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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 10E
Date: Sun, 13 Aug 2006 00:03:29 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 10E
We strolled down East 86th Street. It was getting late,
yet I was amazed that the traffic and the people on
Lexington Avenue were as frenzied as they were during the
day. Martha led me to a newsstand so besieged with
customers that we had to push our way through to get a copy
of the Sunday Times.
"This is not the way you get it in Memphis," she said,
offering me the hefty newspaper with both hands as if it
were a precious gift. She saw my eyes bulge: the complete
New York Times, including sections the out-of-town editions
didn't carry. "Hot off the presses," she said, pleased at
my reaction. "Be careful. The ink's still wet."
We headed home with the Times under my arm, my neck craning
to catch sight of all the activity that flourished in
late-night Manhattan.
"Who would ever believe," I said delightedly, "that buying
a newspaper could be such a major event?"
"New York does have its simple pleasures," she said,
enjoying my excitement. "But don't stay up all night with
it. You'll have plenty of time later. Remember, Fiore
told you to rest."
Later, upstairs, I crawled into bed as Martha sat propped
against her pillows reading a book.
"You really perked up tonight," she said.
"I did?"
"It makes a big difference when you're around people you
actually get along with. Ronnie was very impressed. See?
There really are people who like you."
"Well," I said grudgingly, "I did pretty good for a fifteen
year old."
Martha scowled. "You did well, period! Stop running
yourself down, or I'll spank you."
I lay on my side as Martha paged through her book to lull
herself to sleep, as she usually did when she was alone. I
gazed out the window and listened to the city. Martha was
right: being with kindred souls made a difference. I
wondered how I would handle myself when I returned home.
The very idea of having to fly back to Memphis loomed
threateningly, making the spread of the next eight days
seem like a paltry eight minutes. How much did Martha
think I could accomplish in so short a time?
I shifted onto my other side, facing Martha. She put her
book down and looked at me.
"Ready for sleep, hon?"
I yawned. "Looks like it, hm?"
She turned around to shut off the light on the bedside
table. She rested on her side and faced me. Her hazel
eyes glistened in the dark as she smiled at me sleepily.
"I'm glad you're here," she said.
I pursed my lips and made a little kiss. "Me too."
"Goodnight," she whispered.
Settling onto my side facing her, I closed my eyes and
tried to stop thinking. The small kiss I gave Martha
reminded me of Ronnie's friendly kiss as she bid us
goodnight earlier. I still felt Ronnie's small,
lipsticked, warm, sticky lips on my cheek. A mild
horniness sprang from nowhere and spread with a vague
tingle through my tired body. This was a new feeling,
purely physical and seemingly unalloyed with any emotion.
I wondered if the yeast and the bellyful of vitamins were
responsible. I wondered whether the tingle meant that
Fiore's efforts on my behalf were beginning to pay off. I
wondered what kind of answer I could give to Martha's
confession of a few hours ago.
I opened my yes and saw Martha, on her side, still watching
me.
She asked, "Are you thinking again?"
"Mm."
She looked at me for a long moment. Her sleepy gaze
changed to a mild frown. "That was terrible what you told
me, about your mom when she caught you masturbating. Did
she really act like that?"
"I got over it."
"No. I don't think you did." She yawned. She fumbled
with the slit of my underwear and found the tip of my
flaccid organ. "Maybe I should check it again, though, and
make sure it wasn't damaged." Carefully she opened the
slit and pulled out my cock. She said, "I told you I was
wicked. I can't help it. You're so touchable." She
looked down at my cock stirring languidly between her
fingers. "Can I pull him off? It can feel very nice when
you're sleepy."
I smiled, lax and weary except for my cock, which itched
pleasantly in response to her soft hand. "Okay."
She said sheepishly, "You must think I'm terribly
perverted, doing this now. Maybe I am."
"Maybe I am, too. You see how courageously I resist."
Perhaps it was Ronnie's affectionate kiss. Or the lack of
sleep. Any misgivings I may have had about the strangeness
of the moment or the reasons for her need to masturbate me
just then were obscured by the warm tickle of her begging
fingers.
She murmured, "I felt lonely, telling you all that about me
this morning. I felt you might think I was pushing you
away."
"No," I said. My cock slowly unraveled.
"Steven..." she began falteringly, her hand encircling and
hugging my shaft. She swallowed, thickly. "It's not so
easy for me...to open up that way."
"I know," I whispered back, aware of the same problem
within myself. As I lay on my side watching her I sensed
in her careful, delicately urging fingers and her
disquieted tone, our mutual need to coax reassurance from
weary flesh.
Sensing that I might be a little numb with drowsiness, she
reached behind her and grabbed a bottle of hand lotion from
the bedside table. Wetting her fingers, she smeared the
peach-scented stuff on me and resumed her tender milking.
I sighed pleasurably as her slick hand gently pulled
upward, completing each motion with a squishy clench around
my tip.
She asked, "Better?"
"Yeah. I'm tired, but I need it."
"I know."
She soon had me stiff, and as she began methodically
milking me I reached under the waistband of her pajamas.
On her side, she raised one knee so I could find her clit.
Lazily I made one-finger circles on her slick nub, now and
then dipping inside her to caress the little lump of nerves
that I knew lay deep within. For a long time we
masturbated one another, in no special hurry to finish. We
played languorously, sighing and moaning. She came first,
closing her eyes and easing into it with a long groan, her
hand on me pausing in its ministrations while she stiffened
and enjoyed her cum with quiet desperation. As it ended
for her, her hips undulated softly a few times and then
jerked to a stop. She came out of it gasping wearily. I
kept my middle finger in her while she finished me off.
Just before I came she nestled closer, gathering a portion
of her pajamas shirt and baring her flesh just above her
navel. As cum splattered on her she smirked contentedly,
murmuring "Mm-hm, mm-hm," and watched thin rivulets drool
down her hip onto the sheet. When I finished she wiped up
with a Kleenex, then tugged my shaft firmly to draw the
last of it onto the tissue. With our arms limply entwined,
we fell asleep.
I awoke early Sunday and lay for a while watching Martha
sleep. She was curled into a ball, her pajamas stretched
over her smoothly rounded hips and firm thighs, one hand
folded loosely into a fist near her cheek. She lay on her
side, her face toward me, her eyes softly closed and her
lips parted. She seemed touchingly innocent. It had been
years since I'd watched her sleeping. For a while I dared
not move; I had only a few days to see her this way. My
brain ached with the question: How could this woman, this
grown woman, so lovely, so intelligent, so accomplished,
appear so childlike as she cuddled in sleep beside me?
I lowered my head to barely touch my lips to hers for a
moment. As always, her flesh seemed to melt into mine.
Knowing I would not fall asleep again, I slid carefully
from the bed and crept into the kitchen, where I rummaged
for coffee and set the percolator brewing. Then I found a
pen and some paper and sat at the dining room table. I
gazed at the window in the living room where Martha had
confessed her thoughts and feelings early Saturday morning.
I began writing, one word or phrase at a time. At fifteen,
what could I say to allay the anxieties she expressed? Did
she see me as a man, as a boy, or as a man who happened to
be less than sixteen? How could I have expected her to
respond to me in any way other than the way she responded
while standing next to that window? How could I expect her
to embrace an uncertain, undefined future with a partner
whose major claim to fame was a paper route and advanced
skills at delivering groceries in Memphis, Tennessee?
Should I proclaim an undying love for her? My
fifteen-year-old heart idealized that love as precious; but
a more cynical old man in my head knew that my youthful
heart was susceptible to indulgence in impractical mush.
The words I wrote fell together and fell apart fitfully. I
crossed them out, rewrote them, crossed them out and began
again. Over an hour later, I had written:
You were always the one who offered first.
Am I the one who only receives?
That in me which I couldn't do, you do.
That which I couldn't have, you give.
I give you that you are more than loved,
but as my secret otherness,
the You-ness I can't be but am,
you are cherished, dearly.
Before I could finish, I heard a muffled knock at the front
door. Thieves? The landlord? Quickly I fetched my pants
from a hanger in the bathroom and stood listening at the
front door as I dressed. Again, two brief, soft knockings.
I cleared my throat. Silence. I cleared my throat more
loudly.
"Steven?" a girlish voice whispered from the other side.
"Is that you?"
It was Ronnie. I started to open the door, remembered that
I wore my glasses, removed them, opened the door halfway,
and peered out. She stood in the hallway in her pajamas
and floor-length bathrobe. Her face looked shiny, as if
just washed.
"Hi," she said, grinning. She gave me a little wave of her
hand. "Martha up?"
"Not yet."
"Steven, I'm outta coffee." She folded her hands
beseechingly and grin meekly. "Please?"
"Sure," I said, beckoning her inside. I opened the door
and held a finger to my pursed lips. She nodded and
tiptoed into the kitchen. Realizing I was in my T-shirt, I
tiptoed to the bedroom and fetched my shirt. Martha still
slept. Closing the bedroom door, I buttoned my shirt and
waited in the living room until Ronnie tiptoed from the
kitchen.
"Shh, okay," she whispered. She held a cup half filled
with coffee grinds. She stood near the door waiting,
smiling sleepily with hair falling into her face. I moved
quickly to the door.
"You guys sure clean up fast around here," she whispered.
Not understanding, I looked at her.
With her head she gestured toward the living room sofa.
"The sofa's already made up and folded. Unless you sleep
on the floor."
"Oh," I said. "Yeah. I woke up early."
She patted me on the shoulder. "Good boy. You Southern
guys are so self-sufficient." Wincing and grimacing
playfully, she whispered "shh" again and opened the door
and slithered past it. I stood near the door and was ready
to close it when she poked her head back inside. "Oh, by
the way-- -" she whispered, craning her neck and face
toward me. She gave me a quick, innocent peck on the
cheek. "Thanks." She withdrew, waved a tiny bye-bye at me
with her fingers, and tiptoed down the hall.
Just as I quietly closed the door I heard Martha mutter
sleepily behind me, "Steven, is somebody there?"
She stood in the living room doorway, drowsy, her formerly
combed hair a tousled, light auburn fuzz across her eyes
and forehead. She slumped, she had no makeup, and her
pajama sleeves half-covered her hands as they flopped
uselessly at her side. She looked deliciously girlish.
"Ronnie," I said, gesturing toward the door. "She ran out
of coffee."
"Oh...She's always out of coffee."
With her pajama bottoms rasping sluggishly along the floor,
she drifted into the kitchen. Quickly, I retrieved my
writing from the table, folded it and slipped it into my
shirt pocket. I unfolded the Sunday paper and spread it on
the table and sat, pretending I'd been reading all along.
In a moment Martha appeared at the kitchen door, still
slumping, squinting at me through half-closed eyes. "You
made coffee?"
I nodded.
She paused, scratching her forehead, and rubbed her eyes
and murmured, "Oh. That's sweet." She yawned and drifted
toward the bathroom, pausing on the way to give me a quick
kiss on the cheek and say "Thank you" before stumbling into
the tiny room and closing the door behind her. After a
while I heard her clinking around. She dropped something
plastic that rattled on the floor. Soon she drifted past
me again, carrying cosmetics and towels, pausing again to
give me another peck before floating listlessly to the
shower stall in the kitchen. She removed her pajamas,
giving me a quick flash of her tightly toned back and her
charmingly round, sloping derriere (I mused: How in the
world would one dare use common street or medical terms to
refer to something so perfectly, delicately, and
beautifully shaped?). Stepping inside and drawing the
curtain, she turned on the spray and gave a little squeak.
As she showered I returned to my prized Sunday Times. So
far, my first Sunday in New York was a great success: it
was not yet nine a.m., and I'd already been kissed by two
women and totally turned on by Martha's luscious nudity.
Outside, sparrows chirped merrily.
During my brief shower, Martha applied her makeup quickly
and combed her hair, pinning it back and bobbing it. I was
amazed to find that in mere minutes she transformed the
sleepy, frowzily sexy, pajama'd little girl into a chic,
poised, glamorous woman in skirt, blouse, and loafers.
After I dressed we walked down Second Avenue past several
bars and restaurants that advertised their brunch menus on
entrances and on sandwich boards along the sidewalk.
Martha laughed when I asked her what a brunch was.
"Brunch," she said, "is where we're going." She advised me
which of the places along the street had good service and
which had good food. She said, "You have to compromise
between service and food. It's a New York institution:
usually, you can't have both at the same time." I chose
food over service, and we went to a place where I ordered
eggs benedict on English muffins (yet another rarity in
Memphis) and I was introduced to a spicy, non-alcoholic
version of the Bloody Mary. I spent most of the time
watching the appearance and behavior of the other
customers. New Yorkers entered a restaurant, quickly
sighted a table, and headed straight for it. Memphians
usually stood still, frowned, and seemed to agonize over a
decision before moving falteringly ahead, changing their
minds several times in the process. I also noticed the
glances and stares men directed at Martha.
"You know" I said secretively as we ate, "two men in here
are staring at you."
"That's what New Yorkers do," Martha said, unfazed. "They
stare. They're trained from childhood in effective
staring. Don't stare back, though. They get violent. If
you think this is staring, wait until you get on the
subway."
We returned to her apartment. The first order of business
was to stuff another load of nutrients into my mouth,
including a tablespoon of the yeast, which blessedly was
getting easier to take. Then Martha prepared food for a
picnic in Central Park. She told me more about Ronnie and
how they met and became friends, and things they did
together.
Martha had laid out several slices of bread and covered
each with slices of ham and cheese. She said, "I always
thought Ronnie was very pretty." She was pleased when I
agreed. She kept talking as she worked. "Would you like
to go out with her?"
"Don't be silly, I don't like her that way. Anyhow, I'm
too young."
"Steven-- -" She sighed impatiently, but continued working.
"Ronnie is now your friend, because she's my friend. And
she likes you. I doubt that she'd scream in horror if you
asked her to go out and show you around. Please get out of
the Memphis mode, hon, she's not one of your tough old
aunts. She's more like your cousin Josephine Louise, the
one you used to get all goggle-eyed about. Anyway, you
won't even have to ask, because she's going with us to the
beach at Fire Island Wednesday. And I'm asking her if
she'll meet you for lunch after your session with Fiore
tomorrow, and show you how to get to a place on 34th Street
where you can order some decent eyeglass frames for
yourself." She stopped smiling as she worked, speaking
somewhat bitterly and almost to herself. "I don't like the
way you're growing up down there. You've proven you can
work hard, you've proven you can get your grades in school,
you've proven that you're desirable and intelligent and
sweet. I don't see why they allow you to just submit and
suffer everything the way they do. So many people, so
determined to make you exactly like them..." She looked up
at me, apologetic, seeming almost surprised by her own
words. "I'm sorry, hon. They're good people. But they
don't understand you. And they've left me with an awful
lot of work to do and an awfully short time to do it." She
grinned at me, wrapping the sandwiches. "Am I pushing you
too hard? Hm? Why are you so speechless?"
"I just don't talk much."
"You used to talk my head off, years ago. Well, hon,
that's all right. Just be yourself, don't worry about it.
Anyway, I have news for you. I've set you up with a date."
"A what?"
"A date. With a student of mine. Marilyn. She's sixteen.
She's bright, sweet, cute. Done some theater, too. I told
her about you and she wants to meet you."
I paused. "What if she doesn't like me?"
"She already likes you, Steven. And it was her request to
begin with."
"But what if she doesn't like me?"
"If she doesn't," she said firmly as she worked, "then you
should learn to handle it. With grace, confidence, and
intelligence...Well, I see you're not so happy about it.
All right, I won't force it. We can talk about it later,
then, and you make up your mind. But it's for Friday, and
I'll be there to chaperone, and...well, you make up your
mind."
"All right, I'll...probably say yes." I said reluctantly.
"Hon," she said frankly, stacking the wrapped sandwiches
and looking in the cupboard for a bag. "don't be a
pushover. You can say no to me if you want to."
I didn't reply. I was thinking: what is she trying to do,
get me off her hands by setting me up with someone else?
"There, now," Martha said finally, placing our sandwiches
in a bag and fetching her purse. "We're ready for
Rockefeller Center, and the park, and a movie I know you'll
be crazy about." She stood in front of me and looked me
over. "You look so nice, Steven. Please think it over
about a date with Marilyn. Will you? There may be plenty
of people who would put you down for not being what they
expect of everyone else. But you're different in a very
nice way and, frankly, Marilyn's looking forward to meeting
you. I can't imagine a caring, intelligent person who
wouldn't like you. You think about it. C'mon, let's get
going."
Her words may have served in one respect to shore up my
lagging confidence. But I chilled at the thought that her
long-term hopes didn't appear to be the same as mine. On
the other hand, I wasn't that certain about my own
long-term hopes. They had never been defined in my head;
when I tried to envision what Martha and I would be like in
ten or twenty years, I always drew a blank. It was as if I
had been living under an old assumption from the past, when
Martha and I were growing up: She had always been there
and, somehow, she always would.
That afternoon she led me through Rockefeller Center and
Radio City, and then a lake in Central Park. We stayed in
the park until sunset, sitting on the grass and snacking.
When it was almost time to leave for the movie in the
Village, she packed our leftovers and sat looking up at me,
her skirt spread on the grass around her.
"I know you're having a good time," she said, teasing.
"But what have you been thinking about all day, hon? Come
on. You're hiding again."
Vacillating, I pulled my handwritten note out of my shirt
pocket and gave it to her. "I don't talk that well on my
feet yet," I told her. "I couldn't say it. I had to write
it."
She unfolded it and read, her head lowered and her face
hidden as I stood near her. The paper lay loosely in her
hands on her lap.
Hearing nothing, I stuttered, "It's just words...it's not
finished or anything..."
"I understand that, Steven," she said quietly. "I know
what the words mean."
"Well...it's not what I was thinking. It's...what I was
feeling."
For a long moment she silently looked down at the page. I
couldn't see her face.
"Hon," she said earnestly, "I hope I'm not letting you
down."
I shuffled, stirring my feet on the grass. "Well, I did
promise I'd be your friend while I was here. A friend
wouldn't put a lasso around you. A friend wouldn't want
to." She didn't move or speak. "I mean... you wouldn't
be the same, would you, with your wings clipped?"
I looked down at her. Nearly horrified, I saw a tear drip
from her hidden face and onto the paper. She sniffed. I
tensed: I had not expected this!
Gently, she wiped the droplet from the paper and fingered a
corner. "Hon," she whispered, "these are the most
beautiful words I ever read."
"Well, they're a little...clumsy."
"I don't care," she said firmly. She looked up at me. She
smiled sweetly, gratefully, happily. She wiped a corner of
her eye. "It's lovely. It's simply lovely. And these
words...and what you just told me...it's the most beautiful
thing you've ever done. Look at me, you have me crying
like a baby. No one has ever, ever done anything like this
for me! It's so unselfish, so much like the Steven I
know!"
She stood, reaching for me. "C'mere," she said, and she
embraced me with a close, tight hug, clinging to me from
head to toe. She sniffed again, and then laughed against
me. "Oh, lord, you don't say much. But when you do, you
sure know how to do it!"
I gulped, astounded. She hugged me until I couldn't
breathe.
Leaning back, she held me by the shoulders and beamed at
me. "Come on!" she said eagerly. She grabbed my arm and
walking briskly, keeping herself close to me. "We're
headed for the rest of your vacation."
I glanced at her as we moved blithely along the path toward
the south end of the park. She smiled, relieved,
exhilarated, shaking her hair in the breeze, squinting into
the setting sun.
She said contentedly, "Steven, you're not just a friend.
You're not just sweet. You're one helluva romantic guy.
I'm so glad you're here."
I beamed back, smiling inwardly. I thought: victory is so
sweet.
Continued...
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