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From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 13E
Date: Sun, 18 Dec 2005 02:05:10 -0800
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 13E
I blinked. The room was black. The candle was out. Vaguely, I
heard distant sparrows. Vaguely, I felt a warm, small, still hand
resting on my cheek, barely touching my skin. I saw lips near my
face, and a face so close to mine that my sleepy eyes couldn't focus
on it. Before I saw any features or sensed any other signals, I
knew the face and hand were Martha's. I was on my back but leaning
slightly to my right, my right arm slung across the bed toward the
night table at the right of the bed. The only thing I could see
clearly in the black room was the luminous dial on the clock. It
was five minutes after five.
Without a word, Martha lay on her side, close to me, one soft,
relaxed nipple on my right shoulder. I closed my eyes again,
drifting in and out of sleep as my drowsy brain tried to put the
room back together. Her left arm cradled my head into her shoulder.
Her length lay snuggled along my right side, her tuft warm and
crinkly against my right hip, her right leg draped around my right
thigh. I settled fully onto my back and her face turned and looked
into mine. She said nothing. Her only movement was the slow
grazing of a finger across my forehead. She repeated the motion
over and over. I felt her eyes gazing at my face, then felt her
head move as she looked toward the window when a small gust ruffled
the curtains, and then she looked into my face again. I opened my
eyes briefly and found her gazing at me: a warm, calm, caring,
sisterly gaze. I closed my eyes again and wondered if this part of
the long night were a dream. The lust that earlier drenched the
room had evaporated. The room was a still, silent peacefulness. I
floated, feeling only Martha's heat against me and her leg over mine
and her finger on my forehead. Time passed. Her right hand that
had stroked my forehead now cradled my cheek, her thumb softly
rubbing my left eyebrow. My eyes closed. I felt the warmth of her
face close to mine and felt her gaze. Her thumb made love to my
eyebrow, carefully, soothingly. Then her thumb stilled and her hand
pressed my cheek almost imperceptibly, and her very warm, moist,
soft lips fit themselves perfectly to mine -- a strangely non
sexual, unwanting kiss, a simple touching. She did this several
times, lifting her head and then matching her lips to mine. And
then her lips stayed, pressing slightly. A genuine, easy,
affectionate kiss. She lifted her face again and touched her lips
to my cheek, nose, eyelids, and then down my other cheek and across
my jaw line and then around my neck. No demands. No urgency. Only
a touch of her lips. And this, too, she repeated, and then again.
There was a pause and I felt her gazing and heard her breathing
calmly and she seemed to be not gazing, but watching, waiting. And
then her lips on mine again, but this time more wetly, more warmly,
and it was more a kiss than a touch, her own lips slightly parted
and wetter now, and she pressed her lips to mine but, at the same
time, she didn't press; she skimmed her inner lips across my lips.
And for a long time that way she made gentle love to my mouth with
hers. And then her mouth met mine and the nipping and light puffing
kisses began, trailing down my neck and onto my right shoulder, then
across my throat and onto my left shoulder, her lips opening and her
tongue touching my flesh but not moving, remaining there, tasting,
giving, and I let my head fall to the right and blinked. The clock
said five twenty-nine.
She withdrew her tongue, lifting her head, and stroked the spot on
my shoulder that her tongue had warmed, and then her tongue
returned, and the small, soft kisses returned, across my nipples,
pinching me ever so slightly. Then her shoulders moved and her
right hand stroked my left waist and her lips moved downward, her
head dipping gently and sweetly, and she kissed so lightly and so
quietly that I heard nothing but her breathing. She made wide
circles on me, circles that became slowly smaller, a mouth that
became slowly wetter, and the circle started above my navel and
swung around my left hip and across the top of my right thigh and
then across the left thigh and then around my left hip and back to
the spot above my navel. And the kisses never changed but the
circle became smaller and smaller. After a long time the circle was
only a few inches around my softened cock. I blinked again and the
clock said five fifty one. Inexplicably, her mouth seemed lustless,
angelic, motherly, innocent. She merely touched, and loved. And
then the circle was smaller and the slow, infrequent kisses moved
into my pubic curls and then to my cock, and a few seconds passed
between each kiss as she touched them to my sleeping shaft, from the
bottom and slowly to the top, then down. And then she stopped, and
nestled closer, bringing her head over my loins, and I looked down
and saw her gazing at my cock, her left hand circling and then
holding it with only an inch of the awakening tip above her thumb,
and she seemed to study this sight with a gentle, girlish pout. And
then she lowered her head and licked my tip. She gazed again, the
same way as before, and still holding me she made a little 'o' with
her lips and circled my tip with her inner lips and gently tongued
the slit, and she did this for several seconds.
Then she removed her hand and her lips and started all over again,
above my navel, in a wide circle. And she closed the circle slowly,
and kissed up and down my listlessly but gradually responding shaft,
which ached from its earlier striving. And then the lick, and then
her wet lips gently mothering my tip. All the while, there was no
demand, no hunger. Only a learning, a knowing, a loving. I looked
at the clock. Six seventeen. I thought: only Martha could do this.
Only Martha would think of this. Only Martha could love in a way
that was flaming lust and, later, angelic nurturing.
Now her lips at my tip opened. Slowly, not inch by inch but
millimeter by millimeter, her lips sunk down and her mouth enclosed
me. The only sound in the room was her breathing through her nose.
After, it seems, three minutes, she engulfed my half-hardness
completely. And then it was another three minutes, it seemed, while
her mouth and tongue rose back to the top, and then her inner lips
and her tongue swabbed me gently, and her mouth let me go. And she
continued to hold me and she gazed at me while she swallowed and she
settled closer. And then she did the same thing all over again.
And after she had gone through the same, unhurried enclosing for the
fourth time, I was rigid and hard and good as new, saying hello to
the roof of her mouth with a feeble pulse now and then, especially
on the down stroke. The rest of me was torpid and slow, but my cock
reached skyward. Now I was slick with her, and after she removed
her mouth her cupping hand enclosed me and stroked me easily,
loosely, slowly, and she watched, calm, unhurried, serenely pleased
as I grew in her hand.
And then the soft, subtle sucking began. One suck, two, three, and
then her lips would gently enclose and wetly swathe the sensitized
tip, circling slowly. And never a hurry, never seeking more, never
a thought of the next moment, but always a slow, moist lingering in
the present. Then I surmised what she was doing. As I had done in
the streets, she was memorizing. She seem to nurse, protect, savor,
and record each moment, each sensation, each response. Her eyes
never left my cock. And as she saw my hardened shaft pulse, the
glimmerings of a satisfied smile crossed her face, and she lifted up
and put her hands astride my head and her knees astride my chest,
and she raised onto her arms and looked down between us and centered
her middle over mine and, carefully, she lowered herself and pressed
my cock against my stomach and settled on me with the top half of my
cock nestled in her tuft and the lower half cradled in her humid
slit. Then she settled onto her elbows and arranged her nipples on
mine, and she hugged her body against me, and hugged her elbows into
me, and hugged her knees into me, and held my face. Her lips
hovered over mine briefly. Her eyes fluttered and closed and she
whispered with a soft, almost religious hush, "Baby. My baby." And
then she kissed my mouth. Fully, her lips pressing and gliding, her
tongue slithering. Without hunger, without yearning. But with
patient need and relish.
Her lips left mine. Rising again, she looked down the length of us
and I looked down and watched and she watched as she carefully
raised her belly and allowed my cock to stand. She lifted a little
higher, and her slick outer lips found my tip, and circled it, and
she let her sticky outer ring caress and then enfold my tip, as the
lips of her mouth had done, and she raised and lowered, minutely,
barely visibly, and her outer lips kissed and bathed my tip. My
cock yawed and greeted her, and nestled to her. I heard her steady,
concentrated breathing, and my own broken sighs. I rested my hands
on her circling hips and let my head fall back, and enjoyed not the
lust but the love, the pleasure of being learned, intimately
mothered, befriended and pleased. Each movement, each pleasure,
each moment was its own. There seemed to be no impatience for
whatever was next. Her cunt caressed my tip for a while, and she
lifted, her breath mildly irregular as her slit relinquished me, and
I felt a thick, warm drop from inside her, whose source could only
have been my cumming inside her earlier, that trickled onto my tip
and teared downward and then onto my tummy.
And then with a quiver in her breath she contacted my tip again,
this time sliding her wet opening along my shaft until I felt the
tip of her firming clit slide along my flesh. She nudged my tip
and, still looking down, massaged my slit with her clit, around, up
and down, and her breath quickened. She wetted and pleasured her
clit on me for a moment, and then she raised again, and her slit
clung to my tip and my cock was lifted straight up. And with a long
sigh through her nose and a serious, intent pout, she lowered and
then engulfed me fully, and ground her belly benignly on me.
Relaxing onto her elbows, she brought her face close to mine again,
and tenderly held my face between her palms, and kissed me. Then,
her breathing broken only by small, occasional gasps of pleasure,
she started fucking me languidly.
Or, I should say, made love to me and paused just long enough to
memorize every move, every response, every sensation. Her eyes
closed, her mouth calmly set, she rose and fell on me with apparent
relish and care and concentration. When my breath quickened and my
cock lurched in her, she stopped, paused, and raised her tummy and
looked down again. And started over, from the first loving swab
with her outer lips, and then to the nudging and sliding of her
clit, and then to envelopment, and then fucking.
And again she did that, and again. And on the fifth effort, I felt
her back tense and curl, and she didn't pause in sliding her clit
along my shaft. She gasped, and her face near mine breathed with a
short, broken, quickening rhythm, and she closed her eyes and her
lips tightened and she frowned as if deep in concentration, and her
clit on me was as firm and taut as a sparrow's beak, and her juice
flowed on me and she came, quietly, with a long trembling sigh, and
her hands tightened on my face, and her arms shook, and then she
pressed her clit against my cock and paused, and quivered, and
jerked with a small, low-pitched, clipped "Hm!" from deep in her
throat, and then another pause and a long quiver and a jerk and a
then "Hm!", and then again, and still another, and then she slumped
with a long, wobbly exhalation, and then she raised on her hands
again and swallowed hard and whimpered, and she rested for a brief
while her breathing slowed.
Then she looked down between us, aimed, enfolded me, relaxed on her
elbows at my sides, and held my face tenderly. And began again.
It was nearly seven before I found the strength to climax. Finally,
the blissful agony began. I felt the first twitch in my tired
balls. Martha looked down, and slowed, but kept going. Her inner
cunt milked me on each upstroke. And I thought: How does she know?
How does she know? I spouted. Thin, watery squirts were all I
could manage. But it was warm, eager, leaping high into her like
salmon. I kept cumming after my weak, empty tubes had given their
last, and I heaved and panted and my shaft continued to pulse. I
think I made a loud noise but I couldn't hear myself. The long
orgasm was poignant and tight and deep. She milked me snugly and
let me wander in my cumming for as long as I could.
Then she melted into me everywhere. She closed her elbows and her
knees and her arms on me and her torso pressed into me and she
became a mothering cocoon around me, and she kissed me passionately.
She stroked my hair and kissed my face. She whispered, "Baby.
Baby."
After lunch and packing, we took a brief stroll along the river near
Gracie Mansion. I leaned on a railing and looked toward the city
and down the line of the promenade into Manhattan.
"Will I see this again?" I asked.
"Oh, of course you will," she said. She stood behind me, her short
hair rustling in the breeze, and put her arms around me and folded
them around my chest. She spoke, then, more than she had spoken all
morning. She spoke clearly, slowly, her voice raised barely above
the sounds of the breeze, the rustling trees, and the flowing river.
"Hon, you may be only five-foot-seven and wear glasses, and you look
sweet and innocent...but you have a great power inside you. You
have an intensity that is...consuming, and almost frightening. I
know you do, because I've seen it, I've felt it. And I know you do,
Steven, because I have it in me, too. This week, I knew what I
probably always knew...That intensity has bound us for a long time.
I discovered that if I couldn't express it with you, I felt
smothered. And when we smother ourselves, that intensity controls
us and it makes us do things we should never, never do. Being mean
to each other in so many subtle, hidden ways. And being too nice
for too long until one of us explodes. Taking, without knowing
we're taking. Or...making promises we have no way of keeping.
Steven, don't let them smother you back home. When you're
smothered, your strength becomes rage, it becomes hatred. It can be
so very cruel. But you're too outwardly kind, and you don't turn
that cruelty and rage onto others. You turn it against yourself.
Don't smother yourself, hon. Understand yourself. Use it, the way
you told me you want to. Don't go back to the way you were, or
you're going to hate yourself, and your needs will turn against you.
Or even against me. If nothing else, when I see you again I want
you the way you are right here, today."
She hugged me from behind. "That's my last speech, cowboy. Last
lecture for the semester. You ready to go?"
"No," I said.
"I know, hon. Come on."
Martha and Ronnie and I in a taxi. Ronnie smiling and only half
awake, even at three in the afternoon. Martha subdued. I pretended
I didn't give a damn. We all smoked.
Martha and I and Ronnie in LaGuardia. Martha and Ronnie talked. I
paced and looked out the viewing windows, and smoked. Time moved
more quickly. The past week seemed like only a few seconds, a few,
paltry seconds. Time rushed. It rushed into my face. I couldn't
stop it. I couldn't slow it down. The more I thought about, the
faster the clock changed.
"Announcing American Airlines flight 54 to Washington, D.C.,
Atlanta, Georgia..."
"That's it," I said into the window. I strode to the seats where
Martha and Ronnie stood to hand me my carry-on bag and my copy of
the Sunday Times.
"Watch those stewardesses," Ronnie said. "I hear they're pretty
loose women."
I shook my head, pleasantly. "Ronnie, you wore me out."
She took a drag off her cigarette and grinned and exhaled. "Eh.
You can make more, right? Takes you Southern guys a little longer,
thank god."
I slung my bag around my shoulder and walked to Ronnie and reached
for a handshake. She took my hand, and then pulled me to her and
held me tight. Into my neck she said, "Thank you, Steven. Thank
you so much." She leaned back and beamed at me. "You comin' back
soon? Right?"
I said, "Nah, you'll be married."
"Yeah, right. Gimme a kiss. C'mon." I did, and she smiled and
pinched my cheek and wiggled it. "Hmm, MMM!"
I turned around and looked at Martha. My tongue froze in my head.
She smiled calmly. Her hazel eyes watered. Martha threw Ronnie a
glance, and Ronnie walked away, waving a small bye-bye and smooching
at me.
"Steven," Martha said. She pursed her lips and swallowed. "Damn,
what happened to those ten days we had a few days ago?"
"Yeah, I know." I glanced behind me and saw the passengers filing
slowly through the exit door. I said to Martha, "I have another
minute, anyway."
"Hon," she began. She sighed and bit her lip and held her hands
behind her skirt. "Oh, there's never enough time."
"I don't know," I said. "We seem to be pretty good at catch-up,
don't we?"
"Steven, I...Steven, I don't know what to say, except...I know you
expected more..."
"I'm not expecting more," I said, gently.
She looked down at the floor. "Steven, I'm letting you down.
You're not saying it, but I know I am. But I can't say okay if I
don't mean okay, and -- "
"Hey, I thought the lectures were over for the semester."
She blushed. "Damn, you sure know how to be nice about it, don't
you? Thank you. I'm so afraid sometimes, that you're just saying
it." She kept smiling, she had to wipe a corner of one eye. "Will
you forgive me, Stephen?"
I frowned, in my best Cary Grant manner. "For what?"
She said softly, "For not giving you everything."
I sighed and glanced to see how short the line was. I said, "Well,
let's see...You didn't lie, you didn't cheat. You helped me get rid
of my pimples and you got me a great haircut. You fixed me up with
a great date and you shared Ronnie with me. You took my ignorance
and you gave me knowledge. You, uh... You were my friend, my
teacher, my sister, even my dad and my brother. You were my mother,
my confessor, my girlfriend, my lover, and my sweetheart. Let's
see, you, uh...You gave me affection, passion, lust, and...you gave
me love." I sighed and looked up at the ceiling, and hung my head
in mock sadness. "But I guess I just can't forgive you, Martha, for
spending so much money on that typewriter."
"Stop it, Steven," she moaned, and she held herself close to me and
then she gripped me tightly and cried a little. She said, "Don't
you dare make me cry in here, I'll slap your face." She put her
arms around me as tightly as she could and we hugged and swayed for
a minute. She whispered, "Good-bye, Speedy. Good-bye, now. Go
on." She held herself from me. Her eyes were red, but she grinned.
"Go on, get on your plane, before my landlord finds out about you
and raises my rent."
I stared at her. "You called me Speedy?"
She blushed again, and pushed herself a little farther back. "Do
you know, when you with me early this morning, you called me Martha
Jane?" She saw the surprise on my face, and she released her
tension with a quick little laugh. "You did. Go on, Steven. Go
on, you'll miss your plane!"
I looked at her. She backed away. Several yards beyond her, Ronnie
waved and smiled. My eyes were on Martha. My eyes wouldn't leave
her.
"Steven," she insisted, crying. "Steven, go on!" She stopped
backing away when I threw her a kiss. She waved at me, her other
hand rubbing her forehead and wiping an eye, and I turned and
started for the exit. The other passengers had gone ahead. At the
door I stopped and looked at her again. She smiled, sadly, and she
lifted a palm and waved weakly. "Go on!"
Inside the door I showed a stewardess my tickets and receipts. She
smiled and said thank you. I went down a short stairway and out
another door. Into the sun. Onto the walkway. I slung my bag over
my shoulder and walked. Ahead, more blazing sun and blinding
concrete and another stewardess and the metal boarding ramp and the
DC-4. Ahead, Memphis.
Halfway to the plane I slowed. Why had she called me Speedy? Why
would I have to forgive her? An unseen, ominous weight dragged me
to a stop halfway down the walkway. I waited. Three of me waited:
one me behind, one me ahead, one me watching the other two. Why did
I have to go? Why couldn't I stay where I was? I turned around to
scan the huge terminal and the dark, looming windows. I saw only
the reflection of the airplanes and the airfield. Where was she?
Why did I have to leave?
The stewardess ahead called, "We're boarding, sir."
I looked ahead, lost in the middle of the walkway. With a friendly
smile we're taking you back. Back where you came from. Back where
you started. Back to the home that isn't a home. Back to the
stifling heat and the bleeding saints, the plastic Christs, and the
old women and old men lashing me down for a ride to a heaven that
didn't exist.
"Boarding, please," she insisted nicely.
Not being myself, I took a step forward. One step farther away. A
second step, a second step farther away. Then more steps, and
farther away. One universe expanding, one universe contracting.
Myself, growing and shrinking. One person moving forward, one
moving back. Onto the ramp, my face a pale mask of the striving
within. Up the ramp. Into the door. Down the aisle. Into my
seat. I sat. I slumped, numb. I gazed out the window, my eyes
unfocused. Soon the ground crept by, and then the ground soared by,
and then New York disappeared below the window.
One of me stayed on the ground, without provisions or hope or sight
or legs, and refused to leave.
Continued...
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