Tara’s Seduction
Copyright© 2025 by Gigi Potemkin
Chapter 2
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 2 - The lesbian awakening of a muscle mommy
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian School DomSub FemaleDom Rough Spanking White Female Lactation Squirting Big Breasts Slow
But I’m saying too much, too soon, am I not? Okay, from the beginning...
Hi! My name is Tara and I am hot!
Yeah, I know that’s a little bit blunt, isn’t it, and even aggressive, but I want no idle chit-chat nor any hint of false modesty in these pages.
Certainly not here, where all I wish is to be as honest and free and, above all, happy as I can!
So no, I will not slowly describe my body while pretending that I don’t know exactly how smoking hot I look, only for later to admit that, yeah, ‘I guess I’m kinda pretty, right, and I even understand why so many men want to spend, mm-mmm!, so much time by my side, right?’
Ah, blow me! No, I’m not gonna waste anybody’s time with these false flags: I am a steaming, scorching hot piece of a woman, even hotter than many strong men can handle, yet this has not been the case all the time.
In fact, right up until my sixteen years I had been quite insecure and unpretentious regarding my own looks, which were indeed quite ungraceful —to put it really mildly. I’m one of those people for whom puberty arrived quite late, and certainly much later than all my friends, which made me an ugly duckling in a world where all others already had wonderful feathers and so many boyfriends and one-night romances —dozens of them, in the case of the most ‘out-there’ girls.
While all these skinny bitches —of whom I felt a tiny bit of envy, I won’t deny— got boobs, butts, thin waists, silky skins, rosy and tight-y lips, I kept being clunky underweight mess of a woman, with super thin, almost skeletal legs and disproportionally long and disparate arms, one longer than the other, not to mention my height.
I mean, I was tall! Freakishly so! So tall, in fact, I was considered something of a medical aberration at such young, tender age!
See, while many adult women would beg for a few inches more (on their legs, of course) but never go beyond 5 1/2 ft, already on my fifth or sixth grade of school I easily reached 5.64 ft, which, if taken in account with my excessive thinness, made me as elegant-looking as a famine-stricken giraffe with severe bone defects.
O, it wasn’t long before my little ‘friends’ noticed this tiny ‘detail’ and soon created for me the most wonderful little nicknames, like Princess Stick and Micaela Jordan —the long lost, talentless sister of Michael!
‘Hey, Tata! For real: haven’t you considered joining the women’s basketball team?’, they’ve asked me many times in all seriousness, which annoyed me even more so than if it had been merely a tease.
But, frankly, it wasn’t half as bad as I may let it appear, mostly because I relied a lot on the empathy and friendship of the other boys, with whom I felt much more at ease.
They thought it was cool to have such a ‘down-to-Earth girl’ by their side and extended to me the same affection and brotherly love they had among each other, which turned me for a while into a true tomboy, a manly girl more interested in boyish activities instead of the ‘puerile silliness’ of all other ‘sissy girls’.
I reckon much of this personality remained with me until later in life, helping me in areas where many other women, sadly, fail so frequently: in my career, for instance, I’ve learned to be proactive and assertive, never accepting a deal I considered unfavorable, and in my love life, oh...!
Let’s say that, in love as well as in business, I learned to be much less passive that most women; never to wait for good things to happen to me, but to instead go after them myself and make them my own!
So, those were neither the worst, nor the best years of my life, but rather just mostly-disappointing ones. I went by my elementary school years without a single boyfriend or haughty ‘doctor plays’, thinking of myself too much of a ‘featureless board’ to ever get the attention of a boy, so I’ve just swallowed my jealousy and carried on, for early on I knew there was much more to life than just silly romances, and that only study and hard work could give me what Mother Nature so cruelly had denied me.
But Mother Nature, oh!, barely did I know what she had in store for little, awkward me!
“This one’s gonna be a looker when she grows up”, some very clever adults said a few times, looking me at the apex of all my chunkiness. I heard them, but never took them much seriously, like any impertinent child when dealing with adults.
My, oh my, how right they would all prove to be!
The transformation happened around my first year high. It all started on the breasts, which had always been noticeable and firm, though rather cramped, but soon grew so much and so fast they made me a usual face on the town’s little clothing store:
‘Mmm, did your bra break off or...?’ The employees usually asked.
‘No.’ I usually replied. ‘I need a new one. Bigger. Much bigger, actually.’
My breasts developed day after day, night after night with no rest for over six months, to the point I could no longer cup each of them with just a hand and much beyond, finally stopping at the margins between a D and a freaking E cup! Thank God they actually stopped, otherwise they’d get ugly and ridiculous, not to mention their weight!
For they were hard and solid like titanium, two true cannonballs embedded on my bust! After the scare, of course, came the pleasure of walking down a road and feeling those two feminine mountains perkily hop and bounce up and down, bountiful and heavy, defying the fabric of my shirts, which had to be always strong and thick so was not to reveal my nipples, which were always hard, swollen and protuberant regardless of whether I was aroused of not.
Further down my wonderland, history repeated itself: my lower body, which had always been quite rectangular, without a waist worth flaunting, sunk unto the belly as if someone had ripped a rib out of my cage, to the point my own mother —half joking, half scared— looked at me once and said, while I changed my clothes:
‘Tatty, you’re ... mmm ... thin! I mean ... are you sure you don’t want to get to the doctor and see if, you know ... you’re alright?’
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