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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 1B
Date: Fri, 11 Aug 2006 14:17:58 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.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 incest stories? >
http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html