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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 3D
Date: Fri, 11 Aug 2006 14:21:34 -0700
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 3D
That was a sensuous summer. Mom's relationship apparently
ran smoothly for a while and my step dad-to-be took her out
not frequently but regularly. Each time, Martha Jane would
show up on time and we'd fix dinner for each other, clean
up, do a little homework, and then undress each other in
the tiny bedroom. Soon the room echoed with our sighs,
whispers, and moans of pleasure and lust. The only sex we
had outside that bedroom was the one time Martha Jane
showed up at our place one rare Saturday afternoon when I
had not been shipped off to relatives for the weekend.
Martha Jane had iced tea with Mom and chatted a short time,
and told my mom she wanted me to come next door and help
set up a record player her sister Evelyn had given to
Martha Jane and her mom.
She brought me to her apartment and as soon as we were
inside she took me into her bedroom. I told her I thought
she wanted me to help her with the new phonograph and she
giddily and impatiently replied that the machine was set up
already and she really just wanted us to be alone. "I
don't know what's got into me today," she exclaimed, almost
visibly trembling. "I feel so nasty. God, I hope we don't
get caught!" She lay on the edge of her bed with her legs
hanging over the side. Lifting her skirt, she panted,
"Finger fuck me, hon. Hurry. Somebody might show up." I
put my hand inside her waistband and finger fucked her
inside her panties. She came almost immediately.
Afterwards, nervous and fumbling, she lay me down the same
way and jacked me with my zipper open until I felt that
little buzz in my cock and she pulled a little drop out of
me and licked it off. Then we straightened our clothes and
went into her living room, where she settled down. And
just in time: about ten minutes later her sister Evelyn
arrived unexpectedly. I talked with her briefly and while
she was in their kitchen making lemonade Martha Jane saw me
to her door and whispered as I left, "That was close. But
it sure felt good!" Afterward she told me we shouldn't try
that sort of thing again, as the schedule in her place was
truly unpredictable and so many of her mother's friends
always popped in. And she said she never, never wanted to
risk having my Mom find out.
Had sex been the only aspect of our relationship I have
little doubt that both of us would have soon tired of this
sitting routine and sought more varied pleasures elsewhere
or with someone else. But we had a life outside the
bedroom that was also special for us and that only added to
our feelings of intimacy, devotion, and pleasure in the
bedroom.
My back yard was a small patch of lawn about the size of a
modern suburban carport. It lay along the curb of the
access driveway that fed into the project from the street
and led to a parking lot around the corner of our building.
Near the curb was a large black oak. We spent several
evenings there on weekdays at dusk, just after dinner, as
the long summer days ended and the stultifyingly humid
Southern air turned breezy and cool, the sky glowing purple
and orange. It was there under the heavy, leafy old oak
tree that I told her about my strange dream with the
roaches. She said she had no idea why I would dream such a
thing, but she suspected the nuns had scared the hell out
of me.
Martha Jane and I discussed our dreams frequently during
those waning summer days under the tree. She often dreamed
of her father coming to her in the night, but he was
reduced to the size of a boy, a very small boy almost as
small as an infant. His head was bloodied and disfigured
(he had died in combat on Okinawa from head wounds). He
would plead for help, but when she rose to go to him she
saw the rest of the house was filled with more like him,
thousands of them, moaning and reaching for her. In the
dream her mother made tea, oblivious to it all and
apparently deaf and unable to hear, but as she sipped her
tea she said she didn't want to hear and appeared to have
gone quietly insane. Overcome with helplessness and rage,
she would wake up sweating.
She said she once had a dream about me. I was standing in
a dark room smiling at her. She said my eyes were very
large and very dark, almost gigantic, and they glowed in
the dark room. As she stepped toward me she became very
small and felt faint, and suddenly I was very large and
very much older and went to her with a glass of wine,
gently cradling her head in one arm while holding the wine
for her to sip. The wine was warm and was in a small
silver chalice. She said the most striking part of the
dream was my remarkably dark eyes that seemed to fill the
room. They were kind and endearing, but there was
something frightening and ruthless about them as well.
Across the access driveways were the small back yards of
the building directly behind ours. I never knew our
backdoor neighbors personally. Occasionally I'd look out
our kitchen door and see one of the neighbor ladies
standing in her kitchen and talking with Martha Jane across
the driveway.
One of those neighbors, a Mrs. Johnson, would open her back
door each evening just before dark and carefully slip her
bathrobe draped, paraplegic husband in his wheelchair down
the three or four concrete steps into their back yard. She
would make him comfortable there on their little patch of
grass, read the newspapers to him, or tune a station on
their small brown GE portable that rested on the ground
between his wheelchair and her aluminum lawn chair. Many
afternoons, Martha Jane and I sat on the curb and watched
this ritual. We would say hello to Mrs. Johnson and to Mr.
Johnson, and Mrs. Johnson would smile and wave hello and
bend down to Mr. Johnson and tell him we were out there
with them. Mr. Johnson was unable to respond. Nor could
he move his legs or arms or his neck or his eyes. He
slumped limply in his wheelchair, wearing striped pajamas
and a brown bathrobe, his eyes ogling blindly ahead, a thin
drool forever flowing down one side of his slack and
expressionless face. Mr. Johnson had been almost blown to
pieces on Taiwan. Even at my age I realized without being
told that the man would never move or talk or lift a spoon
of soup to his face.
Martha Jane would watch quietly as they performed this
almost nightly ritual for a brief stay in the open air. I
would look up at her and see her swallow, for a different
reason now, and she would murmur, "God grant the poor woman
patience." I told her about Taiwan, and Guadalacanal. And
she told me how my father had died. He was flight engineer
in a B-17F on his 21st mission when the plane was badly
shot up. They barely made it back to England, where they
discovered that the front nose wheel would not remain
extended for a landing. As engineer in this emergency, my
father ordered everyone but the pilot into the rear of the
aircraft, where most of them lay wounded and unable to
parachute out. With the pilot bringing the plane in, my
father stationed himself in the nose gear well, literally
jamming the nose wheel straight and steady with a hand-held
crowbar. The wheel held up just long enough for the plane
to land and start to slow. Then the nose gear collapsed,
crushing him. All the other crewmen were saved.
"You're a lot like him," Martha Jane told me at the end of
that story. "You'll try anything, just to see what
happens. You're such a little outlaw."
We would sit there until the sky grew dark, seeing before
us where so many others had gone, talking vaguely about how
far there was to go.
"Sometimes I think we're the only ones who are still in one
piece," she sighed, her chin propped on her knees.
"Sometimes I think we were put here so we could know how
much there is to lose. So we can save whatever's left."
She shook her head. "And sometimes I think: there's so
little left to be saved."
On July 4th she took me to a movie at the neighborhood
theatre, the Suzore's-- -a seedy, well-used, crowded, and
sticky-floored movie house if ever there was one. The
place was a fallen relic of the 1920's, but it had a kind
of homey who-cares air about it and the best popcorn in
town. We held hands and shared the popcorn bag, laughing
at the Bowery Boys and hiding our eyes when Charlie Chan
crept through the hidden corridors of a haunted house. The
walk back home was about seven blocks, down the steep,
landscaped, four block long hill that led from the top of
the project to our building at the other end. It was one
of those hot Southern nights, humid but cooling down, the
air so still that the voices of people walking nearby hung
in space long after the people had gone. In those days,
before pollution clouded the view, we could see a multitude
of stars overhead. As we walked I pointed out Orion to
her, and Alpha Centauri. I showed her where the Weeping
Sisters usually appeared and told her that the faint red
dot near the steeple of St. Mary's Church was Mars. We
were standing in the dark of the open lawn near the
project's administration building. She listened as I
pointed out the constellations, and after a minute I
stopped and watched as she looked up. I was very nearly
her own height, then. A half-moon floated just in front of
her, outlining her face. Unable to resist, I softly cupped
my hand over one breast.
She looked down at my hand on her bosom. She didn't pull
away, but she whispered mischievously, "Somebody's gonna
see us."
"I don't care," I said.
She laughed and said, "Yes, but I do."
"Okay," I said, and withdrew my hand.
She held my hand at her side as we strolled the rest of the
way home. "It's not that I don't want you to," she said.
"It's just that...I don't ever want anyone catching us and
trying to stop us from doing it."
That summer gave us several nights together, nights of
holding each other warmly and softly, naked, with Martha
Jane under me or hovering over me and whispering her secret
needs and pleasures, showing me something new. I learned
to keep her on a dreamy sensuous edge for a longer and
longer time, and then to make her cum several times,
rapidly and intensely. She would almost always fall sleep
or faint afterward, and I had to struggle to stay awake so
I could rouse her in time to straighten up before my Mom
returned.
Martha Jane had her 17th birthday in September, 1950.
There was precious little money to spend, but she invited a
few close friends and had a small celebration in her
mother's apartment. I was there, indulging heavily in ice
cream and homemade cake.
Martha Jane found it necessary to introduce me personally
to everyone in the place. I was surprised to learn that so
many of her friends were not classmates but older adults.
This left me edgy, especially when she kept introducing me
as "my boyfriend, Speedy." And every older lady in the
joint had to say something like, "Oh, he's such a cute
boy!" My discomfort was obvious. At one point I retreated
to a corner and sat unsmiling by myself for a long period.
Martha Jane came over to me and asked what was wrong.
I sat petulantly bumping my heels on the legs of the chair
and averting her eyes.
She leaned down to me. "Speedy, you're too smart and too
well liked by everyone here to act like this. What's wrong
with you, don't you like these people?"
"They all think I'm cute," I pouted. "And I hate the name
Speedy."
She chuckled and said, "Speedy, let 'em think what they
want to think. It doesn't hurt to cooperate a little bit.
And what difference does it make?"
I adamantly folded my arms.
She stood up and said, "Hmp," with her hands on her hips.
"Face it, hon-- -you ARE cute!"
I said back, "Hmp!"
"How am I gonna get you to have more experience being
around people other than that fussy family of yours? Hm?"
I said nothing, but kicked away with my heels.
"Okay, sourpuss," she said. Shaking her head impatiently,
she returned to the group. I spent the rest of the day
mostly ignoring everyone until I felt it was time to go
home. As I left her apartment I saw her notice me from the
corner of her eyes while she spoke with the others. For
the rest of the day I stayed in my living room and pretty
much had the place to myself, my Mom being at Martha Jane's
all afternoon. I listened to the Philco for a while, and
typed on the Underwood. And by dusk I was totally bored.
I went to our back yard, out by the curb near the big oak.
For a while I sat on the curb under the tree, listening to
its heavy, leafy limbs rustle in the breeze. It was dusk,
and the early fall sky had turned red.
Before long I heard the slap of the screen door behind me
at Martha Jane's place. I looked behind me. Sure enough,
it was she. She saw me and walked toward me, her head
lowered and her arms behind her back. I sat with my legs
extended from the curb, my heels on the surface of the
driveway. She sat beside me.
"What's the matter, hon?"
"Nothin'," I said.
"Look at me."
"No."
She lowered her voice and said, hurtfully, "Speedy, why are
you doing this to me?"
I sighed deeply and leaned forward, propping my chin on my
raised knees. I muttered, "I dunno." And I didn't.
"I'm sorry you didn't have a good time. I thought you
would."
I shrugged, as if to say it didn't matter.
"Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
"I dunno."
"Try, Speedy."
I shrugged.
"Try, hon. Talk to me. You're haven't been nice to me all
day. I have a perfect right not to speak to you at all.
Do you realize that? Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
I struggled a bit, and finally managed to say, "I don't...
like it when people expect me to be cute all the time."
"Speedy, they don't 'expect' you to be cute. You 'are'
cute. You really are. You're an unusual person-- -you
don't look like other boys your age. You have a strong,
intelligent, different look and personality altogether.
And that's what people notice about you."
"But...I don't know what to say to people."
"You just say hello, hon. And 'how are you'. You don't
have to say anything special."
"Well..." I stopped. I shrugged helplessly. "People
always expect me to do certain things. And act a certain
way."
Martha Jane sighed. "You mean," she said knowingly, "you
mean 'certain' people, don't you? Like Aunt Frances and
the rest of them? And your mother?"
I nodded.
For a while Martha Jane looked at the ground silently. she
extended her blue Jean legs into the driveway and leaned
back on her arms. "Speedy, do you know what I'm going to
do when I go to college?"
I shook my head.
"I'm going to study to be a teacher. A special kind of
teacher. I'm going to teach children who are...who are
different from other children. Someone like you could be
one of those children some day. But you'll be grown up by
the time I get started. You'll be in high school yourself
by then, or nearly there. But you know-- -? Look at me,
Hon. Look at me."
I did as she asked.
She continued, "There's an awful lot I could learn from
you. You're a really tough case."
"Tough case?" I said. "What's a tough case?"
She raised her eyes, looking up at the sky. "Ah, you're
soooo hard-headed. That's what a tough case is."
I shrugged. "Oh."
"You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
"Movies?" I frowned. "I don't have any money."
"I'll pay."
"But that's not fair."
"Yes, it is. I asked you first."
"Well, if you're askin' me, then I'm not takin' you, you're
takin' me."
"Oh, darn it, why do you have to be so exacting? Listen.
Let's start over again. Now, I'm going to ask you if *you*
want to take *me* to the movies. And you're supposed to
say yes."
"Okay."
"Now-- -you wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
I paused. I still didn't agree with the "politics" of this
game. "But if you're the one who has the money-- -"
She prompted, impatiently, "Answer yes, darn it."
"Start over," I said. "This time I'll do it right."
"Oh, alright...You wanna take me to the movies for my
birthday?"
"Yes." I reached up very quickly and kissed her cheek.
"Yes," I said again, kissing her again. And a third time,
"Yes," and kissed her.
She laughed. "What *are* you doing?"
"I'm kissing you and saying yes."
"Three times?"
"To make up for the times I didn't do it right." One more
time, I gave her cheek a loud, lingering kiss. "...And
that's for me being so snotty on your birthday. I won't do
that any more."
"You little heartbreaker."
Martha Jane was looking less like a teenager and more like
a young woman. Her neck, arms, and legs had developed
slimmer and more graceful lines, and she was losing the
baby fat in her face and neck, getting more slender
overall. I was nearing my 9th year and was somewhat
muscular and slightly tall for my size, but certainly not
as hefty as many fast-growing boys my age. I was now only
an inch or so shorter than Martha Jane. Like my father and
his brother, there was still something delicate about me
from my paternal grandmother's side of the family.
I mentioned this because at that time I was becoming more
and more aware of my own physical dimension and of the
physical side of this passionate relationship. I noticed
this change in both our appearances a few days after Martha
Jane's birthday. She stayed with me while my Mom's future
fiancщe took her to a Halloween party. Outside my
apartment the kids strolled the Halloween trail for candy
and trick-r-treats, their noisemakers and their giggles
echoing in the night. At that time, however, Martha Jane
and I were naked together in that tiny bedroom. We were
giggly and giddy because we were totally nude but lying on
the bed just below the window sill so that anyone looking
in would see only our faces and elbows. For a while we
talked and watched the goings-on outside.
Then we went into the bathroom so we could make up in
Halloween faces of our own and laugh and point at each
other. This was one of the few times I had seen her naked
outside of a bed. Watching her stand before the bathroom
mirror or tiptoe across the living room, I saw how slim and
tight her waist, back, neck and legs had become. I told
her this and she stood in front of me sizing me up. She
said my chest was starting to expand now, my shoulders
broadened and would probably look like my Uncle Frank's one
day, and my legs were longer and leaner and already had
fuzz on them.
I told her, "You're getting prettier and prettier all the
time, Martha Jane."
"Oh, stop it."
"But you are," I insisted. "Your eyes are. They're bigger
than they used to be. Yes, they are, I know they are.
They have more blue in 'em than they used to."
"Phooey, hon. Let me see you." She held me at arm's
length and looked me up and down. "Look. You're perfectly
proportioned. Not too big, not too small." She put her
hands on her waist and continued her assessment of my
nudity, muttering absently, "I've seen a lot of pictures of
a lot of statues in the art books at the library, so I know
what I'm talkin' about. Look at you. Just perfect. Like
a little Greek statue. The only thing missing is a fig
leaf."
"And you look perfect too," I breathed, slowly taking in
her naked form, the graceful slope of her breasts, her
slightly parted thighs and her slender ankles.
"Guess what?" I asked.
"What?"
"Looking at you like this is makin' me excited."
She winked. "C'mon."
Continued...
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