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Subject: Rep. by req.: Me and Martha Jane by S.J.R. (mF, teen, rom) part 6
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 6A:
Neither my parents nor Martha Jane's mother were home that
week. She slept with me for the first time. When I woke, earlier
than usual, the morning sun was just above the rooftops of the
buildings beyond mine. Dazzling shafts of sunlight rushed into the
room. Water was running in the bathroom.
I knocked on the bathroom door and Martha Jane invited me in to
take a bath with her.
I told her I'd love to. I walked into the bathroom and stood in
front of the sink, looking at myself in the mirror.
She noticed me and said, "Do you spend every morning looking at
yourself in the bathroom mirror?"
"I don't look any different," I said, observing the same old me
in the mirror.
"Oh," she smirked, soaping her legs. "But how do you FEEL?"
I took in a deep breath, my shoulders back and my chest out,
extended my arms far out at each side, and intoned as loudly as I
could in my best, loudest, deepest, Texaco Opera Theater baritone,
"Steeee-vennnnnn!". I beat my chest several times and grunted like
a gorilla. Then going back to my operatic bellow, I sang from the
famous aria from Barber of Seville: "Lala Lalala Lalala Lalala
Lala...Figaro! Figaro! FigaroFigaro Feeee-gaa-ro!"
She said, "My, my! Were you, uh, referring to last night?"
I grinned.
"Veerry flattering." She stood and moved to one end of the
tub to make room. "C'mon, let's wash the sleep off you."
I climbed in and she handed me the soap, but before I got
started she held me close to her bubbly-slick nakedness and
hugged me.
"You were asleep when I woke up," she said. "You're a wonder-
ful lover." She kissed my forehead. After I soaped down she
took the bar of soap from me and lathered her hands, then reached
down to wash my cock.
She winked. "Remember this?"
"Mm-hm."
"I never thought of using soap on you when we started all this.
Of course, you're a lot bigger now."
She rinsed me and stepped out of the tub to dry off. She had
chores to do that day, she said, but we had time for breakfast
and a little talk. I saw a small blue bag in the corner of the
room and asked, "That's all you bought over here with you?" She
told me the blue bag was filled with enough spermacide and powders
to lower the Indian birth rate. She blushed and said, "You put an
awful lot of cum in me." After I fell asleep the night before,
she had douched twice, and twice again before I came into the
bath.
"Douched?" I asked.
"It's a long story, hon. Later." She blushed again.
Then I remembered reading about it. "Oh. You mean, 'cause
we didn't use a rubber?"
She sighed impatiently. "Yes."
"I don't mind using one."
"No!" she said firmly, spreading jars of makeup on the edge of
the sink. "And you just forget that those ugly things exist."
I asked, "Doesn't all that stuff make you sore or dry inside?"
"We can always apply some...lotion," she said, blushing again.
I was amused at her modesty. After a night of raw passion, she
blushed and avoided my eyes continually. She got into her bra,
panties, and slip right away--a far cry from the way we started
out a few years before. As I dried off I watched, fascinated and
charmed at the sight of her putting on makeup.
"What are you staring at?"
I answered, "Watching you doing woman things."
She laughed mildly, dabbing at her face with powder. "I'm
glad you find it so enjoyable. We women think it's just a pain
in the neck."
"I like watching."
"How can you get such a thrill out of watching a female cover
up what she really looks like so she can throw the wool over
everyone's eyes?"
"I like watching women do woman things."
"I see."
I paused. "I like watching you do woman things. It's not
just watching. It's watching you."
"Speedy. You're a dear. Really."
"I'll fix breakfast," I said, hanging up my towel.
"You've added cooking to your many talents?"
"Sure," I said. "I've been hanging out in a restaurant for
years."
"Well...I'll try anything once. Hope we live."
I was pretty noisy about it, but I managed to get the eggs
sunny-side up and the toast looking just right in two plates on the
small kitchen table. Out in the back yard I found a wild daisy and
placed it in a small glass of water on the table. She entered the
kitchen in her slip. "Wow," she said, "Look at this, picture
perfect! You're being so nice to me. It looks beautiful. Is it
edible?"
We ate and talked.
She told me about her schedule for the week. Just listening to
what she had planned was exhausting. "I'm a work fiend," she
confessed. "I feel guilty if I don't work myself to death every
day." She told me about her classes, the kinds of projects she was
doing, the problems she encountered with teaching in special
education. I told her, "But you like it," and she nodded. "Yes,"
she said, chewing off a corner from a piece of toast, "not because
I'm so dedicated, but because I'm so neurotic. I'm terrified of
ever being poor like this again." I asked her more about what she
did, about the people she met at school, about what college was like.
"The first thing you should know," she warned with a strong edge
of sarcasm, "is that every professor at Memphis State is a Commu-
nist. And anyone who shows up expecting to actually learn anything
is a pathetic egghead. All the girls are virgins, regardless of how
many football players they've slept with." She went on with this
litany of definitions, exaggerating each item and apparently having
a good time doing so; but after a while I realized that she was
actually defining herself as a hardworking, dedicated outsider.
She stopped at one point and looked at me hesitantly. "Speedy,
would you...would you like to spend an afternoon with me and go to
Memphis State? It's the holidays, but they're open--at least the
library is. That probably doesn't sound very exciting, but--"
I breathed in amazement. "Really?"
"Do you want to?"
"That would be the best adventure I've had since Uncle Johnny
let me spend two hours in the Bump 'em Cars at the fairgrounds."
"Yes, well, it does get a little like the Bump 'Em at exam
time, but...don't get all worked up, now, it's not the biggest
thrill I could think of for somebody as adventurous as you are."
"But," I said earnestly, "it's what you do."
She stared at me, taken aback.
I went on enthusiastically, "It's your...it's your world, like
mine is in the movies and the plays. And yours is college and
learning to be a teacher. Of course I want to see it."
She blinked and cleared her throat, propping her elbows on the
table and folding her hands. "Speedy, do you know how many boys
your age and older--much older--just want to spend an afternoon
with me so they can get inside my pants?"
"Get inside your pants? Hm, that's a funny expression, I
never heard that one before. You mean...to fuck?"
"I mean that's all they want to do."
"Don't they ever do anything else?"
"A lot of them, Speedy, no. Do you know what a tragedy it is
in my life just to have an argument with some boy because I have
work to do and I don't have time, just no time right away, right
then, right now, to go out with them? They think I'll hop into bed
with them to express my undying my gratitude for their taking me to
a football game and watching them scream and guzzle beer and make
fools of themselves."
"So," I said, tenuously, "...so do you do it?"
"Of course not. And then I don't hear from them for two weeks,
or a month. Until they get horny again, and all of a sudden they
develop this deep interest in what I'm doing with my life and my
time."
I grimaced. "What shitheads."
"That's a very...apt description, hon."
"Apt?" I echoed.
"Yes, it means--"
"Don't tell me. I wanna look it up."
"I'll tell you what," she said, reaching across the table and
taking my hand, "You go with me, say, Thursday afternoon, and I'll
show you lots of things you can look up. Would you like that?"
"Sure."
We cleaned up a little, as I had left some record albums lying
about, and Martha Jane made phone calls while she polished her
shoes. Still in her slip, she went into the bedroom and started
making the bed. When I went in there to help her we were almost
finished when she asked me to sit on the bed and started undoing my
jeans. I told her I thought she had to get dressed for her inter-
views, but she said we still had a little time and she could stay in
her slip for now. "I've always been curious about something," she
said, taking out my cock. "We still have some time before I go. I
want to show you something about your body." Of course, I didn't
object. With my legs hanging over the bed and Martha Jane kneeling
before me, she licked and sucked me until I was hard and then she
started fisting me quickly, her hands gliding smoothly up and down
my shaft. Again I was startled to feel all the things that happened
in my groin as I approached orgasm. She could tell I was close
when I began throbbing erratically. As I neared cumming she took
one of my hands and put it into my crotch under my balls. "Feel
here, underneath," she said. "Keep your hand there. In a minute
you'll feel your muscles jump." Sure enough, I could feel swelling
and movement down there. Then she pulled down the straps of her
slip and shoved the front of her bra below her breasts, and brought
her bosom closer to my cock. As she fisted me she whispered, "I've
always wondered what this feels like...c'mon, hon...c'mon..."
Soon I felt those secret muscles moving under my fingers, and I
gasped frantically, "I'll get it on you!" but she grinned and said
"It's okay, I can change...c'mon..."
As my eyelids drooped I lost focus, and though my resources were
limited because of the night before, I started cumming. Encouraging
me, she whispered, "C'mon...c'mon," and then "Oh!" as I gave her a
tight little squirt on her left breast. She slowed and tightened
her pumping and I squirted again in the same place and she was
delighted. The rest streamed out thinly over her hand and made
squishing noises while she finished me off.
I lay back on the bed, breathless. She stood and leaned over
me, giggling. A drop of me ran down the swell of her breast and
sneaked under the nipple. "Was that good?" she asked. "You getting
used to cumming now?". I told her it was good, but it was still a
little scary. She said, "Speedy, I can't imagine you being afraid
of anything like that."
"No," I said, "not that kind of scary. It's just...it's
different. It takes over, and it all happens at once."
"That's the way it's supposed to feel, hon." She walked to the
bedside table, got a kleenex, and wiped off her breast. "But don't
worry. You'll get accustomed to letting yourself go. I love
watching you cum. I never thought I'd enjoy it so much, but you get
so hard and it's so intense for you. I like that about you." She
wadded up the kleenex and bent down to kiss me on the nose. "That's
one of a lot of things I like about you."
She did not see me again until Thursday, three days later. Where
she was for three days I didn't know. She called at least once a
day, and on Wednesday morning she came clomping with her high heels
and purse and Sunday best to see that I had not transformed the
apartment into a Frankensteinean horror. Each night just as I
climbed into bed she would phone from next door and ask how I was.
The phone rang Tuesday night around 9:30. I picked up.
"Hello," I began. "This is the Louvre. Wanna buy some French
post cards?"
"Speedy, what if this had been someone else on the line?"
"I would say 'wrong number' and hang up."
"Did your mom and dad call today?"
"Yes."
"So how are they doing?"
"Sounded like she was having a good time."
"Just 'she'? What about your new daddy, didn't he have any-
thing to say for himself?"
"He never talks to me."
"Now, that's mean. Maybe you just never talk to him."
"I don't think he knows how to use a telephone yet."
"Speedy, you must learn to like him. He's your daddy now."
"It feels funny talking to you on the phone and you're right
next door. Are you gonna sleep over here?"
"...I can't, hon."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"I just...can't. I know it's silly, but I can't. I'll have to
tell you all about it."
"Okay."
"You all tucked in bed?"
"Yep."
"Well, you go to sleep. And don't be afraid to call me if
anything goes wrong, okay?"
"All right."
"G'night, cowboy."
"G'night, Miss Scarlett."
In later years, spending most of a vacation alone would not have
been my first choice. But that week my mind seemed particularly alive
and sensitive. Waking, walking about town, entering a movie and
walking back out, and then strolling home, I followed the path of the
rising, passing, and setting sun as I had never done before. In the
late afternoon I made a sandwich, packing it and a wedge of cheese
into my G.I. Joe mess kit, and defied the world by hiking all the way
to the edge of Exchange Street, at the very zenith of the hill at the
avenue's end, and sat on a bluff overlooking the river. Battle-
hardened youth that I was after this gruelling six-block walk uphill,
I ate from the kit and swigged heartily from my canteen filled with
Nehi Grape Soda, and watched the sun go down on the flat, distant
shore of Arkansas. The sky changed colors minute by minute, so
gradually that it was always a surprise when I surveyed the horizon
again to see how the silent panorama had repainted itself. Before
dark it turned magenta, then intense purple, and finally black. As
the sky dimmed, distant lights not seen in the sunlight became visible
one by one. I wondered what might be out there. I wondered what it
might be like not having to return home but to keep on going,
straight, past those lights and onto new lights, new rivers, new
bridges and towns.
What got me back home was not a strong desire to be there but to
be in bed when Martha Jane called. The phone rang at exactly 9:30
and I picked up.
"Why, Martha Jane, you sound so clear on this wonderful invention,
Mr. Bell's telephone, just as if you were right next door!"
"Silly. Were you a good boy today?"
"No."
"That's the spirit. Did your mother call?"
"Yes, they're fine. She called around supper time."
"They'll be back Friday, then. And next week you'll move out
of the Lauderdale Courts forever. Won't that be great?"
"I guess."
"You don't sound so happy about it."
"Well..."
"Oh, you will be when you get there. And you'll have that
wonderful room all to yourself instead of keeping your things in
cardboard boxes in that closet."
"Well...maybe."
"Oh, c'mon, you'll love it."
"I'll have different neighbors, though."
"...I'll have to talk to you about that...We'll have a nice talk
all about that tomorrow. You still want to go with me to Memphis
State?"
"I'm ready now."
"I'm over here with textbooks up to my nose, so I'll be up a
while. But I'll still be up bright and early, so you better get
your beauty sleep. You all tucked in bed?"
"I sure am, Miss Scarlett."
"You didn't leave a stinky sink full of dirty dishes, did
you?"
"No'm, Miss Scarlett."
"...Are you mad at me for not being over there?"
"No'm, Miss Scarlett."
"Well...Okay. I'll be there at ten in the morning."
"Yes'm, Miss Scarlett."
"You be all ready to go."
"Yes,'m, Miss Scarlett."
"Stop it. G'night."
Late in the night I was standing in the middle of the universe
and I had the sensation of getting larger and smaller at the same
time, while the universe shrank and expanded at the same time, and
the part of me that shrank was not getting small fast enough for the
universe that was shrinking, and the part of me that was expanding
was not expanding fast enough, and the part of the universe that was
shrinking kept pulling my expanding self back into the part that was
shrinking, and yet nothing was changing at all in any direction. As
I tried to comprehend this a low-pitched hum grew louder, louder,
and soon it was a deafening buzz that threatened to crush even my
thought.
I woke up, literally poised to jump through the ceiling. I was
gasping and sweating. I was not in bed, but standing in the pitch
black hallway between the bedroom and living room. Apparently I had
leapt from the bed in a single broad jump, as I vaguely remember
being in the air just before I jerked to a halt.
In the kitchen I made a glass of ice water and brought it to the
living room, where I sat in front of the Philco and turned it on.
The pearlescent eye of the green tuning tube glowed and stared at
me. I picked up static. Trying to relax, I listened. After a
minute I heard a voice in there. I could not hear the words.
Concentrating on it took my mind off the nightmare and the eerie
panic that crept into me when I remembered it.
This was a dream I'd had before, perhaps a year earlier. I
never told anyone about it; I didn't know how to describe it. Back
in bed, I removed my underwear and moved to the bed to be naked
under the moonlight. Lying on by back, I spread my legs and looked
at my growing, lean, surprisingly strong-looking young body. I
tried to remember what cumming felt like. It was unimaginable
while it was happening, and so it was when I tried to recall it. A
small machine whirred inside my chest, urging me to do something;
like the voice in the static, my brain could not understand what the
machine was saying. I gazed past the moonlight and out into the
city. Out there, awake, all the things I wanted to do were waiting.
A cricket chirped. I heard the sugary spring Southern night
air glide past the window and felt me and the yard and the tree and
Martha Jane next door and our little patch of earth turning slowly
together in the universe. As fell asleep again I imagined I could
feel the morning approaching us.
PART 6B:
Thursday was overcast and chilly. Martha Jane and I made a long
trip over two local bus lines to the campus of Memphis State, which
was farther out than I had ever gone in my explorations. When we
arrived I was both excited and apprehensive. There was so much to
it! Surrounded by a well-to-do suburb and even a few estates, the
campus of several Georgian buildings and dormitories spread over a
rustic landscape that alternated between broad green pasture and
heavily forested alcoves of pine, maple, oak and magnolia.
I'm certain I must have seemed like a spellbound infant.
Tongue-tied, I stayed at her side like a puppy as Martha Jane, one
arm carrying a shopping bag loaded with books and notebooks, led me
down the long rambling drive toward the main library. I spent so
much time looking up and stretching my neck to take in everything
that I tripped over every curb and twig along the way. Martha Jane
finally had to lead me by the hand. At the library's columned
entrance I ran to the door and tried to yank it open for her. Sur-
prised by its weight, I was jerked back against the door and had
to lean far backward to open it again.
She laughed, "Don't be in such a hurry."
Inside, I was overcome by the solemnity and silence in the large
and spacious building, which was far more imposing than the small
branch library I knew in my neighborhood. Martha Jane walked ahead
of me to the front reception desk. I followed, my neck craning and
my eyes agape at the high walls solid with shelves and books. My
tennis shoes squeaked softly on the tile floor and echoed into the
ceiling. I was so flabbergasted that I walked right into her as she
stopped to have the receptionist check her bag. I shifted to avoid
standing on her feet, apologizing so loudly that my voice shot back
at me several times over, startling me, and I had to lower my
volume. Turning around and trying to take it all in, I took a step
or two in each direction to try to see down the paths of shelves and
oak tables to my left and right, only to stumble backward with a
loud clunk into the face of the reception desk.
Martha Jane said quickly to the receptionist, "He's going to be
with me. He's not a student or anything, he doesn't have an i.d.--"
The bespeckled, matronly woman smiled at Martha Jane and handed
her back the shopping bag of notebooks. The lady looked exactly the
way I had always imagined librarians would look.
"That's perfectly all right," the woman said warmly, and she
peered down at me cheerfully through her bifocals. "Well, young
man, this must be your first visit."
Martha Jane laughed and blushed. "Yes, it is. I'm afraid he
doesn't have his bearings yet. Bumping into everything..."
"Oh, don't you worry, he'll find his way around. You enjoy
yourself, young man. If you're interested, there is a child's
section right over there in that far corner just past the card
catalog cabinet."
I asked, "Where do you have the newspaper stacks? I guess I'll
start with The New York Times Index? Do you have it back to the
1920's?"
She looked at me and then at Martha Jane, a little surprised.
Martha Jane grinned at her. "He likes newspapers."
"Oh, how interesting. He's your son, is he? Oh, I'm sorry, you
certainly don't look that old. Your brother?"
"No, he's my..."
"Student," I interjected, somewhat formally. Behind me, out of
the lady's sight, I felt Martha Jane poke a finger in my back.
"Oh, I see. How nice, bringing your students to the library in
person, that's a wonderful idea. Well, now, you get settled and
then come back here and I'll show you to the periodical stacks."
"Thank you," I said, and Martha Jane also whispered a thank you
and led me by the hand into a small alcove with a large writing desk
upon which she parked her shopping bag. She smiled wryly at me as
she removed her sweater. "You're my what? My student?"
"It had a certain status."
She blushed. "I'm glad you spoke up. I had to stop myself
because I almost said you were my boyfriend. I'm certain she would
have got a rise out of that."
I smiled broadly.
"Now, you've been in libraries before, so you know what the
general setup is. I'll be working right here if you need anything,
or anybody at the big front desk can help you."
She left me on my own. A young woman at the front desk gave me
a brochure with a map of the building and directed me to the card
catalog filing cabinet. On first seeing it I was taken aback. So
many drawers! And in each drawer were hundreds of index cards, some
packed so tightly they had to be shoved back firmly to be read. I
didn't know where to begin. There were so many choices. The
problem was, I wanted to see everything at once. Going through them
became stultifying after a while; I wanted something more substan-
tial, something I could hold in my hands.
Leaving the card catalog as a hopeless case of too much to absorb
at once, I moved to the stacks themselves. Looking over the titles,
I couldn't imagine how any book or index or subject might be missing
from this building. Following the map, I took the elevator to the
next floor and found myself confronted with hundreds of shelves,
thousands of books. The musk of paper filled the room. And on the
next floor I encountered the same odor, and the same endless maze of
stacks and shelves and labels and volumes. On the elevator again,
to yet another floor of the same thing. And from there, a curled
iron stairway leading to still more, and then to another wing of
more floors, more tiers of books. I grappled with one thick book
that almost pulled me to the floor as it slid from its shelf. It
was a weighty volume of nineteenth century photographs. Opening its
large pages separated by translucent tissues which themselves had
chipped and yellowed, I found myself in the grip of an eerie
fascination with the faces of the people in the pictures. Starkly
and stiffly posed, their eyes seemed alive and knowing--a strange
and hair-raising sensation, because these people had posed for the
photographs in the 1870's. There were long shots of tailcoated,
booted men in front of banks and post offices and on street corners.
And there were pictures of the streets. New York City in 1876. An
interior of a fancy restaurant, the shot taken so that the tall
windows lined up along the right and rays of sunlight drenched the
floor and the tables, leaving the corners of the room deep in
shadow. I could smell the wood frames of the windows, hear the
photographer prompting carefully as he held the shutter open for the
long exposures required in those days. The streets and the build-
ings and the rooms struck me as being oddly familiar; I was not
surprised at seeing them, and felt that I was seeing nothing new.
Everything seemed to be exactly in its proper place. The surprise
was my knowing that it was so, that I had seen these buildings and
their arched windows and tall shadowed doorways before.
A rustle of clothing startled me. I looked up. Martha Jane was
strolling toward me. I had been studying the book so closely that
my eyes watered and the back of my neck was cramped.
"You've been gone for hours," she said. "I looked everywhere
for you. Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"I'm sorry," I stuttered, finding my mouth dry.
"Find anything interesting?"
"This," I said, holding the book open with both hands. I
touched my fingers to a full-page photograph of 4th Avenue, in
downtown Manhattan, taken in 1881.
She looked at it. "What about it?"
"I've..." I was startled as the words came out of my mouth,
almost on their own accord. "I've been here."
"Here? You've been on this street before?"
I nodded.
"Speedy, this is...Hon, this street is in New York City. The
picture was made sixty or seventy years ago. Maybe it reminds you
of Adams Street in Memphis. It looks a lot like it."
I shook my head slowly, not believing it myself. "No," I
muttered. "I mean it feels like...I was here, on this street.
This street."
"You mean, like deja vu. You know about deja vu?"
"Yes. I remember looking it up. This is what deja vu is?"
Standing beside me, she gazed into the picture. I saw her
eyelashes flutter as she scanned the page from corner to corner.
I felt embarrassed. It was true: the photograph was from another
century, from a place I'd never seen.
She looked into my eyes with her piercing blue-green orbs
floating in white. "You feel you were there? Really?"
I nodded.
"I've had feelings like that too, hon."
Her words both astounded and intrigued me. For a moment both of
us stared at the photograph.
Then she said, "Come with me. I want to show you something."
She led me down the iron staircase and then down another, to a
floor of magazine stacks and dozens of metal shelves piled with
loose papers and brochures. She took me to a corner where her hand
went straight to an enamel-backed issue of a National Geographic.
"Look at this," she said mysteriously, and flipping the pages
along her thumb she seemed to know exactly the page she wanted and
found it right away. She held the magazine open and motioned for me
to take it. "Look," she said quietly.
It was a grayed, gold-bordered monochrome photograph. The woman
was in a shawl and held a child wrapped so heavily that only part of
its forehead could be seen. In the background was what appeared to
be a desert. The picture was taken from the knees up. The woman
wore what looked like a light gray (pale blue? pale yellow?) heavy
shift tightly girdled at the waist with a white cord. The folds and
shadows of the loose garment revealed that she was slim and deli-
cate. Looking suspiciously toward the camera, her bright eyes
projected a strange mixture of fear and concern. Her left arm
cradled the child closely; but her right was extended across the front
of the child's wrapped body, facing the camera, and the sleeve of
her garment fell back to reveal her long, slender white arm with her
fingers spread around the child's covered head.
She breathed, "It's me."
And as I continued studying the woman, who did not look like
Martha Jane except for her remarkable eyes, Martha Jane stretched
her right hand across the page and spread her fingers in the same
pose that was in the picture. I was silent, numbed. Their arms
and hands looked alike.
She mused aloud, "There's probably nothing to any of it. It's
just a feeling I have when I see this picture. I've looked at it
hundreds of times. But always, I get the same feeling. I've seen
that desert. And those mountains back there on the landscape." She
sighed, taking the magazine from me. "Or maybe I'm just going crazy
or..." She jammed the magazine back in its place and added soberly,
"...maybe I just take myself too seriously."
I felt giddy at the prospect that I wasn't the only creature in
the world who had otherworldly sensations. Martha Jane reinforced
that when she said, "Speedy, I hope you don't think I'm just weird,
but I feel those things all the time."
I said earnestly. "I feel the same way sometimes."
As she led me out of the room she confided, "Speedy, you're the
only person in the world I could have shared that with."
"What do you think it means that we both feel those strange
things?"
She put a finger to her lips and whispered mischievously, "Shh.
It means we're both crazy."
I whispered back, "I won't let the lady at the front desk know."
"Come on, let's go to the cafeteria before they close and get
a late lunch. I'll introduce you to the wonderful world of institu-
tional food."
The cafeteria was closing when we arrived, so we picked out
cold sandwiches and cokes in plastic cups and went outside to sit
on the massive steps of the administration building. From there
most of the campus spread before us, as far as we could see, into a
dense wood beyond a grove of magnolias. A chill, early spring wind
picked up and rustled the stiff leaves of the magnolias. Some
sparrows and mockingbirds hopped around us and we pitched them the
crumbs that were left from our lunch. Martha Jane was finishing the
last of her coffee, which she referred to as "college soup."
"Horrible stuff," she said, sipping. "It's addictive. Ruins
your tummy. Gives you insomnia."
"Why do you drink it?" I asked.
"Because it's oh so necessary, hon. When you get into college
you'll find out how very very needed it is. I was falling asleep
taking those notes in the library. Sometimes you think you'll go
into a coma, but you just keep on working."
She finished the coffee and sat one step lower than me, her
knees raised and her head propped on them. She looked up at me
sideways.
"You're finally leaving the project. I'd give anything to be
leaving, though I know I will someday, not long from now. My
mother's dating now. She met a very nice man in the office supply
business. He has a beautiful home right out there, near where you'll
be living with your mom and your dad. He's in a richer neighborhood,
so I know it's not quite the same, but...it'll be yours, and you'll
have your own place. You're way too old to be living in a closet,
you have too many interests. I should think you'd be very happy
about all that. But you're not."
I shook my head. I pinched a small piece off the remains of my
sandwich and pitched it to a lone mockingbird a few steps below.
"Why not?" she asked gently.
I didn't respond, holding back the real answer. Finally I just
shrugged.
"Is it because I won't be your neighbor anymore?"
I nodded.
"Speedy, that's very nice. But you can't give up everything
just to live next door to me. I'm hardly there anymore, anyway.
And when I can, I'll be moving away again. Then what would you do?"
"Well...I'll stay in the project until you move again."
"And then what?"
I shrugged.
"And then what?" she repeated.
"I don't know."
"Speedy, listen to me--"
I tried to remain casual. Stubbornly I said, "You're my friend."
"I know, hon, but both of us have to get out of that place sooner
or later. Both of us need homes, not just a hole in a wall."
"You're my friend," I said again, offering another crumb to the
white-trimmed mockingbird, who chased greedily after it.
"I know, but you'll have other friends. A whole neighborhood
full of them, not like those rough kids downtown."
"You're my friend," I said again, stubbornly, and pitched another
crumb.
"And you'll be in high school before long, at Christian Brothers,
and there's so many smart kids there just like you--"
"Don't make me cry!" I demanded, crying and then choking it back
in the same instant--but not soon enough to stifle the single tear
that dripped down my face. My nose ran and I sniffed loudly.
"Honey!" she whispered in amazement. "Here..." She produced a
kleenex from her sweater pocket and reached up toward my face.
But I took it from her. "No!" I said stubbornly, and wiped my
nose. "No, I won't cry. I will...not...cry. I'm too old to cry.
I don't have any business crying."
She started to rise but I put my hand on her shoulder, so she
moved up only one step and was sitting next to me.
"Baby," she crooned, "you've been holding this back from me for
a long time, haven't you?"
"There's nothing to hold back. You're my friend. That's all.
I've lost friends before. And I've liked people who didn't like me.
And you told me things you didn't like about people and how much
work you're doing and how you can't spend all your time with them.
I know you have to leave the place. I know you want a home. This
week I went down to the river front and watched the sun, and I saw
the whole world in front of me and I wondered how big it was, how
much of it is out there and how much I had to do. How much I had to
learn. It's your world, too. I know you'll leave, or I'll leave.
And I'd never try to stop you. I'd never try to take that away from
you and I'd never blame you, like I did last time. 'Cause I know
it's not because of me, it's because of what you have to do, it's
what you want. And because--"
I blew my nose hard, once and for all. "Because I know you
don't like schmucks, and I don't wanna be a schmuck!"
"Speedy..."
I would not look at her. I could feel her looking across at me,
leaning toward me. "I don't have to actually *like* leaving my
friend on the other side of town, do I?" I complained. "I don't
have to be a schmuck, but I don't have to like it either."
For a long minute she didn't say anything, and I refused to let
her see my face until I felt I was totally in control again.
I felt her arm go around my shoulder. She put her cheek to mine
for a second then pulled away from me. "Look at me," she said.
When I hesitated she said, "Look at me, hon."
I turned to her and she had her teeth and jaw set in a playful,
mock-tough, happy little smile. She said, "C'mere" and put both
arms loosely around my neck and pulled me to her slightly so that
our foreheads were touched.
"Hey, bud, answer one question."
"Yeah?"
"Did you mean everything you just said?"
"Yes."
"You didn't just get it from some movie somewhere?"
"Hey, lady...This ain't Hollywood."
"Speedy...Steven...don't ever let me call you a little boy
again. Don't even let me think it. If you catch me doing it,
remind me of today. Promise?"
"Promise."
"I've got a proposition for you, Mister Ricci."
"Proposition?"
"Yeeeahh...We still going to the movies tonight?"
"If you want."
"Yeah, I want, but after that...I want you to spend the night
with me."
She stuck her tongue out, far out, and licked my nose.
I wiped it off with the kleenex. "What if my folks come home
early or something? Tomorrow's Friday."
"Then we'll stay up and keep watch."
"You don't have to. Stay with me, I mean."
"Yes I do, hon. Yes I do."
PART 6C:
That night we walked through light drizzle all the way to the
Warner's on Main Street and saw "The High and the Mighty." The
minute the film was over, I knew I'd go back to see it again and
again.
"Oh, my," Martha Jane said as we rose from our seats to leave.
"That was pretty schmaltzy, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, it was. Schmaltzy. That's what makes a great movie."
"You just say that because John Wayne was in it and he saved the
airplane."
"But that's what schmaltz is," I insisted.
We had been sitting near the screen. As we turned to go out,
we were confronted with a thick crowd moving at a snail's pace.
"It'll take forever to get out of here, Speedy."
"Don't worry. Follow me." I led her on a detour down one of
the side aisles where I pushed down the handle on a black-painted
door that was difficult to see. It opened into an empty alley that
led to the main street.
She said, "Hey, I'm glad I decided to bring you with me."
Outside, the drizzle had grown into light rain. I walked
out into it. "It's like Gene Kelly in "Singin' in the Rain", I
said, holding out my arms.
"You won't start tap dancing, will you? Speedy, get under
the umbrella with me. You'll get soaked."
I walked ahead of her. "But I want to. It's drama, it's
Hollywood. It's schmaltz."
"It's insanity."
I stayed ahead of her, getting wetter by the minute. Now and
then I'd look back at her, a few yards behind me under her um-
brella. "Come on, Scarlett! Where's your sense of adventure?"
"It's right here under my umbrella."
A man in a rain coat and rainhat passed me on the sidewalk going
the other way. He looked at me, and I gave him a silly smile. Then
he looked at Martha Jane behind me, who strained to give him a
perfectly normal smile.
She called out to me, "People are staring at youuuu."
"Martha Jane, honey," I said cockily. "This is my night. I just
got that feelin', baby. It's like...like money from home. Like,
nothin' can stop me now."
"Pneumonia will stop you. Hon, you've seen too many movies."
"Look!" I exclaimed, and stopped short. I pointed across the
street at the Memphis Light, Gas and Water office building. Built
in the 1920's, it was famous for its thousands of 60-watt electric
bulbs that lined the frontage and the entrance marquis. Onto the
sidewalk they cast a strong yellow light that shimmered in the rain
and glowed as brightly as the bulbs themselves. "Look at that! It
looks just like the ending of the movie tonight. Remember John
Wayne whistling at the end, and walking down the sidewalk with all
the yellow lights?"
She looked at me sternly and said, "No."
"C'mon, let's walk in the yellow light."
"Get under the umbrella," she said, harder now.
"But what's wrong with me doin' it myself?"
"Because," she said, louder and upset now, "I'm wearing a wool
sweater and it'll get wet and ruined and I can't afford another one!
Now get under here with me and stop making me so angry with you!"
Surprised, I walked to her. She scowled angrily and started
walking toward home. For a tense moment we didn't say anything. I
took the umbrella, offering to hold it for her, and she smiled
tightly and said, "Thank you, you're a gentleman," and we walked
under the umbrella together. I looked at her. She looked straight
ahead and wouldn't look at me. After a minute she took my arm and
put hers through it.
"It wasn't you," she said. "It was me. Some things just remind
me that I'm poor. I've worked so hard. And I wear the same sweater
for six years, and the same shoes, and borrow clothes from more
fortunate girls with more money so I can look for work. And all I
do is work and I'm still not out of it. And I don't have a job and
I looked for one all week. But I won't quit school to take a
full-time job. I applied for a job yesterday and the guy, the boss,
he had me in his office talking to me and he started telling me
about how demanding the job was, how there was all this clerical
work and he said I could have it but I'd probably have to cut some
of my classes if I wanted the work because it took so-and-so many
hours a week. Well...I told him there was no chance I'd quit any
of my classes, and he said, well, he could make a little deal. A
little deal, he said. There would be a little something extra,
after hours, and he could pay me for it. He could pay me a lot for
it, he said. And the way he was looking at me...He knew I was
desperate. He could tell I needed the job. So he was going to
make me a little deal. A little after hours deal. Oh, Speedy,
sometimes I hate being pretty. I hate being trapped. Evelyn's
getting successful now, people are finding out how good she is at
her job, and when a man looks at her like that and wants to make a
little deal she can just tell him to shove it. I can't do that
yet. I can't say that without losing out. So I passed it up.
I told him thanks but no thanks. And I walked out. But I didn't
want to say thanks -- I wanted to say 'shove it, mister'. I
didn't even get that much satisfaction out of it. All I could do
was walk away from it and just forget about it."
I didn't know what to say, so I walked with her silently and
put my hand on the arm she had locked in mine.
"I'm getting too desperate. I want it too much. I have to stop
wanting it so much. You were having such a good time and I don't
often see you feeling that good. I didn't mean to stop you. I
might have even been...a little jealous, seeing you let go and
watching you say 'screw you' to the world."
She simmered down and walked silently for a moment.
"Hey," I said. "I've got a Hank Williams album at home my Aunt
Frances bought me."
She smirked at me. "Well, you certainly know how to change the
subject, don't you? You don't fool around."
I shrugged. "I guess you said what you wanted to say."
She hugged me. "You know something? You're a pretty cool guy.
I kinda like you."
I winked at her.
She winked back. "So, you want to play Hank Williams and turn
out the lights and watch the rain?"
"Sounds nice."
"You, uh, wanna do it nekkid?"
I looked at her, then cleared my throat. I blushed.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "Oh, don't tell me I embarrassed
you! Oh my lord, you have to be kidding! "
"I kinda thought, after the story you just told me..."
"I was talking about a greaser who was taking advantage of me
and girls like me. He had an office full of them, all practically
the same age. I wasn't talking about you. You're different.
We're different. You know that."
I shook my head. "Maybe I'm too young. Sometimes girls are,
uh, verrry mysterious."
"You don't seem to have a problem understanding me...most of
the time."
"Most of the time," I said.
"Okay. We'll go home. Turn out the lights. Play Hank
Williams. Get nekkid. And I'll tell you all you want to know
about 'us girls'."
"Deal," I said.
Sometime later, Martha Jane and I lay nude together in her
apartment, listening to the rain patter against her bedroom window.
The Hank Williams album had long since been played and replayed, and
she had explained to me a great deal about women, and different
kinds of women, and girls, and the way she thought about sex and
boys when she was my own age. Then she wanted to know about boys;
specifically, she wanted to know about me; and more specifically she
wanted to know exactly what it was I liked best when she sucked me,
and after I told her she did it exactly that way. She did it so well
that I began feeling the now-familiar tightening and the pleasure
pangs and the lusty itch and told her I was starting to cum and that
she had to be careful because I was going to cum in her mouth if she
didn't stop. Rather than stop, she kept sucking with a sweet
vengeance until she felt the first spurt. Then she slowed, tanta-
lizing me, and in my dim state of consciousness as I emptied my bag
of cum into her mouth I heard her gulp and swallow until I fell back
and lay still. With her hands and lips she drained all of me into
her and then lay beside me while I recovered.
"So," she said, "now you know another way to cum."
"I didn't think you wanted to swallow it."
"Some girls don't. I never sucked that boyfriend I told
you about. But I wanted to now because it was you. Your cum."
"Oh, yeah," I murmured, "your boyfriend."
"Don't be jealous, hon, I don't see him anymore."
"Did you and him...?"
"Yes. Not very often. And I made him use a rubber, and I
hated it." She laid a gentle hand on my arm. "Don't worry about
him. It wasn't at all the way it is with you and me. And I love
your dick without a rubber, it feels good inside me and it tastes
good sucking you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, dummy."
"I thought I was finished cummin', but when I heard you swallow
I sort of starting all over again."
"Is that what it was? I thought it ended, too, and then you
squirted more."
Not to be outdone, I told her there was still more I wanted to
know about women. Specifically, about her. Specifically, about her
most pleasurable spots and how she liked being licked. Another half
hour went by as she spread her legs and educated me in the details
of her nipples and tummy and thighs and cunt. She was much better
at explaining the technical details than I was at explaining my own,
though at one point she had to make me stop. I asked her why and
she said, "It's so intense, I thought I was going crazy. Hon, you're
getting so terribly good at this!" After she rested she asked me to
keep going and explained more to me, although at times she was so
breathless I had trouble understanding her. Eventually her sentences
made very little sense and she stiffened and quivered with a long cum.
She explained the differences between how it felt when I made
her cum manually or orally, and how her outer lips were especially
sensitive right after she came, so since I was hard I entered her
and we started fucking slowly and she told me how wonderful it felt
to fuck after she had just cum. She asked if it felt different for
me, now that I'd already cum once, and I said it felt more sensitive
but that I also felt more in control. So we practiced learning how
we could tell when either of us would start cumming and how to stop
it but keep the pleasure going until we were ready to start again.
Both of us started a long climb that took us to an edge where we
didn't want to stop and couldn't, and I started squirting in her
when she was in the middle of her cum and her contractions milked me
so thoroughly that I didn't want to move when it was over. For a
long time we held each other until she said she had to get her
little blue bag and go in the bathroom. This time I didn't mention
rubbers, knowing how much she disliked them.
When she came out she said she was okay and asked if I wanted to
fuck again. It took a while to harden me, which she did with her
mouth and then by putting me half-hard inside her and moving under
me. Less urgent and hysterical now, we were both almost clinical as
we talked and excited each other. When I was hard enough I screwed
her the way she told me she liked, bringing her to an edge and then
changing my movements to slow her down, until finally she said she
wanted to cum, so I moved in her the way she wanted and didn't stop
until she came. I let her rest a minute and started again, keeping
her on the edge, and finally she came again and almost fainted. I
was thoroughly drained by then and didn't cum, though I was close a
few times and highly sensitized. At that point I needed rest more
than I needed another orgasm.
For a while we talked sleepily, listening to the rain that still
slopped outside the window. She put her head on my chest and I
found out how to massage her temples with my thumbs. I caressed her
that way until I knew she was asleep. Watching her doze on me was a
marvel. Filled with tenderness, I continued stroking and touching
her, finding the exact shape of her gentle shoulders and her back,
playing in her hair, learning the wonder of the hollows and curves
of her trim waist and flared hips. Her deep and steady breathing
became my music for the night, along with the waning rain. I didn't
want to fall asleep right away. I wanted to keep holding her and
listening. I wanted the night to go on. I considered staying awake
all night and would not allow myself to fall asleep; this would make
the night last longer, I reasoned, and by morning it wouldn't matter.
But I was asleep before I knew it. I found myself in the middle
of the universe again. I was floating. Somewhere in the distance I
heard the hum, almost imperceptibly, and I thought this time I would
wake up and pay attention and I would know what it was. But then
the dark that had no shape began changing and not changing shape and
I thought: no no here it comes again --
I was standing in her kitchen. Panting. I gulped, trying to
figure out how I got there. Behind me I heard her bare feet running
toward the room. She whispered frantically, "Where are you?
Speedy, where did you go?"
Turning, I saw her arrive in the doorway, and then she came
toward me quickly. I stumbled to her and as soon as I felt her
nakedness against me I clasped her tightly and wanted to disappear
into her breasts.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong? You almost knocked me off the bed,
you jumped out and ran so fast! I never saw anyone run so fast!"
"I dreamed this before," I gasped.
"Of course you were dreaming, hon, of course. Are you okay now?"
"I dreamed this before," I repeated, I held more tightly. One
hand at her back, my other held her by her smoothly globed buttocks
and pressed her into me voraciously. She reciprocated and writhed
into me. Her pliant body fit into me as if her flesh and bones were
part of mine. My cock was incredibly hard against her pubic hair.
"Hon, your heart's beating so fast! What's wrong?"
"I had this dream before," was all I could say. I let go of her
and pulled her by the hand and led her back into the bedroom. "I'm
okay, I'm...waking up. I'm okay." Still holding her hand I gest-
ured for her to climb in, and when she was in the bed on her back I
pulled her knees wide and opened her legs and fell on her, clasping
her as tightly as before, my face in her neck, mashing her tight
breasts against me. Frantically, realizing I had little control
over what I was doing and that it may have been part of the dream, I
searched for her with my cock, which was painfully erect.
"You want me hon?" she asked. "Want me? Wait...let me get
wet." She licked her palm and I felt her rub herself with it but
I knew that wouldn't make her wet enough so I scooted down and
licked her--slowly, thinking that she'd get naturally wetter if I
did it the way she liked, and after only a few seconds she said,
"Good, hon. Hurry inside me."
I moved up again, quickly, lunging with my cock and missing.
Her hand helped, and I went straight in. Doing something I had
never done before and had never thought of doing, I put my hands
under her butt and hid my face in her neck and fucked her
rapidly, deeply, hungrily. She said "Yes, hon, it's good, it's
good," and right away I came. It was not a long or a very wet cum,
but it was blindingly intense and as always she milked me with her
cunt when she felt me throb in her.
Then I simply lay gasping on her, afraid to let go, amazed at
how I had just fucked her so thoroughly and completely and quickly.
She caressed my neck and back.
"What was wrong?" she whispered.
"I don't know what it is," I moaned into her neck.
"But what did you dream, hon?"
"I don't know what it is," I said again.
"Are you okay now?"
"Yes. I came in you. You'd better go in the bathroom." I
started to move for her, but she stopped me.
"No. Not until you're asleep again."
"I'm okay, go ahead."
"Shhh. I won't leave you in here alone." She put a hand on
my back and one on my rear and pressed me into the pliant, warm,
clinging length of her and squeezed her cunt on me. Then she
rested and held me.
I more than slept: I fell unconscious. I woke much later as
the birds were just beginning to sing in the dark. Their song
meant the sun would rise soon. The rain had stopped. Martha Jane
lay next to me on her side, one arm around my waist. Her face was
toward mine, eyes closed, lips softly parted, hair splayed on the
pillow. I kissed her cheek very lightly, not wanting to disturb her.
Faintly I could smell her body on me and felt her dried moisture
between my legs. I put my hand on her waist and slept again.
In the morning we woke and bathed together and I made breakfast
again. As we ate I was unable to explain my dream to her, though I
tried. She got dressed and went to the supermarket and I went to my
apartment and got my bed ready for her. Late in the morning she
returned and we got back into bed, this time at my place. She
grinned as we embraced and said, "We owe the old place one more try
before you're gone." I was still a little tired and she wanted to
talk about my dream, but I stopped her by fingerfucking her until
she had a prolonged orgasm during which her hot and frantic whispers
never stopped. Then she was very tired, and we rested and made
lunch, then got back into bed and napped for half an hour. We got
up and bathed again. Though still tired, I asked if we could fuck
again and she smiled and led me back to bed. Languidly she lay back
with her thighs spread flat and watched me as I steadily fucked her.
I wanted to learn more about how I could tell I'd be cumming. I
stroked lazily in her until I tired again, but I still didn't cum.
She moved me to the edge of the bed and lay on top of me, moving
gently on me, first in circles for a while and then up and down until
she was tired as well. Having her on top left me more rested and
very erect and horny, so I moved her to her back on the edge of the
bed and with her legs dangling to the floor I stood between her
thighs and found the bed just high enough to let me stand and enter
her deeply.
She lay restfully and looked down to watch, one hand behind her
head and the other stroking the exposed part of my shaft. I stood
between her outstretched legs, marveling at how the skin of her inner
thighs now had a tight, athletic tone and flesh that whispered faintly
as I stood and pistoned gently in her snug wetness and watched her
subtly arch her mound up and down. Finally, almost out of breath, I
could feel my shaft start twitching.
She asked, "Are you close?"
"...Yes..."
"Wait," she said, smiling devilishly. She held my hips to make
me stop thrusting and then she sat up a little, saying "I've always
wanted to do this." Biting her lip girlishly, she looked into my
eyes and held my half-immersed shaft with one hand and with her
other fingers she pressed the muscles under my balls.
"Cum in me this way, hon," she said. "Let me jack you off
into me." With that, she began gently but quickly masturbating
me with half my cock in her.
All I could do was throw my head back and moan.
Her breasts jiggled as she swiftly but neatly jacked me off
with three slender fingers while rapturously studying my face.
"Oh, I"m...Oh, it's so close!"
"hon...I can't believe how wonderfully wicked this feels."
She jacked me some more, not strongly, just enough to carry me
along an almost painfully slow, irresistible glide into a long and
libidinous cum, which finally arrived with a smashing wave of sensa-
tion at the tip of my cock where the wet ring of her outer lips held
me and warmly, subtly clung; my knees weakened and bent, and uncon-
trollably I leaned back with my cock and hips extended toward her,
my tummy tightening. I watched helplessly as my knees moved out and
spread my thighs lewdly; and with a jerk of my hips a blob of cum
shot out of me like a bullet.
She felt it pulse along my shaft.
"There, baby, theeerrrr...mmm, you're cummin' so good, hon...
...Mmm!" She beamed up at me, surprise and lust flooding her face.
She gently squeezed my balls. "I feel it," she murmured glutton-
ously, highly satisfied with herself. She watched my cock and
continued draining me. "This is so good."
Soon she could tell from my glazed eyes and the weakening of my
throbs that I had peaked, so she slowed her smooth squeezing and
stroked my chest as I finished.
Then I collapsed on her. I was emptied, and completely out of
breath.
She gave a low chuckle as I rested, still standing but bent over
her with my face in her neck as she lay on the bed with her legs
hanging over the side.
She said, "Hey, you animal, you really liked that, didn't you?"
I nodded, struggling to get my breath.
She chuckled again, contentedly. "Oh my, so did I. I was so
surprised at myself!"
I panted into her neck, "You always...make it feel so good."
She whispered, "Yes, and I want to, because you make it good for
me. You always do--it's like a fuck fantasy come true. It's very
special, the way we please each other, the way you always seem to
just...know."
I craned my neck and gave her a long kiss on the cheek.
By that afternoon, when we started straightening up for the
return of our relatives, both of us were saying we probably wouldn't
want to have another orgasm for months.
Of course, we were both wrong about that.
Continued...
-- CJ
To reply, delete the .NOSPAM in the address. No files by e-mail!
I didn't write any of the stories I'm reposting.
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