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From: IncestMan <incestman@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.incest,alt.sex.incest,alt.sex.stories,alt.stories.incest
Subject: Story "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" part 3B
Date: Sun, 26 Jun 2005 12:12:46 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/taboo.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 3B
For several weeks I saw Martha Jane only now and then as she walked
across the grounds on her way in or out of the project. She caught
sight of me once from a couple of blocks away and smiled and waved and
yelled Hi.
Meanwhile, it seems my Mom and future step-dad had gone through a
brief spat. They started dating again a few weeks later. But my sitter
was not Martha Jane. In fact, I had two different sitters at first. The
first must not have been very interesting, as I have absolutely no
recollection of who they were or how they looked. The identity of the
second sitter is also a blank, but I recall that I spent the evening
not at home but in the sitter's apartment, across the driveway and at a
slight angle from my own building. Through their back kitchen window
that night I could see the back door that led to my own apartment. And
just to the left was the apartment where Martha Jane and her family
lived. At one point that night I saw her in her kitchen; there was no
mistaking that pretty face and frizzy auburn hair. I waved to her. Of
course, she didn't see me. I went back later and waited for a while but
she didn't show again. And by the time the sitter walked me back across
the driveway back home, all the lights were out in Martha Jane's place.
When I had not seen her for several more days I bumped into her
accidentally just as I was going out the front door on my way to
school. She came outside at the same time with her schoolbooks under
her arm.
"Hey, hon," she sang as she locked her door. She beamed at me and gave
me her best Southern twang. "Where've you been, sugar?"
"where've-you-been-too," I mimicked playfully.
"Well," she went on, making a silly face, "Where YOU been?"
"Well," I said in the same way, "Where YOU been?"
She laughed and gave a mild go-away wave with her free hand. "Oh,
silly!" She shook her head. She was wearing a long plaid, pleated skirt
and a white blouse. I very clearly remember that morning and how she
looked; bright, clean, basic, unpretentious, very very pretty in a
simple, uncomplicated way.
We walked a few blocks together. I noticed she seemed to be getting
thinner. She also looked tired, but cheerful. It turned out she had
been working very hard in school and was overly anxious to do well.
"You wouldn't know about that yet," she said, "you're barely in the
third grade."
"What grade are you in?" I asked.
"The umpteenth, feels like."
Umpteenth was our private code that meant something akin to forever or
infinity.
"I'm coming over Saturday," she said. She had stopped and seemed
serious and looked steadily at me without moving.
I said, "Oh. Okay!" and beamed at her. She kept looking at me in the
same mysterious way. I didn't know why she wasn't saying anything. She
seemed concerned, apprehensive.
"Well," she said after a minute and a short breath, "I am *supposed*
to stay with you Saturday night, anyway."
I did not know what she was getting at or what was going on, or why
she emphasized the word "supposed". I do remember the moment clearly. I
became very tense; I felt suddenly distant from her and didn't know
what was wrong.
She asked me pointedly, "Are we still friends, hon?"
"Sure we are," I said.
"I mean...are we still really, really friends?"
I blushed. "Your my own special, very only, very umpeenthdegree
friend."
"And you're my special little man, hon," she said, but she wasn't
smiling, except weakly, sympathetically.
We talked a little more, I don't remember what we said. She seemed
absent-minded. It was not until Saturday night that I discovered what
she was thinking.
It was all quite complicated. At least, it was for Martha Jane. As an
adult I now understand, but as a 9-year-old I could not fathom it. I
viewed things more simplistically.
Next Saturday, Martha Jane and I sat and talked after she made dinner
and after we cleaned the dishes. Then she studied on the sofa a while.
She asked me a series of seemingly unrelated questions, none of which I
remember. She was not as openly affectionate as usual and seemed
remote, though not at all cold.
Our exchanges were brief and rather formal. She asked me about some
uncles of mine who had not returned from the war, and she asked if I
ever saw my Uncle frank-- -my father's brother and one of the few male
relatives in my family who had survived and returned home. I told her
that Uncle Frank had not seen me since he finished his last hitch in
the Air Corps and decided to come back to the States and go to college
on the GI Bill. I told her about his getting wounded in a B-26 in the
Pacific a few years ago and how he pulled up his pants leg and showed
me the pink scars of the three healed bullet holes in his lower thigh.
She winced, making an "Ugh" face. She said firmly, "I don't want to
hear about it. I've heard enough about the war."
So I didn't say any more. I sat on the floor watching her, trying to
figure out how to get through to her.
Martha Jane announced, "My Uncle Joe died, you know."
"Yeah," I said, "Mama told me."
"He was sick for so long, from his war wounds. He lived longer than we
thought he would, but...It was hard on Mother. That's two men the war
took from her, her husband and her brother." She stared ahead
pensively, then blinked awake. "Well. Enough of that."
I said earnestly from across the room, "I'm real sorry, Martha Jane."
She smiled weakly. "Thank you, hon. I know you are. It'll be alright."
She looked back at her book and began scribbling in her notepad.
For a long time-- -perhaps for most of the evening, it seems-- she
pored over her studies and remained unresponsive.
Later that night I felt she was still mourning, despite saying she
would get over it. I had seen a whole neighborhood full of hurt, tragic
people: widows, the disabled and the paralyzed, the shot-up and the
abandoned of the War. I had seen my mom's sister, my young and
plain-looking Aunt Martha, when she came to our apartment once in the
middle of the night, pounding on our front door and screaming for help
until she woke us. My mom scrambled out of bed and I stood in the
hallway watching from the bedroom as Mom opened the front door for Aunt
Martha, who rushed sobbing into the living room and collapsed in a
wailing heap on the sofa. Her husband had beaten her again. Mom and
Aunt Martha tried to hide the bloodied bruises from me, but I had
already seen them on Aunt Martha's face and arms and I knew what the
marks meant without being told. Seeing her, I wanted to cry and throw
my arms around her-- -even though she was, unfortunately, one of those
adults I didn't trust. She was even more grimly puritanical and prim
than my Mom, and a fundamentalist who considered everything an occasion
for sin of some kind. But I understood her pain, both physical and
emotional, without having it explained to me.
That night occurred some years earlier, when I had just turned 6. The
commotion woke up Martha Jane's family next door. She and her sister
Evelyn came over in their robes and pajamas and Martha Jane went
straight over to me because my mother panicked and was rasping, "Get
Speedy out of here, get him out of here!" Martha Jane led me to
bedroom, where I looked up at her and whispered so the others wouldn't
hear, "I already saw it."
She looked down at me. "You did what, hon?"
I repeated, looking back to make sure the others couldn't hear us, "I
already saw it, Martha Jane. I saw what happened."
Martha Jane knelt down to me in her rumpled bathrobe and looked into
my eyes with her deep, striking green ones. "Then," she said eyeing me
seriously, "you understand what happened."
I nodded. Then I added, so the others wouldn't hear, "Uncle Bobby hurt
her again."
We were alone in the room. I could still see in my mind the earlier
glimpse of Aunt Martha's bloody lip and the dark bulging eye, the
blue-black on one of her arms. I started crying. I could not stop the
tears from falling down my face, despite my attempts at remaining calm.
"Oh, honey," Martha Jane implored, "don't get scared and start crying,
now."
"I'm not scared," I sniffled. "I know how Aunt Martha hurts. It makes
me cry."
"You-- -" Her eyes looking into mine softened and seemed to turn to
mush. "Oh, you sweet baby!"
"Why does he do that to her?"
"I don't know, hon. But you are so sweet. So very sweet."
She closed the bedroom door, shutting us off from the sobbing and
wailing in the living room, and put me back into bed. She told me it
would all be okay in the morning and she understood my feelings. She
sat on the bed and said I shouldn't feel bad about not being with the
others and she really didn't want me to feel as though I were being
"locked away" in the room. She said, "I'll stay in here with you for a
while if you want, okay? So you won't be all by yourself?"
I told her, "It's okay if I stay in here, 'cause I know Aunt Martha. I
know how she is. She doesn't want us staring at her, she feels all ugly
and everything. I'll stay here so she won't feel ashamed. But...they
don't have to yell at me. They're always hiding everything and acting
like I won't understand."
"No, hon. They're just scared, that's all. They're upset." She stroked
my head. She told me she would come back later and that she would tell
my Aunt Martha about my concern for her. But I said, "No, don't tell
her that."
"But why not, hon.? I know she'd appreciate it."
"I don't want you to."
"But, Speedy...honey, why not? What's wrong?"
"I don't...want...you...to."
"But, hon...?"
"'Cause every time she sees me, she'll be embarrassed. She'll remember
tonight. That's the way she is."
I don't know how long Martha Jane sat looking at me, stroking my hair,
with that amazed look on her face. Finally she said, "I have to go in
there and help. You sure you'll be alright?"
"Yes."
She sighed and rose and went to the door, but before going out she
leaned inside and blew me a kiss. "You're my little man from now on,
hon," she said, and closed the door.
That night had taken place some years before and was one of the very
early incidents that had so endeared me to Martha Jane, and her to me.
Now it was a few years later. And Martha Jane had become more than just
a neighbor. More than a friend. And now I saw that she was the one who
seemed hurt. Or, at best, worried about something.
I didn't know what to do about it. I was good at clowning, though, and
I wondered how I could make her laugh. At 9 o'clock she hustled me into
the bathroom (no bubble-bath this time. I was getting a little "too
old" for that) and she stayed in the living room while I bathed. I
dried off and straightened the room, and peeked around the door into
the living room. She was on the sofa, studying intensely. But I did see
a crumpled Kleenex in her hand, and her eyes had reddened.
An wave of empathy had me almost crying with her. There was a
curtain-covered closet in the hallway between the bath and the bedroom.
It could not be seen from where Martha Jane sat on the sofa. I got out
of the tub, dried off, and went rummaging in the closet, looking for a
funny idea. Martha Jane heard me kicking around.
"Speedy, I thought you were going to bed," she called.
"Just lookin' for somethin'," I called back. I found my six-shooter
outfit in there, and a cowboy hat. I put on my mom's dress with my
six-guns and holsters on backward. I had seen enough John Wayne movies
to be able to do a fairly acceptable imitation of the guy. I donned
this outfit and tied toy spurs loosely on my ankles. Pulling the brim
of the hat down low over my eyes, I walked into the living room. I
looked ridiculous. I stood there while she had her face in her book. It
was a minute before she realized I was there, and when she finally
looked up I yelled out in my best John Wayne voice.
"Howdy, pil-grum!"
She blinked. Her mouth fell wide open and she covered it with the
Kleenex. I strutted across the room with big stomping John Wayne steps.
"pardon me, ma-uhm, but...this town ain't big for thah two of us. One
of us has...got tah go."
She laughed in her oh-my-god, head-shaking way, not a big laugh but
several breathy intakes. She blurted out, "Do you intend to sleep in
that outfit?"
"Why, yes'm" I said, still John Wayne. With my thumb over my shoulder
I indicated an imaginary object behind me. "Just me and... muh horse,
over there."
"Oh, no," she said. "You are so cute." She wiped one eye with a corner
of the Kleenex, trying to hide her red eyes. I think she knew I
couldn't possibly have missed the gesture, but she kept up the effort.
She said, "I have something in my eye, hon. You go on and get ready for
bed. Go on, now, it's late."
"Well...okay," I said, disappointed that I hadn't accomplished very
much. I walked back to the closet with one of my aluminum toy spurs
dragging uselessly off one foot, and removed my silly gear and stored
it back in the closet. As I was doing so, I saw Martha Jane turning
back the bedclothes in the bedroom. I undressed down to the underwear
that I usually slept in and crawled into bed. Martha Jane fluffed the
pillows and turned off the lamp. She stood by the bed.
"You ready to go to sleep now, cowboy?"
"Right, ma-yum."
She was silent. She looked at the floor. I saw her eyes water. She was
dark against the dim light shedding in from the living room.
"You never met your daddy, did you, hon? You never saw him. He got
killed over there before you ever knew who he was."
I didn't know what to say to that. Every relative I encountered-- -and
there were many of them in my huge family-- -mentioned my dead father
at every visit, every Mass, every picnic, every Bingo game, every damn
holiday dinner. Now Martha Jane was doing it. I was not angered by it,
but I did find myself unable to understand this constant lingering over
the memory of dead men I never knew.
Martha Jane went on quietly. "My daddy was killed in the war, too. He
was one of 'em, too, that...died, got killed." She took a deep, wobbly
breath, and sighed. "I guess you're lucky, Speedy, you never knew your
daddy, but I knew mine. I used to..." She stopped again, breathed
deeply, and when she started again her voice had cracked and broken up.
"I used to see him all the time. Every day. So you don't know what that
is, when some Army sergeant you never saw before-- -" and she began
talking and crying at the same time-- "shows up at the door with a
letter-- -"
She suddenly crumpled and fell to her knees, her hands on her head,
which was cradled on the edge of the bed. She cried her heart out, not
wailing, but heaving in long, wrenching, childlike sighs. "I miss him!
Oh, I miss him! Why isn't he here to help us?"
Instantly I went to her, squatting on the bed and holding her head,
the only part of her I could reach. She cried and cried and cried. I
didn't know what to say, but I did know to hold her and stroke her
hair. Eventually she calmed down, and returned my hug with a long tight
embrace of her arm around one of mine. With a long sigh, she reached up
to the night table for another Kleenex and sat on the floor, drying her
eyes and looking up at me.
"You knew I was thinkin' something, didn't you cowboy?"
I nodded.
"You...are one little smart-ass," she said, blowing her nose. She
sniffed loudly. "You know what a smart-ass is?"
"I think so."
"Well you are one sweet smart-ass. Now, c'mon..." She stood up and
started tucking things in again. "I'm done now, I got it outta my
system and it's a-a-all over with. You get yourself to sleep. C'mon,
John Wayne."
"Martha Jane?" I began. I had not told her what I desperately wanted
to tell her.
"Yes, hon?"
"I... uh... Hmmm." I scratched my head.
She came closer to the bed. "What is it, big boy?"
"I still never..."
"Mm-hm, okay, you still never. You still never what?"
"I never told anybody what we did together."
She stood deadly still and silent, looking toward the floor, hands on
her hips. She pursed her lips and made another sniffle. She didn't say
anything. I thought I had offended her.
"I mean...," I went on carefully, "in case you were worried about
that. I mean, at first I thought that's what...you were worried about."
She said, "Oh." She neither moved nor looked at me. "Oh," she said
again. "That."
"I just wanted you to know," I said, shrinking from her and back into
the bed.
She shook her head, seemed to ponder deeply. Abruptly she left the
room. I lay there numb, figuring I had somehow pissed her off in the
worst way. Then the living room light went out. The only light in the
room was moonlight falling on the bed. I heard Martha Jane walking
toward the bedroom. I turned and could barely see her at first, but
soon she appeared in the dim light of the moon beside the bed.
She said sternly, "C'mere, Speedy."
I crawled to the edge of the bed. She was wearing dark clothes, a blue
blouse and a ruffled blue skirt. All I could see were her eyes.
"You are one smart little boy," she said. "Yes, I was worried about
that. I wanted my daddy to get me out of trouble, I thought I was in
trouble about that." She paused and said something, almost to herself,
something I would be able to understand only years later. "I am goin'
to hell. We're both goin' to hell."
She then reached out and pulled me to her by one hand, she standing by
the bed with me on my knees near the edge. She looked deeply into my
eyes briefly, and then hugged me tightly. There was something serious
and desperate, rather than playful, in the way she clasped me to her.
So I made no moves on my own. I simply let myself be held, my arms
draped loosely around her neck. When she made no response after a
moment I gave her a hug and waited. But she stood unmoving beside the
bed, silent, enfolding me closely with one arm around my back and the
other cradling my head into her neck and shoulder.
With my face in her neck I was unable to see hers in the dark, but I
could tell that she was looking down at the floor silently for a very,
very long time, perhaps for almost two minutes. During that time I very
lightly stroked her back and then put my own hand on the back of her
neck to let her know that I would wait, wait for her to stop thinking
or whatever it was she was doing in that long wordless minute in the
dark.
She moved her lips; faintly I heard them part, and she took in a small
breath as if to speak, but she stopped. I waited for her in the
darkness around us. Her eyelashes flicked once, and I knew she was
looking past my shoulder, across the bed, out into the moonlit window
behind me. Her lashes flicked again against my cheek, and she looked
down once more, breathing. She parted her lips again and they made a
mildly dry, sticking sound. And she breathed and waited and waited, as
if something from deep inside her were slowly, slowly struggling to the
find a place in her breathing and in her voice. She looked down. She
swallowed. Hard.
"Hon?" she began, tentatively, barely audible. Her lips were so close
to my ear I could feel the moisture of her breath on my earlobes. "Do
you want to be nasty with me?"
My head buried in her neck, I nodded slowly.
She paused again, and again I heard her lips part dryly near my ear.
She continued, softly. "Do you mind if I say it's nasty but I want us
to do it anyway?"
"I don't mind."
"I mean...I mean I know and you know that everybody says it's wrong
and we're not supposed to do it, but...I want to anyway. I want you to
understand: I know it's nasty...but that's why I like it. And I don't
understand it."
"But I like it too," I whispered back.
Again she hesitated before she relaxed her arms and held me more
loosely. "Good," she whispered in my ear. "Good." She stroked my back
for a moment and gave my head in her neck a brief affectionate hug.
Then her fingers were at the front of my underwear. She tried to find
her way into the slit but couldn't, so she pushed her hand gently under
the top band.
She whispered, "Your dick, hon...", and soon her fingers found me and
wrapped around me warmly. "...there he is..." She hugged my cock
gently. Then she murmured so softly I could barely hear, even though
her lips were still against my ear: "I like it too, hon. I can't help
it. We're so much alike."
Continued...
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