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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 2B
Date: Fri, 11 Aug 2006 14:18:51 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.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...
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