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From: IncestMan <incestman@graffiti.net>
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Subject: Story "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" part 2B
Date: Sun, 26 Jun 2005 12:09:01 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/taboo.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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