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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 08C"( bf mF mF+ )[28/52]
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The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
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This particular series is by Santo J. Romeo. That might even be his
real name. The version that I have copied used his initials, and I have
followed suit. It is more a tragic story of coming of age than simply a
sex story, and individual segments might not contain any sex. The entire
story, however, is a hot one.
========
**** 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.
sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
============
PART 8C:
She indulged in her cigarette, her voice throaty, secretive, con-
spiratorial.
"This is beginning to feel very naughty," she said.
"All those people driving by," I said, joining in her mood, "not
knowing we're nekkid."
"Yeah," she breathed, pleased. She took another puff. "After today,
you'll have to go to confession."
"I don't go to confession. I just pretend I do."
"Don't you feel strange about that?"
"A little. But it's what I have to do."
"It's a sin," she said, testing me.
"Only for everyone else."
"This...is a sin," she announced, a little amused. She reached over
to the ashtray and slowly, carefully, mashed the cigarette several times
against the glass until it was completely extinguished. "It's the major,
most unacceptable, most outrageous...most delicious sin."
"Can I have one of those?" I asked mischievously.
"One of what?" she asked, settling against the headboard.
"One of those," I said, motioning my head at the ash tray.
"Don't you dare. It's an awful habit. One of my few vices. I'm not
lazy, I'm not narrow-minded, I'm not hateful. I don't rob anyone, I
don't kill anyone, I don't hate anyone. I'm not a racist, not a bigot.
But I do smoke. And I'm a hypocrite. And deep inside, I'm ruthless."
I asked, surprised, thinking she was joking, "You are?"
"Yes. I am. I have such a sweet, innocent, kitten-like look. Mr.
Buchanan thinks that Evelyn and I are both virgins. Saints. But Evelyn
fucks. And I fuck." She looked at me, expressionless, studying me.
I gave an embarrassed laugh. "That's not so sinful."
"Oh, it is. It's a sin because I like it so much. You can't like
something that much without it being a sin. It's so difficult to let
someone else know how much I like it. It's so good with you, but even
with you sometimes...I get a little scared of myself, it's so good and
so...unexpected. Sometimes, hon, it's so much of a strain on me.
Really. It's not always so easy to let you know that about me. I am a
terrible sinner when I'm nekkid with you."
"Really? After all we've done?"
"Yes." She suddenly and playfully hid her eyes with one hand. "Oh,
I can't believe this. Why am I so embarrassed? It's like telling you
about my period. It's so silly."
I paused. "Is that the secret that you wanted to tell me about?
That you think this is a sin?"
"No, hon, no. My big secret is something else, and I can't tell you
that now." She uncovered her eyes and with a coy smile she leaned her
head on her knees, smiling at me indulgently. "But I will tell you one
day, don't worry."
"Okay," I said, disappointed.
"Do you think this is a sin?"
"Yes. Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Well...only because everyone else says it is."
"Yes...I know what you mean."
She dropped into deep thought for a moment. She rubbed her leg and
then her voice shrank into that of a hesitant little girl.
"Hon...do you like sinning with me?"
"Yes. That makes me as big a sinner as you are."
"Then there's no hope for us," she said, grinning slyly and lowering
her legs, stretching out and lying naked and open. "Sin with me," she
crooned. "Lick me."
As I moved over her and bent to kiss her firm inner thighs she looked
down. Fastidiously, she brushed her pubic curls aside and gently parted
her cuntlips for me. "Lick me, hon."
Gradually she became almost uncontrollably licentious, whispering and
rasping lewdly and with an abandon I hadn't seen since our nights in the
Lauderdale Courts. I have no idea what incited this effusion of raw
lust; I could only guess that, like me, she was grasping at something
that would soon end. She seemed to have somehow reached back to her six-
teenth or seventeenth years, when it was all new and unimpaired by change
or necessity. I realized that I was not the only one in that room who
felt afraid and threatened.
As I mouthed her cunt she moved my body around so that my knees
straddled her head and my cock fit easily into her mouth. She sucked me
slowly and lecherously, her hips jerking now and then when I sucked her
clit. Soon I rose and stretched over her, entered deeply, and fucked in
long deep strokes. Her head raised and resting against the headboard,
she grinned and watched me fuck her. Soon she stiffened and climaxed,
wrenching her head back and to one side. She finished with a lurch of
her hips, gasping and sighing, "Fuck...oh, fuck." Raising her knees, she
reached between us to touch my shaft and feel the spurts hurtling into
her. She watched with salacious glee while I finished cumming.
We napped, waking in mid-afternoon. Whispering sultrily she leaned
over me and quickly jerked me off, entreating me as I came, "C'mon, hon.
C'mon. Ah. Those hot little squirts. Yes." We rested again and then
drove to the Howard Johnson's down the street and ate like cave people,
giggling and spilling things. Martha would grin and say something stupid
like "Pass me the salt, hon -- " and then lean close to me over the table
and whisper laughingly, "-- and squirt on my tits!" We squealed and
sniggered and I would reply with something like "Cum on my ear," which
threw her into a squirming fit. She said, "Mr. Buchanan would have a
stroke. Haha, Evelyn would have a stroke. The walls of the First
Baptist Church of Memphis would come tumblin' down, and the doors of the
temple would be rent asunder."
We returned to the room. Dusk found us sinning and lusting like
animals, me licking her slowly, her spread thighs taut and trembling as I
made her cum, and then we fucked and I made her cum again, then again.
Each orgasm for her was deeper, harder, more paralyzing than the one
before. Each time she would clench my shoulders and with her lips near
my ear she would moan, "Again. Again, Steven. Fuck." Until finally her
fourth cum was a long pleasure-drenched struggle, and when it finally
arrived I felt my own orgasm creep slowly from my strained back and then
into the tip of my cock, on whose length her clinging cunt fed greedily
and invoked yet another hot jet from my balls. I yelled and then
groaned, straining on outstretched arms and quaking knees, as I watched
her long body writhe in ecstatic lust with our last prolonged, exhaust-
ing, excruciating release.
For almost an hour afterward, we held each other silently. I lay on
her for a while, then rolled over and lay with her head on my shoulder.
Soon we changed positions again, me lying on her breast before we curled
up spoon-style. At one point she sat up, leaned back against her pillow,
and lit a cigarette. I watched her inhale and then slowly exhale.
After a moment she whispered, "Steven."
I looked at her and waited.
She paused and took another puff. She shook her head no, once. She
whispered, "Nothing."
Finally, it was time to dress and leave.
She drove me back to my Mama Rose's house. We arrived at eleven, an
hour after the Tremont had closed.
"You be good to your Mama Rose," Martha told me from her car window.
"she's so sweet."
"I'll come to Union Station next Saturday and see you off."
"You don't have to," she said quietly. "You sure?"
"I'll be there," I said, winking -- not knowing if I were really up to
it, but letting her think I believed I was.
She winked back. Unsmiling, she stepped on the gas. She and the car
raced down the street and grew smaller. I stood on the curb and watched,
wondering what the hell I was going to do.
Of all the weeks Martha and I had spent apart, that week of waiting
for her departure was the longest that I remember. The only memory I
have of that week was of standing in our front yard one sultry afternoon
with the cloying humidity hanging in the air as I stared into the vast
suburban sameness around me. As in an underexposed, bleached-out still
photograph, nothing seemed distinct. Nothing moved. But I felt the
earth move; and I felt time move, slowly and relentlessly.
During breakfast on Friday morning my mother told me, "This coming
weekend will be the last week for you to have nothing to do while
school's out. Your daddy wants you to work at the grocery during the
week, starting Monday."
"You have to learn the value of a dollar," my stepdad grunted as he
came to the table for his coffee. He took a quick sip and then bent over
to tie his shoes. "Learn about runnin' a business," he went on. "Sackin'
groceries. Trim the produce. Then we'll get you on the big bikes with
the delivery crew, and you can make some money. Ten cents for every
order you deliver in the Lauderdale Courts. The work ain't that hard,
but it'll help put some muscle on you, get you out in the sunshine and
the open air."
I mentioned that a new play was going to start soon at St. Michael's
and that I had been assigned a role. I would have to leave the store by
five to get a bus in time for rehearsals.
Unfazed, he continued. "That school dramatics crap will just have to
wait. The store stays open 'til seven during the week and 'til nine on
Saturday. So your games at school can wait until September."
"...Yessir."
"You just tell them at school that you're sorry, but your time
belongs to the Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23 until school starts again."
"Yessir."
"That dramatics shit is a lot of foolin' around anyway."
"Yessir."
"The money you earn will be yours. I'll keep it in a checkin'
account for you, at Union Planters, just like a regular checkin' account.
I'll keep tabs on it. You can spend it, but get somethin' you need and
can use at school. Don't spend it on crap."
"Yessir."
The conversation ended. It was perhaps one of the longest exchanges
I'd had with my parents in several months. For the rest of the day I
moped in my room. Near dusk I drove my squeaky kid-sized bicycle to
Gaisman Park. The bike was an undersized blue machine that Aunt Frances
had given me for Christmas when I was nine years old. The thought that
I'd be able to earn my own money for a sparkling new bike was a comfort,
at least. At thirteen, going on fourteen, I needed more mobility; for
the time being I was limited to city buses and my own two feet. The idea
of buying a full-sized bike gave me something to look forward to. And,
hopefully, a few months of hard work at the supermarket in my old neigh-
borhood would get me back into the heart of the city and give me some-
thing to think about other than Martha's absence.
By sunset I returned home and told Mom I didn't want dinner. I
boarded a bus and made the long trip into old Memphis and the home of my
Mama Rose and Daddy Joe Ricci, my deceased father's parents. Usually I
alternated my weekends between them or Aunt Francis and Uncle Johnny.
Being with my grandparents was more subdued and folksy than weekends
spent with my disoriented Aunt Frances and my tired and ailing but affec-
tionate Uncle Johnny. The Ricci's lived in a newer home, a tidy 1920's
brick duplex occupied on one side by my grandparents and on the other by
their daughter, my Aunt Baby Sister, so called to distinguish her from
several other Aunt Catherines in the clan. The Ricci's kept a living ar-
rangement that even in my youth I considered unusual. My Uncle Johnny
and Aunt Frances, with all the extra space they had in their big old
Victorian home, slept together in the same room and the same bed; but
Daddy Joe and Mama Rose, in their smaller duplex, kept separate rooms.
Mama Rose's room was in the middle of the long hallway that led through
their side of the duplex. Behind her room was the bedroom that once
belonged to my Uncle Frank and my father. Frank was never around, having
used his GI bill to get through Vanderbilt University in Nashville, after
which he landed a job with a local bank and found an apartment elsewhere
in Memphis with his recent bride, my glamorous and vivacious Aunt Leigh.
Behind Frank's room, at the far end of the hall, was the small add-on
that was Daddy Joe's solitary room.
Gentle, submissive and soft-spoken, Mama Rose would greet me from the
front door of their corner house when I got off the bus across the
street. Watching the street carefully in both directions, she would wear
a frown of concern until I safely crossed the six lanes of busy Peabody
Street, and then she would smile her warm motherly smile as I strode up
the front steps and onto their little brick-walled, plant-lined front
porch. Like her older sisters, My Aunt Frances and my sister's godmother
Aunt Mary, Mama Rose had a squeaky voice: but hers was a small, serene
one that matched her manner and her diminutive size. Like my deceased
father, she had black hair; but her caring, madonna-like eyes were a
bright blue that could be seen across a room. There was a quiet joy in
her whenever she greeted me and led me into the kitchen for a bowl of
cereal or some milk and cookies. When I entreated her to not go through
trouble on my behalf, she would insist on waiting upon me, circling about
the kitchen with her weak little walk and her bad back, looking far older
than her fifty-odd years as if some great weight had attached itself to
her petite frame at some point in the past. Always, there was a sweet
remark about how I looked just like my daddy, Steven Senior. Always.
And always she would at some point confuse me with her son Frank, whom I
also resembled. And almost always she would at some point call me Steven
instead of her favorite nickname Butch (and where she came up with Butch,
I'll never know. She was the only person who called me by that name
instead of by Speedy). And always, at some point, she would call me
Frank, then give a shy little laugh and apologize, saying, "Oh, I mean
Butch. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Did you hear me say Frank? Wasn't
that silly?"
After I snacked I would ask about Daddy Joe, and a shadow would fall
over her face--a quick and barely visible flash of something sad and
lonely in her--and she would recover and say, "Oh, he's back there in his
'man's room', where he always is. You go see him, and then we have to
get to sleep and go to the Tremont in the morning. Go on, go see him.
You know he loves you, Butch. He always wants to see you. You go on
and I'll clean up in here."
At the end of the long unlit hallway, Daddy Joe was in his room. He
was a short, kindly but fidgety man who spoke and moved suddenly, jerkily
and unpredictably. I had a strange liking for him; not the same warm and
comfy affection I had for the saintly Mama Rose--but an affection mixed
with a wariness of his nervous style and his occasionally bitter cynicism
that seemed to underlay his reactions to everything and everyone around
him.
As usual, he sat in the small, chilly room with the windows wide
open, he in his worn, heavy brown leather chair with his short legs
propped on a matching footstool. He held a pipe in one hand, a National
Geographic magazine and a newspaper in his lap. Around him were his
man's trophies that graced the walls of his man's room: an oversized 1948
calendar with color photos of legendary racehorses like Citation and Sea
Biscuit; a yellowed, framed, original copy of the announcement of the
Wall Street crash in the New York Herald; over three decades' worth of
the National Geographic; old copies of the Wall Street Journal; an
ancient telegraph set from the Frisco Railroad, where he worked for many
years as a youth; a battered dumbbell with two heavy, rusting weights; a
photograph of Charles Atlas tugging a subway car in the 1930's; and
portraits of Theodore and Franklin Roosevelt.
He would greet me with a big grin and a coarse but chummy "Aaaaa!", a
kind of gruffly playful reproach accompanied by a firm ruffling of my
hair and a pinch on my ear. Then a quick hug, his red cheeks always
scratchy and tickly against mine. And then questions: how was I? Would
I grow any taller? What was I doing in school? And always, regardless
of my answers, a waggish "Aaaaa!" as he unexpectedly rose from his chair
and ruffled my hair again. I never quite knew when he was going to jump
up and pull that frolic on me. Our conversations were more like an
effort on my part to find out who he really was, while he remained
roguishly elusive.
I mentioned that I had received a birthday card from my Uncle Frank
and he asked, "Yeah? You ever see your Uncle Frank?". I answered no,
and he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and a gruff, "Ha! Your Uncle
Frank. To hell with him, Speedy-boy. Right? Never comes to see *ME*!
Huh, SPeedy-boy? Sonofabitch." As usual, he immediately changed the
subject and asked about my Mom. I said my mother and daddy were doing
well, and he muttered, "Your 'daddy'. Hmp. Your daddy's dead," a
frequent remark to which I never had a reply, and he would growl "Aaaa!"
and ruffle my hair again and then confound me by cheerfully asking if
Mama Rose had fed me well when I came in. "Your Mama Rose is sweet on
you, Speedy-boy. You're her boy, you know that? She's sweet, your Mama
Rose."
This meandering and inconclusive conversation seldom varied. Neither
did it last very long, as Daddy Joe would want to spend some time going
over the stock quotations in the newspaper. He would preface this by
again mentioning his plans for the day when he hoped to retire from the
liquor business, cash in his stocks and move to Hot Springs, Arkansas,
where he would play the horses all day and "live like a white man."
He sent me back into the caring hands and motherly smiles of Mama
Rose, who laid out my pajamas and turned back the bedspread in Uncle
Frank's room, and tucked me in with a peck on the cheek and a little
sing-song about, "Oh, I love my little Butch, just like your daddy
Steven." And after the lights went out I would be in that room alone
with my father's ghost and the relics of my mysterious, long-absent Uncle
Frank. I often wondered, if either of them had been around, how I would
talk to them and what they would advise me about my situation. How would
they, grown and apparently sane men, handle it? Why were they always
gone? What were they really like? Was I like them? Would I be able to
tell them about Martha?
Certainly, despite their affection, neither Mama Rose nor Daddy Joe
nor anyone else could be someone I trusted with the story of me and
Martha Jane, whom I now called Martha but whom I still pictured as the
original Martha Jane, and who would be leaving the next day.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 8C
-30-
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