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Subject: {ASS} RP Part 01-03 of "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" by S.J.R.
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Date: 24 Mar 1997 13:07:38 GMT
--------
**** 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.
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
-- none of which I accepted, especially quaint tripe about storks deli-
vering babies and women getting big bellies from eating too many
popsicles. I soon learned that adults -- especially my overly religious
mother -- could not be trusted. I became emotionally and intellectually
estranged from them at a very early age, probably around age four.
Rather than ask questions, I did my own investigating. This often got me
into trouble: I once jammed my arm into the ancient Westinghouse laundry
machine Mom had in the kitchen corner, the kind with a mechanized
feed-by-hand rinser-wringer attached to the top of the washtub. The
thick rubber rollers on this machine happened to be engaged at the time,
and the rollers pulled one of my arms through the wringer, threatening to
squeeze the rest of me along with it. My mother heard me yelling, ran
into the kitchen, smacked the roller release lever, and rescued me.
Unfortunately I learned absolutely nothing from this incident. I
kept right on distrusting the advice of any and all elders and continued
to snoop, probe, and experiment. My active spirits were so unpredictable
that my mother arranged for rest on weekends by sending me out of the
house to spend time with my grandparents and godparents. I gave this
Puritanical crowd the same case of the heebie-jeebies, so they placated
me with plenty of money for movies, comic books, magazines, and whatever
else would keep me occupied in a corner or otherwise out of their hair.
I was not mean-spirited or destructive. In fact, I considered other
children to be insensitive, dense, selfish, often brutal. My feelings
were easily hurt by name-calling and arm-punching. I had a nauseating
fear of violence, whether directed at me or at anyone else. Yet
physically I was fairly muscular and aggressive, tending to spend my time
in risky games such as purposely dashing back and forth across Lauderdale
Street, the 6-lane, heavily trafficked main boulevard that ran through
our project, and early on conducted my own far-flung explorations of the
nearby downtown area without the slightest idea how I would find my way
back home. I once wandered around the downtown Memphis waterfront until
I truly got lost; I didn't find my way back until 9 o'clock that night
and on returning home I found my Mom had called every relative in sight;
several of them were pacing around our living room talking with some
cops. I casually entered the front door and walked across the room with
a carefree "Hi, folks!" and everyone immediately descended upon me with
yells, threats, moans and tears of consternation. And though I knew this
would be the result if I ever wandered off again, I wandered anyway --
but not without first studying a map of the city and learning all the
routes of the city bus lines -- not so I would not get lost again (I did
on several more occasions), but so I could find my way back in time to
avoid their hysteria.
My neighborhood was a Federal housing project. But It was nothing
like modern projects, so it's difficult to describe. The place was in
downtown Memphis, Tennessee, and was built in the 1930's to house retired
veterans, their widows and children, and government employees needing
housing. World War II made this housing available to war widows and
disabled vets and their families. The rent was $30 a month, which in the
1940's was still a fairly hefty sum for a widow or disabled vet. The
housing staff maintained the area almost antiseptically inside and out.
It consisted mostly of small, single-level housing units with 4 to 6
1-bedroom apartments in each unit. The project extended 6-by-8 city
blocks. Each apartment had its own small backyard, which some tenants
equipped with picket fences and even flower or vegetable gardens.
Housing staff inspected the interiors of each apartment every 30 days to
make certain the tenants kept them maintained. The grounds were webbed
with sidewalks, dotted with trees, shrubs, and benches here and there.
Those who are familiar with the life of Elvis Presley will recognize this
project near downtown Memphis as the same one Elvis lived in during the
early 1950's, at roughly the same time I was there.
In the late 1950's, a few years after my mother and my new stepfather
moved out of the neighborhood to suburbia, the Feds handed the project
over to the state. Housing for military and government people had been
moved into the 'burbs, so the project became tenanted by state welfare
recipients. In the 1960's the project was turned over to the county and
city, at which point it was populated only by the homeless, the chronic-
ally unemployed, and those living strictly on the dole. By that time it
had decayed into a crusty slum and looked not at all like the well kept,
flowered neighborhood I remembered.
My mother was a World War II widow. In many ways this contributed to
my early feelings of isolation from her. I distinctly recall receiving
from her the impression that, since my father's death in combat earning a
Silver Star in the B-17 battles over Europe, I had been a great burden to
her (There was more to this story than his death in the war, but that's
another tale.) Certainly, my Mom being suddenly left alone to raise me
and my younger sister could have had this effect on her. She never
openly voiced any of this, but I clearly remember having received this
"message" from her in many subtle ways. I had a sister almost two years
younger. The two of us in that small apartment were too much for Mom; so
it happened that by the time I was 5 or 6 my sister wasn't around often,
having been taken under the wing of her very large godmother, who allowed
my sister to spend months at a time with her and her husband. My sister
wasn't enamored of life in the project, preferring to be thoroughly
spoiled and pampered by her doting godmother (who did her best to play
the role, usually to excess). Sis, whom we called Miss Priss, would stay
at our apartment for a while, then ask to stay at her godmother's for
prolonged periods, until at the age of 12 or so she practically moved in
with her semi-permanently. This same godmother was also our great-aunt.
I seemed to barely get along with this shrill woman, and our relationship
probably survived due only to the fact that she had a great affection for
her favorite nephew, my departed father. I found the woman too smother-
ing and exacting for comfort.
So I was left most often with Mom, whom I didn't trust. I had the
feeling I was in her way. She was attractive and quiet, but a sad and
moody woman, usually too tired or worried to spend much time with me. I
can't fault her; she married too young, got caught up in the tragedy of
the War, and was simply doing her best to cope. With my sister usually
away and with most of the kids in the project being too roughneck for my
taste, I was left pretty much to myself from a very early age. Very
likely this same attitude caused me to leave home later, at 18, and
strike out on my own.
The single bright spot was the family next door. Another war widow
lived there with her two daughters. This woman and my mother became
close friends, a relationship that continues to this day even though the
lady moved to St. Louis years ago. Her oldest daughter was a tall,
attractive, brunette young woman nearing her twenties at the time and
whom I seldom saw. She possessed a highly valued high school diploma,
enabling her to find work and help the family financially. In the South
in the 1940's women could expect only minimal pay at clerical or similar
jobs. But she earned enough to keep her younger sister in high school.
This younger sister was Martha Jane. My earliest memory of Martha Jane
was when I was 6 years old and she was 15. I had a very serious crush on
her.
I don't mean that as a 6-year old sexpot I had the kind of crush that
centers on sexual fantasy. I don't recall ever sitting around fantasiz-
ing sexually at that age about Martha Jane. I simply had a strong and
memorable affection for her. And she had similar feelings for me -- in
later years my mother would say to me, "Yes, I remember Martha Jane --
she just LOVED you! She thought you were the sweetest, cutest thing on
earth! She was the only one who could make you behave."
It was true. With little instruction or any warning that I can
remember, Martha Jane's presence seemed to soothe my savage beasts. I
would knowingly do nothing -- nothing -- to upset her in any way.
Actions that I knew were upsetting to others were automatically filtered
out of my behavior when I was around her. By the same token, Martha Jane
always approached me as though I were a person rather than an imbecile.
She gave honest, practical, concerned answers to my endless questions and
she had a fondness for stories and science and movies and music similar
to mine. Obviously my insistent questioning and troublesome behavior
were attempts on my part to get attention and establish some sort of
meaning- ful communication with a mental soul mate. Most of my large
family of relatives were half-literate, working- or middle-class folks --
nothing immoral about that, and such is the human stuff that gets work
done and is often referred to as the "salt of the earth." There was no
lack of a certain modicum of family attachment and devotion. But they
and I lacked, shall we say, compatibility and understanding. Martha Jane
apparently fulfilled many of those needs and shared my mental interests,
sometimes sitting for hours telling me stories or reading to me or simply
listening. After spending some time with her I usually felt serene for a
few days. My frequent bouts of instant boredom and hyperactivity were,
for a while, minimal. Martha Jane reciprocated by treating me with
intelligence, playfulness, and a seemingly endless supply of affection.
And she and I simply seemed to establish an instant rapport together.
Adults were boring and stultifying: she never was. She never raised her
voice or hand to me, and she never had reason to.
At 15, she was a sunny faced, fairly short, trim teenager with a very
poised manner and auburn hair that was so light it often appeared
blonde. She often wore black horn-rimmed glasses. Her hair was medium
length and usually frizzy (I called it fuzzy-cute) rather than long and
curled like most women and girls I knew. She had strong eyes that
appeared alternately hazel or bright green, depending on the light and on
her mood. She wore very sparse makeup, and had a soft musical voice
that I found hypnotic. Pugnosed, a little delicate and with a bright
face that hinted of a few tiny freckles, she was the typically pretty,
early 50's teen. She also had a very evident West Tennessee Southern
twang, which her older sister didn't seem to have.
(* P.S.: In later years I became an accomplished astrologer, and
eventually astrology combined with my computer skills. Astrologically
I calculated her birthdate: Martha Jane was a Virgo, born September 9,
1933. I later found out that this birthdate was correct. But I hope I
never again have to do the amount of work required to figure this out!)
Martha Jane didn't spend a great deal of time with me or in my
mother's place. She was an avid student. At that time, poor kids who
wanted to get anywhere in life -- especially to move out of Federal
housing projects -- had to get through high school, or else! It was that
simple. We would usually see each other on our shared front porch if we
happened to be entering or leaving our apartments together. She would
greet me out front and spend a while talking to me there, and we'd go on
our way. It was always a pleasant exchange, though today I remember
little of what was said. I do remember that she would often hug me, kiss
my nose, let me give her a kiss, or in some other way express herself
affectionately and attentively to me. On a few occasions she visited my
mother for an afternoon. They would sit in the small kitchen and chat
over tea or coffee while I played elsewhere in the apartment.
Martha Jane and I did not spend time alone together until late in my
6th year, when my widowed Mom began dating the man who eventually became
my stepfather. This started in late 1948. Mom and my future stepdad
didn't date often, since they saw each other regularly during the week
when she did her grocery shopping at the supermarket on the corner; my
stepdad-to-be was manager/owner of the place, with others in his family.
They dated only every few weeks or so; and as staunch conservative
Catholics, they had a long and leisurely courtship that continued for
years. When she did have a dress-up date, Mom engaged a sitter for me.
Originally my sitter was my maternal grandmother or one of my
mother's younger sisters. But grandma moved to the distant 'burbs and my
two aunts found husbands. My mother could only occasionally afford to
pay a babysitter, and she refused to accept as little as a dollar or two
from my stepdad-to-be (now I know where I got most of that independent
streak of mine! It was her own independence that kept her in the project
for so long. After my father's death she was too embarrassed to accept
help and was determined to make life work on her own. Unfortunately the
right to that streak wasn't looked upon so favorably in my case).
So it turned out that my sitter became Martha Jane, who offered her
services freely. My Mom tried slipping her a bill or two now and then,
but Martha Jane would have none if it. "You don't have to pay me to stay
with him," she'd say. "I love Speedy!"
This brings me to my nickname. Why I found this name so embarras-
sing, even then, is a mystery to me. But I came to be known as "Speedy."
My other nicknames were Mikey (from my godmother) and Butch (from my
great-aunt). Where the name Speedy came from has many myths behind it,
but most people say it had a lot to do with the legendary speed with
which I ran away when caught at something. Martha Jane addressed me by
Speedy and sometimes by my proper name, Steven. Being called Speedy by
most people deeply annoyed me, but I didn't seem to mind when Martha Jane
did it. I have no explanation for making an exception of her when it
came to my otherwise despised nickname. She said she liked both names,
and that was OK by me.
During these infrequent babysit sessions she would usually study.
Sometimes she would do a little cleaning or straightening, purely out of
a desire to help my Mom, and I would always help. I felt "right" with
whatever we did together. I do recall the one time that I upset her
during a babysit session: I was in our small bedroom. There was a black
phone set in the room and I wanted desperately to find out what happened
when I dialed 411. The telephone directory listed it as a free public
information number. So I picked up the phone and dialed 411. An
operator answered.
"Number, please?" said the voice on the other end.
"Oh," I said nonchalantly, "I don't want a number. I just wanna talk
to you."
Martha Jane must have heard this ridiculous conversation, because
right away I heard her cry out, "Speedy? What are you doing in there?"
She rushed into the room and stood in the doorway, stunned and shocked.
"What are you DOING?"
I was so alarmed that I immediately said into the phone, "I'm sorry, I
didn't mean to bother you, Miss," and hung up. Martha Jane quickly came
to me and took the phone away. I told her I had only called 411 and was
talking to the operator. She looked at me blankly, and then couldn't
help but giggling. "You did WHAT?" All I could do was look up at her
(she was not that tall, but she was then taller than I). I took the hem
of her skirt and scrunched up against her; I was really afraid I had
offended her. I kept saying I was sorry. She knelt down to my level and
patiently explained to me about telephone operators and how the poor
overworked gals got so many crank calls. "I'll call up one of my
girlfriends sometime, okay? And you and I can talk to her together and
you'll see what it's like." I said it would be fine, and I hugged her
and apologized again and again, and she accepted and hugged me back and
got me ready for bed.
PART 1B:
The fact is, Martha Jane was an upright, well behaved, socially
poised, and even a classy young lady. She seldom displayed anger,
apparently never gossiped or had anything critical to say about anyone.
As far as I can tell, she was just a very conscientious, proper, very
pretty teenaged girl. She did have an active and playful nature but for
the most part she behaved with the kind of politeness so common among
girls whose Southern moms brought them up as "proper" and "sociable".
But obviously Martha Jane had her other side. On rare occasions
during that period when she first was sitting for me, I would now and
then look up and find her staring at me. Not "at" me, I should say, but
"toward" me as though thinking of something very deep and ponderous. Or
now and then she would, indeed, look right into me with a serious and
careful gaze, but she'd say nothing. I would turn away and go back to
what I was doing. I had no idea what she was thinking.
One of these incidents occurred in late 1948, just before or after
Thanksgiving. I was six, Martha Jane was fifteen. She arrived at our
place from next door at about 7 o'clock as my Mom was getting powdered
and done up. I was on the floor of the living room and had spread old
newspapers around to work on the treasured but broken Underwood type-
writer that I had retrieved from the trash only a few weeks earlier.
Martha Jane said hello and hugged me and chatted with my mother. Mom
said, "Just let him play down there and he shouldn't be any trouble."
Martha Jane laughed and said, "Betty, Speedy never gives me any trouble,"
at which Mom grumbled, "Give him time."
Martha Jane stood over me and asked what I was doing. My Mom broke
in and said, "He's making a mess with that old typewriter. I don't see
why he doesn't throw it away, it's nothin' but a...hunk of junk."
Martha Jane bent way down to smile at me on the floor and survey the
spread of springs and spare parts strewn over the newspaper. "Hey," she
asked, "are you taking this apart or putting it together?"
"Both," I said, not looking up from my work. "I'm gonna make it work
again."
"But what'll you to do with it, Speedy, after you get it to work?"
"I'll figure somethin' out," I said arrogantly.
"You certainly have enough parts there for inspiration."
My mother came into the room, screwing on an earring. "Don't you
make a mess and drive Martha Jane crazy. She has to study tonight."
"Oh, Betty," Martha Jane said, "he'll be all right."
My mother continued, "I don't know what he wants that thing for, it
must be twenty years old. His godmother buys him toy trains and toy this
and toy that, and he has to fool around with that and make a mess!"
She left to finish dressing in the bedroom. I sat on my knees,
hunched over, laboriously studying the puzzle before me. I was so deeply
absorbed that I was startled to hear someone breathing behind me. I
looked up at saw Martha Jane staring at me. I turned so quickly that she
barely had time to change the studied expression with which she had
apparently been watching me.
Quickly, she smiled and gave me a big wink. She mouthed the words,
"It's okay."
My Mom left a few minutes later. Martha Jane settled down to a pile
of books on the sofa and studied silently while I knelt on the floor
struggling with my project. Using pliers and a screwdriver, I managed to
straighten most its typeset arms, but some of them were still getting
stuck on certain letters. I worked on it until I became frustrated and
threw the pliers on the floor and pouted.
"What's wrong?" Martha Jane asked, and she came to sit on the floor
beside me.
I showed her how the keys for certain letters were still bent out of
shape and that if I bent one properly, the keys next to it became misa-
ligned. Martha Jane said, "Speedy, why don't you take it to a repair
shop?"
"It's too old," I said. "Nobody wants to fool with it."
"Tell you what, maybe your Aunt Frances would buy you a new one."
"She won't," I said.
"But she gets you everything you want."
"No!" I said, angrily. "She told me I'm too young to have a
typewriter."
"Too young?" she said, surprised. "You probably know more about
typewriters than she ever will, hon."
"Besides," I added, holding the black albatross by the ends of its
heavy roller platen, "it's mine! I found it."
"And nobody wants it but you," she pondered. She hunched down beside
me and surveyed the damage. "Maybe I can help."
I sighed, "It's no use. It's just too old and banged up."
"Well, Speedy, let's be patient and see what we can do. I'm sure you
can figure it out. Show me what's wrong with it."
I was reluctant and pessimistic at first, but Martha Jane put on her
hornrimmed glasses and made me show her what the problem was. She
studied everything closely and showed me how to set up the keys so that
the problem was always repeated exactly the same way every time. She
told me how to work on one part at a time and not try to fix everything
at once. Finally we had the machine in one piece again and I showed her
how straightening one key would throw several others out of whack.
Martha Jane sat back and scratched her head. I stood up beside her.
"Martha Jane," I said, "you don't have to do this. You have to study."
She said, "No...now you've got me as puzzled about this as you are."
Suddenly she snapped her fingers and ran into the kitchen. She came
back with some popsicle sticks. We kept popsicle sticks around for
making our own cheap popsicles out of soda poured into ice trays. She
showed me how to hold the line of keys in place with parts made from
popsicle sticks, and that would let me work on one key at a time and keep
the others in place.
"Hey," I exclaimed, "Neat! That's pretty smart for a girl."
"Hm...boys!" she huffed with a laugh, and she went back to the sofa
and her books.
An hour passed while I worked feverishly. And finally the damn thing
worked! I ran to the chest in the corner for paper and put a sheet into
the roller, and used a piece of popsicle stick to replace a missing part
that kept the wrinkled old ink ribbon aligned. Then I typed and typed
and watched amazed as the page filled with perfectly straight rows of
letters for the first time. I was so pleased, I filled the page from top
to bottom with letters that soon were words instead of random
characters. I watched as my thoughts magically unfolded in printed
sentences before my eyes. I typed until there was no more room on the
page, then I ripped it from the roller and ran to Martha Jane, who was
startled by my sudden leap onto the sofa next to her.
"Look!" I said, shoving the paper under her face.
"Well," she said, impressed. "That's very nice. See? I knew you
could do it."
Embarrassed, I said, "Look at the last line."
Along the last line I had typed "Thank You Martha Jane Thank You
Martha Jane" across the page.
"Oh, that's sweet!" she exclaimed. She gave me a hug. "Can I keep
this?"
"Sure."
"Is it all right? It's yours, you made it all by yourself. You sure
you don't want to keep it so you can show your Mama what you did?"
"She don't care."
"Now why would say something like that about your Mama?"
I shook my head. "She don't care. I didn't make it for me, I made
it for you. You helped me make it work."
"But, hon, your Mama cares about what you do."
I shook my head no.
"She does!" Martha Jane insisted.
I shook my head again. "She tells me kid stuff like...she says
babies come from storks, and the storks deliver the babies in diapers
hangin' from their beaks. She's always tellin' me stuff like that."
"And I take it you didn't believe it."
I shook my head no. "That can't be where babies come from."
"Well," she said, "maybe you ought to talk to your Mama about that."
I shook my head no again.
"So, have you figured out where babies come from all by your self?"
"Not yet. But it ain't from storks."
"You're probably right," she murmured. She gazed at me inscrutably
for a long moment, during which I squirmed and stood on the floor but
bent down to prop my chin on an elbow that I leaned on the sofa cushion
beside her. Then she looked down at the page I had given her and
smiled. "This is so nice of you. I'll take it, but...you can have it
back whenever you want it."
"Okay."
She held her hand on the back of my neck and drew me toward her so
she could kiss me on the nose. "Thank you!"
"Thank you too!" I smiled and blushed and looked at her slender
fingers and her auburn hair and the gentle lines of her face. She could
not have ignored the way my eyes stayed glued on her. She smiled at me.
"Kiss me back," she said, pointing to her noise.
I did and said, "I like your nose."
"Yeah?" she said. She winked at me. "I like yours too."
I feigned an overdramatized blush and a baby-like "Aw, shucks."
"Don't be silly," she laughed, and pointed at my project on the
floor. "I hate to say it, hon, but it's nine o'clock. You have to clean
that up, and I have to get you a bath."
I said okay and quickly straightened things up while she went into
the bathroom and drew the bath. It was time for our bathtub ritual. The
apartments had no showers, but they had big new tubs in the small tiled
bathrooms. Martha Jane would fill the tub to just the right warm temp-
erature for the pink bubble-bath. The magic moment came when I was
fidgeting nude by the tub while the water level slowly rose. Martha Jane
would hold the packet of bubblebath powder high over the tub.
"Almost ready-y-y..." she'd chant, as I waited.
"Looks okay NOW!" I'd say.
"Nope," she'd say. "Almost...almost...." And finally, "There she
blows!" And she'd upturn the packet until just enough of the pink powder
fell out to make the right amount of bubbly stuff that I liked.
I would hop into the tub and splash and stir up the bubbles until
they overflowed the tub. The bubble-baths were better with Martha Jane
than with anyone else, because others insisted on fewer bubbles and less
time in the tub. But Martha Jane was herself a bubble-bath lover and
seemed to know just how much would be the most fun -- which in my case
was enough bubbles to not only fill the tub to its rim but to cover most
of my head as well, by the time I fluffed it up.
Martha Jane did not dry and dress me. That was up to me. I was a
fidgety kid anyway who liked to dress under my own power. Usually she
stayed in the living room and listened to the radio or studied, and I
would bathe, dry and dress and empty the tub myself. On those occasions
when she did stay in the bathroom as "supervisor", she was there to make
sure I cleaned up my bubbly mess. When this happened, Martha Jane removed
her skirt and blouse and wore her bra and panties, or sometimes a
delicate silk slip, if I were still in the bath; this was to keep her
clothes from being splashed when we got playful and threw globs of
bubble-bath at each other during our occasional bubble-fights (Martha
Jane, neatnick that she was, insisted on cleaning up every single remnant
of any mess we made).
On that night she stayed in the bathroom with me, fully clothed until
I climbed into the tub. She stood in the opened doorway and watched
contemplatively. After a minute she came into the bathroom and began
removing her skirt and blouse. She was almost down to her slip when I
announced, from under the mountain of bubbles that reached to my nose,
that I had to pee.
"Go ahead," she said.
I insisted, "But YOU'RE in here!"
"For goodness' sake, it won't bother me."
But I refused to pee with her in the room and would not get out of
the tub. I remained hidden behind my hill of bubbles.
Seeing my reluctance she said, "all right, I won't embarrass you. Is
Number One all you have to do?"
"Just Number One," I said. "But I hafta do it a hunnert and sixty
three times."
"Yeah, right...keep it under one-fifty, bubble-man, and don't take
all night. Do what you have to do, hon, and call me when you're
finished."
That was fine with me. She left the room and closed the door. After I
peed I got back into the tub and shouted that the coast was clear.
When she opened the door she wore only her bra and panties.
For a while she watched me from the opened doorway while I splashed
and scrubbed, but when it was time for me to finish up she came into the
room and knelt near the tub, watching me as before. I don't remember
what I said to her, but she was laughing about it when I pulled the
stopper from the tub and stood up to dry off while the water drained.
After my upper body was dry I got out of the tub as usual to dry my legs
and feet on the little pink rug in the middle of the tiled floor. Martha
Jane knelt and stared at me with that same probing look. I was drying
off when she reached up and put two of her slim fingers around the head
of my penis.
"Dry this too?" she asked, smiling.
"Yep," I answered innocently.
She continued fondling my tip with her two fingers, gently and
slowly, squeezing lightly or running a finger around the tip.
I stopped my drying and looked down at what she was doing. I studied
her fingers closely, feeling a new and beguiling pleasure at her touch.
"Feel good?" she asked, her eyes studying my reactions. Her voice
had fallen to a whisper. She half-smiled with what appeared to be great
interest, curiosity, and uncertainty.
"Yeah," I whispered back.
Our voices were so low that the drip drip drip of the bathtub faucet
was easily twice the volume. I remember hearing the faint drip, thinking
that the hot water handle had to be tightened to make it stop, but her
touch had me spellbound. My tip itched strangely and the skin of my
glans seemed to cling to her soft, tentative fingers.
"You like that?" she whispered.
"Yeah. Feels nice."
"Like it when I squeeze this way?"
"Yeah. Keep doin' it."
Constantly observing my reactions, she continued fondling me and
asking questions. She had a very secretive, whispered manner as if no
one was supposed to hear us, and I fell into this pattern by whispering
back my own answers in the same secretive way. As she played with me I
grew larger -- something else quite new to me -- and after a moment she
set me on the edge of the tub and knelt in front of me, tickling and
stroking my cock, explaining how it would get bigger as she did it. Soon
I was erect enough to allow her entire hand to enfold me, at which point
she began delicately pumping me toward a larger erection.
Still whispering furtively, she was delighted at the size of my young
hard-on and made several remarks about how my penis, which normally was
hardly bigger than her thumbnail, could grow to about 4 inches and get
much fatter. I was far too young to have an orgasm at that point, a fact
she apparently discovered after several minutes of this activity. But
for quite a while she continued fondling me, and I grew more and more
pleased at the sensations. Vaguely I recall that she attempted an
explanation of the birds and bees (I found this much more sensible than
that crap about storks!), but I absorbed precious little of what then was
a great deal of heady biological detail. At that moment I was more
interested in the pleasant physical sensations of her touch and the
strangely enticing intimacy in her voice and manner.
She studied my facial reactions as much as she did those of my penis,
and with every new touch or change in technique she asked me how it
felt. I would tell her it felt good and told her the kind of hand
movements and touches I liked best.
She said, "Now don't tell anybody we do this."
While this may have seemed an odd request to any other young boy, it
didn't seem so to me. From the very beginning Martha Jane's secretive
manner conveyed to me an air of deliciously naughty discovery, of shared
and precious secrets. Obviously I wouldn't do anything Martha Jane
didn't want. My distrust of grownups in general had made me adept at
developing many covert activities on my own that offered refuge from
meddling adults. I was intrigued to find that Martha Jane also had
secrets that she kept from grownups but that she was willing to share
with me.
From slightly above her I saw a soft swell of flesh extend invitingly
down into her bra, and I ran my finger over it. "Why do girls always
wear these?" I asked.
Martha Jane told me a bra held a woman's titties securely (Now, the
word "titties," as compared with "breasts", was a valid "Southern" term.
"Breast" sounded too clinical and seemed to apply mostly to packaged
chicken parts. The people I grew up around came from rural farming
families before they lived in the city. The word titties was perfectly
acceptable. I heard it used often in connection with everything from
cats and dogs to cows, auto tire aircaps, and baby-bottle nipples. But
from the outset, body words had special connotations for me and Martha
Jane. They were spoken with a unique vocal, emotional, and sensual
coloration that I find indescribable. These same words would sound
entirely different when I heard them used by others. This use of certain
words in certain ways became a part of our strange relationship at a very
early stage. The singular meanings we gave them appeared to grow
entirely under their own power -- the same way the relationship itself
seemed to have powers of its own).
She opened her bra and let me touch her flesh and her nipples. The
feel of her gave me goosebumps. She explained how babies were nursed.
"Babies suck on the nipples," she said, and I asked what it tasted like.
She said she had never had a baby so she had no milk in her but she said
that a baby sucking its mom's tit was a very important part of the way
babies grew up. She asked if I had ever sucked my mom's nipples. I said
I probably didn't (which in retrospect, considering my mother's staunch
puritanism, was more than likely true). I asked her how it felt and
asked to suck her titties. She held one breast up for me and told me I
could lick her nipple and see for myself. I did. The sensation of her
marshmallow-soft flesh on my tongue has never been duplicated. I was
aware of her smiling down and encouraging me as I took my sample lick.
She was delicious. So I took another, longer lick. Hearing her breath
become oddly deep and pleasurable, I licked yet again.
It was a memorable moment. She left me with the impression that she
enjoyed my tongue on her in a way that was an equally unique experience
for her. She told me that licking her titties was very, very personal
and that she would never let anyone do it but me.
After a while she had me as erect as I would ever get at that age. I
was in a state not only of physical warmth, but of gratitude for her
having revealed to me actions and pleasures that no one but Martha Jane
and I would ever know about. And Martha Jane was greatly pleased and
surprised at the size of my erection and at my ready complicity in our
naughty game.
"We'll do it again later, okay?" she said, holding my very hard penis
still in her warm hand. "But don't tell anyone else, hon,
because...well..."
She paused. She searched for words.
"Well, they would say this is nasty. They wouldn't like it and we'd
be in trouble."
I asked, "Why do they think it's nasty?"
"They just do. Lots of people don't like doing this."
"I do."
"You do? Really?"
"Yes. I like it with you."
She grinned. "Let's get you dressed and we can do it again sometime."
I don't remember anything else about that night. But I am certain
this was the night that a significant language with its own coloration
and associations, its own set of gestures and responses, and a heavily
secretive atmosphere introduced themselves into our relationship.
Good little boy that I was, I got dressed. She did, too, and then
she put me to bed, kissed me goodnight, and went into the living room to
study while I fell asleep. I was perfectly content. It was not so much
the physical sensations that left me pleased as it was a new serenity, a
feeling of closeness with the only person in the world I could trust.
That was the beginning. I did not invest much time thinking about
the details, nor was I old enough to live in constant anticipation of the
next event. I knew only that I was extremely fond of Martha Jane. I was
also aware, at the time, of her apprehension and tension. But she
needn't have worried; indeed, I never told anyone about us and was never
tempted to. This was Martha Jane's secret and mine, a haven from the
coldness and fickleness of the outer world. And there was no way I would
ever hurt Martha Jane by getting her into trouble that might keep us
apart. Unwittingly, we had formed a compact and a revolt.
PART 2A:
I believe that Martha Jane, like me, was mostly curious at
first. And it seems that my surprise and delight at our intimacy
was matched only by her own surprise and delight at my enthusiasm
and cooperation. But we never mentioned our secret to each other
when she visited my Mom or when we greeted on the front porch on
our way to school in the mornings that followed.
Several weeks later, a few days after Christmas, the city was
inundated by a heavy winter snow--something Southern cities seldom
experienced. The whole town knew the weather was coming and Mom
had a date to go to what had been set up as a White Christmas
dinner at one of the fancy hotel ballrooms that were popular in
the late 1940's. It was a Friday night. Martha Jane darkened our
bedroom and sat on the bed with me, watching the snow. The bed was
in its usual place in that little room, pushed lengthwise against
the wall next to the big double-window. We leaned on the window
sill and talked and watched the falling snow. I don't remember
what we talked about, but she had told me a story about something-
or-other and I was astonished and said, "Really?", and she said
"Yes, it really happened like that!", and I squealed "REALLY?",
and she made a wide-eyed face back at me and said, "Yes, REALLY!",
and we were both giggling. I have no idea what the subject was,
but I remember the essence of the moment as playful, trusting and
warm.
She settled her chin on one hand on the window sill, and I did
the same. She said in a hushed tone, "Listen. Be very, very quiet,
and listen."
"Okay," I said loudly, smirking.
"Shh!" she said, and we giggled again, and then we sat very
still. Soon I whispered. "There's so much snow, but it's so
quiet."
"No," she whispered. "You can hear it falling. Listen."
We stayed perfectly still. In the night outside the window the
entire project was covered in a thick, globby blanket of white. The
snow fell with a dreamlike lazy slowness, but so densely it made the
buildings seem dark gray instead of dark brick-red, and completely
obscured the contours of the access driveway that ran behind our
building. I strained nearer the window and listened. After a
short time I could indeed hear the muffled, barely audible whisk of
falling snow.
"Hear it?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"You wouldn't deceive me would you, mister? You really hear
it?"
"Yeah," I breathed, fascinated. "Really."
We leaned on our chins and listened more. I turned to her in
quiet excitement at this revelation of the noise of snowflakes
falling, but as my eyes met hers I melted into speechless jelly.
She was watching me with a look of warm, affectionate, captivating
tenderness. All I could do was look back into her eyes helplessly
until, embarrassed at my own startling feelings, I made a funny,
scrunched-up face.
She wrinkled her nose at me. "And 'that' to you too," she
said, "silly-face." Then she jumped off the bed.
"Bubble time!" she announced, and off we went to the bathroom.
She undressed down to her panties, bra, and slip and held up the
bubble-bath pack and let it go, and I hopped in to splash around
and build my usual nose-high mountain of bubbles. I didn't notice
until slightly later that she stood there for quite some time after
reaching back to the hook on the bathroom door to fetch her skirt
and blouse; after thinking about it she returned her clothes to
the door hook. She removed her slip as well, and knelt by the tub
again in her undies. I got out of the tub and dried off. Once
again, after a long hesitation, she put her fingers around my cock.
Remembering this from before, I stood still and watched her
play with me. I hardened, and tickles spread through my tummy.
I looked at her and grinned, and her eyes met mine with a widening
look of recognition and pleasure.
"That's good," I murmured.
"Yeah? You still like this, huh?."
I told her I did, and something made me shove my pelvis slightly
forward (a totally unconscious movement toward her fingers, the
source of my pleasure), which caused her to look up again in sur-
prise and a strange kind of glee. The two of us seemed urged on by
some outlandish, mutually shared impulse to make the gestures and
say the words we did.
As she played we watched my cock harden and twitch. She said we
would be more comfortable if I sat on the edge of the tub as be-
fore. I did so, and we both watched as she softly pumped me erect.
I reached inside her bra and found a nipple, and we exchanged
mutually knowing smiles as I gently squeezed her. She was still
amazed at how my "teentsy" young organ became so enlarged. Soon I
was thoroughly hard and she was grinning lewdly at me, a grin I
quickly learned to return.
These returned glances and simultaneous eye contacts occurred
so often it seems they never ceased. They were another integral
part of our communication with each other. It was part of the con-
tinuous pattern of feedback and feed-in and feed-on that united us.
Often it replaced thousands of words that might have been used to
describe a feeling or a moment. This, too, began happening quite
early in the relationship.
Of course, I didn't climax. The incident soon ended and we
returned to the bedroom. We continued watching the snowfall for
a long time. I leaned sleepily on the window sill, and listened to
her magical voice. She was talking about something she was doing
at school. I was soon overcome by the languorous peace of being
with her, something entirely absent from my relationship with my
mother.
When I opened my eyes again it was Saturday morning. My Mom
was back home fussing around the house, and Martha Jane was gone.
Several months went their course, and I passed my 7th birth-
day. It was around that period, near May 1949, that several more
interludes occurred. By this time I would get out of the tub and
Martha Jane would be kneeling and waiting, and I would stand up and
say, "Do me." She would set me on the edge of the tub and pump me
erect, which she learned to maintain for longer and longer periods.
I don't have a clear memory of what I physically felt at that time,
but I recall that she and I kept finding ways to make it feel
better.
Martha Jane beamed delightedly at my responsiveness. "I love
feeling it jump," she'd say, and she soon discovered that my cock
jerked even more during her early attempts at using her tongue and
mouth on it. Constantly we talked about how it felt and what we
liked. Her favorite ploy was to hold me entirely inside her
mouth, my tip barely extended into the narrow channel of her
throat, and gently close her mouth around me and hold me that way
so she could feel my cock throb against her tongue. I was still
too young to have a true orgasm, but I had no feelings of frus-
tration. Nor was I particularly anxious about when she would be
sitting for me again. The aspects of our relationship that I
sorely missed when we were apart for any significant time were our
fondness for each other and the simple "rightness" of being with
her and hearing her alluring voice and quiet girlish laughter.
It was sometime during the summer that the bathing routine
changed. It was probably the fourth or fifth episode. I got out
of the tub and stood with my tummy sticking out lewdly so she
could play with me, which she did. We both grinned and whispered
in our naughty secret way as she stroked me, and she unhooked her
bra so I could make little circles around her nipples.
I watched her fingers on me and muttered, "It tickles."
"Want me to do it slower or faster?"
"Slower."
"That way, hon?"
"Yeah. That feels nasty."
"You like it that way?"
"Yeah."
"You mean it feels better, is that what 'nasty' means?"
"Yeah. Feels really good."
She said, "That's what grownups say, hon, they'd say if it
feels good it's nasty." She added ruefully, "They think anything
that feels good is horrible. I really don't understand. You'd
think people already have enough sadness and pain in their lives
without making things worse."
It was a concept that she and I would mention many times. It
seemed to be something of which she was often terrified; now and
then she would stop everything, look at me painfully, and then hold
me close to her. This was one of the first of those occasions.
Others would follow. But on that night it happened for the first
time.
She was saying to me, "Squeeze my nipple just a little, hon,
really soft, the way I squeeze your dick...that's nice. I like
it when you just stroke me, too, around my nipples for a while."
I feathered my fingertips across and around her nipples, and she
closed her eyes dreamily. "Hm-hm, yes...better, hon...you do
that so well..."
I was surprised at the reaction of her nipples. "They got
stiff," I said. "Does it hurt when they get stiff?"
"No, hon, it means it feels good. Just like getting you hard
feels good for you."
We played and whispered for a while. Then Martha Jane just
stopped. Abruptly and completely, she dropped her hands and
stopped everything.
She settled back on her folded legs on the floor, and put her
hands over her face. She did that only for a few seconds and looked
up at me only because I had bent down closer to her. I saw she was
suddenly saddened, and as I bent down she turned toward me with a
look of pain and loss on her face. She spoke softly and plaintively
and, as best as I can recall, she said:
"Do you know who you are, Speedy? You are the smartest, cutest,
most loving boy in the world. D'you know that, hon? But you're
gonna grow up--". She stopped, and held me down closer to her face,
so that our foreheads touched. "You are gonna grow up in a very
strange world, with no daddy, like me. And a mommy who can't live
for anything except dying and...goin' to be with God. Oh Speedy,
don't you ever grow up to be like that. You hear? Don't grow up
and be afraid and suspicious and narrow and mean. I know you'll
grow up and be so good, and so sweet, and so smart and sensitive,
but you'll feel like you're in hell because you're trusting and sexy
and...other people don't tolerate that very well, it's all bad for
them and they'll always say you're too different and--"
I must have had a confused look on my face that made her stop.
I'm sure I did. I don't remember all her words exactly, but I do
know that at that time her words only partially made sense.
She kissed my nose. The episode quickly ended when she stood
up and said, "C'mon, hon. Beddie-bye."
PART 2B:
She led me to the bedroom and I jumped into the mattress, as
I usually did, and waited for her to turn out the light and fluff
up the pillows, as she usually did.
But this time she stood very quietly in the dark near the edge
of the bed. She took off her bra and panties. I had seen her in
undies often enough, but now she was totally nude. I remember how
she looked, her smoky green eyes and frizzy auburn hair reflecting
the moonlight. She was slim but not skinny, slightly full in the
upper thighs but trim enough to appear rather long-legged. She had
normal, presentable breasts with mildly pink nipples that were
almost the same color as the surrounding flesh. Martha Jane was 16
then. Her mound was slight, but prominent because of the soft flare
of her hips and the flat of her tummy and the space between her slim
thighs. She had a small light tuft of auburn hair leading to her
thick-lipped vaginal slit.
Needless to say, I didn't know what many of these spare parts
were for. I remember that seeing her nakedness for the first time
was more pleasing and soothing than it was titillating. Her body
impressed me as having the form that a female body should ideally
have. For me, the excitement of the moment lay in the fact that she
allowed me to see the secret Martha Jane that no one else could see.
"C'mere," she coaxed sweetly. "to the edge of the bed." I rose
and stood on my knees on the edge of the bed. She smiled and pulled
her shoulders back, lifting one breast with her left hand while her
other hand touched the back of my neck, urging me toward her and
holding me near. In the dark she whispered, "Suck my titty, hon."
That night she carefully and gently introduced me to the rest
of her body as she stood by the bed. I still remember how she
taught me to suck her breasts in just the right way, which I
enjoyed immensely.
She crooned, "Put my nipple on your tongue and press it with
your lips...Mmm-hm, you do it just right...you're so sensitive to
what I like, hon...there, right there...Suck...suck, just like
that..."
Now and then as I sucked and nipped I'd hear her swallow hard,
one of several clues from her that she had reached a small peak and
was on her way to the next level of new or forbidden pleasure. She
lovingly watched me suckle and lick from one breast to the other
and asked if I liked it, and with my usual alacrity I replied that
I liked it a lot and I asked if I were doing it right and if it felt
good for her. She said yes I always did everything right and I was
sucking her just the way she wanted. This went on for a long time
in the sensuous dark. What I remember most about it was the giving
to her of so much pure physical pleasure. She was almost clinical
at first, appearing to examine her own feelings and reactions more
than anything else. While she stood enjoying my sucking, she led
one of my hands to her mound and told me that in a little while she
would be very wet and sensitive there but that she wasn't wet just
yet and that later she would be and she wanted me to touch her there
when she got wetter.
She lay in the bed and I lay beside her, cradled into her left
side, licking her nipples. She found my balls and began tracing
around them with a fingernail. She did this for a while, giving me
an erotic tickle that made me spread my legs so she could reach me
better. After her light fondling had my cock jerking, her hand went
warmly around my shaft, her thumb making lazy circles around the
tip. Her voice was motherly, cotton-soft magic in the dark, along
with her milky flesh and her nipples and her slow deep breathing:
"Would you like me to milk your dick, hon?"
I nodded, giving her breasts the nipping little kisses that
she liked and that made goosebumps on her arms. I had heard her
use the term 'dick' before, but I didn't know she could 'milk' a
dick. These became two of my favorite words when I'm aroused. And
I was a little older then, nearing 8, and perhaps some new hormones
had begun their work: a strong sexual giddiness had found its way
into my response pattern. And new words had found their way into
our universe. She was adding them continually, as if their forbid-
den nature took on an even more alluring power than usual. What
was happening now was less intellectual, more emotional, and
clearly more sexual.
The pleasure that accompanied my erection soon mounted, for
Martha Jane was showing me that a dick could indeed be warmly,
voluptuously, lovingly hand-milked to a rod-like firmness. She
kept whispering to me as she sought new ways of touching and
pumping me and varying the speed and angle of her motion. She had
learned that I preferred a gradually rising intensity, that I
enjoyed lingering at one sensual plateau for long intervals before
going on. It was a technique I would soon learn to surprise her
with, on my own.
And then a new twist introduced itself, seemingly on its own
and without any prior thought or suggestion from her, the same way
new pleasures always did when we were together. Without being
prompted I felt it was time I returned the delight she had given
me. I had felt like doing so for some time; but never having seen
her naked, I didn't have much of a roadmap from which I could draw
inspiration. How or why I managed to accomplish all that I did
that night is beyond me, and was probably beyond Martha Jane. No
one had ever explained female anatomy to me. Breasts and long hair
were the only female parts I knew until that night, except for
Martha Jane's brief bathroom explanation of where babies came from
and her earlier revelation about how the place between her legs
would get wet when I touched her there.
Somehow I figured that Martha Jane's ultimate pleasure-center
would be between her legs, as was mine. I shifted upward a little,
hoping to use of my arms and hands more freely, and this allowed me
to snuggle my face in her neck, kissing her throat and relishing
the taste and feel and scent of her skin there.
"Oh, sweet," she sighed. I was thrilled that she enjoyed it.
Then I began stroking downward along her tummy toward her navel,
and then across the tops and insides of her thighs. I felt the
need to go slowly, as she had done with me. Then again, I was not
quite sure what I would find or where I should go. Gradually my
hand slid in circles and to and fro until I found her pubic curls.
She didn't move, but her breathing stopped. The action of her
hand slowed on my cock.
I marveled at the shape and texture of her mound, firm and
rounded just enough to fit in the palm of my hand; and her silken
tuft whose twirls clung to my fingers. My fingers drifted downward
and found her moist folds; her unmoving hand gave my dick a little
squeeze. Her eyes were closed. She seemed to concentrate entirely
on what I was doing. She didn't say anything. Blindly and with
the utmost care, I explored her dampness. Her flesh there seemed
extraordinarily delicate. I heard her catch her breath as my
finger made a path along both sides of the smooth ridge of her wet
and swollen outer lips. Her hand on my cock remained still, her
other arm cradling me at her left side. Soon I found the places
and movements that heightened her enjoyment, although from my
vantage point near her upright breasts I saw little of her wet
darkness beyond the faint rise of her pubic hair. Her thighs
spread, slowly, moment by moment and an inch or two at a time,
until she raised her knees slightly so her legs could fall outward
and she could completely open her naked secrets to my hand. Care-
fully my fingers learned to open and spread her, and soon they
found her clitoris. At that moment she gave a loud swallow and a
sleepily murmured "Yes..." that was barely audible. Millimeter by
millimeter, I began teaching myself about her mysterious clit.
Her eyes remained closed, her head tilted back slightly on the
pillow. She seemed not asleep, but in another world. I heard her
breath only faintly, and for long periods it seemed she was holding
her breath.
It's very possible that Martha Jane knew little more about this
part of her than I did (although, today, I suspect she had mastur-
bated, which was something I had yet to discover). She offered no
instruction, guiding me only with childlike whispers of "yes, hon,"
and "ahh, that's good." But I soon knew how to touch her clit and
her thick lips and thin inner petals exactly as she liked. The
moment when I discovered her most sensitive spot of all, she gave a
startled, whispered "There, hon!" I repeated the motion, and she
said again, "Right there...Right there, yes..oh yes do that," fol-
lowed by my learning to use a very slight pressing motion near the
base of her button, which she greeted with a long "Aahhh" and
another noisy throaty swallow. Her thighs fell farther apart and
she made small snuggling adjustments into the mattress with her hips
as if attempting to open herself wider for my fingers.
What she liked was a slow drawing of my finger, held flatly
but gently along her crease, from the bottom of her clit toward the
top. At the top she enjoyed my occasional cradling of the length
of her clit within two of my fingers, and a gentle sliding up and
down each side of the length of it, in much the same way that she
often used only two fingers to stroke my cock. She preferred it
done slowly, with little pressure; and I learned that she enjoyed
riding a peak this way until I left the area and started drawing
small, deliberate middle-finger circles around the nub without
actually touching it. During all this time her face remained
slightly turned away from me, eyes closed, her head back to reveal
her graceful throat so that I could see as well as hear her swallow
with nervous pleasure. I repeated this stroking until she began
tightening her arms and seemed to stiffen everywhere. I would slow
down and maintain her excitement at that level for a while, then go
back to the little circles that gave her some rest. But each time,
I made the preferred stroking motion last for a longer interval,
and shortened the interval of the slightly less pleasurable circles.
I have no idea where these ideas came from. Now and then she would
return to more normal breathing, but each foray into the more
intense level would find her neck tightening a little more, her
occasional breathing more urgent and irregular.
And there was yet another amazing discovery: now and then as
Martha Jane milked me, squeezing gently from base to tip and mildly
jiggling me for a moment with two or three fingers before going
back to the long, hugging strokes, I noticed a drop of slippery
liquid at my tip. There was a very small amount of it, barely a
slight smear. I didn't make much of it at the time, thinking it
might mean I needed to go to the bathroom.
What concerned me more were the mystery and beauty of her
growing involvement within her pleasure, and my own responses to
it. Of course I had no idea where this intensity of feeling would
lead; I knew only that I was making her feel very, very good and
that it got better for her every minute. And the minutes did,
indeed, pass. Later I looked at a clock and found then that it
was after eleven, two hours from the time I'd first stepped from
the tub that night.
As Martha Jane became quieter and more tensed, I discovered
a variation she liked immensely. With that favorite motion of my
flattened finger along her crease and clit, I learned to lengthen
the path slightly and insert about an inch of my stroking finger
inside her before beginning the upward slide along her clit. I
didn't do this quickly, but I did increase the speed and pressure
very slightly once I found that she enjoyed this even more. I was
awed at the inner texture of her incredibly warm opening and the
way it gripped my finger as I entered and withdrew. Each dip into
her brought a fresh supply of wetness to her clit and outer lips.
Then she began a rapidly accelerating slide toward her climax.
She had been cradling me with her left arm, but this had drifted
behind her head. Her other hand, which had been milking me, was
drawn to her lips in a fist that tensed until her knuckles grew
white. Her head craned farther back, her neck stiffened. And as
she always did when her excitement heightened unbearably, she held
her breath, letting it out and in with a single, delicate gasp and
holding it again. Then I felt her clitoris swell; the heat of her
sucking slit rose quickly and dramatically. Her knees fell open
even more, stretching her thighs and arching her mound into my hand;
I watched this in utter fascination. The memory of the sight of her
outspread thighs and slightly lifted hips as she allowed herself a
total immersion into pleasure continues, after all these years, to
redefine and reclarify the true meaning of the word "naked."
And suddenly, electrically, came a rapid series of quick and
shuddering gasps that stopped short as she took in one last gulp
of air and tightly held her breath just before uttering a last,
frantic, desperate whisper:
"oh hon....ohdontstop!"
I was certainly not going to stop, irresistibly engrossed in
giving her such intense enjoyment. She began trembling in small,
tight, jittery waves along her waist and arms. She whimpered, and
her head dug back tightly into the pillow. Then she went entirely
stiff from head to toe, breath held. Her clit swelled enormously.
A tendon flittered in her inner thighs. Thinking that slowing my
movement would prolong her ecstasy, I did so. Her hips lurched once
and made a single grinding circle against my hand, and she again
stiffened, hard, and remained completely still for an alarmingly
long time, her flowering heated center weeping slickly around my
finger--until she finally and just as suddenly began to relax, her
hips first giving three or four gentle undulations. Her neck
softened and receded, and she took in a long deep breath at last,
her head falling limply to her other shoulder. Soon she began
breathing normally but deeply and tremulously, so I stopped moving
my finger and kept it pressed securely against her still-turgid
clit. Her wetness soaked my hand.
Her eyes opened. She blinked and panted, breathing an
astonished, "Where did you learn to do that?"
I shrugged. "I just thought it was what you wanted."
"You mean you never did that before?"
I just looked at her blankly. "Did I do it wrong?"
"Oh you sweet baby," she moaned, almost crying. And in fact she
did half-rise and hug me and she did indeed cry. "Oh my honey," she
moaned. She cried for several minutes, but quietly, in delicate
expulsions of breath (Martha Jane was always a very quiet, very fem-
inine, even a very elegant crier. I have never been able to forget
it). For a while she held me, rocking to and fro, not letting go of
me for a long time until she fell back listlessly, sniffling, and
put a kleenex to her eyes and nose. She said, almost to herself,
"We are gonna go straight to hell."
"Martha Jane? Did I do it right?" I asked again, concerned.
When she settled down she cradled me once more and said, yes, I
had done it right.
"Exactly right!" she said, and began milking me again.
"Was it Good?"
"Speedy...that was so deliciously nasty."
It was one of our favorite phrases (and perhaps the most signif-
icant), along with all the others we adopted as turnons. Although
studious and conscientious and polite, Martha Jane used a limited
and earthy vocabulary when naked. She gave the words a seething,
lecherous coloration. And she seemed to know exactly how and when
to use them. I soon learned to do the same. It would be some time
yet before I knew what it all meant. But I recall that night as
being the one during which we opened and passed through a door that
soon closed shut behind us, yielding no escape.
She sweetly milked and cradled me and looked deeply into my
eyes--an intense, probing gaze that told me she didn't have sex with
only part of her body. She did it with her face, her eyes, her
words, her every part. She explained that she had just "cum," a
word she pronounced with such dripping salaciousness that I got hard
again, even though cumming was a little abstract for me and she soon
gave up trying to describe it. In any case, I was glad I had given
her such intense gratification. I described what I had seen, heard
and felt as I was making her cum, and her eyes glowed sensuously and
mischievously as she listened. We were tired, but through words and
glances we prolonged a titillating sexual afterglow that lasted
several more minutes.
She tried to demonstrate what cumming was by pumping me
briefly. Both of us soon realized that it wouldn't (couldn't)
happen for me yet. But my feelings of closeness to her were
extremely satisfying in their own right.
As I started falling into sleep, she rose from the bed and
began dressing. My mother would soon be home from her date.
Martha Jane put on her shirt, but stopped to give me a very big
kiss on my nose and a very long, very close hug.
While she finished dresssing I was slumbering off. I rolled
over, away from her, snuggled into my pillow, and watched the
moonlight falling on the window sill a few feet away. I felt
exceptionally peaceful and cared for. I felt that the best part
was being able to give her such spectacular enjoyment. I felt
that devils in us had been given space, had played, laughed, sung,
shared, had been released into the night somehow, and had worn
themselves out. I felt now like an angel. I wondered how it could
be true, as I had heard in school, that angels traveled from world
to world along alabaster shafts of moonlight. I looked closely and
tried to imagine how even the tiniest of angels could glide in the
glowing pools that dripped over the window sill. I imagined what
it would be like to travel upward on those soft beams, beams the
color of Martha Jane's warm and trembling nakedness when I watched
her having her long cum with the moonlight on her neck and hardened
nipples.
Martha Jane's clothing whispered as she dressed. Her softly
rounded shoulders and smooth thighs whispered under her clothes.
Her arms and hands whispered as they reached to button her shirt.
And her breathing whispered, still a little shaky from cumming.
I remember those sounds when I see moonlight. I hear them in my
dreams.
I fell asleep.
Continued...
From: sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
Date: 24 Mar 1997 13:09:27 GMT
--------
**** 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.
PART 3A:
Just before my 9th birthday my godmother and great-aunt Frances
bought me a new dark brown suit and new shoes for my Confirmation
ceremony at St. Mary's Catholic School. It was a dim, cloudy
Sunday afternoon outside; but inside the ornate, high-ceiling
Gothic church hundreds of banks of candles cast a warm glorious
light over everyone in the church. Mom and Aunt Frances and my
deceased father's mother, Grandma Rose, drove me to the front en-
trance and let me out on the sidewalk while Aunt Frances parked the
Buick behind the church. I stood there for a moment looking down
at myself, all got up in the immaculate suit and the shiny new
shoes, my hair slicked with a hefty, odorous portion of Wildroot
Hair Oil. I asked myself if it were really me in this costume.
If I bent my arms the sleeves of the suit crinkled and wrinkled
stiffly, but when I straightened my arm the cloth fell back into a
smooth, neatly creased tube. I wore a tight starchy white shirt
with a flowery bowtie my aunt had chosen. The tie and the thick
collar dug uncomfortably into the front of my throat.
I felt out of place, as emotionaly removed from the impending
ceremony as I would have been at a funeral for a perfect stranger's
dead dog. I climbed the front marble steps and entered the front
vestibule, an imposing, darkly paneled hall where I lined up with
a chatty, squealing assemblage of other suited boys. The girls,
fluttering and chirping like sparrows, lined up at the other end of
the hall in fluffy communion-style dresses and white shoes. Soon
the long-robed nuns in their stiff white bobbing habbits shushed us
into silence. They strode quickly through our ranks to check us
out and nod their stern approval.
Even the shuffling of feet on the waxed tile floor came to a
dead stop as my own home-room teacher, Sister Mary Joseph, sternest
and most dreaded nun of all, strode into the room. No more than a
tiny slip of a woman, her imperious expression and long stride gave
her a commanding manner. She stood exactly in the center of the
long and narrow hall, her arms folded firmly before her so that
her hands were hidden inside the floppy arms of her robe. As she
slowly passed her glowering eyes from one end of our ranks to the
other, her thin lips characteristically pursed and reset them-
selves. The hall suddenly echoed as one of the kids gave a loud
sneeze, which was quickly followed by the echo of four nuns giving
a sharp and loud "Sh!" In the ensuing silence, Sister Mary Joseph
began her announcement in her usual manner, with a rise of her head
and a long deep breath.
"Children," she said, "you are about to become soldiers for our
lord Jesus Christ." Pause. "As you attend the holy ceremony of
Confirmation today, you will receive a scapular with an image of
your patron saint." Pause. "Wear your scapular at all times. It
is your protection from the dangers and temptations you encounter
in your struggle with Satan. Protect it as you would your immortal
souls. Many holy martyrs of the Church have suffered pain of death
rather than lose possession of the holy image we will give you here
today." Pause. "You are fortunate and honored that your holy
scapulars will be blessed by none other than Monseignor Kearny from
Blessed Sacrament School. He has honored us by agreeing to deliver
the blessing and the sermon today." Pause. "Now we will all file
into our pews." Pause. "Be silent. And conduct yourselves as
children of Christ and as you were taught in the rehearsals. Don't
forget to kneel and to stand at the proper intervals for a High Holy
Mass. And remember at all times that the Monseignor is watching.
I know you will make him proud of each of you, one and all."
She nodded to a nun at the door, who shoved opened the vast
carved walnut panels that led into the interior. The place filled
with the shuffling of new shoes and rustling of clothes as we
entered double-file, first the boys and then the girls, and took
our assigned places in a line of wooden pews along the right side
of the church. As I shuffled slowly in line along the narrow aisle
I passed my family, Aunt Frances and Mom smiling proudly my way,
and my pert grandmother giving me a wink. Their obvious pleasure
failed to improve my humor; the only pleasantness I found in the
situation was the heavy waft of candle smoke and parafin in the
air, and the dulcet singing of the choir in the loft above and
behind us. As this would be a High Mass, I knew I would at least
have the pleasure of hearing Sister Albert's accomplished choir
singing the Gregorian Chant required by the formality of the
ceremony.
As usual, the Mass progressed in what I always thought was a
tortuously slow pace. And again as usual, I occupied my wandering
mind by studying the dozens of statuettes that line the walls of
St. Mary's. St. Christopher: a rugged, bearded, muscular man
leaning heavily on his staff and struggling head-first through some
undefined tempest, the child Jesus hoisted on his massive shoulders.
St. Stephen the Martyr: in the swaddling garb of what I later came
to know as the clothing worn by Roman peasants, lashed at his wrists
and ankles to a wooden post, posed with his eyes lifted to heaven,
all done with exacting, lurid anatomical detail.
My gaze never failed to linger on the carved image of St.
Joseph, whose name matched my middle name and who had been chosen
as the patron saint of my Confirmation. Not as herculean as St.
Christopher, he was a long legged figure with a long beard, seated
at his carpenter's bench with a tacking hammer in one strong hand,
his other arm draped around the shoulders of the peasant boy
Jesus, who clung absurdly dependant at his side. I studied
Joseph's face interminably, striving to imagine what it might be
like to have had such a father with strong, chiseled features and
commanding eyes under a heavily furrowed brow. I wondered what
his beard would feel like.
And the Virgin Mary, a short, full-hipped woman in a simple
white flowing robe with a blue shawl draped about her head and
shoulders. Her slim right hand was raised as if conferring on the
viewer the two-fingered blessing that I had seen Pope Pius XII
giving from his balcony in movie newsreels. In her right arm she
held the half-nude child who turned its head to gaze at the viewer
with a frown of divine approbation that seemed blatantly inappro-
priate on the infant's face. Always my eyes fixed themselves on
Mary's girl-like oval face. The sculptor had fashioned for her
a pair of enchantingly dark, gentle eyes. Her expression was
tender, knowing, forgiving. I could not match my mother's face
with hers, nor my great aunt nor my grandmother nor anyone else.
I wondered what it might be like to have such a mother. In many
ways her expression reminded me of one I sometimes saw on Martha
Jane. My eyes moved down to Mary's small bosom, and warmly I
remembered the moist swell of Martha Jane's breasts and the feel
of her nipples on my tongue.
I asked myself if the woman who lived within that statue would
be scandalized at my illicit familiarity with the feel and taste of
real, warm, responsive titties. Would she, too, offer a nipple to
me for sucking?
I was fully aware of the blasphemous nature of these thoughts.
As Mass moved agonizingly along, we children prepared for communion
by attending the rear confessional one by one. Dutifully, I ducked
into the dark curtained booth and spoke into the cloth-shrouded
grating that separated me from the priest, whom I could dimly see
and whom I knew immediately to be the kindly and unflappable
Franciscan, Father Edward.
Dutifully, I contrived a suitably penitent voice. Dutifully, I
recited the same repertoire of sins I usually confessed and for
which I was truly sorry: for saying bad things about my fat Aunt
Mary, whom I really didn't like, even after I confessed not liking
her; for talking back to my mother or disobeying and upsetting her;
for not making the bed on Saturday; for taking God's name in vain
when I got angry at a kid on the playground and wished that Jesus
would tear the little bastard's tongue out and send him to hell to
be devoured by slimy gnomes; and for falling asleep during morning
Mass.
Brazenly, I made no mention of wondering what the Holy Mother's
breasts were like. Brazenly, I made no mention of Martha Jane's
breasts or her thighs or that I had made her cum. Brazenly and
stubbornly I refused to connect Martha Jane with evil, and even if
I could I brazenly and stubbornly refused to betray our trust.
On the other side of the grating Father Edward leaned back in
what I could see was a brown leather-backed chair. He gave his
usual sighs and his usual response: "Very well, my child, and is
that all you have to confess?"
"Yes, Father."
"You know you must honor your mother and you must not have
unkind feelings for your aunt, for they all love you and care for
you in ways you do not understand. And for your penance I want you
to say ten hail marys and ten our fathers."
"Yes, Father."
"And remember to avoid the temptations and the sins of greed,
envy, and lust."
"Yes, father."
And then the usual, ritualized dismissal: "Your sins are forgiv-
en. Go in peace, and sin no more. "
"Thank you, Father."
I left the man with no inkling of Martha Jane. I wondered if
his benediction forgave me for that as well as for the sins I had
confessed. I thought the penance was a little out of line for not
liking my fat Aunt Mary. Apparently at least half that penance
must have been slated for disobeying my Mom.
Returning to my pew, I found the walls of St. Mary's reverber-
ating with the husky, amplified voice of Monseignor Kearny. From
the ornate pulpit at the front of the church he inveighed weightily
with his baritone's voice of doom: "...and be wary, my children,
of the evil nature of the sins of the flesh, sins that render our
precious souls disgusting in the sight of the Lord. For to Jesus
and His Holy Mother Mary, the sins of the flesh are truly the most
offensive sins of all. Because of them we risk the punishment of
being cast down to a terrible, burning place in purgatory for ten
thousand years, and after that, into the flames of hell for all
eternity..."
Just ahead of me sat Sister Mary Joseph, nodding slowly in
righteous agreement as the monseignor thundered on. I sighed
impatiently, my eyes wandering until they fell on the statue of
Jesus, gruesomely hanging from a crucifix high over the center of
the altar. I cringed at the sight of the bloody nails...
I have no idea how much of this tripe I did or didn't absorb,
but at the time I consciously rejected it as irrelevant to what
Martha Jane and I experienced. At that time I found other aspects
of life to be much more frighteningly evil: evil was the beating
of a boy I knew by some unknown kids who came to our part of the
project one day from the big apartment buildings on the hill at the
top of Exchange Street. Evil was the Russians wanting to drop atom
bombs on everyone, and evil was the Nazis and the Japs who had
blown off the arms and legs of soldiers and shot out the eyes of
the man who lived a few doors down from me. But I could not equate
evil with the image of Martha Jane spreading her thighs to allow my
hands to please her. To use a more modern phrase: the equation
didn't compute.
However, I was not so brazen nor rebellious as not to
appreciate the majesty of the edifice and interior of St. Mary's
and the solemnity of the ceremony. Gregorian Chant had its
hypnotic qualities, as did the ritual of the purple-robed mon-
seignor moving down a line of piously kneeling children as he
draped a scapular ribbon round their necks.
When he came to me I kneeled properly and straightly. Behind
me, my mother stood with her hand on my left shoulder as the
ceremony required.
The Monseignor intoned, "What is the child's name?"
"Steven," my mother answered.
"And who," the monseignor intoned, "is his patron saint?"
"Saint Joseph," my mother answered.
The monseignor reached toward an altar boy who fished out a
scapular--a thin ribbon with a small, two-inch cloth-framed image
of the indicated patron--and then the monseignor draped it loosely
round my neck.
"Steven, I confirm you as a soldier in the army of Christ under
the guidance of your patron, Saint Joseph."
There followed a quickly delivered chant of garbled Latin as he
moved to the next child in line. Even I, brazen and rebellious
sinner that I was, had to admit that the theatrical power of this
pageantry was highly effective. Of course my relatives were in-
ordinately pleased and heaped praise onto me incessantly on the
drive back home, which mercifully was only a few blocks away.
Mom had arranged for a small dinner with my Aunt Frances and
Grandma Rose, who brought ravioli and salad and knotbread for the
occasion. The kitchen being too small, we ate in the living room
on aluminum trays and paper plates. I'd had to fast in order to
attend the required communion during the ceremony, and it was well
past noon; I sat in one corner and ate like a famished cave man.
"Don't spill gravy on your shirt!" my aunt screamed in her
usual panic, and Mom removed my coat and stuffed a napkin under my
tight collar. The napkin hurt, but I was too hungry to complain.
"Don't eat so fast," my mother prompted. I replied by stuff-
ing ravioli into my mouth until it squeezed out the sides of my
lips.
"There," my aunt grunted, throwing up her hands. "See what
he does? Why won't you listen to your Mama?"
My mother warned, "You better not stain that suit. Martha
Jane will be here later on. See wants to see you in it."
At that, I didn't eat more slowly but I ate more carefully,
making certain the napkin covered as much of my starchy shirt as
possible.
But by the end of the day Martha Jane had not arrived. As it
grew dark I went outside our apartment and looked into their
apartment window next door, but no lights were on. Going back to
our apartment I asked my mother what happened to Martha Jane.
Mom answered, "I guess she didn't have time. She probably
went to the hospital with her mother and her Uncle Joe. He gets
sick all the time with that shot up stomache of his, ever since he
came back from overseas."
Once again before getting ready for bed, I checked Martha Jane's
apartment but no one was there. Reluctantly I went back to our
bedroom and removed my suit, getting into my undies for bed. Mom was
in her nightgown, turning out all the lights. I lay on the bed in
the lighted bedroom near the window and studied the picture of Saint
Joseph on my scapular. The portrait had been done in oils, appar-
ently in the late Victorian period. The man was heavily bearded,
piously looking toward heaven with a conventionally saintly gaze.
The scapular itself was a simple device, a black flat rayon ribbon
with the cloth-bound portrait dangling by a similar piece of cloth.
The painting was done in the same rich oils as a picture once shown
to my class by Sister Mary Joseph, who had found in a book what she
considered to be a true representation of the fires of hell. She
brandished the book before the ogling eyes of the kids and told us
what would happen to us if we were sent to hell. It showed a dimly
lighted cavern populated by crawling serpents and evil clouds of
smoke. Snarling, leering, crocodile-toothed hairless dogs ate their
way through the intestines of screaming victims and cruelly tore off
their arms and legs.
Holding my scapular before me, I wondered if its reputed magic
powers could indeed protect me from such a fate. Certainly, it
had done a shabby job of protecting me from temptation. I couldn't
imagine how anything could keep me from engaging in future naughty
intimacies with Martha Jane. The image that made me feel a creepy
apprehension was that of having to protect the scapular with my
life. Suppose, as Sister Angelica from the fourth grade had pro-
posed weeks earlier, the Chinese Communists invaded the country
and arrested all the Catholics and strangled their children? I
would be found wearing a scapular, certainly a dead giveaway, and
would be sadistically and slowly strangled if I didn't give it up.
This morbid thought haunted me as Mom climbed in the bed and
shut the light. When I grew a little older Mom would sleep in the
living room on the sofabed, but in those days she slept with me.
My place was at the window side, because I often enjoyed sitting
by the window sill and looking out into the dark before falling
asleep. Mom said good night and rolled away from me. For a long
time I lay face up, pondering the magnitude of my reponsibilities
as a soldier in the army of Christ with an official scapular that
I had to wear at all times to confirm my identity.
Late in the night I awoke and found myself totally alone in
the bed. Feeling something moving under me, I rose up on my knees
and looked down. Horrified, I saw dozens and then hundreds of
black thumb-sized roaches dashing across the white sheets in all
directions. Frantically I pounded the mattress and made wide
sweeping movements with my outspread hands to wipe them away.
They kept coming, multiplying, crawling everywhere, I couldn't
stop them...
Suddenly I was awake. I was on my knees in the bed. My
Mom slept on her side, next to me. My hands were spread on the
sheets in front of me. But there were no roaches. Only the
clean white sheets. My heart pounded. I waited for it to stop.
The only object on the sheet before me was the tangled, black-
stringed scapular.
I picked it up and placed it on the window sill. As I did
so, my arm was flooded by a narrow beam of moonlight.
Stealthily I moved to the edge of the foot of the bed, then
onto the floor. My heart still pounding slightly with the memory
of my terror, I slowly opened the corner chest and took out a new
sheet, which I brought with me into the kitchen, carefully looking
back to see my mother still asleep. Wrapping the sheet around me,
I opened the back door, wincing as it creaked halfway open. Look-
ing behind me again, I saw no one following me. I walked into the
dark back yard, barely visible in the light from a streetlamp
several doors away near the corner of the building. A cricket
chirped lazily. I moved out near the curb of the access driveway
behind our building and looked across Martha Jane's back yard. I
saw no lights. It was too dark for me to see into their bedroom
window. I wondered where she was. When would she be back?
My mother appeared in her nightgown at the back door, frown-
ing sleepily into the dark with swollen eyes. "Speedy? Speedy?"
Reluctantly, I walked toward her with the tails of my white
shroud trailing at my feet.
"What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night?" She
bent down and examined me. "Are you walking in your sleep? Huh?
Are you asleep?"
Seeing that she had furnished me with an excuse as good as any
I might conjure on my own, I nodded yes.
"Are you asleep?" she asked again.
I nodded. "I'm asleep," I said plainly, and looked up to see
if there were any possibility that she believed me.
"Well, come in the house. Come on, get in here and get back to
bed." She pulled me gently into the kitchen and stroked my hair.
"Are you awake now? Answer me, are you awake now?"
I nodded yes, and kept walking in my oversized sheet to the
bedroom, where I left the sheet on the floor and climbed back into
bed. As Mom settled beside me I nestled back into my pillow, face
up, and looked away from her into the shafts of moonlight that
banded the window sill.
Mom asked irritably, "What *were* you dreaming about?"
"Roaches," I muttered.
"What?"
"Roaches. The roaches from the scapular."
"Roaches?" she repeated, incredulously. "Well, go back to
sleep. Are you alright now?"
I nodded yes, several times.
"Go back to sleep, then."
She turned away from me and drew the top sheet to her
shoulders. Soon she was still, breathing deeply. I lay watching
the moonbeams, listening for echoes of Martha Jane in the room.
The resting woman beside me felt like a foreign object that didn't
sound or feel like the Martha Jane I wanted to talk to and explain
my dream to.
I searched the moonbeams and thought about her until I fell
asleep again.
PART 3B:
For several weeks I saw Martha Jane only now and then as she
walked across the grounds on her way in or out of the project. She
caught sight of me once from a couple of blocks away and smiled and
waved and yelled Hi.
Meanwhile, it seems my Mom and future step-dad had gone through
a brief spat. They started dating again a few weeks later. But my
sitter was not Martha Jane. In fact, I had two different sitters
at first. The first must not have been very interesting, as I have
absolutely no recollection of who they were or how they looked. The
identity of the second sitter is also a blank, but I recall that I
spent the evening not at home but in the sitter's apartment, across
the driveway and at a slight angle from my own building. Through
their back kitchen window that night I could see the back door that
led to my own apartment. And just to the left was the apartment
where Martha Jane and her family lived. At one point that night I
saw her in her kitchen; there was no mistaking that pretty face and
frizzy auburn hair. I waved to her. Of course, she didn't see me.
I went back later and waited for a while but she didn't show again.
And by the time the sitter walked me back across the driveway back
home, all the lights were out in Martha Jane's place.
When I had not seen her for several more days I bumped into her
accidentally just as I was going out the front door on my way to
school. She came outside at the same time with her schoolbooks
under her arm.
"Hey, hon," she sang as she locked her door. She beamed at
me and gave me her best Southern twang. "Where've you been,
sugar?"
"where've-you-been-too," I mimicked playfully.
"Well," she went on, making a silly face, "Where YOU been?"
"Well," I said in the same way, "Where YOU been?"
She laughed and gave a mild go-away wave with her free hand.
"Oh, silly!" She shook her head. She was wearing a long plaid,
pleated skirt and a white blouse. I very clearly remember that
morning and how she looked; bright, clean, basic, unpretentious,
very very pretty in a simple, uncomplicated way.
We walked a few blocks together. I noticed she seemed to be
getting thinner. She also looked tired, but cheerful. It turned
out she had been working very hard in school and was overly anxious
to do well. "You wouldn't know about that yet," she said, "you're
barely in the third grade."
"What grade are you in?" I asked.
"The umpteenth, feels like."
Umpteenth was our private code that meant something akin to
forever or infinity.
"I'm coming over Saturday," she said. She had stopped and
seemed serious and looked steadily at me without moving.
I said, "Oh. Okay!" and beamed at her. She kept looking at
me in the same mysterious way. I didn't know why she wasn't
saying anything. She seemed concerned, apprehensive.
"Well," she said after a minute and a short breath, "I am
*supposed* to stay with you Saturday night, anyway."
I did not know what she was getting at or what was going on,
or why she emphasized the word "supposed". I do remember the
moment clearly. I became very tense; I felt suddenly distant from
her and didn't know what was wrong.
She asked me pointedly, "Are we still friends, hon?"
"Sure we are," I said.
"I mean...are we still really, really friends?"
I blushed. "Your my own special, very only, very umpeenth-
degree friend."
"And you're my special little man, hon," she said, but she
wasn't smiling, except weakly, sympathetically.
We talked a little more, I don't remember what we said. She
seemed absent-minded. It was not until Saturday night that I
discovered what she was thinking.
It was all quite complicated. At least, it was for Martha
Jane. As an adult I now understand, but as a 9-year-old I could
not fathom it. I viewed things more simplistically.
Next Saturday, Martha Jane and I sat and talked after she made
dinner and after we cleaned the dishes. Then she studied on the
sofa a while. She asked me a series of seemingly unrelated
questions, none of which I remember. She was not as openly
affectionate as usual and seemed remote, though not at all cold.
Our exchanges were brief and rather formal. She asked me about
some uncles of mine who had not returned from the war, and she
asked if I ever saw my Uncle Frank--my father's brother and one of
the few male relatives in my family who had survived and returned
home. I told her that Uncle Frank had not seen me since he fin-
ished his last hitch in the Air Corps and decided to come back to
the States and go to college on the GI Bill. I told her about his
getting wounded in a B-26 in the Pacific a few years ago and how he
pulled up his pants leg and showed me the pink scars of the three
healed bullet holes in his lower thigh.
She winced, making an "Ugh" face. She said firmly, "I don't
want to hear about it. I've heard enough about the war."
So I didn't say any more. I sat on the floor watching her,
trying to figure out how to get through to her.
Martha Jane announced, "My Uncle Joe died, you know."
"Yeah," I said, "Mama told me."
"He was sick for so long, from his war wounds. He lived longer
than we thought he would, but...It was hard on Mother. That's two
men the war took from her, her husband and her brother." She
stared ahead pensively, then blinked awake. "Well. Enough of that."
I said earnestly from across the room, "I'm real sorry, Martha
Jane."
She smiled weakly. "Thank you, hon. I know you are. It'll be
alright." She looked back at her book and began scribbling in her
notepad.
For a long time--perhaps for most of the evening, it seems--
she pored over her studies and remained unresponsive.
Later that night I felt she was still mourning, despite saying
she would get over it. I had seen a whole neighborhood full of
hurt, tragic people: widows, the disabled and the paralyzed, the
shot-up and the abandoned of the War. I had seen my mom's sister,
my young and plain-looking Aunt Martha, when she came to our
apartment once in the middle of the night, pounding on our front
door and screaming for help until she woke us. My mom scrambled
out of bed and I stood in the hallway watching from the bedroom as
Mom opened the front door for Aunt Martha, who rushed sobbing into
the living room and collapsed in a wailing heap on the sofa. Her
husband had beaten her again. Mom and Aunt Martha tried to hide
the bloodied bruises from me, but I had already seen them on Aunt
Martha's face and arms and I knew what the marks meant without
being told. Seeing her, I wanted to cry and throw my arms around
her--even though she was, unfortunately, one of those adults I
didn't trust. She was even more grimly puritanical and prim than
my Mom, and a fundamentalist who considered everything an occa-
sion for sin of some kind. But I understood her pain, both
physical and emotional, without having it explained to me.
That night occurred some years earlier, when I had just turned
6. The commotion woke up Martha Jane's family next door. She and
her sister Evelyn came over in their robes and pajamas and Martha
Jane went straight over to me because my mother panicked and was
rasping, "Get Speedy out of here, get him out of here!" Martha
Jane led me to bedroom, where I looked up at her and whispered so
the others wouldn't hear, "I already saw it."
She looked down at me. "You did what, hon?"
I repeated, looking back to make sure the others couldn't hear
us, "I already saw it, Martha Jane. I saw what happened."
Martha Jane knelt down to me in her rumpled bathrobe and
looked into my eyes with her deep, striking green ones. "Then,"
she said eyeing me seriously, "you understand what happened."
I nodded. Then I added, so the others wouldn't hear, "Uncle
Bobby hurt her again."
We were alone in the room. I could still see in my mind the
earlier glimpse of Aunt Martha's bloody lip and the dark bulging
eye, and the blue-black on one of her arms. I started crying. I
could not stop the tears from falling down my face, despite my
attempts at remaining calm.
"Oh, honey," Martha Jane implored, "don't get scared and
start crying, now."
"I'm not scared," I sniffled. "I know how Aunt Martha hurts.
It makes me cry."
"You--" Her eyes looking into mine softened and seemed to
turn to mush. "Oh, you sweet baby."
"Why does he do that to her?"
"I don't know, hon. But you are so sweet. So very sweet."
She closed the bedroom door, shutting us off from the sobbing
and wailing in the living room, and put me back into bed. She told
me it would all be okay in the morning and she understood my
feelings. She sat on the bed and said I shouldn't feel bad about
not being with the others and she really didn't want me to feel as
though I were being "locked away" in the room. She said, "I'll
stay in here with you for a while if you want, okay? So you won't
be all by yourself?"
I told her, "It's okay if I stay in here, 'cause I know Aunt
Martha. I know how she is. She doesn't want us staring at her,
she feels all ugly and everything. I'll stay here so she won't
feel ashamed. But...they don't have to yell at me. They're always
hiding everything and acting like I won't understand."
"No, hon. They're just scared, that's all. They're upset."
She stroked my head. She told me she would come back later and
that she would tell my Aunt Martha about my concern for her. But I
said, "No, don't tell her that."
"But why not, hon.? I know she'd appreciate it."
"I don't want you to."
"But, Speedy...honey, why not? What's wrong?"
"I don't...want...you...to."
"But, hon...?"
"'Cause every time she sees me, she'll be embarrassed. She'll
remember tonight. That's the way she is."
I don't know how long Martha Jane sat looking at me, stroking
my hair, with that amazed look on her face. Finally she said, "I
have to go in there and help. You sure you'll be alright?"
"Yes."
She sighed and rose and went to the door, but before going out
she leaned inside and blew me a kiss. "You're my little man from
now on, hon," she said, and closed the door.
That night had taken place some years before and was one of
the very early incidents that had so endeared me to Martha Jane,
and her to me. Now it was a few years later. And Martha Jane had
become more than just a neighbor. More than a friend. And now I
saw that she was the one who seemed hurt. Or, at best, worried
about something.
I didn't know what to do about it. I was good at clowning,
though, and I wondered how I could make her laugh. At 9 o'clock
she hustled me into the bathroom (no bubble-bath this time. I was
getting a little "too old" for that) and she stayed in the living
room while I bathed. I dried off and straightened the room, and
peeked around the door into the living room. She was on the sofa,
studying intensely. But I did see a crumpled kleenex in her hand,
and her eyes had reddened.
An wave of empathy had me almost crying with her. There was a
curtain-covered closet in the hallway between the bath and the
bedroom. It could not be seen from where Martha Jane sat on the
sofa. I got out of the tub, dried off, and went rummaging in the
closet, looking for a funny idea. Martha Jane heard me kicking
around.
"Speedy, I thought you were going to bed," she called.
"Just lookin' for somethin'," I called back. I found my
six-shooter outfit in there, and a cowboy hat. I put on my mom's
dress with my six-guns and holsters on backward. I had seen enough
John Wayne movies to be able to do a fairly acceptable imitation of
the guy. I donned this outfit and tied toy spurs loosely on my
ankles. Pulling the brim of the hat down low over my eyes, I walked
into the living room. I looked ridiculous. I stood there while she
had her face in her book. It was a minute before she realized I
was there, and when she finally looked up I yelled out in my best
John Wayne voice:
"Howdy, pil-grum!"
She blinked. Her mouth fell wide open and she covered it with
the kleenex. I strutted across the room with big stomping John
Wayne steps. "pardon me, ma-uhm, but...this town ain't big for
thah two of us. One of us has...got tah go."
She laughed in her oh-my-god, head-shaking way, not a big laugh
but several breathy intakes. She blurted out, "Do you intend to
sleep in that outfit?"
"Why, yes'm" I said, still John Wayne. With my thumb over my
shoulder I indicated an imaginary object behind me. "Just me and...
muh horse, over there."
"Oh, no," she said. "You are so cute." She wiped one eye with
a corner of the kleenex, trying to hide her red eyes. I think she
knew I couldn't possibly have missed the gesture, but she kept up
the effort. She said, "I have something in my eye, hon. You go on
and get ready for bed. Go on, now, it's late."
"Well...okay," I said, disapppointed that I hadn't accomplished
very much. I walked back to the closet with one of my aluminum toy
spurs dragging uselessly off one foot, and removed my silly gear
and stored it back in the closet. As I was doing so, I saw Martha
Jane turning back the bedclothes in the bedroom. I undressed down
to the underwear that I usually slept in and crawled into bed.
Martha Jane fluffed the pillows and turned off the lamp. She stood
by the bed.
"You ready to go to sleep now, cowboy?"
"Right, ma-yum."
She was silent. She looked at the floor. I saw her eyes
water. She was dark against the dim light shedding in from the
living room.
"You never met your daddy, did you, hon? You never saw him.
He got killed over there before you ever knew who he was."
I didn't know what to say to that. Every relative I encount-
ered--and there were many of them in my huge family--mentioned my
dead father at every visit, every Mass, every picnic, every Bingo
game, every damn holiday dinner. Now Martha Jane was doing it.
I was not angered by it, but I did find myself unable to understand
this constant lingering over the memory of dead men I never knew.
Martha Jane went on quietly. "My daddy was killed in the war,
too. He was one of 'em, too, that...died, got killed." She took a
deep, wobbly breath, and sighed. "I guess you're lucky, Speedy, you
never knew your daddy, but I knew mine. I used to..." She stopped
again, breathed deeply, and when she started again her voice had
cracked and broken up. "I used to see him all the time. Every day.
So you don't know what that is, when some Army sergeant you never
saw before--" and she began talking and crying at the same time--
"shows up at the door with a letter--"
She suddenly crumpled and fell to her knees, her hands on
her head, which was cradled on the edge of the bed. She cried her
heart out, not wailing, but heaving in long, wrenching, childlike
sighs. "I miss him! Oh, I miss him! Why isn't he here to help
us?"
Instantly I went to her, squatting on the bed and holding her
head, the only part of her I could reach. She cried and cried and
cried. I didn't know what to say, but I did know to hold her and
stroke her hair. Eventually she calmed down, and returned my hug
with a long tight embrace of her arm around one of mine. With a
long sigh, she reached up to the night table for another kleenex
and sat on the floor, drying her eyes and looking up at me.
"You knew I was thinkin' something, didn't you cowboy?"
I nodded.
"You...are one little smart-ass," she said, blowing her nose.
She sniffed loudy. "You know what a smart-ass is?"
"I think so."
"Well you are one sweet smart-ass. Now, c'mon..." She stood up
and started tucking things in again. "I'm done now, I got it outta
my system and it's a-a-all over with. You get yourself to sleep.
C'mon, John Wayne."
"Martha Jane?" I began. I had not told her what I desperately
wanted to tell her.
"Yes, hon?"
"I..uh...Hmmm." I scratched my head.
She came closer to the bed. "What is it, big boy?"
"I still never..."
"Mm-hm, okay, you still never. You still never what?"
"I never told anybody what we did together."
She stood deadly still and silent, looking toward the floor,
hands on her hips. She pursed her lips and made another sniffle.
She didn't say anything. I thought I had offended her.
"I mean...," I went on carefully, "in case you were worried
about that. I mean, at first I thought that's what...you were
worried about."
She said, "Oh." She neither moved nor looked at me. "Oh,"
she said again. "That."
"I just wanted you to know," I said, shrinking from her and
back into the bed.
She shook her head, seemed to ponder deeply. Abruptly she
left the room. I lay there numb, figuring I had somehow pissed
her off in the worst way. Then the living room light went out.
The only light in the room was moonlight falling on the bed.
I heard Martha Jane walking toward the bedroom. I turned and
could barely see her at first, but soon she appeared in the dim
light of the moon beside the bed.
She said sternly, "C'mere, Speedy."
I crawled to the edge of the bed. She was wearing dark
clothes, a blue blouse and a ruffled blue skirt. All I could
see were her eyes.
"You are one smart little boy," she said. "Yes, I was worried
about that. I wanted my daddy to get me out of trouble, I thought
I was in trouble about that." She paused and said something,
almost to herself, something I would be able to understand only
years later. "I am goin' to hell. We're both goin' to hell."
She then reached out and pulled me to her by one hand, she
standing by the bed with me on my knees near the edge. She looked
deeply into my eyes briefly, and then hugged me tightly. There was
something serious and desperate, rather than playful, in the way
she clasped me to her. So I made no moves on my own. I simply let
myself be held, my arms draped loosely around her neck. When she
made no response after a moment I gave her a hug and waited. But
she stood unmoving beside the bed, silent, enfolding me closely
with one arm around my back and the other cradling my head into her
neck and shoulder.
With my face in her neck I was unable to see hers in the dark,
but I could tell that she was looking down at the floor silently
for a very, very long time, perhaps for almost two minutes. During
that time I very lightly stroked her back and then put my own hand
on the back of her neck to let her know that I would wait, wait for
her to stop thinking or whatever it was she was doing in that long
wordless minute in the dark.
She moved her lips; faintly I heard them part, and she took in
a small breath as if to speak, but she stopped. I waited for her
in the darkness around us. Her eyelashes flicked once, and I knew
she was looking past my shoulder, across the bed, out into the moon-
lit window behind me. Her lashes flicked again against my cheek,
and she looked down once more, breathing. She parted her lips again
and they made a mildly dry, sticking sound. And she breathed and
waited and waited, as if something from deep inside her were slowly,
slowly struggling to the find a place in her breathing and in her
voice. She looked down. She swallowed. Hard.
"Hon?" she began, tentatively, barely audible. Her lips were
so close to my ear I could feel the moisture of her breath on my
earlobes. "Do you want to be nasty with me?"
My head buried in her neck, I nodded slowly.
She paused again, and again I heard her lips part drily near
my ear. She continued, softly. "Do you mind if I say it's nasty
but I want us to do it anyway?"
"I don't mind."
"I mean...I mean I know and you know that everybody says it's
wrong and we're not supposed to do it, but...I want to anyway.
I want you to understand: I know it's nasty...but that's why I
like it. And I don't understand it."
"But I like it too," I whispered back.
Again she hesitated before she relaxed her arms and held me
more loosely. "Good," she whispered in my ear. "Good." She
stroked my back for a moment and gave my head in her neck a brief
affectionate hug. Then her fingers were at the front of my
underwear. She tried to find her way into the slit but couldn't,
so she pushed her hand gently under the top band.
She whispered, "Your dick, hon...", and soon her fingers found
me and wrapped around me warmly. "...there he is..." She hugged my
cock gently. Then she murmured so softly I could barely hear, even
though her lips were still against my ear: "I like it too, hon. I
can't help it. We're so much alike."
PART 3C:
At the time, most of this went right past my very young level
of awareness--but I clearly understood that she was troubled. I
knew that I somehow had to stay with her and believe in her and
help her in some way. I wanted to bring indescribable pleasure and
comfort to her. She was making me feel loved and tickly now, and
I wanted desperately to do the same for her. I found the folds of
her skirt and tried to gather them up, but had a hard time; my
hands were too small. She stepped back, not letting go of my cock,
and used her free hand to lift her skirt. She spread her feet
apart and looked down while I massaged her mound over her panties.
"Ah, hon," she breathed. "You remembered just exactly how I
like you to do that."
As she had done, I slipped my hand under her waistband and
found her pubic hair and her soft folds. She was not wet yet.
But she moved one foot to open her legs more so I could find her
crease.
I whispered, "I want to make you feel good." Now I hoped I was
learning to talk to her as she talked to me. I was beginning to
comprehend the nature of my own very young sensuality, realizing how
so much of it was mirrored by Martha Jane, and learning to try and
contact those elements within her. I was not yet very certain about
any of it. But now I had glimmerings of the giddy adrenal rush gen-
erated by the allure of the forbidden that held us and our secret
world together. And I was beginning to understand as well the para-
doxical, inexplicable comfort we both experienced by giving in to,
rather than resisting, our hunger. In short, I was getting older
and more sexual, and I realized more than ever how complex were the
emotional and physical needs that bound us. It was scary. It was a
lot like rushing blind across the avenue the way I used to, traffic
headed at me in all six lanes, not sure if or how I could make it
safely to the other side--but knowing, from where I stood at that
moment, I would not and could not run back.
Martha Jane moved her head slightly, toward me. Her lips
touched my ear. Her mouth opened and I heard the thin saliva break
as she licked my earlobe. And then my neck. Under one hand I felt
the skin on the back of her neck move and flex as she reached
farther with her tongue and licked behind my ear, then down, then
into my neck again. Under my other hand, she was getting wet.
She pulled her head back, smiling and looking down to watch my
hand working between her legs in the dark. She spread her knees
apart a little more. She softly hissed, "Put your finger in me..."
I found her hot opening, now growing wetter, and slowly inserted
what came to me naturally--my longest finger. She urged quietly,
"All the way in, hon, deep..." Her eyes closed as she sighed a
trembling, breathy "Aaahh..."
"Like that?"
"Yes, baby."
I flexed my finger in her. I never ceased to be amazed at
the way the inner Martha Jane could suck on my fingers in her.
"Did that feel good?"
"Bend your finger again, inside...Yes...keep doing that..."
We continued for a while, but it soon became uncomfortable
standing up. She broke away and got undressed. Before climbing in-
to bed she removed my tshirt and underwear and had me sit up against
a pillow that she placed against the headboard. Then, naked in the
moonlight, she lay before me on her tummy with her head in my lap
and started sucking me. She sucked gently, wetly, slowly, immersing
me in her very hot mouth and holding me there. Then slowly she
withdrew, sucking upward, and came off me with a loud swallow of the
wetness she had re-sucked off me, and sighed lasciviously. "You
feel so good in my mouth. You fit all the way inside."
She licked her lips and sucked me again in the same way, gently
but fully, flattening her tongue along the underside and pressing
slightly, then started bobbing her head slowly and rhythmically.
I was amazed and hypnotized. I began to be aware of her physical
beauty and the depths of the desperate lust that lurked in both of
us, there in the dim shaft of light that fell across her naked back
as she licked and sucked.
She stopped and asked, "Do you know what I'm doing?"
I just stared at her. Of course I knew what she was doing,
though she had never done it so gluttonously. But I didn't know
what it was called.
"I'm suckin' you off. Do you like it when I say that?"
Once again, her eyes had a strange glint and her voice sounded
inordinately wicked.
"Yes," I whispered back, suddenly realizing how breathless I
was. And I was doing some hard, nervous swallowing of my own.
"You know I do. Especially the way you do it." I was truly
flabbergasted that there were so many ways to bring pleasure to
each other.
She returned to her sucking, which she continued for quite
some time, breaking to gently fist my wetted cock. The cloying
sensuality of her motions and words caused me to make what I know
to be a seriously wicked grin as I watched her pump me. "That's
good," I whispered.
She looked up. "Yeah?" She grinned back.
I grinned again too, into her eyes. "Yeah. Keep doin' it."
"Yeah, honey."
"Ah..."
"Feel it, baby...enjoy it..."
And once again, her eyes and her words and her voice held me
mesmerized. She herself seemed hypnotized by my own spellbound
reaction. We fell into unalloyed devilishness, as if demons within
us had generated a chain reaction neither of us could not stop. She
wouldn't let up. The lust in her eyes and her voice met mine, mine
met hers, and they fused. We were glued to it, tangled it in. I
kept hearing the nuns and the aunts and relatives warning me, but
all their screaming voices together could not drown the tantalizing
whispers of Martha Jane. And the more my eyes lit up with pleasure,
the more Martha Jane saw it and gloated on it.
She gave a low, dirty chuckle and breathed, "You like it. You
like being like this with me." She kept looking into my eyes,
directly into them, into my cornea and through the optic nerves
and into my brain. As she wetly stroked my twitching cock I heard
only the wet slush of her hand in the hot spit she had left on me,
and her endless, libidinous whispers. "You like it just as much as
I do, don't you, I can tell. I like it too. I like watching your
face while I make you feel good. I love your dick. I love
touching it. I love milking it, and sucking..." She pumped and
then sucked and then pumped me again. I was feeling extremely
strange and giddy and I knew she did too. A dark wicked wave seemed
to wash into the room and lick me squarely in the scrotum under my
balls, then lick upward along my spine and settle in the back of my
head. I could see the reflection of these new and growing impulses
in her own eyes, I could hear her voice echoing my own rising
lechery. We fed it, and fed on it, helpless in the dark and the
moonlight. She fisted me loosely now, looking up at me. Distinctly
I felt and saw her own eyes catch the glint of lust in mine, and she
leered and fisted and kept whispering. "I feel you liking it, I
feel you jumpin' in my hand. Such a beautiful, hard, sweet little
cock. It gets so big. How does it get so big from being so little?"
"I like you making it big," I managed to whisper back, but
only after fighting for the breath to say it. I took a deep
breath and gasped brazenly, "I like watching you watch me."
Her eyes rose, surprised and please that I was joining her
in this hypnotic whirl. "I'm so glad you like this. Want me
to suck you some more?"
"Yes, it feels so good."
"I want to suck you and I want you to fingerfuck me, like
last time."
Uh-oh! A new term in the ever-expanding lexicon. I was taken
by surprise. Another Martha Jane word. At that point I somehow
knew there would be an explanation forthcoming. Contented, and
learning for the first time what the word "turn-on" would later come
to mean, I let her suck me and we continued our lurid whispers and
glances. Of course, I did not cum. This was fortunate, in a way,
since literally I didn't know what I was missing. But at one point
a pang of sensual tickling shot through the length of my shaft, and
I felt an oozing from me that mixed with her spit and slickened it.
I wondered if that meant I was cumming.
But the feeling passed too quickly for me to stop and ask
questions about it. For Martha Jane had risen to a half-sitting
position beside me, her head against the headboard. Her left leg
lay on the mattress between us, bent at the knee toward me so her
inner thigh was spread to expose her slit; and she bent her right
knee upward, keeping her foot on the bed, using her heel to spread
her right leg wide and exposing even more of her nakedness. She
shoved her hips forward so that I, lying beside her, could fully see
her auburn tuft and the widening, smooth-lipped slit below. With
one hand she spread the silken hair that partly covered her, and
wantonly instructed me on how to touch her clit and how to insert my
finger and how to search far up inside her and find a magic bundle
of muscle and nerve that made her arch her hips and sigh lustily and
made her nipples swell in my mouth, and she looked down, leering
and watching me please her and holding herself open for me, telling
me this was her cunt, and she said that when she felt really nasty
as she did now that she wanted me to call it her cunt, and as I
pulled her clit and stroked the tender place far inside her wetness,
her words and her voice and her sighs slid into a barely audible
stream of hissed obscenities.
And I remembered doing this to her before and making her cum,
but now I knew she wanted me to call it fingerfucking and that she
liked the word and so did I, and she liked me watching her on her
side with one leg bent between us and the other with one knee raised
and resting spread away from her so that she could use the leverage
of that leg to raise her cunt toward me and we could watch me
fingerfuck her, and she liked watching while I did it, and her
raised knee soon fell and she dropped back into the pillows and
spread herself flat and gave herself over to the long cum that
seemed to be on its way, and for a long while she simply lay and
enjoy it and sucked on my finger in her. And finally I gave her the
smashing, paralyzing orgasm she wanted, her head pressed far into
the pillow and her neck straining, her arms and legs stiffened
against the white sheets and her nipples jutting upward as she
threw her head back and suffered silently the sweet agony I was
giving her, taut and stiff for what seemed to me a perilously long
time. Her hips gave a slight jerk, and I expected her to slide into
her swooning relaxed state, but instead her head snapped farther
back into the pillow and her teeth showed in the dark and she
whimpered "Oh!" in sudden surprise, and then "Ah!" and she came
again, again, again as I moved my fingers in the way I knew was just
right for her, never for a moment wanting to lose my way in giving
her pleasure, caring for her, protecting her in her utter nakedness,
striving to make it perfect and right for her. And finally, with a
great sigh and a whimper that I know could be heard out in the dark
street beyond our window, she relaxed with a final lurch of her
hips, and began breathing in waves, then breathing regularly and
deeply, and she made the same sounds she made when she cried, but
now they were sounds of exhaustion and release.
I licked her nipple, my soaked hands now lightly massaging her
outer lips and inner thighs, and she put a hand on my arm and cried,
"so good!", and on reaching down to touch my cock she found wetness
there, a smear from inside me, and she opened her eyes and looked at
me and then looked at my cock and reached down and kissed the tip,
moaning "oh your cum, your sweet cum!" She licked it off me and it
tickled terribly and I felt deep in my balls the oozing of another
smear, which she milked out of me with a long slow pull upward on my
dick, and she licked that off too with tender relish, as if even the
smallest beginnings of my cumming were as precious as water to a
parched throat. And then, out of breath and with a final gasp, she
literally fell into me and hugged me and held on and went straight
to sleep.
We slept like that for a while, with her splayed over me as
if knocked unconscious. She awoke with a start and looked at the
clock. "Darn!" she whispered frantically, "they'll be coming home!"
Quickly she dressed. As she did, she caught me smiling at her
from my pillow and she told me, "Speedy, you are remarkable. My
god, I wish I could tell someone about this. They'd never believe
me..." She looked at me as if she were in shock. "How do you do
this to me? Where did you learn to do this?"
"Do what?" I asked, truly puzzled.
"You know what I'm talkin' about," she scolded midly, hopping
a little to get her shoes on. She sat on the floor and tied her
laces. "You made cum in my mouth, too, didn't you?"
"I...think so."
"Listen," she said earnestly, finishing her shoes and getting
up to bend over me. "I want you to grow up and cum. I can't keep
doing this all by myself. Do you have any idea what you just did
to me?" She gathered up the wads of kleenex and started straight-
ening the place quickly, mumbling, "I didn't even know anything
like this was possible. Where in the world did you learn how to do
it like that?"
"You taught me," I said.
She caught herself, pausing as if startled, and went back to
her hurried straightening. "I'm just talking, hon. You go to
sleep. Your Mama will be home soon."
She returned to the living room and her books. The light in
there snapped on. I rolled over and looked out the window. I did
not understand the significance of this nor the problems it would
cause later. But I had experienced an unusually intense level of
eroticism which I feared and yet didn't fear, something apparently
as new and exotic to her as it was to me.
PART 3D:
That was a sensuous summer. Mom's relationship apparently ran
smoothly for a while and my stepdad-to-be took her out not fre-
quently but regularly. Each time, Martha Jane would show up on time
and we'd fix dinner for each other, clean up, do a little homework,
and then undress each other in the tiny bedroom. Soon the room
echoed with our sighs, whispers, and moans of pleasure and lust.
The only sex we had outside that bedroom was the one time Martha
Jane showed up at our place one rare Saturday afternoon when I had
not been shipped off to relatives for the weekend. Martha Jane had
iced tea with Mom and chatted a short time, and told my mom she
wanted me to come next door and help set up a record player her
sister Evelyn had given to Martha Jane and her mom.
She brought me to her apartment and as soon as we were inside
she took me into her bedroom. I told her I thought she wanted me to
help her with the new phonograph and she giddily and impatiently
replied that the machine was set up already and she really just
wanted us to be alone. "I don't know what's got into me today," she
exclaimed, almost visibly trembling. "I feel so nasty. God, I hope
we don't get caught!" She lay on the edge of her bed with her legs
hanging over the side. Lifting her skirt, she panted, "Fingerfuck
me, hon. Hurry. Somebody might show up." I put my hand inside her
waistband and fingerfucked her inside her panties. She came almost
immediately. Afterwards, nervous and fumbling, she lay me down the
same way and jacked me with my zipper open until I felt that little
buzz in my cock and she pulled a little drop out of me and licked it
off. Then we straightened our clothes and went into her living
room, where she settled down. And just in time: about ten minutes
later her sister Evelyn arrived unexpectedly. I talked with her
briefly and while she was in their kitchen making lemonade Martha
Jane saw me to her door and whispered as I left, "That was close.
But it sure felt good!" Afterward she told me we shouldn't try that
sort of thing again, as the schedule in her place was truly unpre-
dictable and so many of her mother's friends always popped in. And
she said she never, never wanted to risk having my Mom find out.
Had sex been the only aspect of our relationship I have little
doubt that both of us would have soon tired of this sitting routine
and sought more varied pleasures elsewhere or with someone else. But
we had a life outside the bedroom that was also special for us and
that only added to our feelings of intimacy, devotion, and pleasure
in the bedroom.
My back yard was a small patch of lawn about the size of a
modern suburban carport. It lay along the curb of the access drive-
way that fed into the project from the street and led to a parking
lot around the corner of our building. Near the curb was a large
black oak. We spent several evenings there on weekdays at dusk,
just after dinner, as the long summer days ended and the stulti-
fyingly humid Southern air turned breezy and cool, the sky glowing
purple and orange. It was there under the heavy, leafy old oak tree
that I told her about my strange dream with the roaches. She said
she had no idea why I would dream such a thing, but she suspected
the nuns had scared the hell out of me.
Martha Jane and I discussed our dreams frequently during those
waning summer days under the tree. She often dreamed of her father
coming to her in the night, but he was reduced to the size of a boy,
a very small boy almost as small as an infant. His head was
bloodied and disfigured (he had died in combat on Okinawa from head
wounds). He would plead for help, but when she rose to go to him
she saw the rest of the house was filled with more like him, thou-
sands of them, moaning and reaching for her. In the dream her
mother made tea, oblivious to it all and apparently deaf and unable
to hear, but as she sipped her tea she said she didn't want to hear
and appeared to have gone quietly insane. Overcome with helplesness
and rage, she would wake up sweating.
She said she once had a dream about me. I was standing in a
dark room smiling at her. She said my eyes were very large and
very dark, almost gigantic, and they glowed in the dark room. As
she stepped toward me she became very small and felt faint, and
suddenly I was very large and very much older and went to her with
a glass of wine, gently cradling her head in one arm while holding
the wine for her to sip. The wine was warm and was in a small
silver chalice. She said the most striking part of the dream was
my remarkably dark eyes that seemed to fill the room. They were
kind and endearing, but there was something frightening and ruth-
less about them as well.
Across the access driveways were the small back yards of the
building directly behind ours. I never knew our backdoor neighbors
personally. Occasionally I'd look out our kitchen door and see one
of the neighbor ladies standing in her kitchen and talking with
Martha Jane across the driveway.
One of those neighbors, a Mrs. Johnson, would open her back door
each evening just before dark and carefully slip her bathrobed,
paraplegic husband in his wheelchair down the three or four concrete
steps into their back yard. She would make him comfortable there on
their little patch of grass, read the newspapers to him, or tune a
station on their small brown GE portable that rested on the ground
between his wheelchair and her aluminum lawn chair. Many after-
noons, Martha Jane and I sat on the curb and watched this ritual.
We would say hello to Mrs. Johnson and to Mr. Johnson, and Mrs.
Johnson would smile and wave hello and bend down to Mr. Johnson and
tell him we were out there with them. Mr. Johnson was unable to
respond. Nor could he move his legs or arms or his neck or his
eyes. He slumped limply in his wheelchair, wearing striped pajamas
and a brown bathrobe, his eyes ogling blindly ahead, a thin drool
forever flowing down one side of his slack and expressionless face.
Mr. Johnson had been almost blown to pieces on Taiwan. Even at my
age I realized without being told that the man would never move or
talk or lift a spoon of soup to his face.
Martha Jane would watch quietly as they performed this almost-
nightly ritual for a brief stay in the open air. I would look up at her
and see her swallow, for a different reason now, and she would murmur,
"God grant the poor woman patience." I told her about Taiwan, and
Guadalcanal. And she told me how my father had died. He was flight
engineer in a B-17 on his 21st mission when the plane was badly shot up.
They barely made it back to England, where they discovered that the front
wheels would not remain extended for a landing. As engineer in this
emergency, my father ordered everyone but the pilot into the rear of the
aircraft, where most of them lay wounded and unable to parachute out.
With the pilot bringing the plane in, my father stationed himself near
the landing gear handcrank, literally jamming the left wheel straight and
steady with a hand-held crowbar. The wheel held up just long enough for
the plane to land and start to slow. Then the gear collapsed, crushing
him. All the other crewmen were saved.
"You're a lot like him," Martha Jane told me at the end of that
story. "You'll try anything, just to see what happens. You're such
a little outlaw."
We would sit there until the sky grew dark, seeing before us where
so many others had gone, talking vaguely about how far there was to go.
"Sometimes I think we're the only ones who are still in one piece,"
she sighed, her chin propped on her knees. "Sometimes I think we were
put here so we could know how much there is to lose. So we can save
whatever's left." She shook her head. "And sometimes I think: there's
so little left to be saved."
On July 4th she took me to a movie at the neighborhood theatre,
the Suzore's--a seedy, well-used, crowded, and sticky-floored movie
house if ever there was one. The place was a fallen relic of the
1920's, but it had a kind of homey who-cares air about it and the
best popcorn in town. We held hands and shared the popcorn bag,
laughing at the Bowery Boys and hiding our eyes when Charlie Chan
crept through the hidden corridors of a haunted house. The walk
back home was about seven blocks, down the steep, landscaped, four-
block-long hill that led from the top of the project to our building
at the other end. It was one of those hot Southerm nights, humid
but cooling down, the air so still that the voices of people walking
nearby hung in space long after the people had gone. In those
days, before pollution clouded the view, we could see a multitude of
stars overhead. As we walked I pointed out Orion to her, and Alpha
Centauri. I showed her where the Weeping Sisters usually appeared
and told her that the faint red dot near the steeple of St. Mary's
Church was Mars. We were standing in the dark of the open lawn near
the project's administration building. She listened as I pointed
out the constellations, and after a minute I stopped and watched as
she looked up. I was very nearly her own height, then. A half-moon
floated just in front of her, outlining her face. Unable to resist,
I softly cupped my hand over one breast.
She looked down at my hand on her bosom. She didn't pull away,
but she whispered mischievously, "Somebody's gonna see us."
"I don't care," I said.
She laughed and said, "Yes, but I do."
"Okay," I said, and withdrew my hand.
She held my hand at her side as we strolled the rest of the way
home. "It's not that I don't want you to," she said. "It's just
that...I don't ever want anyone catching us and trying to stop us
from doing it."
That summer gave us several nights together, nights of holding
each other warmly and softly, naked, with Martha Jane under me or
hovering over me and whispering her secret needs and pleasures,
showing me something new. I learned to keep her on a dreamy
sensuous edge for a longer and longer time, and then to make her cum
several times, rapidly and intensely. She would almost always fall
sleep or faint afterward, and I had to struggle to stay awake so I
could rouse her in time to straighten up before my Mom returned.
Martha Jane had her 17th birthday in September, 1950. There was
precious little money to spend, but she invited a few close friends
and had a small celebration in her mother's apartment. I was there,
indulging heavily in ice cream and homemade cake.
Martha Jane found it necessary to introduce me personally to
everyone in the place. I was surprised to learn that so many of her
friends were not classmates but older adults. This left me edgy,
especially when she kept introducing me as "my boyfriend, Speedy."
And every older lady in the joint had to say something like, "Oh,
he's such a cute boy!" My discomfort was obvious. At one point I
retreated to a corner and sat unsmiling by myself for a long period.
Martha Jane came over to me and asked what was wrong.
I sat petulantly bumping my heels on the legs of the chair and
averting her eyes.
She leaned down to me. "Speedy, you're too smart and too well-
liked by everyone here to act like this. What's wrong with you,
don't you like these people?"
"They all think I'm cute," I pouted. "And I hate the name
Speedy."
She chuckled and said, "Speedy, let 'em think what they want
to think. It doesn't hurt to cooperate a little bit. And what
difference does it make?"
I adamantly folded my arms.
She stood up and said, "Hmp," with her hands on her hips.
"Face it, hon--you ARE cute!"
I said back, "Hmp!"
"How am I gonna get you to have more experience being around
people other than that fussy family of yours? Hm?"
I said nothing, but kicked away with my heels.
"Okay, sourpuss," she said. Shaking her head impatiently, she
returned to the group. I spent the rest of the day mostly ignoring
everyone until I felt it was time to go home. As I left her apart-
ment I saw her notice me from the corner of her eyes while she spoke
with the others. For the rest of the day I stayed in my living room
and pretty much had the place to myself, my Mom being at Martha
Jane's all afternoon. I listened to the Philco for a while, and
typed on the Underwood. And by dusk I was totally bored.
I went to our back yard, out by the curb near the big oak. For
a while I sat on the curb under the tree, listening to its heavy,
leafy limbs rustle in the breeze. It was dusk, and the early fall
sky had turned red.
Before long I heard the slap of the screen door behind me at
Martha Jane's place. I looked behind me. Sure enough, it was she.
She saw me and walked toward me, her head lowered and her arms
behind her back. I sat with my legs extended from the curb, my
heels on the surface of the driveway. She sat beside me.
"What's the matter, hon?"
"Nothin'," I said.
"Look at me."
"No."
She lowered her voice and said, hurtfully, "Speedy, why are
you doing this to me?"
I sighed deeply and leaned forward, propping my chin on my
raised knees. I muttered, "I dunno." And I didn't.
"I'm sorry you didn't have a good time. I thought you would."
I shrugged, as if to say it didn't matter.
"Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
"I dunno."
"Try, Speedy."
I shrugged.
"Try, hon. Talk to me. You haven't been nice to me all day.
I have a perfect right not to speak to you at all. Do you realize
that? Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
I struggled a bit, and finally managed to say, "I don't...
like it when people expect me to be cute all the time."
"Speedy, they don't 'expect' you to be cute. You 'are' cute.
You really are. You're an unusual person--you don't look like other
boys your age. You have a strong, intelligent, different look and
personality altogether. And that's what people notice about you."
"But...I don't know what to say to people."
"You just say hello, hon. And 'how are you'. You don't have
to say anything special."
"Well..." I stopped. I shrugged helplessly. "People always
expect me to do certain things. And act a certain way."
Martha Jane sighed. "You mean," she said knowingly, "you
mean 'certain' people, don't you? Like Aunt Frances and the rest
of them? And your mother?"
I nodded.
For a while Martha Jane looked at the ground silently. she ex-
tended her bluejeaned legs into the driveway and leaned back on her
arms. "Speedy, do you know what I'm going to do when I go to
college?"
I shook my head.
"I'm going to study to be a teacher. A special kind of teacher.
I'm going to teach children who are...who are different from other
children. Someone like you could be one of those children some day.
But you'll be grown up by the time I get started. You'll be in high
school yourself by then, or nearly there. But you know--? Look at
me, Hon. Look at me."
I did as she asked.
She continued, "There's an awful lot I could learn from you.
You're a really tough case."
"Tough case?" I said. "What's a tough case?"
She raised her eyes, looking up at the sky. "Ah, you're soooo
hard-headed. That's what a tough case is."
I shrugged. "Oh."
"You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
"Movies?" I frowned. "I don't have any money."
"I'll pay."
"But that's not fair."
"Yes, it is. I asked you first."
"Well, if you're askin' me, then I'm not takin' you, you're
takin' me."
"Oh, darn it, why do you have to be so exacting? Listen. Let's
start over again. Now, I'm going to ask you if *you* want to take
*me* to the movies. And you're supposed to say yes."
"Okay."
"Now--you wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
I paused. I still didn't agree with the "politics" of this
game. "But if you're the one who has the money--"
She prompted, impatiently, "Answer yes, darn it."
"Start over," I said. "This time I'll do it right."
"Oh, alright...You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
"Yes." I reached up very quickly and kissed her cheek. "Yes,"
I said again, kissing her again. And a third time, "Yes," and
kissed her.
She laughed. "What *are* you doing?"
"I'm kissing you and saying yes."
"Three times?"
"To make up for the times I didn't do it right." One more time,
I gave her cheek a loud, lingering kiss. "...And that's for me
being so snotty on your birthday. I won't do that any more."
"You little heartbreaker."
Martha Jane was looking less like a teenager and more like a
young woman. Her neck, arms, and legs had developed slimmer and
more graceful lines, and she was losing the baby fat in her face
and neck, getting more slender overall. I was nearing my 9th
year and was somewhat muscular and slightly tall for my size, but
certainly not as hefty as many fast-growing boys my age. I was
now only an inch or so shorter than Martha Jane. Like my father
and his brother, there was still something delicate about me from
my paternal grandmother's side of the family.
I mentioned this because at that time I was becoming more and
more aware of my own physical dimension and of the physical side
of this passionate relationship. I noticed this change in both our
appearances a few days after Martha Jane's birthday. She stayed
with me while my Mom's future fiance took her to a Halloween party.
Outside my apartment the kids strolled the Halloween trail for candy
and trick-r-treats, their noisemakers and their giggles echoing in
the night. At that time, however, Martha Jane and I were naked
together in that tiny bedroom. We were giggly and giddy because we
were totaly nude but lying on the bed just below the window sill so
that anyone looking in would see only our faces and elbows. For a
while we talked and watched the goings-on outside.
Then we went into the bathroom so we could make up in Halloween
faces of our own and laugh and point at each other. This was one of
the few times I had seen her naked outside of a bed. Watching her
stand before the bathroom mirror or tiptoe across the living room, I
saw how slim and tight her waist, back, neck and legs had become. I
told her this and she stood in front of me sizing me up. She said
my chest was starting to expand now, my shoulders broadened and
would probably look like my Uncle Frank's one day, and my legs were
longer and leaner and already had fuzz on them.
I told her, "You're getting prettier and prettier all the time,
Martha Jane."
"Oh, stop it."
"But you are," I insisted. "Your eyes are. They're bigger than
they used to be. Yes, they are, I know they are. They have more
blue in 'em than they used to."
"Phooey, hon. Let me see you." She held me at arm's length
and looked me up and down. "Look. You're perfectly proportioned.
Not too big, not too small." She put her hands on her waist and
continued her assessment of my nudity, muttering absently, "I've seen
a lot of pictures of a lot of statues in the art books at the library,
so I know what I'm talkin' about. Look at you. Just perfect. Like
a little Greek statue. The only thing missing is a fig leaf."
"And you look perfect too," I breathed, slowly taking in her
naked form, the graceful slope of her breasts, her slightly parted
thighs and her slender ankles.
"Guess what?" I asked.
"What?"
"Looking at you like this is makin' me excited."
She winked. "C'mon."
PART 3E:
We got into bed and she lay with her head in my lap, sucking me
languidly until the increasingly familiar twinge in my cock sent a drip
of pre-cum to my tip. I sat breathlessly enjoying her now expert lips
and hands on me.
"I can taste it," she said, tentatively slurping as she raised
her mouth off me. "I taste more of you, hon. Are you starting to
cum?
"Well, I guess...I'm not sure."
"Poor baby. You still don't know what I'm talking about, do
you?"
I told her I wasn't quite sure, and she tried to explain about
male orgasms and ejaculation. I got the general idea, but was
amazed to find out even more about babies and how much of the truth
had been concealed by the adults around me.
Martha Jane told me how women kept from getting pregnant by
making the guy use a rubber (she never used the word condom or
contraceptive. She told me she didn't like those words because
they were turn-offs. "Rubber" sounded dirtier, and that's the
word she liked to use). I remarked that if I ever had a real cum,
we'd have to use a rubber on me.
She frowned and said, resolutely, "No. I'd never make you use
a rubber."
"But wouldn't you get in trouble if I didn't wear a rubber?"
She didn't answer me. She was stroking my cock, now limp after
so much prolonged stimulation. She looked at me, and then she
looked out the dark window. I asked, "what's the matter?"
She said simply, "Wait a minute, hon," and she looked out the
window and seemed to be thinking deeply about it. After a while she
sat up and smoothed back some stray hair from her face and scowled.
"No. No rubbers."
I looked puzzled.
"Because..." she continued, pulling a bobby pin from her hair
and holding it in her teeth while she bundled back some of her
hair. "Because, uh..." she went on, securing the bundle behind her
with the bobby pin. Then she abruptly concluded, "Because."
The look on my face told her that I knew she hadn't answered me,
but I also knew by her voice that she didn't want to talk about it.
She lay beside me and I put my head on her breast and we held each
other, and for a while she simply stroked my hair and neck and
reached down to lick my ear. We grew quiet and listened to the
squeals and giggles of the kids outside. After a while she licked
her hand and wet my cock with it and fondled me while I sucked her
nipples.
With her face resting on my head as I suckled her, I could
feel her smiling. She asked sweetly, "You really like sucking my
titties, don't you, hon?"
"Yes. You feel so good in my mouth."
"I'm glad you like it. It feels good to me too. It's so
loving. I like holding you like this and letting you suck. I
like it because I like the way you enjoy it."
"It's fun," I joked, moving to another nipple.
She laughed. "You funny boy. Yes, it's fun, it really is fun,
isn't it? I don't know...I guess I wouldn't do this if you were my
same age." For a long time she said nothing, but stroked my cock
playfully and watched me enjoy her breasts. She murmured, "It's
so hard to imagine people wanting to hurt us for this. This doesn't
happen for most people. I don't think you understand that." She
held my chin and pulled my head up so she could give me a playful
smack on the lips. She searched my eyes and my face for a moment.
"I hope no one ever hurts you. But it's going to be very, very
hard to find a woman who understands someone like you."
I asked her what she meant by that, but she didn't answer.
Instead she brushed it off and played with my pubic fuzz. "You
have such a nice shape," she mused. "I hope you don't grow too
much hair on yourself." She uncoupled from me and scooted down
to suck me again. Holding my shaft and licking my tip she sighed
contentedly, "You're so suckable."
After wetting me she started pumping again, holding me very
loosely so her hands could slide along my shaft and brush my tip
in a way she knew felt good and would make me hard quickly. She
grinned and said, "It's good, huh? Yeah? It's good, I can tell
you like it. I want to make it so good for you..."
It didn't take long for her to propel me to a breathless state
again. I have to admit, orgasm or no, I have never been so
physically pleased by a woman's hands as I was by the way Martha
Jane had learned to please. It wasn't long before my rockhard young
cock seemed to develop a life of its own. My legs grew stiff and I
can verify that toes really do curl, for I could look down past
Martha Jane and see them doing so before my very eyes. Another one
of those strange waves of pure pleasure shot into my cock and I
seemed to melt under it. After several seconds of this tension, I
felt fluid leak to my tip. Martha Jane stopped and looked up at me
in awe.
"Honey, did you cum?"
I struggled to say, "I don't...know. It sure...felt good all
of a sudden."
She studied me. Sure enough, I had leaked again. I would not
have called it an orgasm, at least not a proper adult orgasm, but
she had propelled me toward an awesome pleasure, both physical and
emotional. I felt drained and tired.
She rose to stroke my face. "Did I hurt you, hon? I didn't
hurt it, did I?"
I shook my head no. I found it to difficult to speak, my mouth
was so dry. "No, but it...it just felt so good."
She hugged me. "Oh you almost, you *almost*! Oh, that's
so nice!"
I felt very good and deliciously wicked anyway, which was
enough for me at the time. I don't remember at what point that
night I was inspired to take my next action, but Martha Jane was
lying on her back quietly enjoying having her nipples sucked while
I fingerfucked her, when I was inspired to please her orally as she
had pleased me. As I trailed kisses down to her thighs, I relished
the feel and the taste and texture of her smooth thighs and licked
the tight juncture at her crotch below her cunt, and nipped at the
smooth tendons that stood out when she spread her thighs widely to
let me get close to her cunt. She liked tiny nipping kisses on the
insides of her thighs. Once she figured out what I was up to, she
looked amazed and her eyes lit up.
"Are you doin' what I THINK you're doin'? My god," she ex-
claimed, and let her head fall back on the pillow. She smiled
at the ceiling while I searched with my tongue for the motions and
actions that would please her. As far as I can recall, she had no
scent except for a faint musk that was something like freshly
warmed milk. She did have a subtle and indescribable taste,
similar to unsweetened whipped cream. She had never mentioned
going down on her--and this was, after all, the early 1950's, an
era that had yet to indulge in the oral freedoms of later decades.
Immediately, I could tell she was pleasantly surprised; I could
hear it in her sudden and joyful whimpers and could feel it in the
tightening of her tummy and her gasp as my tongue probed her
wetness and found her clit.
It wasn't long before I found what she liked. Apparently she
had never considered this act before, so she probably couldn't
think of specific instructions. Afterward, she would always refer
to this as "licking." I don't recall all the details after all
these years, but she was mightily pleased and delighted by my
complete willingness to lick her and my obvious enjoyment in doing
it. The intensity of her reactions surprised even me, who should
have been used to it by then. Knowing that her sucking of my own
tip was very pleasing to me, I learned quickly to suck her clit
gently just as it seemed she might be cumming. I found I could keep
her close but not quite there for a very long time. After almost a
half hour of this, I was ready to suck and lick her steadily until
she came.
Instead she, too, introduced the unexpected. She reached
down and pulled me up to her. "C'mere, hon," she whispered under
her breath. There was a new urgency, a queezy tension in her
voice that I hadn't heard before. "Come up here," she said again,
pulling me forward until I lay on top of her, and she widened her
thighs with her knees extended at each side of me to let me lie
completely nestled between them. I propped myself on my elbows to
see what she wanted. Her face was taut and intent. She fixed her
determined gaze on mine and moaned, "Lift up a little," and still
keeping her eyes on me and biting her lower lip she felt down,
between us, and found my dick. I felt a very strange, wet tickle
and realized she was rubbing my cock in her slit, wetting me. She
saw the surprise in my face and her own face became more intent
and deliberate.
"Feel that?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yeah. Wet. Ah. Tickly."
She fumbled urgently for a few more seconds. "Move up a
little," she whispered. Now her voice was shaky, trembling in a
way it never had. And then I felt my dick enter her.
"Yes, hon," she breathed. Her intense face softened, and she
smiled deliriously, but there was still a great urgency in her
voice. "Move on me. Move up here, toward me."
I did so. Her eyes were locked on mine. I saw and heard and
felt her swallow hard as my cock slid deeply in. The feeling was
marvelous. I was enthralled.
Knowing that she enjoyed my finger moving in and out of her,
I naturally assumed that my cock moving in her would feel even
better, if not just as good. I pulled back slightly and then moved
as far as I could into her. She contracted around me snugly, and
I moved out and in, then did it again. I was not moving up and
down, but back and forth, careful to move only an inch or so, not
wanting to lose that wonderful new feeling of being totally sheathed
inside her. I kept my tummy and the upper shaft of my cock riding
in her groove, knowing intuitively that she wouldn't want me to lose
contact with her clit.
I was amazed and afraid, and her eyes saw it in mine and mine
saw it in hers. Her eyes narrowd and glistened, and she gulped.
"It's okay, hon. Don't stop. It's okay, you can do it to me. I
want you to."
She swallowed again. One hand gripped my shoulder and trembled,
and my legs shook. Her eyes kept searching mine. And I searched
for guidance in hers, as I vaguely but fearfully realized what we
were doing. Most of all I was overcome by the unthinkable, by the
fact that I was totally inside her, in her darkest and most secret
place. She could see the disorientation and suddenness of it in my
face, she could feel it in my unsure movements.
I managed to utter, "I'm...I'm in you. I'm inside you."
She released a pent up half-laugh, half-cry. "Yes! Yes, You're
in me, hon. Stay in me. I want you in me."
"It's so good!"
"Keep moving your dick in me...deep and slow, just like that...
..baby, it's so good and you do it so...exactly...right!...oh how
do you know to do it...I knew it would happen sooner or later but I
never knew it would be like this, I didn't know it would be so
*good*...it's...oh your dick's in me and we're fucking...We're
FUCKin', hon, and I want you to FEEL it I want you to like it with
me I don't want any rubbers because I want you to feel your DICK in
me, I want to watch your eyes while you feel your first fuck and I
don't want you to stop...oh god I don't want you to stop..."
"I won't stop," I panted, working steadily on her. "I can't."
Her eyes jerked swiftly, searching mine and in every corner of
my face, as if to record with her eyes every detail of the moment,
every move I made and every twitch of my face. One hand gripped
the back of my neck, the other below held my wet sliding shaft
between two fingers as she felt me fuck her steadily and wetly and
she kept talking in a low whisper that became lower and lower and
more breathless.
"...it's so good and so...nasty and...I can't believe how good
you feel! I can't believe what a beautiful loving good fuck you
are, you do it just right..."
"Martha Jane...it feels so good in you."
"Yes, baby, in me, *in* me!...I never thought I'd be this good
..oh...I want it to last, I'm...Im trying to wait but you feel
so...you're making me cum...you want to stop, hon? Huh? You want
to stop and rest so you can feel it longer?"
"No. I don't want to stop."
"Oh baby..."
"I want you to cum."
"So sweet you want me to cum...I didn't think it would be
like this I didn't think you'd make me cum so soon..." Her eyes
widened, startled, and her chant grew more urgent, then frenzied.
"Oh hon I'm...oh it's gonna be so good!...it's gonna be so good!
it's GonnaBeSoGood...!"
As I continued her eyes lost focus. She appeared to see nothing
at all, though she stared directly at me. Her eyes fluttered and
closed, her head swooned back and to one side, one hand came up to
her lips. She could no longer speak--and neither could I. I had
not moved on her very long before her trembling began, and then the
stiffening. This time she seemed totally lost, afraid but unable to
do anything about it except to keep doing it. Her motions and
reactions seemed different, as if she had suddenly and somehow lost
all control and had turned her body and cunt and destiny entirely
over to me. I saw her lie below me and totally abandon herself to
what I would or wouldn't do. She lay utterly helpless. She moved
little, but her movements were centered in a very small area from
her upper thighs to her navel, and she seemed to have somehow found
a way to hold her cunt poised at the exact height and angle for my
cock to slide snugly in her exactly the way she wanted, with her
swollen clit barely brushing my shaft-- either she planned it
precisely so, or I had precisely found the very spot and the very
motions she precisely wanted, or else it just happened that way
because everything we did when we were naked somehow and unavoidably
happened that way. Her cunt sucked exactly at the center of my tip
and her hips subtley rotated her clit precisely along the ridge of
my cock that rode and fit exactly in her crease as we firmly and
silently locked and greasily ground our bellies together.
Then she stiffened terribly, trembled, stiffened and lifted
her her hips a bare inch off the bed, trembled and whimpered, and
then stiffened for one last, prolonged period. I knew then that she
was in a different world. If I didn't yet know what an orgasm was,
I had the perfect example lying under me, sucking pleasure from my
cock with a quiet madness from an unseen place inside her. The to-
tality of her surrender and the sight of her elegant neck stretched
back as if in sweet death filled me with the knowledge of that
ecstasy which only a complete surrender to lust could achieve.
Without thinking I settled deeply into her and, feeling her clit
nudging the edge of my shaft, I ground my hips into her in slow,
rhythmic circles, which her cunt returned in exactly the opposite
direction at exactly the same time, and I clenched my young teeth
at the insane tickle of her inner muscles rolling around my glans
and the oily sucking ring of her outer lips caressing me near the
root of my cock, and I knew by the tension in her cunt and in her
thighs on either side of me that she was more deeply immersed in
pleasure than she had ever been. She remained like that for what
seemed to be a large portion of eternity as I grunted above her in
my first conscious wallowing in the pure animalistic pleasure of
what I was doing to her. The whole time she came, I looked down at
her. I have never forgotten the sight of her below me in the moon-
light as I hovered on my elbows and for the first time used my
penis, my cock, my dick to make her cum.
It all happened so quickly. I didn't yet know all the implica-
tions of the word that described what we were doing (she would get
to that later, in her own inimitable way). My entry and our screw-
ing and her cumming seemed to have happened by accident, an acci-
dent that overtook us completely and swiftly and absolutely. She
had cum so quickly and deeply that we both lay stone quiet for a
while as if stunned.
Afterwards she said, "You and I certainly are full of surprises,
aren't we, hon?" She leaned over me. "You gave me so much
pleasure, I...How do you know just what do? Oh my, I can't even
think straight."
Once again she tried masturbating me. I enjoyed it, and she
did get another buzz of some kind out of me a second time. I told
her not to worry, that whatever I felt it was really a very good
and wickedly satisfying sensation. Then we had to dress.
She left that night as if in a daze.
And I slept like a sack of bones in the moonlight falling on
the part of the bed where I had experienced the unbelievable
thrill of entering her secret core and probing the very source of
her with my cock. In the morning my flesh remembered her and it
seemed her wetness still clung to me, I could feel her on my cock
for days. And if memory serves me correctly I still cannot say,
after all these years, whether I wandered all day in a dream, or
in shock, or both.
Continued...
Author: sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
-- CJ
I don't write any stories. I'm just a reader, and sometimes a reposter.
--
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