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From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 10E
Date: Sat, 17 Dec 2005 10:59:27 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.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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