Chapter 7E

The birthday party went on and on, with no surprises disturbing the world of my dead father's family, nothing changing, nothing learned, nothing decided. Soon everyone was hugging and kissing and saying goodbye. During the party I longed to be anywhere but there. I spent the whole time waiting for next Saturday to arrive.

This world was a far cry from the world of Martha Jane, an eternity away from our secrets in the dark, of naked flesh reveling in affection and pleasure, of whispered obscenities and the sounds of cumming. That difference was so dramatic that it lent even more of the forbidden to everything Martha Jane and I did alone. A walk down the street together had something secretive about it; every few weeks or so I would take the bus to Memphis State and meet her at the library or the student center, and we would take a leisurely stroll for seven or eight blocks down the suburban street to her backyard apartment, all the while watching our words whether others walked with us or not, chatting as if we were being overheard.

And even when we arrived at her little place we behaved at first as if we still lived in the Lauderdale Courts with relatives just next door. I'd fix a snack and we'd eat and talk, and then we'd wash dishes and straighten up. Then Martha Jane would study in her living room while I studied at the kitchen table.

Often I would think, as she studied or typed across the room, that people were strolling past that house or driving down the street, unaware that now and then in the garage apartment among the trees there had been two bodies entwined and gasping, the young woman's long legs opening and trembling while the young boy humped and grunted above her like an animal.

When that next Saturday finally arrived, people would see Martha Jane, a young lady who looked serious and studious, exuding an innocent, well mannered beauty. The two girlfriends to whom she introduced me and with whom we conversed for more than two hours over lunch at Memphis State would see a shy kid wearing plain, plastic eyeglass frames and talking with faltering, half finished sentences. They never knew, as we sorted a pile of index cards, that this same poised, respectable Martha Jane had secretly, only a few weeks before, used her skilled mouth to get me hard and secretly lay under me, and had dug her nails into my shoulders when I entered her and had breathed softly, "Ahhh. Fuck."

For a year or so it went on that way, the occasional weekends disconcertingly far apart. Oddly, we seemed so desperate when together, yet just as desperately we seemed to keep a distance. When Martha Jane was keeping her distance, in her own, enigmatic way, she would become clinical. Everything was tightly scheduled, planned in detail. Seldom did she make any exceptions. Many times she would tell me she was exhausted or physically ill or even lonesome and horny; but if a paper had to be finished, it had to be and that was that.

That Saturday afternoon she was in her clinical, teaching mode. After we met her girlfriends we strolled around the campus. Then we walked to her apartment, had dinner, and studied for a while like two close but platonic friends. I studied at the kitchen while she sat at her tiny desk in the living room. When it was dark outside I rose from the kitchen table and saw her at the tiny desk, humped over and scouring through two textbooks.

I walked across the room and stood behind her, gently massaging her shoulders and upper back. She leaned back in the chair, resting her head against my tummy, closing her eyes and sighing tiredly. I reminded her that it was getting late.

She said, "I know. Darn it. Oh, my aching back. Your hands feel nice."

I leaned into her from behind, lowering my head to snuggle my nose in her hair, and reached around to cup her breasts over her dress. With her eyes closed she smiled and pressed her hands into mine. She sighed again. "Mmm, hon. I guess it's time to wrap this up. Let me get up and turn the lights off."

She walked across the room and flipped the light switch. "You'll have to get on that bus before eight thirty."

"I know," I said.

She returned to the desk and started piling the books together. "They'd kill you and me both if you got home too late."

"They really just want to kill me anyway."

"Now, now."

Sitting in the chair near her sofa, I stretched sleepily. "It feels that way sometimes. Like they were trying to smother me."

She walked toward the bathroom, which was just inside the bedroom. "Oh, Speedy, they just want you to be like everyone else. Everyone wants that" She turned off the light in the bathroom. The apartment was dark, but for the dim spill from an outdoor lamp in the driveway.

She came into the living room, unbuttoning her dress. "They want the same thing from me." She spoke casually, undressing. I stood to undo my belt and zipper and she said, "Here, let's sit on the sofa and talk a minute."

And that's what we did. She was naked first. She helped me with the rest of my clothing, all the while talking about family, friends, problems and pressures. We sat together on the sofa in the dark, the drapes on the windows beside us swaying lazily in the light breeze from two half open windows. She sat beside me and we caressed one another, and she talked. She might as well have been talking about that cake recipe, were it not that her voice was so weary and somber.

She said, "You're always so shy around people. I do wish I could teach you to open up. You're being unfair to yourself. You a have a lot to offer."

I complained that my folks really weren't interested, and I told her I didn't want to leave myself open for ridicule.

She said, "But you can't live that way forever. Anyway, the two girls you met today seemed interested. You had fun with them, didn't you?"

I shrugged. "I didn't do so great. I just hemmed and hawed. They probably thought I was an idiot."

She shook her impatiently, eyeing me with a mild scold. "I do wish you could just relax with people. It affects the way you are with me, too. Don't you think I see it sometimes? I think you're trying to tell me something, but I can only guess what it is."

I just looked at her and smiled bashfully.

She looked at me silently for a moment and then said, "You know, I like teaching you. It's probably very evil of me. But I like teaching you. For a long time, that was one of my fantasies. Do you ever have fantasies?"

"Not... really."

"Of course you do."

"I live my fantasies in the theater."

With three of her fingers she gave my tip a little squeeze. "I can understand your being so closed off around your family, but not around me." She looked down at my cock in her hand. Her voice lowered, and she spoke in a dull monotone that seemed removed from what she was saying. "I had this fantasy about you, you know... About being the teacher. About just stopping my brain, stopping all the thinking and judging and... about being totally objective, you know? Concentrate exclusively on the sensations of giving pleasure. Receiving it. And just stop thinking so much." She looked into my eyes. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"I think so."

Again, she looked down thoughtfully at my cock. "Well, that's my fantasy. One of them."

"One of them? What are the others?"

She said quietly, "I can't tell you yet." She stroked me for a moment. She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "That's so funny, I just realized I can't tell you. Not just yet. I guess it's not that easy, is it? I've had a lot of the same conditioning, I guess, but--" She stopped. She whispered, "You're very good with your hands. You have an excellent sense of the erotic."

I said, "I had a good teacher."

She smirked. "Well, it doesn't help when your teacher suddenly realizes she has inhibitions, too. I guess we both have something to learn." She closed her eyes and sighed, and lamented, as if to herself, "I'm so tired of all the thinking, the analyzing. So tired of the... all the conflict." She took a deep, extended breath. Then she rose from the sofa and stood in front of me and said, "Just stay there." She moved over me, planting her knees on the sofa on either side of my hips, and settled onto my legs. She looked down at my flagpole cock and wrapped her fingers around it. She pulled up, slow, hugging the tip.

My hips arched upward. "Mmm."

"You like that?"

"Mmm, yeah."

"Nice and slow? Like that?"

"Mmm. Yeah."

She watched me. She watched my reactions. Her face and voice were expressionless, clinical. She said dispassionately, "I like to feel your erection grow in my hand." She kept performing the same, languorous pull on my organ. She paused to shift on her knees, spreading them a little farther apart. She whispered, "Here, touch my clit while I do that."

"That way?"

She closed her eyes as if concentrating, measuring. "That's right. Little circles. Slow, hon. Mmm. That's good."

She remained on my lap, priming my cock, and while I fingered her I craned my neck forward to suck the breasts suspended invitingly near my face. She gave a quiet gasp, one hand cradling my head, and whispered, "Just close your lips and suck. Suck steady, now, just--you know, a steady suck. Mmmm. I like that soft sensation of your mouth pulling my nipple into it."

Her breathing was getting more ragged. Soon she said, "Here, hon," and she rose on her knees, looking down to hold my cock straight up. With her mouth set tight and her breath exhaling brokenly through her nose, she slithered my tip up and down the length of her wet slit.

I groaned.

She asked, "Feel good?"

"Mmm. Yeah."

"I like it too... Mmm... Ahh... I think he's ready now." She looked down and put her fingers around me. "You have a very big penis for your age, Speedy. I'm always so surprised by how big you get." She placed me just inside her and put her hands on my shoulders. She seemed to be trying to sound detached, the slight tremble in her voice giving her away. "Now, just relax while I get you inside me. Let me know if you think you might cum. Okay?"

"Okay."

She watched my face carefully as she settled halfway down onto my shaft. She stopped and asked, "You all right?"

"Yes."

"Sure?"

"Yeah, it feels good, but... I'm not gonna cum yet."

"Okay." She closed her eyes, and then she drifted all the way down, half an inch at a time, talking with a hushed monotone, "Slow, now. Feel the sensations as I take you inside... There's that resistance, there, right there. Feel that? A little more, now..." She swallowed and then wet her lips. "And right here, I start feeling the fullness of you go in, and I have to relax a little, to let it--Mmmm..." She stopped and glanced quickly at my face. "Think you'll cum?"

I shook my head no, holding my breath.

She said, "Good," and closed her eyes and concentrated again. "Try to hold back, now, so we can feel all of it..." She moved down, another half inch, rising a bit as if savoring a particular part of me, and she was right: it was, indeed, almost impossible to let conscious thought enter my mind while this was happening. When she had me all the way inside her she said, "There." She paused for another breath and looked down at me. "Feel good?"

"Mm. Wow." I let my head drift backward and exhaled the air I'd been holding in my lungs, breathing out with a soft, "Whhhh."

"Now just be still a minute, and--" she swallowed hard and brushed hair from her eyes. "--and we can just learn to enjoy the feel of your penis in me." She sat unmoving. The word "penis" sounded strangely formal at that particular moment. She sat with me embedded in her, catching her breath. "Try to control your orgasm, now. Remember how we did that before? You can cum if you really want, but try to just feel it for as long as you can."

I heard myself gulp. I sighed and breathed back out with a another "Whhhh."

"Can you do that for a while? Just feel it?"

"Okay."

She closed her eyes and sighed, relaxing her grip on my shoulders.

For a moment we said nothing. She sat still. What she was teaching me soon became clear. The sensations of being wetly enclosed grew sharper, the details of her inner shape and texture engraving itself onto my brain. But there was little chance of controlling ourselves completely; my hard shaft gave an involuntary throb, and she responded with a contraction of her cunt. She told me "Just be still, now. Try to be still."

I did. But my cock insisted on arching now and then, soaking in the pleasure of the pressure of her inner walls. With her eyes still closed she chuckled and said, "Not that easy, huh?"

I shook my head no and said, "Feels good, though."

"Yes, baby. It does. It feels very good." Still holding my shoulders, she let her face rest against mine. She whispered against my ear, "So nice to just feel it. No thinking. The more you concentrate on just the physical pleasure, the less your brain gets in the way."

She seemed to relax for a moment. I heard a manual clock ticking on her desk. I concentrated on that. As the clock ticked, her breath near my ear was an easy, soothing lyric, interrupted occasionally by her soft swallowing and a quiet "Ahhh" when she her cunt to grip me affectionately. My cock would helplessly answer with a weak throb. After a while she shifted a little on me, adjusting her hips in my lap, and I became aware of her swollen clit against the root of my shaft. Next to my ear she gave a pleased "Hm!" and she pressed her cunt into me a little and whispered, "That was nice." The occasional shift gradually became a slow, brief grind, and before long the grind became more frequent, more regular, and her breathing near my ear was broken with soft gasps.

Soon she whispered nervously, "Hon, I think it's... starting to feel a little nasty."

I whispered back, my lips against her neck, "Me too."

Then she shifted her weight again and she said, "Don't move, now. Just stay inside me." She began to nudge her cunt against my tummy, her clit shifting wetly against the skin of my shaft where I entered her. She moved gently for a while, but soon her breathing would catch now and then, giving a little jerk of air inward and then out.

She said, "Now, just--" She stopped to clear her throat -- "just try not to cum," and I said okay, and she began moving her clit again, sometimes in a small, tight circle, and after a while she whispered in my ear urgently, "Try to hold on for me," and I said "I will," and she swallowed hard and whispered, her voice now shaking uncontrollably, "It's so good... Just concentrate on the... feeling... Mmph... Feel how wet I'm getting?" I nodded yes against her cheek and said "Yeah, feels good," and she whispered, starting to pant, "Hold on for me, now... hold on, I think I'm... let me cum..." and her voice trailed off, and without another word she began a gradually accelerating cycle of hip churning, saying nothing while she lent herself entirely to her body. Her breathing near my ear became more labored, its pace matched by the quickening churn of her hips. I felt an early stirring of my own orgasm, so I concentrated on the sound of the tick tick tick of the nearby clock, and as the clock ticked monotonously the circles her clit made against my cock became smaller and smaller, and then she began to interrupt her steady gasps by holding her breath and the pressure of her crotch on mine was more demanding, and I knew, then, that she was near the edge, and for a moment I felt a surge of relief: I didn't know how I could hold off much longer. Then her face stiffened against mine and her fingers grasped my shoulders and she held her breath and her cunt contracted. While she came her clit scrubbed roughly and jerkily against me, making the old sofa creak a little. I whispered, "I feel you cummin'," and her face against mine slowly nodded yes. Just for the hell of it I arched my cock inside her; she whimpered and kept cumming for several seconds more.