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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 09D"( bf mF mF+ )[33/52]
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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
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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 9D:
Near the end of the summer of 1956, just before I started classes at
Christian Brothers High School, I wrote Martha Jane and told her that the
main reason I worked all summer was to earn money for a one-week visit to
New York. I had saved enough for train fare, and if she didn't have room
for me in her apartment I had money for a hotel.
Three weeks passed. I'd hoped for a quick reply. I wanted to get to
New York before the summer ended. But as the days passed I started
losing hope. August ended. I made new plans: perhaps I'd hear from her
soon and could at least spend the Labor Day holiday with her.
Then Labor Day passed. And I thought: all right, then, Thanksgiving.
And if not Thanksgiving, Christmas....
A letter arrived the week after Labor Day. Mom handed it to me when
I came home from Christian Brothers. I pretended it was unimportant and
told Mom I would read it when I got to it. I disappeared in my room for
a while, then hid the letter under my shirt and rode my bike to Gaisman
Park. I sat under one of the skinny, almost leafless saplings and
hastily opened the envelope.
"Dear Steven: Please, please please don't spend so much money so
soon on a trip up here. I don't want you to go broke and spend every-
thing on me. Wait a little longer."
Disheartened, I read on. She had taken in a roommate, a struggling
fabric designer named Veronica, whom she called Ronnie, to make ends
meet. Martha's deal with Columbia didn't include summers, so she tutored
privately and had other jobs on the side. And the apartment was far too
small for two people, much less for three; and she and Ronnie had to lay
low anyway because her lease included only one tenant; if Ronnie were
found out the rent would go up.
She wrote, "You really haven't saved enough money for a week in a
decent hotel in New York. There is no way I'd have you stay in a dump.
You'd get mugged or even killed in that kind of neighborhood. New York
isn't like Memphis. It's very dangerous here."
I read on. She wanted me to bury myself in work at Christian Bro-
thers. She wanted me to give up the paper route and return to drama and
to writing. I had sent her some short poems I'd written; she was so
impressed that she wanted me to contact someone at school who would look
at more of my work. She thought my stepdad's decision to send me to
Christian Brothers was wise and that the Brothers were singular teach-
ers. And if I were going to spend my money, I should wait until I had
more on hand so that I wouldn't be totally broke, because I would need
decent clothes of my own. And I should buy a new typewriter for school
and for developing my writing instead of struggling with the Black Beauty
(I had not yet told her the story of the Black Beauty's sorry fate). And
I didn't belong on a paper route anyway; I belonged in the theater and on
the student newspaper.
So that was it. I could not refute her. In every way, she was
correct. But I was not content with it.
Two days later, on a Saturday when I knew long-distance rates were
low, I asked Mom if I could make a call to New York and pay for it with
my own money. Mom said yes. I dialed Martha's number. No answer. Two
hours later I dialed again, late in the afternoon.
It was Ronnie who answered, with a youngish voice and a noticeable
New York City accent. "Who's this?" she asked. When I told her she
replied excitedly, "Oh, Steeeeven! Oh, I've heard so much about you from
Martha! So you're really a person? The way she talks about you, I
didn't think you were real! Hold on, I'll get her."
Martha was surprised and happy at my call.
I asked, "What happened to your Memphis accent?"
"Oh, hon, that's gone months ago. I call Mother and she can't
understand a word I say."
We had a long talk. It took a while for me to get accustomed to the
changes in her voice. She talked faster, and she sounded older, worldlier
and more businesslike. She apologized for not letting me visit her right
away. She said I really and truly needed more money, and she refused to
let me stay in a hotel. "I want you to come up here on an airplane, not
a crummy train. I want you to be patient so you can be comfortable and
treat yourself like a mensch. You know what a mensch is?"
"No."
"A mensch is a PERSON, hon! I don't want you coming up here with
your stuff in a paper bag and looking like a street urchin. And I want
to make plans for it, and have time to spend together. Don't you think
that's better than being so rushed and desperate? Life in New York is
desperate enough without all that."
I didn't want to agree; but she was right, all the way down the line.
She pleaded with me to buy a good typewriter, a nice one that I'd be
happy with and that I would use to write and study instead of wasting my
time and energy with notebook paper.
I refused. I did so nicely, but I refused to spend money on a type-
writer, which in those days was a fairly expensive and exotic item for a
high school kid in Memphis. And I insisted that I'd rather save the
money for New York. Martha yielded on that point but insisted that I
travel to New York when the timing was better.
She said, "I'm glad you called, Steven. Really. But talking about
saving money, do you know we've been on the phone for over an hour?"
Apparently she heard reluctance and disappointment in my voice.
"Steven. Sweetheart. I miss you, and I know you'd love New York. Will
you understand? For me? And treat yourself better, and be patient?"
"Well...okay."
"Don't say okay if you don't mean okay."
I laughed. "Okay."
"And buy yourself a typewriter?"
"No."
"Oh...stubborn! Hon, please write me. And please take it easy."
Halloween passed. Thanksgiving. Three more letters and then
Christmas cards passed between us. Then Christmas. 1957 began. Then
Ronnie found a better job and moved into a vacancy in the same building.
Then Martha found another teaching job on the side to supplement her
scholarship. Easter passed. She sent an oversized Easter card that she
said was designed by Ronnie. But no other word. April passed, and still
no letter.
One hot Friday afternoon in late spring, Charlie and I spent a
harried day working one huge delivery after another. I was sullen and
was taking my anger out on the orders, asking for the biggest ones and
for the most distant customers. Finally, by late afternoon, the two of
us cleared the backlog and the flow of customers thinned for a while.
Soaked with sweat, I took a break in the restroom and soaked my head with
cold water.
As I returned to the front of the store, Charlie called to me from the
front door. "Hey, Speedy!" He motioned toward the outside with his
head. "C'mon out here, let's take a break. C'mon."
"I just had one," I said crankily.
"What the hell, c'mon."
I met him out front and he mounted his bike. "Get on your bike," he
said. "Let's take a ride." He lit a cigarette and handed me one. I
took it and lit up.
"Where to?" I asked.
"Let's take a little ride up on High Street while it cools down. Get
the hell away from this store for a spell."
Wordlessly, I followed him on my squeaky bike and we rode up a short
rise for several blocks. We took a right onto High Street, a narrow
avenue of dilapidated tenements that had changed little since the turn of
the century. A few of the buildings were abandoned; one of them had a
condemnation notice on the front door. Abruptly, Charlie turned into a
narrow driveway overgrown with weeds beside a four-story building of old,
oily, dull red brick.
"What's up?" I asked, crushing out my cigarette.
"C'mon and meet a coupla girls I know," he said laconically. He
shoved down the kickstand and flipped his cigarette toward the street.
"Girls," I said apprehensively. Quickly, I removed my glasses.
Charlie smirked. "Hell, Chrissie and Karen don't care 'bout that."
"I do," I said.
The wooden front stairs and porch creaked loudly under our feet.
Charlie pounded on the screen door and hummed and waited. Presently two
teenaged girls opened the heavy front door. Charlie introduced them with
a few lines of friendly banter. Chrissie, the busty one with curly
blonde hair and a mischievous smile, said hi. Karen was the slim, quiet
one with long black hair and an expressionless face.
"What's up?" Charlie asked.
"C'mon," Chrissie said to him playfully, "I'll show ya. Karen, you
and Steven...talk." She giggled.
Charlie and Chrissie disappeared into the massive dark hallway beyond
the door. Karen leaned in the doorway and looked me over shyly, still
with no expression on her face, her hands folded behind her. She was
attractive in a lazy, slutty way, with a pale narrow face and a thin,
wide mouth, black hair that draped around her small shoulders, and dark,
ambiguous eyes.
"Charlie says you're a real hard worker," she said, her voice soft
and hesitant and dripping with a heavy drawl that I recognized as belong-
ing to northern Mississippi sharecroppers.
"I do my share," I said. Unaccustomed to talking with girls my age,
I said lamely, "So you're Karen."
"Yeah. I'm Karen. Uh, Chrissie and me been friends for a long time."
It had been so long since I'd stood face to face with a girl, I had
no idea what to do next. I looked around to see if Charlie and Chrissie
were doing anything that might give me a clue as to what was going on,
but they had disappeared inside the building.
Karen eyed me with an inscrutable stare. A clumsy silence passed.
Then she motioned with her eyes to her right, toward the hallway. I
wondered if she meant what I thought she meant.
She hesitated, and moved lazily into the hallway, where she stopped
with one foot on the stairway and a hand on the dusty wooden bannister.
She turned toward me momentarily, her face still dull and unchanged, her
dark eyes questioning. I stepped inside the screen door and let it close
softly behind me. She headed slowly up the stairs, quickly glancing at
me about halfway up. I waited at the door. Then at the top step her
gaze again met mine, directly but very briefly, as she turned and started
up the second level.
I told myself: hey, idiot, she wants you to follow her. I moved to
the stairway. It was all too unexpected and unfamiliar. There had been
girls who told me they thought I was cute, but none who made or accepted
my advances. What the hell -- it had been almost two years for me.
Martha was in no hurry to see me. Probably New York would never happen.
But was Karen serious?
Halfway up the first flight I paused and listened. The floor above
creaked softly. I continued. When I reached the second floor all I saw
were dusty shafts of sunlight, warped and faded walls, and several half-
open doorways. Then, behind the second door on my right, I heard what
sounded like the squeak of an old metal bed. I moved forward and stood
in the doorway; the odor of grease and rotted plaster bled from the room.
Karen sat on a half-made metal bed, holding a single deflated pil-
low to her chest, her long legs folded under her dark blue dress. Her
eyes looked at me from her dull face. "What took y' so long?" she
joked. A slight smile creased her thin lips; the smile disappeared
instantly as I moved into the room and looked around. The space consist-
ed of four walls, a cracked ceiling, a closed closet, an undraped open
window, the bed, and her.
I stood in the middle of the room, hands on my aproned hips. "What's
up?" I wondered if, at any moment, an axe murderer might dash from the
closet, empty my pockets of the tips I'd earned that day, and kill me.
She seemed confused. Then hesitantly she raised a slender, long-
fingered hand to her dress and touched the top button. "Wont me t' take
this off?"
I don't know how many seconds she waited for me as her words slowly
sank into my brain. Soon she began undoing her buttons.
"It's okay to do it in here. Ain't nobody else home today, they all
went downtown." As she spoke she allowed her dress to fall open and
reveal one breast and its flat, cocoa-brown nipple. "Won't nobody come
in." She motioned toward the window. "Cain't see nothin' through the
winder, either, they tore down the buildin's back there."
I started undressing. As I got down to my underwear and prepared to
strip them off, I heard a noise from the hallway.
"Never mind them," she urged. "They're too busy doin' it to worry
'bout us." In one motion she slid under the sheet, pulled her dress over
her head and off, and held a corner of the bedsheet aside for me, care-
fully keeping herself covered below the waist.
"C'mon," she said. "Git in."
Nude, I slipped under the sheet. She covered us and turned to me. I
turned to her, but hastily she pulled herself to me as if she didn't want
me to see all of her, and curled her legs around mine. Against my right
knee I felt her crotch and was amazed that she had become sopping wet so
quickly. Like a sudden wind from under the sheet her girl's scent rose,
stringent and sharp. It was disconcerting; heady because of its sheer
lusty power, uninviting because it seemed so alien to her otherwise
alluring, slim, white body.
Her face was uncommunicative, but her eyes were intent, waiting,
deeply focussed into mine. Her arms went around me and she tried pulling
herself closer to me, and me to her. I reached under the sheet and down,
touching her dripping mound. Instantly, her hand shot down to hold mine
away from her.
"No, don't. I don't usually like bein' touched there. It's
embarrassin' sometimes."
Surprised and disappointed, I looked at her confusedly. Her eyes
softened and gently she placed my hand on one of her pliant little
breasts.
"I don't need much touchin' anyway," she said apologetically. "I'm
ready. Can you tell? How 'bout you? You ready?" Her eyes on mine, her
hand found my cock as if by radar, without searching. She gave me a
quick, fleeting, sensuous grin -- another of her rare facial expressions
that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. "Yeah...it's gettin'
there." Without removing her eyes from mine she reached under the edge
of the mattress on her side and retrieved a rubber, quickly stripped open
the wrapper, and reached under the sheet. Chewing her lip, she held my
cock with one hand and with the other unrolled the cold rubber over my
length. "There," she whispered, lying back. "C'mon. 'S been a long
time. I need it in me."
Well, I thought, if that's the way she likes it...I covered her and
then settled on her, and with one whispering slide of her trim torso she
raised her knees and spread her thighs. Before I knew it she grabbed me
again, her light touch and long fingers warm and tickly, stimulating me
briefly until I realized she was maneuvering me into her while I was only
mildly excited and barely at half-mast. Nevertheless, she was so wet and
slippery that I slid inside; she had only to nudge her hips slightly
upward, and I was fully sheathed.
Through the confining rubber I felt she was warm, almost steamy--but
so soft and lubricous that I felt I were copulating into a small glass of
warm water. I tried to raise on my arms and look down at her, but
immediately she pulled me close and pulled herself up so that we were
tightly joined with my face in her neck.
She wasted little time. Gasping, "Yeah. Feels good," she began
squirming her sex against me with a nimble precision that belied her
sluggish manner. I humped slowly but steadily, stretching a bit so that
my nearly flaccid shaft could gain some feeling of her inner shape and
texture. But to my disappointment I felt little, save for the pleasant
tickle of her pubic hair bristling near the unrubbered part of my root.
The sensation was paltry, and a great deal more of what I had been
accustomed to was altogether absent, but it did generate a mild erotic
twinge that helped stiffen me a little.
"Yeah," she panted. "Gettin' harder. Hmm. You move good."
Soon I knew I could not maintain this semi-erection. It wasn't just
the lack of sensation or the sense of being rushed: we were clumsy and
unsynchronized. There was nothing about us physically or emotionally or
mentally that spoke in the same terms, much less in the same language.
Not being able to touch her, not being stroked or primed myself, I became
merely a cooperative observer. Staring ahead at a sight no more scintil-
lating than a patch of pillow, her earlobes, and part of her tensing
neck, I grew more and more distant.
The only thing keeping me involved was the surprisingly rapid ap-
proach of her orgasm. "Don't cum yet!" she panted. "Keep dickin' me!" I
pumped her steadily, keeping my shaft near what I thought was her clit
and flexing my cock to make it seem stiffer. I wanted at least the
pleasure of getting her there. The old bed jiggled. Soon she was gasp-
ing and groaned "Yeah..." and her head fell back. Her ankles slid around
mine. Seconds later, she trembled and hissed "Yeah," and her head
snapped stiffly forward. She whimpered a few times and her nails dug
into my back while she rapidly ground her pubis against me for several
seconds. Somewhere beyond the rubber I dimly felt her inner spasms. Then
with a shudder and a sigh she sank back like a limp string.
I stopped. Propping on my elbows, I watched her: she lay open-
mouthed, eyes shut, breathing deeply and exhaling in long tired sighs.
Her arms relaxed and fell from me, one flopping to her side and the other
draping itself around her head.
"Hey," she panted, "yer good...Y' know just how to do it."
"Glad you liked it."
"Yeah. Liked it a lot...I'm glad you waited. I ain't cum good 'n
hard like that in a long time." She opened her yes. "You cum okay?"
"Sure," I lied.
"I couldn't tell. You must a cum when I did."
"Mm-hm." For a moment I held her and stroked her cheek, neck and
dark nipples, planting little kisses on her throat and her slim, oddly
touchable shoulders. Her flesh was soft and seemed to melt against my
lips. It wasn't that I liked her so much; it was sympathy for a soft
girl whose life was so barren that she could think of what we had just
done as being great sex. And more: I needed someone to please, hold, and
kiss.
Soon she squirmed nervously, her eyes filled with surprise and mild
reproach. "Hey, you could make somebody fall in luv, doin' stuff like
that. Holdin' an' kissin'...'n stuff."
I moved off her. Swinging my legs out of the bed, I sat up with my
feet on the floor and my back to her. "Just felt like doin' it," I mut-
tered, defeated, looking down and seeing the empty rubber on me. Out of
her sight, I pulled it off and pitched it out the open window. I started
dressing. I didn't want to be there anymore.
She rolled onto her stomach, still clasping the sheet about her.
"Hey. You live 'round here?"
"No."
"Oh. Thought maybe I'd...see you around sometime."
"It's...possible."
She started to speak again, but stopped. Her face had changed; it
had a look of quiet contentment and a girlish almost-smile. I was
stooping to tie my shoes when she spoke again.
"Maybe I wouldn't be so shy, next time. 'Specially with you. I
always been kinda shy."
"Why? There's nothing wrong with you. You're pretty."
"Yeah, well...but shy anyway...You look better'n I thought you would."
I walked to the door and looked out. There was no one in the hallway.
"How old 're you?' she taunted, rocking shyly on her hips. "Sev'n-
teen? Eighteen? I'm sev'nteen, come July."
I looked back at her. Should I tell her I was barely fifteen? I
lied: "Eighteen." I noticed I was lying more often lately.
"You don't talk much," she said.
I smiled weakly. "I'm shy too."
"Yeah. You fuck real good, though." She blushed. "You ever hear
that song, 'Sweet 'n' Gentle'?" She smiled devilishly. Her teeth were
yellow, a couple of them chipped.
From downstairs I heard a door slam and then Charlie's heavy foot-
steps heading for the door. "Hey, Speedy! You up there? C'mon, we
gotta go!"
"I have to get back to work," I told Karen, and I started downstairs.
Behind me I heard her call out, "You know where t' find me. Right?"
Charlie and I mounted our bikes. He lit a cigarette and started
forward. "Damn," he said, "that was a LOAD off my MIND!"
We rolled down the street.
Charlie said, "You ain't said nothin'. How was Karen?"
I shrugged. "It was okay."
"Okay? Damn. Just a little quickie, wha'd you expect?"
"It was okay. Nice."
"Never done her myself. Chrissie always tells me Karen's real hot."
"Yeah," I said, trying to forget the whole thing, "she is."
Charlie wagged his head. "Damn, Speedy. I cain't figure you out."
That night I arrived home around ten o'clock, as usual for a Friday.
Mom was asleep. I showered. Then I remembered Karen and showered
again. It might have been possible for me to like her. She struck me as
pretty, an oddly delicate but kinky combination. I wondered if she had
any diseases.
Two days before my fifteenth birthday, I arrived home from school and
found a large, brown-paper Parcel Post package on my bed. The return ad-
dress was East 87th Street in New York. Quickly, I unwrapped and opened
the heavy box.
It was a brand new Underwood typewriter.
Taped to the instruction manual was a birthday card. Martha had
signed it. Under her name were three or four x's and a message:
"Call me 'Collect' on your birthday."
Continued...
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 9D
-30-
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