The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 2B"( bf mF mF+ )


    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 forbid-
den 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.  Care-
fully 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 mastur-
bated, 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," fol-
lowed 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 reclarify 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 slickly 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 fem-
inine, 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 signif-
icant), 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 dresssing 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.