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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 1B
Date: Fri, 16 Dec 2005 13:17:29 -0800
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 1B
The fact is, Martha Jane was an upright, well behaved, socially
poised, and even a classy young lady. She seldom displayed anger,
apparently never gossiped or had anything critical to say about
anyone. As far as I can tell, she was just a very conscientious,
proper, very pretty teenaged girl. She did have an active and
playful nature but for the most part she behaved with the kind of
politeness so common among girls whose Southern moms brought them up
as "proper" and "sociable".
But obviously Martha Jane had her other side. On rare occasions
during that period when she first was sitting for me, I would now
and then look up and find her staring at me. Not "at" me, I should
say, but "toward" me as though thinking of something very deep and
ponderous. Or now and then she would, indeed, look right into me
with a serious and careful gaze, but she'd say nothing. I would
turn away and go back to what I was doing. I had no idea what she
was thinking.
One of these incidents occurred in late 1948, just before or after
Thanksgiving. I was six, Martha Jane was fifteen. She arrived at
our place from next door at about 7 o'clock as my Mom was getting
powdered and done up. I was on the floor of the living room and had
spread old newspapers around to work on the treasured but broken
Underwood typewriter that I had retrieved from the trash only a few
weeks earlier. Martha Jane said hello and hugged me and chatted
with my mother. Mom said, "Just let him play down there and he
shouldn't be any trouble." Martha Jane laughed and said, "Betty,
Speedy never gives me any trouble," at which Mom grumbled, "Give him
time."
Martha Jane stood over me and asked what I was doing. My Mom broke
in and said, "He's making a mess with that old typewriter. I don't
see why he doesn't throw it away, it's nothin' but a...hunk of
junk."
Martha Jane bent way down to smile at me on the floor and survey the
spread of springs and spare parts strewn over the newspaper. "Hey,"
she asked, "are you taking this apart or putting it together?"
"Both," I said, not looking up from my work. "I'm gonna make it
work again."
"But what'll you to do with it, Speedy, after you get it to work?"
"I'll figure somethin' out," I said arrogantly.
"You certainly have enough parts there for inspiration."
My mother came into the room, screwing on an earring. "Don't you
make a mess and drive Martha Jane crazy. She has to study tonight."
"Oh, Betty," Martha Jane said, "he'll be all right."
My mother continued, "I don't know what he wants that thing for, it
must be twenty years old. His godmother buys him toy trains and toy
this and toy that, and he has to fool around with that and make a
mess!"
She left to finish dressing in the bedroom. I sat on my knees,
hunched over, laboriously studying the puzzle before me. I was so
deeply absorbed that I was startled to hear someone breathing behind
me. I looked up at saw Martha Jane staring at me. I turned so
quickly that she barely had time to change the studied expression
with which she had apparently been watching me.
Quickly, she smiled and gave me a big wink. She mouthed the words,
"It's okay."
My Mom left a few minutes later. Martha Jane settled down to a pile
of books on the sofa and studied silently while I knelt on the floor
struggling with my project. Using pliers and a screwdriver, I
managed to straighten most its typeset arms, but some of them were
still getting stuck on certain letters. I worked on it until I
became frustrated and threw the pliers on the floor and pouted.
"What's wrong?" Martha Jane asked, and she came to sit on the floor
beside me.
I showed her how the keys for certain letters were still bent out of
shape and that if I bent one properly, the keys next to it became
misaligned. Martha Jane said, "Speedy, why don't you take it to a
repair shop?"
"It's too old," I said. "Nobody wants to fool with it."
"Tell you what, maybe your Aunt Frances would buy you a new one."
"She won't," I said.
"But she gets you everything you want."
"No!" I said, angrily. "She told me I'm too young to have a
typewriter."
"Too young?" she said, surprised. "You probably know more about
typewriters than she ever will, hon."
"Besides," I added, holding the black albatross by the ends of its
heavy roller platen, "it's mine! I found it."
"And nobody wants it but you," she pondered. She hunched down
beside me and surveyed the damage. "Maybe I can help."
I sighed, "It's no use. It's just too old and banged up."
"Well, Speedy, let's be patient and see what we can do. I'm sure
you can figure it out. Show me what's wrong with it."
I was reluctant and pessimistic at first, but Martha Jane put on her
horn rimmed glasses and made me show her what the problem was. She
studied everything closely and showed me how to set up the keys so
that the problem was always repeated exactly the same way every
time. She told me how to work on one part at a time and not try to
fix everything at once. Finally we had the machine in one piece
again and I showed her how straightening one key would throw several
others out of whack.
Martha Jane sat back and scratched her head. I stood up beside her.
"Martha Jane," I said, "you don't have to do this. You have to
study."
She said, "No...now you've got me as puzzled about this as you are."
Suddenly she snapped her fingers and ran into the kitchen. She came
back with some Popsicle sticks. We kept Popsicle sticks around for
making our own cheap Popsicles out of soda poured into ice trays.
She showed me how to hold the line of keys in place with parts made
from Popsicle sticks, and that would let me work on one key at a
time and keep the others in place.
"Hey," I exclaimed, "Neat! That's pretty smart for a girl."
"Hm...boys!" she huffed with a laugh, and she went back to the sofa
and her books.
An hour passed while I worked feverishly. And finally the damn
thing worked! I ran to the chest in the corner for paper and put a
sheet into the roller, and used a piece of Popsicle stick to replace
a missing part that kept the wrinkled old ink ribbon aligned. Then
I typed and typed and watched amazed as the page filled with
perfectly straight rows of letters for the first time. I was so
pleased, I filled the page from top to bottom with letters that soon
were words instead of random characters. I watched as my thoughts
magically unfolded in printed sentences before my eyes. I typed
until there was no more room on the page, then I ripped it from the
roller and ran to Martha Jane, who was startled by my sudden leap
onto the sofa next to her.
"Look!" I said, shoving the paper under her face.
"Well," she said, impressed. "That's very nice. See? I knew you
could do it."
Embarrassed, I said, "Look at the last line."
Along the last line I had typed "Thank You Martha Jane Thank You
Martha Jane" across the page.
"Oh, that's sweet!" she exclaimed. She gave me a hug. "Can I keep
this?"
"Sure."
"Is it all right? It's yours, you made it all by yourself. You
sure you don't want to keep it so you can show your Mama what you
did?"
"She don't care."
"Now why would say something like that about your Mama?"
I shook my head. "She don't care. I didn't make it for me, I made
it for you. You helped me make it work."
"But, hon, your Mama cares about what you do."
I shook my head no.
"She does!" Martha Jane insisted.
I shook my head again. "She tells me kid stuff like...she says
babies come from storks, and the storks deliver the babies in
diapers hangin' from their beaks. She's always tellin' me stuff
like that."
"And I take it you didn't believe it."
I shook my head no. "That can't be where babies come from."
"Well," she said, "maybe you ought to talk to your Mama about that."
I shook my head no again.
"So, have you figured out where babies come from all by your self?"
"Not yet. But it ain't from storks."
"You're probably right," she murmured. She gazed at me inscrutably
for a long moment, during which I squirmed and stood on the floor
but bent down to prop my chin on an elbow that I leaned on the sofa
cushion beside her. Then she looked down at the page I had given
her and smiled. "This is so nice of you. I'll take it, but...you
can have it back whenever you want it."
"Okay."
She held her hand on the back of my neck and drew me toward her so
she could kiss me on the nose. "Thank you!"
"Thank you too!" I smiled and blushed and looked at her slender
fingers and her auburn hair and the gentle lines of her face. She
could not have ignored the way my eyes stayed glued on her. She
smiled at me.
"Kiss me back," she said, pointing to her noise.
I did and said, "I like your nose."
"Yeah?" she said. She winked at me. "I like yours too."
I feigned an over dramatized blush and a baby-like "Aw, shucks."
"Don't be silly," she laughed, and pointed at my project on the
floor. "I hate to say it, hon, but it's nine o'clock. You have to
clean that up, and I have to get you a bath."
I said okay and quickly straightened things up while she went into
the bathroom and drew the bath. It was time for our bathtub ritual.
The apartments had no showers, but they had big new tubs in the
small tiled bathrooms. Martha Jane would fill the tub to just the
right warm temperature for the pink bubble-bath. The magic moment
came when I was fidgeting nude by the tub while the water level
slowly rose. Martha Jane would hold the packet of bubble bath
powder high over the tub.
"Almost ready-y-y..." she'd chant, as I waited.
"Looks okay NOW!" I'd say.
"Nope," she'd say. "Almost...almost...." And finally, "There she
blows!" And she'd upturn the packet until just enough of the pink
powder fell out to make the right amount of bubbly stuff that I
liked.
I would hop into the tub and splash and stir up the bubbles until
they overflowed the tub. The bubble-baths were better with Martha
Jane than with anyone else, because others insisted on fewer bubbles
and less time in the tub. But Martha Jane was herself a bubble-bath
lover and seemed to know just how much would be the most fun --
which in my case was enough bubbles to not only fill the tub to its
rim but to cover most of my head as well, by the time I fluffed it
up.
Martha Jane did not dry and dress me. That was up to me. I was a
fidgety kid anyway who liked to dress under my own power. Usually
she stayed in the living room and listened to the radio or studied,
and I would bathe, dry and dress and empty the tub myself. On those
occasions when she did stay in the bathroom as "supervisor", she was
there to make sure I cleaned up my bubbly mess. When this happened,
Martha Jane removed her skirt and blouse and wore her bra and
panties, or sometimes a delicate silk slip, if I were still in the
bath; this was to keep her clothes from being splashed when we got
playful and threw globs of bubble-bath at each other during our
occasional bubble fights (Martha Jane, neatnick that she was,
insisted on cleaning up every single remnant of any mess we made).
On that night she stayed in the bathroom with me, fully clothed
until I climbed into the tub. She stood in the opened doorway and
watched contemplatively. After a minute she came into the bathroom
and began removing her skirt and blouse. She was almost down to her
slip when I announced, from under the mountain of bubbles that
reached to my nose, that I had to pee.
"Go ahead," she said.
I insisted, "But YOU'RE in here!"
"For goodness' sake, it won't bother me."
But I refused to pee with her in the room and would not get out of
the tub. I remained hidden behind my hill of bubbles.
Seeing my reluctance she said, "all right, I won't embarrass you.
Is Number One all you have to do?"
"Just Number One," I said. "But I hafta do it a hunnert and sixty
three times."
"Yeah, right...keep it under one fifty, bubble man, and don't take
all night. Do what you have to do, hon, and call me when you're
finished."
That was fine with me. She left the room and closed the door.
After I peed I got back into the tub and shouted that the coast was
clear.
When she opened the door she wore only her bra and panties.
For a while she watched me from the opened doorway while I splashed
and scrubbed, but when it was time for me to finish up she came into
the room and knelt near the tub, watching me as before. I don't
remember what I said to her, but she was laughing about it when I
pulled the stopper from the tub and stood up to dry off while the
water drained. After my upper body was dry I got out of the tub as
usual to dry my legs and feet on the little pink rug in the middle
of the tiled floor. Martha Jane knelt and stared at me with that
same probing look. I was drying off when she reached up and put two
of her slim fingers around the head of my penis.
"Dry this too?" she asked, smiling.
"Yep," I answered innocently.
She continued fondling my tip with her two fingers, gently and
slowly, squeezing lightly or running a finger around the tip.
I stopped my drying and looked down at what she was doing. I
studied her fingers closely, feeling a new and beguiling pleasure at
her touch.
"Feel good?" she asked, her eyes studying my reactions. Her voice
had fallen to a whisper. She half smiled with what appeared to be
great interest, curiosity, and uncertainty.
"Yeah," I whispered back.
Our voices were so low that the drip drip drip of the bathtub faucet
was easily twice the volume. I remember hearing the faint drip,
thinking that the hot water handle had to be tightened to make it
stop, but her touch had me spellbound. My tip itched strangely and
the skin of my glans seemed to cling to her soft, tentative fingers.
"You like that?" she whispered.
"Yeah. Feels nice."
"Like it when I squeeze this way?"
"Yeah. Keep doin' it."
Constantly observing my reactions, she continued fondling me and
asking questions. She had a very secretive, whispered manner as if
no one was supposed to hear us, and I fell into this pattern by
whispering back my own answers in the same secretive way. As she
played with me I grew larger -- something else quite new to me --
and after a moment she set me on the edge of the tub and knelt in
front of me, tickling and stroking my cock, explaining how it would
get bigger as she did it. Soon I was erect enough to allow her
entire hand to enfold me, at which point she began delicately
pumping me toward a larger erection.
Still whispering furtively, she was delighted at the size of my
young hard on and made several remarks about how my penis, which
normally was hardly bigger than her thumbnail, could grow to about 4
inches and get much fatter. I was far too young to have an orgasm
at that point, a fact she apparently discovered after several
minutes of this activity. But for quite a while she continued
fondling me, and I grew more and more pleased at the sensations.
Vaguely I recall that she attempted an explanation of the birds and
bees (I found this much more sensible than that crap about storks!),
but I absorbed precious little of what then was a great deal of
heady biological detail. At that moment I was more interested in
the pleasant physical sensations of her touch and the strangely
enticing intimacy in her voice and manner.
She studied my facial reactions as much as she did those of my
penis, and with every new touch or change in technique she asked me
how it felt. I would tell her it felt good and told her the kind of
hand movements and touches I liked best.
She said, "Now don't tell anybody we do this."
While this may have seemed an odd request to any other young boy, it
didn't seem so to me. From the very beginning Martha Jane's
secretive manner conveyed to me an air of deliciously naughty
discovery, of shared and precious secrets. Obviously I wouldn't do
anything Martha Jane didn't want. My distrust of grownups in
general had made me adept at developing many covert activities on my
own that offered refuge from meddling adults. I was intrigued to
find that Martha Jane also had secrets that she kept from grownups
but that she was willing to share with me.
>From slightly above her I saw a soft swell of flesh extend
invitingly down into her bra, and I ran my finger over it. "Why do
girls always wear these?" I asked.
Martha Jane told me a bra held a woman's titties securely (Now, the
word "titties," as compared with "breasts", was a valid "Southern"
term. "Breast" sounded too clinical and seemed to apply mostly to
packaged chicken parts. The people I grew up around came from rural
farming families before they lived in the city. The word titties
was perfectly acceptable. I heard it used often in connection with
everything from cats and dogs to cows, auto tire air caps, and
baby-bottle nipples. But from the outset, body words had special
connotations for me and Martha Jane. They were spoken with a unique
vocal, emotional, and sensual coloration that I find indescribable.
These same words would sound entirely different when I heard them
used by others. This use of certain words in certain ways became a
part of our strange relationship at a very early stage. The
singular meanings we gave them appeared to grow entirely under their
own power -- the same way the relationship itself seemed to have
powers of its own).
She opened her bra and let me touch her flesh and her nipples. The
feel of her gave me goosebumps. She explained how babies were
nursed. "Babies suck on the nipples," she said, and I asked what it
tasted like. She said she had never had a baby so she had no milk
in her but she said that a baby sucking its mom's tit was a very
important part of the way babies grew up. She asked if I had ever
sucked my mom's nipples. I said I probably didn't (which in
retrospect, considering my mother's staunch puritanism, was more
than likely true). I asked her how it felt and tasted to suck her
titties. She held one breast up for me and told me I could lick her
nipple and see for myself. I did. The sensation of her
marshmallow-soft flesh on my tongue has never been duplicated. I
was aware of her smiling down and encouraging me as I took my sample
lick. She was delicious. So I took another, longer lick. And
hearing her breath become oddly deep and pleasurable, I licked yet
again.
It was a memorable moment. She left me with the impression that she
enjoyed my tongue on her in a way that was an equally unique
experience for her. She told me that licking her titties was very,
very personal and that she would never let anyone do it but me.
After a while she had me as erect as I would ever get at that age.
I was in a state not only of physical warmth, but of gratitude for
her having revealed to me actions and pleasures that no one but
Martha Jane and I would ever know about. And Martha Jane was
greatly pleased and surprised at the size of my erection and at my
ready complicity in our naughty game.
"We'll do it again later, okay?" she said, holding my very hard
penis still in her warm hand. "But don't tell anyone else, hon,
because...well..."
She paused. She searched for words.
"Well, they would say this is nasty. They wouldn't like it and we'd
be in trouble."
I asked, "Why do they think it's nasty?"
"They just do. Lots of people don't like doing this."
"I do."
"You do? Really?"
"Yes. I like it with you."
She grinned. "Let's get you dressed and we can do it again
sometime."
I don't remember anything else about that night. But I am certain
this was the night that a significant language with its own
coloration and associations, its own set of gestures and responses,
and a heavily secretive atmosphere introduced themselves into our
relationship.
Good little boy that I was, I got dressed. She did, too, and then
she put me to bed, kissed me goodnight, and went into the living
room to study while I fell asleep. I was perfectly content. It was
not so much the physical sensations that left me pleased as it was a
new serenity, a feeling of closeness with the only person in the
world I could trust.
That was the beginning. I did not invest much time thinking about
the details, nor was I old enough to live in constant anticipation
of the next event. I knew only that I was extremely fond of Martha
Jane. I was also aware, at the time, of her apprehension and
tension. But she needn't have worried; indeed, I never told anyone
about us and was never tempted to. This was Martha Jane's secret
and mine, a haven from the coldness and fickleness of the outer
world. And there was no way I would ever hurt Martha Jane by
getting her into trouble that might keep us apart. Unwittingly, we
had formed a compact and a revolt.
Continued...
Wanna more sex stories? >
http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html