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From: IncestMan <incestman@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.incest,alt.sex.incest,alt.sex.stories,alt.stories.incest
Subject: Incest story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Ch.3D
Date: Thu, 30 Jun 2005 08:47:00 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 3D
That was a sensuous summer. Mom's relationship apparently ran smoothly
for a while and my step dad-to-be took her out not frequently but
regularly. Each time, Martha Jane would show up on time and we'd fix
dinner for each other, clean up, do a little homework, and then undress
each other in the tiny bedroom. Soon the room echoed with our sighs,
whispers, and moans of pleasure and lust. The only sex we had outside
that bedroom was the one time Martha Jane showed up at our place one
rare Saturday afternoon when I had not been shipped off to relatives
for the weekend. Martha Jane had iced tea with Mom and chatted a short
time, and told my mom she wanted me to come next door and help set up a
record player her sister Evelyn had given to Martha Jane and her mom.
She brought me to her apartment and as soon as we were inside she took
me into her bedroom. I told her I thought she wanted me to help her
with the new phonograph and she giddily and impatiently replied that
the machine was set up already and she really just wanted us to be
alone. "I don't know what's got into me today," she exclaimed, almost
visibly trembling. "I feel so nasty. God, I hope we don't get caught!"
She lay on the edge of her bed with her legs hanging over the side.
Lifting her skirt, she panted, "Finger fuck me, hon. Hurry. Somebody
might show up." I put my hand inside her waistband and finger fucked
her inside her panties. She came almost immediately. Afterwards,
nervous and fumbling, she lay me down the same way and jacked me with
my zipper open until I felt that little buzz in my cock and she pulled
a little drop out of me and licked it off. Then we straightened our
clothes and went into her living room, where she settled down. And just
in time: about ten minutes later her sister Evelyn arrived
unexpectedly. I talked with her briefly and while she was in their
kitchen making lemonade Martha Jane saw me to her door and whispered as
I left, "That was close. But it sure felt good!" Afterward she told me
we shouldn't try that sort of thing again, as the schedule in her place
was truly unpredictable and so many of her mother's friends always
popped in. And she said she never, never wanted to risk having my Mom
find out.
Had sex been the only aspect of our relationship I have little doubt
that both of us would have soon tired of this sitting routine and
sought more varied pleasures elsewhere or with someone else. But we had
a life outside the bedroom that was also special for us and that only
added to our feelings of intimacy, devotion, and pleasure in the
bedroom.
My back yard was a small patch of lawn about the size of a modern
suburban carport. It lay along the curb of the access driveway that fed
into the project from the street and led to a parking lot around the
corner of our building. Near the curb was a large black oak. We spent
several evenings there on weekdays at dusk, just after dinner, as the
long summer days ended and the stultifyingly humid Southern air turned
breezy and cool, the sky glowing purple and orange. It was there under
the heavy, leafy old oak tree that I told her about my strange dream
with the roaches. She said she had no idea why I would dream such a
thing, but she suspected the nuns had scared the hell out of me.
Martha Jane and I discussed our dreams frequently during those waning
summer days under the tree. She often dreamed of her father coming to
her in the night, but he was reduced to the size of a boy, a very small
boy almost as small as an infant. His head was bloodied and disfigured
(he had died in combat on Okinawa from head wounds). He would plead for
help, but when she rose to go to him she saw the rest of the house was
filled with more like him, thousands of them, moaning and reaching for
her. In the dream her mother made tea, oblivious to it all and
apparently deaf and unable to hear, but as she sipped her tea she said
she didn't want to hear and appeared to have gone quietly insane.
Overcome with helplessness and rage, she would wake up sweating.
She said she once had a dream about me. I was standing in a dark room
smiling at her. She said my eyes were very large and very dark, almost
gigantic, and they glowed in the dark room. As she stepped toward me
she became very small and felt faint, and suddenly I was very large and
very much older and went to her with a glass of wine, gently cradling
her head in one arm while holding the wine for her to sip. The wine was
warm and was in a small silver chalice. She said the most striking part
of the dream was my remarkably dark eyes that seemed to fill the room.
They were kind and endearing, but there was something frightening and
ruthless about them as well.
Across the access driveways were the small back yards of the building
directly behind ours. I never knew our backdoor neighbors personally.
Occasionally I'd look out our kitchen door and see one of the neighbor
ladies standing in her kitchen and talking with Martha Jane across the
driveway.
One of those neighbors, a Mrs. Johnson, would open her back door each
evening just before dark and carefully slip her bathrobe draped,
paraplegic husband in his wheelchair down the three or four concrete
steps into their back yard. She would make him comfortable there on
their little patch of grass, read the newspapers to him, or tune a
station on their small brown GE portable that rested on the ground
between his wheelchair and her aluminum lawn chair. Many afternoons,
Martha Jane and I sat on the curb and watched this ritual. We would say
hello to Mrs. Johnson and to Mr. Johnson, and Mrs. Johnson would smile
and wave hello and bend down to Mr. Johnson and tell him we were out
there with them. Mr. Johnson was unable to respond. Nor could he move
his legs or arms or his neck or his eyes. He slumped limply in his
wheelchair, wearing striped pajamas and a brown bathrobe, his eyes
ogling blindly ahead, a thin drool forever flowing down one side of his
slack and expressionless face. Mr. Johnson had been almost blown to
pieces on Taiwan. Even at my age I realized without being told that the
man would never move or talk or lift a spoon of soup to his face.
Martha Jane would watch quietly as they performed this almost nightly
ritual for a brief stay in the open air. I would look up at her and see
her swallow, for a different reason now, and she would murmur, "God
grant the poor woman patience." I told her about Taiwan, and
Guadalacanal. And she told me how my father had died. He was flight
engineer in a B-17F on his 21st mission when the plane was badly shot
up. They barely made it back to England, where they discovered that the
front nose wheel would not remain extended for a landing. As engineer
in this emergency, my father ordered everyone but the pilot into the
rear of the aircraft, where most of them lay wounded and unable to
parachute out. With the pilot bringing the plane in, my father
stationed himself in the nose gear well, literally jamming the nose
wheel straight and steady with a hand-held crowbar. The wheel held up
just long enough for the plane to land and start to slow. Then the nose
gear collapsed, crushing him. All the other crewmen were saved.
"You're a lot like him," Martha Jane told me at the end of that story.
"You'll try anything, just to see what happens. You're such a little
outlaw."
We would sit there until the sky grew dark, seeing before us where so
many others had gone, talking vaguely about how far there was to go.
"Sometimes I think we're the only ones who are still in one piece,"
she sighed, her chin propped on her knees. "Sometimes I think we were
put here so we could know how much there is to lose. So we can save
whatever's left." She shook her head. "And sometimes I think: there's
so little left to be saved."
On July 4th she took me to a movie at the neighborhood theatre, the
Suzore's-- -a seedy, well-used, crowded, and sticky-floored movie house
if ever there was one. The place was a fallen relic of the 1920's, but
it had a kind of homey who-cares air about it and the best popcorn in
town. We held hands and shared the popcorn bag, laughing at the Bowery
Boys and hiding our eyes when Charlie Chan crept through the hidden
corridors of a haunted house. The walk back home was about seven
blocks, down the steep, landscaped, four block long hill that led from
the top of the project to our building at the other end. It was one of
those hot Southern nights, humid but cooling down, the air so still
that the voices of people walking nearby hung in space long after the
people had gone. In those days, before pollution clouded the view, we
could see a multitude of stars overhead. As we walked I pointed out
Orion to her, and Alpha Centauri. I showed her where the Weeping
Sisters usually appeared and told her that the faint red dot near the
steeple of St. Mary's Church was Mars. We were standing in the dark of
the open lawn near the project's administration building. She listened
as I pointed out the constellations, and after a minute I stopped and
watched as she looked up. I was very nearly her own height, then. A
half-moon floated just in front of her, outlining her face. Unable to
resist, I softly cupped my hand over one breast.
She looked down at my hand on her bosom. She didn't pull away, but she
whispered mischievously, "Somebody's gonna see us."
"I don't care," I said.
She laughed and said, "Yes, but I do."
"Okay," I said, and withdrew my hand.
She held my hand at her side as we strolled the rest of the way home.
"It's not that I don't want you to," she said. "It's just that...I
don't ever want anyone catching us and trying to stop us from doing
it."
That summer gave us several nights together, nights of holding each
other warmly and softly, naked, with Martha Jane under me or hovering
over me and whispering her secret needs and pleasures, showing me
something new. I learned to keep her on a dreamy sensuous edge for a
longer and longer time, and then to make her cum several times, rapidly
and intensely. She would almost always fall sleep or faint afterward,
and I had to struggle to stay awake so I could rouse her in time to
straighten up before my Mom returned.
Martha Jane had her 17th birthday in September, 1950. There was
precious little money to spend, but she invited a few close friends and
had a small celebration in her mother's apartment. I was there,
indulging heavily in ice cream and homemade cake.
Martha Jane found it necessary to introduce me personally to everyone
in the place. I was surprised to learn that so many of her friends were
not classmates but older adults. This left me edgy, especially when she
kept introducing me as "my boyfriend, Speedy." And every older lady in
the joint had to say something like, "Oh, he's such a cute boy!" My
discomfort was obvious. At one point I retreated to a corner and sat
unsmiling by myself for a long period. Martha Jane came over to me and
asked what was wrong.
I sat petulantly bumping my heels on the legs of the chair and
averting her eyes.
She leaned down to me. "Speedy, you're too smart and too well liked by
everyone here to act like this. What's wrong with you, don't you like
these people?"
"They all think I'm cute," I pouted. "And I hate the name Speedy."
She chuckled and said, "Speedy, let 'em think what they want to think.
It doesn't hurt to cooperate a little bit. And what difference does it
make?"
I adamantly folded my arms.
She stood up and said, "Hmp," with her hands on her hips. "Face it,
hon-- -you ARE cute!"
I said back, "Hmp!"
"How am I gonna get you to have more experience being around people
other than that fussy family of yours? Hm?"
I said nothing, but kicked away with my heels.
"Okay, sourpuss," she said. Shaking her head impatiently, she returned
to the group. I spent the rest of the day mostly ignoring everyone
until I felt it was time to go home. As I left her apartment I saw her
notice me from the corner of her eyes while she spoke with the others.
For the rest of the day I stayed in my living room and pretty much had
the place to myself, my Mom being at Martha Jane's all afternoon. I
listened to the Philco for a while, and typed on the Underwood. And by
dusk I was totally bored.
I went to our back yard, out by the curb near the big oak. For a while
I sat on the curb under the tree, listening to its heavy, leafy limbs
rustle in the breeze. It was dusk, and the early fall sky had turned
red.
Before long I heard the slap of the screen door behind me at Martha
Jane's place. I looked behind me. Sure enough, it was she. She saw me
and walked toward me, her head lowered and her arms behind her back. I
sat with my legs extended from the curb, my heels on the surface of the
driveway. She sat beside me.
"What's the matter, hon?"
"Nothin'," I said.
"Look at me."
"No."
She lowered her voice and said, hurtfully, "Speedy, why are you doing
this to me?"
I sighed deeply and leaned forward, propping my chin on my raised
knees. I muttered, "I dunno." And I didn't.
"I'm sorry you didn't have a good time. I thought you would."
I shrugged, as if to say it didn't matter.
"Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
"I dunno."
"Try, Speedy."
I shrugged.
"Try, hon. Talk to me. You're haven't been nice to me all day. I have
a perfect right not to speak to you at all. Do you realize that? Can't
you tell me what's wrong?"
I struggled a bit, and finally managed to say, "I don't... like it
when people expect me to be cute all the time."
"Speedy, they don't 'expect' you to be cute. You 'are' cute. You
really are. You're an unusual person-- -you don't look like other boys
your age. You have a strong, intelligent, different look and
personality altogether. And that's what people notice about you."
"But...I don't know what to say to people."
"You just say hello, hon. And 'how are you'. You don't have to say
anything special."
"Well..." I stopped. I shrugged helplessly. "People always expect me
to do certain things. And act a certain way."
Martha Jane sighed. "You mean," she said knowingly, "you mean
'certain' people, don't you? Like Aunt Frances and the rest of them?
And your mother?"
I nodded.
For a while Martha Jane looked at the ground silently. she extended
her blue Jean legs into the driveway and leaned back on her arms.
"Speedy, do you know what I'm going to do when I go to college?"
I shook my head.
"I'm going to study to be a teacher. A special kind of teacher. I'm
going to teach children who are...who are different from other
children. Someone like you could be one of those children some day. But
you'll be grown up by the time I get started. You'll be in high school
yourself by then, or nearly there. But you know-- -? Look at me, Hon.
Look at me."
I did as she asked.
She continued, "There's an awful lot I could learn from you. You're a
really tough case."
"Tough case?" I said. "What's a tough case?"
She raised her eyes, looking up at the sky. "Ah, you're soooo
hard-headed. That's what a tough case is."
I shrugged. "Oh."
"You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
"Movies?" I frowned. "I don't have any money."
"I'll pay."
"But that's not fair."
"Yes, it is. I asked you first."
"Well, if you're askin' me, then I'm not takin' you, you're takin'
me."
"Oh, darn it, why do you have to be so exacting? Listen. Let's start
over again. Now, I'm going to ask you if *you* want to take *me* to the
movies. And you're supposed to say yes."
"Okay."
"Now-- -you wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
I paused. I still didn't agree with the "politics" of this game. "But
if you're the one who has the money-- -"
She prompted, impatiently, "Answer yes, darn it."
"Start over," I said. "This time I'll do it right."
"Oh, alright...You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
"Yes." I reached up very quickly and kissed her cheek. "Yes," I said
again, kissing her again. And a third time, "Yes," and kissed her.
She laughed. "What *are* you doing?"
"I'm kissing you and saying yes."
"Three times?"
"To make up for the times I didn't do it right." One more time, I gave
her cheek a loud, lingering kiss. "...And that's for me being so snotty
on your birthday. I won't do that any more."
"You little heartbreaker."
Martha Jane was looking less like a teenager and more like a young
woman. Her neck, arms, and legs had developed slimmer and more graceful
lines, and she was losing the baby fat in her face and neck, getting
more slender overall. I was nearing my 9th year and was somewhat
muscular and slightly tall for my size, but certainly not as hefty as
many fast-growing boys my age. I was now only an inch or so shorter
than Martha Jane. Like my father and his brother, there was still
something delicate about me from my paternal grandmother's side of the
family.
I mentioned this because at that time I was becoming more and more
aware of my own physical dimension and of the physical side of this
passionate relationship. I noticed this change in both our appearances
a few days after Martha Jane's birthday. She stayed with me while my
Mom's future fiancщe took her to a Halloween party. Outside my
apartment the kids strolled the Halloween trail for candy and
trick-r-treats, their noisemakers and their giggles echoing in the
night. At that time, however, Martha Jane and I were naked together in
that tiny bedroom. We were giggly and giddy because we were totally
nude but lying on the bed just below the window sill so that anyone
looking in would see only our faces and elbows. For a while we talked
and watched the goings-on outside.
Then we went into the bathroom so we could make up in Halloween faces
of our own and laugh and point at each other. This was one of the few
times I had seen her naked outside of a bed. Watching her stand before
the bathroom mirror or tiptoe across the living room, I saw how slim
and tight her waist, back, neck and legs had become. I told her this
and she stood in front of me sizing me up. She said my chest was
starting to expand now, my shoulders broadened and would probably look
like my Uncle Frank's one day, and my legs were longer and leaner and
already had fuzz on them.
I told her, "You're getting prettier and prettier all the time, Martha
Jane."
"Oh, stop it."
"But you are," I insisted. "Your eyes are. They're bigger than they
used to be. Yes, they are, I know they are. They have more blue in 'em
than they used to."
"Phooey, hon. Let me see you." She held me at arm's length and looked
me up and down. "Look. You're perfectly proportioned. Not too big, not
too small." She put her hands on her waist and continued her assessment
of my nudity, muttering absently, "I've seen a lot of pictures of a lot
of statues in the art books at the library, so I know what I'm talkin'
about. Look at you. Just perfect. Like a little Greek statue. The only
thing missing is a fig leaf."
"And you look perfect too," I breathed, slowly taking in her naked
form, the graceful slope of her breasts, her slightly parted thighs and
her slender ankles.
"Guess what?" I asked.
"What?"
"Looking at you like this is makin' me excited."
She winked. "C'mon."
Continued...
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