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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 1A"( bf mF mF+ )[1/52]
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The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. Caveat lector; you read at your own
risk.
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well.
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 1A:
The story herein is told as best as I can recall it. It occurred
during 1948-49-50. There are continued incidents that occurred 1952-58.
Over the years I have relived these events countless times, carefully
reconstructing in my mind many forgotten details and conversations -- at
one point undergoing hypnosis to recall details or events that lay buried
under a lifetime of other thoughts and concerns.
What follows is presented as clearly as I can remember...
During this first period, 1948 to 1950, I ranged in age from 6 to
almost 9. This doesn't make me an "old man" -- fortunately, a youthful
look runs in my family (though we tend to lose our teeth early, for some
damn reason). I look 35. I am 5'8" and appear slightly taller because I
am muscular but slim. When I was age 8 to 13 I actually looked older and
was often mistaken for 12 to 18. Luckily, that trend later reversed
itself.
Over the years I've discussed these incidents with professionals
(i.e., headshrinkers and other counselors), most of whom were scandalized
by my tale. In discussing it, and in going back over childhood memories
with parents and relatives, I managed to gather a number of facts about
me as a boy:
I was mentally and sexually precocious. Not that I was a young
Einstein or a certifiable "prodigy", but I was quite bright and mentally
overactive. From the time I was able to crawl along the floor I was
poking my nose into everything. In this regard I was difficult to
manage; my mother couldn't keep pace with my endless questions and habits
like peeking under everything in sight. When entering a new room or
building the first thing I did was wonder what was in the closets. I
used to look under the sofa and the chair cushions just to see what was
there (I found lots of pennies doing this, and a wedding ring lost by a
visiting aunt). I also loved listening to the 78rpm records on Mom's
then-new Philco tabletop radio-phonograph. The Philco was on several
occasions a source of wonderment to my Mom and relatives -- whenever they
brought me a child's record, I would set it aside untouched and start
playing a symphony (Dvorak's Eighth was my favorite) or the Peggy Lee
album, and I listened to Tex Ritter platters until I wore them gray and
had to ask for replacements. I knew more about the Philco than Mom did,
once producing for her a crayon drawing of how the old vacuum tube
"tuning eye" worked. My hearing was sharply developed: I could tell when
the steel-tipped phono needle was beginning to wear before anyone else
could hear the difference and I knew how to change the needle
myself -- something my mother was never able to figure out.
Before I started grammar school I would read the morning paper to Mom
while she fixed breakfast. This was something I picked up from my
godfather, who every Sunday read the comics to me, pointing at each word
as he read. An Italian immigrant who never finished grammar school, he
was a slow reader who always read that way, his index finger leading him
along word by word across a page. The first time he read to me I was
curious about how the printed letters corresponded to what he said aloud,
so each time he went through the comics with me I made him break down the
words he pointed to, and soon I had him breaking down the syllables in
the words until I learned to put words together on my own. The first
words I learned to recognize by myself was the phrase, "You betchum, Red
Ryder!," a phrase I used until everyone around me grew sick of it. My
great-aunt Frances once caught me in her back yard trying to lift a heavy
old castiron Underwood typewriter that someone had abandoned. I was
barely six then, and the ancient 1920's-vintage machine was almost as
heavy as I was. She wanted me to throw it away, but I insisted on
keeping it and cradled it heavily on my lap the day I found it as she
drove me back to my Mom's and stared at me, amazed that anyone would want
such a piece of junk. But the old machine's feel and construction
fascinated me, and did so for years. Quickly and easily bored, I drew my
own comic books (mostly stick-men and outer space battles), once filled
the apartment with acrid smoke and ruined a pot trying to manufacture my
own crayons -- the odor made Mom sick for days, and it took weeks for the
stench of paraffin to fade. These and other feats of my daring and
heedless youth caused most of my stodgy family to consider me a holy
terror. They labeled my behavior as weird and inscrutable.
Most of these activities were the result of prolonged self isolation
and boredom. I was as impatient with adults as they were with me. They
addressed me as if either they or I were idiots, mumbling among them-
selves as if they didn't think I understood what they were talking about
(some of them knew that I knew, so they would mumble in Italian -- which
of course I didn't understand and which infuriated me!). They usually
answered my questions with religious myth, fantasy, or old wives' tales
--
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