Chapter 19F

I blinked. The room was black. The candle was out. Vaguely, I heard distant sparrows. Vaguely, I felt a warm, small, still hand resting on my cheek, barely touching my skin. I saw lips near my face, and a face so close to mine that my sleepy eyes couldn't focus on it. Before I saw any features or sensed any other signals, I knew the face and hand were Martha's. I was on my back but leaning slightly to my right, my right arm slung across the bed toward the night table at the right of the bed. I glanced to my left; Ronnie slept on her side, curled up like a little girl toward me. The only thing I could see clearly in the black room was the luminous dial on the clock. It was five minutes after five.

Silently, Martha lay on her side close to me, one soft, relaxed nipple on my right shoulder. I closed my eyes again, drifting in and out of sleep as my drowsy brain tried to put the room back together. Her left arm cradled my head into her shoulder. Her length lay snuggled along my right side, her tuft warm and crinkly against my right hip, her right leg draped around my right thigh. I settled fully onto my back and her face turned and looked into mine. She said nothing. Her only movement was the slow grazing of a finger across my forehead. She repeated the motion over and over. I felt her eyes gazing at my face, then felt her head move as she looked toward the window when a small gust ruffled the curtains, and then she looked into my face again. I opened my eyes briefly and found her gazing at me: a warm, calm, caring, sisterly gaze. I closed my eyes again and wondered if this part of the long night were a dream. The lust that earlier drenched the room had evaporated. The room was still, silent, peaceful. I floated, feeling only Martha's heat against me and her leg over mine and her finger on my forehead. Time passed. Her right hand that had stroked my forehead now cradled my cheek, her thumb softly rubbing my left eyebrow. My eyes closed. I felt the warmth of her face close to mine and felt her eyes watching me. Her thumb made love to my eyebrow, carefully, soothingly. Then her thumb stilled and her hand pressed my cheek almost imperceptibly, and her very warm, moist, soft lips fit themselves perfectly to mine -- a strangely unsexual, unwanting kiss, a simple touching. She did this several times, lifting her head and then matching her lips to mine. And then her lips stayed, pressing lightly. A genuine, easy, affectionate kiss. She lifted her face again and touched her lips to my cheek, nose, eyelids, and then down my other cheek and across my jawline and then around my neck. No demands. No urgency. Only a touch of her lips. And this, too, she repeated, all around my face, and then again. There was a pause and I felt her gazing and heard her breathing calmly and she seemed to be not just looking, but studying, waiting. And then her lips on mine again, but this time more wetly, more warmly, and it was more a kiss than a touch, her own lips parted and wetter now, and she pressed her lips to mine but, at the same time, she didn't press; she grazed her inner lips across my lips. And for a long time that way she made gentle love to my mouth with hers. And then her mouth met mine and the nipping and light, puffy kisses began, trailing down my neck and onto my right shoulder, then across my throat and onto my left shoulder, her lips opening and her tongue touching my flesh but not moving, remaining there, tasting, giving, and I let my head fall to the right and blinked. The clock said five twenty-nine.

She withdrew her tongue, lifting her head, and with her fingers she stroked the spot on my shoulder that her tongue had warmed, and then her tongue returned, and the small, soft kisses returned, across my nipples, pinching ever so benignly. Then her shoulders moved and her right hand stroked my left waist and her lips moved downward, her head dipping gently and sweetly, and she kissed so lightly and so quietly that I heard nothing but her breathing. She made wide circles of kisses on me, circles that became slowly smaller, a mouth that became slowly wetter, and the circle started above my navel and swung around my left hip and across the top of my right thigh and then across the left thigh and then around my left hip and back to the spot above my navel. And the kisses never changed but the circles became smaller and smaller. After a long time the circle was only a few inches around my softened cock. I blinked again and the clock said five-fifty-one. Inexplicably, her mouth seemed listless, angelic, motherly, innocent. She merely touched, and loved. And then the circle was smaller and the slow, infrequent kisses moved into my pubic curls and then to my cock, and a few seconds passed between each kiss as she touched them to my sleeping shaft, from the bottom and slowly to the top, then down. And then she stopped, and nestled closer, bringing her head over my loins, and I looked down and saw her gazing at my cock, the fingers of her left hand encircling and then holding it with only an inch of the awakening tip above her thumb, and she seemed to study this sight with a gentle, girlish pout. And then she lowered her head and licked my tip. She gazed at my cock again, the same way as before, and still holding me she made a little 'o' with her lips and circled my tip with her inner lips and gently tongued the slit, and she did this for several seconds.

Then she removed her hand and her lips and started all over again, above my navel, in a wide circle. And she closed the circle slowly, and kissed up and down my gradually responding shaft, which ached from its earlier striving. And then the lick, and then her wet lips gently mothering my tip. All the while, there was no demand, no hurry, no hunger. Only a learning, a knowing, a loving. I looked at the clock. Six twelve. I thought: only Martha could do this. Only Martha would think of this. Only Martha could love in a way that was flaming lust and, later, angelic nurturing.

Now her lips at my tip opened. Slowly, not inch by inch but millimeter by millimeter, her lips sunk down and her mouth enclosed me. The only sound in the room was her breathing through her nose. After, it seems, two minutes, she engulfed my half-hardness completely. And then it was another two minutes, it seemed, while her mouth and tongue rose back to the top, and then her inner lips and her tongue swabbed me gently, and her mouth let me go. And she continued to hold me and she gazed at me while she swallowed and she settled closer. And then she did the same thing all over again. And after she had gone through the same, unhurried enclosing for the fourth time, I was rigid and hard and good as new, saying hello to the roof of her mouth with a feeble pulse now and then, especially on the downstroke. The rest of me was torpid and slow, but my cock reached skyward. Now I was slick with her, and after she removed her mouth her cupping hand enclosed me and stroked me easily, loosely, slowly, and she watched, calm, unhurried, serenely pleased as my young, stiff cock stretched and pulsed in her hand.

And then the soft, subtle sucking began. One suck, two, three, and then her lips would gently enclose and wetly swathe the sensitized tip, circling slowly. And never a hurry, never seeking more, never a thought of the next moment, but always a slow, moist lingering in the present. Then I surmised what she was doing. As I had done in the streets and earlier with her body, she was memorizing. She seemed to nurse, protect, savor, and record each moment, each sensation, each response. Her eyes never left my cock. And as she saw my hardened shaft pulse, the glimmerings of a satisfied smile crossed her face. She lifted her body and put her hands astride my head and her knees astride my chest, and she raised onto her arms and looked down between us and centered her middle over mine and, carefully, she lowered herself and pressed my cock against my stomach and settled on me with the top half of my cock nestled in her tuft and the lower half cradled in her humid slit. Then she settled onto her elbows and arranged her nipples on mine, and she hugged her body against me, and hugged her elbows into me, and hugged her knees into me, and held my face. Her lips hovered over mine briefly. Her eyes fluttered and closed and she whispered with a soft, almost religious hush, "Baby. My baby." And then she kissed my mouth. Fully, her lips pressing and gliding, her tongue slithering. Without hunger, without yearning. But with patient relish.

Her lips left mine. Rising again, she looked down the length of us and I looked down and watched and she watched as she carefully raised her belly and allowed my cock to stand. She lifted a little higher, and her slick outer lips found my tip, and circled it, and she let her sticky outer ring caress and then enfold my tip, as the lips of her mouth had done, she raised and lowered her pussy, minutely, barely visibly, and her outer lips kissed and bathed my tip. My cock throbbed and yawed and greeted her, and nestled to her. I heard her steady, absorbed breathing, and my own broken sighs. I rested my hands on her circling hips and let my head fall back, and enjoyed not the lust but the love, the pleasure of being learned, intimately mothered, friended and pleased. Each movement, each pleasure, each moment was its own. There seemed to be no impatience for whatever was next. Her cunt caressed my tip for a while, and she lifted, her breath mildly irregular as her slit relinquished me, and I felt a thin, warm drop from inside her, whose source could only have been her mouth and her own fluids, that trickled onto my tip and teared downward and then tumbled onto my tummy.

And then with a quiver in her breath she contacted my tip again, this time letting the outer lips along her slit ride the length of my dick, and I felt the tip of her firming clit slide along my shaft. She nudged my tip and, still looking down, massaged my slit with her clit, around, up and down, and her breath quickened. She wetted and pleasured her clit on me for a moment, and then she raised again, and her slit clung to my tip and my cock was lifted straight up. And with a long sigh through her nose and a serious, intent pout, she lowered and then engulfed me fully, and ground her belly benignly on me. Relaxing onto her elbows, she brought her face close to mine again, and tenderly held my face between her palms, and kissed me. Then, her breathing broken only by small, occasional gasps of pleasure, she started fucking languidly.

Or, I should say, made love to me and paused just long enough to memorize every move, every response, every sensation. Her eyes closed, her mouth calmly set, she rose and fell on me with apparent relish and care and concentration. When my breath quickened and my cock lurched in her, she stopped, paused, and raised her tummy and looked down again. And started over, from the first loving swab with her outer lips, and then to the nudging and sliding of her clit, and then to enfoldment, and then fucking.

And again she did that, and again. And on the fifth effort, I felt her back tense and curl, and she didn't pause in sliding her clit along my shaft. She gasped, and her face near mine breathed with a short, broken, quickening rhythm, and she closed her eyes and her lips tightened and she frowned as if deep in concentration, and her clit on me was as firm and taut as a sparrow's beak, and her juice flowed on me and she came, quietly, her breath held, and her hands tightened on my face, and her arms shook, and then she pressed her clit against my cock and paused, and quivered, and jerked with a small, low-pitched, clipped "Hm!" from deep in her throat, and then another pause and a long quiver and a jerk and then a lower-pitched "Hm!", and then again, and still another, and then she slumped with a long, wobbly exhalation. And then she raised on her hands again and swallowed hard and whimpered, and she rested for a brief interlude while her breathing slowed to soft, fluttering sighs.

Beside us, Ronnie stirred, giving a low sigh and uncurling her fingers. Her hand near me moved, touching my arm. Her fingers uncurled and draped sleepily over my skin. Then she was still again.

Then Martha looked down between us, aimed, enfolded me, relaxed on her elbows at my sides, and held my face tenderly. And began again.

It was nearly seven before I found the strength to climax. Finally, the blissful agony began. I felt the first twitch in my tired balls. Martha looked down, and slowed, but kept going. Her inner cunt milked me on each languid upstroke. And I thought: How does she know? How does she know? I spouted. Near my ear I heard her exhale slowly. Then thin, watery squirts were all I could manage. But they were warm, eager, leaping high into her like salmon, and I heard her breathing brokenly, pleasurably, and it sounded like quiet, happy crying. I kept cumming after my weak, empty tubes had given their last, and I heaved and panted and my shaft continued to pulse. I think I made a loud noise but I couldn't hear myself. The long orgasm was poignant and tight and came from deep within me. She milked me snugly, her cunt hot and slick, and she let me wander in my completion for as long as I could.

Then she melted into me everywhere. She closed her elbows and her knees and her arms on me and her torso pressed into me and she became a mothering cocoon around me, and she kissed me passionately. She stroked my hair and kissed my face. She whispered, "Baby. Baby."

After lunch and packing, we dressed and Martha put on a little makeup and made herself presentable for the airport. She combed her hair, the sides short and the blondish auburn curls fluffed on top, and she wore her loafers and a black pleated skirt and a light, formfitting, white, short-sleeve, cotton knit shirt. She looked clean and bright and chic.

She said, "We have time for one last lesson."

On the sofa, I rose from tying my shoes, and I sighed.

She gave me a sweet smile. "Just a short one. The last. But I really want to talk to you. As grownups, Steven." She looked out the living room window. "Let's go out on the promenade. We can have a little walk."

We took a slow stroll along the East River near Gracie Mansion. I leaned on a railing and looked toward the city and down the line of the promenade into Manhattan.

I asked, "Will I see this again?"

"Oh, of course you will," she said. She stood behind me, her short hair rustling in the breeze. From behind me, she put her arms around me and folded them around my chest. She looked around and she said, "Let's sit over here on the steps, by the Gracie garden. You're older now. I want to talk to you that way."

She sat on the low steps on the edge of the garden that overlooked the river. I sat on the edge of a limestone block that framed the steps, my legs hanging down near her side, and looked down at her.

She set her small purse on the step beside her and she took out a cigarette. She lit up and leaned with her elbows on her knees, the cigarette held in the air. She said, "It's so nice out. A cool breeze for a change."

"Yes."

She looked at her cigarette for a moment, and then glanced down the promenade. There were two people walking several blocks away. I looked at her from the side; she had a well-sculpted profile, her nose small and gently sloped and then rounded, and relatively large eyes and long lashes, and a straight, graceful neck. She would have looked even younger than her twenty-four years, but her soft mouth had a slight droop downward at the edges, making her look older and more sophisticated and thoughtful.

She said quietly, "I have to tell you something."

I said calmly, "I'm listening."

She looked out at the river. "Hon... When you came here, you had a nice body. A good, maturing, teenaged boy's body. But you had no confidence at all in what you had. You didn't know how to develop, or how to care for it. You were so self-conscious, you couldn't speak. You couldn't look anyone in the eye. You took every hurt and every fear, every setback so seriously that it made you look helpless." She took a drag and blew out. "Now you're hard as a rock. You have a body as fit and firm as a grown man's. Not a bloated body, not size. But a good, strong body and a glow about you. People will notice that. People will respond to it. Don't lose what you've built up. I know that you want want... you want more than what others want. More out of life, more from yourself. So you'll have to *be* more, you'll have to do more to get it."

I said, "I understand."

"I'm afraid that in many ways, hon, I'm not a good example. I haven't been to Fiore's all summer. I've gained a few pounds, I guess."

I said, "I don't see any pounds."

She smiled. She went on, "But I know that you somehow see me as perfect. But you... you must never see any woman as perfect, hon. Nor any man, nor anyone else." She took a breath. She looked down the river. She said, "This might hurt, Steven." She looked out at the river again, and she took a breath and swallowed. "Last year, before last summer, I was drinking too much at parties. It got me into trouble. I was so lonely. I was desperate. I... I, uh... Steven... I gave myself... to a man because he could give me a life. He said he could. He would. He had money. He was attractive, he was powerful, he was nice to me. And if my sister Evelyn could build an easy life for herself that way, then surely I could. And there... there were... others. A few. A couple of them. Hon, I'm not talking about sin. I'm not talking about... taking, not sharing. Not loving. God knows they knew so much about wealth but so little about pleasure. And nothing about love. Nothing." She sighed, looking down the promenade away from me. "I was... I mean... I mean, I gave up. I hit bottom. I didn't just lie, I opened my legs to lies. I am pretty, I am desirable, but I gave it to that phony crowd. I gave something that a truly loving person would have thought of as not only desirable, but precious. For security. I wanted acceptance, I wanted a place. I wanted warmth and clean sheets. Children. A father. But I was so, so, so angry. I was enraged. Why should I have to act like Martha, live up to everyone's fantasies as Martha, but keep on living in a dump and being ignored like Martha Jane? So I gave up. It was just for a short time, but I gave up and I said what's the use? I was just so --" She choked up, and she looked away. "I was so lonely. So desperate. So miserable. And I lived in that... dump. Just another dumpy attic, another place no one wants. Every night for a couple of months, there, I would... cry all night, drink myself to sleep. Then Ronnie roomed with me. And I saw how she was living. I saw myself. And I straightened up." She took another drag, and she blew downward and looked at her cigarette. I simply watched her. I was a little numb, but I forgot about that and listened to the pain underlying her monotone.