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From: Incest Man <familyincestfamilyincest@yahoo.com>
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Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 8A
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2006 14:12:36 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 8A
The week preceding Martha Jane's last weekend of packing
before she left her charming apartment near Memphis State
was a long, numbing one. As far as I knew, it would be my
last chance to spend time with her before she moved to East
Memphis under her new step-dad's watchful eye. Although we
spoke by telephone briefly during the week and set the
schedule for my Saturday visit, there was no mention of
what might or might not happen after that weekend. I was
too fearful of bringing it up.
When Martha Jane arrived in her Chevy (which she still
didn't like), I felt distracted and dull. My feeble
attempts at appearing cheerful fell flat. When I couldn't
think of anything to say I sat humming an aimless tune and
looking out the car window, pretending to be engrossed in
the passing scenery.
At her apartment I dove into the work of packing, working
so quickly and efficiently that Martha Jane was left with
little more than to stand around and watch. By three
o'clock that afternoon I'd packed everything and there was
nothing else to do.
"Well," she said, forcing a cheerful smile through the
tension that had been written on her face since we arrived.
She looked around at the boxes stacked along one wall of
the living room. "That's that. Good work, cowboy, we
finished two hours early."
"Yep," I said, knowing that I sounded terse and sullen.
But I didn't know what else to do. I walked into the
kitchen to wash my hands.
"So what's next?" she called from the living room.
I sighed. "Can't play records or anything. It's all
packed." I stood in the kitchen doorway drying my hands
with a paper towel. "Hate to see you give up this place."
Martha Jane cleared her throat and said with an air of
mystery, "Well, there is one more thing. I don't know what
you'll think about this...I mean, it's kinda...silly."
I gave her a weak but indulgent smile. "Try me."
She blushed and hesitated before starting for the bedroom.
"Follow me," she said.
She led me into the bedroom and then into the rear
bathroom. Her toiletries were still on the floor in two
small shoulder bags. She bent over the tub and turned on
the water. "First, we need a warm tub..." She adjusted
the water flow and then turned to me with a naughty smile.
"Can you guess yet?"
"Looks an awful lot like a bathtub filling up with water,
lady."
She winked and wagged a finger. "Not...quite." She
reached into one of the shoulder bags and pulled out a
package of blue bubble bath powder and held it up to me.
"Remember this?"
Blood rushed to my head, and to a couple of other places.
I smiled, still a little unsure, and reached out for the
package of bubble bath.
She jumped back playfully. "No, no, that's *my* part. I
get to open the package. Your part is to get nekkid
first."
I squinted. "Is this supposed to remind me of what I think
it's supposed to remind me of?"
She winked. "Yes. See, I told you it was silly."
A sudden and chilling thought passed across my mind but,
not wanting to kill the mood for her, I kept the question
to myself: did this ritual mean that I was not going to see
her again?
I unbuttoned my shirt. She came to me with a playful gleam
in her eyes and helped me undress, pausing now and then to
touch my neck and sides and to help me unzip my jeans.
She turned to dump the powder into the water. She watched
the blue bubbles expand and rise. When she turned around
again, I stood naked in the middle of the room. Seeing me,
her eyes lit up and she and walked over to me. Her face
hovered near mine. As she watched my eyes she trailed her
fingers down my tummy and onto the tip of my cock.
"Remember this, too?" she whispered.
"Hmmm. Yes."
"Feel good?"
"Yes. Like the first time."
"Hmmm. Nasty boy." Her hand continued to graze my now
twitching penis. "You have no idea how often I've
remembered the first time we did this." She kissed me on
one eye and then the other, and whispered near my ear: "And
since then, little Speedy has grown into a warm, lovable,
sensitive young man. And a wonderful lover."
I managed to keep myself from breaking into tears. I
resolved that this moment, if it was to be our last
intimacy, would be as she wanted it. But my unvoiced
questions persisted, and so far my mind was still uneasy on
that score.
I put a wet, open-lipped kiss on her neck and saw and felt
goosebumps rise on her back and arms. I said, "Hey. The
water's ready."
"Oh, yeah," she said. She saw that the tub was now
half-filled with blue bubbles. "But we're both bigger now
and we need a little more than we used to. You go in
first."
I pointed at myself as if to question "Me?", and she
grinned and nodded. I settled into the tub, the bubbles
engulfing me with an audible hiss.
She began to undress. "Turn it off when the bubbles are
high enough."
"How high?"
"Nose high."
"Okay."
In a moment she was naked. My cock lurched under the
bubbles when I saw her. She was slim and firm; her legs
seemed rather long for a woman of her relatively petite
stature, an illusion caused by her nineteen-inch waist, the
moderately lush flair of her hips and the firm roundness of
her tush. Her breasts sloped smoothly and swiftly into
rounded globes with pointed, dark pink nipples. Her mound
was topped with a fine, curly, almost transparent auburn
fuzz that crowned her out thrust smooth lipped vulva and
extended halfway down the length of her prominent slit,
which now was only slightly parted. But it was all these
bound by a perfection of creamy flesh -- skin so tight and
toned that it glistened along her shoulders and hips and
upper thighs -- that, and her long necked grace, gave her
body an alluring mixture of woman and girl, harlot and
angel.
She grinned as she approached the tub and stepped inside.
"You hard under those bubbles?"
I nodded.
"Well," she said, settling into the nose-high foam and
facing me, "hold that thought j-u-u-st a little longer."
She grabbed the bar of soap and lathered her hands and then
reached under the bubbles to stroke my cock with her
slippery fingers.
"Ah," I gasped.
"Good?"
"Mmm."
"Don't cum, hon."
"Aw, no fair."
"Shh. I'll just hold it," and she did. "I have something
to tell you. New house rules."
"Phooey. Rules."
"You'll like this one." She lowered her voice to a more
serious octave. "From here on out, you're not Speedy
anymore."
"No?"
"No. You're Steven. You don't look like a 'Speedy'
anymore. You don't think like him and you don't fuck like
him. You don't have a little boy's four-inch dick anymore.
You have a fine, perfectly shaped cock with soft dark brown
pubic hair in just the right amount and just the right
places. And a warm heart, and a good mind, and very
handsome eyes. You're Steven now. Is it okay if I never
again call you Speedy again?"
At the end of her little speech I was a blue-bubbled blob
of silly mush with a melting heart and a very hard cock.
If she asked me to shoot the Pope and steal his name, I
would have said yes. I reached for her, and she moved
closer to me and let my arms drape over her soft wet
shoulders before she said, "Wait, there's more."
"Oh. OK. More."
"From now on, I'm no longer Martha Jane. I'm Martha. I'm
not a teenage doll and not a kitten and not a Southern
belle, and I'm twenty-one years old. Not long from now
I'll be a professional and I'll dress like a professional,
not like a schoolgirl. I want everyone to call me Martha
from now on. I'll use that name on my resumes and checks
and on everything I sign. And I'll insist on Martha from
others. But from you, Steven-- -I don't want to demand, I
want to ask... will you call me Martha from now on?"
Too choked up to speak, I nodded slowly and firmly, and
then I pulled her into a hug under the bubbles, and she
hugged me back. After a moment in this humid, bubbly
clinch she tapped me on the back with one finger.
"Steven?"
"Yes?"
"You didn't call me Martha yet."
"I will. In a minute."
"Call me Martha now. I want to hear you say it."
"Well...you have your new rules. I have one, too."
"What's that?"
"I will call you by that name very soon, in just a little
while, when the time is exactly right."
"When?"
"You'll see. Soon."
We soaped and rubbed each other, adding some playful
touches and tickles. She said it was the first time she'd
had her nipples and cunt soaped by another's hands.
Covered with bubbles, we climbed out of the tub. She
stayed in the bathroom to powder and finish up, while I
turned off all the lights in the apartment so that a soft,
late afternoon glow filtered through the curtains.
When she entered the bedroom I was sitting on the edge of
the bed, my legs under me. She stood a few inches away,
fluffing her hair with a towel.
She asked, "why are you sitting on the edge of the bed like
that?"
I said quietly, "C'mere. Stand by the bed," and when she
dropped the towel and came to me I pulled her head close
and whispered in her ear, "Remember this?"
"Remember what?"
"The first time I saw you nekkid. The first time you
showed how to get you wet."
"Oh," she whispered. "Oh. Yes." She backed away one step
and spread her feet so that her love-pod was more
available. I whispered, "Let me finger fuck you." As her
hands found and squeezed my cock and balls, she opened her
legs a little more. Between her smoothly muscled thighs
was a small open alcove shaped and sized perfectly for the
palm of my hand. I cupped her warm mound, which greeted me
with a sliver of slippery moisture along the middle of my
palm. She shifted her legs again, allowing me a little
more room to slide a tantalizing finger along the slick
edges of her firmly-rimmed slit. Leaning into me and
lifting a nipple to my lips, she whispered, "Suck my
tittie, hon."
I kissed, licked, and then she sighed pleasurably as a
nipple entered my gently sucking mouth. At my fingers, her
slit swelled and opened. Once more she made a fine
adjustment with her feet, bending her knees a little to
lift her portal upward and toward me.
She hissed, "Put it in me. Slow. Slow. Ah."
I whispered, "Squeeze my cock. Just a little. Give it a
little tug."
"Like that?...Mmm. Yes. Wet."
Several years earlier when this scene was first enacted, I
could hold out for hours. Now, I'd be lucky if I lasted
half a minute -- and when she spread precum over my shaft
and circled her fingers around me, that interval was
seriously shortened.
With my free hand I held both of hers motionless at my
crotch. "Wait," I whispered. "Not yet."
"Not yet?"
"Let me fuck you with my finger a minute."
She grinned and smoothed a lock of hair from her forehead
so she could look down and watch my hand on her. "Okay."
For a few minutes that dripped with a seething eroticism I
had not seen in her for some time, I gently stroked and
primed her clit, pausing now and then to finger fuck her
slowly and deeply and properly, searching her slithery
inner walls until I found that rough spot just above the
curve lay that lay beyond her portal and which that made
her moan and hug my finger. In a while her head drifted
back and her eyes closed. She sighed to the ceiling, "Hon,
that's so good." I was so turgid I felt I'd need a firearm
permit if I got any harder. Soon she leaned against me,
murmuring, "My legs are getting weak, it's so good."
I whispered, "Lie down." She slid naked into the bed and
lay with her arms draped above her head and her thighs
spread wide. She smiled languidly. She was wet and open
enough to start fucking, and she appeared to think that we
were going to do just that. Instead, I lay between her
legs and kissed her cunt and inner thighs. Her head fell
back and she closed her eyes and whispered happily, "Yes."
With one more preparatory smooch on the surface of her
cunt, I whispered, "Tell me when you're close."
"Okay."
"When you're very close."
She crooked one knee and let her leg fall to one side. I
could see her grinning toward the ceiling with her eyes
closed as goosebumps rose on her legs. "Okay."
I tongued her delicately. When I found her clit she
sighed, arching ever so slightly. Wetly I continued,
sometimes full-mouthing her entire mound and then sucking
her clit between my tongue and inner lips the way she
liked. Her arms reached behind her head and grasped the
edge of the headboard. A few minutes later she tightened
her grip, her knuckles whitening with the effort, followed
by tremors in the stretched tendons of her inner thighs.
She was fully open to me then, her clit almost the size and
hardness of a thin thimble, her thighs drifting apart until
her knees were drawn up with her feet pulled together under
my chest. She began whispering heatedly, "Suck it. Right
there, yes...Soft, hon. Suck... Yes. Mm, yes." I felt
the beginnings of the stiffening and trembling that
signaled the onset of her orgasm; I wondered if she'd
remember to tell me when she was near. I did not want to
remove my tongue to remind her, for I knew she was getting
dangerously close. I trusted her to be selfish, to cum
whenever and however she pleased. And just as it seemed
she might be ready to go over the edge, she lifted her head
and looked down at me, gasping, "I'm so close!"
Immediately I rose, and the surprise on her face was
matched only by the pleased widening of her eyes as I
entered her quickly, deeply and smoothly, my eyes on hers.
She stared at me with wild-eyed, joyful lust as I began
fucking with the slow, steady rhythm I knew she preferred.
She slowly whispered, "Fuucck." Then her writhing inner
walls began to pulse and contract, and she stiffened, and
her eyes narrowed, and her fingers dug into my arms, and
she wept softly, "Hon I'm cummin'!", only for her to find,
just as her entire body went into its taut muscle-lock of
pleasure, that I had just jerked and squirted inside her,
and her eyes saw it happening for me and for her at the
same time, and she saw and heard me whisper to her,
"Martha," and her eyes glazed wetly with pleasure and she
sank into the undertow of her long deep cum while I
squirted again in her tightening center. I slowed and
lengthened my strokes to prolong the pleasure and to savor
the full feel of her, another hot and very hard spurt
jetting out of me with a force that made me moan, and I
crooned to her between my own quickening gasps, "Cum,
Martha. Cum."
As my ejaculations ebbed, she came out of her climax and
settled into the bed with a childlike whimper of surrender
and fatigue. Her eyes closed, and she pulled me against
her and started breathing again. I kissed her ear and
throat and hid my face in her neck while I made three or
four last, hungry probes into her, winding down. Feeling
her hand push its way between our tummies, I rose slightly
to allow her to wring the last of me from my tubes, as she
so much liked to do. When she finished I settled onto her,
our joined lengths so hot and wet that it felt like
immersion in a bubble bath again. We hugged, and breathed,
and rested.
She purred, "Yes. Oh, yes."
We were dressed and it was dark outside. I sat on the bed
watching her brush her hair. She looked at my reflection
in the dressing table mirror.
"Are you staring at me?" she joked.
"I'm asking you," I tempted.
"Asking me what?"
"Martha..." I stopped.
"Hmm, that sounded nice. And you sure do know a perfect
moment when you see one."
"Martha."
"ye-e-e-s?"
"Will we do this again?"
Her brush slowed, and stopped, and a heavy darkness seemed
to fall on her. After a moment she said, "Oh, Steven."
"I was just asking."
She sighed heavily and began brushing again. "Yes. We'll
all be at my mommy's wedding next week."
Her answer and her dull manner told me the question had
upset her, so I dropped the subject. I lay back into the
pillow, resting. With my eyes closed, I heard her place
the brush on her table, then heard the rustle of her jeans
as she walked across the room, then felt the bed slant as
she sat beside me and laid her head was on my chest.
"Steven, the answer to that question is that I want to.
But I don't know when. Or how"
"You don't have to answer."
She held her face over mine and removed the arm I'd draped
over my face. Her eyes dug into mine. "Steven, there's
something I've wanted to tell you for a very, very long
time. And I can't right now, not right now. But I will
someday. When the time is right."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"When?"
"Oh, you devil..." She put my arm back over my face and
pouted. "I told you, I promise. I keep promises."
"Okay."
"Don't say okay if you don't mean it."
I smirked. "Okay."
She sat up on the bed and said, "But I will tell you part
of it at the wedding. I just should need time to find the
words. Deal?"
"Okay."
"Really okay?"
"Yes."
She removed my arm, kissed my forehead, replaced my arm,
and rose to get ready to drive me home. I watched as she
moved about the place doing her Martha chores and touching
her Martha things. I could tell she was hiding some
distress from me. I sorely regretted having allowed myself
to blurt out my question about us. I resolved I'd never
again mention it, would never again bring that shadow into
her face. Never again.
Her mother's wedding was a festive, crowded, expensive
affair, as ornate as Mr. Buchanan's could afford. I
attended the ceremony, watching from a front pew in the
cathedral while Martha, as a member of the bridal party,
stood stiff and uneasy in a pale blue, formal gown. After
the ceremony she came to me during the drawn-out handshake
ritual on the front steps of the church and confided, "How
wasteful and barbaric." She sighed impatiently. "Hundreds
of people, tens of thousands of dollars, all these clothes,
all this display -- just so a man and woman can sleep
together."
The huge crowd gathered that evening at the formal dinner
and reception at Colonial Country Club. Mr. Buchanan,
finally married, showed off his bride and his two
stepdaughters. "The three prettiest gals in the whole city
of Memphis," he boasted during one of many pre-dinner
toasts. During the evening Martha Jane seated me beside
her at a long table apart from the one where her sister and
mom and step dad were gathered. I waltzed with her once,
both of us blushing as I attempted valiantly to subdue an
insistent erection under my rented tuxedo. Time and again
as we attempted to chat at our table, we were interrupted
by one request after another for Martha Jane's hand on the
dance floor. Finally, as the evening's end drew near, she
and I moved outside for a quiet stroll among the cherry
trees and pines in the gardens behind the reception hall.
A faint breeze filtered through the cherry blossoms.
I stood near her as she leaned on the low bough of a cherry
tree. I said little, distracted by the fear that as long
as she was living in Mr. Buchanan's house we would not be
free to see each other intimately.
"Something's on your mind, isn't it?" she asked, her eyes
searching mine. Her voice -- needy, cajoling, seductive --
floated through the sweet spring air and washed over and
into me. Her beauty and the perfume from the cherry
blossoms and the moonlight worked on me relentlessly. She
said, "It's so hard for me to tell you what I wanted to say
last week, if you hide from me. It makes me feel I'm here
all alone, hon."
Falteringly, my own effort at concealment almost choking
off my voice, I told her that what I was feeling at that
very moment, in that place, would sound strange. "Even a
little weird," I said.
"Tell me. Let me decide if it's weird or not."
After beating around the bush for a while, I haltingly
confessed that I wish she'd been my mother. Or my sister.
But I guessed I'd have to settle for her being "my friend."
Hearing this, her eyes softened and she, too, blushed
profusely. "How strange, Steven," she mused. "How so, so
strange."
Girlishly, diffidently, almost guiltily, she confessed to
me: "Hon, I'm shocked to admit this to you, much less to
myself. But I wanted to tell you the same thing. I wish
you'd been mine, too. My brother. Or even...my son.
Isn't that an outrageous, wicked thing to say? Would we
have slept together? I don't know. But if I ever had a
son, I would want him to be like you."
Deathly afraid of revealing more, I fell silent. Deep
inside me, my emotions swelled and wanted to shout
themselves to the world. I was partially soothed by the
sound, somewhere beyond us, of the dinner crowd singing in
chorus. Muffled by distance, the sound of their voices
singing a plaintive Waltz drifted through the trees. The
distant voices sang:
Last Saturday night I got married.
Me and my wife settled down...
"It's the last dance," she said. "The bride's choice. My
mother chose that song. It's her favorite. Such a sad
song. But so pretty."
I turned to her, to nod in recognition of the bittersweet
lyric. At that moment our eyes met. She smiled sweetly,
her eyes looking deeply into mine, poignant and yearning.
I asked myself: yearning for what? Had I seen, somewhere
within the warm affection in those soft, hazel eyes, an
even more meaningful message? Deep inside the glistening
pools of the clear whites of her eyes lay something more,
something tense, enigmatic, hypnotic.
Irene goodnight, Irene goodnight.
Goodnight, Irene,
Goodnight, Irene,
I'll see you in my dreams.
"Hon," she whispered reluctantly, "I have to go. The dance
is over and they'll be looking for me."
Quickly she kissed me on the cheek and hugged me, and then
left for the reception hall. I stood paralyzed, watching
her disappear among the cherry blossoms. Slowly I strolled
to the building, not caring whether my parents spotted me
or not. Oblivious to the milling crowd that gathered their
belongings and prepared to leave, I crossed the vast hall
and strolled into the parking lot, hoping for a sight of
her as she passed by in the car with her family. Perhaps
I'd catch her before she left; so much was left unsaid.
Perhaps I'd get up the nerve to say it.
But the moment had fled, and Martha was nowhere to be seen.
Continued...
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