Ordinarily, it would have been a safe guess to say that we had started something big together. As it turned out though, such a guess would have missed the mark. Bernadette went moral on me and refused to participate. Worse yet, I got a nasty scolding the next time she heard me use one of the naughty words. What if your father heard you talk tike that? So maybe it wasn't morality as much as fear of losing her job – but whatever the reason, I recognized that as a real stumbling block. If even the words were taboo, how would I ever convince her of my readiness for sex, my readiness to become a lesbian?
Alone, upstairs in my own room, I muttered a curse. It made me feel daring and I did it again, a string of curses now, words that I knew were dirty and forbidden. Over and over. And even though it was done in anger and frustration, I became aware that just speaking aloud so boldly was having an effect on me. Yes, it did make me feel bigger and older and grown-up and daring…
Daring?
To hell with her then, I just wanted another crack at those books. And now I saw no reason to hang around and wait for the perfect opportunity; after all, what if she did walk in and catch me? For that matter, I even thought about grabbing the stuff and carrying it upstairs to read at my leisure. Oh yes, I felt daring, sure enough – only that turned out to be a flop, too. The books simply weren't there. I checked all the drawers and pawed through her closet, only to come away empty-handed.
After mulling it over awhile, I decided to become her buddy again, a nice little girl who obeyed the rules and gave her no trouble. As if our night together had never happened. Still, on the pretense of offering a "little girl" brand of affection, I rubbed up against her and tried to get cuddly and did everything possible to soften her attitude toward me. But nothing worked; she just wouldn't snap at the bait – and I came to the conclusion that my old friend didn't trust me any more.
Time was the only remedy for that, time and good behavior, wiping out the bad memories. And so I really did become a nice little girl again, trying my best to pick up the threads of our earlier relationship. I did well, too, except that the thing deep down inside – the real me – wouldn't give up. At night, in the privacy of my own room, I tossed and twisted and could have sworn my mattress was developing lumps. Only the bed wasn't at fault, of course. My body was aroused, my poor little growing body had been cheated out of its promised and long-overdue payment. That big red lip-licking tongue, so near and yet so far; no wonder I couldn't sleep!
Even the weather turned against me, spring going into summer practically overnight, a summer heat that made my pajamas sweaty and unbearable. I switched to nightgowns, thinner and less binding, cooler and more comfortable – but that was only a minor relief, hardly a solution to the basic problem. My tummy still felt all quivery inside. Well, not my tummy exactly, but somewhere down there, a close enough estimate. (Anything closer was too close; nice little girls weren't supposed to know such words!) Anyway, even with thin sleep-wear and no school – no homework to worry about – the prospect of the long hot summer still seemed pretty dismal.
Until the night of the storm…
Who could forget such a night? It broke around two o'clock in the morning following a heat wave, a freak hailstorm that was like, nothing I'd ever been through before. My first impulse was to run to my father's room, until I remembered that he had left that same afternoon for a TV dealers' convention, a two-day affair. So I remained huddled in bed, shivering with fright as the huge hailstones rattled the window panes. Great streaks of lightning lit up the sky and brought enormous thunderclaps in their wake. The noise and glare were horrible, too scary for anybody to be alone in, much less a kid like me. And it didn't help much when I ducked down and pulled the covers up over my head, a sheet and then the bedspread, not much protection against all that violence outside.
The thunder kept rolling. On the verge of panic, I jumped out of bed and scurried downstairs toward the maid's room. Surely I would be safe there. Unloved, but safe from harm. Lightning wouldn't dare touch big strong Bernadette. Her very presence would calm my fears. It might even calm the storm a little, too.
Her door was ajar, the small room dark. I stood there in breathless anxiety, too upset to go back upstairs and too timid to awaken her. And then I heard it. The noise. What could it be? No, not the wind and the rain and the hail beating upon the window. It sounded like somebody crying…
Bernadette? Crying?
It must have been my imagination. My ears were playing tricks on me. I shuddered as a bolt of lightning blazed, so close one that struck with an almost simultaneous crackle of thunder. It lasted for ages, filling the room with electric daylight, a whole year of daylight crammed into one tiny interval. A scream sounded, a shriek of terror. Ghastly pale in the surrounding brightness, Bernadette sat upright in bed for an instant and then – just as I had done a few minutes ago – she ducked low and yanked the covers over herself. Right up over her head, a big woman like that!
I couldn't understand it. Only children were supposed to be afraid of lightning and thunder. And this grownup was actually more frightened than I had been. More frightened than I felt right now, certainly. Sympathy welled up inside me. I had come to seek comfort; couldn't I offer it instead?
With that – and only that – in mind, I crawled beneath the mound of bedclothes to soothe her. She clutched me desperately, pulling me into her feverish embrace. Mumbled syllables oozed from her lips and I realized that she was praying. But her body was warm and soft and fragrant, and there was only the thinness of our two nightgowns to, separate us. I began to get that tingly feeling again. Under the covers like that, the perfumed woman-smell grew almost pungent, strong enough to make my nose twitch.
The storm abated at last – and so did Bernadette's tears, except for a choked sob every now and then. But she still held on to me and I started wriggling restlessly, trying to snuggle even closer. My nightgown got twisted and rucked up somehow, and at the same time hers seemed to gape open at the top, sliding off one shoulder almost as if by magic. We didn't speak. That was good, I knew instinctively; words would have been embarrassing. I just turned slightly and buried my flushed face between her breasts.
She uttered a throaty little noise, pushing the cover down to free both our heads. I thought it might be some sort of protest, but instead – as though my touch on her bare flesh had set her on fire – she went darn near frantic. Her hand moved all over my body, the other one stroking my hair and urging me deeper into the contact with her bosom. The sweet scent of her skin was intoxicating; my mind reeled and lost track of her roving hand, unable to cope with so many new sensations at once.
I poked my tongue out, licking one nipple tentatively until she gasped aloud. The thing became big and stiff and pointy and I wrapped my lips around it greedily, eager for an even bigger mouthful. A gasp sounded again as the upper part of her body arched to help me, thrusting more of the swollen flesh into my mouth. It was like an invitation, an offering of herself, granting me the right to kiss and lick and suck the spicy-sweet softness of her breasts, her womanly breasts – oh, such big soft titties! – even that hand down there continued its ever-narrowing circle of caresses. I was conscious of its whereabouts now, the hand between my legs, conscious of her fingertips grazing, tickling, probing…
She moaned and pushed me away, ending my suck-kiss. I couldn't figure out why. And then, with her next hurried movement, the answer struck and turned my frustrated bewilderment into a thrill of anticipation. She was back under the covers again, but this time it wasn't in fear, oh no, it was for me. And I reveled in the notion, more than willing to give up the joy of my kiss for the hopefully greater joy of hers; wasn't that a far more intimate kind of suck-kiss? Now that the ice had been so beautifully broken, Bernadette seemed intent on making the most of it by going the limit with her lips, her own lesbian lips. And although it was still safer to maintain silence like a nice little girl, I was sorely tempted to speak up and let her know how I felt about it, exactly how I felt, welcoming those lesbian lips with my own little lesbian cunt.
I kept quiet though, except for a tiny whimper as her tongue-tip entered me – a whinny of pleasure, really – but my hips twitched and rotated wildly, rising and arching to meet the kiss more than halfway. The kiss, the lesbian kiss, the ultimate lesbian kiss – oh, there was no describing it, the hot gush inside me, the hot liquid gush of response that raced through my body to greet her mouth. I grabbed her hair with both hands and yanked vigorously, almost violently, jamming her face into the upward heave of my belly. It must have stunned her, this aggressive ardor of mine, a frenzied haste to bypass any further preliminaries to show her that my tight little baby-pussy was ready and waiting to be split wide open. Anyway, she froze right there, still withholding the full thickness of her tongue, still too cautious – or too stupefied probably – to shoot it into me. And at last I gave way to impatience, shattering the chaste silence with a brusque and deliberately lurid blast of exasperation.
"Suck it, suck it, sssuck my cunt! Come on, gimme some more tongue, gimme all of it, can't you see how hot I am? Fuck me with your tongue, that big fat lesbian tongue of yours, fuck me!"
She groaned and made a feeble attempt to pull away, but I was already reinforcing my grip on her hair with a wraparound clutch of my legs, aware of what her reaction might be. Again she struggled to escape – a token endeavor, at least – until I snarled my displeasure and used one hand to thump the back of her head. That did it, putting an immediate stop to the rebellion, and an instant later she was busily obeying my command.
A tremendous thrill surged through me. I could no longer tell what was going on down there under the covers. Lips and mouth and tongue besieged my squirming flesh, but I couldn't manage to separate one from another in my half-delirious mind. Only it didn't matter by then, since they all added up to a single feeling, my first such feeling, erotic beyond belief.
The bedcovers were somewhat constricting though, and I threw them aside jerkily. A distant flash of lightning lit the room as I watched the bent head trapped between my legs, wondering if the glare might frighten her again. But she didn't see it. She couldn't have, I realized, I had her locked in better than a pile of bedclothes, sealed inside my cunt where vision was impossible. It was even doubtful if she could hear the low rumble of thunder. My thighs were clamped over her ears – and despite all that nodding and burrowing as she strove to heighten my pleasure, the total activity wasn't enough to slacken the taut tension of my encirclement. There were no hailstones, no howling gales, no lightning and thunder where Bernadette's face was so firmly lodged. Nothing to be afraid of. But we were in a storm nonetheless, a storm all our own, a lovely storm where the lightning flashed in rainbow colors and the thunder sounded like music and the rain was a hot-drenching cascade of delight. For a while I felt as if the liquid sensation might prove to be my undoing, though – too much gush and too little control – as if I might embarrass myself and wet the bed. Talk about scary sensations!
Luckily it didn't come to pass. Lucky for both of us! Although I doubted if anything could have bothered her at that point, truly a crucial moment in our lives, the kind of crisis that an experienced lesbian was bound to recognize and understand. Surely there was something sacred about a young girl's first orgasm; what lover-woman would dare interfere with such an awesome miracle of nature? What lesbian wouldn't be proud to participate, proud of her active role in its inception? Oh, she was one fine lesbian lover, my Bernadette, and wasn't it even more miraculous to grow up overnight like this, losing my fear of lightning and gaining an obedient cuntlapper all in one deliriously climactic stormy night?