Path: not-for-mail
From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 5B
Date: Fri, 16 Dec 2005 13:25:25 -0800
Organization: http://groups.google.com
Lines: 511
Message-ID: <1134768325.245936.225600@f14g2000cwb.googlegroups.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: 213.184.235.124
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
X-Trace: posting.google.com 1134768330 5845 127.0.0.1 (16 Dec 2005 21:25:30 GMT)
X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 16 Dec 2005 21:25:30 +0000 (UTC)
User-Agent: G2/0.2
X-HTTP-UserAgent: Mozilla/5.0 (Windows; U; Windows NT 5.1; ru-RU; rv:1.7.12) Gecko/20050919 Firefox/1.0.7,gzip(gfe),gzip(gfe)
Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
Injection-Info: f14g2000cwb.googlegroups.com; posting-host=213.184.235.124; posting-account=OHuwPQ0AAAC-Eog3-12CI2dbbgdS3Qoh
===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 5B
In December 1953 my Mom married and my stepfather moved into the
apartment temporarily while they searched for a new house. The
ceremony was little more than a small tea party in a room in the
reception house at St. Mary's Church. This being my mother's
second marriage, she didn't think a large wedding would be
appropriate, and my conservative step-dad agreed. They took over
the old bedroom, and I slept on the pullout sofa in the living room
(which, I did not realize until that time, had a bed inside it!).
Problems with finding a new home caused them to postpone their
honeymoon. But near Easter, 1954, they announced that a house had
been found and purchased, and before moving in they were going to
take their honeymoon week in St. Louis. The concept of a honeymoon
was rather a vague one for me. Mom said it was just a "vacation"
people take when they marry (even with my limited knowledge of the
marriage state, I knew better than that! My relationship with Mom
certainly had not improved).
I came home from school one day shortly afterward, on the last day
before the start of the Easter school holidays. There in the
kitchen with my mother sat Martha Jane, sipping coffee and chatting
merrily away.
"Well, Hi!" she said as my eyes bulged out of my head.
I could tell-- -immediately-- -that her Southern accent had only
thickened. It was still the same musical voice, a bit rambunctious
now, a little louder and more confident. But the same eyes; a more
slender neck and arms, and definitely an older and more adult
figure. She was 20. Her hair was the same, maybe a little more
blonde.
"Well, hotshot, are you going to speak?"
I did, but don't remember what I said. I was dumbstruck. It was
Martha Jane but it wasn't Martha Jane. It was the same person but
it wasn't. She was not a teenager anymore. And she smoked
cigarettes. One dangled lazily from her finger as she sat
cross-legged at the kitchen table with Mom.
"Say hello to Martha Jane," Mom said, and laughed. "You forget
about her already?"
"I did say hello, didn't I?" I asked, dazed. They both shook their
heads and waited for me, amused. I said falteringly, "Well, then,
uh-- -" I shrugged helplessly-- "Hi."
Martha Jane rose from the chair. "Oh, what kind of welcome is
that?" She walked across the room-- -on noisy high-heeled shoes!
-- -and came straight to me, moving the cigarette from one hand to
another so she would be able to give a great big hug without burning
me with the thing. I was grateful for the hug. Deeply grateful.
But my feelings were so firmly entrenched, especially when I was
around my mother, that I denied myself the luxury of any response at
all.
"Let me look at YOU!" Martha Jane exclaimed. "You're only an inch
taller than me now! Can't you grow any faster than that?"
I shrugged and blushed. "I'm only 12 years old," I said.
"Well, that won't last forever, hon, don't worry." She took my hand
and leaned closer to me. "How are you, Speedy? Did you forget all
about me, after all I had to put up with from you?"
"I didn't forget," I smiled. I was overcome by a blush attack that
I strongly resisted. She saw my problem, and immediately she gave a
sympathetic "Aawwww, c'mere," and putting her arms around me she
gave a stronger, more affectionate hug.
"How are you, hon? I haven't seen you in so long."
I saw my mother watching us, pleased. But not trusting myself, I
pulled back and simply gave Martha Jane an appreciative nod.
My mother announced: "Martha Jane lost her job."
Martha Jane shrugged. "Laid off, hon." She shrugged. "What the
heck! At least I'm still getting the GI Bill money because of my
father. All I have to say is, 'Thank you, Uncle Sam!'"
My Mom went on, greatly amused. "Martha Jane showed up just in
time. While your daddy and I are in St. Louis on our honeymoon
next week, your Aunt Yvonne was supposed to drop by here and check
up once a while so you wouldn't be here all by yourself. Well,
guess who showed up just in time to take her place?"
I didn't answer. I was afraid to.
My mother nudged her head toward Martha Jane. "Your old neighbor
over there."
I looked at Martha Jane.
She pointed her thumb at herself. "The old supervisor herself,
honey. Yvonne got fired, I got hired. Gonna be next store again
anyway, so why should she have to traipse all the way over here?"
She moved closer to me again and pointed a finger into my chest.
"Gonna be checkin' on you, buster. Better clean up your act."
My act, considering how little I revealed of myself at that instant,
couldn't have been more antiseptic. My feelings were jumbled. She
didn't seem the same. She moved and spoke with an aggressiveness I
found difficult to accept. Nor was it so easy for me to switch
emotional gears after two years of not seeing her, having spent that
time surrounded by people in whom I had so little trust emotionally.
The next day, a Saturday, Mom and my new dad left Union Station for
their honeymoon. At the grandiose Victorian building a number of
people were present to see them off. Most of them were my
step-dad's folks. They were friendly, earthy people, But the
thought of the sheer size of his family was intimidating: he alone
had fourteen brothers and sisters. The day he married my mother, I
gained over three hundred new cousins and an undetermined number of
uncles and aunts. I had yet to meet most of them, a task I
estimated would take years.
I spent Saturday with my grandparents, the Ricci's. Grandpa Joe
Ricci, my father's father, packed me into his Oldsmobile on Sunday
morning to give me a ride back to the project.
As he drove he griped, "Don't see why you can't spend the rest of
the week with me and your Grandma Rose."
"I have too many things to do at home, Grandpa Joe. I got a dozen
library books over there to go through while my Mama and Daddy are
gone."
"Your 'Daddy'!" Grandpa Joe swore mildly in his slightly gravelly
voice. "He ain't your daddy. Your daddy was Steven Joseph, Senior.
And he's dead."
"My step-daddy, then."
"That's better."
I didn't know if I really wanted to see Martha Jane or not. She
called from a friend's place and told me she was packing the last of
her things to move back to the project, then she had to change and
go to a funeral. She said she would be job hunting all day Monday.
But she'd come over tonight, Sunday, and the next night as well, and
fix dinner for me. I was on Easter vacation, a dubious advantage of
being in a Catholic grammar school. I had no friends and nothing I
particularly wanted to do. I spent most of Sunday rummaging around
the apartment, which seemed relatively large with no one home but
me. Over the years I had spent so much time alone that I began to
realize and appreciate that it did have certain advantages: I had
absolute freedom of movement, and freedom from being hassled by the
foibles and demands of others.
But as Sunday evening neared, I was considering whether or not to be
home at the time Martha Jane was due to fix dinner. I did not trust
my feelings at all. I could always hop a bus and go back to my
godparents or grandparents for the whole week...
In my mind she had changed. She was not the primal, simple child I
knew. She wore high heels. She smoked. She talked loud.
She showed up shortly before six. She greeted me with a hug, and
when she saw I appeared numb she insisted that I give her cheek a
hello kiss, after which she set her purse down on a table in the
living room and went into the kitchen to make dinner.
I stared at her purse. It was one of the slick black patent leather
purses that adult women carried around. It seemed she moved faster,
too, or maybe it was an illusion created by her seemingly longer
legs and the heels. From the kitchen she asked what I wanted to
eat. I told her I didn't care. As she prepared to cook in that
tiny kitchen with the obsolete refrigerator and the two-burner gas
stove, she kept joking and seemed in fine humor.
"Won't you be tickled pink to get out of this tiny place and into
that big house out on Macon Road? Got a nice big kitchen in there,
I saw it. Your mom drove me out there last week."
"Last week?" I asked, confused. I didn't know she had been around
for almost a whole week before seeing me.
"Yes, hon, last weekend, you know? I *missed* you, I asked them
where you were, and you were at your grandmother's all weekend."
"My mom didn't call me," I muttered. Betrayed by mom again!
"Well, she couldn't, I couldn't stay long anyway. Rent Overdue,
Speedy, I had to move out of that apartment. Heck, I sure collected
a ton of junk in there." She was setting the table but she stopped
to grin at me. "You're gonna love that house. It's new, all *new*,
not a scratch on it! Even the grass is new. And three bedrooms,
hon. See this?" She held up three fingers. "Three bedrooms!
You'll have your own room, and to heck with that sofa bed in there."
I was not overly pleased. "I guess it'll be okay," I muttered,
moving to take my seat at the small table. "I could learn to like
it."
She came over to me. She bent down. I became very aware of her
breasts-- -not her pert teen girl titties, but her adult female
breasts under the white blouse and under the white bra. She hugged
me from one side and her voice softened. She said earnestly, "You
need your own room, hon. You need your...own... room." She
emphasized the last three words. She pulled back and looked at me.
"My lord! How old are you now, about forty-five?"
"Umpteen," I answered blandly.
She laughed. "Does it really feel that way?"
"And you?" I asked as she sat in the chair before me.
"Umpteen," she answered, giving a muffled laugh. "Closer to twenty,
really. Speedy, you look wonderful. You're getting so cute. I
thought you'd be a little taller, though. Don't you eat your
spinach?"
I didn't answer.
"You look like your daddy's picture."
"I know," I said.
"Bet every aunt and uncle you know tells you that at least once
every fifteen minutes, don't they?"
"Yep," I said, aware of the dull tone in my voice.
"Not everybody that flew a B-17 won a Silver Star, hon." She chewed
her food and swallowed, and her face and voice became more serious,
more leveled. "Doesn't mean you have to win a Silver Star too,
Speedy."
I didn't know what to say to her. I didn't know exactly what she
meant, but I did feel that she knew so very much more about me than
I did.
She said, with a mouth half full of spinach, "You didn't say you
missed me."
"Well," I said, "I did. I'm not as talkative as I used to be."
"Tell me something I hadn't noticed," she chuckled. "You don't
smile as much, either. Of course, you also don't clown or blush or
shuffle around. Those are improvements, anyway. You're getting to
be too nice-looking a young man to be that painfully shy. You're
growin' up. Guess we all have to grow up sooner or later."
"I guess."
"So how do you like it?"
"Like what?" I asked.
"This growing-up business."
"It's okay."
"Holy smokes, what an answer." She shook her head. "You're right,
it's not all it's cracked up to be." Then she changed the subject.
"I'm going out right after we eat dinner, I might buy a used
typewriter from somebody across the driveway. I really need one."
"I have a typewriter," I offered.
"The old Underwood? No, Speedy, you need that. I need a small one.
Portable." She chewed her food quickly and checked her wrist watch.
"But I'll be back later, about eight or eight-thirty."
I swallowed. "Okay."
She would eat, chew, look at me, eat, and chew. Then look at me.
She went rapidly from one subject to another. She sounded like one
of my curious aunts. But her constant effort at searching me out
left me feeling that she was almost as uncomfortable as I was.
She left after dinner. I sat and played with the Philco, going from
one radio show to the next. Bored, I took a bath. I got all
dressed again in jeans and a plaid shirt and sat listening to the
records and going through the record albums. Just before 8:30,
Martha Jane showed up. She looked tired now, and didn't move around
as quickly. She plopped down on the sofa and gave a loud moan.
"Whew! How are you, hon?"
I ignored her question. "How's your typewriter?"
"I just left it at home, next door. It'll do." She slumped into
the cushions and caught her breath. She used each foot to push the
high heels off. "I hate these! Hate, hate, hate."
"They make a lot of noise when you walk."
"Yeah, don't they?"
She looked at me for a long time. "What's the matter, hon? Do you
just go off into nowhere when you get to be 12 years old? It is 12
now, isn't it?"
"It's 12," I said, not looking up from the records. I sighed.
"Just tired, I guess."
"Your mom and your brand-new daddy won't be back until next Friday
night. So you can make as big a mess as you want, you're getting
too old for a baby-sitter. But I'll check in. Just be sure to
clean the place up before mommy and daddy day on Friday."
"He's not my daddy," I said flatly, not looking up from the album.
"Of course he's your daddy. What do you mean?"
"My daddy's dead," I said without emotion, recalling Grandpa Joe.
"Speedy...what a morbid thing to say."
"That's what Grandpa Joe told me to say."
"I met your Grandpa Joe and he's a very nice man who's done a lot
for you and your mom. But he's an unhappy man who lives in the past
and likes to make others think the same way he does. You have to
mind him and do as he says, but he doesn't have to tell you how to
think."
"Okay," I said, paging the record album.
For a long minute she didn't say anything. I could feel her, above
and behind me, looking at me from the sofa. In a moment she said,
"Would you like to go to a movie with me this week? I mean, what
are you gonna do all week?"
I looked up at her, rather blankly. "Okay," I said. "I like
movies, I know every inch of every theater in Memphis."
"Oh, yes? You must spend a lot of time there."
"Every weekend."
She moved from the sofa and sat down on the floor next to me. She
began removing bobby pins from her hair. "You still spend a lot of
time alone, don't you? That hasn't changed, has it?"
"No," I said.
She leaned toward me. "Give me your face," she said.
I leaned toward her. She kissed my two eyes, lightly, and then my
nose. "I've been running around like a chicken with my head cut off
since six o'clock this morning. Do you promise not to run away from
home while I take a bath?"
"I promise," I said.
She studied me, her face close to mine. She put an arm around my
shoulder. She smiled. "What's been happening to you?"
I looked at her and asked, coldly casual, "You have a boyfriend
yet?"
Her grin disappeared. "Yes," she said. After a pause, she added.
"He's a schmuck. You know what a schmuck is?"
I shook my head.
She leaned back on her ankles and took out one more bobby pin.
"It's some kind of Jewish word, I think. From my New York. A gal
from New York who's in one of my classes keeps using that word."
"What's a schmuck?" I asked.
"A schmuck," she said slowly and distinctly, "is...a...schmuck! A
creep. A jerk." She shook her head. "You'll figure it out." Then
she said firmly, "Being a schmuck is what your Grandpa Joe was being
when he said that horrible thing about your daddy."
She got up and kissed me on the forehead. "I'll be back. Stay
here."
Into the bathroom she went. She was in there for quite a long time,
bathing away. I was getting sleepy and started putting the records
away. It was not so bad, I thought. She does slow down after a
while, and obviously she was warming up to me like a long-lost
friend. She wasn't *that* old, certainly. Not *that* different.
Obviously we were still buddies. But she had a boyfriend!
A little voice in me said: of course she has a boyfriend, stupid.
She's twenty years old. When you're twenty years old, you can have
a girlfriend. She deserves to have a boyfriend.
I put away the record album, sat on the floor, and watched the
closed bathroom door. Water running furiously in there. No change
in the way she kept herself, she always hated being clammy or
sweaty.
During the rest of her stay behind the door I worked up the courage
to apologize. I stood waiting in the middle of the living room with
my hands in my pockets. I still had my pride, of course. I didn't
want to seem as dejected and desolate as I really was, that would be
giving too much away.
I heard the bathroom door open, saw the light go out. She came into
the doorway of the living room. She was in light pink, floppy silk
pajamas. She was drying her hair with a towel and saw me standing
with my hands still in my pockets.
She asked, "What are doing, just standing there?"
I asked, "Is a schmuck just being rude, or a party pooper, and stuff
like that?"
"Yes, I'd say...that qualifies as fairly schmuck-like." She fluffed
her head with the towel.
"Is it, like...being snotty?"
"Yep."
I searched for words a second. "Acting like you're always right and
everybody else is wrong?"
"Yep."
"...like...the way I was acting today?"
"Yep. That's a schmuck, all right."
"So I was bein' a schmuck."
"That's one of a great many things that schmucks do." She put away
the towel and came to me and grabbed me by the hand, leading me
toward the bedroom. "C'mon. Beddy-bye. It's ten o'clock."
I resisted. "I thought this was supposed to be a vacation!"
"A vacation doesn't mean you stay up all night. Anyway, young man--
-my young schmuck-- -you've been pretty cranky all day, and if you
want to have a good time with me this week and keep up with me, you
better rest while you can."
I stood near the bed as she rapidly pulled back the bedclothes.
"Okay, okay, but I *am* twelve years old. I can get myself in and
out of the bed."
"Right," she said. "Well, you're not all that old. Besides, I want
to ask you about something before you turn in." She came to me and
began removing my shirt. "Your mother told me, schmuck, that you
went to Woolworth's looking for me one day and you couldn't find
me."
"She told you that? Here, I can unbutton my shirt myself. Is a
schmuck somebody who can't unbutton their own shirt, too?"
She stood eyeing me sternly with her hands on her hips.
"Anyway," I said, "that was months ago."
She nodded. "She told me. She said you were very disappointed.
She said you were down in the dumps. All...day...long."
"Sure, I was disappointed. What's wrong with being disappointed?"
"No no no, schmuck. Not just disappointed. She said you were down
in the dumps for a week."
I raised my eyes to the ceiling. Didn't mothers know when to shut
up? I removed my shirt and started on my jeans, not saying
anything, avoiding her gaze.
"It so happens," she continued, "I wasn't there that day. So was
she correct about that? What's your version of the story?"
I blushed. I made a what-the-hell shrug. She started to help me
with the belt. "Look," I said, "I can do this."
She stepped back. "Okay. Take charge. But get into bed. It's
late."
"I thought I could just stay up all week. It's Easter vacation."
She eyed me with a comic, bug-eyed sternness, firmed her lips, and
pointed dramatically at the bed.
I did an aw shucks and got down to my underwear. I was taller and
more developed than I was when I had last seen her. I had a little
hair on my legs, not much, but visible. I also had under my jockeys
a healthily burgeoning patch of pubic hair that had replaced the
light blond fuzz and which, I suddenly realized, might be dimly
visible through the thin cloth. Hurrying into bed, I also realized
with even greater embarrassment that I had developed in another area
as well, which must surely have been noticeable, not as the
thimble-shaped white bulb near the slit of my jockeys that she had
seen in the past, but as a definitely larger and more shapeless
bulge.
Quickly, I lay on my side and pulled the sheet to my waist.
Looking officially satisfied, she reached to turn out the bedside
lamp. But instead, she changed her mind. Leaving the light on, she
got into bed with me and shoved me farther to the other side. She
lay next to me, facing me, on her side with her head propped on one
arm.
"Wanna talk?" she asked.
Continued...
Wanna more sex stories? >
http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html