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From: Incest Man <familyincestfamilyincest@yahoo.com>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 3D
Date: Fri, 16 Dec 2005 13:21:13 -0800
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 3D
That was a sensuous summer. Mom's relationship apparently ran
smoothly for a while and my step dad-to-be took her out not
frequently but regularly. Each time, Martha Jane would show up on
time and we'd fix dinner for each other, clean up, do a little
homework, and then undress each other in the tiny bedroom. Soon the
room echoed with our sighs, whispers, and moans of pleasure and
lust. The only sex we had outside that bedroom was the one time
Martha Jane showed up at our place one rare Saturday afternoon when
I had not been shipped off to relatives for the weekend. Martha
Jane had iced tea with Mom and chatted a short time, and told my mom
she wanted me to come next door and help set up a record player her
sister Evelyn had given to Martha Jane and her mom.
She brought me to her apartment and as soon as we were inside she
took me into her bedroom. I told her I thought she wanted me to
help her with the new phonograph and she giddily and impatiently
replied that the machine was set up already and she really just
wanted us to be alone. "I don't know what's got into me today," she
exclaimed, almost visibly trembling. "I feel so nasty. God, I hope
we don't get caught!" She lay on the edge of her bed with her legs
hanging over the side. Lifting her skirt, she panted, "Finger fuck
me, hon. Hurry. Somebody might show up." I put my hand inside her
waistband and finger fucked her inside her panties. She came almost
immediately. Afterwards, nervous and fumbling, she lay me down the
same way and jacked me with my zipper open until I felt that little
buzz in my cock and she pulled a little drop out of me and licked it
off. Then we straightened our clothes and went into her living
room, where she settled down. And just in time: about ten minutes
later her sister Evelyn arrived unexpectedly. I talked with her
briefly and while she was in their kitchen making lemonade Martha
Jane saw me to her door and whispered as I left, "That was close.
But it sure felt good!" Afterward she told me we shouldn't try that
sort of thing again, as the schedule in her place was truly
unpredictable and so many of her mother's friends always popped in.
And she said she never, never wanted to risk having my Mom find out.
Had sex been the only aspect of our relationship I have little doubt
that both of us would have soon tired of this sitting routine and
sought more varied pleasures elsewhere or with someone else. But we
had a life outside the bedroom that was also special for us and that
only added to our feelings of intimacy, devotion, and pleasure in
the bedroom.
My back yard was a small patch of lawn about the size of a modern
suburban carport. It lay along the curb of the access driveway that
fed into the project from the street and led to a parking lot around
the corner of our building. Near the curb was a large black oak.
We spent several evenings there on weekdays at dusk, just after
dinner, as the long summer days ended and the stultifyingly humid
Southern air turned breezy and cool, the sky glowing purple and
orange. It was there under the heavy, leafy old oak tree that I
told her about my strange dream with the roaches. She said she had
no idea why I would dream such a thing, but she suspected the nuns
had scared the hell out of me.
Martha Jane and I discussed our dreams frequently during those
waning summer days under the tree. She often dreamed of her father
coming to her in the night, but he was reduced to the size of a boy,
a very small boy almost as small as an infant. His head was
bloodied and disfigured (he had died in combat on Okinawa from head
wounds). He would plead for help, but when she rose to go to him
she saw the rest of the house was filled with more like him,
thousands of them, moaning and reaching for her. In the dream her
mother made tea, oblivious to it all and apparently deaf and unable
to hear, but as she sipped her tea she said she didn't want to hear
and appeared to have gone quietly insane. Overcome with
helplessness and rage, she would wake up sweating.
She said she once had a dream about me. I was standing in a dark
room smiling at her. She said my eyes were very large and very
dark, almost gigantic, and they glowed in the dark room. As she
stepped toward me she became very small and felt faint, and suddenly
I was very large and very much older and went to her with a glass of
wine, gently cradling her head in one arm while holding the wine for
her to sip. The wine was warm and was in a small silver chalice.
She said the most striking part of the dream was my remarkably dark
eyes that seemed to fill the room. They were kind and endearing,
but there was something frightening and ruthless about them as well.
Across the access driveways were the small back yards of the
building directly behind ours. I never knew our backdoor neighbors
personally. Occasionally I'd look out our kitchen door and see one
of the neighbor ladies standing in her kitchen and talking with
Martha Jane across the driveway.
One of those neighbors, a Mrs. Johnson, would open her back door
each evening just before dark and carefully slip her bathrobe
draped, paraplegic husband in his wheelchair down the three or four
concrete steps into their back yard. She would make him comfortable
there on their little patch of grass, read the newspapers to him, or
tune a station on their small brown GE portable that rested on the
ground between his wheelchair and her aluminum lawn chair. Many
afternoons, Martha Jane and I sat on the curb and watched this
ritual. We would say hello to Mrs. Johnson and to Mr. Johnson, and
Mrs. Johnson would smile and wave hello and bend down to Mr. Johnson
and tell him we were out there with them. Mr. Johnson was unable to
respond. Nor could he move his legs or arms or his neck or his
eyes. He slumped limply in his wheelchair, wearing striped pajamas
and a brown bathrobe, his eyes ogling blindly ahead, a thin drool
forever flowing down one side of his slack and expressionless face.
Mr. Johnson had been almost blown to pieces on Taiwan. Even at my
age I realized without being told that the man would never move or
talk or lift a spoon of soup to his face.
Martha Jane would watch quietly as they performed this almost
nightly ritual for a brief stay in the open air. I would look up at
her and see her swallow, for a different reason now, and she would
murmur, "God grant the poor woman patience." I told her about
Taiwan, and Guadalacanal. And she told me how my father had died.
He was flight engineer in a B-17F on his 21st mission when the plane
was badly shot up. They barely made it back to England, where they
discovered that the front nose wheel would not remain extended for a
landing. As engineer in this emergency, my father ordered everyone
but the pilot into the rear of the aircraft, where most of them lay
wounded and unable to parachute out. With the pilot bringing the
plane in, my father stationed himself in the nose gear well,
literally jamming the nose wheel straight and steady with a
hand-held crowbar. The wheel held up just long enough for the plane
to land and start to slow. Then the nose gear collapsed, crushing
him. All the other crewmen were saved.
"You're a lot like him," Martha Jane told me at the end of that
story. "You'll try anything, just to see what happens. You're such
a little outlaw."
We would sit there until the sky grew dark, seeing before us where
so many others had gone, talking vaguely about how far there was to
go.
"Sometimes I think we're the only ones who are still in one piece,"
she sighed, her chin propped on her knees. "Sometimes I think we
were put here so we could know how much there is to lose. So we can
save whatever's left." She shook her head. "And sometimes I think:
there's so little left to be saved."
On July 4th she took me to a movie at the neighborhood theatre, the
Suzore's-- -a seedy, well-used, crowded, and sticky-floored movie
house if ever there was one. The place was a fallen relic of the
1920's, but it had a kind of homey who-cares air about it and the
best popcorn in town. We held hands and shared the popcorn bag,
laughing at the Bowery Boys and hiding our eyes when Charlie Chan
crept through the hidden corridors of a haunted house. The walk
back home was about seven blocks, down the steep, landscaped, four
block long hill that led from the top of the project to our building
at the other end. It was one of those hot Southern nights, humid
but cooling down, the air so still that the voices of people walking
nearby hung in space long after the people had gone. In those days,
before pollution clouded the view, we could see a multitude of stars
overhead. As we walked I pointed out Orion to her, and Alpha
Centauri. I showed her where the Weeping Sisters usually appeared
and told her that the faint red dot near the steeple of St. Mary's
Church was Mars. We were standing in the dark of the open lawn near
the project's administration building. She listened as I pointed
out the constellations, and after a minute I stopped and watched as
she looked up. I was very nearly her own height, then. A half-moon
floated just in front of her, outlining her face. Unable to resist,
I softly cupped my hand over one breast.
She looked down at my hand on her bosom. She didn't pull away, but
she whispered mischievously, "Somebody's gonna see us."
"I don't care," I said.
She laughed and said, "Yes, but I do."
"Okay," I said, and withdrew my hand.
She held my hand at her side as we strolled the rest of the way
home. "It's not that I don't want you to," she said. "It's just
that...I don't ever want anyone catching us and trying to stop us
from doing it."
That summer gave us several nights together, nights of holding each
other warmly and softly, naked, with Martha Jane under me or
hovering over me and whispering her secret needs and pleasures,
showing me something new. I learned to keep her on a dreamy
sensuous edge for a longer and longer time, and then to make her cum
several times, rapidly and intensely. She would almost always fall
sleep or faint afterward, and I had to struggle to stay awake so I
could rouse her in time to straighten up before my Mom returned.
Martha Jane had her 17th birthday in September, 1950. There was
precious little money to spend, but she invited a few close friends
and had a small celebration in her mother's apartment. I was there,
indulging heavily in ice cream and homemade cake.
Martha Jane found it necessary to introduce me personally to
everyone in the place. I was surprised to learn that so many of her
friends were not classmates but older adults. This left me edgy,
especially when she kept introducing me as "my boyfriend, Speedy."
And every older lady in the joint had to say something like, "Oh,
he's such a cute boy!" My discomfort was obvious. At one point I
retreated to a corner and sat unsmiling by myself for a long period.
Martha Jane came over to me and asked what was wrong.
I sat petulantly bumping my heels on the legs of the chair and
averting her eyes.
She leaned down to me. "Speedy, you're too smart and too well liked
by everyone here to act like this. What's wrong with you, don't you
like these people?"
"They all think I'm cute," I pouted. "And I hate the name Speedy."
She chuckled and said, "Speedy, let 'em think what they want to
think. It doesn't hurt to cooperate a little bit. And what
difference does it make?"
I adamantly folded my arms.
She stood up and said, "Hmp," with her hands on her hips. "Face it,
hon-- -you ARE cute!"
I said back, "Hmp!"
"How am I gonna get you to have more experience being around people
other than that fussy family of yours? Hm?"
I said nothing, but kicked away with my heels.
"Okay, sourpuss," she said. Shaking her head impatiently, she
returned to the group. I spent the rest of the day mostly ignoring
everyone until I felt it was time to go home. As I left her
apartment I saw her notice me from the corner of her eyes while she
spoke with the others. For the rest of the day I stayed in my
living room and pretty much had the place to myself, my Mom being at
Martha Jane's all afternoon. I listened to the Philco for a while,
and typed on the Underwood. And by dusk I was totally bored.
I went to our back yard, out by the curb near the big oak. For a
while I sat on the curb under the tree, listening to its heavy,
leafy limbs rustle in the breeze. It was dusk, and the early fall
sky had turned red.
Before long I heard the slap of the screen door behind me at Martha
Jane's place. I looked behind me. Sure enough, it was she. She
saw me and walked toward me, her head lowered and her arms behind
her back. I sat with my legs extended from the curb, my heels on
the surface of the driveway. She sat beside me.
"What's the matter, hon?"
"Nothin'," I said.
"Look at me."
"No."
She lowered her voice and said, hurtfully, "Speedy, why are you
doing this to me?"
I sighed deeply and leaned forward, propping my chin on my raised
knees. I muttered, "I dunno." And I didn't.
"I'm sorry you didn't have a good time. I thought you would."
I shrugged, as if to say it didn't matter.
"Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
"I dunno."
"Try, Speedy."
I shrugged.
"Try, hon. Talk to me. You're haven't been nice to me all day. I
have a perfect right not to speak to you at all. Do you realize
that? Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
I struggled a bit, and finally managed to say, "I don't... like it
when people expect me to be cute all the time."
"Speedy, they don't 'expect' you to be cute. You 'are' cute. You
really are. You're an unusual person-- -you don't look like other
boys your age. You have a strong, intelligent, different look and
personality altogether. And that's what people notice about you."
"But...I don't know what to say to people."
"You just say hello, hon. And 'how are you'. You don't have to say
anything special."
"Well..." I stopped. I shrugged helplessly. "People always expect
me to do certain things. And act a certain way."
Martha Jane sighed. "You mean," she said knowingly, "you mean
'certain' people, don't you? Like Aunt Frances and the rest of
them? And your mother?"
I nodded.
For a while Martha Jane looked at the ground silently. she extended
her blue Jean legs into the driveway and leaned back on her arms.
"Speedy, do you know what I'm going to do when I go to college?"
I shook my head.
"I'm going to study to be a teacher. A special kind of teacher.
I'm going to teach children who are...who are different from other
children. Someone like you could be one of those children some day.
But you'll be grown up by the time I get started. You'll be in high
school yourself by then, or nearly there. But you know-- -? Look
at me, Hon. Look at me."
I did as she asked.
She continued, "There's an awful lot I could learn from you. You're
a really tough case."
"Tough case?" I said. "What's a tough case?"
She raised her eyes, looking up at the sky. "Ah, you're soooo
hard-headed. That's what a tough case is."
I shrugged. "Oh."
"You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
"Movies?" I frowned. "I don't have any money."
"I'll pay."
"But that's not fair."
"Yes, it is. I asked you first."
"Well, if you're askin' me, then I'm not takin' you, you're takin'
me."
"Oh, darn it, why do you have to be so exacting? Listen. Let's
start over again. Now, I'm going to ask you if *you* want to take
*me* to the movies. And you're supposed to say yes."
"Okay."
"Now-- -you wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
I paused. I still didn't agree with the "politics" of this game.
"But if you're the one who has the money-- -"
She prompted, impatiently, "Answer yes, darn it."
"Start over," I said. "This time I'll do it right."
"Oh, alright...You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
"Yes." I reached up very quickly and kissed her cheek. "Yes," I
said again, kissing her again. And a third time, "Yes," and kissed
her.
She laughed. "What *are* you doing?"
"I'm kissing you and saying yes."
"Three times?"
"To make up for the times I didn't do it right." One more time, I
gave her cheek a loud, lingering kiss. "...And that's for me being
so snotty on your birthday. I won't do that any more."
"You little heartbreaker."
Martha Jane was looking less like a teenager and more like a young
woman. Her neck, arms, and legs had developed slimmer and more
graceful lines, and she was losing the baby fat in her face and
neck, getting more slender overall. I was nearing my 9th year and
was somewhat muscular and slightly tall for my size, but certainly
not as hefty as many fast-growing boys my age. I was now only an
inch or so shorter than Martha Jane. Like my father and his
brother, there was still something delicate about me from my
paternal grandmother's side of the family.
I mentioned this because at that time I was becoming more and more
aware of my own physical dimension and of the physical side of this
passionate relationship. I noticed this change in both our
appearances a few days after Martha Jane's birthday. She stayed
with me while my Mom's future fiancщe took her to a Halloween party.
Outside my apartment the kids strolled the Halloween trail for candy
and trick-r-treats, their noisemakers and their giggles echoing in
the night. At that time, however, Martha Jane and I were naked
together in that tiny bedroom. We were giggly and giddy because we
were totally nude but lying on the bed just below the window sill so
that anyone looking in would see only our faces and elbows. For a
while we talked and watched the goings-on outside.
Then we went into the bathroom so we could make up in Halloween
faces of our own and laugh and point at each other. This was one of
the few times I had seen her naked outside of a bed. Watching her
stand before the bathroom mirror or tiptoe across the living room, I
saw how slim and tight her waist, back, neck and legs had become. I
told her this and she stood in front of me sizing me up. She said
my chest was starting to expand now, my shoulders broadened and
would probably look like my Uncle Frank's one day, and my legs were
longer and leaner and already had fuzz on them.
I told her, "You're getting prettier and prettier all the time,
Martha Jane."
"Oh, stop it."
"But you are," I insisted. "Your eyes are. They're bigger than
they used to be. Yes, they are, I know they are. They have more
blue in 'em than they used to."
"Phooey, hon. Let me see you." She held me at arm's length and
looked me up and down. "Look. You're perfectly proportioned. Not
too big, not too small." She put her hands on her waist and
continued her assessment of my nudity, muttering absently, "I've
seen a lot of pictures of a lot of statues in the art books at the
library, so I know what I'm talkin' about. Look at you. Just
perfect. Like a little Greek statue. The only thing missing is a
fig leaf."
"And you look perfect too," I breathed, slowly taking in her naked
form, the graceful slope of her breasts, her slightly parted thighs
and her slender ankles.
"Guess what?" I asked.
"What?"
"Looking at you like this is makin' me excited."
She winked. "C'mon."
Continued...
Wanna more sex stories? >
http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html