the other hand, I reached into my vagina and delicately pulled out a pink string that gradually grew into a thong. The fabric was dripping wet.

I’d never witnessed such wonder on my girls’ faces. It was like Christmas morning, and after all their unwrapping, I conjured one more present out of thin air. Except this present came from my cunt.

“See girls? I did have something to show after all.”

Ashley found her voice first. “How …”

“It was there the whole time. Soaking in my juices.”

“Wow …” Olivia breathed. Her lips were still parted, so I offered her the thong, bringing it closer to my little girl’s face.

My impulse surprised me as much as it did Olivia. Her eyes bulged almost out of their sockets. But she got over that right away, opening her mouth even wider so that I could feed her my soaked undies. When the taste of my pussy hit her, she started sucking greedily at the wet material.

Ashley looked on with longing.

“Olivia, dear,” I said gently. “Share that with your sister?”

My sweet girl nodded, and began to take the thong out of her mouth. I had a different idea, though. Enfolding Ashley and Olivia in my arms, I brought them together for a kiss.

Their lips touched tenderly at first, but soon their kissing became open-mouthed and urgent as they shared my flavor between them. I could not envision a better way of ending my part of the show, unless I joined my children in a three-way kiss. So I did.

After the g-string had been sucked clean, we drifted apart, exchanging lustful glances. I was ravenous for sex, and sensed the same hunger in my girls. But before we gave in to our mutual desire, I reminded them that we still had their half of our fashion show to enjoy. With their thoughts turned, they bounded out of the room excitedly.

I sat naked, waiting for the girls to reappear, the blanket I’d thoughtfully draped over the sofa earlier damp with my anticipation.

After much shuffling and giggling in the kitchen, my daughters bounced back in … still in the same terry cloth robes they had been wearing when they left the room.

It was my turn to look quizzical. But, like my final outfit, theirs proved to be more than meets the eye.

The girls danced in front of me, attempting to sway their hips in a seductive way. However, their inability to move in unison and outbursts of tittering tickled my funny bone more than my cunt. Still, I took delight in their joy, knowing they would appease my lust before very long.

So they did. At a signal from Ashley, the girls slowly lifted their robes, which fell about mid-thigh. As the juncture of their thighs were revealed, I caught glimpses of white little-girl panties—the same kind Olivia wore on the night that lit our incestuous relationship.

No surprise, their panties were visibly wet. My desire to slip those adorable underpants down and taste my little girls now seemed as natural as basking in their sweet scent when we hugged. Once again, I was amazed by how radically our lives had changed in these months of quarantine.

“Mommy loves our panties,” Olivia remarked, more to her sister than me. “It made her wet when she saw mine.”

“Indeed it did,” I admitted.

“Are you wet now, Momma?” asked Ashley.

In answer, I spread my cunt for them to see.

“She is!” Olivia exclaimed.

“You too,” I laughed, glancing from one crotch to the other.

Their act wasn’t over. Turning around, their robes still lifted, the sisters shook their booties, again more in silliness than seduction. Ashley grasped the waistband of Olivia’s panties and tugged them up until they were nestled in her crack like a thong, then presented her rump to a giggling Olivia, who returned the favor. Their exposed cheeks taunted me, cried out to be spanked. Not hard, mind you—just enough to tease.

Going down on her knees, Ashley smooched her little sister’s left buttock, the lipstick she wore leaving a glossy pink kiss mark. When she got to her feet, Olivia once again imitated her big sister, enthusiastically branding Ashley on the right cheek. Then they turned away from me and pushed their hips together—putting their lip prints on their bottoms side by side, as if they were kissing.

The girls spun around and bowed. I clapped and cheered as they skipped out of the room.

A couple of minutes later, the winsome pair paraded back into the room, still in their robes. They got into position in front of me, Ashley directly behind Olivia. At a signal from Ashley, the girls swayed in opposite directions and waved their arms, an imitation of dances we’d seen in Bollywood films. I had to applaud.

Next, Ashley wrapped arms around Olivia from behind, groping her flat chest. I’ve enjoyed being on the giving and receiving end of this particular move, but hadn’t imagined how arousing it would be when performed by little girls.

“Like how that feels, Olivia?” I asked, my voice thick with arousal.

“Yes, Mommy,” she replied, wriggling against her sister.

Then, like parting curtains, Ashley unfurled the front of Olivia’s robe. Above, she was topless, and below, wearing only a micro-bottom in highlighter yellow that barely cupped her pouty lips. My breath caught at the tantalizing sight.

The girls switched places and again went into their dance. At the end, without as much ceremony, Olivia pulled open Ashley’s robe. My ten-year-old wore the matching top of the micro-bikini, the tiny triangles barely covering her preadolescent bumps. But it was what I saw below that riveted me.

Ashley wore nothing but honey-blonde wisps of hair. Barely more than peach fuzz, they garnished her pussy as perfectly as chocolate shavings on a Michelin-starred dessert. I wanted to gobble her up.

Instead, gazing at my daughter’s cunt, I masturbated even harder.

Taking Olivia’s little hands in hers, Ashley covered her sex. She smiled mischievously as I pouted in disappointment.

The girls took their bows, tittering as they ran out.

From the kitchen, Ashley called, “Get out your phone, Mommy!” It was already beside me on the sofa, but I put it between my legs for easier access before resuming my self-stimulation.

Minutes later, the girls flitted in like fairies, holding hands, their willowy bodies draped in translucent negligees. On me, the lingerie barely covered my ass, but on the girls, the fabric floated ethereally above their knees.

I was reminded of one of my favorite paintings, Botticelli’s Primavera, which I once had the pleasure of viewing in Florence. The vision before me improved on Botticelli’s masterpiece in two key respects: my graces were much younger and more beautiful.

Another departure from Botticelli’s painting was Ashley’s iPhone, which she held as my daughters danced into position before me, giving me a view in profile. Olivia stood in front, legs spread, and Ashley sat on her heels close behind, her face nearly touching Olivia’s bottom. She placed the phone on the floor between her little sister’s legs.

Ashley then made a FaceTime call, which I accepted, my heart aflutter. I was greeted with a perfect upskirt view of my eight-year-old’s pussy.

“God,” I murmured, gazing at the smooth slit on the screen, just inches from my own mature cunt.

“Spread your butt, Olivia,” Ashley instructed. Olivia obeyed, prying her cheeks apart. Without further warning, Ashley began to lick her little sister’s rosebud. Olivia gasped in awe at this loving invasion, then began to tremble.

Fuck. The sight of my younger daughter being rimmed by her older sister was more than I could take. I pumped my cunt furiously with two fingers as I thrust a pinky into my asshole and thumbed my clit. Moments later, I came hard—and surprised myself as well as Olivia by gushing all over the front of her negligee.

My view of that pretty pink slit on the screen was now partly obscured by splatters of cunt juice and pee. I picked up the phone and began to lick it clean.

As I did so, it occurred to me that I was also licking my little girl on the screen. Turning the phone for Olivia to see, I tongued the image of her cunt.

“Oh, Mommy!” Olivia cried. Thrusting both hands between her thighs, she started petting her pussy through the negligee, staring at me with lust-glazed eyes. Ashley held her little sister’s buttocks apart, still licking between them.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” Olivia gasped, as an orgasm shook her small frame.

In my wildest, wickedest dreams, I’d never conjured anything close to the lurid scene taking place before me. It was utterly lewd—yet somehow lovely, too. With a finger in each of my holes, I came again, less wet this time but every bit as satisfying.

Spent, Olivia fell into my arms, and Ashley followed. I hugged both girls warmly, our mingled juices and sweat making the embrace a damp one.

What a fashion show! Even as I luxuriated in our closeness, I eagerly anticipated the after-show party to come.

On to Chapter Seven!

Note from JetBoy: This nine-chapter novel is a sequel of sorts to “Tears of the Sun,” by Purple Les, which introduced her character The Tequila Kid, a young lesbian who works for the Texas Rangers. It’s not absolutely necessary to have read that one first, but doing so will enhance your appreciation of this story. Be warned, however, that there are some spoilers in the new story that give away plot developments of the older one.

***

Thanks to JetBoy.

More than just my editor (to me and so many others), but my sounding board as well. Even, I dare say, a friend. I love that he can suggest that naming a lawman in my story Marshall Tucker might not be a good choice, as it’s already the name of a rock band. Who knew? Well, JetBoy did. We’ve made each other look at, discuss, and learn the oddest things from the history of the West, and I love doing that. The give and take we’ve exchanged over many different points in each chapter makes for a better story, I hope. I know it’s making me a better writer.

by Purple Les

For PoppaBear

The Tequila Kid sat in the saddle, idly rolling a cigarette. Button, her Appaloosa mare, waited patiently, enjoying the shade cast by the row of cottonwood trees where they’d stopped to rest. In the shadows, the horse’s coloring — white, with dark spots — made her difficult to perceive through the dappled sunlight.

The Kid’s eyes were fixed farther down the hill, on the well-traveled road that led to Knuckle Ridge. At the very foot of the hill, another row of cottonwoods stood proudly on the other side of the road. It left a line of shade for a small stretch before the road was fully exposed to the heat of the mid-morning sun.

“Well, girl,” The Kid murmured as she patted the horse’s neck, “I reckon this is as close to a home as I got for now. My Ranger pay should be waitin’ at the bank for me, and we’ll live easy for a spell. You’ll be restin’ up to the livery stable while we’re in Knuckle Ridge. And I’ll be stayin’ with Ann.” The Kid finished with a smile as she flicked a match head alive with her thumbnail, lighting her smoke.

***

Ann was the name that most folks knew her by, but her full moniker was Andromeda Henrietta Purdy. Ann’s parents had been rather advanced in years when they married, and even older when their daughter was born.

Andromeda’s mother had been a nurse, her father an astronomer. They’d come from Philadelphia to the West, seeking clear skies. Knuckle Ridge was where they settled on their way to Wyoming.

Knuckle Ridge got its name from the four fair-sized hills, clumped together so tightly that they resembled the knuckles on a fist. The town was located some seventy or so miles southwest of Austin. The railroad line had a spur that ran from the main track into town. The train came into town once a week, every Friday afternoon at three o’clock, and left every Saturday morning at seven or eight, depending on the amount of livestock or crops that were taken on. The only other transportation in or out was by horseback, or a stagecoach line that came through twice daily.

It was a peaceful town by any standard, clean and prosperous, ideal for Easterners like Franklin and Abigail Purdy, with a hill for Franklin to set up a telescope, so he could study the stars.

The main reason they chose to stay, however, was that Abigail found herself three months pregnant during their journey, and Knuckle Ridge seemed like a fine spot to raise a child.

When the baby arrived, the child was so beautiful that Franklin could think of no better name for her than Andromeda, after the spiral galaxy that was, to him, the loveliest sight in the heavens. Henrietta was for the midwife who had delivered the baby.

Andromeda grew up happy, healthy and bright, a girl who devoured books nearly as fast as she could lay hands on them. Despite her considerable intelligence, she was down to earth in most ways and kind and helpful to her neighbors.

Now twenty-eight, her parents had been dead for seven years. She had known the Tequila Kid for two.

At twenty, Ann had established a library in Knuckle Ridge that she ran. At twenty-four, she took in a ten-year-old orphan boy named Freddie, who was now fourteen. A handsome and pleasant lad, he slept in a spare room at the library, and helped Ann to run it. Freddie also worked for Smitty S. Jones, who owned the town’s newspaper, The Knuckle Ridge Clarion, that came out every two weeks. Between these two enterprises, Freddie had become very literate, a voracious reader like Ann.

Andromeda lived alone in her parents’ house. Her main pastime was hunting out dinosaur bones and fossils. She sold these to museums and universities around the world. The study of dinosaurs was a rapidly growing discipline, and scientists everywhere were clamoring for their remains. Andromeda’s biggest buyer was Edward Drinker Cope, who was consistently pleased by the large variety of fossils, footprints, and bones that Andromeda unearthed and shipped to him.

Andromeda loved roaming the hills and flatlands around Knuckle Ridge, seeking out these ancient relics. That was how she’d met The Tequila Kid.

Ann had been unearthing a large dinosaur skull, whisking the dust from around the piece with a soft-bristled brush when The Kid happened to ride up. Engrossed in her work, she failed to notice the approach of The Kid, who paused to watch, fascinated by the sight of the huge skull.

When The Kid’s horse gently nickered, Andromeda glanced upward. “Oh, hello there! I didn’t hear you ride up,” she said to the stranger, shading her bright hazel eyes from the sun glaring down from behind the rider.

The Kid dismounted from her big bay horse Buttercup, then squatted by the hole, looking down at this auburn-haired woman of medium build and height. The woman’s shape was a pleasure for The Kid to behold, and she felt a familiar stirring between her legs.

“You see,” Andromeda explained, “I’m excavating this dinosaur bone and didn’t hear you approach.”

The Kid responded with, “What’s a dinosaur?”

“Well, it’s a sort of a giant lizard, I suppose you could say. They used to roam the earth in vast quantities.” Frowning slightly, Andromeda studied the skull before her. “This is from the early Permian period, I’m guessing. It’s a very long time ago,” she added, noticing the totally mystified look on the pretty young face looking down at her. Still gazing with interest into those sky blue eyes staring at her, Andromeda continued.  “You see, Texas used to be an ocean. It’s rich in fossilized sea life.”

“Shucks, now,” The Kid answered. “Miss, you might of been out in the sun too long.”

“If you don’t mind coming down here to help me, I could explain it to you better,” Andromeda was surprised to hear herself say.

The Kid slowly nodded. “All right. Just let me fix my horse over by yours, and I’ll be right down.”

While she tied up Buttercup near the other horse attached to a buckboard wagon, The Kid thought, She’s a real nice kind of pretty. Don’t understand what she’s talking about, but I sure do love listening to her. Can’t think of no better way to spend the rest of the day than in a hole with this gal.

Andromeda peered from the top of the hole, her interest growing as she watched this girl, who was dressed like a man and wearing guns.

The Kid walked back over and carefully climbed down into the hole with this equally fascinating woman. While Ann shared her knowledge, she had The Kid help her hoist up the gigantic skull and put it in her wagon.

After that, it seemed completely natural to bring The Kid home with her to clean up and join her for supper.  The Kid was only too happy to accept, and rode Buttercup behind Andromeda’s wagon back into town.

Andromeda had barely paused to draw breath since The Kid rode up on her horse. And though she understood next to nothing that Ann was talking about, The Kid was spellbound by the flood of information that spilled from her lovely looking mouth. Actually, everything about Ann was lovely. She had lengthy auburn hair and large almond-shaped hazel eyes, framed by long dark eyelashes. Her nose was straight and narrow.

The Kid loved Andromeda’s smile, with a slight overbite and a small gap between her two front teeth, a tiny flaw that accented the rest of the young woman‘s features. It made The Kid think of a cute bunny rabbit.

At five feet four, Ann was shorter than The Kid. Her figure was strong, yet soft, ample and feminine, with generous breasts and a shapely ass.

That night, as they finished eating, Ann looked across the candlelit table at the younger woman. “I must say, you are wonderful company… the time has simply flown by. I don’t even believe I got your name, we’ve been talking so much.”

The Kid couldn’t help but smile. So far, just about the only words she’d spoken had been hours ago. The last thing she remembered saying to Andromeda was, ‘Thanks for offerin’ me your hospitality, ma’am. I’ll follow you back to your place on Buttercup, here.’

The Kid extended her hand and said, “I’m the Tequila Kid. My friends just call me Kid.”

Ann took the firm hand in her smaller one and said, “I’m Andromeda Purdy. My friends just call me Ann.” They both smiled and their eyes locked.

The Kid said, “I’m right pleased to meet you, Ann.” Neither woman released the other’s hand.

Still holding Ann’s hand, The Kid said, “I reckon I best find me a place to spend the night. Thanks for learnin’ me so much ‘bout those dinosaurs of yours.”

Ann gripped The Kid’s hand harder at the thought of her new friend leaving. “Why, I can’t let you wander into the night like that! You will spend the night here, most certainly.”

The Kid leaned toward Ann. “I don’t want to put you out none.” Their gaze remained unbroken.

“I have a very large bed,” Ann stated. “We could continue our conversation there.”

“Well, I reckon I’d like that just fine,” The Kid answered, smiling.

Moments later, The Kid followed Ann up the stairs to her bedroom.

“I have a nightgown you could borrow,” Ann suggested as she lit the oil lamp on her dresser.

“To be honest, if you don’t mind, I prefer to sleep with nothin’ on,” The Kid said.

Ann smiled. “I like to sleep nude on nights like this myself.”

“You mean warm nights?” The Kid asked, “Or nights when you got a girl to share your bed with?”

“I am almost ten years older than you, Kid,” Ann said, suddenly feeling shy. “I feel that I might be taking advantage of you here.”

The Kid began to undress. “I been with gals from age fifty-seven to seven. You can take as much advantage of me as you want, Ann.”

They both removed the last of their clothing and looked each other up and down. They moved closer, then gently kissed, pressing their naked bodies together as their hands began to explore.

Ann timidly asked, “You’ve really made love to a seven-year-old girl?”

Gently placing a hand on Ann’s sex, The Kid felt how wet her new partner was. “You like younger women? Around my age… or less, even?”

Ann let out a soft moan, nodding her head.

“Let’s lay down and talk about it,” The Kid suggested.

Talk they did, and much else besides. The Kid had more stories to share about her experiences with other females than Ann did. But Ann’s knowledge of lesbian lovemaking kept The Kid spellbound.

The two women, seemingly so different on the surface, became fast friends. They also became lovers. The Kid soon came to think of Knuckle Ridge as her home base. Though she’d cover the length and breadth of the territory for the Texas Rangers, Knuckle Ridge is where she always returned, at least until she was off again on another assignment. Ann was the reason she always came back.

Ann was happy with where she was and what she did. It didn’t bother her that The Kid was so often away on some mission for the law, as she always did return. Andromeda often felt as though The Kid had just left before she was back again, though the time in between was sometimes weeks or months.

Andromeda was like her late father, so caught up in her work that nearly everything else was just a distraction from her archeology and library. Still, she adored The Kid, and showered the young woman with love and passion whenever she was around.

***

“It’s only about ten miles to town, Button,” The Kid told her horse as she broke apart the butt of her smoked down cigarette. “We’ll have us a nice slow ride in. I’ll get you settled at the livery. Then I’ll get me a bath. I’ll put on some fresh duds and head over to Ann’s.

“You’ll like Ann. She’s sweet on horses. She’s got one that pulls her wagon, called Pegasus. Named after a flying horse, if that don’t beat all.”

The Kid’s thoughts were broken by a fast moving cloud of dust.

“Huh. The stage is sure comin’ in faster than normal,” The Kid mumbled, more to herself than to Button.

As the stagecoach came closer on the road below them, The Kid was alarmed to see that there was no driver. The team of horses pulling the stage was running wild!

Springing into action, she kicked her heels into Button’s haunches and yelled, “Hyah!”

The Kid had Button at full gallop down the hill at an angle, headed for the road. The horse had her neck stretched out in front, her black mane and tail flying out straight behind as she galloped fiercely.

Button hit the road twenty yards behind the speeding stagecoach, the mare’s hooves more off the ground than on as she thundered through the clouds of dust cast up by the horses and stagecoach ahead of her.

The Kid’s heart sank as she realized that in moments, the horses would be running off the road and into a strip of grass that lay mere feet before a steep drop off on the hill. Even if the horses managed to turn aside in time, the stage could go flying over the edge, pulling the horses down with it.

The Kid leaned forward, put a hand to her Appaloosa’s neck and urged, “Go, girl, go!”

Button’s response was to turn her ears back, thrust her nose out even further, and pick up speed. Soon, they began to gain on the stagecoach. When Button pulled even with the stage, The Kid looked over and saw passengers through the windows, holding each other tightly and screaming in terror.

Whipping the reins from side to side on Button’s shoulders, The Kid pulled up even to the team of horses, holding Button steady with the lead horse on the right.

They were all off the road now, hurtling forward through the grass. The stage bounced on the rough turf, threatening to flip over with each jolt. First the wheels on one side were off the ground, then the other. Them folks inside must be gettin’ shook up like dice in a cup, The Kid thought.

She urged Button on, and the Appaloosa gave her heart to the task, stretching her long legs almost straight out ahead. She managed to get just a little ahead of the lead horses, and The Kid kept her there.

With hooves thundering, The Kid could just see the edge of the cliff as she held onto the reins and saddle horn with one hand, easing her feet out of the stirrups. Slowly she got into a crouch, resting her free hand on the back of the saddle, then leapt off into space.

With legs spread and arms extended, her heart in her throat, The Kid just managed to land on the rump of the front lead horse. Frantically pulling herself forward, she fought to secure her position on the horse, snatching at the reins, then gripping them tightly.

She reached over to grab the reins of the other lead horse, nearly losing her balance and falling in the process — but somehow, she managed to hang on.

The Kid jerked hard at the reins as she urged the horse she sat on to slow down. “Whoa now, girl, whoa now.”

The team came to a slow stop and shook their heads with nostrils flaring, pawing the ground near the edge of the drop off. The Kid dismounted, calming the horses by talking softly and patting them. She slowly led the team back up to the road. As the wheels of the stagecoach turned, they sent chunks of turf and small rocks over the edge of the cliff before getting back onto solid ground.

When they reached the road, The Kid clambered up on the stage box and put the brake on. As she did, a groan came from the floor.

The Kid looked down and saw a large man in his twenties, a man she knew. Her face went white as she saw the gaping wound in his chest.

“Hey there, Bob,” The Kid murmured, kneeling by the man’s side. Though her heart was pounding wildly, she kept her voice low and soothing, hoping to keep him calm. “Get into a little scrape, did you?” Glancing around, she saw that Bob was alone. “Where’s Roy at?”

Bob coughed up some blood before saying, “Roy… Roy g-got his head shot off a ways back.”

The Kid winced. Shit. “You rest easy for a minute there, Bob. I won’t go far.”

Jumping down from the box, The Kid took hold of the stage door. The rough ride had caused it to stick, but she braced a boot against the side of the coach and yanked it open, the door pulling from the buckled frame with a splintering sound. The shaken passengers slowly began to emerge, and The Kid helped them down one by one. There was an elegantly-dressed lady, followed by a modestly dressed woman, a man in a fancy suit, and lastly a girl, about eleven or so.

“If you folks is all right, I got to take care of the driver up there. Mister, could you help me get him down?”

The man nodded brusquely. He was around thirty years old and looked like some kind of dandy, though the wild ride he’d just been on had taken a good bit of the starch out of his collar. He was taller than The Kid’s five feet nine inches and seemed to be very fit.

Climbing up to the stage box, the two of them managed to get Bob down to the ground without jostling him too much.

The Kid gave a sharp whistle, and Button came to her. Handing her canteen to the man, she said, “Give him some water. Just a few swallows, mind.” She rummaged in one of her saddle bags, taking out a few clean rags and her herb pouch.

“We need to be on our way,” the well-dressed woman demanded.

Slowly turning, The Kid looked her in the eye and murmured low, so the wounded man wouldn’t hear, “Fact is, we do. But these horses is lathered up and need to catch their breath. Meantime, I need to try to stop this leak in Bob’s chest. He’s apt to die otherwise.”

Everyone looked at the man on the ground, who was bleeding heavily, gasping for air.

“While I do that, why don’t you all take some water from that bag hanging there, and thank whoever you worship that you’re alive to do that much.” Turning back to Bob, The Kid brushed past the lady, giving her a slight nudge out of her way.

“Well now, I seen worse, Bob,” The Kid calmly lied as she hunkered down by the man. Taking hold of the  blood-drenched shirt, she carefully ripped it away.

The well-dressed man turned away with a sickened look on his face as he saw the gaping hole in Bob’s chest.

The Kid sprinkled some herbs on the wound, put a rag over the hole, then wrapped the other rags around Bob’s chest. The bullet hadn’t gone through him, even though it had been fired at close range. The Kid put a different herb in Bob’s mouth and gave him some more water to wash it down.

The Kid and the dandy, the girl and the modestly dressed woman got Bob on to the floor of the stagecoach. The woman knelt on the floor and cradled Bob’s head in her lap, trying to comfort him. Taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her plain gingham dress, she mopped the sweat from the wounded man’s face.

Stepping out of the stage, The Kid said, “We’ll head into Knuckle Ridge now.”

Still standing on the ground the little girl looked sick to her stomach. She looked up at The Kid. “Please, Miss. May I ride up t-top with you? I…” She fell silent, unable to say more.

“Why, sure you can, little missy.” The Kid knew full well that this child shouldn’t be riding with a dying man.

The elegantly-dressed lady swept into the coach without a word. The man in the fancy suit followed, pausing to give The Kid a shaky bow.

The Kid closed the stage door, then lifted the girl up to the box. Reaching for Button’s reins, The Kid tied her horse to the back of the stage, then climbed up to join the girl. She took the brake off, then urged the horses forward, guiding them down the road at a safe but moderate pace.

The Kid glanced at the girl next to her. The child’s face was pale, no doubt in shock from what had happened, but she would have been fair anyway. She had soft blue eyes and dark hair and eyebrows. The girl’s long eyelashes were wet from the tears she’d shed.

She was dressed in what looked like black servant’s clothes with a matching bonnet on her head. Her face was narrow but pretty with high cheekbones and full red lips. A sprinkle of freckles across her small upturned nose offset the girl’s sorrowful expression.

“I’m the Tequila Kid. What’s your handle, pardner?”

The girl looked confused for a moment, then answered, “M-my name’s Gracie.”

Trying not to be rude, she kept stealing glances at The Kid, who was like no one she’d ever met before — a tall woman dressed like a man, packing a pair of six-shooters. Gracie decided that The Kid was pretty, with rusty red hair braided on both sides, bright blue eyes and a pleasant face. She wasn’t sure about the dark blue lines on and around the woman’s chin, though.

The Kid studied this pretty young girl with interest. “Pardon me for sayin’ so, Gracie, but you don’t sound like you’re from these parts.”

“No, Miss, I’m not.”

The Kid remained silent for a moment, then said, “Can you tell me anything ‘bout what happened?”

“Um… two men with their faces all c-covered rode up to the carriage and made it stop. They…” The child struggled with the words. “They shot both men on top… then d-dropped a metal box down from up there. I suppose they took that with them. Then something happened — I don’t know what it was, just that the, the horses, they started to run wild.” The young girl shivered. “I was t-terrified.”

“Mm.” The Kid clenched her jaw, trying to conceal her anger.

“But you saved our lives,” Gracie said. With a strained smile, she added, “I can’t thank you enough, Miss Kid.”

The Kid noticed that the girl’s hands were shaking. Holding the reins with one hand, she gave Gracie’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, then took the reins in both hands again.

They rode in silence for a while, until Gracie said, “We’re from Great Britain.”

“England, that is? Why, that’s a pretty far piece you traveled. You all from there, or just you and your ma?”

“I am the maid for Lady Jane Wyeth-Boton.” She stared down at her quivering hands, her voice low. “I have no parents or family. I serve my lady.”

“She the one dressed to the nines, told me to get a move on?”

“Yes, Miss Kid.”

“You know any of them others?”

“The gentleman is Count Cousiourac. He is French, and traveling with my lady. The other woman’s name is Molly, um… Molly Hardy, that’s it. She comes from Oklahoma.”

“What’s it mean, you’re the lady’s maid?”

“I take care of my lady’s needs, Miss. I look after her clothes and belongings. Serve her tea, take care of her baggage, do whatever she needs to have done.”

“Don’t seem like that leaves you much time for bein’ a little girl.”

Gracie frowned. “I am thirteen, not a little girl.”

The Kid took her eyes from the road to study her passenger. “You look more like ten to me.”

Gracie looked at The Kid, then back at the road. With a sigh, she said, “I will be twelve years old in four months.”

They rode on in silence. Soon The Kid saw Knuckle Ridge up ahead, and slowed the stage down as they reached the edge of the town. Bringing the horses to a stop in front of the doctor’s house, The Kid got the attention of some men standing nearby. “Give us a hand?” she called. “Got a man here who’s been shot.”

One of the men ran for the sheriff, while the others carefully unloaded Bob and carried him inside. Doctor Jed Johnson was out delivering a baby, but his wife and nurse Alice was there. She had them put Bob on the operating table and began to study his wound, then carefully cleaned it.

After making the patient as comfortable as she was able, Alice Johnson began to arrange the instruments so that her husband could extract the bullet as soon as he returned. One of the bystanders had gone to fetch him back.

Having done what she could for Bob, The Kid took the passengers and stage to the middle of town, where the coach station was. Sheriff Gus Masters was waiting for it. He helped the passengers out.

Uncertain what to do next, the passengers stood before the five-foot, six-inch Sheriff Masters. Clean-shaven and wearing a black suit and hat, his badge was visible on his shirt, a six-gun riding on his right hip. Aged thirty-eight, he’d been the law in Knuckle Ridge for twenty years. Though not much more than a boy when he first took the badge, Masters had proven himself time and again as a man to be reckoned with.

“Folks,” Sheriff Masters began, his almost black eyes looking each passenger up and down carefully as he spoke, “I’ll need to ask all of you some questions. First, though, I need to see the wounded man. Please settle yourselves in, and I’ll be back to talk to each of you directly.”

Sheriff Masters gave a nod to The Kid, then set out for the doctor’s house.

“The hotel is where?” Lady Jane Wyeth-Boton demanded, looking at no one.

“It’s over yonder,” The Kid said, pointing.

“Let’s go check in, Count Cousiourac,” Lady Jane said, before turning to the girl. “Gracie! Gather our baggage and bring it to the hotel. And don’t dawdle — I’ll need a change of clothes right away.”

“Yes, my lady,” Gracie said with a bow of her head and a small curtsy. The man and woman walked toward the hotel, and a large heavy set gray-haired man came barrelling out of the coach office.

“Kid! What the hell happened?”

“Easy there, Jack. There’s a woman and a girl here.”

“I beg your pardon, ladies,” Jack said, embarrassed, and bowed briefly to them. He then seized The Kid by the arm and walked her a few steps away.

Jack looked back for a moment and then, lowering his voice said, “Now tell me, damn it. What the hell happened?”

The Kid put her hand on Jack’s shoulder. “A holdup, I reckon. The stage was runnin’ wild, but I managed to stop it. Bob’s got a bad chest shot. He’s at the doc’s now with Masters. Bob told me Roy’s dead — got headshot and left behind. Looks like the bandits got away with the strongbox. The child says two men did the deed. I don’t know nothin’ else yet.”

Jack’s always red face went pale for a few moments. “Damnation! This is bad, Kid. Very bad.” Then his face turned even redder than normal.

Jack and The Kid turned as the young girl came up to them. “Begging your pardon, please, Miss Kid,” Gracie said as she bowed, then gave a brief curtsy. “My lady is wanting her luggage.”

“Sure, Gracie. I’ll get it down for you.” The Kid smiled at the girl, then looked at Jack. “Best have Freddie take care of the horses. I reckon you’ll want to see Bob while you can.”

“Thanks Kid. I’ll see you later.”

The Kid led Gracie back to the stagecoach, a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Climbing up on top of the wagon, she untied the baggage, then looked down. “Which bags is yours?”

The woman in the plain gingham dress spoke up. “Thank you kindly for your help, stranger. That carpetbag with the flowers is mine. That trunk belongs to the man. Everything else is the woman’s, I believe.”

Handing down the faded carpetbag, The Kid tipped the brim of her Stetson hat when the woman thanked her again.

The Kid lowered the heavy trunk far as she could, then let it fall to the ground with a thud. Then she dropped down the other half dozen pieces of luggage. As she climbed back down, Freddie came running up.

“Trouble, huh, Kid?” the red-headed orphan asked excitedly.

“Bad trouble, Freddie,” The Kid answered. “Can you take care of the horses? Curry ‘em and give ‘em some grain and water.”

“Sure thing, Kid,” Freddie answered as he began to unhitch the team.

“I’m Molly Hardy,” the woman said, “Thank you once more for everything. I was afraid we’d…” the woman’s voice suddenly choked off, then she regained her composure. “Might you know a good place to stay here?”

The Kid rubbed her tattooed chin for a moment as she looked at Molly. She saw a clean, modestly dressed woman about twenty-five years of age. Under her bonnet was chestnut brown hair. Her figure was average, a little on the lean side and she was maybe five foot five inches with brown eyes. Her face was unremarkable except for a small beauty mark by her lip. Not plain, not pretty, but easy to look at.

“Well, now,” The Kid began, “The Ridge Hotel is very good, but kinda pricey. There’s the Smith House, it’s cheap, but gets pretty loud and rough at times. I reckon if you’re watchin’ your budget and want to be around nice folks, your best bet is Donna Wilson’s boardin’ house, down that away.” She pointed down the street.

“Thank you, Miss… I don’t believe I got your name,” Molly said as she extended her hand.

The Kid took the hand in hers and said, “I’m the Tequila Kid. I reckon I can tell the sheriff that he can find you at the boardin’ house?”

“Yes, you can.”

“Need someone to help you with that bag?”

“No, thank you.” And with those words, Molly Hardy walked away.

The Kid turned to see Gracie trying to gather up all of Lady Wyeth-Boton’s baggage. The Kid picked up most of the suitcases while the girl struggled with the rest, and they walked together to the Ridge Hotel.

Pushing the lobby door open, The Kid held it for Gracie, who just managed to get the bags indoors before she dropped them where she stood, falling down on the largest one, where she lay catching her breath.

Setting down the rest of the suitcases, The Kid walked up to the front desk where a small dark-haired mustached man sat. “Howdy, Ed. There’s a trunk over to the stage office that needs to be fetched over for that Count fella who just signed in.”

“Hello, Kid. I’ve already got a boy haulin’ it over now.”

“All this stuff is for that Lady Jane gal. What room’s she in?”

“She’s in the adjoining suite to the Count’s. I’ll have it all brought up to her.”

The Kid nodded, then turned to Gracie saying, “I’ll be seein’ you,” as she helped the little girl to her feet.

Stepping into the street, The Kid saw the sheriff approaching. They met on the boardwalk and The Kid asked, “Get anything from Bob?”

Masters shook his head glumly. “Nothin’ at all, he’s out cold. The doc is back and workin’ on him. There’s a couple hours of daylight left, how’d you feel about ridin’ out there with me to find Roy?”

“Sure, if you got a fresh horse I could ride.”

As they walked to the livery stable together, The Kid told Sheriff Masters what she could. Button followed along behind, The Kid holding her reins.

The Kid gave the old stable hand Mac instructions to brush and curry her horse, and give her oats and water. Taking her gear off Button, she put it on one of the Sheriff’s horses. With that, the two of them rode out of town together,  Masters holding the reins of a third horse to carry Roy’s body back.

They came to where The Kid had stopped the stage, then rode on another mile and a half until they found Roy’s corpse. The Kid studied the scene carefully, then they wrapped Roy’s remains in canvas and draped him over the horse.

“What d’ye think, Kid?” Masters asked as he studied the tracks left behind.

“Well, lookin’ as hard as I can, I only see there was one outlaw on horseback. But the girl and that Hardy woman said there was two of ‘em.” The Kid walked around, carefully observing the scene, trying to work out what had taken place there. “Listen, Gus, I’m gonna study on this in my head overnight,” she finally told Sheriff Masters, suspecting that she already knew the answer.

It was twilight when Masters and The Kid came riding back into town with Roy’s body. Along the way, they’d found the empty strongbox, but nothing else. The most puzzling thing was how the horse tracks of the outlaw led straight back to town.

They left Roy’s body at the doctor’s to see if he could add anything to what they knew. Doc Johnson told them that Bob was still hanging on, but there was a good chance he wouldn’t make it through the night.

After putting up their horses at the stable, Masters took The Kid to the Broken Horn saloon. They sat at a quiet corner table and ordered shots of whiskey.

“I reckon it’s kind of smart in a way, him ridin’ into town. His tracks got lost here with all the others. But then we know he’s here somewheres. Think we can find him, Gus?”

“Damn if I know, Kid.” Gus Masters answered, then downed his shot, staring at the empty glass. “Lots of strangers in town this week lookin’ for work, what with the cattle drive comin’ up. Reckon I’ll start prowlin’ the bars tonight, then talk to the passengers in the morning. It’s a little late to bother ‘em now. Care to join me?”

“Well, now, I’ll pass on the bars, but I’d like to speak with the passengers too. See you for breakfast?”

“Sure,” Masters answered. They walked out onto the street, then exchanged brief goodbyes.

Feeling too tired for a bath or a meal, The Kid walked to the livery stable to check on Button and pick up her saddlebags, bedroll and rifle. She took a moment to beat as much of the caked-on trail dust off herself with her hat as she could, then set off toward the outskirts of town. Ten minutes later, she came to a small two-story house. Trying as the day had been, her mood lifted at the familiar sight. There was still a light on, and The Kid knocked on the back door.

“Come in, it’s open,” The Kid heard Andromeda Purdy’s silver voice call out.

The Kid walked in and smiled at Ann, who was facing away from her, writing in a ledger at the kitchen table. As usual, the table was cluttered with small bones and rocks, most of them tagged. Without raising her head, Ann held up an index finger and said, “Just a moment, please.”

With a flourish of her pencil, Ann turned around. Seeing The Kid, she jumped from her chair and rushed into her lover’s arms, where they hugged for a long, lovely while.

“Come sit down, Kid. My oh my, I’m so happy you’re back.” They sat on the sofa in the parlor and Ann said, “I heard you were in town. I understand you’ve been very busy today. You know I went to the stable to bring dear Buttercup an apple, as I always do… and they told me you came in on another horse.” She looked questioningly at The Kid.

“I reckon I got a lot to tell you,” The Kid replied, dreading telling Ann the news she had about Buttercup, and all that went with it. Her horse had broken a leg while she’d been pursuing outlaws, and The Kid had been forced to put the animal out of her misery.

The Kid’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she began to sob against Ann’s shoulder. Her Stetson hat slipped off and fell to the floor.

Ann saw that The Kid’s hair was now parted on the side instead of the middle. In the new part Ann saw a nasty looking scar.

As The Kid sobbed Ann looked at the scar, and realized what must have happened to Buttercup. She softly said, “Oh, dear.”

Holding The Kid tightly in her arms, Andromeda began to weep, too.

On to Chapter Two!Knuckle Ridge, Chapter 2

by Karin Halle

Life just isn’t fair, I thought.

Of course, death is even worse.

I arrived home from work a little earlier than usual, calling out to let my fourteen-year-old daughter know I was there. As it was only the two of us, I was trying to spend as much time with her as possible, having cut my work schedule down to only half days.

It was the middle of the afternoon, but Larissa no longer attended school; doing so would have been pointless. For a while, we tried to pretend that everything was normal, but that simply didn’t work, despite everyone’s best efforts.

The cold, hard truth was that my daughter’s diagnosis meant that ‘normal’ was no longer a possibility.

A few months earlier, Larissa had fainted several times at school, and our family doctor referred us to a neurologist. The neurologist had Larissa come in for some scans, which revealed that she had a brain tumor. Then the news got even worse: inoperable, terminal, six or so months at most.

At first, I tried to convince myself that the doctors had got it wrong, all of them. But they hadn’t.

There had been no way to hide it from her friends, who were all anxious to know that she was okay, and were all gutted when they were told that she was anything but. And the school had to be informed as well; the staff needed to know about the health issues of students, especially one who could blackout at any time.

After intense discussion, it was decided that Larissa should be excused from attending school on medical grounds. She didn’t need the stress of studying, which might even worsen her condition. So she turned in her textbooks, cleaned out her locker, and came home for good.

At first, my daughter’s friends made a point of stopping in to see her, but that soon became awkward for everyone. Larissa quickly realised that she had no interest in sharing gossip about which boy was trying to chat up so-and-so, or in hearing the latest stupid utterance from some teacher that had the entire class in stitches. So her friends found it hard to talk to her, and their visits became less frequent. Not wanting to leave Larissa completely isolated, they began to keep in touch through tweets and emails, and Larissa could decide for herself how to respond to those.

After greeting my daughter, I changed out of my office clothes and put on something comfortable, then went to Larissa’s room to ask her about her day – how she was feeling; what she’d been doing. She was, as usual, sitting at her desk, a paperback propped up in front of her.

“How are you, sweetie?”

“I didn’t sleep too well. Actually, I didn’t sleep much at all.”

“Oh, Larissa,” I exclaimed and knelt beside my daughter, wrapping both arms around her. “Were you in pain? Were you worried or anything? Was it…”

“No… nothing like that, Mum,” Larissa interrupted. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

That hardly eased my concern. “Are you sure? You have to tell me. Do you need me to call Dr. Chapman? He said to call him if you deteriorated at all.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Mum, I haven’t deteriorated. I just had a bad night.”

“You know what you were told: report any change in your condition. You can’t take any chances!”

“It’s nothing to do with my condition. And it wouldn’t make any difference anyway! You know that.”

“No!” I exclaimed. “Don’t talk that way!” My desperation was evident.

“Mum, it’s true! You know nothing will make a difference! Nothing at all!” she replied with a ferocity that caused me to sob.

Larissa was immediately sorry for her sharp response. She knew I was only worried, devastated with frustration that nothing I could do would help my daughter.

The diagnosis was the worst possible. We’d been given the ghastly news that Larissa would not survive through the end of the year. And it was already April. Her birthday had been in March, and there would not be another. Several specialists had been consulted, and all had concurred. There was no cure, not even a treatment.

“Mum, I’m sorry,” she said. “I know how you feel.”

“It’s not how I feel. It’s how you feel. You’re the one who’s sick.” I took a breath and a moment to compose myself. “I don’t know how you can be so calm about this. It’s horrible.”

She gave a sad shrug. “Guess I’m just resigned to it.”

The mood was somber for a few minutes, then we recomposed ourselves and had our usual chat about nothing much.

Then she took a deep breath. “Mum, I’ve been thinking,” she began, her tone surprisingly casual. I made an ‘uh-huh’ sound to encourage her to continue, then she blurted out in a single breath, “I want to have sex before I die!”

“What?”

Perhaps thinking that I hadn’t heard properly, she said, “Mum, I want to know what it’s like to have sex. While I still can.”

Of course, I’d heard her; I most certainly had heard her! I was just having difficulty processing it. My first reply was, “Oh, no, no. You’re way too young to think about things like that. You’re only fourteen!”

“And I’m not going to get to fifteen!”

“Don’t say that! Don’t even think it! They’re making breakthroughs every day,” I pointed out, all the while knowing that the odds weren’t at all in my daughter’s favour.

She already understood that, of course. “Yeah, sure… but there’s practically no chance that any of those breakthroughs will help me, not in the time I have left.”

For a moment I’d forgotten about how this talk had begun; I was far more involved in boosting my little girl’s confidence. “There’s always hope! Never give up hoping… for a miracle, if that’s what it takes.”

“And that’s all there is. Hope for a miracle. Lots of people hope for miracles; most of ‘em don’t get one.” She paused for a moment, then added, “That’s why I want to have sex – in case there’s no miracle.”

Back to that again. And I was still struggling with the whole idea of it. “You’re only fourteen,” I repeated. “That’s under the age of consent. You have to be sixteen! You aren’t old enough!”

Larissa’s voice was filled with despair. “I’m never going to be old enough! And I’ve never even kissed a boy… or a girl! I won’t ever get to finish school, or go to uni, or get a job! I won’t get to fall in love; I won’t get married and have a family… I – I won’t get to do anything.” Her passion must have all been used up, because her next words were spoken in the saddest tone I’ve ever heard her use. “It’s just… I don’t want to die without knowing what it’s like to – to have sex. Real sex.”

I was surprised by Larissa’s offhand suggestion that she was thinking about both girls and boys as potential love partners, but kept that to myself. After all, I’d fooled around with girls a time or two when I was around her age. Instead, I voiced a different objection that came to mind. “Look, sweetheart, sex isn’t just a physical thing; I mean, there’s pleasure in it, but it’s ever so much better when you’re with someone you truly love.”

“Well, that’s no help,” she said, falling into a sulk. “Nobody loves me.”

“That’s not true! I love you,” I said – completely missing the point, but this crazy notion of Larissa’s had me fumbling for whatever I could think of to talk her out of it. “And – and your friends, they love you….”

“Big deal,” she said, frowning. “All I know is, I want to have sex, to see for myself what it’s like. Some of the girls at school have done it. And they said it was great, and I want to have that experience.”

“Some of them are probably lying, you know.”

“Yeah, I guess. But not all of them. And it does feel good, doesn’t it?”

I sighed, knowing I had to be honest. “Yes, dear. It does. Or at least, it should. But the first time can hurt, too. You know, when you – um, you know…”

When I proved incapable of completing the sentence, Larissa did it for me. “When you lose your cherry.”

“Larissa!”

“Okay, okay. When your – when your hymen gets broken, then.”

I felt my face flush. I wasn’t used to discussing these kinds of things with her! “You know, lots of boys aren’t very good at sex to start with. Until they get more experience, I mean. They just want to satisfy themselves, and don’t think about the girl at all. And just who do you want to have sex with, anyway? Someone you know at school? A teacher, or one of the neighbours?”

She pondered it over for a moment, then said, “Well, I’m friends with a couple of girls who are gay… maybe one of them would, um, be with me. There’s a couple of boys who might like to. Or I could ask some girl I know if she’d let me borrow her boyfriend. I – I don’t know, I haven’t thought about that part yet, just that I want to!”

By then, I was getting frustrated. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what to tell you! Am I supposed to help you with this? Advertise in the Help Wanted column? Oh, I can just imagine that: ‘Wanted – nice guy or cute girl to deflower a fourteen-year-old virgin. Forward resume and references, etc, etc.’ Is that what you had in mind? And since when are you attracted to girls, anyhow?”

“I don’t know, I just am! Why are you getting mad at me?”

Good sense told me to calm down, to discuss this rationally with my daughter. But my emotions were running rampant. “I can’t deal with this!” I cried. “I’ve got too much to handle already, coping with your condition. Now you want me to, to pimp for you? Help you get laid? Is that what you fucking want?”

It was at that point that I realised what hateful things I was saying to my little girl. I fell silent, frozen to the spot, and numb with horror.

Larissa’s bottom lip was trembling, and her eyes were filled with tears. One had already started to roll down her cheek.

But it was the look in my daughter’s eyes that cut me to the quick… as if she’d been left alone on a desert island, and was watching the boat slowly sail away.

Bursting into sobs of my own, I fell on my knees before Larissa and hugged her tightly. Between gasps, I tried to undo the damage I’d done.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry, sweetheart, so sorry… I didn’t mean that – it’s not how I really feel – I’m just so frustrated, don’t know what to do. My little girl is sick and I can’t make her better… Listen, sweetie – I don’t know how, but I’ll try to think of some way to get you what you want. I love you so much, Larissa…. You’re everything to me.”

“I love you too, Mum,” Larissa echoed. Then she said it again, in a slightly different tone. “I love you, too.”

Gently breaking free from our embrace, she gazed at me. The look in her eyes… it was as if she was peering into my soul.

Then Larissa leaned forward and kissed me. On the mouth. Only for a moment, but she allowed it to linger.

For a few heartbeats, we stared at each other. My heart was racing as I began to understand what my daughter was thinking. What she wanted from her mother.

“Mom?” she murmured shyly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe… maybe you could help me…?”

“Oh, no! NO!” I exclaimed, but Larissa wasn’t listening.

My mouth wasn’t listening either.

I still can’t figure out how it happened, but suddenly my daughter and I were kissing again, this time for longer, and with greater passion. Maybe she’d never kissed anyone in a romantic way, but her enthusiasm made up for lack of experience. This time her tongue was exploring my mouth, seeking my tongue… and I was helpless to do anything but respond.

I returned my daughter’s kiss. She was sighing into my mouth, wrapping both arms around me.

Larissa told me that she wanted to have sex before she died, but in fact, she wanted it right then! And I wanted it too.

By then, my mind had managed to get into first gear and was telling me just how wrong this was… and as the grownup, I should’ve been the one to put a stop to it. But at that moment, it was harder to refuse my child’s final wish than it was to give in, let her have this experience she so desperately longed for.

Besides, Larissa’s body felt so good in my arms; her kisses tasted divine. And I had gone for much too long without a lover. In fact, I hadn’t been with a girl since my days at university. I was struggling with feelings I’d not had in quite a long time… and very much wanting to feel them again.

I was rationalising my behaviour, trying to justify making love to Larissa. I’m helping out my daughter, my mind was saying, trying to shift into reverse. This makes her happy. Honestly, where’s the harm? Why can’t a mother do this for her child?

All kinds of stuff like that whirled through my head – and all of it serving only as an excuse for my failure to put an end to this nonsense.

This improper, immoral, illegal nonsense.

And my conscience failed me. All my resistance evaporated. Consequences be damned, I was going to make love to my own daughter.

Because she didn’t know how to proceed, I took the initiative. I reached up to carefully place a hand on Larissa’s breast.

“What are you doing, Mum?” Larissa asked, but made no attempt to stop me. In fact, she leaned back slightly, resting against the back of her chair.

“I… I’m just doing what I can to make you feel better. Do you like it when I do this?”

“Yes, Mummy, it’s lovely,” Larissa sighed, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. I noticed the way she addressed me as ‘Mummy’. It had been a long time since she’d spoken that word – I suppose she considered it too childish for a teenager to use. My heart melted, and I grew even more convinced that this was the right thing to do for my poor sick daughter.

I also noticed that Larissa hadn’t looked so content, so relaxed in weeks – not since we got the awful news of her diagnosis.

Rising, I took my daughter’s hand. “Come.” I led the way to her bed, where we lay down together. Looking into Larissa’s eyes, I saw only love, not a trace of concern or fear.

That encouraged me to continue, so I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, then began to caress Larissa’s breasts through the t-shirt she liked to wear around the house. Even covered by a layer of cotton, I felt the nipple respond, growing firm to my touch. With a blissful sigh, Larissa arched her back like a stretching cat, and I lightly pinched the swollen tip of her breast.

All of a sudden, I was no longer satisfied with touching my daughter through her clothes. I wanted to feel her bare skin!

I had to be careful, though — the last thing I wanted was to frighten my poor child. So I said, “If you like, I could probably touch you under your shirt. That is if you want me to.”

It was something of a shock, the realization of what I was asking Larissa to allow me to do. Not in a million years could I have imagined loving my daughter like this, not even a few minutes ago. But I was only giving my girl a little pleasure when she needed it so badly… wasn’t that what a mother should do?

“Okay, Mom,” Larissa whispered.

Reaching down to the hem of her long t-shirt, I slowly drew it up over Larissa’s hips, revealing her baby blue panties along the way, until her belly was exposed. I placed my hand there, marvelling at the softness of her skin. Well aware of the line I was crossing, I allowed that hand to slip beneath the shirt and move upward, until I was touching her bare breast. Larissa was a slender, willowy girl, and only bothered to wear a bra on the rare occasions when she went out.

The mound was warm and supple, and her nipple responded unmistakably when my fingers brushed it. I reached over to give the other breast some attention, with the same satisfying result.

“Is this good, sweetheart?”

The reply was a tiny nod of the head; barely visible, but certain.

I began to caress my daughter’s body in a large circle, my hand making an arc from her chest to her navel. When Larissa shifted herself, trying to move her body up toward the head of the bed, I enlarged the circle my hand was tracing, until it reached the waistband of her panties.

After only a few circuits, Larissa spoke a single word: “Please.” I increased the circle further still, my fingers dipping under the waistband each time around.

She looked up at me. “Would it be okay if I, um, take them off?”

“I’ll do it,” I told her. “Just lift up a bit.”

Larissa raised her hips up from the bed, and I took hold of her panties and slowly worked them down to her ankles. She lowered herself, and I slipped them over her feet and off. They were warm and slightly damp, and I felt a crazy impulse to press her underwear against my face, to savor her scent.

I didn’t, though. Instead, I said, “Why don’t you take your shirt off too? It’s not cold in here.”

“No, it’s not,” Larissa replied with a smile. “In fact, I’m feeling kinda warm.” Sitting up she shucked the t-shirt and lay back down, now completely naked.

Of course I’d seen my daughter in the nude before, even after she’d begun to develop – but those had been innocent glimpses, like when I had to use the toilet while she was in the shower. I’d admired Larissa’s slim body, her breasts small but absolutely flawless. The flat belly could be attributed to her involvement in a range of sports over the years. And the patch of fine, light coloured hair that adorned her pubis was just thick enough to look mature without disguising her youthfulness.

What was different now, though, was the way I was looking at my daughter’s nakedness. It was with an eye to her sexual appeal, her beauty as a woman.

I studied her, taking in her curves, memorising them. As if she knew what I wanted, Larissa sat up straight, letting me see her properly. By then I knew that my feelings weren’t about a mother’s interest in her child’s development. I was feeling a genuine attraction, a sexual attraction, to this girl. My daughter.

“My God, you’re gorgeous. Utterly perfect,” I whispered.

That list of thou-shalt-nots was still unscrolling in my mind, admonishing me not to do this insane thing. We were both females; that’s lesbianism. At fourteen, Larissa was underage; that’s paedophilia. She’s my little girl, that’s incest. Those things are all thought to be immoral, some were actually illegal.

But that doesn’t matter, I realised. I don’t want to stop; I need for this to happen. My daughter is beautiful, she excites me, and I want to make love to her.

“So beautiful,” I heard myself murmur. “So very beautiful.”

Then her voice broke into my reverie. “Now you, Mum. I want to see you.”

Without hesitation I stood, then began removing the clothes I’d put on a few minutes earlier. Really, though, it had been a lifetime ago. I was the same, yet completely different.

Finally stepping out of my panties, I stood naked before my daughter, letting her see me. Larissa said nothing, just looked me up and down from my head to my feet. I wondered if she liked what she saw.

She spoke not a word… just held out her arms to me, and with no thoughts of doing anything else, I lay down beside my daughter and nestled into her embrace. I wish I could put it into words, how good Larissa’s bare body felt against mine after going without the touch of a lover for so long. What was it like for my child, who was experiencing this for the first time?

When her lips brushed my neck, a shiver rippled through me. She began to plant tiny kisses on my throat, along the line of my jaw, then higher. I gave a sob of mixed delight and surprise when the tip of Larissa’s tongue trailed along the edge of my ear. It was an invitation, one I was helpless to resist. Drawing back, I turned to face her, losing my soul in those yearning eyes.

Our kiss was brief and shy. We broke apart, stared at each other for a moment, then came together in a passionate, needful embrace. Our tongues met, then sparred back and forth, and my daughter and I kissed like we were feasting on one another.

I was totally engrossed in Larissa’s soft mouth when suddenly I felt something moving between my thighs. When I drew them apart, her hand made its way to the target. I gasped and she sighed at that first contact, then her fingers gently, tenderly traced a path along the moist crease of my labia.

My hand was doing the exact same thing to Larissa, and I had no need to ask whether she was enjoying it; the ‘Oooh’ sound she made was absolute proof. As my fingers dipped lower, fondling my daughter’s slit through her sparse pubes, my eyes widened in astonishment at the wetness I found there.

I began to run my fingers up and down the opening and, rewarded with more warm honey, began to slide one digit along the cleft separating the lips. This resulted in Larissa spreading her legs, to allow me easier access. As the labia parted, I was able to ease that finger between them, entering her.

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes, Mum. D-don’t stop!” Larissa gasped, as if I had any intention of pulling away. It had been many years since I’d done this to another girl, but I masturbated often. I figured that what worked for me would also do the trick for my teenage daughter.

That thought gave rise to a question. “Do you ever do this to yourself, sweetie?” I asked.

It was hardly the kind of topic Larissa and I usually discussed, so she took a second to reply. “Um, yeah. Yes, I do,” she admitted, somewhat nervously. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Of course not! Why would I be upset? Every woman touches herself sometimes.”

That seemed to surprise Larissa. “Do you?”

“Yes,” I confirmed without hesitation. “Have you given yourself an orgasm, then?”

“I’m not sure, Mum.”

“Then you haven’t… because believe me, you’d know it,” I told my inexperienced little girl.

Larissa began to reply but was unable to, because it was just then that I lightly flicked my thumb against her clitoris.

The effect of all this stimulation on my daughter was predictable and immediate. A finger teasing her cunt, a thumb brushing her clit, our ardent kisses, the arousal she felt, the intimate revelations we had shared – they all added up to what was fast becoming a sensory overload.

I could see it in her eyes, that unfamiliar sensation building up inside her, the way that her legs had begun to shake uncontrollably. I suspected that she was unprepared for what was happening, incapable of processing her feelings on an intellectual level. As I fondled my child, I watched her closely, aching to see that bright shining moment of release.

When her climax hit, I pressed Larissa’s labia between two fingers, timing the pressure with her reactions. At that instant, all I knew was joy, the first real joy I’d experienced in weeks. How many mothers got to witness their daughter’s very first orgasm?

As she reached the height of her ecstasy, I quickly moved to lie between Larissa’s thighs, my face mere inches from her glistening vagina.

I put my mouth to the pink, swollen cunt of my daughter, and began to lick up and down, getting my first taste of her. It was divine, like some new, unfamiliar fruit.

Larissa wanted more from me, though. “Do it, Mummy, g-go into me. Please. I want it, want you to be the one! Please!”

I wriggled into a sort of crouching position, so that I could keep my mouth glued to Larissa’s clit, then put my fingers at the entrance, gently opening her up. I worked to get my daughter as aroused as possible, teetering on the brink of another orgasm.

Her breathing had turned to panting, little moaning sounds were escaping her open mouth, and then she gasped out, “I’m gonna… I’m g-gonna… oh God, MUM!”

Hoping I’d timed it to perfection, I plunged two fingers into her vagina.

Whatever pain she felt from her hymen tearing tipped her over the edge, and Larissa screamed out loud, a massive orgasm shaking her like a rag doll.

As the climax ripped through her body, I pumped my fingers into and out of her pussy in the best imitation I could manage of a man’s cock, all the while nursing at her clit.

Struck by a thought, I raised my face from her pussy so that I could watch her face while she was caught up in rapture. God, she was even more beautiful than ever.

When her orgasm began to subside, I covered her slit with my mouth, sampling, and loving the sweetness of her nectar. In very little time, Larissa had another climax, milder but more prolonged.

Then she lay motionless, but for the rise and fall of her chest. After a moment, her eyes fluttered open. I was a little nervous, wondering how she felt about what I’d just done. Was she having second thoughts?

But she gave me a weak smile, then whispered, “Mum… please kiss me.”

I took her in my arms, and our mouths met. Larissa hummed with a child’s delight as she licked around my parted lips, tasting herself.

***

We lay together all afternoon and into the evening.

For a long time we just kissed and snuggled, and Larissa masturbated me to an orgasm of my own. I discovered that getting finger-fucked by my fourteen-year-old daughter was an enormous turn-on.

Then she crawled between my legs, put her face to my pussy and ate me to a climax, but only because she demanded that I let her do it. I really wanted all the lovemaking to be for her enjoyment, but she did insist that pleasuring me was a big part of the pleasure she got from our little mother-daughter fuckfest.

We fell asleep in each other’s arms, woke up to find that we‘d forgotten to eat dinner, started kissing, got into a sixty-nine (the first time I’d ever experienced that with a female), then showered together. I even slipped a finger into her anus while we were showering, which got us in the mood all over again.

There beneath the flowing water, we somehow managed to arrange ourselves so our pussies could rub together, and fucked on the slippery tiles until we both came. I later found out that lesbians do that all the time, and they call it tribbing. After that, we stumbled back to my bed, crawled beneath the sheets, and passed out.

I woke just as the sun was rising so, in the most maternal way I could, I tongued my daughter until she woke up too.

I had to see the look on her face when she awakened with her cunt being licked. It made me wonder: why can’t every mother and daughter experience something so wonderful, so pleasurable, together? Right then, it made perfect sense. I would never suggest such a thing to other parents, but… oh, dear lord, her face was positively radiant when she became conscious, realised what was happening, and then lay back to enjoy it until she came yet again.

Afterward, we lay together, gently kissing and cuddling – not in a sexual way, just gentle and loving.

Larissa looked at me with a beaming smile and a brightness in her eyes that I’d never expected to see again. “Mum, that was so wonderful. It was exactly what I wanted… needed, even. Thank you, thank you so much for giving me that.”

“It was my pleasure,” I assured her, then realised something and corrected myself. “It was our pleasure.”

“Yes it was, wasn’t it?” she replied. “And I love you for doing that for me.”

She kissed me with passion, but without sexual desire. We had shared physical love, but somehow we knew without saying so that it had been a one-time-only thing. It was now part of our relationship, but only a small part. Our love as mother and daughter had been totally fulfilled.

***

Two days later, I arrived home from work and called a greeting to Larissa while closing the front door. In response, her voice came from the living room, so after dropping my keys and wallet in their allocated space on the kitchen counter, I followed the sound.

I found my daughter with the TV on, her portable in her lap. “How are you, sweetie?” I asked.

“Fair, Mum,” was the reply.

I immediately felt a clutch of fear. “What’s wrong, honey? Are you feeling bad? Did something happen? Are you getting worse?”

“Nothing quite like that,” she told me. “But there is something I need to discuss with you.” She took a deep breath, then said, “Mum… I’ve decided that I don’t want to do this anymore.”

The words carried no inflection that hinted at their meaning. Those days, Larissa spent her time rereading favourite books, watching the DVDs she liked, listening to her CD collection and chatting online with friends. I had no way of guessing which activity she was referring to.

“What don’t you want to do anymore, baby?” I asked.

“This! Any of it. I’m just filling in time doing this stuff, waiting for the end.”

I was stunned by what I was hearing, but Larissa wasn’t done yet.

“I don’t want to just sit here, waiting to get worse. I don’t want to end up in some hospital with tubes sticking out of me, hooked up to machines to keep me alive. That isn’t being alive. I won’t be able to feed myself, so I’ll need to have that done for me. And if my brain function gives out, I’ll be helpless, sitting in my own filth, needing somebody to clean me up.”

All the while I was shaking my head in horror, attempting to protest what Larissa was saying, but she was too determined to let me speak, cutting me off with an abrupt gesture.

“I don’t want you to see me like that… I don’t want anyone to,” she continued. “I want to go on my terms, with whatever dignity I still have. I’ve seen photos of – of what happens to people who have what I’ve got. I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen to me!”

“Wh-what do you mean?” I breathed, fearful that I already knew the answer.

“I’m going to finish this while I still have control. My time, when I choose.”

My head was spinning; I felt like I might collapse on the spot. “No… no, you can’t! I won’t let you!”

She shook her head. “It’s not your decision, Mum.”

Why was she so calm about this? “How… how are you…?” I whispered, already dreading what she might say.

“I’m not going to tell you that. But it has to be quick, so I won’t be able to lose my nerve. And I don’t want to, you know, mess myself up. So one day, when you’re out, l… well, that’s when I’ll do it.”

“Then I won’t go out, damn it. That’ll stop you.”

Larissa smiled sympathetically. “Mum… you can’t always be home. You have to go to work, and to the shops. You’ll have to put petrol in the car. Maybe not right away, but some time. In fact, you don’t even need to be out of the house. I can slip out while you’re asleep, or in the toilet, or having a shower.”

I didn’t quite faint, but I did collapse into the nearest chair, realising that my daughter had laid her plans all too carefully. And she knew, too, that she was entitled to decide her own fate. It was an argument that we had discussed and resolved, back when there was still a possibility that she might have to undergo painful treatment.

But back then, it had been an abstract concept, for ‘when the time comes’. Now, however, it was too close to reality, and oh, so much harder to accept. I shivered as the truth of it struck me: Larissa had decided that her position was hopeless, that life held no more value for her.

Seeing me lost in utter defeat, Larissa’s tone softened. “I’m sorry to hit you with this all of a sudden, Mum. Can we maybe not talk about this anymore, and have a nice evening together?”

It took more strength than I knew I had, but I managed to summon up a weak smile. “I’d like that, sweetie.”

She wrapped her arms around me. “Know what I’d like? I haven’t had a curry in, oh my gosh, ages. Could you nip down to Sanjay’s and get us both takeaways?”

“Okay,” I said. “That does sound nice.”

By that time I had, for all practical purposes, ceased to reason; I was acting purely on autopilot as I went outside to the car, started it and drove off. Unable to cope with a situation that was beyond my control, I simply let events unfold as they would.

Gutless, I know. Cowardly, yes. More than that, I was desperately naive, unable to recognize the trick that my daughter had just played on me.

Larissa had planned comprehensively, leaving nothing to chance. As soon as I drove away, she activated a small reminder prompt that she’d set up on her laptop; it would operate in thirty minutes, and after that every additional half hour. The reminder carried only one item – a location.

Grabbing what she needed from the kitchen, Larissa dropped a single sheet of paper on the counter and hastened out the back door, probably before my car had even turned out of the street.

Some twenty minutes later, I drove the car into the garage and entered the house through the back door.

The sheet of paper caught my attention as I set the bag of food down on the counter. As I picked the paper up, my hand shook and I had to lean on the marble surface to make out my little girl’s message.

I’m sorry, Mum, but I have to do this. I can’t let it beat me. I had it all planned, so when you went out I just had to set things going. I’ll send you a message to tell you where to find me.

I want it to be quick, and certain, with no chance that I’ll screw it up.

You gave birth to me, gave life to me, showed me what real love is, and now you’re giving me the opportunity to find true peace in the end.

I LOVE YOU!

Goodbye, Larissa

The finality of the note snapped me back to reality. Snatching up my phone, I called the emergency number, asking for the police.

An operator answered almost immediately, saying, “Police emergency operator. What is the nature of your emergency?”

I was panicking, practically incoherent. “My little girl! I came home, and there was this, this note. I think she’s going to… to do something…”

The operator, clearly used to dealing with callers who were in panic mode, calmly asked, “Can you tell me your name, ma’am, and your location?”

When I provided the data, the operator continued. “I’ll dispatch a car to your location straight away. Do you know the whereabouts of your daughter right now?”

I had to acknowledge that I didn’t have a clue and continued to answer questions as best I could while the operator kept me on the line and tried, with only very limited success, to calm me.

As the sound of a siren heralded the arrival of the police, I hung up the phone and ran to the front door. Even before they could knock, I flung the door open.

***

The coffin on the bier had a hinged lid to reveal the face of the deceased. Just as Larissa planned, she looked perfectly natural, almost alive.

A group of her school friends filed by to take a final look, all sobbing or showing signs of distress. Each one placed a posy or some memento in with Larissa. I was seated in the first pew, barely aware of any of it. Also present were the two cops, a few of the neighbours, my daughter’s roll class teacher, and the counsellor who had helped Larissa and me to prepare, as much as we were able, for the end.

Everybody offered condolences and sympathy, for which I formally thanked them. But I was responding more or less automatically, as a robot might – I really wasn’t functioning as a person.

The school had suggested to Larissa’s friends that they write out some special memories they had of her; some of them read their tributes out loud at the service, but most were too distressed to do that. But they all gave me what they’d written, all done by hand and bound into a book that I could keep forever.

I had so many recollections of my own… yet there was one that stood out, a very special memory of my precious Larissa that I would never be able to share with anyone – except like this, set down in a story by an anonymous author. That memory was of my daughter’s final wish, of something we shared, something beautiful, something private and personal that was ours alone.

The End

If you’ve enjoyed this story check out the sequel, By Invitation Only.

Author’s Note: I want to thank Jetboy for helping me to tell the story. His editing and suggestions made everything clearer and more complete.

by Shy Mom

“Behave, girls!” I berated my daughters. “I’m about to start this Zoom.”

They giggled under my desk as I logged onto my account. I nudged gently with my right foot to shush them.

“Good morning, Ms. Flambeau,” I said as my screen filled with the image of a woman in her early thirties. She was grasping a little girl, who was squirming in her lap. Mother and child were striking in similarity and beauty, with auburn curls cascading over their shoulders, clear sparkling eyes, and lipstick in a glossy shade that never failed to arouse me on the right mouths: pussy-pink. They were dressed in matching white terry robes.

“Good morning, Ms. Nilsen,” the woman replied. “And please—it’s Genette.” Like me, she appeared to be seated in a study, but hers looked large and luxurious. Behind her, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf crammed with volumes stood to one side, an accent table with a vase of red roses on the other.

“A pleasure, Genette,” I responded. “I’m Beverly, or Bev.”

Genette was the single mother of my third-grade student Camille, who was nowhere in sight. Camille’s first-grade sister, Bella, whom I recognized from school, was nestled against her mother, not seeming to care that she was on video.

Seeing Genette for the first time, I had an uncanny sensation of looking into Camille’s future, one in which her soft girlish features had blossomed into the womanly curves, teased by her mother’s slightly parted robe.

She spoke. “Thanks for this parent-teacher conference, Bev. I know you must be busy with—Cami mentioned that you had, er, two girls of your own? Well, as you can see, I have my hands full too. In fact, I barely managed to cover us up in time for your call!” She tugged on the front panel of her robe for emphasis, which only had the effect of revealing more of her lush cleavage.

I felt an immediate bond with this woman, and not just as a single mother of two girls. From the get-go, Genette seemed open, unaffected, and easy-going—just my type. I also felt a twinge of desire at her casual exhibitionism.

“No worries!” I assured her, then added, “We’ve gone clothing optional, too.”

In fact, I had on a fitted silk blouse, matching blue g-string, and nothing else. Bras had been the first casualties of sheltering-in-place in our household, then pants and skirts. While I usually donned a top, such as a blouse or t-shirt, I enjoyed the freedom and sexiness of going around the house in skimpy underwear.

For their part, the girls had ditched their nightgowns and panties just before my call, and were wandering around stark naked. All I could do was shoo them out of sight—and after sharing conspiratorial whispers and giggles, they scrambled under my desk. For cover, I’d innocently assumed.

“Is Camille able to join us?” I asked. I preferred to have my students participate in these meetings, if there were no issues requiring a separate conversation with parents, especially those as delightful as this woman’s pretty nine-year-old daughter.

Genette hesitated for a second. “Um … she’s occupied at the moment.”

As I wondered what could be occupying Camille in lockdown, Genette added, “By the way, it’s only fair to warn you: Cami’s told me quite a bit about your family. We have lots in common—more than you might suspect—and I like you very much already.”

“Thanks …” I replied. “That’s very … kind of you.” I was unsure what else to say or, for that matter, how to react. I wondered what Camille could have told her mother about me or my daughters, other than typical family details that rarely interest parents as much as their kids. Was I missing some subtext in the woman’s tone, if not her words? But Genette’s warmth seemed genuine. Probably, she was simply referring to our being single moms of girls close in age.

As for what I knew about Genette, there wasn’t much. Ashley had mentioned that she was a stay-at-home mom who came from a rich family, and that Camille had gushed about how pretty her mother was. I could see why.

“If you don’t mind, Bev …” Genette paused, her breath hitching for some reason, “… could we, um, record this Zoom? I’m sure Cami would love to see it later.”

“Oh, sure.” Her request sounded reasonable enough, so I was happy to comply. However, I got the feeling again that there might be some deeper meaning I was missing.

As I hit RECORD, little fingers lightly crept up my thighs. I shivered.

“Are you cold?” Genette asked, leaning forward.

She must have caught my involuntary movement, but I instinctively glanced down at my chest, surprised to realize that my nipples were visible through the thin blouse. I wondered if she could see them on her end—and if so, what she thought about that.

“Well, you know, I’m not wearing pants,” I replied half-jokingly.

“Really?” Genette responded, seemingly more in interest than jest. “Me neither!”

We shared a good laugh. Of course, I couldn’t see below the screen, which cut off at the woman’s waist, but her revealing robe had made me wonder what lay beneath, and now her remark only stoked my curiosity all the more.

Oh, my … far from being cold, this Zoom was heating me up!

Those busy little fingers—Ashley’s? Olivia’s?—had made their way up to my g-string. They flirted with the edges of the front panel, which scarcely covered my slit. I willed myself to remain composed and, not wanting to give away the mischief below, fixed my eyes on the screen.

“If I may share a secret,” I said, lowering my voice, “Camille is my favorite student. We’re not supposed to have favorites—or at least admit to them—but she’s so bright and adorable, the prettiest girl in my class.”

“Thank you, Bev. That really means a lot.”

Impulse made me add, “And she looks quite a bit like you.”

Genette smiled warmly, which really became her. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She then shifted in her seat, sighed softly, and glanced down, blowing a kiss toward the bottom of the screen. Before I could process these curious actions, Genette returned her gaze to me and, through hooded eyes, murmured, “And I’ll wager your girls are just as lovely as you.”

Could she see the blush that I felt? This whole call seemed to be getting out of hand. Was I having a parent-teacher Zoom or a socially-distanced first date?

Three things happened at that moment which interrupted whatever flirtatious thoughts and feelings were welling between us. On Genette’s end, while we had been conversing, Bella had been playing with the opening of her mother’s robe, further exposing the enticing cleavage. The child’s hand suddenly slipped inside—and Genette’s eyes widened in surprise, then delight as the child fondled her breast.

On my end, little fingers began to stroke my pussy through the g-string. About the same time, another set of fingers grazed the undersides of my feet. Oh, God … I loved having my feet played with. And by then, both my daughters were well aware of that.

“Bella, dear,” Genette whispered, eyes going from her daughter’s hand to me, “Mommy’s on video with Cami’s teacher.”

Despite her admonishing words, Genette did not look or sound concerned, nor did it affect the little girl’s enthusiastic breast-play. “But I like doing this, Mommy,” the child declared.

“Oh my …” I murmured, as much from what I saw on screen as from what I was feeling below it.

“Bella’s loved playing with my boobs, ever since I began nursing her,” Genette explained. “I haven’t had the heart to make her stop.”

“That’s perfectly natural!” I exclaimed, more to set myself at ease than Genette, who seemed to be enjoying her predicament. Before thinking, I added, “I’m sure I’d do the same thing—in Bella’s situation, I mean!”

That didn’t come out the way I had intended—or had it?

“Is that so?” Genette asked, giving me a suggestive smile. “Can I hold you to that, Bev?”

Wow. Despite the inappropriate turn this parent-teacher conference had taken, I had to admit it was very much to my liking. I certainly couldn’t muster any objection to the sight of this sexy woman having her breast groped by her first-grade daughter.

And what a breast it was! By then, Bella’s playing had exposed it almost completely, leaving only her little hand to deny me a full view but stoke my imagination. Pale and luscious, Genette’s boob was several inches and cup sizes larger than mine. Moreover, from the evidence of her daughter’s squeezing, it was lusciously resilient.

I found Genette’s flirtation flattering and arousing, but didn’t want to misread what might simply be a charming way of defusing an awkward situation. So I replied, trying to sound playful, “Well, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of Bella’s fun!”

Genette saw right through me. With a smile, she remarked, “I have two boobs, you know.” Holding my gaze, she pulled the panel of her robe aside, revealing her other breast up to—but not including—the nipple. “See?”

There was no mistaking Genette’s meaning now. Or, for that matter, the intentions of my girls down below. The fingers that had been stroking my lips now pressed into the cleft, taking the flimsy g-string with it. Those other fingers kept teasing my feet, forcing me into jagged breaths to keep from moaning out loud.

Genette took my halting breathing for encouragement. With a wink, she flicked her robe aside to expose an erect nipple. It was perfect—in size, larger and longer than mine, like a pacifier; in color, reddish brown like her hair; in presentation, wreathed by an expansive, bumpy areola. If this was how her delectable nipple appeared through the screen, how must it look in person? Or feel in one’s mouth?

I licked my lips without realizing it.

“Why, thank you!” Genette laughed. “Mouthwatering, huh? That’s high praise coming from someone with tits as lovely as yours.”

Glancing down, I saw that my nipples were now practically straining through my silk blouse. I hadn’t realized they’d gotten so visibly aroused. “Oh my. I—”

“No need to explain, honey,” interrupted Genette. “We both have girl parts and know how they work.” Then she licked her own lips, rather deliberately. “It looks like our nipples are functioning very well at the moment.”

“Um, yes,” I stammered. I—I suppose they are!”

There was no hiding the obvious now, and my will to do so had vanished. After sliding into lesbian incest with my daughters, I’d wondered whether other mothers ever got sexually involved with their girls. It felt liberating to see Genette unabashedly enjoying her daughter’s touch.

But, I suddenly recalled, this session was being recorded! “Genette, the video. Shouldn’t I stop it?”

The woman looked up, as if to consider the idea, then replied, “But then … Camille wouldn’t get to watch our parent-teacher conference afterwards, would she?” She squirmed a bit in her seat, her eyes briefly closing.

“I guess …” I replied, wondering once more what was occupying Camille. Why wouldn’t she want to be here for this?

Well, if this woman was willing to let me see—and record—her first-grade daughter feeling her up, then surely she would keep our video entre nous. Besides, I had to admit, I really wanted a copy of this. The thought of watching it later with Ashley and Olivia only added to my arousal, helped along by what my girls were doing under the desk.

Genette whispered something to Bella, and the little girl smiled mischievously. She took hold of her mommy’s nipple, pulled out as far as she could, then released it. She repeated the act, giggling with delight. This was obviously not the first time the child had played this game. After she did it a third time, I needed no further evidence that Genette’s bouncy boob—about 36D, near as I could tell—was all natural.

Inflamed, I decided to join in the fun. I sucked my fingers, then reached down to swirl them around my protruding nipples. The moisture seeped through my silk blouse, making it even more transparent. All the while, I gazed at the livestream of the licentious madonna and child before me.

Following my moves, Genette rolled her free nipple between two fingers.

Though I am very sexual in private, and enjoy exhibiting my body in public, especially to women, I felt surprised at how far I was willing to go with this woman I had just met. Perhaps it was her beauty, or the tantalizing window I’d just been given into her mother-daughter relationship, or the teasing I was getting below. Likely, it was all of the above, plus the sheer lewdness of turning a parent-teacher conference into an erotic encounter. Whatever the reason, I felt an urge to orgasm in full view of this openly sexual woman and her little girl.

“You know,” Genette confided, “Bella has titties, too.”

My God. Was she really going there? And how old was Bella, anyhow? Seven at most. I felt powerfully tempted to encourage Genette to play out her thought, but also wary of seeming too interested in the child. Offering a response that could go either way, I said, “I’ll bet.”

Genette clearly knew which way she wanted to go. Turning to Bella, she asked in a playful, motherly voice, “Want to show your titties to Ms. Nilsen? Your sexy itty bitty girl titties?”

Bella faced me and asked in a completely innocent voice, like she had a favorite toy to show, “Would you like to see them, Ms. Nilsen? Wanna see my itty bitty girl titties?”

The little minx had me. In for a penny, in for a pound, I decided. “I would very much like to see them, Bella.” My response sounded more throaty than I expected.

Bella fixed her gaze on me, lips puckered in an adorable pout. Her mother unhurriedly drew the front of her robe, unveiling the girl’s pale flesh, flawless and flat before rising in gentle slopes of baby fat that were capped at the tips by perfect pink nipples. Bella’s “titties” looked as delectable as any I’d seen. And knowing that they might one day grow to resemble the luscious globes her mother was so openly flaunting … well, it only made the child all the more desirable.

Observing how the sight of her daughter’s nudity riveted me, Genette asked in a husky voice, “Aren’t her nipples adorable? What would you like to see me do with them, Bev?”

I felt like a kid gaping through the window of a candy store at the treats inside. “I … I’d like you to circle them with your fingers … like this …”

Unbuttoning my blouse, I exposed my own nipples, now stiff to the point of aching. I licked two fingers and swirled them around my areolas. Gratified to see mother and daughter gazing at me with matched expressions of desire, I stared back at the half-naked pair, slowly tracing my upper lip with my tongue.

Beneath the desk, little fingers were pushing the panel of my g-string as far as it could go into my vagina, causing the rear string to tighten just above my ass. Meanwhile, a wet little mouth started sucking my toes.

Oh, my stars, that feels wonderful. I closed my eyes to savor how divine it was, being loved this way by my children. When I opened them, Genette’s fingers were circling Bella’s tiny nubs, coating them in saliva.

Bella looked up at her. “I love that, Mommy.” In reply, Genette claimed her daughter’s mouth in a French kiss.

Desperately needing to be fucked, I started thrusting against the hand that was fingering me through the g-string, not caring anymore if Genette or Bella could see my humping motions and realize what they were. Actually, all the better if they did.

Genette and Bella broke their kiss to watch. As my daughter finger-fucked me, I squeezed my boobs and pinched my nipples. Genette’s hand slid down her first-grader’s body, over her tummy and lower. Looking into Bella’s eyes, I registered the exact moment that Mommy touched between her legs.

These erotic sights and sensations were too much for me. The waves of pleasure rose quickly, and I let them carry me away. “Genette!” I cried.

“Bev, wait!” Genette gasped back, thrusting a hand below the screen. “Oh … oh, Cami!” she cried. “God, yes, suck my clit!” She writhed in her chair, just like I was—and now I knew why!

I held on as long as I could, my arousal cresting at the implications of what I saw and heard. Then, just as Genette started shrieking, those massing waves crashed over me.

“Fuck, Bev, FUCK!”

I climaxed right along with this gorgeous mother, screaming her name as she orgasmed to mine.

“Fuck …” I gasped as I recovered. “Was … was Camille down there the whole time?” I nodded toward the bottom of the screen.

Genette grinned wickedly. “Come up, dear,” she cooed, pulling up a naked, flat-chested little beauty with auburn hair that was tangled and matted in sweat.

Camille smiled sheepishly at me, then formed the shape of a heart with her girlish hands. I smiled back and made a larger heart with mine, framing a breast for her.

“And you?” Genette asked, nodding at the bottom of the screen as well.

“Like mother, like mother!” I laughed, and pulled up … Ashley! I should have guessed, given her experience pleasuring me the other morning. Her little sister Olivia popped up right after. Bare as nymphs, the girls clung to me affectionately and waved at the screen.

Camille blew a kiss, and Ashley blew one back. Both their mouths glistened with wetness.

Hmm. Were those two in cahoots? Had they set up this encounter? Ashley was one grade higher, but I’d seen them play together often enough at recess.

Genette grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “When I told you we had lots in common, Bev, my source was this little birdie who heard from that little birdie”—she pointed at Ashley—“about all the wicked things you’ve been doing with your lovely little girls.”

My eyes widened in shock, and I shot a glance at Ashley. Had they been texting? Sexting? “Young lady—” I began.

“Don’t be angry!” Genette interrupted, coming to Ashley’s rescue. “You haven’t done anything we haven’t tried—many times and more.”

For emphasis, Genette reached behind Camille and snaked a hand between the girl’s inner thighs. It emerged to cup the child’s bare vulva, the index finger teasing her little hood. In response, the nine-year-old shivered deliciously, licking her lips with a naughty smile. This was not the sweet innocent Camille that I knew from class!

“Welcome to my world, Bev,” said Genette, giving me a bewitching just-between-us wink.

“How long …” I wondered aloud.

“Since kindergarten … right, Mommy?” answered Camille.

“That’s right, sweetheart” Genette confirmed. “You looked so scrumptious in your little Catholic school-girl uniform, I just had to lick you!”

“Then I licked you, remember?”

I could hardly believe my ears. Despite all that I’d done with my own daughters, I could feel myself blushing.

“How could I forget?” Genette laughed, obviously enjoying the effect their incestuous banter was having on me. “You’re a natural, darling—the best pussy eater ever. As Bev’s now my witness, I’m quite the addict for that hot little mouth of yours …”

“What about me, Mommy?” Bella jumped in.

“You, dear, are the best tit sucker my boobs have had the pleasure to know.”

Both Flambeau girls looked pleased as pie. What a sex coven! I was floored—but also intrigued.

Genette glanced at me, her smile deepening. “Hmmm … looks like Ms. Nilsen might like to have a play date with you girls …”

I blushed more deeply, but couldn’t deny the unbidden thought of having Camille between my legs, and Bella at my breasts, especially after hearing their mother extolling their sexual virtues.

Then I imagined having Ashley and Olivia join them … and the very thought made me light-headed.

“I have a feeling,” Genette reflected, taking in the incestuous family portrait before her, “that this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

On to Chapter Six!

by Shy Mom

It was morning. Sunlight streamed into the master bedroom from the bay windows.

Olivia still slept. She lay naked on my bed, hugging herself, honey-blonde hair floating on the pillow.

Her slender eight-year-old frame seemed so small on the king-sized bed, and so like a cherub. No sign of the little succubus who came out—and came—last night. I sighed blissfully, unable to recall when I’d last felt such contentment.

After showering, I put on my cheeky silk robe, not bothering to tie it closed. I also dispensed with panties. Though I love the sensation of a delicate thong or g-string riding up my ass and rubbing against my pussy, I felt too liberated this morning for even skimpy lingerie. Besides, who would catch glimpses of my nakedness except the girls?

I glanced down at my sex, nearly bare and impeccably groomed. I had half a mind to pleasure myself right then and there. But it was Sunday morning, and I headed to the kitchen to make brunch for the girls.

There, I fried bacon and broke eggs for French toast. Ashley’s favorite, I thought, and smiled.

I got out milk, butter, vanilla, and cinnamon. As I reached into a cabinet for powdered sugar, I sensed movement behind me. Ashley.

“Morning, sweetie!” I turned around, my robe flowing open. “I’m making—”

Ashley was crying. Not huge girl sobs like Olivia, but suppressed sniffles.

“Ashley, dear, what’s wrong?” I asked, my voice full of concern.

“I heard, Momma …” Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

I froze. What had she heard?

“You and Olivia …”

I backed up against the counter. How careless had I become in quarantine? I had no regrets about what my youngest and I had done last night, but there were better ways of introducing Ashley to this momentous family development. Ten going on twelve, my oldest girl needed special care …

“Darling! Your baby sister and I …”

“You did sex with her, Momma.”

Ashley’s eyes welled up and stray tears ran down her cheeks. Though she still called me “Momma,” she did her best to differentiate herself from Olivia by acting more mature than her years. I could tell it took a tremendous effort to swallow her sobs.

Technically, Olivia and I hadn’t gone all the way, but I didn’t blame Ashley for jumping to that conclusion if she had heard our moans and cries down the hall. Still, how did a girl of ten even know what sex sounded like?

“Ashley, love. What you heard was—”

“I wanted to do sex with you, Momma …”

Wait—

“… but Olivia, she got to go first. You always let her go before me. Always.”

Poor Ashley! Always making comparisons, ever sensitive to perceived dues and slights in the pecking order. At least she didn’t seem traumatized from overhearing us commit mother-daughter incest. In fact, she wanted it for herself …

What a whirlwind of events over the past twelve hours! I had masturbated—twice—in front of my eight-year-old daughter. I had enjoyed the most intense climax in years, thanks to Olivia’s enthusiastic participation. I had pleasured her in turn, bringing my baby girl to her first orgasm. And now my pussy tingled at the unexpected prospect of lesbian sex with my other daughter.

Ashley sniffled, then said, “I thought of it before her, Momma. I did!”

I didn’t know what to say, not right then. However, I knew exactly what to do. I hugged my dear daughter, still a needful little girl beneath her preteen persona. After a moment’s hesitation, Ashley hugged me back, wrapping both arms around me inside the robe as she began to cry for real.

Ashley’s lean frame trembled against my naked body as she buried her face in the hollow of my neck. Her chest heaved against my bosom. Through her thin cotton nightgown—twin to her sister’s and now a size too small—I could feel the tiny buds of her nipples.

As I soothed Ashley’s sobs, I found my words. “I love you, Ashley. You’ve always been my first love.”

“B—but not your first sex, Momma …”

Her words gave me an opening. Time to correct her mistaken impression, and hopefully smooth over her injured feelings.

“Darling, your little sister and I weren’t really having sex. We were—”

“I heard, Momma! Olivia was making loud noises, just like those ladies …”

Huh? “Ladies? What ladies?”

Ashley was suddenly blushing, realizing she’d said too much. “Um, the ladies, Momma, online … after the wedding—you know, last summer—I got curious about lesbians and sex … so I looked around and found some sites … and, well, I kinda watched some …” Ashley trailed off.

“I see …” I responded neutrally, not sure how to feel about my ten-year-old trawling the internet for porn, even of the lesbian variety.

“And—and they make wild sounds … I didn’t have to go see what you and Olivia were doing … I didn’t want to see …”

So, to Ashley’s ears, my youngest and I had sounded like porn stars in heat. I would’ve been amused if the moment wasn’t so serious.

“But what you heard wasn’t sex, Ashley.”

“It wasn’t?” There was doubt in her voice, but also a hint of relief.

“I was masturbating your baby sister. That’s as far as we went.”

I could almost see the wheels turning in Ashley’s head. A glimmer of hope appeared in her eyes.

“You know what masturbation is, don’t you, dear?”

Ashley hesitated. “I think so.” She dropped a hand to her crotch and hesitantly stroked herself through her nightgown. “Like this, Momma?”

“Yes!” I replied, trying to sound as affirming as I could. “Did you see the ladies do that?”

“A lot, Momma. Sometimes they rubbed themselves and sometimes each other. It looked so exciting! Sometimes I rubbed my—I mean, masturbated—with them …”

Ashley blushed anew at this confession, even as she began to finger herself in earnest. I leaned back against the counter, parting my thighs to give her a better view of my bare pussy as I started pleasuring myself too, partly to show solidarity with my little girl, but also to satisfy my growing arousal.

Tugging up her nightgown, Ashley reached inside her panties for direct access. Her breaths quickened with the pace of her fingering. From her practiced strokes, it was clear that my daughter knew what she was doing.

Now dreamy-eyed with pleasure, Ashley began to moan, “Oh, Momma! … oh, Momma! … ohhhh … oh FUCK!”

With that last word, which I’d never heard her drop before, Ashley came. I nearly did, too.

I locked my mouth to hers in a lover’s kiss. Ashley responded immediately, her tongue darting between my lips. Slipping my hands up the back of her panties, I  found her moist outer lips with the tips of my fingers and gently pulled them apart.

“Momma!” Ashley gasped.

Slowly, carefully, I wriggled the tip of my index finger into my child’s vagina. Ashley started at the sensation. I began to work that fingertip around in tiny circles as I questioned her.

“So … you’ve been watching lesbians on your computer, huh?”

“Yes, Momma.”

“Doing sex things?”

“Yes, Momma.”

“They say ‘fuck’ a lot, don’t they?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Say it for me now, darling.”

She hesitated, then murmured, “Fuck.”

I shook my head. “Like you mean it.”

“Fuck.”

“Good girl.” I let my finger go a little deeper.

“Momma!”

“So… you want to fuck me?”

“Yes, Momma.”

“Even though I’m your mother?”

“Yes, Momma …”

“Because I’m your mother?”

Ashley gasped, not because of my question, but because I had found her clit and begun teasing the hood.

“Oh yes … yes … yes, Momma!”

Gratified by her answer, I flicked the bud. Ashley whimpered, “Please, Momma, please!”

I wasn’t sure whether my daughter was pleading for mercy or for more. Either way, to prolong the moment, I relented a little.

Catching her breath, Ashley remarked, “Those are naughty words, Momma!”

“They’re exciting words. Fuck. Cunt.”

“You sound dirty. I—I like it.”

By then, I was ready to let Ashley take whatever liberties she wished with me, go wherever her online education and awakening libido led her. But I held back for the moment, wanting to understand more fully before giving in.

“Why am I so blessed that my beautiful daughter wants to fuck me?”

“Cause I love you, Momma. And you’re so pretty.” Simple as that. She added, “I didn’t tell Olivia, you know. She’d spoil it. I was gonna surprise you for Mother’s Day …”

My dear Ashley!

“Oh, another thing, Momma … your pussy is the prettiest … better than all the ladies I’ve seen on the computer …”

“It is?”

“I’ve peeked at it lots of times, Momma, whenever I get the chance. It looks so soft … and I love the little bit of hair you have … it’s just—your pussy is so beautiful!”

I was glad Ashley thought so, though I’d certainly never imagined that my daughter had been comparing my sex with those of porn stars. Perhaps she was biased, but now I had an extra reason to keep lotioning and grooming my naughty bits.

Our conversation had distracted a little from caressing Ashley’s pussy, but her unexpected compliment prompted me to resume.

She sighed. “That feels sooo good, Momma!”

“For me too, honey.”

“I don’t want it to stop …”

“Me neither.”

“But I … there’s something else I wanna do.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, Momma … I, um, I want … I want to …”

Ashley’s sudden shyness was adorable, but I wanted to fulfill her desire at that moment. “I’ll do whatever you want, darling.” I meant it wholeheartedly. “Just tell Momma.”

“I—I want to lick your pussy!” Ashley blurted.

Was I dreaming? Had I died and gone to heaven?

“Oh, Momma, I want to so bad. It looks so yummy when the ladies do it …”

Even as my daughter’s words stoked my desire, I wondered how much Ashley had seen online, and what things she yearned to try. A thought crossed my mind. “Are you sure you’ve never tasted pussy?”

Ashley’s eyes turned down. “Maybe …”

Aha. “Your own pussy, right?”

“Yes …”

“That’s perfectly natural, dear! I love tasting my own cunt.”

“Me too, Momma! I love tasting my—my cunt.”

Wow. Like mother, like daughter.

My breathing deepened now, and so did Ashley’s.

“But Momma … I want to taste yours even more.”

Gazing into Ashley’s sea-blue eyes, which shone from the tears she’d so recently shed, I couldn’t deny her.

“Ashley, darling?”

She returned my gaze.

“Do you really, truly want to eat Momma’s pussy? Taste Momma’s cunt?”

With the solemnity of a vow, Ashley replied, “I do.”

My heart melted, as did my pussy.

I leaned back against the counter and guided Ashley to sit before me. She looked up, gazing in awe at my bare cunt, the lips now swollen and sodden. Dipping a finger into the core of my wetness, I drew out a syrupy strand, dangling it within inches of Ashley’s parted lips.

“Go ahead, honey,” I breathed. “Taste me.”

Ashley extended her tongue to catch my essence, pausing to savor it in her mouth before swallowing.

“I love it,” she murmured.

Sliding forward, I lowered my hips. We nearly touched, pussy to mouth, mother to daughter. Her breath inflamed my sex.

I took Ashley’s hands and placed them on my ass. Her eyes flared. Cupping her face, I closed the distance, gently guiding her to me.

“Do what you want, my love. I’m yours.”

Ashley did.

I’d never experienced anything more beautiful. I’d thought breastfeeding had been the height of mother-daughter bonding. I was wrong.

God, the way Ashley made love to my pussy.

In my life, I’d had good pussy eating (thank you, sorority sisters), bad pussy eating (good riddance), and multiple-orgasm pussy eating (dear, dear Alyssa). What I had not known—what I had not even conceived—was the captivating innocence, hunger, and devotion with which my ten-year-old daughter ate my cunt.

She ate it like a child. That’s the truest way I can describe how Ashley stole her mother’s heart again, having taken it once at birth.

Ashley closed her eyes and wrapped her mouth over my dripping vulva, sucking with the need of a newborn. Her tongue rooted up and down the furrow as she suckled on my lips. My cunt fed her to overflowing. And just as I’d gazed adoringly upon Ashley when she had nursed as a baby, I couldn’t stop staring at the beatific sight of my pre-adolescent daughter going down on me.

Ashley worked herself into ravenous gulps. The more she ate, the more she craved. She clutched my ass tightly, still drinking deeply from my sex. As she did so, I felt a wayward finger graze the rim of my anus, made slippery by dripping fluids and my child’s saliva.

Oh my God … is she going to—

I just managed to grab onto the counter, clutching it for dear life as Ashley’s tongue darted into my pussy and her finger slipped into my ass.

I blacked out as I came.

On to Chapter Five!

by Shy Mom

I awoke in the middle of the night to find myself naked, spooning my daughter Olivia. The lights were still on.

Beautiful, angelic Olivia!

She lay curled in a fetal position. Her bottom rested against me, grazing my pubis. Eight years ago, she had lain inside me.

My heart tugged.

I drew up my knees, gently so as to not wake her. Her body shifted against mine, nestling in its warmth. I didn’t want this moment to end.

Olivia had fallen asleep with me many times before, and we had spent those nights as mother and daughter. Now, were we cuddling as lovers?

Technically, we hadn’t had sex. We hadn’t fucked. Not yet.

Surprisingly, my carnal desire for my little girl didn’t shock me. A month ago—heck, a day ago—words such as “pervert” and “pedophile” might have come to mind, with all their societal judgment. But as I have learned at critical junctures, experience makes the best teacher. And if last night taught me anything, it was that my sexual hunger for Olivia sprung from my maternal core. Moreover, the direction our relationship had taken promised an undiscovered country of mother-daughter delights that were sure to broaden and deepen our bonds.

That, and I want to fuck her, plain and simple. There, I admitted it to myself. Our masturbation session had awakened a wild desire.

But what did Olivia want?

No doubt, my youngest would follow me to the edge of the world, even over it. But my maternal compass always pointed to what was best for my girls, even if I sometimes fumbled to discern it. I knew I could overthink things, a trait Olivia occasionally exhibited. Last night, though, her child’s trust in the wholesomeness of our love led her without hesitation to fall into my arms—and lick the cum off my fingers.

Maybe I should follow her lead and not second-guess where our affection had taken us.

I started to sweat against Olivia’s nightgown and cotton panties. At first, it felt good to have her clothes stick to me. But soon, I chafed at how they separated us. They had to go.

First, I dealt with the nightgown. It was a pink cotton affair that ran mid-thigh, though now it pooled around her hips. Lying side by side, I lifted it slowly. Without seeming to wake, Olivia shifted to accommodate me.

Next, I pulled off her panties. As I slid down the length of Olivia’s back to do so, my breasts pressed against her. My nipples, turning upwards, brushed her warm flesh. Wow.

On the way back up, I pressed into Olivia again, more deliberately, rolling my nipples against my little girl. They’d never felt anything softer—except, perhaps, when she kissed my breast earlier in the evening.

I settled back into spooning Olivia. The sweat of our bodies merged with our nakedness. The touch of her skin against mine—of her skin sticking to mine—warmed my heart and heated my pussy.

I sighed and closed my eyes. Following Olivia’s breathing, I fell into its pattern. I could drift off so easily, fall into dreamland …

The nipples were so tiny, so perfect.

Nestled atop slight bumps of gooseflesh, they stuck out like miniature gumdrops. They sank into baby fat when pressed, then rose back of their own buoyancy. Everything about them seemed magical.

My other hand slipped downward, found the tender cleft. It was closed. What was the magic word? In the dreamy haze, it eluded me.

The flesh on either side yielded to my touch. Bare. Baby soft. I ran my finger up one side and down the other, light as a whisper. I marveled at the feel of it. I could do this all night.

The cleft opened, like a night flower. My finger slipped in to explore. A slit. Small. Impossibly smooth. Moisture had collected at the bottom, where there was an indentation of flesh.

I pressed inward. The hot flesh contracted around my fingertip. It gripped and pulled. It was insistent. It was so hard to resist. I didn’t want to resist. I gave in … and met resistance. A membrane—thin, yielding, yet resilient. I drew back, prepared to thrust—

The word came to me. I knew it. I whispered it. “Cunt.”

Did anyone hear?

My slick finger withdrew. The opening closed. Relief and sadness crept over me.

My finger continued to explore, tracing every delicate fold and crevice, smearing them with dew. I knew to avoid the bud. Soon, but not yet.

My finger found the hood, so familiar, but somehow smaller. I thought of the potion from Alice in Wonderland. Had I swallowed it? Lost in a trance, I couldn’t recall.

I went back for more wetness, then returned to the hood. Rub three times, I had read somewhere. So I did—back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

I wish …

A child moaned. My eyes flew open.

Oh my God—I was touching Olivia, and she was responding! This was no dream, it never had been.

“Mommy,” Olivia breathed, “don’t stop.”

My head cleared. My heart pounded. I didn’t know what to do.

Olivia did. She clutched my hands with hers, pressing one to her chest, the other between her thighs.

Panicked, I hesitated, “Olivia, maybe we shouldn’t—”

“But Mommy … I love this …”

So do I, I admitted to myself, and kept my hands where my daughter had put them.

Then, hearing Olivia moan, feeling her move under me, my heart swelled and my pussy ached. Unable to tell her no, I gave in and consciously resumed fondling my child.

Her pebbly nipples felt sexier than any others I’d had the pleasure to touch, including my own. And oh, that sweet virgin pussy. I’d gotten to know every delicate fold of flesh by washing and wiping Olivia as a baby hundreds—no, thousands—of times. Once, I knew this pussy better than mine, touched and pampered it even more than my own.

Now, just like my little girl, Olivia’s sex seemed to have blossomed overnight. No longer adorably puffy, it had begun taking on the familiar shape of a woman’s cunt, teasing with its erotic promise, yet still retaining its child-like smoothness. And it was wet. Not the syrupy grown-up wetness I’d come to know and love by taste and feel. Her nectar was less sticky than mine, more dew than honey.

“Oh, Mommy! That feels sooo good.”

“For me too, love. I’ve never felt anything better, anything more … heavenly!”

“Really?!” Olivia sounded so pleased.

“Really!”

I continued to pleasure my daughter, who was now sandwiched between my massaging hands and naked body. Her bottom bounced and ground against my pubis while I pressed my tits against her back.

“Remember earlier, when I said your pussy was nicer than Mommy’s?”

“My girl cunt!” Olivia corrected.

“Yes, your girl cunt.”

“Uh-huh, I do. But you never explained why, Mommy.”

“Sorry, darling. I got terribly distracted.”

Olivia tilted her head, looking up at me. “You did?”

“I did. A little angel was sucking cunt juices from my fingers.”

“Oh yeah,” my girl recalled, grinning. “Sucking mommy juices!”

Olivia had certainly picked up my vocabulary, as well as my actions. The memory of her licking and sucking my sticky fingers made me shiver with pleasure. In response, Olivia wriggled deliciously against me.

Fighting a sudden urge to slide down and lick that pert little bottom, I made an effort to go on. “You see, darling, girl cunts really are the nicest.”

“They are!” Olivia accepted my verdict without hesitation. “But why?”

I stifled a laugh. After all, this was Take Two of our lesson on The Superior Virtues of Girl Cunt. Though we were sheltering at home, far from school, there was still serious education to be had!

“First of all, their outsides are so smooth and baby soft.”

“Outsides?”

“Yes, the puffy outer lips.” I touched hers. “If you want to get technical, they’re called the ‘labia majora.’”

“Labia … majora.” Perfect! “That’s a funny name!”

“For such a fun part!” I rubbed it for emphasis.

“Mmm …”

“Well, ‘labia’ is Latin for ‘lips,’ and you can guess what ‘majora’ means.”

“Um … major?”

“Yes!” I rewarded Olivia by stroking up and down those outer lips in earnest. Positive reinforcement, that’s what teacher training had taught us.

“What else …” Olivia’s body seemed caught up in the glorious sensations of me masturbating her—for that was certainly what I was doing—but her mind wanted more, too.

I parted her outer lips. Olivia gasped.

“And these …” gliding my middle finger over her already slick inner folds, “… are the ‘labia minora.’”

Olivia’s breath caught. “Oh, Mommy … Mommy …”

“This is lovemaking, baby,” I breathed. With my other hand, I hugged my daughter to me. My finger circled a nipple while I caressed her slit. “Mommy is making love to you.”

“You are?” Her awe was so utterly endearing.

“You’re so sweet and desirable, darling … I can’t resist.”

With feeling, she implored, “I don’t want you to!”

I responded by pressing my finger against her inner lips. They parted for me. My heart fluttered as I felt her exposed heat and wetness.

“And girl cunts are the nicest because their inner lips—their pussy lips—are as silky and lovely as flower petals.”

“I like how you say that, Mommy!”

I was amazed that I could still teach as I touched, and that Olivia could still follow along. In her place, I would’ve been driven to distraction. Then again, I’d been my little girl’s teacher and she my adoring pupil for so long that she was still eager to learn from me, even while I fondled her like this. Like a lover.

“Now, at the top your inner lips—”

She quickly corrected me. “My pussy lips.”

“Atop your inner pussy lips sits a tiny pea.”

“A pee-pee?”

This time, I did laugh. “No, dear. I mean like The Princess and the Pea.”

“Oh …”

“Come to think of it,” I said, half to myself, “that fairytale probably was about her clit … how it vexed her all night, untouched, while she tossed and turned …”

As I continued making love to her exquisite pussy, Olivia kept squirming, but also listening. “What’s a clit, Mommy?”

“Short for ‘clitoris,’ baby. It’s a most precious part of your girl cunt.”

“Clit.” She seemed to like the sound of the word.

“I think it’s Greek for ‘key’ … as in the key to a woman’s—or little girl’s—sexual pleasure.”

To show Olivia, I edged my finger toward her clit, then around it. Her sex was so small that it took a lot of care to tease the tiny nub without actually touching it. I traced small circles over her hood.

“Oh, God, Mommy! Oh, God …”

“Heavenly, isn’t it?” It was such a joy to feel—literally feel—my daughter’s budding ecstasy.

“It is, Mommy.”

Inspiration struck me. “Olivia’s clit, listen up! I christen thee ‘Princess Pea.’”

Between heavy breaths, Olivia giggled. “I—I like it!” I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the name I’d just given her girl clit, or what I was doing to it.

“And the pleasure of Her Highness, Princess Pea, will not be denied …”

I applied slightly more pressure with my swirling finger.

“Oh, Mommy … oh, Mommy … oh … oh …”

Oliva’s gasps guided my ministrations. Her hood became engorged.

I felt almost predatory, circling her vulnerable clitoris like a shark ready to bite. It didn’t help that I was also toying with her nipples as well as rubbing myself against her sweaty backside. And that I was her mother!

Olivia kept thrusting against my unrelenting finger.

“Mommy …” she whimpered.

She wanted to come. I could tell.

“Mommy …”

She needed to come. I could feel her desperation.

“Mommy … please!”

Even if she didn’t know what “coming” was, had never felt anything like it.

“Mommy … oh, Mommy!”

I’d show her.

“Mommy!”

Take her.

“Mommy!”

Turn the key.

“Mommy!”

Pinch her hood … now.

“MOMMY!”

Again.

“MOMMY!”

And again.

“MOMMY!”

I flicked the tip of her exposed clit with my slick finger, like a lover’s tongue.

“MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY!”

I cupped her vulva in my hand … and squeezed … and squeezed … and squeezed …

Thrashing in her mother’s arms, at the tender age of eight, my darling Olivia had her first orgasm.

Sweet, precocious girl!

On to Chapter Four!

by Shy Mom

“Mommy?”

My maternal instincts rose with that word and the shaky way it fell from my little girl’s lips. My shocking desire to taste the wet spot on her panties vanished.

“Olivia,” I breathed. She stood frozen just outside the open door to my bedroom.

Tenderly, instinctively, I said, “Come here, honey.” I patted gently on the bed, just in front of where I sat against the headboard. I was fearful she might take flight.

But Olivia was only eight, and I was still her mom. Reflex and routine drew her toward me. I enfolded her in a protective hug as she wrapped her arms and legs around me. All I had on was my flimsy thong.

My lips brushed her ear. “I love you, Olivia.”

She began to cry. Sobs shook her slender frame. “Oh, Mommy!”

“Baby.” I hugged her tighter and began to inhale and exhale slowly, deeply. Her breathing soon matched mine. Her tears wet my naked breasts as her sobbing faded.

“Olivia … Olivia … I love you.”

“I love you, Mommy.” She hugged me back tightly, her cheek pressing against my nipple. I felt a tug, maternal and something more.

“Don’t cry …” I sniffed her hair. Shampoo and girl scent, like mixed flowers. “You did nothing wrong, my sweet.”

“I—I didn’t mean to see …” She started shaking again. I reached under her nightgown and caressed her back. My girls always found comfort in skin to skin contact. So did I.

“Tell Mommy what you saw,” I encouraged. “It’s okay. Mommy can help.”

She took a breath. “I couldn’t sleep … and I heard … and I thought … but you weren’t hurt … and I couldn’t stop when I saw …”

Olivia seemed on the edge of another burst of sobs. She turned into me to hide her face. Her lips almost brushed my nipple. Her breath and tears stiffened it.

I’ve never hidden anything from my daughters, and they’re mostly open with me, too. But the subject of Mommy’s Sex Life had not come up in conversation before. Now it seemed unavoidable.

I dove in with the direct approach. “You saw Mommy masturbating, darling.”

“Mass … stir … bating?” Olivia tried to sound it out.

“Yes, masturbating.” Anticipating her next question, I added, “Mommy was having sex with herself.”

Olivia fell silent. This was a lot for her eight-year-old mind to process.

The only time I remember us discussing sex was last summer, after we had attended a lesbian friend’s wedding. During the drive home, the topic of the honeymoon came up. Olivia asked what people do on honeymoons.

“Have sex, silly!” declared Ashley, her big sister.

As seven- and nine-year-olds then, the girls had a general sense what sex was and how babies were made (no stork nonsense in our household). But uncertain of specifics, Olivia asked, “Can two ladies have sex?”

“Of course!” her sister answered, proud to display her superior but limited knowledge.

It fell on me to fill in the rest. “Women can kiss and touch each other to express their love. And if they kiss and touch each other’s girl parts, they’re having sex.”

“Oh,” Olivia said.

The next likely question—“Have you had sex with another lady, Mommy?”—did not get asked. Ashley spotted a shaved ice stand, and I gave in. A part of me was relieved to delay the details of my lesbian sex life for another day, but strangely, another part felt something like disappointment.

I thought of my college lover Alyssa as I sat at a picnic table with the girls, licking the shaved ice and crossing my legs. How did her life turn out? I wondered.

Olivia kept quiet the rest of the ride. Always the thinker. But Ashley, amped up on sugar, jumped from topic to topic all the way home, the idea of Sex Between Ladies long forgotten.

Now, I ran my fingers lightly up and down Olivia’s back. I wanted (I told myself) to convey that what she had witnessed was just as normal, natural, and nice as my touching her like this.

She sighed.

“You saw Mommy having sex with herself,” I repeated. “It’s something Mommy loves to do.”

Olivia didn’t say anything. Her head rested against my breast like it was story time. Without my robe between us, her breath directly enveloped my nipple in its warmth. The sensation made my nipple strain out even further. I caught myself turning it toward her reflexively. Olivia stared in wonder.

Of course, she’d seen me naked many times, or just in a thong or g-string. Though the girls had their own bathroom down the hall, it was not as spacious as mine. When they were younger, they liked to “swim” in the hot tub or run around the master suite while I showered and dressed. They still came in every now and then to lotion themselves after showering. Their soft young skin didn’t need it, but they enjoyed mimicking the grown-up things that I did.

I never minded. As I said, ours is an open relationship. I also wanted my girls to feel good about their bodies. There’s too much body-shaming in this world as it is.

Besides, I felt motherly joy and pride at seeing my girls in all their glory. Their tangles of honey-gold hair, their bright sea-blue eyes, their flawless pale skin, and even, I noticed—and why not, being their mother?—their tiny pink nipples, their smooth little-girl slits, and their tight round bottoms. My daughters are heedless of their own heart-fluttering beauty.

My fingers played down Olivia’s back, then tickled her bottom before coming back up. She giggled and ticked mine. Two can play, I see. I smiled at her mischievousness.

“The thing is,” I continued, “when Mommy makes herself feel good, her voice can get awfully loud. That’s what you heard.”

“You said ‘fuck me,’” she tittered. “That’s what I heard!”

“I did say that,” I conceded, trying not to seem shocked. “Mommy says that when she gets excited during sex.”

“And what you did was sex, Mommy?”

“Yes, baby,” I replied. “I was having sex with myself. I was fucking myself. That’s what masturbation is.”

Repetition is reinforcement, and I could tell it was sinking in. The teacher in me continued, “There are many kinds of sex. Remember sex between girls—the kind that we talked about after the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“And there’s sex between boys and girls too.”

She blurted, “You mean when they stick their wee-wee in your pee-pee?”

Hmm. “Did your sister tell you that?” I didn’t remember going into those kinds of details with Olivia.

“Yes,” she admitted, retreating a little further into my arms. Still so shy! And so close to my tit, she could kiss it.

“I’m impressed you know so much!” I reassured her. “One thing, though. Grown-ups call wee-wees ‘cocks’ and pee-pees ‘pussies.’ Especially when they’re fucking.”

I dropped my hands back down to her bottom. This time, instead of tickling, I massaged.

“Mmm,” Olivia moaned.

“You like?”

She didn’t answer. At least, not verbally. Instead, she gave my taut nipple an approving peck.

My God.

She looked up and I looked back. I could fall into those eyes if I gazed into them too long.

“And Mommy likes …” I took a breath. “Mommy likes to call her pussy her ‘cunt.’”

“Cunt,” Olivia repeated.

It was like she was trying a magic word. And it was magic, coming from her darling eight-year-old mouth. My floodgates were opening.

“Yes, cunt. Especially when Mommy’s fucking her cunt. Fucking her cunt with her fingers.”

“I saw that,” Olivia said, eyes widening.

“Tell me what you saw.”

“You were … slapping your cunt.”

Precious.

“Yes, Mommy was ‘slapping’ her cunt.” My voice turned husky. “Slapping it hard.” It was all I could do not to touch myself. “Do you know where Mommy’s fingers were?”

“Inside your undies?”

“Deeper. Inside my pussy. Inside my cunt. Mommy’s. Wet. Cunt.”

Silence.

“Say it for me, honey. Please.”

“Mommy’s … wet cunt.”

My heart skipped a beat.

I was still massaging Olivia’s bottom. My fingers had worked their way inside her panties. Skin to skin, how we like it.

“It gets wet, Mommy?”

“It does. Mommy’s cunt gets very wet when she gets excited. It gets soaked.”

“Why?”

Good question. Always the learner, my Olivia.

“To make it easy to fuck.”

“Oh.”

“Easy to pump Mommy’s fingers in and out of her wet cunt. In and out of her mommy cunt.”

“Is it wet now?” Olivia asked.

Another good question. “Is what wet?” I wanted to hear her say it again.

“Your cunt. Your mommy cunt.”

God, she learns fast.

“Yes, Olivia. My mommy cunt is wet.” I hesitated. “You made it wet.”

“I did?” she breathed, hardly believing.

“You did.”

“How?”

“First, I saw you at the door.”

“And that … it made you excited?”

“My heart always leaps to see you, love. But something else made me excited in a different way.” I paused, recollecting. “Made my cunt tingle.”

“Something else? What?”

“Remember how you were holding up your nightgown?”

“No.”

“Well, you were, poor dear! You had it bunched up in your hands.”

“Oh … I was scared, I think.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Just scared?”

“Maybe … excited, too?”

“I think so.”

Realization dawned on Olivia’s face. She looked down at her panties.

“Yes, I could see your panties. Your lovely white little-girl panties. That’s not all I saw, though. Look, there it is. Right on the front.”

“I see it! A wet spot!”

“Your very own. It’s even wetter now.”

I was bursting with maternal pride and—no mistaking it, now—maternal lust. Like mother, like daughter!

“Is that bad?” Olivia looked up at me for assurance. “Like … like pee?”

“No, darling. And it’s not bad at all. Quite the opposite.”

She waited for me to continue, as if anticipating the next plot twist. The girls loved when storytime involved a thinly-veiled version of themselves (“a courageous princess with honey-blonde locks”) or a fairytale incarnation of me (“a beautiful queen with hair like sunshine”). Now the two of us were the actual characters.

“It’s good that your cunt can get so very wet. It means that, like Mommy, you’ll have great sex.”

“I will?!” Awe and disbelief washed over Olivia. Her cheeks flushed. Being “like Mommy” was always tops in her book. This enlarged the comparison in ways she had yet to imagine.

But trust Olivia to take two steps ahead, once she found her footing.

“Mommy … what if I don’t want boys putting their wee-wees in my cunt?”

My baby! Her eyes filled with worry.

“It’ll be your choice, angel!” I put on my most affirming mommy voice. “No one can make you have sex if you don’t want. And if you don’t want to have sex with boys, not ever, that’s perfectly fine!”

Olivia looked relieved. She still had a child’s faith in my words.

“There are other kinds of sex, remember?”

She pondered, then cried out, “With girls!”

“Yes! With girls!”

As a mother, encouraging my girls’ enthusiasm had become second nature. But my heart fluttered at how she glowed with excitement at the idea of sex with other girls. Of course, at her age, she didn’t want anything to do with boys, and her life and love revolved entirely around our all-female family. Still.

“And with yourself!” I added. After all, that’s what started this little mommy-daughter talk!

Olivia turned it over. “With myself.”

“You know, like Mommy. Fucking her cunt. Her mommy cunt.”

She giggled. “I don’t have a mommy cunt.”

“No. You have something better.” It was pure maternal reflex, intended to give her positive reinforcement. But saying it made its truth apparent, like a revelation.

“I do?”

“Yes, you do. You have a precious little-girl pussy. A girl cunt.”

“A girl cunt.” She seemed to like how it sounded. “A girl cunt!”

I wanted to fuck myself then and there in front of Olivia. In front of my eight-year-old daughter with her wet girl cunt.

“But why is it better, Mommy?”

I should have seen that question coming. I could definitely see where it was going. A responsible part of me asked if things were getting out of hand—too far, too fast for me to assess possible consequences. But a more responsible part (so I decided) replied, Teach her. Show her. You’re her mother.

“Well … why don’t we get out of our undies so we can see?”

The question hung in the air. She looked eager, but suddenly shy.

“Here, I’ll go first.”

I lifted Olivia from my lap, giving her a quick reassuring kiss, and set her down in front of me.

Olivia crossed her legs to get comfy, and the hem of her nightgown fell over her crotch. I felt a touch of disappointment, but also anticipation. Soon, I would see much more of her than this.

I slipped out of my thong as nonchalantly as I could. But my attempt at easing us into I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours took an unexpected turn that I should have foreseen. My cunt had gotten so juicy that strings of wetness stretched from me to the soaked thong. A long glistening strand fell on my inner thigh.

I couldn’t help but laugh, and Olivia followed suit. Well, that broke the ice!

I also couldn’t resist the teaching opportunity—or, to be honest, a chance to taste myself.

“We shouldn’t let this go to waste,” I said cheerfully.

Olivia’s rapt face told me she suspected what might come next. Her mouth hung open.

I slowly ran two fingers up my inner thigh, so Olivia could see me scoop up the thick wet strand. I brought my fingers within inches of Olivia’s face. Her eyes grew as large as quarters.

“See? You made Mommy wet.”

“You mean … when you saw my panties?”

“That started it.”

I brought my fingers to Olivia’s nose. She inhaled. Her eyes fluttered. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips.

“Like how it smells?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“It tastes even better.”

She remembered. “I saw you licking your fingers!”

“Yes. I was licking my pussy juice. My cunt juice.” Wait—even better: “My mommy juice.”

My dreamy-eyed child whispered, “Mommy juice …”

I had to let my daughter see this.

With long, wet licks, I ran my tongue up and down and around my fingers. Then I plunged them into my mouth, slurping and sucking until they were clean.

I kept my eyes fixed on Olivia the whole time. She started back in shock. Her breath quickened. Her hands dropped to her crotch, cupping it.

I took one last slow suck. Through hooded eyes, I saw my child moisten her lips again.

“Darling,” I said. “Want a taste?”

Olivia didn’t say anything. But I knew, as surely as she was my daughter.

Sliding my ass forward, I inserted the same two fingers, very slowly, into my dripping cunt. Olivia could clearly see them, buried up to the knuckles. They were drowning inside.

Mmm.

I pulled my fingers out. My cunt contracted. Gooey strands trailed my soaked fingers all the way back to the source.

I held them in front of her. “Yours, love.”

She sat frozen. Her gaze went from my fingers to my eyes. I gazed back fondly. I gave her a nod. That broke the spell.

Olivia leaned forward and grabbed my hand. I expected her to taste-test first, as she does with more exotic foods. But whether owing to her trust in my motherly lead, or to the tug of her newly inflamed lust—I could plainly see unabashed desire in her child’s eyes—she didn’t hesitate for a second.

Olivia licked and sucked the “mommy juice” off my fingers like it was melting ice-cream. Her mouth felt even hotter than my cunt. Her little-girl tongue swirled and darted with surprising agility. My heart raced as my pussy gushed.

When Olivia started licking up and down my fingers with the urgency of a lover, I lost it.

I began to maul my cunt with my free hand as waves of pleasure rippled through me. My hips started bucking. Olivia gripped my other hand tighter, sucking the fingers with surprising force.

My hips flopped uncontrollably. I must have screamed because my ears rang. My God. Oh my God. Oh my FUCKING God …

Finally, I collapsed.

“Olivia!” I gasped.

“Mommy!” She fell on me and hugged for dear life. I hugged back harder.

“I love you, baby.” I cried. “I love you so much!”

On to Chapter Three!

Author’s Note: The exquisite stories on this site have given me countless hours of pleasure and splendid orgasms. I am grateful to its many contributors, most of all its co-founders. Your talents for writing erotica are peerless. Hearts and hugs especially to Naughty Mommy, who has delighted, awed, and inspired me with her symphonic works of mother-daughter love and lesbian incest.

This is a humble attempt to give back, my first effort at fiction since college. The story could not have reached this stage without JetBoy’s consummate editing and warm encouragement. He writes and edits at the highest levels. All faults, of course, remain my own. I hope you’ll find something in it to enjoy!

by Shy Mom

I wonder about the mother of every young girl I meet. How much physical contact do they enjoy in public? How much more in private? Maybe the juiciest secret of all is that, deep down, we moms harbor the same nurturing and naughty desires for our budding daughters, whether we have consummated them or not.

At thirty-four, I can still turn heads. I take no credit for being naturally blonde, but I do spin and swim several days a week to maintain an athletic figure. In tight leggings, which I love wearing, I’ve caught other moms wistfully checking out my ass. I show my small round breasts to advantage in extra-small sports bras. I think they compare favorably to those of many a teenager—though, from having nursed my daughters, my nipples are larger and longer.

I’m the mother of two girls, the blessings of an otherwise unsatisfying marriage to a college boyfriend. He seemed a handsome enough catch my freshman year, and we had frequent if not entirely fulfilling sex. At first, I felt like a goddess making him come again and again, but he didn’t seem to know or care if I ever got off. Usually, I didn’t.

In my sophomore year, a lovely sorority sister named Alyssa took pity and introduced me to vibrators. My solo sex life took off. I had never enjoyed so many orgasms. But sweet Alyssa didn’t just leave me fending (pleasurably) for myself. Taking me under her wing, she insisted on mentoring my masturbation sessions when she could. Her hands-on help, with and without toys, made me come harder and wetter. How could I object?

Eventually, Alyssa joined me and my boyfriend in bed. Thinking back, I suspect she did it more for me than him. We had sex without him on occasion, but I think the two of us would have fucked more often if she’d sensed (faithful girlfriend that I was) that I wouldn’t feel guilty about it.

Our threesomes fell into a pattern. Like any guy, my boyfriend loved the idea but could never last very long. Two girls was probably more than he could handle—two blondes, certainly. Alyssa and I could easily dispatch his needs in minutes and devote the rest of our time to lesbian lovemaking. She always brought me to multiple orgasms with her expert pussy eating. In turn, I learned to savor giving as much as receiving, and to love the taste of cunt (a word I had never uttered before she made me beg to eat hers; it still makes me wet).

Alas, sisterly, sexy Alyssa! She graduated a year ahead of me and left for graduate school in the UK. We gradually lost touch as other lovers entered her life and marriage entered mine.

Fucking was never the same after Alyssa left our relationship. I could still make my man come quickly, but preferred my hands and toys to his cock. At first, my masturbatory fantasies were full of Alyssa, but the eroticism of those memories faded with time.

My husband gradually became more interested in watching sports than fucking me. Sex became even less frequent after Ashley was born, and practically non-existent after Olivia. I shouldn’t have cared, given how little fulfillment it gave me. However, like many women in my situation, I came to question my own desirableness. I worried that my sexy “girl parts” had become unsexy “mom parts.”

Fortunately and unfortunately, that wasn’t it. One day, I caught my husband sexting with a coworker. Another mom, just not the mother of his daughters. And as it turned out, they had been doing much more than sexting. I was devastated.

After the shock wore off, if not the heartache, I assessed the situation as dispassionately as I could and came to conclude that neither I nor the girls needed my husband in our lives. He had taken little interest in raising them, and I much preferred pleasuring myself.

Thankfully, the divorce that I demanded didn’t change my life with the girls or affect my sex life in any meaningful way. And with the alimony from putting my husband through med school and my own income as a third-grade teacher, my girls and I have managed to live comfortably as a single-parent family.

My girls. How to describe them without gushing? (Figuratively, I mean.)

Several years ago, strangers often mistook Ashley and Olivia for twins—both blonde, both slender, both endowed with sea-blue eyes that seem to sparkle with secret, shared delights.

At eight and ten now, subtle and increasingly less subtle differences have added to their distinct allure. Ashley is a couple of inches taller, with elven cheeks like mine, and chest and hips that have just begun the years-long metamorphosis into womanhood. Olivia still has cherub cheeks and a chest as flat as her iPad. Her pert butt remains the only rounded part of her prepubescent figure.

Oh, I might add that wisps of honey-blonde hair have begun sprouting around Ashley’s vulva, while Olivia’s remains bare as the day I gave birth to her. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

***

Until this spring, I had never considered myself a pervert, much less a pedophile. The thought of lesbian incest had certainly never crossed my mind! My college threesome—more of a lesbian twosome—was about as adventurous as my sex life had gotten. But a lot of girls in college, especially in our sorority, developed a taste for their own sex and became lesbians at least until graduation, if not for life.

As for masturbation, I’d wager more women do it than let on. And I’d challenge any woman to stop once they’ve learned to make themselves come (and come again, and again) on demand.

My awakening to lesbian incest was serendipitous. It started, innocently enough, with masturbation.

The week after spring break, the suburban Catholic school where I teach had gone online for the remainder of the semester due to the pandemic. My girls attended the same school, so we were all three in the same boat. Sheltering in place seemed natural for us, as we’ve always loved spending our nights and weekends together as a family. Now we had even more time to ourselves.

Our days were filled with Zoom classes, online meetings and activities, lesson planning, and studying. Without after-school activities, we had evenings free to cook and eat together, and we enjoyed family activities such as board games, role-playing, or streaming TV before showering and going to bed.

I should say going to bed for the girls, who shared a room, but not for me. The last hours of the evening were “Mommy Time.” And so it was on the pivotal evening, at least until it wasn’t.

It was about two weeks into quarantine.  As usual, I showered, shaved, and lotioned myself all over, giving my naked sex a slather of cream and extra attention. I like to keep it baby smooth except above the hood, where I have maintained the barest strip of hair that’s a shade darker than my sunshine blonde tresses. I keep this soft strip just for me. I love how finely it garnishes the delights below.

I made an effort not to linger over my clit. Not yet.

To top things off, I massaged my breasts, then teased the tips of my enlarged nipples with drops of lotion and twirls of fingers. Before things got out of hand, I willed myself to stop, put on a skimpy black thong with a filmy front, and wrapped myself in a creamy silk robe that barely covered my ass. I loved how the cool silk brushed against my nipples—and how they were so clearly visible through the robe, tempting me with their twin promises of pleasure for the taking. And so I would.

I kissed the girls goodnight, then sat in bed to read a novel. Nothing naughty, just something to take me to a different place and time for an hour or so, long enough for the girls to fall asleep.

As I read, resting against the headboard of my king-sized bed, my robe parted around my legs. I instinctively reached down and lightly ran a finger up and down the front of my thong. The gauzy fabric slipped into my slit as the wetness seeped onto the tip of my finger. I dipped and sucked as I continued reading. God, I love the taste of my cunt.

After a few chapters, I put down the book. It was good, but no longer what I needed.

I was now rubbing my pussy through the sopping thong with my entire hand. My other hand teased my nipples through the silk robe, circling and flicking the hard tips.

My nipples stuck out like bullets, begging for more. I flung off my robe, sucked my fingers, and lathered my tits in saliva. Not enough. I reached inside my thong, scooped out a dollop of cunt juice and rubbed it all over my tits. God, I wished I could suck them. I gave my nipples sharp pinches. My cunt convulsed in a mini-orgasm.

I plunged my hand back under the waistband of my thong and slid two fingers into my pussy with a single thrust, up to the hilt. So wet. I withdrew my fingers and slurped up my cum, then penetrated myself again.

“Fuck me,” I whispered.

I spread my legs, knees up, and closed my eyes. I began plunging my fingers in and out of my leaking cunt while my other hand played with my slippery tits.

I pulled my fingers out, straining my knuckles against the thong, then slapped them back in with the elastic assist. I did it again. And again.

My rhythm ramped up. The juices seeped out. Even my clit got soaked.

My clit. Engorged, pea-sized, it radiated pleasure with every wet slap.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“Oh fuck!”

I sped up.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

My furious thwacking filled the room. My words turned to screams. My hips buckled as contractions seized my cunt. I nearly ripped my tits off.

“FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“Fuck me!”

“Fuck me …”

“Fuck … me … oh … fuck.”

One final, weak slap. “Fuck.”

God. That was good.

I left those two fingers inside my recovering pussy. I loved how they filled me while soaking up my heat and juices. I kept my eyes closed to luxuriate in the sensations still radiating from all my mommy parts.

Mommy parts. Thinking those words made my pussy clench. Mmm.

I finally released my fingers and licked them lovingly, savoring my taste and aroma. Then I opened my eyes and leaned over to get a toy from the nightstand.

That’s when I saw her.

Olivia. Eight-year-old Olivia, standing at the door, eyes wide, cheeks flushed.

I stared back, lost for words.

Olivia’s hands had worked the hem of her pink nightgown into a nervous bunch. Below the lifted hem, her innocent white girl-panties peeked out.

I was horrified. How long had she been there? God, what had she seen? What had she heard?

And was that a wet spot on the front of her panties?

My next thought shocked me: I want to taste that.

On to Chapter Two!