I believe that Martha Jane, like me, was mostly curious at first. And it seems that my surprise and delight at our intimacy was matched only by her own surprise and delight at my enthusiasm and cooperation. But we never mentioned our secret to each other when she visited my Mom or when we greeted on the front porch on our way to school in the mornings that followed.
Several weeks later, a few days after Christmas, the city was inundated by a heavy winter snow--something Southern cities seldom experienced. The whole town knew the weather was coming and Mom had a date to go to what had been set up as a White Christmas dinner at one of the fancy hotel ballrooms that were popular in the late 1940's. It was a Friday night. Martha Jane darkened our bedroom and sat on the bed with me, watching the snow. The bed was in its usual place in that little room, pushed lengthwise against the wall next to the big double-window. We leaned on the window sill and talked and watched the falling snow. I don't remember what we talked about, but she had told me a story about something- or-other and I was astonished and said, "Really?", and she said "Yes, it really happened like that!", and I squealed "REALLY?", and she made a wide-eyed face back at me and said, "Yes, REALLY!", and we were both giggling. I have no idea what the subject was, but I remember the essence of the moment as playful, trusting and warm.
She settled her chin on one hand on the window sill, and I did the same. She said in a hushed tone, "Listen. Be very, very quiet, and listen."
"Okay," I said loudly, smirking.
"Shh!" she said, and we giggled again, and then we sat very still. Soon I whispered. "There's so much snow, but it's so quiet."
"No," she whispered. "You can hear it falling. Listen."
We stayed perfectly still. In the night outside the window the entire project was covered in a thick, globby blanket of white. The snow fell with a dreamlike lazy slowness, but so densely it made the buildings seem dark gray instead of dark brick-red, and completely obscured the contours of the access driveway that ran behind our building. I strained nearer the window and listened. After a short time I could indeed hear the muffled, barely audible whisk of falling snow.
"Hear it?" she asked.
"You wouldn't deceive me would you, mister? You really hear it?"
"Yeah," I breathed, fascinated. "Really."
We leaned on our chins and listened more. I turned to her in quiet excitement at this revelation of the noise of snowflakes falling, but as my eyes met hers I melted into speechless jelly. She was watching me with a look of warm, affectionate, captivating tenderness. All I could do was look back into her eyes helplessly until, embarrassed at my own startling feelings, I made a funny, scrunched-up face.
She wrinkled her nose at me. "And 'that' to you too," she said, "silly-face." Then she jumped off the bed.
"Bubble time!" she announced, and off we went to the bathroom. She undressed down to her panties, bra, and slip and held up the bubble-bath pack and let it go, and I hopped in to splash around and build my usual nose-high mountain of bubbles. I didn't notice until slightly later that she stood there for quite some time after reaching back to the hook on the bathroom door to fetch her skirt and blouse; after thinking about it she returned her clothes to the door hook. She removed her slip as well, and knelt by the tub again in her undies. I got out of the tub and dried off. Once again, after a long hesitation, she put her fingers around my cock.
Remembering this from before, I stood still and watched her play with me. I hardened, and tickles spread through my tummy. I looked at her and grinned, and her eyes met mine with a widening look of recognition and pleasure.
"That's good," I murmured.
"Yeah? You still like this, huh?."
I told her I did, and something made me shove my pelvis slightly forward (a totally unconscious movement toward her fingers, the source of my pleasure), which caused her to look up again in sur- prise and a strange kind of glee. The two of us seemed urged on by some outlandish, mutually shared impulse to make the gestures and say the words we did.
As she played we watched my cock harden and twitch. She said we would be more comfortable if I sat on the edge of the tub as be- fore. I did so, and we both watched as she softly pumped me erect. I reached inside her bra and found a nipple, and we exchanged mutually knowing smiles as I gently squeezed her. She was still amazed at how my "teentsy" young organ became so enlarged. Soon I was thoroughly hard and she was grinning lewdly at me, a grin I quickly learned to return.
These returned glances and simultaneous eye contacts occurred so often it seems they never ceased. They were another integral part of our communication with each other. It was part of the con- tinuous pattern of feedback and feed-in and feed-on that united us. Often it replaced thousands of words that might have been used to describe a feeling or a moment. This, too, began happening quite early in the relationship.
Of course, I didn't climax. The incident soon ended and we returned to the bedroom. We continued watching the snowfall for a long time. I leaned sleepily on the window sill, and listened to her magical voice. She was talking about something she was doing at school. I was soon overcome by the languorous peace of being with her, something entirely absent from my relationship with my mother.
When I opened my eyes again it was Saturday morning. My Mom was back home fussing around the house, and Martha Jane was gone.
Several months went their course, and I passed my 7th birth- day. It was around that period, near May 1949, that several more interludes occurred. By this time I would get out of the tub and Martha Jane would be kneeling and waiting, and I would stand up and say, "Do me." She would set me on the edge of the tub and pump me erect, which she learned to maintain for longer and longer periods. I don't have a clear memory of what I physically felt at that time, but I recall that she and I kept finding ways to make it feel better.
Martha Jane beamed delightedly at my responsiveness. "I love feeling it jump," she'd say, and she soon discovered that my cock jerked even more during her early attempts at using her tongue and mouth on it. Constantly we talked about how it felt and what we liked. Her favorite ploy was to hold me entirely inside her mouth, my tip barely extended into the narrow channel of her throat, and gently close her mouth around me and hold me that way so she could feel my cock throb against her tongue. I was still too young to have a true orgasm, but I had no feelings of frus- tration. Nor was I particularly anxious about when she would be sitting for me again. The aspects of our relationship that I sorely missed when we were apart for any significant time were our fondness for each other and the simple "rightness" of being with her and hearing her alluring voice and quiet girlish laughter.
It was sometime during the summer that the bathing routine changed. It was probably the fourth or fifth episode. I got out of the tub and stood with my tummy sticking out lewdly so she could play with me, which she did. We both grinned and whispered in our naughty secret way as she stroked me, and she unhooked her bra so I could make little circles around her nipples.
I watched her fingers on me and muttered, "It tickles."
"Want me to do it slower or faster?"
"That way, hon?"
"Yeah. That feels nasty."
"You like it that way?"
"You mean it feels better, is that what 'nasty' means?"
"Yeah. Feels really good."
She said, "That's what grownups say, hon, they'd say if it feels good it's nasty." She added ruefully, "They think anything that feels good is horrible. I really don't understand. You'd think people already have enough sadness and pain in their lives without making things worse."
It was a concept that she and I would mention many times. It seemed to be something of which she was often terrified; now and then she would stop everything, look at me painfully, and then hold me close to her. This was one of the first of those occasions. Others would follow. But on that night it happened for the first time.
She was saying to me, "Squeeze my nipple just a little, hon, really soft, the way I squeeze your dick...that's nice. I like it when you just stroke me, too, around my nipples for a while." I feathered my fingertips across and around her nipples, and she closed her eyes dreamily. "Hm-hm, yes...better, hon...you do that so well..."
I was surprised at the reaction of her nipples. "They got stiff," I said. "Does it hurt when they get stiff?"
"No, hon, it means it feels good. Just like getting you hard feels good for you."
We played and whispered for a while. Then Martha Jane just stopped. Abruptly and completely, she dropped her hands and stopped everything.
She settled back on her folded legs on the floor, and put her hands over her face. She did that only for a few seconds and looked up at me only because I had bent down closer to her. I saw she was suddenly saddened, and as I bent down she turned toward me with a look of pain and loss on her face. She spoke softly and plaintively and, as best as I can recall, she said:
"Do you know who you are, Speedy? You are the smartest, cutest, most loving boy in the world. D'you know that, hon? But you're gonna grow up--". She stopped, and held me down closer to her face, so that our foreheads touched. "You are gonna grow up in a very strange world, with no daddy, like me. And a mommy who can't live for anything except dying and...goin' to be with God. Oh Speedy, don't you ever grow up to be like that. You hear? Don't grow up and be afraid and suspicious and narrow and mean. I know you'll grow up and be so good, and so sweet, and so smart and sensitive, but you'll feel like you're in hell because you're trusting and sexy and...other people don't tolerate that very well, it's all bad for them and they'll always say you're too different and--"
I must have had a confused look on my face that made her stop. I'm sure I did. I don't remember all her words exactly, but I do know that at that time her words only partially made sense.
She kissed my nose. The episode quickly ended when she stood up and said, "C'mon, hon. Beddie-bye."
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:
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.
I fell asleep.