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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 11B"( bf mF mF+ )[40/52]
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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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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 11B:
At ten o'clock Fiore, looking me over with his hands on his hips,
grinned at me from his big red face. "So! Still with smoke on your
breath, heh? You're lucky you have only light work today! Every other
day, we do the heavy work! Today you stretch like a rubber band! I will
show you! Now -- onto the table!"
Once again, Fiore flipped and kneaded me on the massage table,
showing me how to detect which muscles and tendons were too tight and
required work. Then he showed me the stretching movements that the
dancers in his gym performed. I strained and grunted through all of
them. Then: "On the bicycle! Do it 'til you fall off!"
"This is light work?" I remarked, climbing onto the exercise bike. I
started pedaling.
"No!" Fiore exclaimed. "You destroy your knees moving that way!
Remember what I told you! Start again!"
By eleven o'clock, huffing and puffing, I was tired but definitely
awake. I took Fiore's advice and stopped in a shop on Madison Avenue to
buy a pair of first class workout shoes, then walked downtown to 32nd
Street to meet Ronnie in the building where she worked.
She appeared at exactly noon, hurrying across the expansive lobby of
the building, wearing a gray business suit. She carried a wide cardboard
artist's portfolio. Ronnie had a youngish face whose slightly squared
jaws and narrow nose might have been considered a liability were it not
for her overall soft, pretty, youngish quality and her large, dark eyes.
Not one to smile constantly, her normal expression was a serious, re-
flective, older one, with a hint in her eyes of some unspoken sadness.
When she did smile it was a crinkly, playful, contagious one that bright-
ened her whole face. I smiled at her as she approached, aware that her
winning grin and friendly blue eyes were beginning to affect me warmly.
She greeted me with a lilting "hello-ooo" and a flitter of her raised
fingers.
She asked, "Did Fiore leave anything for the rest of us?"
"I'll be okay, as long as I can sit at lunch."
"No problem," she said, chuckling. "No extra charge for chairs at
this place."
We walked quickly along the crowded street toward a restaurant on
35th Street. She asked about my workouts with Fiore. I described
the special movements Fiore taught me and the diet he assigned.
"Uk," she said, making a face, "brewer's yeast. Yeah, he made me
take that stuff once. Three tablespoons a day, right?"
"Me too."
She eyed me playfully. "You don't cheat, do you?"
"Nope."
"Jeez, what dedication. I had to lay off that stuff. It made me so
healthy I stayed horny all the time. Couldn't stand it."
We sat at a small table near the window of the second floor of the
restaurant she took me to. There was no lack of material to talk about.
We shared many interests. I found Ronnie to be quite cheerful, despite
her occasionally self-disparaging remarks.
"I can't believe," she said, salting her food, "that you worked for
two years day and night to come up here. You must be very determined,
Steven." She was interested in every detail of what it took to keep a
paper route, a subject I considered tedious, but she wanted to know about
it anyway. Then she asked about growing up in the Lauderdale Courts.
"You know," she said, "Elvis Presley grew up there, too." I told her I'd
seen Elvis in the neighborhood and that he still visited my stepdad's
supermarket now and then, accompanied by a string of pink Cadillacs.
She winced. "Oh, the Cadillacs! Almost as bad as his movies, and
some of his stuff is just too teeny. But I love it when he gets into the
old rhythm and blues stuff." Pouring cream in her second cup of coffee,
she sang lightly, "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog...," and concluded
with a droll, "Am I awful, or what? Wanna see me wiggle?"
Out on the sidewalk, she asked me to hold still and put my glasses
on. I balked, but she insisted, "Oh, come on, let's see what we have to
work with. We'll still be friends."
I donned my glasses and let her have a look at me. She gazed at me,
studying. I began thinking she was actually quite cute, with a casual,
girlish charm and an easy acceptance of me as I was -- a far cry from my
carping relatives.
"Yeah," she conceded, "Martha's right. New frames will make a b-i-g
difference. Come on, we're going to a place that not many people know
about."
On the way, she asked me about my theater work. She was awed that I
had gone onto the stage before I was a teen. Teasing, she wanted me to
perform a bit from one of my former roles. By the time we arrived at the
frame vendor's place on the fourth floor of a building near Macy's, I
felt easy and comfortable with Ronnie. I didn't wonder that she was a
close friend of Martha's. And she was the first young woman I knew other
than Martha who expressed a serious interest in and knowledge of the arts
I'd left behind for my paper route.
In the frame shop I tried several designs, with Ronnie giving her
impressions of each. "Really," she said, "I like every one you picked
out. But you tell me which one you like best." I put on my favorite
and she looked me over carefully, and then nudged her lips approvingly.
"Right. They're drop-dead gorgeous, Steven. You look seriously like a
New Yorker."
The frames cost sixty bucks -- a pretty sum in those days, consider-
ing that my originals cost a mere twenty. The salesman behind the count-
er told me I could have my lenses mounted on the premises for five bucks
if I would wait an hour. I agreed. Ronnie and I sat in a corner and
chatted until she was due to return to work.
"You get involved in so many fascinating things," she said, sitting
beside me and looking pensively down at the floor. She had a slim figure
and a slinky, easy manner of sitting and moving. "I'd give anything to
have your brains and endurance. I just slug along. Don't even know
where I'm going yet. Feel like I'm twenty-two going on sixty."
"You've got a start in the design business, though. Back in Memphis,
women don't even know such jobs exist."
"Yeah, Martha told me about Memphis. Minimum wage capital of the
world, right? God, Mom, and apple pie?"
I nodded. "Red necks, white socks, and Blue Ribbon beer. Memphis
would be waste of your talent -- and your personality."
"Awww. Shucks. But those Southern accents are so cute. They never
get it right in the movies. Yours is faint, but just right. Martha's is
almost gone."
I leaned toward her, and she leaned closer to hear me. "Tell me," I
asked furtively, "all the salesmen in this place...why are they wearing
those little black caps?"
"Those what?" she asked, leaning closer.
"Those little black caps."
She widened her eyes and covered her mouth with her hands, grinning
broadly behind them. "Those little black...?" she began, then she bent
over with laughter as I sat and watched, confused. She straightened up,
and took another minute to calm down. "Oh, that's precious! I have to
tell Martha about this!"
The little black hat, she whispered, was a yarmulke; the salesmen
there were hassidic Jews. I blushed, feeling like a complete country
idiot again. She chuckled over it until she left for work. "You're such
fun, Steven. I can't wait for us to get together Wednesday." She gave
me another of her innocent pecks as she left.
Soon my frames were ready. I put them on, bought a new hard case for
them, and headed for the street. The new frames felt better. The city
looked better. I had made a friend of Ronnie. I wasn't wearing those
loathsome hornrimmed gadgets. Instead of taking a bus to Martha's, I
stuffed my old tennies in my shopping bag and laced on my new workout
shoes. I broke into a jog up busy Third Avenue. As I huffed along in
the breeze, I was surprised that no one on the street took notice. I
could like New York, I thought; I didn't seem so uneasy about myself in
New York.
I streaked up the stairs to Martha's apartment and looked at myself
and my new frames in the mirror. Not bad. The frames were very thin,
almost invisible. In the kitchen I swallowed my midday ration of yo-
gurt, pills, and yeast. I took an extra dab of yeast. Settling onto the
sofa with my New York Times, I awaited Martha.
She returned late, around five-forty-five, looking cheerless and
enervated in the brown two-piece suit in which she had been so fresh and
pretty a few hours before. I opened the door for her and grinned, wear-
ing my new frames. Unsmiling, she entered sluggishly and plopped her
purse onto the dining table.
I stood behind her, waiting, my new frames sitting squarely on my
face in broad daylight. "Whaddya think?" I asked the back of her bobbed
head.
She turned around and looked directly into my eyes, and leaned close
to me, and then put her hands on my shoulder and, gazing intently at my
mouth, pushed me backward against the wall and pressed full length
against me. She held my face in her hands. "What do I think of what?"
she asked distractedly, her lips coming closer to mine, her eyelids
hooded sensually.
"The frames," I said.
Ignoring the frames, she raised one hand and gently touched my lips.
She murmured throatily, softly, "Outstanding."
"You didn't look," I said.
"Yes I did, they're gorgeous. Steven, I hate the New York City edu-
cation establishment. I hate the politics, the shortsightedness. But I
love your mouth. I've been thinking about your mouth all day." Still
pressing against me and watching my mouth, she unbuttoned her suit jacket.
I had not expected her to be so direct, willing, and ready after a
day of work. I cleared my throat. "I learned what a yarmulke was."
"You did? You gonna start wearing one?" She slipped the jacket off
her shoulders and let it slither to the floor without looking.
"And had a nice talk with Ronnie."
Gently she wedged one leg between my thighs. "Fiore didn't wear you
out, did he?"
"No, it was okay."
Her voice was soft, sultry, whispery. "Steven, I demand that we fuck
immediately."
"Right here? Now? Standing up?"
"Hmm...I didn't think of that. Can we do it standing up?"
"I guess. Horses do, don't they?"
"Not face to face."
"Well, they're horses, what do they know? I bet we could. We've
both been very resourceful so far."
"Resourceful, yes. Not necessarily lucky."
I looked at her face and she looked at my mouth and I gathered the
hem of her skirt and ran my hand up her leg. "Careful, hon, don't tear
my hose. They're so expensive." She gave a low, small sigh as I cupped
my hand between her legs over the hose and panties. She was warm and
humid.
"Here," she whispered, "I'll pull them off. You get your pants off."
"Lucky? Why did you say 'Not necessarily lucky'?"
I heard things snapping under her skirt, and her shoulders jerked as
her hands moved under her suit. She stayed against me, looking into my
eyes and at my mouth, her lips nearly on mine.
"I think, " she whispered as she worked, "that the parts have to fit
in a particular way, you know, for fucking to be conducted between stand-
ing humans."
"But we're the higher species, we differ from lower animals in our
ability to stand upright."
"I think we stood up to hunt, Steven, not to fuck -- No, don't do
that."
"...Just reaching for the table lamp, so we can --"
"No. No seeing. Just hearing. Feeling. There's just enough light
from the window. I like to fuck in the dark."
"How wicked. You realize, you're seducing me."
"I thought standing was your idea."
"I was naive and innocent. I didn't know it would lead to this."
She gulped when I raised her skirt and my cock grazed her bared cunt.
"Look, you're already wet. I got you wet, didn't I? Hm, this is
getting you hot. Isn't it? And you thought it was a silly idea. You
fraud, you're as wicked as I am."
"You're one to talk, look how hard you got. Come on, get in me...
in me, hon...a little more...a little -- oh, darn, I don't believe this."
"Don't spread your legs so wide, you get lower to the floor and I
can't reach you."
"Let me lean against the wall. Then I can open my legs a little...
try again, hon...easy...lower...Mmm. There."
"Your cunt's so hot"
"Slow, hon...This is too outrageous not to let it last...Oh, yes
...nnn, deeper...Feel okay?"
"It's very strange, our clothes on and the only place we can...mmf
...feel each other is where we're fucking."
"Yes, but...mm!...you can't go very deep."
"I know. No wonder horses do it the other way."
"Yeah? The mare gets down on all fours? Right?"
"Be interesting to see what they get out of it."
"I understand...ah, mm...I understand it feels very good that way."
"Yeah? How do you know?"
"Ahhh...Ronnie."
"Ronnie likes it that way?"
"No, hon, Ronnie and I discussed it."
"I see, the two wicked witches of East 87th Street."
"Okay, let's...let's try it horsie style. Come out, hon...oh, mmm,
it's always so sad when he leaves me."
"He'll be back."
"You stay right there, little horsie. Oh, my, I got him all wet,
didn't I? Here, I'm supposed to get on my hands and knees, right? This
way...? Come on, you kneel behind me. Push my skirt up, hon. Okay,
okay wait... Steven, where'd you go? Feel my hand back there? Huh?
Where are you? Here, horsie. Here, horsie!"
"Wait, wait...Here, let me get up against you."
"Yeah, there he is...move closer....closer, hon."
"I think you have to raise your tail a little, miss filly."
"That okay? Hm? Oh! Oh, mmmm."
"Hmmmm."
"Oh that's feels so good! So depraved. Oh, hon, are you sure this
is legal?"
"Ah...I won't tell if you won't. Mm, you're so tight and wet this
way..."
"Baby...Mmp!...Why didn't we do this before?"
"We were too busy...doing other things. Oh, it's good. I'm out of
breath already."
"All I can see under me is your balls bouncing. Oh, how sweet. How
perfectly, beautifully obscene, your balls bouncing. Go all the way in
and hold it, all the way in...ahhhh, hold it, Steven. Oh, it's so...your
balls against me, so nice. I can just barely touch them, if I can reach
back far enough..."
"Martha...no, don't do that..."
"You don't want me to squeeze 'em? Does that feel good, if I
squeeze, just a little? They feel so heavenly in my hands. I can't
feel them like this when we fuck the other way."
"Martha, don't squeeze..."
"Just a little? They're so fragile and warm and hairy."
"Oh, fuck."
"What are you -- are you cumming? Oh...oh that's so funny, you're
cumming, I can feet your squirt muscles."
"...mmmmm..."
"Let it cum, hon. Is it better if I move on you a little?"
"MMM!"
"Hmm, feels good when I move, huh?...Does it?...uh!..uh!, oh, you
animal...uh!...mmmm...Steven, I like this..."
"Whew! Okay. Okay. Okay, stop. Stop."
"Oh my, what a short-lived experiment. Look at you, you look like
you're ready to fall on your face. Haha, oh, that's so funny, I never
saw you cum so fast. Instant hot Steven! You poor thing, we'll have to
take this a little slower next time. Did you like it?"
"Oh, yes, *ma'am*, yes...Very. Whew!"
"Wanna do it again?"
"Huh? Let me sit down. What?"
"Wanna do it again?"
"Whew! Okay. Right. Five minutes. No, ten."
"No, silly, after the show tonight. Oh, I have to wash up! I'm
dripping. What a lot of cum! Here, you just have a quick nap right here
on the floor and I'll hurry into the bathroom, and after you rest a
minute you can fix us a quick sandwich or something, 'cause we won't have
time to eat out. You can make me cum when we get back, okay?"
"Whew! What? I can't hear you when you're running water in the
bathroom!"
"I thought cummin' too much made you blind, not deaf. I said, you
can make me cum when we get back. Maybe we can even horsie fuck."
"It's doggie style, isn't it?...Whew!...Not horsie fuck."
"It's eff-yew-see-kay, hon -- horsie, doggie, froggie, whatever.
Let's do it so I can watch in the mirror. Wouldn't that be delicious?"
"Right...Whew!...Cumma ti yi yippee yippee yay..."
After watching "West Side Story" we returned directly to Martha's.
As soon as we entered the room she had me lick her to orgasm on the sofa
with her clothes on. She came right away. But that was hardly enough to
satisfy her. We undressed and went into the bedroom, where she closed
the bedroom door so the mirror on the door faced the bed while we
copulated doggie style.
She thought watching the mirror to be exciting for a while, but she
soon found it artificial and distracting and preferred looking in my eyes
and talking in the dark with me on top. My back was feeling the effects
of the last few days with Martha and Fiore and the rest of New York. I
turned over and she got on top, a position we seldom used. I directed
her hips, reading her carefully to make certain she held back long enough
to build what I hoped would be a thoroughly exhausting climax. When she
started humping and grinding on her own, I withdrew my hips and avoided
contacting her clit until I could get her going all over again. Finally,
when she was so agitated that she seemed incoherent, I humped steadily
under her until she came in a long, gasping, whimpering finish.
She gulped and floundered on me, swallowing and sweating and catching
her breath with tiny yelps. She lay her cheek on my chest just under my
neck and breathed heavily for a while. Soon, still slightly breathless,
she raised up on her arms.
"Whew! You think you're pretty smart, don't you?...Whew...Holding me
back like that and...driving me crazy."
"You didn't like it?"
"Whew!...Of course I liked it!" She rose on me and looked down into
my face. "You didn't cum yet, did you?"
I shook my head no.
"Want to?"
"Yes."
"Now? Hmm? You wanna cum now?""
I lay still, strongly suspecting something was up.
"Well..." I stumbled.
She grinned devilishly. "So, you wanna cum now, huh??"
"Perhaps I made a slip in judgement..."
"Yeah?"
"...and drew things out a little."
"Yeah? A little?" She began moving on me, ever so slightly, most
of it internal and secret. She smiled greedily. "Think you might have
miscalculated?"
"I may have, uh, yes, miscalculated. 'S possible."
"Uh-huh." Knowing I was already hard as a rock, she made a tiny
motion inside her somewhere that deftly squeezed the entire length of my
sensitized and swollen knob.
I jerked. "Oh!"
"Hit the spot, huh?"
"God, I think so."
"Oh, I'm so glad I found it." She did it again and grinned trium-
phantly when I jerked once more. "Think you're gonna cum? Hm?"
"Well..."
"Think so?" She raised on her elbows again, looking down to watch my
wet, distended shaft. She lifted until the snug ring of her opening
barely encircled the ridge of my tip, and held there. "Not yet..."
I whimpered and gasped. Suspended over me, she started squeezing
my tip rhythmically. I moaned and tensed.
"Not ye-e-et," she sang, her face near mine. She pulsed slowly and
methodically as she settled onto me, an inch at a time, pausing for
several squeezes before lowering another inch. After a long minute of
this routine she breathed a deep, wobbly sigh and imbedded me in her to
my root, her pubic fuzz tickling my tummy as she settled and then circled
her hips. She contracted, watched my face, and contracted again. my
cock leapt yearningly inside her.
"Don't cum," she whispered. Then she began moving, watching my face
and smiling as she rose and fell slowly, taking about two seconds to rise
and two seconds to fall. "Don't cum," she said again, "It feels too good
right now."
She worked on me in exactly that way for about ten minutes, never
changing her pace or the depth of her stroke. Or maybe it was five
minutes. Or maybe it was half an hour. Or maybe I have no idea how long
it went on. "Not yet," she chanted cloyingly as she continuously ca-
ressed my face with one tender finger. Now and then she urged her cunt a
little lower as she engulfed me, knowing that I now could feel her cervix
at my tip, her smile widening each time I tensed and gasped at the
sensation.
Finally, when she saw that my entire body had gone rigid as a lamp-
post, she began kissing me softly on my eyes, face, and neck.
"Ready?" she taunted.
"...Yes," I groaned, sounding as if I were someone speaking on the
other side of the room. Was this my voice? My legs stretched so tautly
that I imagined they approached the far wall beyond my feet.
"Your balls nice and tight?"
"...Yes..."
She continued, her hands cradling my face, her lips bare centimeters
from mine.
"It'll feel so good, Steven...it'll feel so good."
I trembled. Her words and movements had me in a strange, new,
unimaginably erotic galaxy. I knew I had some cum left down there,
somewhere. Where was it? I searched frantically for the elusive source
of the orgasm I desperately needed lest I lose all control and start
making absurd cries and noises. I feared everyone in the building would
hear me if I didn't cum soon. But her crooning and her writhing, slid-
ing cunt obliterated everything except wildly panting, arching, trembling
sensation. I stiffened and arched and thought damn she's so good at this
and I quivered and I...
Squirted. Once. Twice. Hot. Strong.
"Yes," she whispered.
Martha, I thought. And I squirted. And squirted.
"Yes," she whispered again. "Yes..."
I whimpered, floating out of the dark place of pure pleasure like
flotsam rising to the top and bobbing on the surface.
I felt her face grinning with her cheek against mine and heard her
chuckle near my ear. "There," she crooned, "There, baby." Her hips
slowed and stopped. She held me securely inside her and stroked my face.
I blinked and opened my eyes. She wore an amused, self-satisfied little
smile.
She whispered, "Gotcha."
"Whew!" I had a mustache of salty sweat above my lip. I removed it
with a finger.
"Didja like that?"
I pushed my hair out of my face and shrugged, nudging my lip forward
nonchalantly while gasping for air. "It was, you know...okay."
"It was the best, wasn't it?"
I looked into her eyes, seriously. "Yes, it was. You fucked
my brains out."
"Have any cum left?" She kept eyeing me, but her mind was on her
inner muscles, which closed on me once or twice.
"Not only do I not have any more cum, I don't have toenails anymore."
"C'mon, after a cum like that I want to hear you say something deli-
ously dirty to me in gratitude."
"Hmm."
"C'mon." She squeezed.
I looked at her. Her eyes studied mine mischievously. I stroked
her hair. "Go ahead," I whispered. "Milk me with your cunt. Get all of
it."
"Yeah..."
"Every drop."
"Yes..."
"There," I grunted, blinking. "You got some."
"I Did"
"Yes."
"Any more?"
"I don't think so."
"Sure?"
I nodded.
Her lips glistened. Her eyes smouldered. "God, I love this with you."
I looked up at her. I placed a palm warmly against her cheek.
She lowered her head and gently chewed my ear and slithered her wet
labia and her firm clit against my tummy and whispered wickedly, "Maybe
there's just a tiny, teeny, little bit more? Hm?..."
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 11B
-30-
--
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