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From: Incest Man <familyincestfamilyincest@yahoo.com>
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 13E
Date: Sun, 13 Aug 2006 00:20:42 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 13E
I blinked. The room was black. The candle was out.
Vaguely, I heard distant sparrows. Vaguely, I felt a warm,
small, still hand resting on my cheek, barely touching my
skin. I saw lips near my face, and a face so close to mine
that my sleepy eyes couldn't focus on it. Before I saw any
features or sensed any other signals, I knew the face and
hand were Martha's. I was on my back but leaning slightly
to my right, my right arm slung across the bed toward the
night table at the right of the bed. The only thing I
could see clearly in the black room was the luminous dial
on the clock. It was five minutes after five.
Without a word, Martha lay on her side, close to me, one
soft, relaxed nipple on my right shoulder. I closed my
eyes again, drifting in and out of sleep as my drowsy brain
tried to put the room back together. Her left arm cradled
my head into her shoulder. Her length lay snuggled along
my right side, her tuft warm and crinkly against my right
hip, her right leg draped around my right thigh. I settled
fully onto my back and her face turned and looked into
mine. She said nothing. Her only movement was the slow
grazing of a finger across my forehead. She repeated the
motion over and over. I felt her eyes gazing at my face,
then felt her head move as she looked toward the window
when a small gust ruffled the curtains, and then she looked
into my face again. I opened my eyes briefly and found her
gazing at me: a warm, calm, caring, sisterly gaze. I
closed my eyes again and wondered if this part of the long
night were a dream. The lust that earlier drenched the
room had evaporated. The room was a still, silent
peacefulness. I floated, feeling only Martha's heat
against me and her leg over mine and her finger on my
forehead. Time passed. Her right hand that had stroked my
forehead now cradled my cheek, her thumb softly rubbing my
left eyebrow. My eyes closed. I felt the warmth of her
face close to mine and felt her gaze. Her thumb made love
to my eyebrow, carefully, soothingly. Then her thumb
stilled and her hand pressed my cheek almost imperceptibly,
and her very warm, moist, soft lips fit themselves
perfectly to mine -- a strangely non sexual, unwanting
kiss, a simple touching. She did this several times,
lifting her head and then matching her lips to mine. And
then her lips stayed, pressing slightly. A genuine, easy,
affectionate kiss. She lifted her face again and touched
her lips to my cheek, nose, eyelids, and then down my other
cheek and across my jaw line and then around my neck. No
demands. No urgency. Only a touch of her lips. And this,
too, she repeated, and then again. There was a pause and I
felt her gazing and heard her breathing calmly and she
seemed to be not gazing, but watching, waiting. And then
her lips on mine again, but this time more wetly, more
warmly, and it was more a kiss than a touch, her own lips
slightly parted and wetter now, and she pressed her lips to
mine but, at the same time, she didn't press; she skimmed
her inner lips across my lips. And for a long time that
way she made gentle love to my mouth with hers. And then
her mouth met mine and the nipping and light puffing kisses
began, trailing down my neck and onto my right shoulder,
then across my throat and onto my left shoulder, her lips
opening and her tongue touching my flesh but not moving,
remaining there, tasting, giving, and I let my head fall to
the right and blinked. The clock said five twenty-nine.
She withdrew her tongue, lifting her head, and stroked the
spot on my shoulder that her tongue had warmed, and then
her tongue returned, and the small, soft kisses returned,
across my nipples, pinching me ever so slightly. Then her
shoulders moved and her right hand stroked my left waist
and her lips moved downward, her head dipping gently and
sweetly, and she kissed so lightly and so quietly that I
heard nothing but her breathing. She made wide circles on
me, circles that became slowly smaller, a mouth that became
slowly wetter, and the circle started above my navel and
swung around my left hip and across the top of my right
thigh and then across the left thigh and then around my
left hip and back to the spot above my navel. And the
kisses never changed but the circle became smaller and
smaller. After a long time the circle was only a few
inches around my softened cock. I blinked again and the
clock said five fifty one. Inexplicably, her mouth seemed
lustless, angelic, motherly, innocent. She merely touched,
and loved. And then the circle was smaller and the slow,
infrequent kisses moved into my pubic curls and then to my
cock, and a few seconds passed between each kiss as she
touched them to my sleeping shaft, from the bottom and
slowly to the top, then down. And then she stopped, and
nestled closer, bringing her head over my loins, and I
looked down and saw her gazing at my cock, her left hand
circling and then holding it with only an inch of the
awakening tip above her thumb, and she seemed to study this
sight with a gentle, girlish pout. And then she lowered
her head and licked my tip. She gazed again, the same way
as before, and still holding me she made a little 'o' with
her lips and circled my tip with her inner lips and gently
tongued the slit, and she did this for several seconds.
Then she removed her hand and her lips and started all over
again, above my navel, in a wide circle. And she closed
the circle slowly, and kissed up and down my listlessly but
gradually responding shaft, which ached from its earlier
striving. And then the lick, and then her wet lips gently
mothering my tip. All the while, there was no demand, no
hunger. Only a learning, a knowing, a loving. I looked at
the clock. Six seventeen. I thought: only Martha could do
this. Only Martha would think of this. Only Martha could
love in a way that was flaming lust and, later, angelic
nurturing.
Now her lips at my tip opened. Slowly, not inch by inch
but millimeter by millimeter, her lips sunk down and her
mouth enclosed me. The only sound in the room was her
breathing through her nose. After, it seems, three
minutes, she engulfed my half-hardness completely. And
then it was another three minutes, it seemed, while her
mouth and tongue rose back to the top, and then her inner
lips and her tongue swabbed me gently, and her mouth let me
go. And she continued to hold me and she gazed at me while
she swallowed and she settled closer. And then she did the
same thing all over again. And after she had gone through
the same, unhurried enclosing for the fourth time, I was
rigid and hard and good as new, saying hello to the roof of
her mouth with a feeble pulse now and then, especially on
the down stroke. The rest of me was torpid and slow, but
my cock reached skyward. Now I was slick with her, and
after she removed her mouth her cupping hand enclosed me
and stroked me easily, loosely, slowly, and she watched,
calm, unhurried, serenely pleased as I grew in her hand.
And then the soft, subtle sucking began. One suck, two,
three, and then her lips would gently enclose and wetly
swathe the sensitized tip, circling slowly. And never a
hurry, never seeking more, never a thought of the next
moment, but always a slow, moist lingering in the present.
Then I surmised what she was doing. As I had done in the
streets, she was memorizing. She seem to nurse, protect,
savor, and record each moment, each sensation, each
response. Her eyes never left my cock. And as she saw my
hardened shaft pulse, the glimmerings of a satisfied smile
crossed her face, and she lifted up and put her hands
astride my head and her knees astride my chest, and she
raised onto her arms and looked down between us and
centered her middle over mine and, carefully, she lowered
herself and pressed my cock against my stomach and settled
on me with the top half of my cock nestled in her tuft and
the lower half cradled in her humid slit. Then she settled
onto her elbows and arranged her nipples on mine, and she
hugged her body against me, and hugged her elbows into me,
and hugged her knees into me, and held my face. Her lips
hovered over mine briefly. Her eyes fluttered and closed
and she whispered with a soft, almost religious hush,
"Baby. My baby." And then she kissed my mouth. Fully,
her lips pressing and gliding, her tongue slithering.
Without hunger, without yearning. But with patient need
and relish.
Her lips left mine. Rising again, she looked down the
length of us and I looked down and watched and she watched
as she carefully raised her belly and allowed my cock to
stand. She lifted a little higher, and her slick outer
lips found my tip, and circled it, and she let her sticky
outer ring caress and then enfold my tip, as the lips of
her mouth had done, and she raised and lowered, minutely,
barely visibly, and her outer lips kissed and bathed my
tip. My cock yawed and greeted her, and nestled to her. I
heard her steady, concentrated breathing, and my own broken
sighs. I rested my hands on her circling hips and let my
head fall back, and enjoyed not the lust but the love, the
pleasure of being learned, intimately mothered, befriended
and pleased. Each movement, each pleasure, each moment was
its own. There seemed to be no impatience for whatever was
next. Her cunt caressed my tip for a while, and she
lifted, her breath mildly irregular as her slit
relinquished me, and I felt a thick, warm drop from inside
her, whose source could only have been my cumming inside
her earlier, that trickled onto my tip and teared downward
and then onto my tummy.
And then with a quiver in her breath she contacted my tip
again, this time sliding her wet opening along my shaft
until I felt the tip of her firming clit slide along my
flesh. She nudged my tip and, still looking down, massaged
my slit with her clit, around, up and down, and her breath
quickened. She wetted and pleasured her clit on me for a
moment, and then she raised again, and her slit clung to my
tip and my cock was lifted straight up. And with a long
sigh through her nose and a serious, intent pout, she
lowered and then engulfed me fully, and ground her belly
benignly on me. Relaxing onto her elbows, she brought her
face close to mine again, and tenderly held my face between
her palms, and kissed me. Then, her breathing broken only
by small, occasional gasps of pleasure, she started fucking
me languidly.
Or, I should say, made love to me and paused just long
enough to memorize every move, every response, every
sensation. Her eyes closed, her mouth calmly set, she rose
and fell on me with apparent relish and care and
concentration. When my breath quickened and my cock
lurched in her, she stopped, paused, and raised her tummy
and looked down again. And started over, from the first
loving swab with her outer lips, and then to the nudging
and sliding of her clit, and then to envelopment, and then
fucking.
And again she did that, and again. And on the fifth
effort, I felt her back tense and curl, and she didn't
pause in sliding her clit along my shaft. She gasped, and
her face near mine breathed with a short, broken,
quickening rhythm, and she closed her eyes and her lips
tightened and she frowned as if deep in concentration, and
her clit on me was as firm and taut as a sparrow's beak,
and her juice flowed on me and she came, quietly, with a
long trembling sigh, and her hands tightened on my face,
and her arms shook, and then she pressed her clit against
my cock and paused, and quivered, and jerked with a small,
low-pitched, clipped "Hm!" from deep in her throat, and
then another pause and a long quiver and a jerk and a then
"Hm!", and then again, and still another, and then she
slumped with a long, wobbly exhalation, and then she raised
on her hands again and swallowed hard and whimpered, and
she rested for a brief while her breathing slowed.
Then she looked down between us, aimed, enfolded me,
relaxed on her elbows at my sides, and held my face
tenderly. And began again.
It was nearly seven before I found the strength to climax.
Finally, the blissful agony began. I felt the first twitch
in my tired balls. Martha looked down, and slowed, but
kept going. Her inner cunt milked me on each upstroke.
And I thought: How does she know? How does she know? I
spouted. Thin, watery squirts were all I could manage.
But it was warm, eager, leaping high into her like salmon.
I kept cumming after my weak, empty tubes had given their
last, and I heaved and panted and my shaft continued to
pulse. I think I made a loud noise but I couldn't hear
myself. The long orgasm was poignant and tight and deep.
She milked me snugly and let me wander in my cumming for as
long as I could.
Then she melted into me everywhere. She closed her elbows
and her knees and her arms on me and her torso pressed into
me and she became a mothering cocoon around me, and she
kissed me passionately. She stroked my hair and kissed my
face. She whispered, "Baby. Baby."
After lunch and packing, we took a brief stroll along the
river near Gracie Mansion. I leaned on a railing and
looked toward the city and down the line of the promenade
into Manhattan.
"Will I see this again?" I asked.
"Oh, of course you will," she said. She stood behind me,
her short hair rustling in the breeze, and put her arms
around me and folded them around my chest. She spoke,
then, more than she had spoken all morning. She spoke
clearly, slowly, her voice raised barely above the sounds
of the breeze, the rustling trees, and the flowing river.
"Hon, you may be only five-foot-seven and wear glasses, and
you look sweet and innocent...but you have a great power
inside you. You have an intensity that is...consuming, and
almost frightening. I know you do, because I've seen it,
I've felt it. And I know you do, Steven, because I have it
in me, too. This week, I knew what I probably always
knew...That intensity has bound us for a long time. I
discovered that if I couldn't express it with you, I felt
smothered. And when we smother ourselves, that intensity
controls us and it makes us do things we should never,
never do. Being mean to each other in so many subtle,
hidden ways. And being too nice for too long until one of
us explodes. Taking, without knowing we're taking.
Or...making promises we have no way of keeping. Steven,
don't let them smother you back home. When you're
smothered, your strength becomes rage, it becomes hatred.
It can be so very cruel. But you're too outwardly kind,
and you don't turn that cruelty and rage onto others. You
turn it against yourself. Don't smother yourself, hon.
Understand yourself. Use it, the way you told me you want
to. Don't go back to the way you were, or you're going to
hate yourself, and your needs will turn against you. Or
even against me. If nothing else, when I see you again I
want you the way you are right here, today."
She hugged me from behind. "That's my last speech, cowboy.
Last lecture for the semester. You ready to go?"
"No," I said.
"I know, hon. Come on."
Martha and Ronnie and I in a taxi. Ronnie smiling and only
half awake, even at three in the afternoon. Martha
subdued. I pretended I didn't give a damn. We all smoked.
Martha and I and Ronnie in LaGuardia. Martha and Ronnie
talked. I paced and looked out the viewing windows, and
smoked. Time moved more quickly. The past week seemed
like only a few seconds, a few, paltry seconds. Time
rushed. It rushed into my face. I couldn't stop it. I
couldn't slow it down. The more I thought about, the
faster the clock changed.
"Announcing American Airlines flight 54 to Washington,
D.C., Atlanta, Georgia..."
"That's it," I said into the window. I strode to the seats
where Martha and Ronnie stood to hand me my carry-on bag
and my copy of the Sunday Times.
"Watch those stewardesses," Ronnie said. "I hear they're
pretty loose women."
I shook my head, pleasantly. "Ronnie, you wore me out."
She took a drag off her cigarette and grinned and exhaled.
"Eh. You can make more, right? Takes you Southern guys a
little longer, thank god."
I slung my bag around my shoulder and walked to Ronnie and
reached for a handshake. She took my hand, and then pulled
me to her and held me tight. Into my neck she said, "Thank
you, Steven. Thank you so much." She leaned back and
beamed at me. "You comin' back soon? Right?"
I said, "Nah, you'll be married."
"Yeah, right. Gimme a kiss. C'mon." I did, and she
smiled and pinched my cheek and wiggled it. "Hmm, MMM!"
I turned around and looked at Martha. My tongue froze in
my head. She smiled calmly. Her hazel eyes watered.
Martha threw Ronnie a glance, and Ronnie walked away,
waving a small bye-bye and smooching at me.
"Steven," Martha said. She pursed her lips and swallowed.
"Damn, what happened to those ten days we had a few days
ago?"
"Yeah, I know." I glanced behind me and saw the passengers
filing slowly through the exit door. I said to Martha, "I
have another minute, anyway."
"Hon," she began. She sighed and bit her lip and held her
hands behind her skirt. "Oh, there's never enough time."
"I don't know," I said. "We seem to be pretty good at
catch-up, don't we?"
"Steven, I...Steven, I don't know what to say, except...I
know you expected more..."
"I'm not expecting more," I said, gently.
She looked down at the floor. "Steven, I'm letting you
down. You're not saying it, but I know I am. But I can't
say okay if I don't mean okay, and -- "
"Hey, I thought the lectures were over for the semester."
She blushed. "Damn, you sure know how to be nice about it,
don't you? Thank you. I'm so afraid sometimes, that
you're just saying it." She kept smiling, she had to wipe
a corner of one eye. "Will you forgive me, Stephen?"
I frowned, in my best Cary Grant manner. "For what?"
She said softly, "For not giving you everything."
I sighed and glanced to see how short the line was. I
said, "Well, let's see...You didn't lie, you didn't cheat.
You helped me get rid of my pimples and you got me a great
haircut. You fixed me up with a great date and you shared
Ronnie with me. You took my ignorance and you gave me
knowledge. You, uh... You were my friend, my teacher, my
sister, even my dad and my brother. You were my mother, my
confessor, my girlfriend, my lover, and my sweetheart.
Let's see, you, uh...You gave me affection, passion, lust,
and...you gave me love." I sighed and looked up at the
ceiling, and hung my head in mock sadness. "But I guess I
just can't forgive you, Martha, for spending so much money
on that typewriter."
"Stop it, Steven," she moaned, and she held herself close
to me and then she gripped me tightly and cried a little.
She said, "Don't you dare make me cry in here, I'll slap
your face." She put her arms around me as tightly as she
could and we hugged and swayed for a minute. She
whispered, "Good-bye, Speedy. Good-bye, now. Go on." She
held herself from me. Her eyes were red, but she grinned.
"Go on, get on your plane, before my landlord finds out
about you and raises my rent."
I stared at her. "You called me Speedy?"
She blushed again, and pushed herself a little farther
back. "Do you know, when you with me early this morning,
you called me Martha Jane?" She saw the surprise on my
face, and she released her tension with a quick little
laugh. "You did. Go on, Steven. Go on, you'll miss your
plane!"
I looked at her. She backed away. Several yards beyond
her, Ronnie waved and smiled. My eyes were on Martha. My
eyes wouldn't leave her.
"Steven," she insisted, crying. "Steven, go on!" She
stopped backing away when I threw her a kiss. She waved at
me, her other hand rubbing her forehead and wiping an eye,
and I turned and started for the exit. The other
passengers had gone ahead. At the door I stopped and
looked at her again. She smiled, sadly, and she lifted a
palm and waved weakly. "Go on!"
Inside the door I showed a stewardess my tickets and
receipts. She smiled and said thank you. I went down a
short stairway and out another door. Into the sun. Onto
the walkway. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked.
Ahead, more blazing sun and blinding concrete and another
stewardess and the metal boarding ramp and the DC-4.
Ahead, Memphis.
Halfway to the plane I slowed. Why had she called me
Speedy? Why would I have to forgive her? An unseen,
ominous weight dragged me to a stop halfway down the
walkway. I waited. Three of me waited: one me behind, one
me ahead, one me watching the other two. Why did I have to
go? Why couldn't I stay where I was? I turned around to
scan the huge terminal and the dark, looming windows. I
saw only the reflection of the airplanes and the airfield.
Where was she? Why did I have to leave?
The stewardess ahead called, "We're boarding, sir."
I looked ahead, lost in the middle of the walkway. With a
friendly smile we're taking you back. Back where you came
from. Back where you started. Back to the home that isn't
a home. Back to the stifling heat and the bleeding saints,
the plastic Christs, and the old women and old men lashing
me down for a ride to a heaven that didn't exist.
"Boarding, please," she insisted nicely.
Not being myself, I took a step forward. One step farther
away. A second step, a second step farther away. Then
more steps, and farther away. One universe expanding, one
universe contracting. Myself, growing and shrinking. One
person moving forward, one moving back. Onto the ramp, my
face a pale mask of the striving within. Up the ramp.
Into the door. Down the aisle. Into my seat. I sat. I
slumped, numb. I gazed out the window, my eyes unfocused.
Soon the ground crept by, and then the ground soared by,
and then New York disappeared below the window.
One of me stayed on the ground, without provisions or hope
or sight or legs, and refused to leave.
Continued...
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