Path: not-for-mail
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 11B
Date: Sun, 13 Aug 2006 00:09:10 -0700
Organization: http://groups.google.com
Lines: 679
Message-ID: <1155452950.050195.82790@p79g2000cwp.googlegroups.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: 86.57.167.105
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
X-Trace: posting.google.com 1155452954 27868 127.0.0.1 (13 Aug 2006 07:09:14 GMT)
X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 13 Aug 2006 07:09:14 +0000 (UTC)
User-Agent: G2/0.2
X-HTTP-UserAgent: Mozilla/5.0 (Windows; U; Windows NT 5.1; ru; rv:1.8.0.6) Gecko/20060728 Firefox/1.5.0.6,gzip(gfe),gzip(gfe)
Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
Injection-Info: p79g2000cwp.googlegroups.com; posting-host=86.57.167.105; posting-account=6ttmXQ0AAAAqMfCVT-uT5GTcFQQNZsUC
===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 11B
At ten o'clock Fiore, looking me over with his hands on his
hips, grinned at me from his big red face. "So! Still
with smoke on your breath, heh? You're lucky you have only
light work today! Every other day, we do the heavy work!
Today you stretch like a rubber band! I will show you!
Now -- onto the table!"
Once again, Fiore flipped and kneaded me on the massage
table, showing me how to detect which muscles and tendons
were too tight and required work. Then he showed me the
stretching movements that the dancers in his gym performed.
I strained and grunted through all of them. Then: "On the
bicycle! Do it 'til you fall off!"
"This is light work?" I remarked, climbing onto the
exercise bike. I started pedaling.
"No!" Fiore exclaimed. "You destroy your knees moving
that way! Remember what I told you! Start again!"
By eleven o'clock, huffing and puffing, I was tired but
definitely awake. I took Fiore's advice and stopped in a
shop on Madison Avenue to buy a pair of first class workout
shoes, then walked downtown to 32nd Street to meet Ronnie
in the building where she worked.
She appeared at exactly noon, hurrying across the expansive
lobby of the building, wearing a gray business suit. She
carried a wide cardboard artist's portfolio. Ronnie had a
youngish face whose slightly squared jaws and narrow nose
might have been considered a liability were it not for her
overall soft, pretty, youngish quality and her large, dark
eyes. eyes. Not one to smile constantly, her normal
expression was a serious, reflective, older one, with a
hint in her eyes of some unspoken sadness. When she did
smile it was a crinkly, playful, contagious one that
brightened her whole face. I smiled at her as she
approached, aware that her winning grin and friendly blue
eyes were beginning to affect me warmly. She greeted me
with a lilting "hello-ooo" and a flitter of her raised
fingers.
She asked, "Did Fiore leave anything for the rest of us?"
"I'll be okay, as long as I can sit at lunch."
"No problem," she said, chuckling. "No extra charge for
chairs at this place."
We walked quickly along the crowded street toward a
restaurant on 35th Street. She asked about my workouts
with Fiore. I described the special movements Fiore taught
me and the diet he assigned.
"Uk," she said, making a face, "brewer's yeast. Yeah, he
made me take that stuff once. Three tablespoons a day,
right?"
"Me too."
She eyed me playfully. "You don't cheat, do you?"
"Nope."
"Jeez, what dedication. I had to lay off that stuff. It
made me so healthy I stayed horny all the time. Couldn't
stand it."
We sat at a small table near the window of the second floor
of the restaurant she took me to. There was no lack of
material to talk about. We shared many interests. I found
Ronnie to be quite cheerful, despite her occasionally
self-disparaging remarks.
"I can't believe," she said, salting her food, "that you
worked for two years day and night to come up here. You
must be very determined, Steven." She was interested in
every detail of what it took to keep a paper route, a
subject I considered tedious, but she wanted to know about
it anyway. Then she asked about growing up in the
Lauderdale Courts. "You know," she said, "Elvis Presley
grew up there, too." I told her I'd seen Elvis in the
neighborhood and that he still visited my step-dad's
supermarket now and then, accompanied by a string of pink
Cadillacs.
She winced. "Oh, the Cadillacs! Almost as bad as his
movies, and some of his stuff is just too teeny. But I
love it when he gets into the old rhythm and blues stuff."
Pouring cream in her second cup of coffee, she sang
lightly, "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog...," and
concluded with a droll, "Am I awful, or what? Wanna see me
wiggle?"
Out on the sidewalk, she asked me to hold still and put my
glasses on. I balked, but she insisted, "Oh, come on,
let's see what we have to work with. We'll still be
friends."
I donned my glasses and let her have a look at me. She
gazed at me, studying. I began thinking she was actually
quite cute, with a casual, girlish charm and an easy
acceptance of me as I was -- a far cry from my carping
relatives.
"Yeah," she conceded, "Martha's right. New frames will
make a b-i-g difference. Come on, we're going to a place
that not many people know about."
On the way, she asked me about my theater work. She was
awed that I had gone onto the stage before I was a teen.
Teasing, she wanted me to perform a bit from one of my
former roles. By the time we arrived at the frame vendor's
place on the fourth floor of a building near Macy's, I felt
easy and comfortable with Ronnie. I didn't wonder that she
was a close friend of Martha's. And she was the first
young woman I knew other than Martha who expressed a
serious interest in and knowledge of the arts I'd left
behind for my paper route.
In the frame shop I tried several designs, with Ronnie
giving her impressions of each. "Really," she said, "I
like every one you picked out. But you tell me which one
you like best." I put on my favorite and she looked me
over carefully, and then nudged her lips approvingly.
"Right. They're Drop-dead gorgeous, Steven. You look
seriously like a New Yorker."
The frames cost sixty bucks -- a pretty sum in those days,
considering that my originals cost a mere twenty. The
salesman behind the counter told me I could have my lenses
mounted on the premises for five bucks if I would wait an
hour. I agreed. Ronnie and I sat in a corner and chatted
until she was due to return to work.
"You get involved in so many fascinating things," she said,
sitting beside me and looking pensively down at the floor.
She had a slim figure and a slinky, easy manner of sitting
and moving. "I'd give anything to have your brains and
endurance. I just slug along. Don't even know where I'm
going yet. Feel like I'm twenty-two going on sixty."
"You've got a start in the design business, though. Back
in Memphis, women don't even know such jobs exist."
"Yeah, Martha told me about Memphis. Minimum wage capital
of the world, right? God, Mom, and apple pie?"
I nodded. "Red necks, white socks, and Blue Ribbon beer.
Memphis would be waste of your talent -- and your
personality."
"Awww. Shucks. But those Southern accents are so cute.
They never get it right in the movies. Yours is faint, but
just right. Martha's is almost gone."
I leaned toward her, and she leaned closer to hear me.
"Tell me," I asked furtively, "all the salesmen in this
place...why are they wearing those little black caps?"
"Those what?" she asked, leaning closer.
"Those little black caps."
She widened her eyes and covered her mouth with her hands,
grinning broadly behind them. "Those little black...?"
she began, then she bent over with laughter as I sat and
watched, confused. She straightened up, and took another
minute to calm down. "Oh, that's precious! I have to tell
Martha about this!"
The little black hat, she whispered, was a yarmulke; the
salesmen there were Hassidic Jews. I blushed, feeling like
a complete country idiot again. She chuckled over it until
she left for work. "You're such fun, Steven. I can't wait
for us to get together Wednesday." She gave me another of
her innocent pecks as she left.
Soon my frames were ready. I put them on, bought a new
hard case for them, and headed for the street. The new
frames felt better. The city looked better. I had made a
friend of Ronnie. I wasn't wearing those loathsome horn
rimmed gadgets. Instead of taking a bus to Martha's, I
stuffed my old tennies in my shopping bag and laced on my
new workout shoes. I broke into a jog up busy Third
Avenue. As I huffed along in the breeze, I was surprised
that no one on the street took notice. I could like New
York, I thought; I didn't seem so uneasy about myself in
New York.
I streaked up the stairs to Martha's apartment and looked
at myself and my new frames in the mirror. Not bad. The
frames were very thin, almost invisible. In the kitchen I
swallowed my midday ration of yogurt, pills, and yeast. I
took an extra dab of yeast. Settling onto the sofa with my
New York Times, I awaited Martha.
She returned late, around five-forty-five, looking
cheerless and enervated in the brown two-piece suit in
which she had been so fresh and pretty a few hours before.
I opened the door for her and grinned, wearing my new
frames. Unsmiling, she entered sluggishly and plopped her
purse onto the dining table.
I stood behind her, waiting, my new frames sitting squarely
on my face in broad daylight. "Whaddya think?" I asked
the back of her bobbed head.
She turned around and looked directly into my eyes, and
leaned close to me, and then put her hands on my shoulder
and, gazing intently at my mouth, pushed me backward
against the wall and pressed full length against me. She
held my face in her hands. "What do I think of what?" she
asked distractedly, her lips coming closer to mine, her
eyelids hooded sensually.
"The frames," I said.
Ignoring the frames, she raised one hand and gently touched
my lips. She murmured throatily, softly, "Outstanding."
"You didn't look," I said.
"Yes I did, they're gorgeous. Steven, I hate the New York
City education establishment. I hate the politics, the
shortsightedness. But I love your mouth. I've been
thinking about your mouth all day." Still pressing against
me and watching my mouth, she unbuttoned her suit jacket.
I had not expected her to be so direct, willing, and ready
after a day of work. I cleared my throat. "I learned what
a yarmulke was."
"You did? You gonna start wearing one?" She slipped the
jacket off her shoulders and let it slither to the floor
without looking.
"And had a nice talk with Ronnie."
Gently she wedged one leg between my thighs. "Fiore didn't
wear you out, did he?"
"No, it was okay."
Her voice was soft, sultry, whispery. "Steven, I demand
that we fuck immediately."
"Right here? Now? Standing up?"
"Hmm...I didn't think of that. Can we do it standing up?"
"I guess. Horses do, don't they?"
"Not face to face."
"Well, they're horses, what do they know? I bet we could.
We've both been very resourceful so far."
"Resourceful, yes. Not necessarily lucky."
I looked at her face and she looked at my mouth and I
gathered the hem of her skirt and ran my hand up her leg.
"Careful, hon, don't tear my hose. They're so expensive."
She gave a low, small sigh as I cupped my hand between her
legs over the hose and panties. She was warm and humid.
"Here," she whispered, "I'll pull them off. You get your
pants off."
"Lucky? Why did you say 'Not necessarily lucky'?"
I heard things snapping under her skirt, and her shoulders
jerked as her hands moved under her suit. She stayed
against me, looking into my eyes and at my mouth, her lips
nearly on mine.
"I think, " she whispered as she worked, "that the parts
have to fit in a particular way, you know, for fucking to
be conducted between standing humans."
"But we're the higher species, we differ from lower animals
in our ability to stand upright."
"I think we stood up to hunt, Steven, not to fuck -- No,
don't do that."
"...Just reaching for the table lamp, so we can -- -"
"No. No seeing. Just hearing. Feeling. There's just
enough light from the window. I like to fuck in the dark."
"How wicked. You realize, you're seducing me."
"I thought standing was your idea."
"I was naive and innocent. I didn't know it would lead to
this."
She gulped when I raised her skirt and my cock grazed her
bared cunt.
"Look, you're already wet. I got you wet, didn't I? Hm,
this is getting you hot. Isn't it? And you thought it was
a silly idea. You fraud, you're as wicked as I am."
"You're one to talk, look how hard you got. Come on, get
in me... in me, hon...a little more...a little -- oh,
darn, I don't believe this."
"Don't spread your legs so wide, you get lower to the floor
and I can't reach you."
"Let me lean against the wall. Then I can open my legs a
little... try again, hon...easy...lower...Mmm. There."
"Your cunt's so hot"
"Slow, hon...This is too outrageous not to let it
last...Oh, yes ..nnn, deeper...Feel okay?"
"It's very strange, our clothes on and the only place we
can...mmf ..feel each other is where we're fucking."
"Yes, but...mm!...you can't go very deep."
"I know. No wonder horses do it the other way."
"Yeah? The mare gets down on all fours? Right?"
"Be interesting to see what they get out of it."
"I understand...ah, mm...I understand it feels very good
that way."
"Yeah? How do you know?"
"Ahhh...Ronnie."
"Ronnie likes it that way?"
"No, hon, Ronnie and I discussed it."
"I see, the two wicked witches of East 87th Street."
"Okay, let's...let's try it horsy style. Come out,
hon...oh, mmm, it's always so sad when he leaves me."
"He'll be back."
"You stay right there, little horsy. Oh, my, I got him all
wet, didn't I? Here, I'm supposed to get on my hands and
knees, right? This way...? Come on, you kneel behind me.
Push my skirt up, hon. Okay, okay wait... Steven, where'd
you go? Feel my hand back there? Huh? Where are you?
Here, horsy. Here, horsy!"
"Wait, wait...Here, let me get up against you."
"Yeah, there he is...move closer....closer, hon."
"I think you have to raise your tail a little, miss filly."
"That okay? Hm? Oh! Oh, mmmm."
"Hmmmm."
"Oh that's feels so good! So depraved. Oh, hon, are you
sure this is legal?"
"Ah...I won't tell if you won't. Mm, you're so tight and
wet this way..."
"Baby...Mmp!...Why didn't we do this before?"
"We were too busy...doing other things. Oh, it's good.
I'm out of breath already."
"All I can see under me is your balls bouncing. Oh, how
sweet. How perfectly, beautifully obscene, your balls
bouncing. Go all the way in and hold it, all the way
in...ahhhh, hold it, Steven. Oh, it's so...your balls
against me, so nice. I can just barely touch them, if I
can reach back far enough..."
"Martha...no, don't do that..."
"You don't want me to squeeze 'em? Does that feel good, if
I squeeze, just a little? They feel so heavenly in my
hands. I can't feel them like this when we fuck the other
way."
"Martha, don't squeeze..."
"Just a little? They're so fragile and warm and hairy."
"Oh, fuck."
"What are you -- are you cumming? Oh...oh that's so funny,
you're cumming, I can feet your squirt muscles."
"...mmmmm..."
"Let it cum, hon. Is it better if I move on you a little?"
"MMM!"
"Hmm, feels good when I move, huh?...Does it?...uh!..uh!,
oh, you animal...uh!...mmmm...Steven, I like this..."
"Whew! Okay. Okay. Okay, stop. Stop."
"Oh my, what a short-lived experiment. Look at you, you
look like you're ready to fall on your face. Haha, oh,
that's so funny, I never saw you cum so fast. Instant hot
Steven! You poor thing, we'll have to take this a little
slower next time. Did you like it?"
"Oh, yes, *ma'am*, yes...Very. Whew!"
"Wanna do it again?"
"Huh? Let me sit down. What?"
"Wanna do it again?"
"Whew! Okay. Right. Five minutes. No, ten."
"No, silly, after the show tonight. Oh, I have to wash up!
I'm dripping. What a lot of cum! Here, you just have a
quick nap right here on the floor and I'll hurry into the
bathroom, and after you rest a minute you can fix us a
quick sandwich or something, 'cause we won't have time to
eat out. You can make me cum when we get back, okay?"
"Whew! What? I can't hear you when you're running water
in the bathroom!"
"I thought cummin' too much made you blind, not deaf. I
said, you can make me cum when we get back. Maybe we can
even horsy fuck."
"It's doggie style, isn't it?...Whew!...Not horsy fuck."
"It's eff-yew-see-kay, hon -- horsy, doggie, froggie,
whatever. Let's do it so I can watch in the mirror.
Wouldn't that be delicious?"
"Right...Whew!...Cumma ti yi yippee yippee yay..."
After watching "West Side Story" we returned directly to
Martha's. As soon as we entered the room she had me lick
her to orgasm on the sofa with her clothes on. She came
right away. But that was hardly enough to satisfy her. We
undressed and went into the bedroom, where she closed the
bedroom door so the mirror on the door faced the bed while
we copulated doggie style.
She thought watching the mirror to be exciting for a while,
but she soon found it artificial and distracting and
preferred looking in my eyes and talking in the dark with
me on top. My back was feeling the effects of the last few
days with Martha and Fiore and the rest of New York. I
turned over and she got on top, a position we seldom used.
I directed her hips, reading her carefully to make certain
she held back long enough to build what I hoped would be a
thoroughly exhausting climax. When she started humping and
grinding on her own, I withdrew my hips and avoided
contacting her clit until I could get her going all over
again. Finally, when she was so agitated that she seemed
incoherent, I humped steadily under her until she came in a
long, gasping, whimpering finish.
She gulped and floundered on me, swallowing and sweating
and catching her breath with tiny yelps. She lay her cheek
on my chest just under my neck and breathed heavily for a
while. Soon, still slightly breathless, she raised up on
her arms.
"Whew! You think you're pretty smart, don't
you?...Whew...Holding me back like that and...driving me
crazy."
"You didn't like it?"
"Whew!...Of course I liked it!" She rose on me and looked
down into my face. "You didn't cum yet, did you?"
I shook my head no.
"Want to?"
"Yes."
"Now? Hmm? You wanna cum now?""
I lay still, strongly suspecting something was up.
"Well..." I stumbled.
She grinned devilishly. "So, you wanna cum now, huh??"
"Perhaps I made a slip in judgement..."
"Yeah?"
"...and drew things out a little."
"Yeah? A little?" She began moving on me, ever so
slightly, most of it internal and secret. She smiled
greedily. "Think you might have miscalculated?"
"I may have, uh, yes, miscalculated. 'S possible."
"Uh-huh." Knowing I was already hard as a rock, she made a
tiny motion inside her somewhere that deftly squeezed the
entire length of my sensitized and swollen knob.
I jerked. "Oh!"
"Hit the spot, huh?"
"God, I think so."
"Oh, I'm so glad I found it." She did it again and grinned
triumphantly when I jerked once more. "Think you're gonna
cum? Hm?"
"Well..."
"Think so?" She raised on her elbows again, looking down
to watch my wet, distended shaft. She lifted until the
snug ring of her opening barely encircled the ridge of my
tip, and held there. "Not yet..."
I whimpered and gasped. Suspended over me, she started
squeezing my tip rhythmically. I moaned and tensed.
"Not ye-e-et," she sang, her face near mine. She pulsed
slowly and methodically as she settled onto me, an inch at
a time, pausing for several squeezes before lowering
another inch. After a long minute of this routine she
breathed a deep, wobbly sigh and imbedded me in her to my
root, her pubic fuzz tickling my tummy as she settled and
then circled her hips. She contracted, watched my face,
and contracted again. my cock leapt yearningly inside her.
"Don't cum," she whispered. Then she began moving,
watching my face and smiling as she rose and fell slowly,
taking about two seconds to rise and two seconds to fall.
"Don't cum," she said again, "It feels too good right now."
She worked on me in exactly that way for about ten minutes,
never changing her pace or the depth of her stroke. Or
maybe it was five minutes. Or maybe it was half an hour.
Or maybe I have no idea how long it went on. "Not yet,"
she chanted coyly as she continuously caressed my face with
one tender finger. Now and then she urged her cunt a
little lower as she engulfed me, knowing that I now could
feel her cervix at my tip, her smile widening each time I
tensed and gasped at the sensation.
Finally, when she saw that my entire body had gone rigid as
a lamppost, she began kissing me softly on my eyes, face,
and neck.
"Ready?" she taunted.
"...Yes," I groaned, sounding as if I were someone speaking
on the other side of the room. Was this my voice? My legs
stretched so tautly that I imagined they approached the far
wall beyond my feet.
"Your balls nice and tight?"
"...Yes..."
She continued, her hands cradling my face, her lips bare
centimeters from mine.
"It'll feel so good, Steven...it'll feel so good."
I trembled. Her words and movements had me in a strange,
new, unimaginably erotic galaxy. I knew I had some cum
left down there, somewhere. Where was it? I searched
frantically for the elusive source of the orgasm I
desperately needed lest I lose all control and start making
absurd cries and noises. I feared everyone in the building
would hear me if I didn't cum soon. But her crooning and
her writhing, sliding cunt obliterated everything except
wildly panting, arching, trembling sensation. I stiffened
and arched and thought damn she's so good at this and I
quivered and I...
Squirted. Once. Twice. Hot. Strong.
"Yes," she whispered.
Martha, I thought. And I squirted.
"Yes," she whispered again. "Yes..."
I whimpered, floating out of the dark place of pure
pleasure like flotsam rising to the top and bobbing on the
surface.
I felt her face grinning with her cheek against mine and
heard her chuckle near my ear. "There," she crooned,
"There, baby." Her hips slowed and stopped. She held me
securely inside her and stroked my face. I blinked and
opened my eyes. She wore an amused, self-satisfied little
smile.
"Gotcha," she whispered.
"Whew!" I had a mustache of salty sweat above my lip. I
removed it with a finger.
"Didja like that?"
I pushed my hair out of my face and shrugged, nudging my
lip forward nonchalantly while gasping for air. "It was,
you know...okay."
"It was the best, wasn't it?"
I looked into her eyes, seriously. "Yes, it was. You
fucked my brains out."
"Have any cum left?" She kept eyeing me, but her mind was
on her inner muscles, which closed on me once or twice.
"Not only do I not have any more cum, I don't have toenails
anymore."
"C'mon, after a cum like that I want to hear you say
something deliciously dirty to me in gratitude."
"Hmm."
"C'mon." She squeezed.
I looked at her. Her eyes studied mine mischievously. I
stroked her hair. "Go ahead," I whispered. "Milk me with
your cunt. Get all of it."
"Yeah..."
"Every drop."
"Yes..."
"There," I grunted, blinking. "You got some."
"I Did"
"Yes."
"Any more?"
"I don't think so."
"Sure?"
I nodded.
Her lips glistened. Her eyes smoldered. "God, I love this
with you."
Continued...
Wanna more porn stories? >
http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html