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From: Incest Man <familyincest@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 3B
Date: Fri, 11 Aug 2006 14:20:43 -0700
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 3B
For several weeks I saw Martha Jane only now and then as
she walked across the grounds on her way in or out of the
project. She caught sight of me once from a couple of
blocks away and smiled and waved and yelled Hi.
Meanwhile, it seems my Mom and future step-dad had gone
through a brief spat. They started dating again a few
weeks later. But my sitter was not Martha Jane. In fact,
I had two different sitters at first. The first must not
have been very interesting, as I have absolutely no
recollection of who they were or how they looked. The
identity of the second sitter is also a blank, but I recall
that I spent the evening not at home but in the sitter's
apartment, across the driveway and at a slight angle from
my own building. Through their back kitchen window that
night I could see the back door that led to my own
apartment. And just to the left was the apartment where
Martha Jane and her family lived. At one point that night
I saw her in her kitchen; there was no mistaking that
pretty face and frizzy auburn hair. I waved to her. Of
course, she didn't see me. I went back later and waited
for a while but she didn't show again. And by the time the
sitter walked me back across the driveway back home, all
the lights were out in Martha Jane's place.
When I had not seen her for several more days I bumped into
her accidentally just as I was going out the front door on
my way to school. She came outside at the same time with
her schoolbooks under her arm.
"Hey, hon," she sang as she locked her door. She beamed at
me and gave me her best Southern twang. "Where've you
been, sugar?"
"where've-you-been-too," I mimicked playfully.
"Well," she went on, making a silly face, "Where YOU been?"
"Well," I said in the same way, "Where YOU been?"
She laughed and gave a mild go-away wave with her free
hand. "Oh, silly!" She shook her head. She was wearing a
long plaid, pleated skirt and a white blouse. I very
clearly remember that morning and how she looked; bright,
clean, basic, unpretentious, very very pretty in a simple,
uncomplicated way.
We walked a few blocks together. I noticed she seemed to
be getting thinner. She also looked tired, but cheerful.
It turned out she had been working very hard in school and
was overly anxious to do well. "You wouldn't know about
that yet," she said, "you're barely in the third grade."
"What grade are you in?" I asked.
"The umpteenth, feels like."
Umpteenth was our private code that meant something akin to
forever or infinity.
"I'm coming over Saturday," she said. She had stopped and
seemed serious and looked steadily at me without moving.
I said, "Oh. Okay!" and beamed at her. She kept looking
at me in the same mysterious way. I didn't know why she
wasn't saying anything. She seemed concerned,
apprehensive.
"Well," she said after a minute and a short breath, "I am
*supposed* to stay with you Saturday night, anyway."
I did not know what she was getting at or what was going
on, or why she emphasized the word "supposed". I do
remember the moment clearly. I became very tense; I felt
suddenly distant from her and didn't know what was wrong.
She asked me pointedly, "Are we still friends, hon?"
"Sure we are," I said.
"I mean...are we still really, really friends?"
I blushed. "Your my own special, very only, very
umpeenthdegree friend."
"And you're my special little man, hon," she said, but she
wasn't smiling, except weakly, sympathetically.
We talked a little more, I don't remember what we said.
She seemed absent-minded. It was not until Saturday night
that I discovered what she was thinking.
It was all quite complicated. At least, it was for Martha
Jane. As an adult I now understand, but as a 9-year-old I
could not fathom it. I viewed things more simplistically.
Next Saturday, Martha Jane and I sat and talked after she
made dinner and after we cleaned the dishes. Then she
studied on the sofa a while. She asked me a series of
seemingly unrelated questions, none of which I remember.
She was not as openly affectionate as usual and seemed
remote, though not at all cold.
Our exchanges were brief and rather formal. She asked me
about some uncles of mine who had not returned from the
war, and she asked if I ever saw my Uncle frank-- -my
father's brother and one of the few male relatives in my
family who had survived and returned home. I told her that
Uncle Frank had not seen me since he finished his last
hitch in the Air Corps and decided to come back to the
States and go to college on the GI Bill. I told her about
his getting wounded in a B-26 in the Pacific a few years
ago and how he pulled up his pants leg and showed me the
pink scars of the three healed bullet holes in his lower
thigh.
She winced, making an "Ugh" face. She said firmly, "I
don't want to hear about it. I've heard enough about the
war."
So I didn't say any more. I sat on the floor watching her,
trying to figure out how to get through to her.
Martha Jane announced, "My Uncle Joe died, you know."
"Yeah," I said, "Mama told me."
"He was sick for so long, from his war wounds. He lived
longer than we thought he would, but...It was hard on
Mother. That's two men the war took from her, her husband
and her brother." She stared ahead pensively, then blinked
awake. "Well. Enough of that."
I said earnestly from across the room, "I'm real sorry,
Martha Jane."
She smiled weakly. "Thank you, hon. I know you are.
It'll be alright." She looked back at her book and began
scribbling in her notepad.
For a long time-- -perhaps for most of the evening, it
seems-- she pored over her studies and remained
unresponsive.
Later that night I felt she was still mourning, despite
saying she would get over it. I had seen a whole
neighborhood full of hurt, tragic people: widows, the
disabled and the paralyzed, the shot-up and the abandoned
of the War. I had seen my mom's sister, my young and
plain-looking Aunt Martha, when she came to our apartment
once in the middle of the night, pounding on our front door
and screaming for help until she woke us. My mom scrambled
out of bed and I stood in the hallway watching from the
bedroom as Mom opened the front door for Aunt Martha, who
rushed sobbing into the living room and collapsed in a
wailing heap on the sofa. Her husband had beaten her
again. Mom and Aunt Martha tried to hide the bloodied
bruises from me, but I had already seen them on Aunt
Martha's face and arms and I knew what the marks meant
without being told. Seeing her, I wanted to cry and throw
my arms around her-- -even though she was, unfortunately,
one of those adults I didn't trust. She was even more
grimly puritanical and prim than my Mom, and a
fundamentalist who considered everything an occasion for
sin of some kind. But I understood her pain, both physical
and emotional, without having it explained to me.
That night occurred some years earlier, when I had just
turned 6. The commotion woke up Martha Jane's family next
door. She and her sister Evelyn came over in their robes
and pajamas and Martha Jane went straight over to me
because my mother panicked and was rasping, "Get Speedy out
of here, get him out of here!" Martha Jane led me to
bedroom, where I looked up at her and whispered so the
others wouldn't hear, "I already saw it."
She looked down at me. "You did what, hon?"
I repeated, looking back to make sure the others couldn't
hear us, "I already saw it, Martha Jane. I saw what
happened."
Martha Jane knelt down to me in her rumpled bathrobe and
looked into my eyes with her deep, striking green ones.
"Then," she said eyeing me seriously, "you understand what
happened."
I nodded. Then I added, so the others wouldn't hear,
"Uncle Bobby hurt her again."
We were alone in the room. I could still see in my mind
the earlier glimpse of Aunt Martha's bloody lip and the
dark bulging eye, the blue-black on one of her arms. I
started crying. I could not stop the tears from falling
down my face, despite my attempts at remaining calm.
"Oh, honey," Martha Jane implored, "don't get scared and
start crying, now."
"I'm not scared," I sniffled. "I know how Aunt Martha
hurts. It makes me cry."
"You-- -" Her eyes looking into mine softened and seemed to
turn to mush. "Oh, you sweet baby!"
"Why does he do that to her?"
"I don't know, hon. But you are so sweet. So very sweet."
She closed the bedroom door, shutting us off from the
sobbing and wailing in the living room, and put me back
into bed. She told me it would all be okay in the morning
and she understood my feelings. She sat on the bed and
said I shouldn't feel bad about not being with the others
and she really didn't want me to feel as though I were
being "locked away" in the room. She said, "I'll stay in
here with you for a while if you want, okay? So you won't
be all by yourself?"
I told her, "It's okay if I stay in here, 'cause I know
Aunt Martha. I know how she is. She doesn't want us
staring at her, she feels all ugly and everything. I'll
stay here so she won't feel ashamed. But...they don't have
to yell at me. They're always hiding everything and acting
like I won't understand."
"No, hon. They're just scared, that's all. They're
upset." She stroked my head. She told me she would come
back later and that she would tell my Aunt Martha about my
concern for her. But I said, "No, don't tell her that."
"But why not, hon.? I know she'd appreciate it."
"I don't want you to."
"But, Speedy...honey, why not? What's wrong?"
"I don't...want...you...to."
"But, hon...?"
"'Cause every time she sees me, she'll be embarrassed.
She'll remember tonight. That's the way she is."
I don't know how long Martha Jane sat looking at me,
stroking my hair, with that amazed look on her face.
Finally she said, "I have to go in there and help. You
sure you'll be alright?"
"Yes."
She sighed and rose and went to the door, but before going
out she leaned inside and blew me a kiss. "You're my
little man from now on, hon," she said, and closed the
door.
That night had taken place some years before and was one of
the very early incidents that had so endeared me to Martha
Jane, and her to me. Now it was a few years later. And
Martha Jane had become more than just a neighbor. More
than a friend. And now I saw that she was the one who
seemed hurt. Or, at best, worried about something.
I didn't know what to do about it. I was good at clowning,
though, and I wondered how I could make her laugh. At 9
o'clock she hustled me into the bathroom (no bubble-bath
this time. I was getting a little "too old" for that) and
she stayed in the living room while I bathed. I dried off
and straightened the room, and peeked around the door into
the living room. She was on the sofa, studying intensely.
But I did see a crumpled Kleenex in her hand, and her eyes
had reddened.
An wave of empathy had me almost crying with her. There
was a curtain-covered closet in the hallway between the
bath and the bedroom. It could not be seen from where
Martha Jane sat on the sofa. I got out of the tub, dried
off, and went rummaging in the closet, looking for a funny
idea. Martha Jane heard me kicking around.
"Speedy, I thought you were going to bed," she called.
"Just lookin' for somethin'," I called back. I found my
six-shooter outfit in there, and a cowboy hat. I put on my
mom's dress with my six-guns and holsters on backward. I
had seen enough John Wayne movies to be able to do a fairly
acceptable imitation of the guy. I donned this outfit and
tied toy spurs loosely on my ankles. Pulling the brim of
the hat down low over my eyes, I walked into the living
room. I looked ridiculous. I stood there while she had
her face in her book. It was a minute before she realized
I was there, and when she finally looked up I yelled out in
my best John Wayne voice.
"Howdy, pil-grum!"
She blinked. Her mouth fell wide open and she covered it
with the Kleenex. I strutted across the room with big
stomping John Wayne steps. "pardon me, ma-uhm, but...this
town ain't big for thah two of us. One of us has...got tah
go."
She laughed in her oh-my-god, head-shaking way, not a big
laugh but several breathy intakes. She blurted out, "Do
you intend to sleep in that outfit?"
"Why, yes'm" I said, still John Wayne. With my thumb over
my shoulder I indicated an imaginary object behind me.
"Just me and... muh horse, over there."
"Oh, no," she said. "You are so cute." She wiped one eye
with a corner of the Kleenex, trying to hide her red eyes.
I think she knew I couldn't possibly have missed the
gesture, but she kept up the effort. She said, "I have
something in my eye, hon. You go on and get ready for bed.
Go on, now, it's late."
"Well...okay," I said, disappointed that I hadn't
accomplished very much. I walked back to the closet with
one of my aluminum toy spurs dragging uselessly off one
foot, and removed my silly gear and stored it back in the
closet. As I was doing so, I saw Martha Jane turning back
the bedclothes in the bedroom. I undressed down to the
underwear that I usually slept in and crawled into bed.
Martha Jane fluffed the pillows and turned off the lamp.
She stood by the bed.
"You ready to go to sleep now, cowboy?"
"Right, ma-yum."
She was silent. She looked at the floor. I saw her eyes
water. She was dark against the dim light shedding in from
the living room.
"You never met your daddy, did you, hon? You never saw
him. He got killed over there before you ever knew who he
was."
I didn't know what to say to that. Every relative I
encountered-- -and there were many of them in my huge
family-- -mentioned my dead father at every visit, every
Mass, every picnic, every Bingo game, every damn holiday
dinner. Now Martha Jane was doing it. I was not angered
by it, but I did find myself unable to understand this
constant lingering over the memory of dead men I never
knew.
Martha Jane went on quietly. "My daddy was killed in the
war, too. He was one of 'em, too, that...died, got
killed." She took a deep, wobbly breath, and sighed. "I
guess you're lucky, Speedy, you never knew your daddy, but
I knew mine. I used to..." She stopped again, breathed
deeply, and when she started again her voice had cracked
and broken up. "I used to see him all the time. Every
day. So you don't know what that is, when some Army
sergeant you never saw before-- -" and she began talking
and crying at the same time-- "shows up at the door with a
letter-- -"
She suddenly crumpled and fell to her knees, her hands on
her head, which was cradled on the edge of the bed. She
cried her heart out, not wailing, but heaving in long,
wrenching, childlike sighs. "I miss him! Oh, I miss him!
Why isn't he here to help us?"
Instantly I went to her, squatting on the bed and holding
her head, the only part of her I could reach. She cried
and cried and cried. I didn't know what to say, but I did
know to hold her and stroke her hair. Eventually she
calmed down, and returned my hug with a long tight embrace
of her arm around one of mine. With a long sigh, she
reached up to the night table for another Kleenex and sat
on the floor, drying her eyes and looking up at me.
"You knew I was thinkin' something, didn't you cowboy?"
I nodded.
"You...are one little smart-ass," she said, blowing her
nose. She sniffed loudly. "You know what a smart-ass is?"
"I think so."
"Well you are one sweet smart-ass. Now, c'mon..." She
stood up and started tucking things in again. "I'm done
now, I got it outta my system and it's a-a-all over with.
You get yourself to sleep. C'mon, John Wayne."
"Martha Jane?" I began. I had not told her what I
desperately wanted to tell her.
"Yes, hon?"
"I... uh... Hmmm." I scratched my head.
She came closer to the bed. "What is it, big boy?"
"I still never..."
"Mm-hm, okay, you still never. You still never what?"
"I never told anybody what we did together."
She stood deadly still and silent, looking toward the
floor, hands on her hips. She pursed her lips and made
another sniffle. She didn't say anything. I thought I had
offended her.
"I mean...," I went on carefully, "in case you were worried
about that. I mean, at first I thought that's what...you
were worried about."
She said, "Oh." She neither moved nor looked at me. "Oh,"
she said again. "That."
"I just wanted you to know," I said, shrinking from her and
back into the bed.
She shook her head, seemed to ponder deeply. Abruptly she
left the room. I lay there numb, figuring I had somehow
pissed her off in the worst way. Then the living room
light went out. The only light in the room was moonlight
falling on the bed. I heard Martha Jane walking toward the
bedroom. I turned and could barely see her at first, but
soon she appeared in the dim light of the moon beside the
bed.
She said sternly, "C'mere, Speedy."
I crawled to the edge of the bed. She was wearing dark
clothes, a blue blouse and a ruffled blue skirt. All I
could see were her eyes.
"You are one smart little boy," she said. "Yes, I was
worried about that. I wanted my daddy to get me out of
trouble, I thought I was in trouble about that." She
paused and said something, almost to herself, something I
would be able to understand only years later. "I am goin'
to hell. We're both goin' to hell."
She then reached out and pulled me to her by one hand, she
standing by the bed with me on my knees near the edge. She
looked deeply into my eyes briefly, and then hugged me
tightly. There was something serious and desperate, rather
than playful, in the way she clasped me to her. So I made
no moves on my own. I simply let myself be held, my arms
draped loosely around her neck. When she made no response
after a moment I gave her a hug and waited. But she stood
unmoving beside the bed, silent, enfolding me closely with
one arm around my back and the other cradling my head into
her neck and shoulder.
With my face in her neck I was unable to see hers in the
dark, but I could tell that she was looking down at the
floor silently for a very, very long time, perhaps for
almost two minutes. During that time I very lightly
stroked her back and then put my own hand on the back of
her neck to let her know that I would wait, wait for her to
stop thinking or whatever it was she was doing in that long
wordless minute in the dark.
She moved her lips; faintly I heard them part, and she took
in a small breath as if to speak, but she stopped. I
waited for her in the darkness around us. Her eyelashes
flicked once, and I knew she was looking past my shoulder,
across the bed, out into the moonlit window behind me. Her
lashes flicked again against my cheek, and she looked down
once more, breathing. She parted her lips again and they
made a mildly dry, sticking sound. And she breathed and
waited and waited, as if something from deep inside her
were slowly, slowly struggling to the find a place in her
breathing and in her voice. She looked down. She
swallowed. Hard.
"Hon?" she began, tentatively, barely audible. Her lips
were so close to my ear I could feel the moisture of her
breath on my earlobes. "Do you want to be nasty with me?"
My head buried in her neck, I nodded slowly.
She paused again, and again I heard her lips part dryly
near my ear. She continued, softly. "Do you mind if I say
it's nasty but I want us to do it anyway?"
"I don't mind."
"I mean...I mean I know and you know that everybody says
it's wrong and we're not supposed to do it, but...I want to
anyway. I want you to understand: I know it's nasty...but
that's why I like it. And I don't understand it."
"But I like it too," I whispered back.
Again she hesitated before she relaxed her arms and held me
more loosely. "Good," she whispered in my ear. "Good."
She stroked my back for a moment and gave my head in her
neck a brief affectionate hug. Then her fingers were at
the front of my underwear. She tried to find her way into
the slit but couldn't, so she pushed her hand gently under
the top band.
She whispered, "Your dick, hon...", and soon her fingers
found me and wrapped around me warmly. "...there he is..."
She hugged my cock gently. Then she murmured so softly I
could barely hear, even though her lips were still against
my ear: "I like it too, hon. I can't help it. We're so
much alike."
Continued...
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