Chapter 2B

She led me to the bedroom and I jumped onto 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 bra-less 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 curvy 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 a prominent swell, made more so by the gentle flare of her hips and the flatness of her tummy, and below her mound was a small gap, a space between her slim, firm thighs where her legs and pelvis met. There was a palm-sized, light, tightly curly tuft of auburn hair just above the sea-shell curve of the mound, the mysterious mound that was deeply furrowed by her thick-lipped slit.

Needless to say, I didn't know what many of these spare parts were for. I remember that seeing her naked 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 onto my knees and shuffled to the edge of the bed. She smiled and moved closer to stand directly before me, pulling her shoulders back and 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, "Here. Suck my titty."

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 just the right way to suck her breasts, which I enjoyed immensely.

She crooned, "Put my nipple on your tongue and press it with your lips... Uh-huh, that's right. Just like before. Ahhh. You do it just right. You're so sensitive to what I like."

Now and then as I sucked and nipped I'd hear her swallow hard, one of several clues from her that she had experienced a strong pang of physical pleasure and was on her way to the next level of new and, perhaps, secret or even forbidden pleasures that we would discover. 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 you always do everything right. You're sucking exactly the way I like it." 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, nursing at 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?"

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' one. 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 forbidden nature took on an even more alluring power than usual. What was happening now was less intellectual, more emotional, and clearly even 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 stroking 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 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 sensed that Martha Jane's ultimate pleasure center would be between her legs, as was mine. I shifted upward a little, hoping to use 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, returning the snuggle by rubbing her cheek against my head. I was thrilled that she enjoyed it. Then I began stroking downward along her tummy toward her navel, and then down her waist to 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, to and fro, until I found her pubic curls. She didn't move, but her breathing stopped. Her hand on my cock stopped. Wondering if I was allowed to continue, I held my hand motionless upon her bush. A long pause. Martha Jane must have sensed that I was thinking blindly of how to proceed, for soon she let go of my cock and gently took my hand from her bush, lifted it, and slowly placed my hand palm down on her bare, warm mons. Letting her own hand fall sleepily to her side, she whispered, "Touch me there."

I marveled at the shape and texture of her mound, firm and rounded just enough to fit against the outstretched palm of my hand; and her silken tuft whose twirls clung to the edge of my hand. My fingers drifted downward and found her moist fold. Her free hand returned to my dick and gave the tip a little squeeze. I raised my head. 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 my index finger found the places and movements along the inner side of her damp places that generated quiet sighs of enjoyment. From my vantage point near her upright breasts I saw little of her wet darkness beyond the faint rise of her pubic hair. As I stroked slowly up and down the wet inner ridge, I saw her thighs spread, slowly, moment by moment, an inch or two at a time, until she raised her knees slightly so her legs could fall outward and she could completely bare her naked secrets to my hand. Carefully my fingers learned to open and spread her. Soon, my index finger found her ample clitoris. At that moment she gave a loud swallow. She murmured sleepily, her mouth barely moving, "Yes." I pressed the clit, finding it firm, rounded, slick. She whispered again, "Yes." My finger ran a small circle around the lubricated jewel, an action that seemed only natural since her clit was too small and too wet to hold onto, and the motion was greeted by a slight rise in her hips and a barely audible, lascivious "Ahhh."

So that was her spot. That was the place. 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 masturbated, an activity I had yet to discover). She offered no instruction, guiding me only with hissed 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 the exact clitoral massage and direction that she liked most, she gave a quick hiss and whispered, "There, hon." I repeated the motion, and she said again, "Right there. Do that," followed by my learning to use a very slight pressing motion near the base of her button, which she greeted with a long, 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. Using words that I could barely hear, she whispered into the dark air, "So nice."