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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 6A
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2006 06:11:01 -0700
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 6A
Neither my parents nor Martha Jane's mother were home that
week. She slept with me for the first time. When I woke,
earlier than usual, the morning sun was just above the
rooftops of the buildings beyond mine. Dazzling shafts of
sunlight rushed into the room. Water was running in the
bathroom.
I knocked on the bathroom door and Martha Jane invited me
in to take a bath with her.
I told her I'd love to, walked into the bathroom and stood
in front of the sink, looking at myself in the mirror.
She noticed me and said, "Do you spend every morning
looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror?"
"I don't look any different," I said, observing the same
old me in the mirror.
"Oh," she smirked, soaping her legs. "But how do you
FEEL?"
I took in a deep breath, my shoulders back and my chest
out, extended my arms far out at each side, and intoned as
loudly as I could in my best, loudest, deepest, Texaco
Opera Theater baritone, "Steeee-vennnnnn!". I beat my
chest several times and grunted like a gorilla. Then going
back to my operatic bellow, I sang from the famous aria
from Barber of Seville: "Lala Lalala Lalala Lalala
Lala...Figaro! Figaro! Figaro Figaro Feeee-gaa-ro!"
She said, "My, my! Were you, uh, referring to last night?"
I grinned.
"Veerry flattering." She stood and moved to one end of the
tub to make room. "C'mon, let's wash the sleep off you."
I climbed in and she handed me the soap, but before I got
started she held me close to her bubbly-slick nakedness and
hugged me.
"You were asleep when I woke up," she said. "You're a
wonderful lover." She kissed my forehead. After I soaped
down she took the bar of soap from me and lathered her
hands, then reached down to wash my cock.
She winked. "Remember this?"
"Mm-hm."
"I never thought of using soap on you when we started all
this. Of course, you're a lot bigger now."
She rinsed me and stepped out of the tub to dry off. She
had chores to do that day, she said, but we had time for
breakfast and a little talk. I saw a small blue bag in the
corner of the room and asked, "That's all you bought over
here with you?" She told me the blue bag was filled with
enough spermacide and powders to lower the Indian birth
rate. She blushed and said, "You put an awful lot of cum
in me." After I fell asleep the night before, she had
douched twice, and twice again before I came into the bath.
"Douched?" I asked.
"It's a long story, hon. Later." She blushed again.
Then I remembered reading about it. "Oh. You mean, 'cause
we didn't use a rubber?"
She sighed impatiently. "Yes."
"I don't mind using one."
"No!" she said firmly, spreading jars of makeup on the
edge of the sink. "And you just forget that those ugly
things exist."
I asked, "Doesn't all that stuff make you sore or dry
inside?"
"We can always apply some...lotion," she said, blushing
again. I was amused at her modesty. After a night of raw
passion, she blushed and avoided my eyes continually. She
got into her bra, panties, and slip right away-- -a far cry
from the way we started out a few years before. As I dried
off I watched, fascinated and charmed at the sight of her
putting on makeup.
"What are you staring at?"
I answered, "Watching you doing woman things."
She laughed mildly, dabbing at her face with powder. "I'm
glad you find it so enjoyable. We women think it's just a
pain in the neck."
"I like watching."
"How can you get such a thrill out of watching a female
cover up what she really looks like so she can throw the
wool over everyone's eyes?"
"I like watching women do woman things."
"I see."
I paused. "I like watching you do woman things. It's not
just watching. It's watching you."
"Speedy. You're a dear. You really are."
"I'll fix breakfast," I said, hanging up my towel.
"You've added cooking to your many talents?"
"Sure," I said. "I've been hanging out in a restaurant for
years."
"Well...I'll try anything once. Hope we live."
I was pretty noisy about it, but I managed to get the eggs
sunny-side up and the toast looking just right in two
plates on the small kitchen table. Out in the back yard I
found a wild daisy and placed it in a small glass of water
on the table. She entered the kitchen in her slip. "Wow,"
she said, "Look at this, picture perfect! You're being so
nice to me. It looks beautiful. Is it edible?"
We ate and talked.
She told me about her schedule for the week. Just
listening to what she had planned was exhausting. "I'm a
work fiend," she confessed. "I feel guilty if I don't work
myself to death every day." She told me about her classes,
the kinds of projects she was doing, the problems she
encountered with teaching in special education. I told
her, "But you like it," and she nodded. "Yes," she said,
chewing off a corner from a piece of toast, "not because
I'm so dedicated, but because I'm so neurotic. I'm
terrified of ever being poor like this again." I asked her
more about what she did, about the people she met at
school, about what college was like.
"The first thing you should know," she warned with a strong
edge of sarcasm, "is that every professor at Memphis State
is a Communists. And anyone who shows up expecting to
actually learn anything is a pathetic egghead. All the
girls are virgins, regardless of how many football players
they've slept with." She went on with this litany of
definitions, exaggerating each item and apparently having a
good time doing so; but after a while I realized that she
was actually defining herself as a hardworking, dedicated
outsider.
She stopped at one point and looked at me hesitantly.
"Speedy, would you...would you like to spend an afternoon
with me and go to Memphis State? It's the holidays, but
they're open-- -at least the library is. That probably
doesn't sound very exciting, but-- -"
I breathed in amazement. "Really?"
"Do you want to?"
"That would be the best adventure I've had since Uncle
Johnny let me spend two hours in the Bump 'em Cars at the
fairgrounds."
"Yes, well, it does get a little like the Bump 'Em at exam
time, but...don't get all worked up, now, it's not the
biggest thrill I could think of for somebody as adventurous
as you are."
"But," I said earnestly, "it's what you do."
She stared at me, taken aback.
I went on enthusiastically, "It's your...it's your world,
like mine is in the movies and the plays. And yours is
college and learning to be a teacher. Of course I want to
see it."
She blinked and cleared her throat, propping her elbows on
the table and folding her hands. "Speedy, do you know how
many boys your age and older-- -much older-- -just want to
spend an afternoon with me so they can get inside my
pants?"
"Get inside your pants? Hm, that's a funny expression, I
never heard that one before. You mean...to fuck?"
"I mean that's all they want to do."
"Don't they ever do anything else?"
"A lot of them, Speedy, no. Do you know what a tragedy it
is in my life just to have an argument with some boy
because I have work to do and I don't have time, just no
time right away, right then, right now, to go out with
them? They think I'll hop into bed with them to express my
undying my gratitude for their taking me to a football game
and watching them scream and guzzle beer and make fools of
themselves."
"So," I said, tenuously, "...so do you do it?"
"Of course not. And then I don't hear from them for two
weeks, or a month. Until they get horny again, and all of
a sudden they develop this deep interest in what I'm doing
with my life and my time."
I grimaced. "What shitheads."
"That's a very...apt description, hon."
"Apt?" I echoed.
"Yes, it means-- -"
"Don't tell me. I wanna look it up."
"I'll tell you what," she said, reaching across the table
and taking my hand, "You go with me, say, Thursday
afternoon, and I'll show you lots of things you can look
up. Would you like that?"
"Sure."
We cleaned up a little, as I had left some record albums
lying about, and Martha Jane made phone calls while she
polished her shoes. Still in her slip, she went into the
bedroom and started making the bed. When I went in there
to help her we were almost finished when she asked me to
sit on the bed and started undoing my jeans. I told her I
thought she had to get dressed for her interviews, but she
said we still had a little time and she could stay in her
slip for now. "I've always been curious about something,"
she said, taking out my cock. "We still have some time
before I go. I want to show you something about your
body." Of course, I didn't object. With my legs hanging
over the bed and Martha Jane kneeling before me, she licked
and sucked me until I was hard and then she started fisting
me quickly, her hands gliding smoothly up and down my
shaft. Again I was startled to feel all the things that
happened in my groin as I approached orgasm. She could
tell I was close when I began throbbing erratically. As I
neared cumming she took one of my hands and put it into my
crotch under my balls. "Feel here, underneath," she said.
"Keep your hand there. In a minute you'll feel your
muscles jump." Sure enough, I could feel swelling and
movement down there. Then she pulled down the straps of
her slip and shoved the front of her bra below her breasts,
and brought her bosom closer to my cock. As she fisted me
she whispered, "I've always wondered what this feels
like...c'mon, hon...c'mon..."
Soon I felt those secret muscles moving under my fingers,
and I gasped frantically, "I'll get it on you!" but she
grinned and said "It's okay, I can change...c'mon..."
As my eyelids drooped I lost focus, and though my resources
were limited because of the night before, I started
cumming. Encouraging me, she whispered, "C'mon...c'mon,"
and then "Oh!" as I gave her a tight little squirt on her
left breast. She slowed and tightened her pumping and I
squirted again in the same place and she was delighted.
The rest streamed out thinly over her hand and made
squishing noises while she finished me off.
I lay back on the bed, breathless. She stood and leaned
over me, giggling. A drop of me ran down the swell of her
breast and sneaked under the nipple. "Was that good?" she
asked. "You getting used to cumming now?". I told her it
was good, but it was still a little scary. She said,
"Speedy, I can't imagine you being afraid of anything like
that."
"No," I said, "not that kind of scary. It's just...it's
different. It takes over, and it all happens at once."
"That's the way it's supposed to feel, hon." She walked to
the bedside table, got a Kleenex, and wiped off her breast.
"But don't worry. You'll get accustomed to letting
yourself go. I love watching you cum. I never thought I'd
enjoy it so much, but you get so hard and it's so intense
for you. I like that about you." She wadded up the
Kleenex and bent down to kiss me on the nose. "That's one
of a lot of things I like about you."
She did not see me again until Thursday, three days later.
Where she was for three days I didn't know. She called at
least once a day, and on Wednesday morning she came
clomping with her high heels and purse and Sunday best to
see that I had not transformed the apartment into a
Frankensteinean horror. Each night just as I climbed into
bed she would phone from next door and ask how I was.
The phone rang Tuesday night around 9:30, and I picked up.
"Hello," I began. "This is the Louvre. Wanna buy some
French post cards?"
"Speedy, what if this had been someone else on the line?"
"I would say 'wrong number' and hang up."
"Did your mom and dad call today?"
"Yes."
"So how are they doing?"
"Sounded like she was having a good time."
"Just 'she'? What about your new daddy, didn't he have
anything to say for himself?"
"He never talks to me."
"Now, that's mean. Maybe you just never talk to him."
"I don't think he knows how to use a telephone yet."
"Speedy, you must learn to like him. He's your daddy now."
"It feels funny talking to you on the phone and you're
right next door. Are you gonna sleep over here?"
"...I can't, hon."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"I just...can't. I know it's silly, but I can't. I'll
have to tell you all about it."
"Okay."
"You all tucked in bed?"
"Yep."
"Well, you go to sleep. And don't be afraid to call me if
anything goes wrong, okay?"
"All right."
"G'night, cowboy."
"G'night, Miss Scarlett."
In later years, spending a vacation alone for most of the
time would not have been my first choice. But that week my
mind seemed particularly alive and sensitive. Waking,
walking about town, entering a movie and walking back out,
and then strolling home, I followed the path of the rising,
passing, and setting sun as I had never done before. In
the late afternoon I made a sandwich, packing it and a
wedge of cheese into my G.I. Joe mess kit, and defied the
world by hiking all the way to the edge of Exchange Street,
at the very zenith of the hill at the avenue's end, and sat
on a bluff overlooking the river. Battle-hardened youth
that I was after this grueling six-block walk uphill, I ate
from the kit and swigged heartily from my canteen filled
with Nehi Grape Soda, and watched the sun go down on the
flat, distant shore of Arkansas. The sky changed colors
minute by minute, so gradually that it was always a
surprise when I surveyed the horizon again to see how the
silent panorama had repainted itself. Before dark it
turned magenta, then intense purple, and finally black. As
the sky dimmed, distant lights not seen in the sunlight
became visible one by one. I wondered what might be out
there. I wondered what it might be like not having to
return home but to keep on going, straight, past those
lights and onto new lights, new rivers, new bridges and
towns.
What got me back home was not a strong desire to be there
but to be in bed when Martha Jane called. The phone rang
at exactly 9:30 and I picked up.
"Why, Martha Jane, you sound so clear on this wonderful
invention, Mr. Bell's telephone, just as if you were right
next door!"
"Silly. Were you a good boy today?"
"No."
"That's the spirit. Did your mother call?"
"Yes, they're fine. She called around supper time."
"They'll be back Friday, then. And next week you'll move
out of the Lauderdale Courts forever. Won't that be
great?"
"I guess."
"You don't sound so happy about it."
"Well..."
"Oh, you will be when you get there. And you'll have that
wonderful room all to yourself instead of keeping your
things in cardboard boxes in that closet."
"Well...maybe."
"Oh, c'mon, you'll love it."
"I'll have different neighbors, though."
"...I'll have to talk to you about that...We'll have a nice
talk all about that tomorrow. You still want to go with me
to Memphis State?"
"I'm ready now."
"I'm over here with textbooks up to my nose, so I'll be up
a while. But I'll still be up bright and early, so you
better get your beauty sleep. You all tucked in bed?"
"I sure am, Miss Scarlett."
"You didn't leave a stinky sink full of dirty dishes, did
you?"
"No'm, Miss Scarlett."
"...Are you mad at me for not being over there?"
"No'm, Miss Scarlett."
"Well...Okay. I'll be there at ten in the morning."
"Yes'm, Miss Scarlett."
"You be all ready to go."
"Yes,'m, Miss Scarlett."
"Stop it. G'night."
Late in the night I was standing in the middle of the
universe and I had the sensation of getting larger and
smaller at the same time, while the universe shrank and
expanded at the same time, and the part of me that shrank
was not getting small fast enough for the universe that was
shrinking, and the part of me that was expanding was not
expanding fast enough, and the part of the universe that
was shrinking kept pulling my expanding self back into the
part that was shrinking, and yet nothing was changing at
all in any direction. As I tried to comprehend this a
low-pitched hum grew louder, louder, and soon it was a
deafening buzz that threatened to crush even my thought.
I woke up, literally poised to jump through the ceiling. I
was gasping and sweating. I was not in bed, but standing
in the pitch black hallway between the bedroom and living
room. Apparently I had leapt from the bed in a single
broad jump, as I vaguely remember being in the air just
before I jerked to a halt.
In the kitchen I made a glass of ice water and brought it
to the living room, where I sat in front of the Philco and
turned it on. The pearlescent eye of the green tuning tube
glowed and stared at me. I picked up static. Trying to
relax, I listened. After a minute I heard a voice in
there. I could not hear the words. Concentrating on it
took my mind off the nightmare and the eerie panic that
crept into me when I remembered it.
This was a dream I'd had before, perhaps a year earlier. I
never told anyone about it; I didn't know how to describe
it. Back in bed, I removed my underwear and moved to the
bed to be naked under the moonlight. Lying on by back, I
spread my legs and looked at my growing, lean, surprisingly
strong-looking young body. I tried to remember what
cumming felt like. It was unimaginable while it was
happening, and so it was when I tried to recall it. A
small machine whirred inside my chest, urging me to do
something; like the voice in the static, my brain could not
understand what the machine was saying. I gazed past the
moonlight and out into the city. Out there, awake, all the
things I wanted to do were waiting.
A cricket chirped. I heard the sugary spring Southern
night air glide past the window and felt me and the yard
and the tree and Martha Jane next door and our little patch
of earth turning slowly together in the universe. As fell
asleep again I imagined I could feel the morning
approaching us.
Continued...
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