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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 10D"( bf mF mF+ )[37/52]
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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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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 10D:
Her eyes and her words left me speechless. I cleared my throat and
concealed my state of shock, nodding firmly to signal my acceptance of
what she had said. I shuffled nervously. She waited, staring at me
almost apprehensively. She seemed at once both resolute and vulnerable.
"I hope," she said softly, "I didn't blow your fuses."
"They're not fuses," I said with a brittle smile, "they're circuit
breakers. They reset after a few minutes."
She smiled sweetly. "Have I...burst all your bubbles, hon? I can't
even tell. You hide your feelings so well. Too well, Steven"
"I'm not as good at expressing those feelings as you are," I said
guiltily. "But, no, I...I won't keep them hidden." I swallowed hard.
"I can't answer right now. But I will."
She walked to me and gave me a quick little hug. "You don't have to
say anything."
"Yes, I do," I said haltingly. "But my circuit breakers need time."
"Okay, hon. Okay. C'mon. Let's get to sleep."
With another fit of yawning, we shut the lights and groaned our way
into bed, lying uncovered and facing each other in the dim wash of early
daylight that filtered through the curtained window.
We lay on our sides, facing each other in the dark. I closed my
eyes. From the window behind me, the city stirred faintly. It was an
unfamiliar sound, one I'd never heard when falling asleep in Memphis -- a
vague, distant but lurking and steady noise, a hint of the unexpected, an
undefined coming and going, a hushed sound of events moving in all direc-
tions.
I shifted, making my shoulder more comfortable. Opening my eyes, I
saw her watching me.
"Are you falling asleep?" she asked.
"I'm thinking."
"Don't think, hon. Sleep." She touched my shoulder, squeezed it
softly. "It'll be all right, Steven. It will."
I closed my eyes. I was far too exhausted to question a looming
future I couldn't see or define. I trusted her. I felt I had no choice.
That Saturday afternoon shortly before one o'clock, I awoke to my
first weekend in New York, and my first hangover. And Martha's musical,
teasing voice, and her gentle hands rubbing my back and shoulders.
"Up," she said, "the day's half gone."
There was little time for serious meditation over her words of a few
hours earlier. Martha roused me with scrambled eggs and two cups of a
strong, minty tea that made my mouth and nose tingle, and some celery
juice. We showered and dressed hastily, then scurried outside into the
blinding sunlight before I knew what happened.
"Hurry!" Martha implored as she dragged me by the arm toward Second
Avenue. "I called Fiore while you were sleeping like a slug and he said
he's leaving the health club by three!"
I yelped, "Are you sure he can work with somebody who can't talk or
walk?"
"Snap out of it," she told me as we turned a corner and headed down-
town. "If you're that tired and if you have a couple of bucks, we can
take a taxi."
"Good," I resolved aloud. I stepped into the street as I'd seen
others do and raised my hand for a taxi.
"Slacker," she said.
The meteoric taxi ride helped wake me during the short trip to
Lexington and 47th. Martha loaned me her health club pass and told me
how to find Fiore on the sixth floor of the hotel. "This is only an
evaluation," she told me. "It's free. After that, and because Fiore's a
friend of mine and wants my body, he's agreed to see you for twenty-five
bucks a session. Take my word for it, hon, it's a bargain. But don't
bother if you're not going to work with him."
Martha shopped while I was in Fiore's hands. I was surprised at his
height; who'd guess that a paid trainer would be even shorter than I! He
had phenomenal strength and agility. During the first ten minutes he
learned my every strength and weakness with a few quick glances over my
torso and limbs.
"Off with your clothes!" he snapped curtly, and he handed me a pair
of blue shorts. "Dress!" Before I finished changing he was chirping,
"On the massage table!" Rushed and confused, I fell down trying to
remove my shoes.
Fiore laughed merrily. "Haha! Say, you're allowed to sit on a chair
while you take off your shoes."
"Everybody's in such a hurry," I muttered.
"Of course! Iss New York! If you don' hurry in New York, you die!",
a remark he laughed about until I had the shorts on and was climbing onto
the table. For the next several minutes he threw me around like a bag of
dried peas.
"You hev a nice frame, Steven. Nice! But weak back and hips. What
kind of work you do, hah?" I told him about my newspaper route and the
delivery bike. "No, No!" he warned. "No good, the way you move! When
we finish here, we go to the bicycle to show you how to move. The way
you move now, iss no good!" For an hour he demonstrated how to manage
and build up my weaker body parts. By that time I was so breathless that
I merely grunted at his questions and stumbled through his instructions.
"Bad coordination! I have exercises for that! Here, here, no! No
pushups like that! Here, THIS iss a pushup! Only halfway, you see?
Never all the way! There! You see? Kapeesh?"
"What kind of food your Italian mother makes for you?" he asked later
as I struggled into my clothes with no air in my lungs and no strength in
my limbs. "Bread? Huh? Pasta?" I told him, yes, a lot of bread and
breaded foods, pasta, salads with oil and vinegar, cakes and pies, pan-
cakes, cereals. "Aha!" he screamed, "And then you have pimples, Ha?
Listen to me: No white bread! No white flour! Never! Get vinegar and
oil in the health food store! If anyone makes a salad with Crisco, shoot
them! If they give you a pancake, break their legs! No sugar! Iss
garbage, my friend! Garbage in your body, pimples on your face!"
He wrote a list of several items I should buy. "Today!" he demanded.
"There is a place two blocks down on Lexington! Start today! Come back
Monday, ten o'clock!"
He gave my back a slap that sent me reeling. He had a good laugh
while holding me up. "Haha, you'll be all right, my friend! In only a
few days with me, you'll have the strength of -- well, at least you will
be on your way! What's this?...smoke on your breath? Listen to me --
nicotine iss UGLY! You cannot have good skin if you smoke! And when you
see Martha, tell her thank you for sending you to me, I give you a
special price! How lucky to have such a beautiful woman on your side!"
As I glanced about on my way out of the health club, I saw that
Martha's was not the only lovely body in New York. There were several
dancers and models around, some of them bearing the most perfect figures
I could imagine. Their accomplishments fired me on -- though, for the
time being, I was too whipped to do anything more than limp out of the
club, into the elevator, and out to the busy sidewalk. By the time
Martha returned from shopping and found me outside the hotel, I had
managed to learn to stand again.
"So," she asked, "What's the verdict?"
"Are you sure Steve Reeves started out this way? I can do it if I
get plenty of rest between sessions."
"Not the way *we* fuck!" she laughed, drawing a startled look from
two or three passersby.
I showed Martha the list of things Fiore told me to buy.
"Can you afford this?" Martha asked. "This is some list."
"What'll it cost me?"
"About thirty or forty dollars, I guess."
"What I was going to spend on junk food, I'll spend for this."
Martha led me through my first trip in a health food store. We
walked out with a bag of bottles and foods and pills I'd never heard of.
Back in her apartment, she surveyed the goods. "I thought so," she said,
"he gave you a lot of B6. I figured as much, everybody on your mom's
side of the family seems to have signs of a deficiency. And, uh-oh,
Brewer's yeast! Oh, my -- hon, you'll hate me for this, but I have to
find some way to get a tablespoon of brewer's yeast down your throat
three times a day."
Most of the teas and supplements were not seriously upsetting, but
ingesting Brewer's Yeast was torture. By late afternoon I was filled
with vitamins, minerals, teas, juices, the yeast, and herbs.
For a rest, she introduced me to Central Park, where we roamed over
hills and through pine forests and followed a group of bird watchers
until twilight.
On our way out of the park, we passed a hot dog stand. "Hey," she
said, her eyes rolling, "Steven! You have to try a New York hot dog."
"No," I said firmly, mimicking Fiore. "Hot dogs iss pimples!"
"But you can't see Central Park without having a hot dog."
"No. No. And no."
"Wow, I see you took Fiore to heart. I'm proud of you."
The hectic session with Fiore and the walk through the Park did me
in. For dinner Martha made "nekkid" hamburgers (ground sirloin baked
slowly under a blanket of cheese and mushrooms), a salad dressed with
the special vinegar and oils Fiore prescribed, plus another handful of
pills. Martha informed me, "Gourmets never eat beef as-is. It's always
ground, Steven." Dinner was prefaced with a spoonful of dreaded yeast,
which I managed to swallow in small amounts with the help of some dark,
berry-flavored tea.
After dinner I sat listlessly at the table, feeling I'd soon faint.
"What's next?"
"To the bathroom. I'll show you how to wash your face."
"Wash my face? You think I don't know how to wash my face?"
"I'm gonna to show you how professionals do it." She gathered a can
of scouring powder and a bottle of the new vegetable oil and led me to
the bathroom.
I yelped with alarm, "I'm gonna wash my face with that?"
"No, silly. First we have to clean the sink. Watch and learn."
Again, it was a New York revelation. In her tiny bathroom Martha
taught me how to prepare my face with a thin coat of vegetable oil before
using special soap and steaming hot water.
I frowned at the sink of smoking water, and then at my oiled face in
the mirror, with growing skepticism. "Now, who would go through all this
just to wash their face?"
"People who don't accept the usual way of doing things," she said,
adamant. "People who don't listen to fairy tales. Do it, Steven. Open
up and try something different."
I followed the procedure reluctantly but exactly, counting aloud to
make certain I splashed the nearly stinging hot water onto my face as she
directed, twenty-five times. Afterwards, she made me look at myself in
the mirror.
"Feel your skin," she prompted, her voice losing its stiffness. "Look
at your face. Smooth, right? And the skin's tight? Look at your cheeks
glow, hon. Your skin's acid-balanced now, and the pores are clear. And
those damn pimples were opened up and they're already disappearing."
I looked carefully, flabbergasted. She was right. I wouldn't have
believed it without seeing it.
"Trust me?" she taunted. "Was I right? Is not the wicked witch
really your friend in disguise?"
I surrendered. "Yes," I mumbled.
"Feel better about yourself?"
"Yes."
She hugged me. "I've got to get you out of the 'Memphis mode', hon.
Stop letting those foamin' Romans tell you how to think. I want you to
find out for yourself, try something new, trust yourself. All it takes
is some work and a little nerve. Okay?"
I hugged her back.
"Love you," she said. "You know that now, don't you?"
"Yes."
She hurried into the kitchen and started cleaning up.
"What next?" I called from the bathroom, still looking at myself in
amazement.
"Movie, if you want."
"Doesn't anybody in New York ever rest?"
"Occasionally, but they don't admit it in public. It's bad p-r. But
after last night, I guess we could both use a quick nap."
After cleaning the kitchen we lay flat on our backs in bed for a brief
nap. I fell asleep immediately. When I awoke, Martha was sitting on the
edge of the bed, smiling at me.
"Looks like you're beat," she said.
"Martha -- I'm sorry, I guess so."
"That's okay, hon. I can hardly believe you've only been here a
little more than 24 hours."
I sighed drowsily. "Is that all? Seems like a week already. But
you're right...this is only my second night in New York."
"I saw you so sleeping so hard, I let you nap over an hour. What do
you say we skip the movie, go over to Second Avenue and eat out? Ronnie
called, and she'd like to treat you for being so patient with her last
night. Would that be better?"
"Deal," I said, relieved.
I started to rise, but Martha held me down with a hand on my arm. "I
have to tell you something."
"Oh, no. More revelations."
"Yes," she said, and she made her voice very small and paused for a
long time while she played bashfully with my shirt collar, hiding her
eyes from mine. "Stephen...Ronnie is my very best, very close, very only
girlfriend..."
"Go ahead," I said warily. "Go ahead, hit me with it."
"Well...Steven...hon...she knows about us." She felt me tense up and
then go limp. "Not everything," she added quickly, "not...hon, not the
fucking part. I could never quite bring myself to tell her about that,
but I did say that we, you know, fooled around a while back. I didn't
want her to be totaled."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing."
I blinked. "Nothing?"
"No, she didn't say anything at all. I was so surprised. She asked
me again about it, later, and I did tell her that a long time ago you
gave me my first orgasm. She thought it was so sweet that we were good
to each other. I even think she was a little envious. She grew up in
Michigan in much the same way we did. But she had no friends at all,
Steven. No one. She went through three fathers and a screwed-up mother
and two really crappy brothers before she was sent off to a college she
truly hated. She walked out of class one day and never returned, never
went home again. She gave up everything and moved here with a college
boyfriend and lived with him...until he kicked her out because he said
she wasn't good enough for him. She ended up on the street, and got
picked up by a guy in a bar. He asked her to stay with him, and she was
so desperate for a place...He was the guy I told you about, who ended up
being so abusive. She endured it until she finished school and got her
first job. When she answered my ad for a roommate, she'd been sleeping
in the bus station for two days."
I shook my head and winced.
"Plenty of people had it tougher than we did, hon. Many who aren't
as sensitive as Ronnie would've turned cold and mean. But Ronnie still
tries. Like you and I, she knows she doesn't fit. But she can't live in
a shell, either. So don't think she gets loaded and always acts the way
she did last night. She's disorganized and she's searching. But she's
affectionate and understanding. I sometimes think...people like Ronnie,
who've been hit hard and who are so different, are the only people I can
get close to. She tries so hard to please. And like you, she can be
very hard on herself when it doesn't work. And she has fits of despair.
But she's really very nice. Now, please -- don't mention any of this.
I'm sure she'll know that I would have told you something about her, but
don't get into this with her. She gets very depressed about it. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Are you sorry you came here and got mixed up in all this? I know
so much is hitting you at once -- "
"No. No, I like it."
"You *what* ?"
I said earnestly, "I mean...I mean it's life, it's real. I can
understand it. It's not a Tupperware party. It's not I Love Lucy or
shopping at the A&P. It's like the things I really think about and feel,
but never talk about. I mean--" I sighed in exasperation, searching
for better words.
She ruffled my hair. "I got the idea." She smiled with admiration
and surprise. "I don't think you'll have too much trouble getting the
hang of things around here."
"Ronnie's no problem," I said, trying to stand. I ached everywhere
and needed to stretch. And I was starving. "It's Fiore that's gonna
kill me!"
Again, with ruthless practicality and adherence to method, Martha
forced a spoonful of bitter yeast down my throat. A cup of berry
tea and a shower later, I was awake enough to force my sore muscles to
carry me down the stairs and onto the sidewalk.
"C'mon," she said ahead of me.
"All right, all right. Let me wake up. Always in a hurry."
We met Ronnie a few blocks away on Second Avenue. She blushed when
she saw me, but she gave me her catchy, sweet, girlish smile that made
her dark blue eyes light up playfully.
"Remember me?" she joked, extending her hand. Blushing as well, I
accepted her handshake. Like her face, her hand was small and delicate.
She had long, slender, very warm fingers. Without her spiked heels she
was Martha's height, and she looked slimmer in a simple skirt than she
did in her business suit.
Ronnie took us to a crowded neighborhood diner where she and Martha
stormily debated the use and purposes of psychology. Ronnie didn't agree
with any of it. "Science is the bane of life," she groaned, slicing away
at a pork chop. "Putting people's feelings on charts and graphs!"
"It has its uses," Martha insisted.
"So does cyanide," Ronnie said.
"And like anything else," Martha went on hotly, "it can be used or
MIS-used, Ronnie. I don't agree with the way it's used. It's used to
plot norms, and the norms are considered not only normal and desirable,
but required for everyone. And, you're right, that's the part that's
sheer nonsense."
"Careful, Martha, you're on the verge of agreeing with me." Ronnie
grinned insolently and popped a chunk of meat into her mouth.
Eventually they exhausted themselves and changed the subject, moving
on to the latest ladies' fashions. I sat beside Martha and opposite
Ronnie, saying nothing. I listened, my elbow on the table and my chin
propped in my hand, eyeing them with an amused smile as their new conver-
sation progressed from frolicsome chatting to sarcastic debate.
"Ronnie," Martha argued, "that's what I don't understand about your
business. What right has some cafe society designer to decide what I
will or won't be able to buy in a store next year? He knows nothing
about me!"
"Oh, Martha it doesn't work that way!"
"Yes, it does! That's exactly how it works!"
"So boycott Bloomingdale's. All I do is design what I'm told, don't
point fingers at *me*."
"What you just said," Martha emphasized slowly, "is exactly what I
mean. The business is structured for the very few who tell everyone else
how to fall into line. Your own creativity and my freedom of choice
never enter the picture. Because marketers know that most people are
sheep. Madison Avenue denies people information that lets them decide
for themselves."
Ronnie winked at me, unwhithered by Martha's polemic. "Steven, isn't
this fun? Have you learned anything from this conversation?"
I shrugged and ventured, "Eat dinner with the boys, and don't wear
ladies' clothes?"
"Great, toots. Martha, I *knew* Steven was a cool guy. Steven, are
we boring you with this?"
I answered, "Actually, yes."
"Ha!" Ronnie yelped. "Good answer! Come on, let's stop all this
philosphical garbage and talk about something totally mindless. Steven,
has this friend of mine taught you anything about New York that you
couldn't have learned in Memphis?"
I told Ronnie about learning to wash my face. Her eyes narrowed with
serious interest in what I was saying. She wanted more information.
"Martha," she said, "why didn't you ever tell me about this trick
with washing the face? All this time, and you never told me."
Martha threw up her hands, "Oh, you're just avoiding my point! Just
for that, I'm going to the restroom. Please don't make Steven cry while
I'm gone."
"Okay, hon, okay," Ronnie said absently, returning to me. "Steven, I
meet Martha, next thing you know I'm calling her 'hon'. Can you believe
it? But tell me...what's this about washing? Seriously. See, I have
this blemish right here under my ear, and I have these pores, see? Over
here...?"
Minutes later, Martha returned from the restroom and found us en-
grossed in a serious exchange.
"I can't believe," Martha said sarcastically, "that you two are
talking about cosmetics!"
"You know, Martha, this guy's fascinating. I never saw anybody go
into things so thoroughly. You do everything that way, Steven?"
The talk went from skin care to the relation between mind and body
and how an individual's acceptance of their faults affects their will-
ingness to either change the situation or simply resign to it and remain
a victim.
Soon Martha was yawning again.
"You already worn out?" Ronnie grumbled. "Just when it was gettin'
good!"
"It's been a rough two days," Martha said. "We're calling it a
night soon."
"Steven," Ronnie said, cupping her hand around her mouth in a mock
whisper, "Martha always does this when she's losing an argument with me."
We left the diner. Ronnie strolled with us along First Avenue. On
the way, we passed a pet store. The store was closed for the day, but we
stopped to look at the giant green and white parrots and the toucans in
the darkened window.
"Fascinating," I murmured, my mouth so close to the window that my
breath left a small circle of fog on the glass. "What huge birds. I
never saw anything like this back home."
"It's depressing, though," Martha said sadly. "The ones who aren't
in cages have their wings clipped. What a mean thing to do to such
gorgeous creatures. C'mon, Steven. Ronnie. Please. I can't stand
seeing this."
Back in our building, Ronnie stopped at her apartment to thank us.
"Steven, what a nice evening. Does this make up for my stupidity of last
night?"
I pretended ignorance. "What stupidity?"
"You're sweet," Ronnie said, loading the comment with overplayed
mushiness. She kissed me quickly on the cheek. "Mm. You Rhett Butlers
are all alike."
After Ronnie said goodnight and closed her door, I turned to see
Martha smiling at me. "One more chore. Let's cap off the night with
one more New York experience. Come on."
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 10D
-30-
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