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From: Incest Man <familyincestfamilyincest@yahoo.com>
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 5C
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2006 06:09:23 -0700
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 5C
I shrugged.
"I mean, seriously. Talk."
I shrugged again. "Not really."
"I do," she persisted.
So I got into the same pose as she, propped on one elbow
and facing her. "All right, but I don't need a baby-sitter
to put me to bed."
"I don't know what to do with you. About you. You are
spoiled and too independent. I know you don't like all
your fussy old aunts and uncles so much, but you have to
admit they spoiled the heck out of you. And, brother, did
I help! You are so strange. In so many ways you're older
than me, in the ways you connect with certain things inside
people, but...such a strange boy."
"Boy," I echoed dryly.
"Well, Speedy, you *are* a boy...No, no, no, you are what
looks like a boy, you do boy things, you have boy habits.
But you're not really a boy. Wars took your boy away from
you. I did, too. I'm going to die and go to hell for it."
I gruffed, "Oh, That's what the nuns say all the time..."
"Do you know what I mean when I say I'm going to hell for
it?"
"...and you say that all the time, too."
"I know, but do you know what I mean?"
"I guess. No."
"I'm in hell for it now, Speedy. I'm in hell every day
thinking about this and about us."
"You mean...'this' and 'us' being...?"
She mouthed the word s-e-x, and nodded.
I felt a crashing, cutting disappointment. All I could say
was: "Oh."
"I think what we did together was very unusual. Very out
of control. I don't think I will ever be able to be like
that with anyone else again, as long as I live."
"I didn't know you felt so bad about it."
"No no no no no, not 'bad'," she moaned, beating her fists
lightly on the bed sheet. "Not 'bad'!" She beat her fist
again, once for each word: "You...don't...understand."
"Explain it to me."
"I am explaining it to you!"
"Okay."
"You don't understand that...I...that I *did* like it. I
liked it more than anything. I'm trying to tell you that
I...that I know, looking at you right here and now, that I
know I'll never be able to do that with anyone else."
"Not-- -?"
She stopped me. "Not even with my boyfriend."
"Hm."
"Believe me?"
I shrugged: a sort of, a maybe.
"I'm trying to tell you, Speedy, my dear sweet little man,
my somehow grownup somehow not grownup little man-- -Oh, my
my you are so grownup in bed. You are so strange. I'm
trying to tell you that...I liked it... But...I'm afraid
of you. I'm afraid of myself. You do something to me, we
have something, we do something to each other that-- -" She
stopped. "Yes, I have this boyfriend but it's not the
same, it's not-- -" She stopped again and sighed almost
tearfully. "Oh, heck!"
"You think it was wrong?" I guessed.
She shook her head no, impatiently dismissing my question.
Then she sighed. "I have this problem."
"Problem?"
"Yes." She pulled a wet strand from her hair and then
picked a little crumb of something off her tongue and
couldn't find it again and just gave up. "The problem
is...I still remember it."
"Oh."
"Yes, 'Oh'. I remember, and I-- -ah, this is so
complicated."
I sat up. In some ways this was beyond me. In some other
strange way, I sensed what she was saying. "Maybe we
should not have done it."
She looked suddenly and deeply into my eyes. There was
consternation, frustration, impatience in eyes and face.
"I mean, what we were doing makes you feel bad and you
think you're going to hell, so we shouldn't do it."
"Oh...!?" She squinted at me. "Tell me something: did you
think we would do it again the next time you saw me?"
"Not especially."
"Be honest."
"Mmm, no."
"But you sort of hoped we would," she prompted.
"Mmm, yeah."
"But if you think it hurts my feelings, you wouldn't ask
me?"
"Right."
She stared at me for a very long time. "I should have
known you'd say that. I should have known." She played
with her wet hair again, and lay back on a pillow. "Let me
ask you something. Did you really find yourself thinking
about it? I mean, thinking about it a lot?"
"I guess...I didn't think about it a lot, but it made me
sad when it looked like it wouldn't happen again."
"I see..." she mused. "But you thought about it."
"Sure I did. For a while."
She smirked. "I hope you don't grow up to be like one of
those good-looking hotshots that I don't want you to grow
up to be. Darn, that's what's so strange about you, and me
*with* you...If only we weren't so good at it together,
then neither of us would always be expecting that it's
supposed to happen that way all the time." She shook her
head ruefully. "Do you have any idea at all what you would
have to do to seduce me, to make me do it?"
"You mean...like really *make* you do it with me?"
"Yes."
"It wouldn't be the same."
"Why?"
"Because you wouldn't want to do it."
"I see," she said, pondering again. She squinted at me.
"I wish you were twenty. I wish you were thirty. I
wish..." She stopped, searching my eyes.
I was looking down, away from her, absently toying with a
wrinkle in the bed sheets. She leaned forward and forced
herself into my view. "Have you made yourself cum yet?"
I blushed and shrugged.
"You haven't, have you? I took your boy but I didn't give
you enough man to work with did I? And you made it so good
for me."
This chat was annoying me. Talking with adults was
something I never, simply never enjoyed. They had such a
baffling way of complicating matters. As I did with other
adults when they wanted a "serious" discussion, I tried to
appear unaffected. Now, as Martha Jane talked with me that
night, the room seemed crowded and too small to hold the
thoughts I was trying to keep from her. I felt alienated
from her, especially now that she had so obviously begun
her move from a teenager to a woman, a woman who worked for
a paycheck, studied in a college, went out with other
people her own age who lived in a world that I was totally
unfamiliar with. It was an odd and unsettling sensation
for me to feel that way about Martha Jane.
She went on with difficulty. "I don't know what it is
we...we do to each other..." Absently she started to reach
toward my thigh, but stopped. "You want *me* to ask *you*
to do it?"
Still propped on my elbow, I shrugged again. "Sort of...I
mean, the only time I used to know you wanted to was when
you said you did."
"I...see..." she said ominously, looking at her own hands
and appearing troubled by my reply. She rolled onto her
tummy and crossed her ankles in the air behind her.
She asked, "Why did you feel so bad when you didn't find me
at Woolworth's? Hm? I really want to know, Speedy. Was
your mama right, were you down in the dumps all day?"
I gave shrug number one thousand or so. "I don't know," I
pouted. "That was a long time ago."
"Oh, baby, that's not an answer. C'mon, talk to me."
"I don't know. I just...didn't know what else to do."
She prompted in a singsong voice, "You could have come
ba-aa-ck...on a different day-y-y."
I didn't say anything. She was right, I could have gone
back and looked for her again. I didn't know what she was
getting at.
In the same singsong she continued: "You could
have...mmm... called my mother...called my sister."
I blushed again, but I was also a little hostile. All I
could do was lower my head and say, "Well...."
"Speedy, why didn't you ever call me after I left home and
moved into an apartment?"
That remark left me slightly bristling. "I did call.
Evelyn gave me a number. But they told me you had moved to
another place."
"Why didn't you look for me again? I was very busy at
first, I was so busy I didn't sleep. Half the time I'd eat
breakfast or lunch walking between classes. And after a
few months, I heard nothing. I said to myself, okay, so
what, the kid's only ten years old, how does he know what
to do? What should I expect? And I met boys, nice boys,
interesting people, friends-- -for the first time in my
life. And after a while I figured, well, he's growing, he
has his own things, his own life. Maybe he doesn't want to
see me, maybe he doesn't even remember who I am. We really
didn't have to see each other, period. We could have just
talked. We could have just said hello. We were still
friends, weren't we?" She looked at me with pleading eyes.
"We were so close, we had been through so much together.
What happened? Why didn't I hear anything from you? Even
my mother said she never saw you, not once."
I remember the day I had gone to her front door, and no one
answered. Apologetically, I told her about it.
"But, Speedy, how many times did you knock on the door?
How many times did you walk next door to see where I was?"
I shrugged. I didn't answer.
"Come on, how many times?"
"Once."
"Once?"
I nodded. I held up one finger. I avoided her eyes. I
was getting the point.
She repeated, angry, incredulous, "You went to my house
*once*? That was it? Once?"
I nodded. I saw her anger mounting. I wanted to run away.
I had never seen her angry with me. I began to shuffle
around in the bed, looking for an excuse to get away and
relieve the tension for a while. "I think I have to go to
the-- -"
"No you don't, buster." She held me down by one hand,
which she pressed tightly into the mattress. "Now just let
me calm down a minute," she said, and she sighed two long
sighs and then she let go of my hand. She closed her eyes
and rubbed her forehead, and squinted. "Oh my, I have so
much work to do with you! You're like a wild boy that's
grown up without parents, without friends, without-- -" She
shook her head.
Patiently, she lightly touched one of my hands. "Why
didn't you fight a little for me, hon? Why didn't you try
to find me? I want to know, I really do. I can get
frustrated with your stubbornness and your turning away
sometimes, but I can't dislike you. I like you too much.
You mean too much to me. But what on earth...what was
going through your strange head about me? I want to know.
Can you tell me? Do you want to tell me?"
My head was bursting. My heart, too. In time I had
forgotten her and had grown used to not seeing her. And
now she was trying to make me depend on her all over again.
I made a face at her, a silly boy's face, a creepy grin,
and then a pout. I felt and acted exactly like the child
that I was.
She ignored it and continued earnestly, "You would just
keep looking for me in places where I'm not, wouldn't you?
You would go into a room by yourself, and if I wasn't there
you'd wait. And you wouldn't find me."
"I guess," I said, embarrassed that she had me pegged.
"You 'guess'...You wouldn't find me because I wouldn't be
there."
She rested her chin on her hands, her elbows propped under
her. Her voice became sweetly, gently prompting. "Maybe
you didn't want to find me? Maybe...you wanted me to find
you? Is that it? You didn't go looking for me because you
wanted me to come looking for you. Because that's the way
it always was, wasn't it? I had always come to you. You
never had to go looking for me."
Something was welling up in me. I wasn't sure what to do
about it. I tried to think up a cute, innocuous answer.
But I couldn't. I was struck dumb by a sudden awareness of
how well she knew me, how little I knew about myself.
"Hon?" she asked. "Isn't that what happened? Is that
what I did to you?"
Silently, I cried. A big fat tear rolled out of my eye and
down my cheek. I turned away from her.
She moved over to me and put her arms around my back and
her cheek against my neck.
"Tell me, hon. Please tell me. What was wrong?"
"I'm sorry," I sniffed, my cheeks shiny with tears.
"No. I don't want you to be sorry. I just want you to
tell me."
"But I am sorry. I got you mad at me, I did everything
wrong!"
"No no no no no no, hon. Now sit up. Sit up and look at
me and let's dry off this cute face and stop this, okay?
See, if you hand'nt refused to talk to me, me your old
tried and trusted girlfriend, we wouldn't be going through
all this, would we?"
"I guess not." I wiped my nose with my T-shirt.
"Don't use your T-shirt, hon. You're so intelligent, but
you can be such a mess sometimes." She wiped my eyes and
face with a Kleenex.
"I thought you didn't want to see me anymore."
"Sweetheart, I couldn't see you all the time, not the way I
used to when I lived next door. You'll be in college one
day, and just watch-- you won't speak to your folks for
months at a time. Even in high school things will be
different; in high school they don't have nuns who walk you
to class from eight o'clock mass every day."
"But you never came around," I continued.
She grabbed my face and ogled me with mock sternness. "You
see what happens when we don't have any faith, when we
don't talk to each other? It got all mixed up, didn't it?
Stop it, now. Stop. I want to tell you something."
"Okay."
"Pay attention and stop sniffing."
"Okay, okay." I said, wiping my face and eyes.
She squeezed my nose with a Kleenex and kissed my ear and
looked at me again. "Hon, I don't want you to grow up all
by yourself like this. Are you listening to me? Do you
know what I'm talking about?"
"I guess."
"You-- -?" She huffed and scratched her forehead. "Oh,
you don't, do you? Oh, how can I get this through to you?"
"I'll try," I volunteered. "Go ahead. Try me."
She thought for a long time. "Do you know how much I like
you, Speedy? Hm? I like you so much, it doesn't even make
sense. Not to *anybody*! I don't even have anyone I can
talk to about you. I don't care about them, really, or
what they think. It's you I care about." She paused,
raising her hands with a shrug. "If we're supposed to be
'friends', then I want you to come lookin' for *me*
sometime, okay? I don't want you to grow up always
thinkin' that people are always dependable or that they'll
always be comin' to you. Sometimes you have to go out and
get them. You know what I mean?"
"I guess."
"If you say I guess to me one more time..."
I gave her a silly, friendly smile. I had stopped crying.
"Well, I have news for you, I was really lookin' forward to
seeing you today, and last week too. Now, last week we
can't do anything about, that's past. But we do have
today. And I'm glad to see you, and I'm worried about you
because I show up and you walk away from me, into yourself.
You can't keep doin' that."
"Okay."
She was growing a little petulant herself, nervously
playing with her fingernails. "Now don't say okay, hon, if
you don't really mean okay."
"Okay." I grinned.
She resisted laughing, but finally gave in to it and held
her head in her hands in mock frustration, and beat the
sheets with her fist again. "Stop...makin'...me...laugh!"
"So you're saying..." I pondered aloud, squinting, "you're
saying I should have looked more."
"I am saying," she explained patiently, "that you have to
have some faith. Not in others, in yourself. I'm saying
that you're getting older now and you have to learn to
start looking for-- -" She stopped herself, shut her eyes
briefly, then lowered her voice and continued slowly,
"Sometimes, I want you to come to me. I want you to learn
to come to me."
"Oh."
"I want you to ask *me*. For a change. I want you to
start it, I want you to talk to me. I don't want you to
sulk away from me, or from anybody, just because they don't
follow you around all day trying to figure you out. Hon,
you're too sensitive. You're gonna lose sometimes, you're
gonna be disappointed. But you still have to try."
"Okay."
"Do you really mean that?"
"Yes."
"Look at me. Really?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She put her hand on my shoulder. She squinted one eye.
"Listen, cowboy. I want you to mean it. I'm concerned
about you, you know that? Everybody who knows you likes
you, but they don't always give you everything you want.
Ask for it sometime."
"Okay."
She threw up her hands. "Oh lord, another okay!" She rose
from the bed. "Well, you're all ready to go to sleep.
Maybe you can now, and you'll feel better. *I'm* going' to
the bathroom." She rose and left the bedroom and
disappeared again into the bathroom.
I settled down into my pillow and pondered all that she had
said. It seemed sensible to me. A little
too-much-grownup, I thought. But then I also knew, from
all the sad grownups around me, from all that my
scientifically-inclined mind had observed among the many
tragedies in that housing project and in my family, I knew
that I would not always be 12 years old. I would be older
one day. Those who provided for me would no longer be
around; certainly, I had seen this happen often enough to
others. I was not ready at the time, not ready to forge
that far ahead. But, I was aware, that day would come.
And I did know for certain, again, that Martha Jane was my
friend, not a bed partner or a playmate. If she had done
some growing up, then so should I.
She shut the bathroom light and came into the hallway, but
stopped there. She yawned and scratched her head.
"You ready to go sleep?"
"Yeah," I called from the bed.
She came into the bedroom and turned out the table lamp.
In the dark I felt her lean toward me and kiss me on my
cheek.
"G'nite, hon. I'll be in the other room if you need
anything."
I didn't respond. This was not exactly what I expected.
"Okay?" she asked again.
I nodded.
"G'nite." The hem of her pajama legs rasped along the
floor as she left the room. I heard the squeaks and
rattles of the sofa bed being made in the living room.
Shortly after, all the lights went out.
I lay there for about fifteen minutes. I looked out the
window. I kept hearing her say she wanted me to ask her
first. She wanted me to come to her. I turned over and
propped up on one elbow and listened. Not a sound from the
other room.
Lying back down, I tried to fall asleep.
But a torrent of thoughts overpowered me, struggling
mightily within my head and chest. The flood was so
chaotic, I lay with my eyes tightly shut and concentrated
on sorting them out. Among them was a new thought, a new
impulse that rose over the others with an almost deafening
voice: I wanted her. And I wanted her to want me. I
wanted to make myself desirable in the ways she had talked
about that night. Her words had me asking what had
happened to that rebellious, independent, indefatigable
'me' of only a few years before? I realized I had changed.
Had Grandpa Joe and my fussy aunts and the tough kids and
the stern teachers changed me so much?
With each question came a plenitude of conflicting answers.
I realized that I had not interacted enough with others to
know how to handle myself on my own terms. I could not
voice this realization so articulately at age twelve, but I
could feel it. I knew that I had absorbed a great deal of
information, had amassed countless observations. But I
felt powerless when it came to doing something with what I
knew.
I sat up in bed.
I lay down.
Rolled over.
Sat up again.
Was she asleep? Or was she waiting?
Soon I grew impatient with wondering. I put the sheet
around me (still somewhat embarrassed about all that my
underwear now contained), and walked through the dark into
the living room...
Part5D
I walked toward the living room and stood in the doorway,
allowing the sheet wrapped around me to make as much noise
as it wanted, and hoping she would respond if she were
awake.
Dimly across the room I saw her rise and look toward me.
"Speedy?"
"Yes," I answered. "It's me."
"I thought you were going to sleep?"
"Are you awake?"
"What do you think? Of course I'm awake. I was worried
about you."
I told myself: Do something, show her some fight.
In the faint light I saw a pencil on the lamp table near
the door. I reached for it and held it like a cigarette,
twiddling it gingerly in my fingers and puffing on it. The
bed sheet wrapped around my waist and below, I walked into
the middle of the room. Martha Jane had turned toward me
on the sofa bed and was lying on her side, staring at me
quizzically.
I took a deep breath and started my act in full force. I
opened with my Deep South truck driver's gruff and heavy
drawl.
"Hey, bay-beh! Wonna beer?"
She smirked. On her side, she leaned on an elbow and
propped her head in her hand. "Oh my, what is this strange
child up to?"
Then I made the pencil a cigar, touted and flipped it one
hand. and with my other hand on my hip I faked the
higher-pitched, tightly clipped voice and speech of the
Bowery Boys' Leo Gorcey.
"Dey call me Doubtless Dan. 'Cuz "When Dan's About, There
Ain't No Doubt!'" I smugly pretended to straighten my tie.
"Pahdon me, ladies, while I make myself presentable."
Then I jammed my hands deep into my pajamas' pockets, stuck
out my tummy to simulate a beer-belly, put the pencil in
one corner of my mouth, and rocked back and forth as I did
my W.C. Fields.
"I recall when were stranded in the Andeeees. It was
TERRibble, couldn't find a bottle o' booze anywherrre. Had
to live on nothing but food and waterrr for tennnn
daaayzz!"
Each character brought me a step or two closer to the sofa
bed where she still lay propped on an elbow and keeping a
straight face.
Then I put one hand behind my back, pursed my lips, and at
the same time raised my eyebrows and squinted my eyes--
-not easy to do, but it was essential for an effective
Clark Gable.
"Now listen, Scarlett. I know we haven't been gettin'
along, sweetheart, so...I'll make a deal with ya. You keep
the child, and the money, and the lumber company,
and...I'll stay here at Tara with Ashley Wilkes."
With understated sarcasm she broke in. "Does this have an
end?"
"Why, Scarlett, whenever you say."
"End, please."
Myself again, I dropped to my knees and my face was level
with hers. "Yes, ma'am."
"Speedy...What in the world are you doing?"
"I'm trying."
"You're trying? Trying what?"
"Trying. You wanted me to try harder."
"Well...that's not *exactly* what I had in mind, angel."
"Well," I said, simply, "that's...right now, that's all I
know."
"Oh," she said forgivingly. "Well then...what's next?"
"I want to kiss you."
"Kiss me?"
"Yeah. Kiss me, you fool."
She looked at me blankly. Perhaps she realized, as I did,
that we had never truly, romantically kissed.
I prompted, "all right?"
"Well...sure. I guess so."
"You sure?"
"Why wouldn't I be sure?" She frowned. "What are you
going to do?"
"Kiss you."
"So kiss me."
I took a deep breath for courage. "Okay."
This was something I had not only never done, but had never
imagined doing and had no idea how to go about it. I
walked the short distance to her on my knees, stretched up
over the edge of the sofa bed, and brought my face close to
hers. She appeared a little apprehensive and unsure, but
she didn't flinch. A step at a time, I gently took the arm
she was propped upon and laid it flat on the bed, which
forced her to recline on her side. I touched her hips and
nudged her to lie flat on her back, which she did, smiling
indulgently and watching me closely. I leaned forward a
little more and put my right hand on her cheek, then I
slipped my left arm under her neck. Cradling her in the
best romantic style of the movies, I held her thus and
brought her a little closer to me. She adjusted herself
uncomfortably and I waited until she was settled.
I looked into her eyes. At first I attempted to do this
with a certain panache, or a soppy, longing Charles Boyer
gaze. But her eyes and her face undid me. Immediately, I
fell victim to her effect on me, and the phony gaze
disappeared. Her half-lowered eyelids, her milk smooth,
softly sculpted face, her slightly parted, expectant lips
with their moist, dewy glaze, and her lucid, penetrating,
expectant blue-green eyes...
All pretense disappeared. I wanted, more than anything
else in the world, to give Martha Jane the kiss of her
life. A real kiss. A kiss that would be uniquely me. The
kiss of the century. I returned her waiting gaze with one
which I'm certain must have reflected the piquant
tenderness that swept over me. Gently I lowered my lips
toward hers, miraculously managing on my first effort to
get the interlocking tilt of our faces just right. I
waited ever so momentarily before touching my mouth to
hers. Then I joined our faces. Never before had my lips
felt hers -- and never before had they felt anything like
it! Meeting no resistance, I mouthed her gently at first,
massaging my way into a complete awareness of the shape and
texture of her yielding petals. Amazed, I felt her return
my kiss with a slight, tentative, moist pressure against
me. I settled my lips into hers until her almost
imperceptible return of movements matching my own told my
lips that her lips had found the most agreeable, the most
telling contact. Surprised, my lips began melting into
hers, into the wondrous, creamy silk of her that met my
seeking mouth with a seeking of her own, which I learned to
read and respond to like a mirror image of her every oral
gesture. Enthralled, I allowed my lips to caress hers with
slightly more pressure and a series of small, slow, ovular
movements, which seemed as natural to me as breathing.
She, too, returned the pressure and the movement.
Enraptured, my insides sizzled as she slid one arm along
and then around my shoulders. A wild hunger rose in me;
but I controlled and tempered it, expressing it with my
hand on the side of her face as a small caress and a tender
hug, a subtle drawing of her head closer to me.
Captivated, I lifted my lips only slightly and, still
touching hers, I allowed mine to caress hers like a
tantalizing, slippery, mothering feather. Enchanted, I
felt her return the favor. Intoxicated, I moved my mouth
closer again, this time with a sure but carefully
restrained ardor, and simply allowed my lips to
disintegrate into hers. Gently we writhed our mouths
against each other for another long and nourishing moment,
increasing the pressure gradually, then releasing,
withdrawing with languid, reluctant slowness, until I
opened my eyes and saw hers still closed, blissful,
tranquil. Never had I been so close to her mouth or her
face, which filled my view and shut out any and all
interference from the rest of the universe. My lips were
still wet with hers; my own felt hers, felt like hers; mine
seemed to have disappeared, her own lips taking their
place.
Gazing raptly, I stroked her cheek.
She opened her eyes sleepily. At first they were
questioning, uncertain. Then she seemed to come awake and
she gently pushed me away.
"Where," she asked skeptically, "did you learn to kiss like
that?"
"That's the way I kiss."
"No, Speedy, nobody kisses like that. I bet you picked
that up from the movies. You kissed me the way somebody
like William Holden kisses."
"That," I insisted, "is the way I kiss."
"No. That's the way William Holden kisses."
"He got it from me."
"Oh...I see. Well, that's some kiss."
"Thank you." Daringly, without pause, I declared, "I wanna
sleep in here."
"There's not room enough for two."
"Then, uh..." My eyes rolled as I tried to overcome this
latest obstacle. "Okay, I'll have to sleep on top of you."
"That would be very uncomfortable, Mister Holden."
"Well, then...I guess we'll have to sleep in the bedroom."
She smirked. "Well, then...I guess so."
"Well, then..." I echoed, waiting.
But she didn't move. After a pause she queried me with her
big, smiling, waiting eyes. "Well?" she said in a small
voice.
I leaned toward her and took her free hand which rested
near the edge of the sofa bed. "I want you to sleep in the
other room with me, because I haven't seen you in two
years. And because I want the first thing I see in the
morning to be you. And because I might never get the
chance to do this again."
Her eyes softened. "That's better," she whispered. She
tilted her head and looked at me warmly, tenderly. "That's
more like what I wanted to hear you say."
Then she rose from the bed and headed straight for the
bedroom in her floppy silk pajamas.
Perplexed, I rose and followed her. "Well...why didn't you
tell me that's what you wanted in the first place?"
"Oh, how unromantic."
"But why didn't you just tell me?"
"Because all this time, I made it too easy for you.
Because I wanted you to learn something. Because I was
playing hard to get." She settled into the bed near the
lamp table, lying back with her hands behind her head in
the dark. "That's the way girls behave in real life, hon.
They want you to figure them out."
I stood near the bed. "But why do girls have to play hard
to get?"
"Because they're girls."
"But boys don't play hard to get."
"I know. They're boys."
"I see," I pondered. "So the girls play hard to get...and
the boys do the getting."
She winked.
In the two years that I had been away from her, I had
forgotten what it was like to look down on her alluring
body in the dark. As I stood watching her from the edge of
the bed, it all came back. And it came back with a
vengeance. I did not pause, but followed my impulse and
climbed onto the bed from the foot of it, and in one smooth
motion I stretched over her and lay on her, both of us
fully clothed.
She smiled, opened her arms, and I snuggled into her neck.
She asked, "The lesson wasn't too hard on you, was it?"
"Did you like my Clark Gable?"
"No."
"Oh."
"I liked your 'you', though. And what a kisser." She
hugged me.
I hugged her back. I lifted my face and looked at her. I
felt it was my move. I shifted my weight to her side,
letting my right arm cradle her neck. I looked down at her
breasts. Her nipples stood out tautly under the cloth of
the pajamas. They were different now, less girlish, more
womanly. Or perhaps I was two years older, had new juices
flowing from my glands, and saw her differently. I lifted
my hand to her right nipple and with two fingers cradled
and squeezed it gently over the cloth. She shifted
slightly, leaning into me. She watched my fingers, then
she watched me. I allowed my hands to sweep across her
chest, down her tummy, around to her hip. She felt
different; more firm, more sleek, more smoothly sculptured.
At the crotch of her pajamas the shape of her tuft and
mound were revealed in sharp relief. She had lost some
baby fat; her mound was more distinct, more feminine, its
contours more erotically enticing.
With my hand I covered the gentle swell between her legs.
Right away I realized she wore nothing underneath. I felt
her heat. Her tuft was thicker now, crisper. I made a
small circle on her cunt with my palm, which could feel
where her thick outer lips gently folded in and parted. As
I continued circling, I felt her hand go to the slit in my
underwear. With three fingers she formed a cone with which
she lightly enclosed the outline of my tip. Cupping it,
she squeezed almost imperceptibly, with a slow rhythm. I
felt an incredible itch that ran the length of my cock.
As I caressed her over her pajamas her thighs parted. I
looked at her. "Feels different with clothes on," I
whispered.
She nodded lazily, slipping her lower lip naughtily under
her teeth.
"Feel good?" I whispered, smiling.
Her eyes narrowed. She nodded slowly again.
I rubbed her another moment until I sensed moisture in the
cloth under my hand. Her slit had widened. And my
erection was underway. I searched her darkening eyes. "Do
you think it would still feel good finger fuck you like I
used to?"
She shrugged. "I guess," she said, grinning impudently.
I sighed a little laugh at her joke. I lay down flat,
lifted my hips, and pulled off my underwear, flipping it
onto the floor at the foot of the bed. I had expected she
would take a while to unbutton her pajama top, but she sat
up and grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it over her
head and off, like a sweater. She lay down and arched and
pulled off her bottoms.
She was nubile and naked. She was beautiful. Her pubic
patch had indeed thickened and darkened and extended below
the top of her slit. Her nipples were larger and a darker
pink. As soon as I saw her I realized I would have to
learn about her all over again.
Settling on one elbow I carefully fondled her outer fold,
which was already slick and blossoming open to invite my
finger's search for her clit. When I found it she
swallowed and her staring eyes softened. I began to stroke
her nub in slow tiny circles. Immediately it began to
lubricate and stiffen, and her long thighs drifted apart...
She whispered, "Yes..."
With her fingers she formed a small cone around my tip
again, then she found I was hard. Her fingers searched,
finding that I had smooth curls now instead of fuzz, and
she investigated my balls and my hardening shaft, then
enclosed me, gripped, squeezed up. Her fingers found
pre-cum at my tip.
"Speedy," she whispered.
I looked at her. "Hmm?"
"Your not a baby anymore, hon," she whispered, circling my
corona with a wet finger. She shook her head and smiled,
repeating to herself, "Not a baby anymore..."
Continued...
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