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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
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Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 10A
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2006 14:18:43 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 10A
Martha said over the phone, "I think it's about time you
came to New York, if you still want to."
"Why this sudden change of mind?" I asked.
"Sudden? I've been thinking about it for months. I
figured you could handle the shock of New York by now."
I chided her, "Listen, that typewriter you sent me -- I
promise to use it 'till I wear it out, but...it's a very
expensive present. I can't let you pay for it. I owe
you."
She said she'd purchased it in New York at a low price that
I could never match it Memphis. She said that, if I really
wanted, I could make up for the cost of the typewriter. "I
tried to save some party money for your visit, but it's
impossible. You have enough on your own to make it a real
vacation instead of a trek. And you can pay me back for
your present by treating me too, now and then."
"Deal."
"And promise me, Steven...while you're here...be my
friend."
I had no idea what she was getting at. Lack of space in
her pad? Too much activity, too many things to see?
"Okay," I said.
"Don't say okay, if you don't mean it."
I laughed. "Okay."
Getting to New York required planning, and some tricky
politics with Tony. At first he refused to allow me to
spend my money on the trip. He grumbled, "If that friend
of yours wants to see you so much, why don't she come home
and visit her own folks, and you -- with her own money?"
Despondent, I called Martha a few days later and explained
the problem.
She was disappointed. "I see you two still have problems
getting along," she said over the phone. "I wish I'd known
about that. But don't get into total warfare with him.
>From what you're saying, I think you really need to be away
from those problems for a while. Don't worry, Steven, just
be patient. We'll find a way."
I was so angered at Tony's refusal to let me at my own
money that I sat at my desk one evening and wrote a long
list of the many things I hated about him, citing a
detailed history of his "criminal" acts against me. It was
a scathing document that I hid in my desk.
Unfortunately, I was dumb enough to not destroy it after
venting my spleen. My mother found my invective while
cleaning my room.
One day when I came home from school she entered my room
wearing a darkly reproachful look and sat with me on my
bed. We had our very first -- and last -- long, intimate
chat together.
She urged me to be more understanding of Tony. He didn't
really hate me. He grew up in a large and very poor
Italian family in a poverty zone in Memphis and literally
had to fight his brothers and sisters for food. He worked
long and hard, he moved us out of the housing project, and
he sacrificed his own needs to pay my tuition at Christian
Brothers instead of sending me to a public school with
inferior academic and social standards.
Then she told me the truth about my own father, Steven
senior. When he was in training in 1943 in Tucson,
Arizona, he lived with another woman. He wrote home saying
that he wanted a divorce and that he didn't want to have
anything to do with me. When I was 18 months old my Mom
and Daddy Joe brought me to Tucson. They urged my dad to
live up to his responsibilities and to wait at least until
the War was over to see if he still wanted to dissolve the
marriage. They reminded him that as a Catholic he was
morally bound to try to work things out. My father
relented. He came back to Memphis on his way to the
European front and made Mom pregnant with my sister. Six
months later he wrote a letter the night before his fatal
bombing mission, saying that he feared he was going to die
because he had been volunteering for too many dangerous
assignments in order to complete his tour more quickly. He
realized that his behavior had been a death wish; he did
not want to return to raise his son and daughter.
As she told me this I sat rigid and silent. After she left
me alone in my room, I wept. The model on whom I had based
my own resistance against my step dad had been destroyed
forever. And so had the trust I'd placed in relatives who
had spoken so highly of Steven senior. But this did little
to reconcile with me with Tony. I disliked him as much as
I ever did, especially after his refusal to allow me to
visit Martha.
A few days later at breakfast, after Tony left for work,
Mom perked up and said, "Guess what? Tony's gonna let you
spend a week in New York. But you have to promise not to
spend every dime you've saved."
I stared at her, surprised and happy and confused. "But
why did he change his mind?"
"Martha Jane called me and we had a talk about how seeing
New York would be good for you. She asked if she could
talk to Tony about it, and I said yes. So..." she
concluded, breaking into laughter for the first time in
many months, "your old girlfriend sweet-talked him into
it!"
I thanked her. I was not crazy about the idea that I was
unable to negotiate with Tony on my own, but I thanked her.
I actually gave her a quick hug. And when Tony came home
that night, I gave him a somewhat more subdued thanks that
included a perfunctory handshake. But these gestures were
the maximum that I was willing to concede to either of my
parents.
I spent the rest of that summer planning the trip and
working at my three jobs to stash away more travel money.
Finally, on Friday, August 16, my folks drove me to Memphis
Municipal Airport to meet my flight to New York.
Accustomed to hiding my feelings, I concealed my nearly
unbearable excitement and anticipation behind a mask of
calm and reticence as my luggage was tagged and loaded at
the ticket counter.
I had not expected the departure committee that met us at
the airport. In those days, an airplane trip to New York
was as exotic an event for my family as a Trans-Atlantic
cruise. Aunt Frances, Uncle Johnny, Mama Rose, Josephine
Louise, several aunts and uncles, a dozen cousins and other
kin from both the Ricci and Lobianco families had come to
see me off, occupying an entire section of the waiting
room.
Aunt Frances had no conception of airline travel. As
everyone chattered and waited, Aunt Frances sat dabbing at
her eyes with a hankie as tears ran down her face. When
asked why was crying, she pointed out the window at one of
the airliners parked near the terminal building.
She sobbed, "Your daddy was killed in one of those!"
Uncle Johnny swore quietly, "Hell, Frances," and spent most
of his time comforting her.
My step dad said, "You don't look very excited about goin',
Speedy."
My mother laughed and told him, "I know he doesn't look all
that excited, but I bet he is. Look at him; whenever he
looks like he's not thinkin' about anything, it means his
mind is goin' a mile a minute."
Soon it was time to embark. At the boarding gate I had so
many relatives to kiss and hug that Josephine Louise had to
remind everyone, "Stop all this kissing or he'll miss his
plane!"
I kissed Aunt Frances, who was still crying. The last
person I hugged and kissed was Josephine Louise. She
whispered into my ear, "Be careful. And don't lose your
virtue in the big bad city!" I grinned at her and thought:
if she only knew! Waving a last good-bye, I slung my
borrowed flight bag over my shoulder and headed for the
plane, with Aunt Frances wailing pitifully behind me and
Uncle Johnny grumbling, "Shit, Frances. Cut it out."
I found my window seat, removed and folded the suit jacket
I wore, and loosened my tie. As the prop-driven plane
roared off the ground I wondered how my father felt when
his B17 climbed into the air. But most of my thoughts were
about Martha. Should I let her see me wearing my glasses?
I thought not. I removed them and hid them in my spectacle
wallet. I worried about the few brownish adolescent
pimples that I'd tried for two weeks to eradicate. Maybe
she wouldn't notice. After a while the pilot announced
that we were cruising at a few hundred miles per hour.
Hell, I thought, couldn't we go faster?
Three long hours later, I was confronted with the
unimaginable bustle of LaGuardia Airport. I walked out of
the airplane and into a huge, crowded, pandemonious arrival
area. I craned my neck in all directions searching for
Martha. How would I ever find her in a crowd like this? I
considered putting on my glasses, but I didn't want Martha
to see them.
She was standing on the ledge of one of the panoramic
viewing windows, her head several inches above the crowd.
When I spotted her she'd just caught sight of me and was
beaming at me and waving both arms. When our eyes met she
yelled "Steven! Stay there!" She hopped to the floor,
disappearing into a roiling ocean of heads and shoulders
and elbows.
Then she was rushing toward me with outstretched arms. Her
auburn hair was pinned back, her face clear and stretched
into a wide, happy smile. She wore a white, starched,
open-collared blouse, a dark red pleated skirt, and
matching heels. She looked as fresh and clean as new snow.
And her auburn eyes, bright, electric, eager and happy, had
me in a state of instant nuclear meltdown. Almost knocking
me down, she hugged me fiercely and squealed, "I'm so happy
to *see* you!"
My eyes moistened.
Breaking our furious clinch with a cheerful grunt, she held
me at arms length and looked me over. "None of that, young
man! That's no way to start a vacation -- save all that
until you find yourself on your way back to dreary ol'
Memphis! Stop, now, let me see you. Stand still. *LOOK*
at you! And look at those shoulders! Steven, you're
simply gorgeous!"
Regaining my composure, I placed my hands around her slim,
belted waist. I said, "A few hours a week at Liberty Cash
Grocery Number 23 was all it took."
"Well!" she said, robustly pulling me against her, "You
forget all about that. You're on vacation, hon." She gave
me a loud smooch on one cheek. "No delivery bikes here.
Just noise and buildings and -- -" she chuckled -- "trash
and muggers. Oh, my, look at you! I can't get over this!"
She hustled me into the baggage area. "This is the New
York art of waiting for your luggage," she announced
sarcastically. "No matter what you do or where you go in
New York, expect a waiting line." After claiming my two
suitcases she rushed me outside so we could take our place
in a long, snaking line of people at the taxi stand. "And
this is the art," she announced, "of waiting for a taxi
back to town."
"We're not in the city yet?" I asked, overpowered by the
sight of so many people and so many cars and so much noise
and movement.
"You're in Queens, Steven. Queens is populated by cousins.
Everyone who lives in New York has a cousin in Queens."
While we waited, she pointed at everything and explained
what was going on. I stood gaping.
As we climbed inside a taxi she cautioned me, "Grab
anything you can, and hold on tight!" Before I knew it,
doors slammed shut around us and I was compressed against
the back seat as our taxi screeched away with
neck-wrenching speed and soared down the exit drive. "This
is a New York City taxi," she explained, lurching about in
the seat beside me. "Hold onto that strap over the door
before you fly through a window. The first thing a New
York taxi driver learns is to maintain a certain state of
rage that helps them cut through traffic."
We zoomed through so many exits and around so many curves
that I lost all sense of direction. Soon, far ahead of us,
I saw a long line of massive skyscrapers that stretched for
miles across the horizon. The city. Manhattan. I stared
at it. I listened to it. I gasped.
Martha was pointing. "That's the Chrysler Building, the
slender one with the art deco, scallop-like stuff on top.
And that's the Empire State Building, the one with the tall
antenna. And all that along the end, on the left, is Wall
Street...And you see that dark brown steeple straight
ahead? The one that's in the middle of that big cluster of
buildings, directly ahead of us? That's St. Patrick's."
My eyes and brain reeled. The city and the careening taxi
was one thing, but Martha was yet another. Her profile and
her softly parted lipsticked lips captivated me. After she
pointed out the skyline she relaxed into the seat and
smiled warmly at me. With a supreme effort, I talked
myself out of leaping onto her. She asked, "Wanna go
grocery shopping with me? I had no idea what to get for
food, so I waited until you got here. All I have in my
fridge is some cottage cheese that died."
I stared at her.
She said, "You changed. And yet you didn't."
"You changed," I said, mesmerized. "For the better."
She laughed. "Wait until you find out what a total
neurotic New York has made me. When we get home I'll take
you to the supermarket. You'll get your first lesson in
coping with multiple nervous breakdowns."
The taxi crossed the East River at the 59th Street Bridge,
zigzagged for several more blocks, then screeched to a stop
in front of her apartment building, which indeed looked
like a one hundred year old tenement. It was on a clean
but old and congested block of East 87th. Martha paid the
driver and told him to keep the change. As we rushed to
gather our luggage on the sidewalk, she spouted a constant
stream of instructions and explanations.
"You MUST learn to tip while you're here," she said,
grabbing a suitcase. "Tipping is part art, part inexact
science. It all depends on whether you liked the service.
If you do, you give a good tip. If not, be stingy. Either
way, you get a drop-dead look, no matter how much you tip.
If you don't tip at all you might get shot, but at the very
least you'll hear cursing in many exotic languages. Here
are the keys to this place...I made copies for you.
There's the main key to the front door, the mail box key,
two keys for the two locks on my apartment door, and a key
to the laundry room. If you lose any one of these keys,
you're dead; no one will help you and it's impossible for
anyone except a professional burglar to break in through a
window. Here's the entrance, now, and of course there's
never any room in here, and here's the mailboxes. Here's
the intercom -- a real luxury in an old building like this.
You never, NEVER buzz anyone in, unless they identify
themselves over the intercom; when we get upstairs I'll
show you how the buzzer works. This is the first floor,
and I live up there on three. There's no elevator, you
have to be an Olympic climber to get up these stairs. Be
Careful, now! Don't bang your luggage against the walls!
I know there's no room for your elbows, but there's never
any spare room anywhere in New York, and every noise you
make is recorded in detail by the tenants, and they
remember it for MONTHS! This is the second floor, this is
where Ronnie has her apartment in number 2C, but she won't
be home until later tonight and she wants to meet you.
Don't let her frighten you, she's just another, typical,
hard-pressed, totally insane New Yorker. The guy next to
her looks really nice and is very quiet, but Ronnie insists
he's a mass murderer on weekends. Now, here's the third
floor, and we make a hard right, all the way to the end of
the hall -- god, this suitcase is heavy, what'd you pack in
here? -- and this is my gorgeous penthouse apartment,
right here, number 3C, right above Ronnie's place. And
here's the key for the bottom lock...there, and here's the
key for the top lock... and, if you don't mind the awful
squeak in the door... here's my humble cave."
We shoved my luggage inside and she closed the door behind
us. We were both out of breath.
I asked, "Why are we rushing all the time?"
"Everybody rushes in New York."
"But why?"
"Nobody knows." She stepped into the middle of the tiny
living room. "This is the living room. The toilet's over
there, that's a closet over there. The bedroom is the same
size as the living room, which means no room, period. This
is the -- ahem -- dining alcove, Steven. Isn't that
marvelous? I have my own dining alcove, just barely enough
for one table and two people. And that's the kitchen, and
that atrocity over there with the plastic drape across the
front of it is the shower." She took a deep breath and
paused with her hands on her hips. "Whew! There! The
full tour. The place is so small, you don't even have to
walk around to see it all."
"Well," I uttered, my brain swarming with instructions and
information. "It is small. But it's cute. I hope I don't
get in your way."
"You will," she said, heading straightaway for a small
cupboard door in the kitchen wall, "there's no avoiding it.
But we're used to each other, so it won't matter.
Now...here's a couple of paper shopping bags from Macy's.
Protect these shopping bags with your life! You cannot
SURVIVE in Manhattan without good shopping bags, and what
Manhattan is mainly about is not the enjoyment of life,
it's about surviving. Most of the bags you get are so
shoddy they fall to pieces immediately. There's no more
heartrending sight than a New Yorker stuck on the street in
the rain with a ripped shopping bag, standing there sobbing
while their whole life gets strewn on the sidewalk. Oh --
Steve, aren't you going to give your Mom a call?"
I shrugged. "Whenever we get to it."
"What?" she said, scowling at me. "Hon, what do you mean?
You aren't going to call home?"
"They never worry about me."
"Of course they do. Call her. The phone's over there."
Halfheartedly, I dialed my Mom in Memphis. While I talked,
Martha gathered and folded a couple of shopping bags,
frowning at me now and then. When I finally hung up, she
said, "Steven, what a tacky way to treat your folks. You
know, they didn't have to let you visit me."
"Okay, I called them and said thanks again, and...there."
"Well, I see we're going to have a little talk about
this...Oh, forget it, you handle it the way you want to.
We have to get going anyway, so...here, take these -- -"
she handed me two shopping bags and gave me a quick kiss on
the cheek -- "and here are my keys, and here's my purse...
and let's go before the Friday rush hits the market."
The supermarket was five blocks away on Third Avenue. I
had difficulty keeping up with her as she strode quickly
down the street. I asked again, "Why are we in such a
hurry?" She answered, "Because. You get trampled if you
don't stay ahead of traffic." I said, "But there isn't any
traffic," and she laughed and said, "Don't worry -- the
minute you slow down, they catch up with you."
The supermarket was well stocked but unbearably cramped.
The few shoppers who were there spent most of their time
trying to avoid collisions with each other. Like an
experienced bird dog, Martha wheeled our cart quickly from
aisle to narrow aisle and introduced me to packaged foods
I'd never seen in Memphis -- all of it stacked around us
from floor to ceiling with hardly a spare inch of open
space anywhere.
"Always check the eggs," she cautioned as she opened an egg
carton. "Check every single one of them. The stock boys
handle them as if they thought eggs were made of stainless
steel." She found two broken eggs in that carton and went
through four others before she was satisfied. Then she
rushed into the short cashier's line, then we rushed out of
the store, and rushed back to her block, rushed up the
stairs, rushed into her apartment, and rushed to put away
the groceries.
"There!" she proclaimed at last. "Now we can relax!"
We stood in the tiny kitchen, with me surveying the tiny
room quickly to see where everything was placed.
"Well," she sighed with a tired little smile. "What do you
think of it?"
I gazed at her. She gazed at me. There she stood,
five-foot-five, sophisticated, grownup and lovely. The
average teenager who once felt ugly next to her older
sister now made Evelyn look dumpy. I gathered the courage
to ask, "Can I kiss you hello?"
"Do," she said.
I touched her waist and bent to give her a shy, tentative
kiss. Suddenly we embraced. I kissed her -- actually
kissed her, full-mouthed and deeply -- a shattering
development, considering that Martha and I had romantically
kissed in that way on only two occasions during our entire
relationship.
At the end of it she pulled away from me. "We've never
acted this way before."
"I know."
Her eyes were eager, but somewhere behind her gaze I
thought I saw apprehension, misgiving. Then she took my
hand and led me from the kitchen. "Follow me."
Within a few minutes we were naked in the small, dimly lit
bedroom, standing and holding each other tightly. I
skimmed my lips along her smooth shoulders and she pulled
away and looked at me and ran her hands slowly over every
part of me.
"Look at you," she breathed. "Look at how you grew. So
smooth and firm. You're beautiful, Steven."
"Sorry I didn't grow taller."
"I don't care about that. Look. Look at this beautiful
cock. It's so right. Just the right size and shape. And
so hard."
I had often visualized our reunion as prolonged and tender,
a heavenly chorus lolling in the background as we tenderly
relearned each other. But now, overwhelmed, I immediately
urged her toward the bed. Quickly she reclined and opened
her legs. I lay on her and she raised her knees to accept
me. I kissed her again, hotly, as my blind cock found her
portal and slowly entered, parting her ready and welcoming
outer lips, flexing in her, feeling the warm tight depth of
her. She sighed and looked up at me. Her cunt hugged me.
I pulled out a little and then we both sighed again as I
slowly reentered. She was tight and slick and had already
started contracting. She wrapped her legs around mine. I
entered more deeply. Immediately, my mind burst with
amazement and pleasure at the astounding results of the
past two years of my physical development: my cock was
incredibly firm, filling her totally, and for the first
time I felt my tip nudge against the soft nub, squirming
mouth of her womb. Electrified, my balls readily began a
familiar, irresistible churning.
Below me, I saw in her eyes the same sense of surprise at
the new sensations.
She whispered, "God, Steven."
I panted, "I don't think I'll last long."
"I won't either," she gasped. Watching each other, we both
slowed and started cumming. Her lips parted and her eyes
fogged and she stiffened. Seconds later I simmered and
then gushed profusely and warmly inside her as her
contractions swathed the underside of my throbbing shaft.
I thought: yes! This is how it should feel. We both came
for a long time with her cunt happily convulsing and my
cock riding in the hot cum that filled her, and I groaned
roughly and heard her whimper. When it ended I nestled my
face into her neck. We lay resting for a long while.
Continued...
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