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From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
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Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 8C
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2006 14:14:19 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 8C
She indulged in her cigarette, her voice throaty,
secretive, conspiratorial.
"This is beginning to feel very naughty," she said.
"All those people driving by," I said, joining in her mood,
"not knowing we're nekkid."
"Yeah," she breathed, pleased. She took another puff.
"After today, you'll have to go to confession."
"I don't go to confession. I just pretend I do."
"Don't you feel strange about that?"
"A little. But it's what I have to do."
"It's a sin," she said, testing me.
"Only for everyone else."
"This...is a sin," she announced, a little amused. She
reached over to the ashtray and slowly, carefully, mashed
the cigarette several times against the glass until it was
completely extinguished. "It's the major, most
unacceptable, most outrageous...most delicious sin."
"Can I have one of those?" I asked mischievously.
"One of what?" she asked, settling against the headboard.
"One of those," I said, motioning my head at the ash tray.
"Don't you dare. It's an awful habit. One of my few
vices. I'm not lazy, I'm not narrow-minded, I'm not
hateful. I don't rob anyone, I don't kill anyone, I don't
hate anyone. I'm not a racist, not a bigot. But I do
smoke. And I'm a hypocrite. And deep inside, I'm
ruthless."
I asked, surprised, thinking she was joking, "You are?"
"Yes. I am. I have such a sweet, innocent, kitten-like
look. Mr. Buchanan thinks that Evelyn and I are both
virgins. Saints. But Evelyn fucks. And I fuck." She
looked at me, expressionless, studying me.
I gave an embarrassed laugh. "That's not so sinful."
"Oh, it is. It's a sin because I like it so much. You
can't like something that much without it being a sin.
It's so difficult to let someone else know how much I like
it. It's so good with you, but even with you sometimes...I
get a little scared of myself, it's so good and
so...unexpected. Sometimes, hon, it's so much of a strain
on me. Really. It's not always so easy to let you know
that about me. I am a terrible sinner when I'm nekkid with
you."
"Really? After all we've done?"
"Yes." She suddenly and playfully hid her eyes with one
hand. "Oh, I can't believe this. Why am I so embarrassed?
It's like telling you about my period. It's so silly."
I paused. "Is that the secret that you wanted to tell me
about? That you think this is a sin?"
"No, hon, no. My big secret is something else, and I can't
tell you that now." She uncovered her eyes and with a coy
smile she leaned her head on her knees, smiling at me
indulgently. "But I will tell you one day, don't worry."
"Okay," I said, disappointed.
"Do you think this is a sin?"
"Yes. Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Well...only because everyone else says it is."
"Yes...I know what you mean."
She dropped into deep thought for a moment. She rubbed her
leg and then her voice shrank into that of a hesitant
little girl.
"Hon...do you like sinning with me?"
"Yes. That makes me as big a sinner as you are."
"Then there's no hope for us," she said, grinning slyly and
lowering her legs, stretching out and lying naked and open.
"Sin with me," she crooned. "Lick me."
As I moved over her and bent to kiss her firm inner thighs
she looked down. Fastidiously, she brushed her pubic curls
aside and gently parted her cunt lips for me. "Lick me,
hon."
Gradually she became almost uncontrollably licentious,
whispering and rasping lewdly and with an abandon I hadn't
seen since our nights in the Lauderdale Courts. I have no
idea what incited this effusion of raw lust; I could only
guess that, like me, she was grasping at something that
would soon end. She seemed to have somehow reached back to
her sixteenth or seventeenth years, when it was all new and
unimpaired by change or necessity. I realized that I was
not the only one in that room who felt afraid and
threatened.
As I mouthed her cunt she moved my body around so that my
knees straddled her head and my cock fit easily into her
mouth. She sucked me slowly and lecherously, her hips
jerking now and then when I sucked her clit. Soon I rose
and stretched over her, entered deeply, and fucked in long
deep strokes. Her head raised and resting against the
headboard, she grinned and watched me fuck her. Soon she
stiffened and climaxed, wrenching her head back and to one
side. She finished with a lurch of her hips, gasping and
sighing, "Fuck...oh, fuck." Raising her knees, she reached
between us to touch my shaft and feel the spurts hurtling
into her. She watched with salacious glee while I finished
cumming.
We napped, waking in mid-afternoon. Whispering sultrily
she leaned over me and quickly jerked me off, entreating me
as I came, "C'mon, hon. C'mon. Ah. Those hot little
squirts. Yes." We rested again and then drove to the
Howard Johnson's down the street and ate like cave people,
giggling and spilling things. Martha would grin and say
something stupid like "Pass me the salt, hon -- " and then
lean close to me over the table and whisper laughingly, "--
and squirt on my tits!" We squealed and sniggered and I
would reply with something like "Cum on my ear," which
threw her into a squirming fit. She said, "Mr. Buchanan
would have a stroke. Haha, Evelyn would have a stroke.
The walls of the First Baptist Church of Memphis would come
tumblin' down, and the doors of the temple would be rent
asunder."
We returned to the room. Dusk found us sinning and lusting
like animals, me licking her slowly, her spread thighs taut
and trembling as I made her cum, and then we fucked and I
made her cum again, then again. Each orgasm for her was
deeper, harder, more paralyzing than the one before. Each
time she would clench my shoulders and with her lips near
my ear she would moan, "Again. Again, Steven. Fuck."
Until finally her fourth cum was a long pleasure-drenched
struggle, and when it finally arrived I felt my own orgasm
creep slowly from my strained back and then into the tip of
my cock, on whose length her clinging cunt fed greedily and
invoked yet another hot jet from my balls. I yelled and
then groaned, straining on outstretched arms and quaking
knees, as I watched her long body writhe in ecstatic lust
with our last prolonged, exhausting, excruciating release.
For almost an hour afterward, we held each other silently.
I lay on her for a while, then rolled over and lay with her
head on my shoulder. Soon we changed positions again, me
lying on her breast before we curled up spoon-style. At
one point she sat up, leaned back against her pillow, and
lit a cigarette. I watched her inhale and then slowly
exhale.
After a moment she whispered, "Steven."
I looked at her and waited.
She paused and took another puff. She shook her head no,
once. She whispered, "Nothing."
Finally, it was time to dress and leave.
She drove me back to my Mama Rose's house. We arrived at
eleven, an hour after the Tremont had closed.
"You be good to your Mama Rose," Martha told me from her
car window. "she's so sweet."
"I'll come to Union Station next Saturday and see you off."
"You don't have to," she said quietly. "You sure?"
"I'll be there," I said, winking -- not knowing if I were
really up to it, but letting her think I believed I was.
She winked back. Unsmiling, she stepped on the gas. She
and the car raced down the street and grew smaller. I
stood on the curb and watched, wondering what the hell I
was going to do.
Of all the weeks Martha and I had spent apart, that week of
waiting for her departure was the longest that I remember.
The only memory I have of that week was of standing in our
front yard one sultry afternoon with the cloying humidity
hanging in the air as I stared into the vast suburban
sameness around me. As in an underexposed, bleached-out
still photograph, nothing seemed distinct. Nothing moved.
But I felt the earth move; and I felt time move, slowly and
relentlessly.
During breakfast on Friday morning my mother told me, "This
coming weekend will be the last week for you to have
nothing to do while school's out. Your daddy wants you to
work at the grocery during the week, starting Monday."
"You have to learn the value of a dollar," my step dad
grunted as he came to the table for his coffee. He took a
quick sip and then bent over to tie his shoes. "Learn
about runnin' a business," he went on. "Sackin' groceries.
Trim the produce. Then we'll get you on the big bikes with
the delivery crew, and you can make some money. Ten cents
for every order you deliver in the Lauderdale Courts. The
work ain't that hard, but it'll help put some muscle on
you, get you out in the sunshine and the open air."
I mentioned that a new play was going to start soon at St.
Michael's and that I had been assigned a role. I would
have to leave the store by five to get a bus in time for
rehearsals.
Unfazed, he continued. "That school dramatics crap will
just have to wait. The store stays open 'til seven during
the week and 'til nine on Saturday. So your games at
school can wait until September."
"...Yessir."
"You just tell them at school that you're sorry, but your
time belongs to the Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23 until
school starts again."
"Yessir."
"That dramatics shit is a lot of foolin' around anyway."
"Yessir."
"The money you earn will be yours. I'll keep it in a
checkin' account for you, at Union Planters, just like a
regular checkin' account. I'll keep tabs on it. You can
spend it, but get somethin' you need and can use at school.
Don't spend it on crap."
"Yessir."
The conversation ended. It was perhaps one of the longest
exchanges I'd had with my parents in several months. For
the rest of the day I moped in my room. Near dusk I drove
my squeaky kid-sized bicycle to Gaisman Park. The bike was
an undersized blue machine that Aunt Frances had given me
for Christmas when I was nine years old. The thought that
I'd be able to earn my own money for a sparkling new bike
was a comfort, at least. At thirteen, going on fourteen, I
needed more mobility; for the time being I was limited to
city buses and my own two feet. The idea of buying a
full-sized bike gave me something to look forward to. And,
hopefully, a few months of hard work at the supermarket in
my old neighborhood would get me back into the heart of the
city and give me something to think about other than
Martha's absence.
By sunset I returned home and told Mom I didn't want
dinner. I boarded a bus and made the long trip into old
Memphis and the home of my Mama Rose and Daddy Joe Ricci,
my deceased father's parents. Usually I alternated my
weekends between them or Aunt Francis and Uncle Johnny.
Being with my grandparents was more subdued and folksy than
weekends spent with my disoriented Aunt Frances and my
tired and ailing but affectionate Uncle Johnny. The
Ricci's lived in a newer home, a tidy 1920's brick duplex
occupied on one side by my grandparents and on the other by
their daughter, my Aunt Baby Sister, so called to
distinguish her from several other Aunt Catherines in the
clan. The Ricci's kept a living arrangement that even in
my youth I considered unusual. My Uncle Johnny and Aunt
Frances, with all the extra space they had in their big old
Victorian home, slept together in the same room and the
same bed; but Daddy Joe and Mama Rose, in their smaller
duplex, kept separate rooms. Mama Rose's room was in the
middle of the long hallway that led through their side of
the duplex. Behind her room was the bedroom that once
belonged to my Uncle Frank and my father. Frank was never
around, having used his GI bill to get through Vanderbilt
University in Nashville, after which he landed a job with a
local bank and found an apartment elsewhere in Memphis with
his recent bride, my glamorous and vivacious Aunt Leigh.
Behind Frank's room, at the far end of the hall, was the
small add-on that was Daddy Joe's solitary room.
Gentle, submissive and soft-spoken, Mama Rose would greet
me from the front door of their corner house when I got off
the bus across the street. Watching the street carefully
in both directions, she would wear a frown of concern until
I safely crossed the six lanes of busy Peabody Street, and
then she would smile her warm motherly smile as I strode up
the front steps and onto their little brick-walled,
plant-lined front porch. Like her older sisters, My Aunt
Frances and my sister's godmother Aunt Mary, Mama Rose had
a squeaky voice: but hers was a small, serene one that
matched her manner and her diminutive size. Like my
deceased father, she had black hair; but her caring,
Madonna like eyes were a bright blue that could be seen
across a room. There was a quiet joy in her whenever she
greeted me and led me into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal
or some milk and cookies. When I entreated her to not go
through trouble on my behalf, she would insist on waiting
upon me, circling about the kitchen with her weak little
walk and her bad back, looking far older than her fifty-odd
years as if some great weight had attached itself to her
petite frame at some point in the past. Always, there was
a sweet remark about how I looked just like my daddy,
Steven Senior. Always. And always she would at some point
confuse me with her son Frank, whom I also resembled. And
almost always she would at some point call me Steven
instead of her favorite nickname Butch (and where she came
up with Butch, I'll never know. She was the only person
who called me by that name instead of by Speedy). And
always, at some point, she would call me Frank, then give a
shy little laugh and apologize, saying, "Oh, I mean Butch.
I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Did you hear me say Frank?
Wasn't that silly?"
After I snacked I would ask about Daddy Joe, and a shadow
would fall over her face-- -a quick and barely visible
flash of something sad and lonely in her-- -and she would
recover and say, "Oh, he's back there in his 'man's room',
where he always is. You go see him, and then we have to
get to sleep and go to the Tremont in the morning. Go on,
go see him. You know he loves you, Butch. He always wants
to see you. You go on and I'll clean up in here."
At the end of the long unlit hallway, Daddy Joe was in his
room. He was a short, kindly but fidgety man who spoke and
moved suddenly, jerkily and unpredictably. I had a strange
liking for him; not the same warm and comfy affection I had
for the saintly Mama Rose-- -but an affection mixed with a
wariness of his nervous style and his occasionally bitter
cynicism that seemed to underlay his reactions to
everything and everyone around him.
As usual, he sat in the small, chilly room with the windows
wide open, he in his worn, heavy brown leather chair with
his short legs propped on a matching footstool. He held a
pipe in one hand, a National Geographic magazine and a
newspaper in his lap. Around him were his man's trophies
that graced the walls of his man's room: an oversized 1948
calendar with color photos of legendary racehorses like
Citation and Sea Biscuit; a yellowed, framed, original copy
of the announcement of the Wall Street crash in the New
York Herald; over three decades' worth of the National
Geographic; old copies of the Wall Street Journal; an
ancient telegraph set from the Frisco Railroad, where he
worked for many years as a youth; a battered dumbbell with
two heavy, rusting weights; a photograph of Charles Atlas
tugging a subway car in the 1930's; and portraits of
Theodore and Franklin Roosevelt.
He would greet me with a big grin and a coarse but chummy
"Aaaaa!", a kind of gruffly playful reproach accompanied by
a firm ruffling of my hair and a pinch on my ear. Then a
quick hug, his red cheeks always scratchy and tickly
against mine. And then questions: how was I? Would I grow
any taller? What was I doing in school? And always,
regardless of my answers, a waggish "Aaaaa!" as he
unexpectedly rose from his chair and ruffled my hair again.
I never quite knew when he was going to jump up and pull
that frolic on me. Our conversations were more like an
effort on my part to find out who he really was, while he
remained roguishly elusive.
I mentioned that I had received a birthday card from my
Uncle Frank and he asked, "Yeah? You ever see your Uncle
Frank?". I answered no, and he dismissed it with a wave of
his hand and a gruff, "Ha! Your Uncle Frank. To hell with
him, Speedy-boy. Right? Never comes to see *ME*! Huh,
SPeedy-boy? Sonofabitch." As usual, he immediately
changed the subject and asked about my Mom. I said my
mother and daddy were doing well, and he muttered, "Your
'daddy'. Hmp. Your daddy's dead," a frequent remark to
which I never had a reply, and he would growl "Aaaa!" and
ruffle my hair again and then confound me by cheerfully
asking if Mama Rose had fed me well when I came in. "Your
Mama Rose is sweet on you, Speedy-boy. You're her boy, you
know that? She's sweet, your Mama Rose."
This meandering and inconclusive conversation seldom
varied. Neither did it last very long, as Daddy Joe would
want to spend some time going over the stock quotations in
the newspaper. He would preface this by again mentioning
his plans for the day when he hoped to retire from the
liquor business, cash in his stocks and move to Hot
Springs, Arkansas, where he would play the horses all day
and "live like a white man."
He sent me back into the caring hands and motherly smiles
of Mama Rose, who laid out my pajamas and turned back the
bedspread in Uncle Frank's room, and tucked me in with a
peck on the cheek and a little sing-song about, "Oh, I love
my little Butch, just like your daddy Steven." And after
the lights went out I would be in that room alone with my
father's ghost and the relics of my mysterious, long-absent
Uncle Frank. I often wondered, if either of them had been
around, how I would talk to them and what they would advise
me about my situation. How would they, grown and
apparently sane men, handle it? Why were they always gone?
What were they really like? Was I like them? Would I be
able to tell them about Martha Jane?
Certainly, despite their affection, neither Mama Rose nor
Daddy Joe nor anyone else could be someone I trusted with
the story of me and Martha Jane, whom I now called Martha
but whom I still pictured as the original Martha Jane, and
who would be leaving the next day.
Continued...
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