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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 2B
Date: Fri, 16 Dec 2005 13:18:24 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 2B
She led me to the bedroom and I jumped into the mattress, as I
usually did, and waited for her to turn out the light and fluff up
the pillows, as she usually did.
But this time she stood very quietly in the dark near the edge of
the bed. She took off her bra and panties. I had seen her in
undies often enough, but now she was totally nude. I remember how
she looked, her smoky green eyes and frizzy auburn hair reflecting
the moonlight. She was slim but not skinny, slightly full in the
upper thighs but trim enough to appear rather long-legged. She had
normal, presentable breasts with mildly pink nipples that were
almost the same color as the surrounding flesh. Martha Jane was 16
then. Her mound was slight, but prominent because of the soft flare
of her hips and the flat of her tummy and the space between her slim
thighs. She had a small light tuft of auburn hair leading to her
thick-lipped vaginal slit.
Needless to say, I didn't know what many of these spare parts were
for. I remember that seeing her nakedness for the first time was
more pleasing and soothing than it was titillating. Her body
impressed me as having the form that a female body should ideally
have. For me, the excitement of the moment lay in the fact that she
allowed me to see the secret Martha Jane that no one else could see.
"C'mere," she coaxed sweetly. "to the edge of the bed." I rose and
stood on my knees on the edge of the bed. She smiled and pulled her
shoulders back, lifting one breast with her left hand while her
other hand touched the back of my neck, urging me toward her and
holding me near. In the dark she whispered, "Suck my titty, hon."
That night she carefully and gently introduced me to the rest of her
body as she stood by the bed. I still remember how she taught me to
suck her breasts in just the right way, which I enjoyed immensely.
She crooned, "Put my nipple on your tongue and press it with your
lips...Mmm-hm, you do it just right...you're so sensitive to what I
like, hon...there, right there...Suck...suck, just like that..."
Now and then as I sucked and nipped I'd hear her swallow hard, one
of several clues from her that she had reached a small peak and was
on her way to the next level of new or forbidden pleasure. She
lovingly watched me suckle and lick from one breast to the other and
asked if I liked it, and with my usual alacrity I replied that I
liked it a lot and I asked if I were doing it right and if it felt
good for her. She said yes I always did everything right and I was
sucking her just the way she wanted. This went on for a long time
in the sensuous dark. What I remember most about it was the giving
to her of so much pure physical pleasure. She was almost clinical
at first, appearing to examine her own feelings and reactions more
than anything else. While she stood enjoying my sucking, she led
one of my hands to her mound and told me that in a little while she
would be very wet and sensitive there but that she wasn't wet just
yet and that later she would be and she wanted me to touch her there
when she got wetter.
She lay in the bed and I lay beside her, cradled into her left side,
licking her nipples. She found my balls and began tracing around
them with a fingernail. She did this for a while, giving me an
erotic tickle that made me spread my legs so she could reach me
better. After her light fondling had my cock jerking, her hand went
warmly around my shaft, her thumb making lazy circles around the
tip. Her voice was motherly, cotton-soft magic in the dark, along
with her milky flesh and her nipples and her slow deep breathing:
"Would you like me to milk your dick, hon?"
I nodded, giving her breasts the nipping little kisses that she
liked and that made goosebumps on her arms. I had heard her use the
term 'dick' before, but I didn't know she could 'milk' a dick.
These became two of my favorite words when I'm aroused. And I was a
little older then, nearing 8, and perhaps some new hormones had
begun their work: a strong sexual giddiness had found its way into
my response pattern. And new words had found their way into our
universe. She was adding them continually, as if their forbidden
nature took on an even more alluring power than usual. What was
happening now was less intellectual, more emotional, and clearly
more sexual.
The pleasure that accompanied my erection soon mounted, for Martha
Jane was showing me that a dick could indeed be warmly,
voluptuously, lovingly hand-milked to a rod-like firmness. She kept
whispering to me as she sought new ways of touching and pumping me
and varying the speed and angle of her motion. She had learned that
I preferred a gradually rising intensity, that I enjoyed lingering
at one sensual plateau for long intervals before going on. It was a
technique I would soon learn to surprise her with, on my own.
And then a new twist introduced itself, seemingly on its own and
without any prior thought or suggestion from her, the same way new
pleasures always did when we were together. Without being prompted
I felt it was time I returned the delight she had given me. I had
felt like doing so for some time; but never having seen her naked, I
didn't have much of a roadmap from which I could draw inspiration.
How or why I managed to accomplish all that I did that night is
beyond me, and was probably beyond Martha Jane. No one had ever
explained female anatomy to me. Breasts and long hair were the only
female parts I knew until that night, except for Martha Jane's brief
bathroom explanation of where babies came from and her earlier
revelation about how the place between her legs would get wet when I
touched her there.
Somehow I figured that Martha Jane's ultimate pleasure-center would
be between her legs, as was mine. I shifted upward a little, hoping
to use of my arms and hands more freely, and this allowed me to
snuggle my face in her neck, kissing her throat and relishing the
taste and feel and scent of her skin there.
"Oh, sweet," she sighed. I was thrilled that she enjoyed it. Then
I began stroking downward along her tummy toward her navel, and then
across the tops and insides of her thighs. I felt the need to go
slowly, as she had done with me. Then again, I was not quite sure
what I would find or where I should go. Gradually my hand slid in
circles and to and fro until I found her pubic curls. She didn't
move, but her breathing stopped. The action of her hand slowed on
my cock.
I marveled at the shape and texture of her mound, firm and rounded
just enough to fit in the palm of my hand; and her silken tuft whose
twirls clung to my fingers. My fingers drifted downward and found
her moist folds; her unmoving hand gave my dick a little squeeze.
Her eyes were closed. She seemed to concentrate entirely on what I
was doing. She didn't say anything. Blindly and with the utmost
care, I explored her dampness. Her flesh there seemed
extraordinarily delicate. I heard her catch her breath as my finger
made a path along both sides of the smooth ridge of her wet and
swollen outer lips. Her hand on my cock remained still, her other
arm cradling me at her left side. Soon I found the places and
movements that heightened her enjoyment, although from my vantage
point near her upright breasts I saw little of her wet darkness
beyond the faint rise of her pubic hair. Her thighs spread, slowly,
moment by moment and an inch or two at a time, until she raised her
knees slightly so her legs could fall outward and she could
completely open her naked secrets to my hand. Carefully my fingers
learned to open and spread her, and soon they found her clitoris.
At that moment she gave a loud swallow and a sleepily murmured
"Yes..." that was barely audible. Millimeter by millimeter, I
began teaching myself about her mysterious clit.
Her eyes remained closed, her head tilted back slightly on the
pillow. She seemed not asleep, but in another world. I heard her
breath only faintly, and for long periods it seemed she was holding
her breath.
It's very possible that Martha Jane knew little more about this part
of her than I did (although, today, I suspect she had masturbated,
which was something I had yet to discover). She offered no
instruction, guiding me only with childlike whispers of "yes, hon,"
and "ahh, that's good." But I soon knew how to touch her clit and
her thick lips and thin inner petals exactly as she liked. The
moment when I discovered her most sensitive spot of all, she gave a
startled, whispered "There, hon!" I repeated the motion, and she
said again, "Right there...Right there, yes... oh yes do that,"
followed by my learning to use a very slight pressing motion near
the base of her button, which she greeted with a long "Aahhh" and
another noisy throaty swallow. Her thighs fell farther apart and
she made small snuggling adjustments into the mattress with her hips
as if attempting to open herself wider for my fingers.
What she liked was a slow drawing of my finger, held flatly but
gently along her crease, from the bottom of her clit toward the top.
At the top she enjoyed my occasional cradling of the length of her
clit within two of my fingers, and a gentle sliding up and down each
side of the length of it, in much the same way that she often used
only two fingers to stroke my cock. She preferred it done slowly,
with little pressure; and I learned that she enjoyed riding a peak
this way until I left the area and started drawing small, deliberate
middle-finger circles around the nub without actually touching it.
During all this time her face remained slightly turned away from me,
eyes closed, her head back to reveal her graceful throat so that I
could see as well as hear her swallow with nervous pleasure. I
repeated this stroking until she began tightening her arms and
seemed to stiffen everywhere. I would slow down and maintain her
excitement at that level for a while, then go back to the little
circles that gave her some rest. But each time, I made the
preferred stroking motion last for a longer interval, and shortened
the interval of the slightly less pleasurable circles. I have no
idea where these ideas came from. Now and then she would return to
more normal breathing, but each foray into the more intense level
would find her neck tightening a little more, her occasional
breathing more urgent and irregular.
And there was yet another amazing discovery: now and then as Martha
Jane milked me, squeezing gently from base to tip and mildly
jiggling me for a moment with two or three fingers before going back
to the long, hugging strokes, I noticed a drop of slippery liquid at
my tip. There was a very small amount of it, barely a slight smear.
I didn't make much of it at the time, thinking it might mean I
needed to go to the bathroom.
What concerned me more were the mystery and beauty of her growing
involvement within her pleasure, and my own responses to it. Of
course I had no idea where this intensity of feeling would lead; I
knew only that I was making her feel very, very good and that it got
better for her every minute. And the minutes did, indeed, pass.
Later I looked at a clock and found then that it was after eleven,
two hours from the time I'd first stepped from the tub that night.
As Martha Jane became quieter and more tensed, I discovered a
variation she liked immensely. With that favorite motion of my
flattened finger along her crease and clit, I learned to lengthen
the path slightly and insert about an inch of my stroking finger
inside her before beginning the upward slide along her clit. I
didn't do this quickly, but I did increase the speed and pressure
very slightly once I found that she enjoyed this even more. I was
awed at the inner texture of her incredibly warm opening and the way
it gripped my finger as I entered and withdrew. Each dip into her
brought a fresh supply of wetness to her clit and outer lips.
Then she began a rapidly accelerating slide toward her climax. She
had been cradling me with her left arm, but this had drifted behind
her head. Her other hand, which had been milking me, was drawn to
her lips in a fist that tensed until her knuckles grew white. Her
head craned farther back, her neck stiffened. And as she always did
when her excitement heightened unbearably, she held her breath,
letting it out and in with a single, delicate gasp and holding it
again. Then I felt her clitoris swell; the heat of her sucking slit
rose quickly and dramatically. Her knees fell open even more,
stretching her thighs and arching her mound into my hand; I watched
this in utter fascination. The memory of the sight of her outspread
thighs and slightly lifted hips as she allowed herself a total
immersion into pleasure continues, after all these years, to
redefine and clarify the true meaning of the word "naked."
And suddenly, electrically, came a rapid series of quick and
shuddering gasps that stopped short as she took in one last gulp of
air and tightly held her breath just before uttering a last,
frantic, desperate whisper:
"oh hon....ohdontstop!"
I was certainly not going to stop, irresistibly engrossed in giving
her such intense enjoyment. She began trembling in small, tight,
jittery waves along her waist and arms. She whimpered, and her head
dug back tightly into the pillow. Then she went entirely stiff from
head to toe, breath held. Her clit swelled enormously. A tendon
flittered in her inner thighs. Thinking that slowing my movement
would prolong her ecstasy, I did so. Her hips lurched once and made
a single grinding circle against my hand, and she again stiffened,
hard, and remained completely still for an alarmingly long time, her
flowering heated center weeping slick around my finger-- -until she
finally and just as suddenly began to relax, her hips first giving
three or four gentle undulations. Her neck softened and receded,
and she took in a long deep breath at last, her head falling limply
to her other shoulder. Soon she began breathing normally but deeply
and tremulously, so I stopped moving my finger and kept it pressed
securely against her still-turgid clit. Her wetness soaked my hand.
Her eyes opened. She blinked and panted, breathing an astonished,
"Where did you learn to do that?"
I shrugged. "I just thought it was what you wanted."
"You mean you never did that before?"
I just looked at her blankly. "Did I do it wrong?"
"Oh you sweet baby," she moaned, almost crying. And in fact she did
half-rise and hug me and she did indeed cry. "Oh my honey," she
moaned. She cried for several minutes, but quietly, in delicate
expulsions of breath (Martha Jane was always a very quiet, very
feminine, even a very elegant crier. I have never been able to
forget it). For a while she held me, rocking to and fro, not
letting go of me for a long time until she fell back listlessly,
sniffling, and put a Kleenex to her eyes and nose. She said, almost
to herself, "We are gonna go straight to hell."
"Martha Jane? Did I do it right?" I asked again, concerned.
When she settled down she cradled me once more and said, yes, I had
done it right.
"Exactly right!" she said, and began milking me again.
"Was it Good?"
"Speedy...that was so deliciously nasty."
It was one of our favorite phrases (and perhaps the most
significant), along with all the others we adopted as turnons.
Although studious and conscientious and polite, Martha Jane used a
limited and earthy vocabulary when naked. She gave the words a
seething, lecherous coloration. And she seemed to know exactly how
and when to use them. I soon learned to do the same. It would be
some time yet before I knew what it all meant. But I recall that
night as being the one during which we opened and passed through a
door that soon closed shut behind us, yielding no escape.
She sweetly milked and cradled me and looked deeply into my eyes--
-an intense, probing gaze that told me she didn't have sex with only
part of her body. She did it with her face, her eyes, her words,
her every part. She explained that she had just "cum," a word she
pronounced with such dripping salaciousness that I got hard again,
even though cumming was a little abstract for me and she soon gave
up trying to describe it. In any case, I was glad I had given her
such intense gratification. I described what I had seen, heard and
felt as I was making her cum, and her eyes glowed sensuously and
mischievously as she listened. We were tired, but through words and
glances we prolonged a titillating sexual afterglow that lasted
several more minutes.
She tried to demonstrate what cumming was by pumping me briefly.
Both of us soon realized that it wouldn't (couldn't) happen for me
yet. But my feelings of closeness to her were extremely satisfying
in their own right.
As I started falling into sleep, she rose from the bed and began
dressing. My mother would soon be home from her date. Martha Jane
put on her shirt, but stopped to give me a very big kiss on my nose
and a very long, very close hug.
While she finished dressing I was slumbering off. I rolled over,
away from her, snuggled into my pillow, and watched the moonlight
falling on the window sill a few feet away. I felt exceptionally
peaceful and cared for. I felt that the best part was being able to
give her such spectacular enjoyment. I felt that devils in us had
been given space, had played, laughed, sung, shared, had been
released into the night somehow, and had worn themselves out. I
felt now like an angel. I wondered how it could be true, as I had
heard in school, that angels traveled from world to world along
alabaster shafts of moonlight. I looked closely and tried to
imagine how even the tiniest of angels could glide in the glowing
pools that dripped over the window sill. I imagined what it would
be like to travel upward on those soft beams, beams the color of
Martha Jane's warm and trembling nakedness when I watched her having
her long cum with the moonlight on her neck and hardened nipples.
Martha Jane's clothing whispered as she dressed. Her softly rounded
shoulders and smooth thighs whispered under her clothes. Her arms
and hands whispered as they reached to button her shirt. And her
breathing whispered, still a little shaky from cumming. I remember
those sounds when I see moonlight. I hear them in my dreams.
I fell asleep.
Continued...
Wanna more sex stories? >
http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html