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From: Incest Man <familyincest@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 4D
Date: Mon, 04 Jul 2005 14:30:55 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/taboo.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 4D
Martha Jane and my mother helped walk me into our apartment, where
they settled me on the sofa and placed a wet rag over my face. Mom
called our closest relatives, my Grandma Rose Ricci, to hurry over in
their car and get me to nearby St. Joseph's Hospital. But Grandma Rose
was too distraught to drive and she called my Aunt Frances, who in turn
was so distraught she called my Aunt Josephine, who in turn was also so
distraught she called her niece, my cousin Josephine Louise, whom they
all knew drove like the wind at all times.
Within 30 minutes Josephine Louise arrived in Aunt Frances' black 1947
Dodge, the car packed to the hilt with relatives like clowns in a
circus act. They rushed into our little apartment and shook the walls
with their hysteria. Martha Jane, stroking my forehead and cheek with
the cool wet cloth, watched calmly with me as yet another car drove up
and Grandma Rose and the Ricci's and Gagliano's got out. Soon the place
was so full, no one could walk.
"My God," Martha Jane whispered incredulously. "How many more of them
are there?"
"No one knows," I said dryly.
Amid the moaning and wailing and my Aunt Frances swooning into a
chair, her husband, my Uncle Johnny cool and sane, brought the crowd to
attention. "You all remember why we're here," he said, gesturing toward
me with his hat. "We gonna take him to the hospital, or we gonna stand
around and faint?"
They all gaped at each other momentarily, then everyone started
issuing different instructions at once. My mother and Josephine Louise
edged their way through the panic and calmly lifted me into Josephine
Louise's arms.
"Come on, Speedy," she said, carrying me with one arm around the back
of my neck and the other under my knees. "While they work this out,
we'll go to St. Joseph's. Follow me, Betty," she said to my still
distraught mother, and she wiggled her way through the crowd, through
the kitchen, and out to her car. My mom and Martha Jane followed, with
Uncle Johnny almost casually in the rear, hat in hand. The last I heard
from the others, they were still screaming at each other in my living
room.
At St. Joseph's I was cleaned, poked, wrapped, injected, xray'd,
gowned and wheeled up to a bed with a window overlooking the project a
few blocks away. A doctor who looked and sounded like Joel McCrea with
a Southern accent told everyone I was a sturdy kid and no great damage
was done-- -although I would have to keep my arm in a sling for a day
or two to keep from stretching torn muscles around my left rib cage,
and I'd have a fat cheek for a while, and I'd have to wear a thick pad
on my side for a few weeks to restrain movement there, and I was warned
to not strain myself by attacking any more trees.
I was in St. Joseph's for two days, strapped tightly in a corset to
keep my torso immobile, and continually monitored by a nonstop parade
of Italian aunts, uncles, godparents, great-aunts and uncles,
great-grandmother Nifa and her two morbid sisters, cousins, near
cousins, and a number of people I never saw before who claimed they
were related. Nurses groaned and complained, shuffling people in and
out of the waiting room and forced to keep count of how many people
were in my room at one time. I was kissed on the cheek by innumerable
elderly aunts, most of whom appeared grieved as if I were dead and laid
out in my coffin instead of propped up in bed.
I was obliged to "be nice" and appreciative and, as Josephine Louise
whispered to me with her luscious, red, magnificently sexy mouth close
to my ear at one point, "Look as if you're in mortal pain, Speedy.
These old Victorians just thrive on melodrama."
Martha Jane visited me each day, but we were hardly able to have a few
words between ourselves. On the second day she had enough time alone
with me, while the others were out getting coffee, to have a brief
chat.
"I'll bet you just love all this attention," she said.
"Martha Jane, you know I feel so creepy around them. I get the same
questions: Hi, Speedy, how are you? How old are you now, Speedy? How
are you doing in school? What do you want to be when you grow up? Did
it hurt bad? Was your-- -?"
She interrupted, touching my hand. "Now, hon. You should be grateful
all these people care so much for you. Your Grandma Rose has been so
nice, they could have just sent you straight home two days ago, but
your Grandma Rose is footing the whole bill so you could be more
comfortable here."
"But-- -"
"But nothing, Speedy. You have to admit, that was very generous."
Guiltily, I conceded, "Well, I do like my Grandma Rose, she's the only
one I like."
"And your poor Aunt Frances and Uncle Johnny-- -"
I groaned and slapped my forehead. "No, not Aunt Frances."
"Stop that, hon, I know she's hysterical and a lifetime of criticism
every five minutes, but she means well."
"No, no, not Aunt Frances..." I groaned in mock dismay.
"Stop, it squirt," she reprimanded gently. "They all love you, and you
know it. You devil, you're just eating all this up, it's more attention
than you or anybody else gets in a lifetime."
"Okay," I pouted.
"Don't say okay unless you mean it."
"Okay."
"I gotta go study, hon." She rose and gathered her sweater over her
shoulders. Leaning down to me, she looked back at the door to see if
anyone might be listening. She whispered, "You get well. Hear me?"
"Okay."
"Because..." She licked my ear. "...I miss us."
I smiled, blushing. "Me too."
With a peck on the cheek she was gone. And just in time for the return
of Aunt Frances, Uncle Johnny, Grandma Rose, Aunt Josephine, Aunt
Lucille, Aunt Mary, Uncle Louie, Mom, my sister, Aunt Catherine, my
*other* Aunt Catherine, Aunt Yiya, Aunt Theresa, Grandpa Joe, another
Aunt Josephine, Uncle Vito, Uncle Lawrence, Aunt Cecilia...
By the end of the second day I felt well enough to start getting
unbearably bored again. Whenever I shifted restlessly my injured side
ached and cramped. Except for visits to the restroom and the coffee
shop, Aunt Frances and Uncle Johnny were a permanent fixture in the
room, Uncle Johnny sighing restlessly and winking at me now and then,
recognizing our mutual discomfort. The worst part of the day was when
Aunt Frances began cajoling my mother into moving out of the project.
"But I want my children and I to have our privacy," my mother
objected, trying to be as nice as she could about it. "And where would
we stay? I wouldn't want to take rent money from my relatives. I just
can't live that way."
"But, Betty," my Aunt Frances pleaded. "You and Speedy could live with
*us*."
On hearing that, I raised my eyes to Heaven. Please, Jesus. Not that.
My mother said no, it just wouldn't work. She thanked Aunt Frances.
She told her she had a good relationship with my step dad-to-be, it
looked as if they were steady now, and perhaps they would marry in a
year or two. I was grateful for her persistence. Not only would I not
be able to bear seven days a week of Aunt Frances, but leaving the
project meant leaving Martha Jane. Aunt Frances didn't let up all day,
but Mom didn't give in and didn't even appear to be tempted-- -for
which I was deeply grateful. Maybe there really was a God.
In a spare moment, when no one was looking, I found myself unable to
resist the urge to stick out my tongue at Aunt Frances. I did so,
mildly, about half an inch of it. And just as I did, Aunt Frances
looked at me.
I withdrew my tongue immediately, but already her big round eyes had
widened and her eyebrows rode halfway up her forehead.
She turned to Uncle Johnny, beside her. "Johnny, did you see what he
did?"
"What'd he do, Frances?" asked Uncle Johnny, trying to keep awake.
"He stuck his tongue out at me."
Uncle Johnny's repressed laugh started out as a smirk, then he deftly
transformed it into a wheeze, and then a mild cough. "Forget it,
Frances. The boy don't feel well."
Three or four weeks later, when Martha Jane was with me again, my
cheek had cleared but I was still wearing the heavy restraining pad at
my left side, held in place by thick layers of gauze around my middle.
Martha Jane turned the lights out early. I had already got into bed and
was lying on my back when she turned out the last light and walked over
to the bed. In her jeans and white shirt she lay down beside me and
began taking off my clothes in the dark. When my shirt came off she
traced the bandage with her finger.
"That's horrible what that little rat did to you."
"I can take it," I said stoically.
"Sur-r-re, you can, cowboy." she said. "You sure threw a fit. I knew
you had a temper, but...I had no idea it was that much of a temper."
I sat up while she removed my shirt. She unbuckled my belt and
unzipped me, shoving my pants to my knees. She stood up, pulling my
pants off past my feet by its legs.
"I hope you never get so mad at me that you direct that awful rage at
me, Speedy."
"I can't hurt people," I said.
"What do you mean, you can't hurt people?"
"I can't hurt people. Only things. I can't hurt them, even if I hate
them."
"Why not, hon? You had every right to take that tough kid and beat
the-- -" She stopped herself, and continued removing my socks. "I'm
sorry. I don't mean that. You had every right to, but you wouldn't have
done it. Because you're sweet, hon. Even though you don't like your
Aunt Frances and all those other people, you wouldn't hurt them. You're
a very brave boy. It takes courage to be sweet."
"He had me so angry," I said. "Why do people have to take from others
like that? Poor Stepper, he's so poor and he doesn't have anything. And
he can't help it if he's black. Why does the world do that?"
"I don't know, hon. I wish I had the answer." She had removed my
socks, and now she grabbed the sides of my underwear. "Lift," she said.
I did, she pulled, and I was naked.
She stood looking down at me in the dark. Silently she unbuttoned her
shirt, looking at me with a gently intent gaze. All the buttons undone,
she shifted her shoulders back and the shirt seemed to simply breathe
off her. Then her bra. The moon glowed along one side of the swell of
each gently sloped breast. She unbuckled the belt at her jeans, twisted
the top button open, pulled the zipper down.
"That horrible, violent day is all over now," she whispered. She
pulled down her jeans, dropped them on the floor, and slipped her thin
panties down her long, perfect legs. Her auburn tuft glowed like a
softly lighted powder puff in the moonlight. I was getting hard
watching her. My cock weakly stirred and straightened. A slab of
moonlight fell directly on it. It rose, slightly. Martha Jane looked at
it and bent down and slowly, one finger at a time, she put her hand
around it and held it so that only the tip stood out above her gentle
fist.
"I don't know why people have such meanness," she went on, almost
absently, watching my cock. "I don't know why they have to hurt each
other. When they could give themselves pleasure and affection."
"I would never hurt you, Martha Jane," I whispered.
"I know you wouldn't, hon. And I hope I never hurt you." She leaned
down and licked the part of my cock that protruded above her fingers,
then lightly sucked it. "He's so sweet."
I gulped, and my cock stirred. She felt it and grinned. "He can almost
talk," she said.
She lay down beside me near the window and our arms went around each
other. Propped on one elbow, she caressed my chest. I lightly squeezed
a nipple.
"No more meanness," she whispered. "No more hurt. No more hate.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if that could happen?"
"It happens here," I offered, "when I'm with you."
"What a beautiful thing for you to say, Speedy," she breathed,
surprised, her eyes glowing. "What a lovely thing to say." She held my
face in her hands and pressed her cheek to mine. Her lips at my ear,
she whispered, "How can I make you feel good? We have to be careful
with that thing on you. You can't move very much."
"I don't know," I pondered. "I wanna make you feel good, too."
"I know what," she said, and got onto her knees beside me and bent
over my chest and held her face over mine. "I know what we can do."
"What?"
She kissed my nose. She kissed my right eyelid. She kissed my lips.
"You just wait..."
"What?" I asked again.
Her voice was a languorous, barely audible whisper, mildly taunting,
motherly, lecherous, all at once.
She began softly, "The management of this establishment is
establishing new management."
She kissed my ear.
She raised her face above mine again and touched a finger to my lips.
"Don't talk," she whispered.
She was so quiet, I heard the "k" in the last word linger in the air
for several seconds.
She nipped at my throat, around the side of my neck to my other ear.
One of her nipples grazed one of mine. She put her lips onto my ear.
"Don't move."
She kissed my neck, licked my neck, trailed kisses slowly across my
chest with tiny, almost unheard little puffs and lickings. She kissed
not with her lips, but with the inside of her lips. She put her lips on
my left nipple and softly opened them, made a tiny pool of the inner
lining of her lips around my nipple, and gently sucked. My cock got
very hard. She used the tip of her tongue, only the tip, to move down
my chest until she got to the bandage. Then she looked down.
"You're hard," she observed aloud, under her breath. "How nice."
It was so quiet and still in the room I could feel the moonlight on my
stiffened, upright cock. My eyes were closed. Now I knew why she
swallowed so much when I did this sort of thing to her. It was
something to replace speech, for there were no words for the pleasure
she was giving me.
Watching my cock intently, she moved as if in slow motion, and still
on her knees she stretched her neck elegantly forward in the dim light
and poised her head straight over my erection. She opened her mouth.
She lowered her head, straight down, slowly and cautiously, hardly
touching my cock with her mouth. When her head was all the way down,
and her lips grazed my pubic fuzz, she closed her mouth around me
fully, sucked, and drew up. She did this four times, wetly. Soon I
throbbed and felt a drop of my nascent cum being siphoned up my shaft
into her mouth. Apparently she tasted it. She came off me, licked the
inside her mouth.
Then she turned to face me, hovered over me. She lifted one leg over
me, her knee settling into the bed on my other side.
"Careful," she whispered. "Don't let me hurt you."
"It's okay," I whispered back. It always seemed so sacrilegious to
talk aloud at such moments with her. Like shouting in church.
Her face over mine, her knees on each side of me, her back raised so
we didn't touch below the waist, she looked down and positioned each of
her nipples over each of mine, then pressed into me.
"Does it hurt your side if I press my titties on you like that?"
"No." I mouthed the word, rather than speak it. I was speechless,
enchanted, amazed.
"I'm not really sure how to do this," she whispered with a nervous
little laugh. "I never did it before. Let's see..." Closing her eyes
and rising on her arms, she bit her lower lip in deep concentration,
and down below she slowly and tentatively hunted in small movements
with her wet cunt, searching for my standing cock. Her outer lips found
my tip, circled two or three times, wetting me, then lowered. With a
long sigh she took me all the way into her. She looked down.
"That okay?" she asked.
"That feels so good!"
"Yes, it does...verrry good."
For a while she experimented, sometimes moving up and down on me;
sometimes circling just my tip with her warm slithery outer petals;
sometimes taking me all the way and grinding her clit against my shaft,
which she seemed to enjoy the most; sometimes taking me in only halfway
and pumping rhythmically for a while. Several times she asked me if my
side was okay, and I told her it was. She searched and discovered
patiently and ardently, often breathing her pleasure in my ear with the
most obscenely graphic phrases she could think of. In time she became
less careful, gradually more swept up in her heightening pleasure. Soon
her wet channel became more snug around me and then began contracting
irregularly, at which point she would stop and pant over me for a
moment. Then she would start again, growing tighter around me, her
grinding more urgent and more intuitive. As her breathing grew more
ragged, she began sighing and whimpering. Gradually she assumed more
often the position of settling tightly all the way down, squeezing me,
rotating subtly on my shaft. And eventually she stiffened, her
straightened arms quivering. Her grinding became so intense she rocked
the bed, and I knew she would be unable to stop this time around.
She began to chant, "oh hon...oh hon...", and then she began to sing,
"oh hon...!" and finally she groaned loudly, "Oh, yes!" and her head
snapped forward and she writhed her clit furiously against my shaft,
holding her breath, and I circled my hips in the opposite direction
against her, and she answered with a low groan, "Yes...", and her cunt
clamped on me madly for a long moment. Then she passed her peak, her
head fell back and then forward, and she slackened, holding still,
gasping deeply and loudly and quickly, her hips and back softened and I
saw her breasts had swollen against me and were hot, a vein on one side
of her neck throbbed and I reached up and sucked it and her hips jerked
once, making the bed squeak, and her neck was hot and salty with sweat
and I stroked her hair as if strewing balm on her agonizing pleasure,
and she rested, still sucking me inside now and then, and I felt her
hot cunt lips drain wet around the root of my shaft. Twice my cock had
felt the long moment of sweet tickling inside her as she moved on me,
twice I had felt some of me seep into her, and I was content with both
her pleasure and mine.
Continued...
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