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From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 5C
Date: Sat, 17 Dec 2005 02:25:04 -0800
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 5C
I shrugged.
"I mean, seriously. Talk."
I shrugged again. "Not really."
"I do," she persisted.
So I got into the same pose as she, propped on one elbow and facing
her. "All right, but I don't need a baby-sitter to put me to bed."
"I don't know what to do with you. About you. You are spoiled and
too independent. I know you don't like all your fussy old aunts and
uncles so much, but you have to admit they spoiled the heck out of
you. And, brother, did I help! You are so strange. In so many
ways you're older than me, in the ways you connect with certain
things inside people, but...such a strange boy."
"Boy," I echoed dryly.
"Well, Speedy, you *are* a boy...No, no, no, you are what looks like
a boy, you do boy things, you have boy habits. But you're not
really a boy. Wars took your boy away from you. I did, too. I'm
going to die and go to hell for it."
I gruffed, "Oh, That's what the nuns say all the time..."
"Do you know what I mean when I say I'm going to hell for it?"
"...and you say that all the time, too."
"I know, but do you know what I mean?"
"I guess. No."
"I'm in hell for it now, Speedy. I'm in hell every day thinking
about this and about us."
"You mean...'this' and 'us' being...?"
She mouthed the word s-e-x, and nodded.
I felt a crashing, cutting disappointment. All I could say was:
"Oh."
"I think what we did together was very unusual. Very out of
control. I don't think I will ever be able to be like that with
anyone else again, as long as I live."
"I didn't know you felt so bad about it."
"No no no no no, not 'bad'," she moaned, beating her fists lightly
on the bed sheet. "Not 'bad'!" She beat her fist again, once for
each word: "You...don't...understand."
"Explain it to me."
"I am explaining it to you!"
"Okay."
"You don't understand that...I...that I *did* like it. I liked it
more than anything. I'm trying to tell you that I...that I know,
looking at you right here and now, that I know I'll never be able to
do that with anyone else."
"Not-- -?"
She stopped me. "Not even with my boyfriend."
"Hm."
"Believe me?"
I shrugged: a sort of, a maybe.
"I'm trying to tell you, Speedy, my dear sweet little man, my
somehow grownup somehow not grownup little man-- -Oh, my my you are
so grownup in bed. You are so strange. I'm trying to tell you
that...I liked it... But...I'm afraid of you. I'm afraid of
myself. You do something to me, we have something, we do something
to each other that-- -" She stopped. "Yes, I have this boyfriend
but it's not the same, it's not-- -" She stopped again and sighed
almost tearfully. "Oh, heck!"
"You think it was wrong?" I guessed.
She shook her head no, impatiently dismissing my question. Then she
sighed. "I have this problem."
"Problem?"
"Yes." She pulled a wet strand from her hair and then picked a
little crumb of something off her tongue and couldn't find it again
and just gave up. "The problem is...I still remember it."
"Oh."
"Yes, 'Oh'. I remember, and I-- -ah, this is so complicated."
I sat up. In some ways this was beyond me. In some other strange
way, I sensed what she was saying. "Maybe we should not have done
it."
She looked suddenly and deeply into my eyes. There was
consternation, frustration, impatience in eyes and face.
"I mean, what we were doing makes you feel bad and you think you're
going to hell, so we shouldn't do it."
"Oh...!?" She squinted at me. "Tell me something: did you think we
would do it again the next time you saw me?"
"Not especially."
"Be honest."
"Mmm, no."
"But you sort of hoped we would," she prompted.
"Mmm, yeah."
"But if you think it hurts my feelings, you wouldn't ask me?"
"Right."
She stared at me for a very long time. "I should have known you'd
say that. I should have known." She played with her wet hair
again, and lay back on a pillow. "Let me ask you something. Did
you really find yourself thinking about it? I mean, thinking about
it a lot?"
"I guess...I didn't think about it a lot, but it made me sad when it
looked like it wouldn't happen again."
"I see..." she mused. "But you thought about it."
"Sure I did. For a while."
She smirked. "I hope you don't grow up to be like one of those
good-looking hotshots that I don't want you to grow up to be. Darn,
that's what's so strange about you, and me *with* you...If only we
weren't so good at it together, then neither of us would always be
expecting that it's supposed to happen that way all the time." She
shook her head ruefully. "Do you have any idea at all what you
would have to do to seduce me, to make me do it?"
"You mean...like really *make* you do it with me?"
"Yes."
"It wouldn't be the same."
"Why?"
"Because you wouldn't want to do it."
"I see," she said, pondering again. She squinted at me. "I wish
you were twenty. I wish you were thirty. I wish..." She stopped,
searching my eyes.
I was looking down, away from her, absently toying with a wrinkle in
the bed sheets. She leaned forward and forced herself into my view.
"Have you made yourself cum yet?"
I blushed and shrugged.
"You haven't, have you? I took your boy but I didn't give you
enough man to work with did I? And you made it so good for me."
This chat was annoying me. Talking with adults was something I
never, simply never enjoyed. They had such a baffling way of
complicating matters. As I did with other adults when they wanted a
"serious" discussion, I tried to appear unaffected. Now, as Martha
Jane talked with me that night, the room seemed crowded and too
small to hold the thoughts I was trying to keep from her. I felt
alienated from her, especially now that she had so obviously begun
her move from a teenager to a woman, a woman who worked for a
paycheck, studied in a college, went out with other people her own
age who lived in a world that I was totally unfamiliar with. It was
an odd and unsettling sensation for me to feel that way about Martha
Jane.
She went on with difficulty. "I don't know what it is we...we do to
each other..." Absently she started to reach toward my thigh, but
stopped. "You want *me* to ask *you* to do it?"
Still propped on my elbow, I shrugged again. "Sort of...I mean, the
only time I used to know you wanted to was when you said you did."
"I...see..." she said ominously, looking at her own hands and
appearing troubled by my reply. She rolled onto her tummy and
crossed her ankles in the air behind her.
She asked, "Why did you feel so bad when you didn't find me at
Woolworth's? Hm? I really want to know, Speedy. Was your mama
right, were you down in the dumps all day?"
I gave shrug number one thousand or so. "I don't know," I pouted.
"That was a long time ago."
"Oh, baby, that's not an answer. C'mon, talk to me."
"I don't know. I just...didn't know what else to do."
She prompted in a singsong voice, "You could have come ba-aa-ck...on
a different day-y-y."
I didn't say anything. She was right, I could have gone back and
looked for her again. I didn't know what she was getting at.
In the same singsong she continued: "You could have...mmm... called
my mother...called my sister."
I blushed again, but I was also a little hostile. All I could do
was lower my head and say, "Well...."
"Speedy, why didn't you ever call me after I left home and moved
into an apartment?"
That remark left me slightly bristling. "I did call. Evelyn gave
me a number. But they told me you had moved to another place."
"Why didn't you look for me again? I was very busy at first, I was
so busy I didn't sleep. Half the time I'd eat breakfast or lunch
walking between classes. And after a few months, I heard nothing.
I said to myself, okay, so what, the kid's only ten years old, how
does he know what to do? What should I expect? And I met boys,
nice boys, interesting people, friends-- -for the first time in my
life. And after a while I figured, well, he's growing, he has his
own things, his own life. Maybe he doesn't want to see me, maybe he
doesn't even remember who I am. We really didn't have to see each
other, period. We could have just talked. We could have just said
hello. We were still friends, weren't we?" She looked at me with
pleading eyes. "We were so close, we had been through so much
together. What happened? Why didn't I hear anything from you?
Even my mother said she never saw you, not once."
I remember the day I had gone to her front door, and no one
answered. Apologetically, I told her about it.
"But, Speedy, how many times did you knock on the door? How many
times did you walk next door to see where I was?"
I shrugged. I didn't answer.
"Come on, how many times?"
"Once."
"Once?"
I nodded. I held up one finger. I avoided her eyes. I was getting
the point.
She repeated, angry, incredulous, "You went to my house *once*?
That was it? Once?"
I nodded. I saw her anger mounting. I wanted to run away. I had
never seen her angry with me. I began to shuffle around in the bed,
looking for an excuse to get away and relieve the tension for a
while. "I think I have to go to the-- -"
"No you don't, buster." She held me down by one hand, which she
pressed tightly into the mattress. "Now just let me calm down a
minute," she said, and she sighed two long sighs and then she let go
of my hand. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, and
squinted. "Oh my, I have so much work to do with you! You're like
a wild boy that's grown up without parents, without friends,
without-- -" She shook her head.
Patiently, she lightly touched one of my hands. "Why didn't you
fight a little for me, hon? Why didn't you try to find me? I want
to know, I really do. I can get frustrated with your stubbornness
and your turning away sometimes, but I can't dislike you. I like
you too much. You mean too much to me. But what on earth...what
was going through your strange head about me? I want to know. Can
you tell me? Do you want to tell me?"
My head was bursting. My heart, too. In time I had forgotten her
and had grown used to not seeing her. And now she was trying to
make me depend on her all over again. I made a face at her, a silly
boy's face, a creepy grin, and then a pout. I felt and acted
exactly like the child that I was.
She ignored it and continued earnestly, "You would just keep looking
for me in places where I'm not, wouldn't you? You would go into a
room by yourself, and if I wasn't there you'd wait. And you
wouldn't find me."
"I guess," I said, embarrassed that she had me pegged.
"You 'guess'...You wouldn't find me because I wouldn't be there."
She rested her chin on her hands, her elbows propped under her. Her
voice became sweetly, gently prompting. "Maybe you didn't want to
find me? Maybe...you wanted me to find you? Is that it? You
didn't go looking for me because you wanted me to come looking for
you. Because that's the way it always was, wasn't it? I had always
come to you. You never had to go looking for me."
Something was welling up in me. I wasn't sure what to do about it.
I tried to think up a cute, innocuous answer. But I couldn't. I
was struck dumb by a sudden awareness of how well she knew me, how
little I knew about myself.
"Hon?" she asked. "Isn't that what happened? Is that what I did
to you?"
Silently, I cried. A big fat tear rolled out of my eye and down my
cheek. I turned away from her.
She moved over to me and put her arms around my back and her cheek
against my neck.
"Tell me, hon. Please tell me. What was wrong?"
"I'm sorry," I sniffed, my cheeks shiny with tears.
"No. I don't want you to be sorry. I just want you to tell me."
"But I am sorry. I got you mad at me, I did everything wrong!"
"No no no no no no, hon. Now sit up. Sit up and look at me and
let's dry off this cute face and stop this, okay? See, if you
hand'nt refused to talk to me, me your old tried and trusted
girlfriend, we wouldn't be going through all this, would we?"
"I guess not." I wiped my nose with my T-shirt.
"Don't use your T-shirt, hon. You're so intelligent, but you can be
such a mess sometimes." She wiped my eyes and face with a Kleenex.
"I thought you didn't want to see me anymore."
"Sweetheart, I couldn't see you all the time, not the way I used to
when I lived next door. You'll be in college one day, and just
watch-- you won't speak to your folks for months at a time. Even in
high school things will be different; in high school they don't have
nuns who walk you to class from eight o'clock mass every day."
"But you never came around," I continued.
She grabbed my face and ogled me with mock sternness. "You see what
happens when we don't have any faith, when we don't talk to each
other? It got all mixed up, didn't it? Stop it, now. Stop. I
want to tell you something."
"Okay."
"Pay attention and stop sniffing."
"Okay, okay." I said, wiping my face and eyes.
She squeezed my nose with a Kleenex and kissed my ear and looked at
me again. "Hon, I don't want you to grow up all by yourself like
this. Are you listening to me? Do you know what I'm talking
about?"
"I guess."
"You-- -?" She huffed and scratched her forehead. "Oh, you don't,
do you? Oh, how can I get this through to you?"
"I'll try," I volunteered. "Go ahead. Try me."
She thought for a long time. "Do you know how much I like you,
Speedy? Hm? I like you so much, it doesn't even make sense. Not
to *anybody*! I don't even have anyone I can talk to about you. I
don't care about them, really, or what they think. It's you I care
about." She paused, raising her hands with a shrug. "If we're
supposed to be 'friends', then I want you to come lookin' for *me*
sometime, okay? I don't want you to grow up always thinkin' that
people are always dependable or that they'll always be comin' to
you. Sometimes you have to go out and get them. You know what I
mean?"
"I guess."
"If you say I guess to me one more time..."
I gave her a silly, friendly smile. I had stopped crying.
"Well, I have news for you, I was really lookin' forward to seeing
you today, and last week too. Now, last week we can't do anything
about, that's past. But we do have today. And I'm glad to see you,
and I'm worried about you because I show up and you walk away from
me, into yourself. You can't keep doin' that."
"Okay."
She was growing a little petulant herself, nervously playing with
her fingernails. "Now don't say okay, hon, if you don't really mean
okay."
"Okay." I grinned.
She resisted laughing, but finally gave in to it and held her head
in her hands in mock frustration, and beat the sheets with her fist
again. "Stop...makin'...me...laugh!"
"So you're saying..." I pondered aloud, squinting, "you're saying I
should have looked more."
"I am saying," she explained patiently, "that you have to have some
faith. Not in others, in yourself. I'm saying that you're getting
older now and you have to learn to start looking for-- -" She
stopped herself, shut her eyes briefly, then lowered her voice and
continued slowly, "Sometimes, I want you to come to me. I want you
to learn to come to me."
"Oh."
"I want you to ask *me*. For a change. I want you to start it, I
want you to talk to me. I don't want you to sulk away from me, or
from anybody, just because they don't follow you around all day
trying to figure you out. Hon, you're too sensitive. You're gonna
lose sometimes, you're gonna be disappointed. But you still have to
try."
"Okay."
"Do you really mean that?"
"Yes."
"Look at me. Really?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She put her hand on my shoulder. She squinted one eye. "Listen,
cowboy. I want you to mean it. I'm concerned about you, you know
that? Everybody who knows you likes you, but they don't always give
you everything you want. Ask for it sometime."
"Okay."
She threw up her hands. "Oh lord, another okay!" She rose from the
bed. "Well, you're all ready to go to sleep. Maybe you can now,
and you'll feel better. *I'm* going' to the bathroom." She rose
and left the bedroom and disappeared again into the bathroom.
I settled down into my pillow and pondered all that she had said.
It seemed sensible to me. A little too-much-grownup, I thought.
But then I also knew, from all the sad grownups around me, from all
that my scientifically-inclined mind had observed among the many
tragedies in that housing project and in my family, I knew that I
would not always be 12 years old. I would be older one day. Those
who provided for me would no longer be around; certainly, I had seen
this happen often enough to others. I was not ready at the time,
not ready to forge that far ahead. But, I was aware, that day would
come. And I did know for certain, again, that Martha Jane was my
friend, not a bed partner or a playmate. If she had done some
growing up, then so should I.
She shut the bathroom light and came into the hallway, but stopped
there. She yawned and scratched her head.
"You ready to go sleep?"
"Yeah," I called from the bed.
She came into the bedroom and turned out the table lamp. In the
dark I felt her lean toward me and kiss me on my cheek.
"G'nite, hon. I'll be in the other room if you need anything."
I didn't respond. This was not exactly what I expected.
"Okay?" she asked again.
I nodded.
"G'nite." The hem of her pajama legs rasped along the floor as she
left the room. I heard the squeaks and rattles of the sofa bed
being made in the living room. Shortly after, all the lights went
out.
I lay there for about fifteen minutes. I looked out the window. I
kept hearing her say she wanted me to ask her first. She wanted me
to come to her. I turned over and propped up on one elbow and
listened. Not a sound from the other room.
Lying back down, I tried to fall asleep.
But a torrent of thoughts overpowered me, struggling mightily within
my head and chest. The flood was so chaotic, I lay with my eyes
tightly shut and concentrated on sorting them out. Among them was a
new thought, a new impulse that rose over the others with an almost
deafening voice: I wanted her. And I wanted her to want me. I
wanted to make myself desirable in the ways she had talked about
that night. Her words had me asking what had happened to that
rebellious, independent, indefatigable 'me' of only a few years
before? I realized I had changed. Had Grandpa Joe and my fussy
aunts and the tough kids and the stern teachers changed me so much?
With each question came a plenitude of conflicting answers. I
realized that I had not interacted enough with others to know how to
handle myself on my own terms. I could not voice this realization
so articulately at age twelve, but I could feel it. I knew that I
had absorbed a great deal of information, had amassed countless
observations. But I felt powerless when it came to doing something
with what I knew.
I sat up in bed.
I lay down.
Rolled over.
Sat up again.
Was she asleep? Or was she waiting?
Soon I grew impatient with wondering. I put the sheet around me
(still somewhat embarrassed about all that my underwear now
contained), and walked through the dark into the living room...
Part5D
I walked toward the living room and stood in the doorway, allowing
the sheet wrapped around me to make as much noise as it wanted, and
hoping she would respond if she were awake.
Dimly across the room I saw her rise and look toward me. "Speedy?"
"Yes," I answered. "It's me."
"I thought you were going to sleep?"
"Are you awake?"
"What do you think? Of course I'm awake. I was worried about you."
I told myself: Do something, show her some fight.
In the faint light I saw a pencil on the lamp table near the door.
I reached for it and held it like a cigarette, twiddling it gingerly
in my fingers and puffing on it. The bed sheet wrapped around my
waist and below, I walked into the middle of the room. Martha Jane
had turned toward me on the sofa bed and was lying on her side,
staring at me quizzically.
I took a deep breath and started my act in full force. I opened
with my Deep South truck driver's gruff and heavy drawl.
"Hey, bay-beh! Wonna beer?"
She smirked. On her side, she leaned on an elbow and propped her
head in her hand. "Oh my, what is this strange child up to?"
Then I made the pencil a cigar, touted and flipped it one hand. and
with my other hand on my hip I faked the higher-pitched, tightly
clipped voice and speech of the Bowery Boys' Leo Gorcey.
"Dey call me Doubtless Dan. 'Cuz "When Dan's About, There Ain't No
Doubt!'" I smugly pretended to straighten my tie. "Pahdon me,
ladies, while I make myself presentable."
Then I jammed my hands deep into my pajamas' pockets, stuck out my
tummy to simulate a beer-belly, put the pencil in one corner of my
mouth, and rocked back and forth as I did my W.C. Fields.
"I recall when were stranded in the Andeeees. It was TERRibble,
couldn't find a bottle o' booze anywherrre. Had to live on nothing
but food and waterrr for tennnn daaayzz!"
Each character brought me a step or two closer to the sofa bed where
she still lay propped on an elbow and keeping a straight face.
Then I put one hand behind my back, pursed my lips, and at the same
time raised my eyebrows and squinted my eyes-- -not easy to do, but
it was essential for an effective Clark Gable.
"Now listen, Scarlett. I know we haven't been gettin' along,
sweetheart, so...I'll make a deal with ya. You keep the child, and
the money, and the lumber company, and...I'll stay here at Tara with
Ashley Wilkes."
With understated sarcasm she broke in. "Does this have an end?"
"Why, Scarlett, whenever you say."
"End, please."
Myself again, I dropped to my knees and my face was level with hers.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Speedy...What in the world are you doing?"
"I'm trying."
"You're trying? Trying what?"
"Trying. You wanted me to try harder."
"Well...that's not *exactly* what I had in mind, angel."
"Well," I said, simply, "that's...right now, that's all I know."
"Oh," she said forgivingly. "Well then...what's next?"
"I want to kiss you."
"Kiss me?"
"Yeah. Kiss me, you fool."
She looked at me blankly. Perhaps she realized, as I did, that we
had never truly, romantically kissed.
I prompted, "all right?"
"Well...sure. I guess so."
"You sure?"
"Why wouldn't I be sure?" She frowned. "What are you going to do?"
"Kiss you."
"So kiss me."
I took a deep breath for courage. "Okay."
This was something I had not only never done, but had never imagined
doing and had no idea how to go about it. I walked the short
distance to her on my knees, stretched up over the edge of the sofa
bed, and brought my face close to hers. She appeared a little
apprehensive and unsure, but she didn't flinch. A step at a time, I
gently took the arm she was propped upon and laid it flat on the
bed, which forced her to recline on her side. I touched her hips
and nudged her to lie flat on her back, which she did, smiling
indulgently and watching me closely. I leaned forward a little more
and put my right hand on her cheek, then I slipped my left arm under
her neck. Cradling her in the best romantic style of the movies, I
held her thus and brought her a little closer to me. She adjusted
herself uncomfortably and I waited until she was settled.
I looked into her eyes. At first I attempted to do this with a
certain panache, or a soppy, longing Charles Boyer gaze. But her
eyes and her face undid me. Immediately, I fell victim to her
effect on me, and the phony gaze disappeared. Her half-lowered
eyelids, her milk smooth, softly sculpted face, her slightly parted,
expectant lips with their moist, dewy glaze, and her lucid,
penetrating, expectant blue-green eyes...
All pretense disappeared. I wanted, more than anything else in the
world, to give Martha Jane the kiss of her life. A real kiss. A
kiss that would be uniquely me. The kiss of the century. I
returned her waiting gaze with one which I'm certain must have
reflected the piquant tenderness that swept over me. Gently I
lowered my lips toward hers, miraculously managing on my first
effort to get the interlocking tilt of our faces just right. I
waited ever so momentarily before touching my mouth to hers. Then I
joined our faces. Never before had my lips felt hers -- and never
before had they felt anything like it! Meeting no resistance, I
mouthed her gently at first, massaging my way into a complete
awareness of the shape and texture of her yielding petals. Amazed,
I felt her return my kiss with a slight, tentative, moist pressure
against me. I settled my lips into hers until her almost
imperceptible return of movements matching my own told my lips that
her lips had found the most agreeable, the most telling contact.
Surprised, my lips began melting into hers, into the wondrous,
creamy silk of her that met my seeking mouth with a seeking of her
own, which I learned to read and respond to like a mirror image of
her every oral gesture. Enthralled, I allowed my lips to caress
hers with slightly more pressure and a series of small, slow, ovular
movements, which seemed as natural to me as breathing. She, too,
returned the pressure and the movement. Enraptured, my insides
sizzled as she slid one arm along and then around my shoulders. A
wild hunger rose in me; but I controlled and tempered it, expressing
it with my hand on the side of her face as a small caress and a
tender hug, a subtle drawing of her head closer to me. Captivated,
I lifted my lips only slightly and, still touching hers, I allowed
mine to caress hers like a tantalizing, slippery, mothering feather.
Enchanted, I felt her return the favor. Intoxicated, I moved my
mouth closer again, this time with a sure but carefully restrained
ardor, and simply allowed my lips to disintegrate into hers. Gently
we writhed our mouths against each other for another long and
nourishing moment, increasing the pressure gradually, then
releasing, withdrawing with languid, reluctant slowness, until I
opened my eyes and saw hers still closed, blissful, tranquil. Never
had I been so close to her mouth or her face, which filled my view
and shut out any and all interference from the rest of the universe.
My lips were still wet with hers; my own felt hers, felt like hers;
mine seemed to have disappeared, her own lips taking their place.
Gazing raptly, I stroked her cheek.
She opened her eyes sleepily. At first they were questioning,
uncertain. Then she seemed to come awake and she gently pushed me
away.
"Where," she asked skeptically, "did you learn to kiss like that?"
"That's the way I kiss."
"No, Speedy, nobody kisses like that. I bet you picked that up from
the movies. You kissed me the way somebody like William Holden
kisses."
"That," I insisted, "is the way I kiss."
"No. That's the way William Holden kisses."
"He got it from me."
"Oh...I see. Well, that's some kiss."
"Thank you." Daringly, without pause, I declared, "I wanna sleep in
here."
"There's not room enough for two."
"Then, uh..." My eyes rolled as I tried to overcome this latest
obstacle. "Okay, I'll have to sleep on top of you."
"That would be very uncomfortable, Mister Holden."
"Well, then...I guess we'll have to sleep in the bedroom."
She smirked. "Well, then...I guess so."
"Well, then..." I echoed, waiting.
But she didn't move. After a pause she queried me with her big,
smiling, waiting eyes. "Well?" she said in a small voice.
I leaned toward her and took her free hand which rested near the
edge of the sofa bed. "I want you to sleep in the other room with
me, because I haven't seen you in two years. And because I want the
first thing I see in the morning to be you. And because I might
never get the chance to do this again."
Her eyes softened. "That's better," she whispered. She tilted her
head and looked at me warmly, tenderly. "That's more like what I
wanted to hear you say."
Then she rose from the bed and headed straight for the bedroom in
her floppy silk pajamas.
Perplexed, I rose and followed her. "Well...why didn't you tell me
that's what you wanted in the first place?"
"Oh, how unromantic."
"But why didn't you just tell me?"
"Because all this time, I made it too easy for you. Because I
wanted you to learn something. Because I was playing hard to get."
She settled into the bed near the lamp table, lying back with her
hands behind her head in the dark. "That's the way girls behave in
real life, hon. They want you to figure them out."
I stood near the bed. "But why do girls have to play hard to get?"
"Because they're girls."
"But boys don't play hard to get."
"I know. They're boys."
"I see," I pondered. "So the girls play hard to get...and the boys
do the getting."
She winked.
In the two years that I had been away from her, I had forgotten what
it was like to look down on her alluring body in the dark. As I
stood watching her from the edge of the bed, it all came back. And
it came back with a vengeance. I did not pause, but followed my
impulse and climbed onto the bed from the foot of it, and in one
smooth motion I stretched over her and lay on her, both of us fully
clothed.
She smiled, opened her arms, and I snuggled into her neck.
She asked, "The lesson wasn't too hard on you, was it?"
"Did you like my Clark Gable?"
"No."
"Oh."
"I liked your 'you', though. And what a kisser." She hugged me.
I hugged her back. I lifted my face and looked at her. I felt it
was my move. I shifted my weight to her side, letting my right arm
cradle her neck. I looked down at her breasts. Her nipples stood
out tautly under the cloth of the pajamas. They were different now,
less girlish, more womanly. Or perhaps I was two years older, had
new juices flowing from my glands, and saw her differently. I
lifted my hand to her right nipple and with two fingers cradled and
squeezed it gently over the cloth. She shifted slightly, leaning
into me. She watched my fingers, then she watched me. I allowed my
hands to sweep across her chest, down her tummy, around to her hip.
She felt different; more firm, more sleek, more smoothly sculptured.
At the crotch of her pajamas the shape of her tuft and mound were
revealed in sharp relief. She had lost some baby fat; her mound was
more distinct, more feminine, its contours more erotically enticing.
With my hand I covered the gentle swell between her legs. Right
away I realized she wore nothing underneath. I felt her heat. Her
tuft was thicker now, crisper. I made a small circle on her cunt
with my palm, which could feel where her thick outer lips gently
folded in and parted. As I continued circling, I felt her hand go
to the slit in my underwear. With three fingers she formed a cone
with which she lightly enclosed the outline of my tip. Cupping it,
she squeezed almost imperceptibly, with a slow rhythm. I felt an
incredible itch that ran the length of my cock.
As I caressed her over her pajamas her thighs parted. I looked at
her. "Feels different with clothes on," I whispered.
She nodded lazily, slipping her lower lip naughtily under her teeth.
"Feel good?" I whispered, smiling.
Her eyes narrowed. She nodded slowly again.
I rubbed her another moment until I sensed moisture in the cloth
under my hand. Her slit had widened. And my erection was underway.
I searched her darkening eyes. "Do you think it would still feel
good finger fuck you like I used to?"
She shrugged. "I guess," she said, grinning impudently.
I sighed a little laugh at her joke. I lay down flat, lifted my
hips, and pulled off my underwear, flipping it onto the floor at the
foot of the bed. I had expected she would take a while to unbutton
her pajama top, but she sat up and grabbed the hem of the shirt and
pulled it over her head and off, like a sweater. She lay down and
arched and pulled off her bottoms.
She was nubile and naked. She was beautiful. Her pubic patch had
indeed thickened and darkened and extended below the top of her
slit. Her nipples were larger and a darker pink. As soon as I saw
her I realized I would have to learn about her all over again.
Settling on one elbow I carefully fondled her outer fold, which was
already slick and blossoming open to invite my finger's search for
her clit. When I found it she swallowed and her staring eyes
softened. I began to stroke her nub in slow tiny circles.
Immediately it began to lubricate and stiffen, and her long thighs
drifted apart...
She whispered, "Yes..."
With her fingers she formed a small cone around my tip again, then
she found I was hard. Her fingers searched, finding that I had
smooth curls now instead of fuzz, and she investigated my balls and
my hardening shaft, then enclosed me, gripped, squeezed up. Her
fingers found pre-cum at my tip.
"Speedy," she whispered.
I looked at her. "Hmm?"
"Your not a baby anymore, hon," she whispered, circling my corona
with a wet finger. She shook her head and smiled, repeating to
herself, "Not a baby anymore..."
Continued...
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