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From: cmndrj@usa.net.NOSPAM (Commander Jameson)
Subject: Rep. by req.: Me and Martha Jane by S.J.R. (mF, teen, rom) part 1&2
(Reposter's note: Well, I've seen some requests, and it's been 3 months
since the last repost, so why not...)
From: sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
**** WARNING **** WARNING **** WARNING ****
THIS DOCUMENT IS A SEXUALLY GRAPHIC STORY ABOUT AN INTENSE SEXUAL,
EMOTIONAL AND INTELLECTUAL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A TEENAGE GIRL AND
A YOUNG BOY AND THE COURSE OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP OVER A PERIOD OF
10 YEARS. IT IS A DRAMATIZATION ABOUT REAL PEOPLE AND THEIR CON-
FLICT WITH SOCIAL EXPECTATIONS. IF THIS SUBJECTS OFFENDS YOU OR IF
SEXUAL LANGUAGE UPSETS YOU, OR IF YOU DON'T WANT THIS MATERIAL SEEN
BY UNDER-18 OR OTHERWISE UNQUALIFIED PERSONS, DELETE THIS DOCUMENT.
THIS DOCUMENT IS COPYRIGHTED 1994, 1996 BY SJR. SO--HEY, YOU CAN
COPY IT BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE IT OR SELL IT UNLESS I SAY SO.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
PART 1A:
The story herein is told as best as I can recall it. It occurred
during 1948-49-50. There are continued incidents that occurred 1952-58.
Over the years I have relived these events countless times, carefully
reconstructing in my mind many forgotten details and conversations -- at
one point undergoing hypnosis to recall details or events that lay buried
under a lifetime of other thoughts and concerns.
What follows is presented as clearly as I can remember...
During this first period, 1948 to 1950, I ranged in age from 6 to
almost 9. This doesn't make me an "old man" -- fortunately, a youthful
look runs in my family (though we tend to lose our teeth early, for some
damn reason). I look 35. I am 5'8" and appear slightly taller because I
am muscular but slim. When I was age 8 to 13 I actually looked older and
was often mistaken for 12 to 18. Luckily, that trend later reversed
itself.
Over the years I've discussed these incidents with professionals
(i.e., headshrinkers and other counselors), most of whom were scandalized
by my tale. In discussing it, and in going back over childhood memories
with parents and relatives, I managed to gather a number of facts about
me as a boy:
I was mentally and sexually precocious. Not that I was a young
Einstein or a certifiable "prodigy", but I was quite bright and mentally
overactive. From the time I was able to crawl along the floor I was
poking my nose into everything. In this regard I was difficult to
manage; my mother couldn't keep pace with my endless questions and habits
like peeking under everything in sight. When entering a new room or
building the first thing I did was wonder what was in the closets. I
used to look under the sofa and the chair cushions just to see what was
there (I found lots of pennies doing this, and a wedding ring lost by a
visiting aunt). I also loved listening to the 78rpm records on Mom's
then-new Philco tabletop radio-phonograph. The Philco was on several
occasions a source of wonderment to my Mom and relatives -- whenever they
brought me a child's record, I would set it aside untouched and start
playing a symphony (Dvorak's Eighth was my favorite) or the Peggy Lee
album, and I listened to Tex Ritter platters until I wore them gray and
had to ask for replacements. I knew more about the Philco than Mom did,
once producing for her a crayon drawing of how the old vacuum tube
"tuning eye" worked. My hearing was sharply developed: I could tell when
the steel-tipped phono needle was beginning to wear before anyone else
could hear the difference and I knew how to change the needle
myself -- something my mother was never able to figure out.
Before I started grammar school I would read the morning paper to Mom
while she fixed breakfast. This was something I picked up from my
godfather, who every Sunday read the comics to me, pointing at each word
as he read. An Italian immigrant who never finished grammar school, he
was a slow reader who always read that way, his index finger leading him
along word by word across a page. The first time he read to me I was
curious about how the printed letters corresponded to what he said aloud,
so each time he went through the comics with me I made him break down the
words he pointed to, and soon I had him breaking down the syllables in
the words until I learned to put words together on my own. The first
words I learned to recognize by myself was the phrase, "You betchum, Red
Ryder!," a phrase I used until everyone around me grew sick of it. My
great-aunt Frances once caught me in her back yard trying to lift a heavy
old castiron Underwood typewriter that someone had abandoned. I was
barely six then, and the ancient 1920's-vintage machine was almost as
heavy as I was. She wanted me to throw it away, but I insisted on
keeping it and cradled it heavily on my lap the day I found it as she
drove me back to my Mom's and stared at me, amazed that anyone would want
such a piece of junk. But the old machine's feel and construction
fascinated me, and did so for years. Quickly and easily bored, I drew my
own comic books (mostly stick-men and outer space battles), once filled
the apartment with acrid smoke and ruined a pot trying to manufacture my
own crayons -- the odor made Mom sick for days, and it took weeks for the
stench of paraffin to fade. These and other feats of my daring and
heedless youth caused most of my stodgy family to consider me a holy
terror. They labeled my behavior as weird and inscrutable.
Most of these activities were the result of prolonged self isolation
and boredom. I was as impatient with adults as they were with me. They
addressed me as if either they or I were idiots, mumbling among them-
selves as if they didn't think I understood what they were talking about
(some of them knew that I knew, so they would mumble in Italian -- which
of course I didn't understand and which infuriated me!). They usually
answered my questions with religious myth, fantasy, or old wives' tales
-- none of which I accepted, especially quaint tripe about storks deli-
vering babies and women getting big bellies from eating too many
popsicles. I soon learned that adults -- especially my overly religious
mother -- could not be trusted. I became emotionally and intellectually
estranged from them at a very early age, probably around age four.
Rather than ask questions, I did my own investigating. This often got me
into trouble: I once jammed my arm into the ancient Westinghouse laundry
machine Mom had in the kitchen corner, the kind with a mechanized
feed-by-hand rinser-wringer attached to the top of the washtub. The
thick rubber rollers on this machine happened to be engaged at the time,
and the rollers pulled one of my arms through the wringer, threatening to
squeeze the rest of me along with it. My mother heard me yelling, ran
into the kitchen, smacked the roller release lever, and rescued me.
Unfortunately I learned absolutely nothing from this incident. I
kept right on distrusting the advice of any and all elders and continued
to snoop, probe, and experiment. My active spirits were so unpredictable
that my mother arranged for rest on weekends by sending me out of the
house to spend time with my grandparents and godparents. I gave this
Puritanical crowd the same case of the heebie-jeebies, so they placated
me with plenty of money for movies, comic books, magazines, and whatever
else would keep me occupied in a corner or otherwise out of their hair.
I was not mean-spirited or destructive. In fact, I considered other
children to be insensitive, dense, selfish, often brutal. My feelings
were easily hurt by name-calling and arm-punching. I had a nauseating
fear of violence, whether directed at me or at anyone else. Yet
physically I was fairly muscular and aggressive, tending to spend my time
in risky games such as purposely dashing back and forth across Lauderdale
Street, the 6-lane, heavily trafficked main boulevard that ran through
our project, and early on conducted my own far-flung explorations of the
nearby downtown area without the slightest idea how I would find my way
back home. I once wandered around the downtown Memphis waterfront until
I truly got lost; I didn't find my way back until 9 o'clock that night
and on returning home I found my Mom had called every relative in sight;
several of them were pacing around our living room talking with some
cops. I casually entered the front door and walked across the room with
a carefree "Hi, folks!" and everyone immediately descended upon me with
yells, threats, moans and tears of consternation. And though I knew this
would be the result if I ever wandered off again, I wandered anyway --
but not without first studying a map of the city and learning all the
routes of the city bus lines -- not so I would not get lost again (I did
on several more occasions), but so I could find my way back in time to
avoid their hysteria.
My neighborhood was a Federal housing project. But It was nothing
like modern projects, so it's difficult to describe. The place was in
downtown Memphis, Tennessee, and was built in the 1930's to house retired
veterans, their widows and children, and government employees needing
housing. World War II made this housing available to war widows and
disabled vets and their families. The rent was $30 a month, which in the
1940's was still a fairly hefty sum for a widow or disabled vet. The
housing staff maintained the area almost antiseptically inside and out.
It consisted mostly of small, single-level housing units with 4 to 6
1-bedroom apartments in each unit. The project extended 6-by-8 city
blocks. Each apartment had its own small backyard, which some tenants
equipped with picket fences and even flower or vegetable gardens.
Housing staff inspected the interiors of each apartment every 30 days to
make certain the tenants kept them maintained. The grounds were webbed
with sidewalks, dotted with trees, shrubs, and benches here and there.
Those who are familiar with the life of Elvis Presley will recognize this
project near downtown Memphis as the same one Elvis lived in during the
early 1950's, at roughly the same time I was there.
In the late 1950's, a few years after my mother and my new stepfather
moved out of the neighborhood to suburbia, the Feds handed the project
over to the state. Housing for military and government people had been
moved into the 'burbs, so the project became tenanted by state welfare
recipients. In the 1960's the project was turned over to the county and
city, at which point it was populated only by the homeless, the chronic-
ally unemployed, and those living strictly on the dole. By that time it
had decayed into a crusty slum and looked not at all like the well kept,
flowered neighborhood I remembered.
My mother was a World War II widow. In many ways this contributed to
my early feelings of isolation from her. I distinctly recall receiving
from her the impression that, since my father's death in combat earning a
Silver Star in the B-17 battles over Europe, I had been a great burden to
her (There was more to this story than his death in the war, but that's
another tale.) Certainly, my Mom being suddenly left alone to raise me
and my younger sister could have had this effect on her. She never
openly voiced any of this, but I clearly remember having received this
"message" from her in many subtle ways. I had a sister almost two years
younger. The two of us in that small apartment were too much for Mom; so
it happened that by the time I was 5 or 6 my sister wasn't around often,
having been taken under the wing of her very large godmother, who allowed
my sister to spend months at a time with her and her husband. My sister
wasn't enamored of life in the project, preferring to be thoroughly
spoiled and pampered by her doting godmother (who did her best to play
the role, usually to excess). Sis, whom we called Miss Priss, would stay
at our apartment for a while, then ask to stay at her godmother's for
prolonged periods, until at the age of 12 or so she practically moved in
with her semi-permanently. This same godmother was also our great-aunt.
I seemed to barely get along with this shrill woman, and our relationship
probably survived due only to the fact that she had a great affection for
her favorite nephew, my departed father. I found the woman too smother-
ing and exacting for comfort.
So I was left most often with Mom, whom I didn't trust. I had the
feeling I was in her way. She was attractive and quiet, but a sad and
moody woman, usually too tired or worried to spend much time with me. I
can't fault her; she married too young, got caught up in the tragedy of
the War, and was simply doing her best to cope. With my sister usually
away and with most of the kids in the project being too roughneck for my
taste, I was left pretty much to myself from a very early age. Very
likely this same attitude caused me to leave home later, at 18, and
strike out on my own.
The single bright spot was the family next door. Another war widow
lived there with her two daughters. This woman and my mother became
close friends, a relationship that continues to this day even though the
lady moved to St. Louis years ago. Her oldest daughter was a tall,
attractive, brunette young woman nearing her twenties at the time and
whom I seldom saw. She possessed a highly valued high school diploma,
enabling her to find work and help the family financially. In the South
in the 1940's women could expect only minimal pay at clerical or similar
jobs. But she earned enough to keep her younger sister in high school.
This younger sister was Martha Jane. My earliest memory of Martha Jane
was when I was 6 years old and she was 15. I had a very serious crush on
her.
I don't mean that as a 6-year old sexpot I had the kind of crush that
centers on sexual fantasy. I don't recall ever sitting around fantasiz-
ing sexually at that age about Martha Jane. I simply had a strong and
memorable affection for her. And she had similar feelings for me -- in
later years my mother would say to me, "Yes, I remember Martha Jane --
she just LOVED you! She thought you were the sweetest, cutest thing on
earth! She was the only one who could make you behave."
It was true. With little instruction or any warning that I can
remember, Martha Jane's presence seemed to soothe my savage beasts. I
would knowingly do nothing -- nothing -- to upset her in any way.
Actions that I knew were upsetting to others were automatically filtered
out of my behavior when I was around her. By the same token, Martha Jane
always approached me as though I were a person rather than an imbecile.
She gave honest, practical, concerned answers to my endless questions and
she had a fondness for stories and science and movies and music similar
to mine. Obviously my insistent questioning and troublesome behavior
were attempts on my part to get attention and establish some sort of
meaning- ful communication with a mental soul mate. Most of my large
family of relatives were half-literate, working- or middle-class folks --
nothing immoral about that, and such is the human stuff that gets work
done and is often referred to as the "salt of the earth." There was no
lack of a certain modicum of family attachment and devotion. But they
and I lacked, shall we say, compatibility and understanding. Martha Jane
apparently fulfilled many of those needs and shared my mental interests,
sometimes sitting for hours telling me stories or reading to me or simply
listening. After spending some time with her I usually felt serene for a
few days. My frequent bouts of instant boredom and hyperactivity were,
for a while, minimal. Martha Jane reciprocated by treating me with
intelligence, playfulness, and a seemingly endless supply of affection.
And she and I simply seemed to establish an instant rapport together.
Adults were boring and stultifying: she never was. She never raised her
voice or hand to me, and she never had reason to.
At 15, she was a sunny faced, fairly short, trim teenager with a very
poised manner and auburn hair that was so light it often appeared
blonde. She often wore black horn-rimmed glasses. Her hair was medium
length and usually frizzy (I called it fuzzy-cute) rather than long and
curled like most women and girls I knew. She had strong eyes that
appeared alternately hazel or bright green, depending on the light and on
her mood. She wore very sparse makeup, and had a soft musical voice
that I found hypnotic. Pugnosed, a little delicate and with a bright
face that hinted of a few tiny freckles, she was the typically pretty,
early 50's teen. She also had a very evident West Tennessee Southern
twang, which her older sister didn't seem to have.
(* P.S.: In later years I became an accomplished astrologer, and
eventually astrology combined with my computer skills. Astrologically
I calculated her birthdate: Martha Jane was a Virgo, born September 9,
1933. I later found out that this birthdate was correct. But I hope I
never again have to do the amount of work required to figure this out!)
Martha Jane didn't spend a great deal of time with me or in my
mother's place. She was an avid student. At that time, poor kids who
wanted to get anywhere in life -- especially to move out of Federal
housing projects -- had to get through high school, or else! It was that
simple. We would usually see each other on our shared front porch if we
happened to be entering or leaving our apartments together. She would
greet me out front and spend a while talking to me there, and we'd go on
our way. It was always a pleasant exchange, though today I remember
little of what was said. I do remember that she would often hug me, kiss
my nose, let me give her a kiss, or in some other way express herself
affectionately and attentively to me. On a few occasions she visited my
mother for an afternoon. They would sit in the small kitchen and chat
over tea or coffee while I played elsewhere in the apartment.
Martha Jane and I did not spend time alone together until late in my
6th year, when my widowed Mom began dating the man who eventually became
my stepfather. This started in late 1948. Mom and my future stepdad
didn't date often, since they saw each other regularly during the week
when she did her grocery shopping at the supermarket on the corner; my
stepdad-to-be was manager/owner of the place, with others in his family.
They dated only every few weeks or so; and as staunch conservative
Catholics, they had a long and leisurely courtship that continued for
years. When she did have a dress-up date, Mom engaged a sitter for me.
Originally my sitter was my maternal grandmother or one of my
mother's younger sisters. But grandma moved to the distant 'burbs and my
two aunts found husbands. My mother could only occasionally afford to
pay a babysitter, and she refused to accept as little as a dollar or two
from my stepdad-to-be (now I know where I got most of that independent
streak of mine! It was her own independence that kept her in the project
for so long. After my father's death she was too embarrassed to accept
help and was determined to make life work on her own. Unfortunately the
right to that streak wasn't looked upon so favorably in my case).
So it turned out that my sitter became Martha Jane, who offered her
services freely. My Mom tried slipping her a bill or two now and then,
but Martha Jane would have none if it. "You don't have to pay me to stay
with him," she'd say. "I love Speedy!"
This brings me to my nickname. Why I found this name so embarras-
sing, even then, is a mystery to me. But I came to be known as "Speedy."
My other nicknames were Mikey (from my godmother) and Butch (from my
great-aunt). Where the name Speedy came from has many myths behind it,
but most people say it had a lot to do with the legendary speed with
which I ran away when caught at something. Martha Jane addressed me by
Speedy and sometimes by my proper name, Steven. Being called Speedy by
most people deeply annoyed me, but I didn't seem to mind when Martha Jane
did it. I have no explanation for making an exception of her when it
came to my otherwise despised nickname. She said she liked both names,
and that was OK by me.
During these infrequent babysit sessions she would usually study.
Sometimes she would do a little cleaning or straightening, purely out of
a desire to help my Mom, and I would always help. I felt "right" with
whatever we did together. I do recall the one time that I upset her
during a babysit session: I was in our small bedroom. There was a black
phone set in the room and I wanted desperately to find out what happened
when I dialed 411. The telephone directory listed it as a free public
information number. So I picked up the phone and dialed 411. An
operator answered.
"Number, please?" said the voice on the other end.
"Oh," I said nonchalantly, "I don't want a number. I just wanna talk
to you."
Martha Jane must have heard this ridiculous conversation, because
right away I heard her cry out, "Speedy? What are you doing in there?"
She rushed into the room and stood in the doorway, stunned and shocked.
"What are you DOING?"
I was so alarmed that I immediately said into the phone, "I'm sorry, I
didn't mean to bother you, Miss," and hung up. Martha Jane quickly came
to me and took the phone away. I told her I had only called 411 and was
talking to the operator. She looked at me blankly, and then couldn't
help but giggling. "You did WHAT?" All I could do was look up at her
(she was not that tall, but she was then taller than I). I took the hem
of her skirt and scrunched up against her; I was really afraid I had
offended her. I kept saying I was sorry. She knelt down to my level and
patiently explained to me about telephone operators and how the poor
overworked gals got so many crank calls. "I'll call up one of my
girlfriends sometime, okay? And you and I can talk to her together and
you'll see what it's like." I said it would be fine, and I hugged her
and apologized again and again, and she accepted and hugged me back and
got me ready for bed.
PART 1B:
The fact is, Martha Jane was an upright, well behaved, socially
poised, and even a classy young lady. She seldom displayed anger,
apparently never gossiped or had anything critical to say about anyone.
As far as I can tell, she was just a very conscientious, proper, very
pretty teenaged girl. She did have an active and playful nature but for
the most part she behaved with the kind of politeness so common among
girls whose Southern moms brought them up as "proper" and "sociable".
But obviously Martha Jane had her other side. On rare occasions
during that period when she first was sitting for me, I would now and
then look up and find her staring at me. Not "at" me, I should say, but
"toward" me as though thinking of something very deep and ponderous. Or
now and then she would, indeed, look right into me with a serious and
careful gaze, but she'd say nothing. I would turn away and go back to
what I was doing. I had no idea what she was thinking.
One of these incidents occurred in late 1948, just before or after
Thanksgiving. I was six, Martha Jane was fifteen. She arrived at our
place from next door at about 7 o'clock as my Mom was getting powdered
and done up. I was on the floor of the living room and had spread old
newspapers around to work on the treasured but broken Underwood type-
writer that I had retrieved from the trash only a few weeks earlier.
Martha Jane said hello and hugged me and chatted with my mother. Mom
said, "Just let him play down there and he shouldn't be any trouble."
Martha Jane laughed and said, "Betty, Speedy never gives me any trouble,"
at which Mom grumbled, "Give him time."
Martha Jane stood over me and asked what I was doing. My Mom broke
in and said, "He's making a mess with that old typewriter. I don't see
why he doesn't throw it away, it's nothin' but a...hunk of junk."
Martha Jane bent way down to smile at me on the floor and survey the
spread of springs and spare parts strewn over the newspaper. "Hey," she
asked, "are you taking this apart or putting it together?"
"Both," I said, not looking up from my work. "I'm gonna make it work
again."
"But what'll you to do with it, Speedy, after you get it to work?"
"I'll figure somethin' out," I said arrogantly.
"You certainly have enough parts there for inspiration."
My mother came into the room, screwing on an earring. "Don't you
make a mess and drive Martha Jane crazy. She has to study tonight."
"Oh, Betty," Martha Jane said, "he'll be all right."
My mother continued, "I don't know what he wants that thing for, it
must be twenty years old. His godmother buys him toy trains and toy this
and toy that, and he has to fool around with that and make a mess!"
She left to finish dressing in the bedroom. I sat on my knees,
hunched over, laboriously studying the puzzle before me. I was so deeply
absorbed that I was startled to hear someone breathing behind me. I
looked up at saw Martha Jane staring at me. I turned so quickly that she
barely had time to change the studied expression with which she had
apparently been watching me.
Quickly, she smiled and gave me a big wink. She mouthed the words,
"It's okay."
My Mom left a few minutes later. Martha Jane settled down to a pile
of books on the sofa and studied silently while I knelt on the floor
struggling with my project. Using pliers and a screwdriver, I managed to
straighten most its typeset arms, but some of them were still getting
stuck on certain letters. I worked on it until I became frustrated and
threw the pliers on the floor and pouted.
"What's wrong?" Martha Jane asked, and she came to sit on the floor
beside me.
I showed her how the keys for certain letters were still bent out of
shape and that if I bent one properly, the keys next to it became misa-
ligned. Martha Jane said, "Speedy, why don't you take it to a repair
shop?"
"It's too old," I said. "Nobody wants to fool with it."
"Tell you what, maybe your Aunt Frances would buy you a new one."
"She won't," I said.
"But she gets you everything you want."
"No!" I said, angrily. "She told me I'm too young to have a
typewriter."
"Too young?" she said, surprised. "You probably know more about
typewriters than she ever will, hon."
"Besides," I added, holding the black albatross by the ends of its
heavy roller platen, "it's mine! I found it."
"And nobody wants it but you," she pondered. She hunched down beside
me and surveyed the damage. "Maybe I can help."
I sighed, "It's no use. It's just too old and banged up."
"Well, Speedy, let's be patient and see what we can do. I'm sure you
can figure it out. Show me what's wrong with it."
I was reluctant and pessimistic at first, but Martha Jane put on her
hornrimmed glasses and made me show her what the problem was. She
studied everything closely and showed me how to set up the keys so that
the problem was always repeated exactly the same way every time. She
told me how to work on one part at a time and not try to fix everything
at once. Finally we had the machine in one piece again and I showed her
how straightening one key would throw several others out of whack.
Martha Jane sat back and scratched her head. I stood up beside her.
"Martha Jane," I said, "you don't have to do this. You have to study."
She said, "No...now you've got me as puzzled about this as you are."
Suddenly she snapped her fingers and ran into the kitchen. She came
back with some popsicle sticks. We kept popsicle sticks around for
making our own cheap popsicles out of soda poured into ice trays. She
showed me how to hold the line of keys in place with parts made from
popsicle sticks, and that would let me work on one key at a time and keep
the others in place.
"Hey," I exclaimed, "Neat! That's pretty smart for a girl."
"Hm...boys!" she huffed with a laugh, and she went back to the sofa
and her books.
An hour passed while I worked feverishly. And finally the damn thing
worked! I ran to the chest in the corner for paper and put a sheet into
the roller, and used a piece of popsicle stick to replace a missing part
that kept the wrinkled old ink ribbon aligned. Then I typed and typed
and watched amazed as the page filled with perfectly straight rows of
letters for the first time. I was so pleased, I filled the page from top
to bottom with letters that soon were words instead of random
characters. I watched as my thoughts magically unfolded in printed
sentences before my eyes. I typed until there was no more room on the
page, then I ripped it from the roller and ran to Martha Jane, who was
startled by my sudden leap onto the sofa next to her.
"Look!" I said, shoving the paper under her face.
"Well," she said, impressed. "That's very nice. See? I knew you
could do it."
Embarrassed, I said, "Look at the last line."
Along the last line I had typed "Thank You Martha Jane Thank You
Martha Jane" across the page.
"Oh, that's sweet!" she exclaimed. She gave me a hug. "Can I keep
this?"
"Sure."
"Is it all right? It's yours, you made it all by yourself. You sure
you don't want to keep it so you can show your Mama what you did?"
"She don't care."
"Now why would say something like that about your Mama?"
I shook my head. "She don't care. I didn't make it for me, I made
it for you. You helped me make it work."
"But, hon, your Mama cares about what you do."
I shook my head no.
"She does!" Martha Jane insisted.
I shook my head again. "She tells me kid stuff like...she says
babies come from storks, and the storks deliver the babies in diapers
hangin' from their beaks. She's always tellin' me stuff like that."
"And I take it you didn't believe it."
I shook my head no. "That can't be where babies come from."
"Well," she said, "maybe you ought to talk to your Mama about that."
I shook my head no again.
"So, have you figured out where babies come from all by your self?"
"Not yet. But it ain't from storks."
"You're probably right," she murmured. She gazed at me inscrutably
for a long moment, during which I squirmed and stood on the floor but
bent down to prop my chin on an elbow that I leaned on the sofa cushion
beside her. Then she looked down at the page I had given her and
smiled. "This is so nice of you. I'll take it, but...you can have it
back whenever you want it."
"Okay."
She held her hand on the back of my neck and drew me toward her so
she could kiss me on the nose. "Thank you!"
"Thank you too!" I smiled and blushed and looked at her slender
fingers and her auburn hair and the gentle lines of her face. She could
not have ignored the way my eyes stayed glued on her. She smiled at me.
"Kiss me back," she said, pointing to her noise.
I did and said, "I like your nose."
"Yeah?" she said. She winked at me. "I like yours too."
I feigned an overdramatized blush and a baby-like "Aw, shucks."
"Don't be silly," she laughed, and pointed at my project on the
floor. "I hate to say it, hon, but it's nine o'clock. You have to clean
that up, and I have to get you a bath."
I said okay and quickly straightened things up while she went into
the bathroom and drew the bath. It was time for our bathtub ritual. The
apartments had no showers, but they had big new tubs in the small tiled
bathrooms. Martha Jane would fill the tub to just the right warm temp-
erature for the pink bubble-bath. The magic moment came when I was
fidgeting nude by the tub while the water level slowly rose. Martha Jane
would hold the packet of bubblebath powder high over the tub.
"Almost ready-y-y..." she'd chant, as I waited.
"Looks okay NOW!" I'd say.
"Nope," she'd say. "Almost...almost...." And finally, "There she
blows!" And she'd upturn the packet until just enough of the pink powder
fell out to make the right amount of bubbly stuff that I liked.
I would hop into the tub and splash and stir up the bubbles until
they overflowed the tub. The bubble-baths were better with Martha Jane
than with anyone else, because others insisted on fewer bubbles and less
time in the tub. But Martha Jane was herself a bubble-bath lover and
seemed to know just how much would be the most fun -- which in my case
was enough bubbles to not only fill the tub to its rim but to cover most
of my head as well, by the time I fluffed it up.
Martha Jane did not dry and dress me. That was up to me. I was a
fidgety kid anyway who liked to dress under my own power. Usually she
stayed in the living room and listened to the radio or studied, and I
would bathe, dry and dress and empty the tub myself. On those occasions
when she did stay in the bathroom as "supervisor", she was there to make
sure I cleaned up my bubbly mess. When this happened, Martha Jane removed
her skirt and blouse and wore her bra and panties, or sometimes a
delicate silk slip, if I were still in the bath; this was to keep her
clothes from being splashed when we got playful and threw globs of
bubble-bath at each other during our occasional bubble-fights (Martha
Jane, neatnick that she was, insisted on cleaning up every single remnant
of any mess we made).
On that night she stayed in the bathroom with me, fully clothed until
I climbed into the tub. She stood in the opened doorway and watched
contemplatively. After a minute she came into the bathroom and began
removing her skirt and blouse. She was almost down to her slip when I
announced, from under the mountain of bubbles that reached to my nose,
that I had to pee.
"Go ahead," she said.
I insisted, "But YOU'RE in here!"
"For goodness' sake, it won't bother me."
But I refused to pee with her in the room and would not get out of
the tub. I remained hidden behind my hill of bubbles.
Seeing my reluctance she said, "all right, I won't embarrass you. Is
Number One all you have to do?"
"Just Number One," I said. "But I hafta do it a hunnert and sixty
three times."
"Yeah, right...keep it under one-fifty, bubble-man, and don't take
all night. Do what you have to do, hon, and call me when you're
finished."
That was fine with me. She left the room and closed the door. After I
peed I got back into the tub and shouted that the coast was clear.
When she opened the door she wore only her bra and panties.
For a while she watched me from the opened doorway while I splashed
and scrubbed, but when it was time for me to finish up she came into the
room and knelt near the tub, watching me as before. I don't remember
what I said to her, but she was laughing about it when I pulled the
stopper from the tub and stood up to dry off while the water drained.
After my upper body was dry I got out of the tub as usual to dry my legs
and feet on the little pink rug in the middle of the tiled floor. Martha
Jane knelt and stared at me with that same probing look. I was drying
off when she reached up and put two of her slim fingers around the head
of my penis.
"Dry this too?" she asked, smiling.
"Yep," I answered innocently.
She continued fondling my tip with her two fingers, gently and
slowly, squeezing lightly or running a finger around the tip.
I stopped my drying and looked down at what she was doing. I studied
her fingers closely, feeling a new and beguiling pleasure at her touch.
"Feel good?" she asked, her eyes studying my reactions. Her voice
had fallen to a whisper. She half-smiled with what appeared to be great
interest, curiosity, and uncertainty.
"Yeah," I whispered back.
Our voices were so low that the drip drip drip of the bathtub faucet
was easily twice the volume. I remember hearing the faint drip, thinking
that the hot water handle had to be tightened to make it stop, but her
touch had me spellbound. My tip itched strangely and the skin of my
glans seemed to cling to her soft, tentative fingers.
"You like that?" she whispered.
"Yeah. Feels nice."
"Like it when I squeeze this way?"
"Yeah. Keep doin' it."
Constantly observing my reactions, she continued fondling me and
asking questions. She had a very secretive, whispered manner as if no
one was supposed to hear us, and I fell into this pattern by whispering
back my own answers in the same secretive way. As she played with me I
grew larger -- something else quite new to me -- and after a moment she
set me on the edge of the tub and knelt in front of me, tickling and
stroking my cock, explaining how it would get bigger as she did it. Soon
I was erect enough to allow her entire hand to enfold me, at which point
she began delicately pumping me toward a larger erection.
Still whispering furtively, she was delighted at the size of my young
hard-on and made several remarks about how my penis, which normally was
hardly bigger than her thumbnail, could grow to about 4 inches and get
much fatter. I was far too young to have an orgasm at that point, a fact
she apparently discovered after several minutes of this activity. But
for quite a while she continued fondling me, and I grew more and more
pleased at the sensations. Vaguely I recall that she attempted an
explanation of the birds and bees (I found this much more sensible than
that crap about storks!), but I absorbed precious little of what then was
a great deal of heady biological detail. At that moment I was more
interested in the pleasant physical sensations of her touch and the
strangely enticing intimacy in her voice and manner.
She studied my facial reactions as much as she did those of my penis,
and with every new touch or change in technique she asked me how it
felt. I would tell her it felt good and told her the kind of hand
movements and touches I liked best.
She said, "Now don't tell anybody we do this."
While this may have seemed an odd request to any other young boy, it
didn't seem so to me. From the very beginning Martha Jane's secretive
manner conveyed to me an air of deliciously naughty discovery, of shared
and precious secrets. Obviously I wouldn't do anything Martha Jane
didn't want. My distrust of grownups in general had made me adept at
developing many covert activities on my own that offered refuge from
meddling adults. I was intrigued to find that Martha Jane also had
secrets that she kept from grownups but that she was willing to share
with me.
From slightly above her I saw a soft swell of flesh extend invitingly
down into her bra, and I ran my finger over it. "Why do girls always
wear these?" I asked.
Martha Jane told me a bra held a woman's titties securely (Now, the
word "titties," as compared with "breasts", was a valid "Southern" term.
"Breast" sounded too clinical and seemed to apply mostly to packaged
chicken parts. The people I grew up around came from rural farming
families before they lived in the city. The word titties was perfectly
acceptable. I heard it used often in connection with everything from
cats and dogs to cows, auto tire aircaps, and baby-bottle nipples. But
from the outset, body words had special connotations for me and Martha
Jane. They were spoken with a unique vocal, emotional, and sensual
coloration that I find indescribable. These same words would sound
entirely different when I heard them used by others. This use of certain
words in certain ways became a part of our strange relationship at a very
early stage. The singular meanings we gave them appeared to grow
entirely under their own power -- the same way the relationship itself
seemed to have powers of its own).
She opened her bra and let me touch her flesh and her nipples. The
feel of her gave me goosebumps. She explained how babies were nursed.
"Babies suck on the nipples," she said, and I asked what it tasted like.
She said she had never had a baby so she had no milk in her but she said
that a baby sucking its mom's tit was a very important part of the way
babies grew up. She asked if I had ever sucked my mom's nipples. I said
I probably didn't (which in retrospect, considering my mother's staunch
puritanism, was more than likely true). I asked her how it felt and
asked to suck her titties. She held one breast up for me and told me I
could lick her nipple and see for myself. I did. The sensation of her
marshmallow-soft flesh on my tongue has never been duplicated. I was
aware of her smiling down and encouraging me as I took my sample lick.
She was delicious. So I took another, longer lick. Hearing her breath
become oddly deep and pleasurable, I licked yet again.
It was a memorable moment. She left me with the impression that she
enjoyed my tongue on her in a way that was an equally unique experience
for her. She told me that licking her titties was very, very personal
and that she would never let anyone do it but me.
After a while she had me as erect as I would ever get at that age. I
was in a state not only of physical warmth, but of gratitude for her
having revealed to me actions and pleasures that no one but Martha Jane
and I would ever know about. And Martha Jane was greatly pleased and
surprised at the size of my erection and at my ready complicity in our
naughty game.
"We'll do it again later, okay?" she said, holding my very hard penis
still in her warm hand. "But don't tell anyone else, hon,
because...well..."
She paused. She searched for words.
"Well, they would say this is nasty. They wouldn't like it and we'd
be in trouble."
I asked, "Why do they think it's nasty?"
"They just do. Lots of people don't like doing this."
"I do."
"You do? Really?"
"Yes. I like it with you."
She grinned. "Let's get you dressed and we can do it again sometime."
I don't remember anything else about that night. But I am certain
this was the night that a significant language with its own coloration
and associations, its own set of gestures and responses, and a heavily
secretive atmosphere introduced themselves into our relationship.
Good little boy that I was, I got dressed. She did, too, and then
she put me to bed, kissed me goodnight, and went into the living room to
study while I fell asleep. I was perfectly content. It was not so much
the physical sensations that left me pleased as it was a new serenity, a
feeling of closeness with the only person in the world I could trust.
That was the beginning. I did not invest much time thinking about
the details, nor was I old enough to live in constant anticipation of the
next event. I knew only that I was extremely fond of Martha Jane. I was
also aware, at the time, of her apprehension and tension. But she
needn't have worried; indeed, I never told anyone about us and was never
tempted to. This was Martha Jane's secret and mine, a haven from the
coldness and fickleness of the outer world. And there was no way I would
ever hurt Martha Jane by getting her into trouble that might keep us
apart. Unwittingly, we had formed a compact and a revolt.
PART 2A:
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.
"Yeah."
"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?"
"Slower."
"That way, hon?"
"Yeah. That feels nasty."
"You like it that way?"
"Yeah."
"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."
PART 2B:
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.
I fell asleep.
Continued...
-- CJ
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