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From: Incest Man <familyincestfamilyincest@yahoo.com>
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Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 8C
Date: Sat, 17 Dec 2005 04:41:56 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 8C
She indulged in her cigarette, her voice throaty, secretive,
conspiratorial.
"This is beginning to feel very naughty," she said.
"All those people driving by," I said, joining in her mood, "not
knowing we're nekkid."
"Yeah," she breathed, pleased. She took another puff. "After
today, you'll have to go to confession."
"I don't go to confession. I just pretend I do."
"Don't you feel strange about that?"
"A little. But it's what I have to do."
"It's a sin," she said, testing me.
"Only for everyone else."
"This...is a sin," she announced, a little amused. She reached over
to the ashtray and slowly, carefully, mashed the cigarette several
times against the glass until it was completely extinguished. "It's
the major, most unacceptable, most outrageous...most delicious sin."
"Can I have one of those?" I asked mischievously.
"One of what?" she asked, settling against the headboard.
"One of those," I said, motioning my head at the ash tray.
"Don't you dare. It's an awful habit. One of my few vices. I'm
not lazy, I'm not narrow-minded, I'm not hateful. I don't rob
anyone, I don't kill anyone, I don't hate anyone. I'm not a racist,
not a bigot. But I do smoke. And I'm a hypocrite. And deep
inside, I'm ruthless."
I asked, surprised, thinking she was joking, "You are?"
"Yes. I am. I have such a sweet, innocent, kitten-like look. Mr.
Buchanan thinks that Evelyn and I are both virgins. Saints. But
Evelyn fucks. And I fuck." She looked at me, expressionless,
studying me.
I gave an embarrassed laugh. "That's not so sinful."
"Oh, it is. It's a sin because I like it so much. You can't like
something that much without it being a sin. It's so difficult to
let someone else know how much I like it. It's so good with you,
but even with you sometimes...I get a little scared of myself, it's
so good and so...unexpected. Sometimes, hon, it's so much of a
strain on me. Really. It's not always so easy to let you know that
about me. I am a terrible sinner when I'm nekkid with you."
"Really? After all we've done?"
"Yes." She suddenly and playfully hid her eyes with one hand. "Oh,
I can't believe this. Why am I so embarrassed? It's like telling
you about my period. It's so silly."
I paused. "Is that the secret that you wanted to tell me about?
That you think this is a sin?"
"No, hon, no. My big secret is something else, and I can't tell you
that now." She uncovered her eyes and with a coy smile she leaned
her head on her knees, smiling at me indulgently. "But I will tell
you one day, don't worry."
"Okay," I said, disappointed.
"Do you think this is a sin?"
"Yes. Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Well...only because everyone else says it is."
"Yes...I know what you mean."
She dropped into deep thought for a moment. She rubbed her leg and
then her voice shrank into that of a hesitant little girl.
"Hon...do you like sinning with me?"
"Yes. That makes me as big a sinner as you are."
"Then there's no hope for us," she said, grinning slyly and lowering
her legs, stretching out and lying naked and open. "Sin with me,"
she crooned. "Lick me."
As I moved over her and bent to kiss her firm inner thighs she
looked down. Fastidiously, she brushed her pubic curls aside and
gently parted her cunt lips for me. "Lick me, hon."
Gradually she became almost uncontrollably licentious, whispering
and rasping lewdly and with an abandon I hadn't seen since our
nights in the Lauderdale Courts. I have no idea what incited this
effusion of raw lust; I could only guess that, like me, she was
grasping at something that would soon end. She seemed to have
somehow reached back to her sixteenth or seventeenth years, when it
was all new and unimpaired by change or necessity. I realized that
I was not the only one in that room who felt afraid and threatened.
As I mouthed her cunt she moved my body around so that my knees
straddled her head and my cock fit easily into her mouth. She
sucked me slowly and lecherously, her hips jerking now and then when
I sucked her clit. Soon I rose and stretched over her, entered
deeply, and fucked in long deep strokes. Her head raised and
resting against the headboard, she grinned and watched me fuck her.
Soon she stiffened and climaxed, wrenching her head back and to one
side. She finished with a lurch of her hips, gasping and sighing,
"Fuck...oh, fuck." Raising her knees, she reached between us to
touch my shaft and feel the spurts hurtling into her. She watched
with salacious glee while I finished cumming.
We napped, waking in mid-afternoon. Whispering sultrily she leaned
over me and quickly jerked me off, entreating me as I came, "C'mon,
hon. C'mon. Ah. Those hot little squirts. Yes." We rested again
and then drove to the Howard Johnson's down the street and ate like
cave people, giggling and spilling things. Martha would grin and
say something stupid like "Pass me the salt, hon -- " and then lean
close to me over the table and whisper laughingly, "-- and squirt on
my tits!" We squealed and sniggered and I would reply with
something like "Cum on my ear," which threw her into a squirming
fit. She said, "Mr. Buchanan would have a stroke. Haha, Evelyn
would have a stroke. The walls of the First Baptist Church of
Memphis would come tumblin' down, and the doors of the temple would
be rent asunder."
We returned to the room. Dusk found us sinning and lusting like
animals, me licking her slowly, her spread thighs taut and trembling
as I made her cum, and then we fucked and I made her cum again, then
again. Each orgasm for her was deeper, harder, more paralyzing than
the one before. Each time she would clench my shoulders and with
her lips near my ear she would moan, "Again. Again, Steven. Fuck."
Until finally her fourth cum was a long pleasure-drenched struggle,
and when it finally arrived I felt my own orgasm creep slowly from
my strained back and then into the tip of my cock, on whose length
her clinging cunt fed greedily and invoked yet another hot jet from
my balls. I yelled and then groaned, straining on outstretched arms
and quaking knees, as I watched her long body writhe in ecstatic
lust with our last prolonged, exhausting, excruciating release.
For almost an hour afterward, we held each other silently. I lay on
her for a while, then rolled over and lay with her head on my
shoulder. Soon we changed positions again, me lying on her breast
before we curled up spoon-style. At one point she sat up, leaned
back against her pillow, and lit a cigarette. I watched her inhale
and then slowly exhale.
After a moment she whispered, "Steven."
I looked at her and waited.
She paused and took another puff. She shook her head no, once. She
whispered, "Nothing."
Finally, it was time to dress and leave.
She drove me back to my Mama Rose's house. We arrived at eleven, an
hour after the Tremont had closed.
"You be good to your Mama Rose," Martha told me from her car window.
"she's so sweet."
"I'll come to Union Station next Saturday and see you off."
"You don't have to," she said quietly. "You sure?"
"I'll be there," I said, winking -- not knowing if I were really up
to it, but letting her think I believed I was.
She winked back. Unsmiling, she stepped on the gas. She and the
car raced down the street and grew smaller. I stood on the curb and
watched, wondering what the hell I was going to do.
Of all the weeks Martha and I had spent apart, that week of waiting
for her departure was the longest that I remember. The only memory
I have of that week was of standing in our front yard one sultry
afternoon with the cloying humidity hanging in the air as I stared
into the vast suburban sameness around me. As in an underexposed,
bleached-out still photograph, nothing seemed distinct. Nothing
moved. But I felt the earth move; and I felt time move, slowly and
relentlessly.
During breakfast on Friday morning my mother told me, "This coming
weekend will be the last week for you to have nothing to do while
school's out. Your daddy wants you to work at the grocery during
the week, starting Monday."
"You have to learn the value of a dollar," my step dad grunted as he
came to the table for his coffee. He took a quick sip and then bent
over to tie his shoes. "Learn about runnin' a business," he went
on. "Sackin' groceries. Trim the produce. Then we'll get you on
the big bikes with the delivery crew, and you can make some money.
Ten cents for every order you deliver in the Lauderdale Courts. The
work ain't that hard, but it'll help put some muscle on you, get you
out in the sunshine and the open air."
I mentioned that a new play was going to start soon at St.
Michael's and that I had been assigned a role. I would have to
leave the store by five to get a bus in time for rehearsals.
Unfazed, he continued. "That school dramatics crap will just have
to wait. The store stays open 'til seven during the week and 'til
nine on Saturday. So your games at school can wait until
September."
"...Yessir."
"You just tell them at school that you're sorry, but your time
belongs to the Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23 until school starts
again."
"Yessir."
"That dramatics shit is a lot of foolin' around anyway."
"Yessir."
"The money you earn will be yours. I'll keep it in a checkin'
account for you, at Union Planters, just like a regular checkin'
account. I'll keep tabs on it. You can spend it, but get somethin'
you need and can use at school. Don't spend it on crap."
"Yessir."
The conversation ended. It was perhaps one of the longest exchanges
I'd had with my parents in several months. For the rest of the day
I moped in my room. Near dusk I drove my squeaky kid-sized bicycle
to Gaisman Park. The bike was an undersized blue machine that Aunt
Frances had given me for Christmas when I was nine years old. The
thought that I'd be able to earn my own money for a sparkling new
bike was a comfort, at least. At thirteen, going on fourteen, I
needed more mobility; for the time being I was limited to city buses
and my own two feet. The idea of buying a full-sized bike gave me
something to look forward to. And, hopefully, a few months of hard
work at the supermarket in my old neighborhood would get me back
into the heart of the city and give me something to think about
other than Martha's absence.
By sunset I returned home and told Mom I didn't want dinner. I
boarded a bus and made the long trip into old Memphis and the home
of my Mama Rose and Daddy Joe Ricci, my deceased father's parents.
Usually I alternated my weekends between them or Aunt Francis and
Uncle Johnny.
Being with my grandparents was more subdued and folksy than weekends
spent with my disoriented Aunt Frances and my tired and ailing but
affectionate Uncle Johnny. The Ricci's lived in a newer home, a
tidy 1920's brick duplex occupied on one side by my grandparents and
on the other by their daughter, my Aunt Baby Sister, so called to
distinguish her from several other Aunt Catherines in the clan. The
Ricci's kept a living arrangement that even in my youth I considered
unusual. My Uncle Johnny and Aunt Frances, with all the extra space
they had in their big old Victorian home, slept together in the same
room and the same bed; but Daddy Joe and Mama Rose, in their smaller
duplex, kept separate rooms. Mama Rose's room was in the middle of
the long hallway that led through their side of the duplex. Behind
her room was the bedroom that once belonged to my Uncle Frank and my
father. Frank was never around, having used his GI bill to get
through Vanderbilt University in Nashville, after which he landed a
job with a local bank and found an apartment elsewhere in Memphis
with his recent bride, my glamorous and vivacious Aunt Leigh.
Behind Frank's room, at the far end of the hall, was the small
add-on that was Daddy Joe's solitary room.
Gentle, submissive and soft-spoken, Mama Rose would greet me from
the front door of their corner house when I got off the bus across
the street. Watching the street carefully in both directions, she
would wear a frown of concern until I safely crossed the six lanes
of busy Peabody Street, and then she would smile her warm motherly
smile as I strode up the front steps and onto their little
brick-walled, plant-lined front porch. Like her older sisters, My
Aunt Frances and my sister's godmother Aunt Mary, Mama Rose had a
squeaky voice: but hers was a small, serene one that matched her
manner and her diminutive size. Like my deceased father, she had
black hair; but her caring, Madonna like eyes were a bright blue
that could be seen across a room. There was a quiet joy in her
whenever she greeted me and led me into the kitchen for a bowl of
cereal or some milk and cookies. When I entreated her to not go
through trouble on my behalf, she would insist on waiting upon me,
circling about the kitchen with her weak little walk and her bad
back, looking far older than her fifty-odd years as if some great
weight had attached itself to her petite frame at some point in the
past. Always, there was a sweet remark about how I looked just like
my daddy, Steven Senior. Always. And always she would at some
point confuse me with her son Frank, whom I also resembled. And
almost always she would at some point call me Steven instead of her
favorite nickname Butch (and where she came up with Butch, I'll
never know. She was the only person who called me by that name
instead of by Speedy). And always, at some point, she would call me
Frank, then give a shy little laugh and apologize, saying, "Oh, I
mean Butch. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Did you hear me say Frank?
Wasn't that silly?"
After I snacked I would ask about Daddy Joe, and a shadow would fall
over her face-- -a quick and barely visible flash of something sad
and lonely in her-- -and she would recover and say, "Oh, he's back
there in his 'man's room', where he always is. You go see him, and
then we have to get to sleep and go to the Tremont in the morning.
Go on, go see him. You know he loves you, Butch. He always wants
to see you. You go on and I'll clean up in here."
At the end of the long unlit hallway, Daddy Joe was in his room. He
was a short, kindly but fidgety man who spoke and moved suddenly,
jerkily and unpredictably. I had a strange liking for him; not the
same warm and comfy affection I had for the saintly Mama Rose-- -but
an affection mixed with a wariness of his nervous style and his
occasionally bitter cynicism that seemed to underlay his reactions
to everything and everyone around him.
As usual, he sat in the small, chilly room with the windows wide
open, he in his worn, heavy brown leather chair with his short legs
propped on a matching footstool. He held a pipe in one hand, a
National Geographic magazine and a newspaper in his lap. Around him
were his man's trophies that graced the walls of his man's room: an
oversized 1948 calendar with color photos of legendary racehorses
like Citation and Sea Biscuit; a yellowed, framed, original copy of
the announcement of the Wall Street crash in the New York Herald;
over three decades' worth of the National Geographic; old copies of
the Wall Street Journal; an ancient telegraph set from the Frisco
Railroad, where he worked for many years as a youth; a battered
dumbbell with two heavy, rusting weights; a photograph of Charles
Atlas tugging a subway car in the 1930's; and portraits of Theodore
and Franklin Roosevelt.
He would greet me with a big grin and a coarse but chummy "Aaaaa!",
a kind of gruffly playful reproach accompanied by a firm ruffling of
my hair and a pinch on my ear. Then a quick hug, his red cheeks
always scratchy and tickly against mine. And then questions: how
was I? Would I grow any taller? What was I doing in school? And
always, regardless of my answers, a waggish "Aaaaa!" as he
unexpectedly rose from his chair and ruffled my hair again. I never
quite knew when he was going to jump up and pull that frolic on me.
Our conversations were more like an effort on my part to find out
who he really was, while he remained roguishly elusive.
I mentioned that I had received a birthday card from my Uncle Frank
and he asked, "Yeah? You ever see your Uncle Frank?". I answered
no, and he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and a gruff, "Ha!
Your Uncle Frank. To hell with him, Speedy-boy. Right? Never
comes to see *ME*! Huh, SPeedy-boy? Sonofabitch." As usual, he
immediately changed the subject and asked about my Mom. I said my
mother and daddy were doing well, and he muttered, "Your 'daddy'.
Hmp. Your daddy's dead," a frequent remark to which I never had a
reply, and he would growl "Aaaa!" and ruffle my hair again and then
confound me by cheerfully asking if Mama Rose had fed me well when I
came in. "Your Mama Rose is sweet on you, Speedy-boy. You're her
boy, you know that? She's sweet, your Mama Rose."
This meandering and inconclusive conversation seldom varied.
Neither did it last very long, as Daddy Joe would want to spend some
time going over the stock quotations in the newspaper. He would
preface this by again mentioning his plans for the day when he hoped
to retire from the liquor business, cash in his stocks and move to
Hot Springs, Arkansas, where he would play the horses all day and
"live like a white man."
He sent me back into the caring hands and motherly smiles of Mama
Rose, who laid out my pajamas and turned back the bedspread in Uncle
Frank's room, and tucked me in with a peck on the cheek and a little
sing-song about, "Oh, I love my little Butch, just like your daddy
Steven." And after the lights went out I would be in that room
alone with my father's ghost and the relics of my mysterious,
long-absent Uncle Frank. I often wondered, if either of them had
been around, how I would talk to them and what they would advise me
about my situation. How would they, grown and apparently sane men,
handle it? Why were they always gone? What were they really like?
Was I like them? Would I be able to tell them about Martha Jane?
Certainly, despite their affection, neither Mama Rose nor Daddy Joe
nor anyone else could be someone I trusted with the story of me and
Martha Jane, whom I now called Martha but whom I still pictured as
the original Martha Jane, and who would be leaving the next day.
Continued...
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