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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 06A"( bf mF mF+ )[19/52]
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The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
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make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. Caveat lector; you read at your own
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This particular series is by Santo J. Romeo. That might even be his
real name. The version that I have copied used his initials, and I have
followed suit. It is more a tragic story of coming of age than simply a
sex story, and individual segments might not contain any sex. The entire
story, however, is a hot one.
========
**** WARNING **** WARNING **** WARNING ****
THIS DOCUMENT IS A SEXUALLY GRAPHIC STORY ABOUT AN INTENSE SEXUAL,
EMOTIONAL AND INTELLECTUAL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A TEENAGE GIRL AND
A YOUNG BOY AND THE COURSE OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP OVER A PERIOD OF
10 YEARS. IT IS A DRAMATIZATION ABOUT REAL PEOPLE AND THEIR CON-
FLICT WITH SOCIAL EXPECTATIONS. IF THIS SUBJECTS OFFENDS YOU OR IF
SEXUAL LANGUAGE UPSETS YOU, OR IF YOU DON'T WANT THIS MATERIAL SEEN
BY UNDER-18 OR OTHERWISE UNQUALIFIED PERSONS, DELETE THIS DOCUMENT.
THIS DOCUMENT IS COPYRIGHTED 1994, 1996 BY SJR. SO--HEY, YOU CAN
COPY IT BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE IT OR SELL IT UNLESS I SAY SO.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
============
PART 6A:
Neither my parents nor Martha Jane's mother were home that
week. She slept with me for the first time. When I woke, earlier
than usual, the morning sun was just above the rooftops of the
buildings beyond mine. Dazzling shafts of sunlight rushed into the
room. Water was running in the bathroom.
I knocked on the bathroom door and Martha Jane invited me in to
take a bath with her.
I told her I'd love to. I walked into the bathroom and stood in
front of the sink, looking at myself in the mirror.
She noticed me and said, "Do you spend every morning looking at
yourself in the bathroom mirror?"
"I don't look any different," I said, observing the same old me
in the mirror.
"Oh," she smirked, soaping her legs. "But how do you FEEL?"
I took in a deep breath, my shoulders back and my chest out,
extended my arms far out at each side, and intoned as loudly as I
could in my best, loudest, deepest, Texaco Opera Theater baritone,
"Steeee-vennnnnn!". I beat my chest several times and grunted like
a gorilla. Then going back to my operatic bellow, I sang from the
famous aria from Barber of Seville: "Lala Lalala Lalala Lalala
Lala...Figaro! Figaro! FigaroFigaro Feeee-gaa-ro!"
She said, "My, my! Were you, uh, referring to last night?"
I grinned.
"Veerry flattering." She stood and moved to one end of the
tub to make room. "C'mon, let's wash the sleep off you."
I climbed in and she handed me the soap, but before I got
started she held me close to her bubbly-slick nakedness and
hugged me.
"You were asleep when I woke up," she said. "You're a wonder-
ful lover." She kissed my forehead. After I soaped down she
took the bar of soap from me and lathered her hands, then reached
down to wash my cock.
She winked. "Remember this?"
"Mm-hm."
"I never thought of using soap on you when we started all this.
Of course, you're a lot bigger now."
She rinsed me and stepped out of the tub to dry off. She had
chores to do that day, she said, but we had time for breakfast
and a little talk. I saw a small blue bag in the corner of the
room and asked, "That's all you bought over here with you?" She
told me the blue bag was filled with enough spermacide and powders
to lower the Indian birth rate. She blushed and said, "You put an
awful lot of cum in me." After I fell asleep the night before,
she had douched twice, and twice again before I came into the
bath.
"Douched?" I asked.
"It's a long story, hon. Later." She blushed again.
Then I remembered reading about it. "Oh. You mean, 'cause
we didn't use a rubber?"
She sighed impatiently. "Yes."
"I don't mind using one."
"No!" she said firmly, spreading jars of makeup on the edge of
the sink. "And you just forget that those ugly things exist."
I asked, "Doesn't all that stuff make you sore or dry inside?"
"We can always apply some...lotion," she said, blushing again.
I was amused at her modesty. After a night of raw passion, she
blushed and avoided my eyes continually. She got into her bra,
panties, and slip right away--a far cry from the way we started
out a few years before. As I dried off I watched, fascinated and
charmed at the sight of her putting on makeup.
"What are you staring at?"
I answered, "Watching you doing woman things."
She laughed mildly, dabbing at her face with powder. "I'm
glad you find it so enjoyable. We women think it's just a pain
in the neck."
"I like watching."
"How can you get such a thrill out of watching a female cover
up what she really looks like so she can throw the wool over
everyone's eyes?"
"I like watching women do woman things."
"I see."
I paused. "I like watching you do woman things. It's not
just watching. It's watching you."
"Speedy. You're a dear. Really."
"I'll fix breakfast," I said, hanging up my towel.
"You've added cooking to your many talents?"
"Sure," I said. "I've been hanging out in a restaurant for
years."
"Well...I'll try anything once. Hope we live."
I was pretty noisy about it, but I managed to get the eggs
sunny-side up and the toast looking just right in two plates on the
small kitchen table. Out in the back yard I found a wild daisy and
placed it in a small glass of water on the table. She entered the
kitchen in her slip. "Wow," she said, "Look at this, picture
perfect! You're being so nice to me. It looks beautiful. Is it
edible?"
We ate and talked.
She told me about her schedule for the week. Just listening to
what she had planned was exhausting. "I'm a work fiend," she
confessed. "I feel guilty if I don't work myself to death every
day." She told me about her classes, the kinds of projects she was
doing, the problems she encountered with teaching in special
education. I told her, "But you like it," and she nodded. "Yes,"
she said, chewing off a corner from a piece of toast, "not because
I'm so dedicated, but because I'm so neurotic. I'm terrified of
ever being poor like this again." I asked her more about what she
did, about the people she met at school, about what college was like.
"The first thing you should know," she warned with a strong edge
of sarcasm, "is that every professor at Memphis State is a Commu-
nist. And anyone who shows up expecting to actually learn anything
is a pathetic egghead. All the girls are virgins, regardless of how
many football players they've slept with." She went on with this
litany of definitions, exaggerating each item and apparently having
a good time doing so; but after a while I realized that she was
actually defining herself as a hardworking, dedicated outsider.
She stopped at one point and looked at me hesitantly. "Speedy,
would you...would you like to spend an afternoon with me and go to
Memphis State? It's the holidays, but they're open--at least the
library is. That probably doesn't sound very exciting, but--"
I breathed in amazement. "Really?"
"Do you want to?"
"That would be the best adventure I've had since Uncle Johnny
let me spend two hours in the Bump 'em Cars at the fairgrounds."
"Yes, well, it does get a little like the Bump 'Em at exam
time, but...don't get all worked up, now, it's not the biggest
thrill I could think of for somebody as adventurous as you are."
"But," I said earnestly, "it's what you do."
She stared at me, taken aback.
I went on enthusiastically, "It's your...it's your world, like
mine is in the movies and the plays. And yours is college and
learning to be a teacher. Of course I want to see it."
She blinked and cleared her throat, propping her elbows on the
table and folding her hands. "Speedy, do you know how many boys
your age and older--much older--just want to spend an afternoon
with me so they can get inside my pants?"
"Get inside your pants? Hm, that's a funny expression, I
never heard that one before. You mean...to fuck?"
"I mean that's all they want to do."
"Don't they ever do anything else?"
"A lot of them, Speedy, no. Do you know what a tragedy it is
in my life just to have an argument with some boy because I have
work to do and I don't have time, just no time right away, right
then, right now, to go out with them? They think I'll hop into bed
with them to express my undying my gratitude for their taking me to
a football game and watching them scream and guzzle beer and make
fools of themselves."
"So," I said, tenuously, "...so do you do it?"
"Of course not. And then I don't hear from them for two weeks,
or a month. Until they get horny again, and all of a sudden they
develop this deep interest in what I'm doing with my life and my
time."
I grimaced. "What shitheads."
"That's a very...apt description, hon."
"Apt?" I echoed.
"Yes, it means--"
"Don't tell me. I wanna look it up."
"I'll tell you what," she said, reaching across the table and
taking my hand, "You go with me, say, Thursday afternoon, and I'll
show you lots of things you can look up. Would you like that?"
"Sure."
We cleaned up a little, as I had left some record albums lying
about, and Martha Jane made phone calls while she polished her
shoes. Still in her slip, she went into the bedroom and started
making the bed. When I went in there to help her we were almost
finished when she asked me to sit on the bed and started undoing my
jeans. I told her I thought she had to get dressed for her inter-
views, but she said we still had a little time and she could stay in
her slip for now. "I've always been curious about something," she
said, taking out my cock. "We still have some time before I go. I
want to show you something about your body." Of course, I didn't
object. With my legs hanging over the bed and Martha Jane kneeling
before me, she licked and sucked me until I was hard and then she
started fisting me quickly, her hands gliding smoothly up and down
my shaft. Again I was startled to feel all the things that happened
in my groin as I approached orgasm. She could tell I was close
when I began throbbing erratically. As I neared cumming she took
one of my hands and put it into my crotch under my balls. "Feel
here, underneath," she said. "Keep your hand there. In a minute
you'll feel your muscles jump." Sure enough, I could feel swelling
and movement down there. Then she pulled down the straps of her
slip and shoved the front of her bra below her breasts, and brought
her bosom closer to my cock. As she fisted me she whispered, "I've
always wondered what this feels like...c'mon, hon...c'mon..."
Soon I felt those secret muscles moving under my fingers, and I
gasped frantically, "I'll get it on you!" but she grinned and said
"It's okay, I can change...c'mon..."
As my eyelids drooped I lost focus, and though my resources were
limited because of the night before, I started cumming. Encouraging
me, she whispered, "C'mon...c'mon," and then "Oh!" as I gave her a
tight little squirt on her left breast. She slowed and tightened
her pumping and I squirted again in the same place and she was
delighted. The rest streamed out thinly over her hand and made
squishing noises while she finished me off.
I lay back on the bed, breathless. She stood and leaned over
me, giggling. A drop of me ran down the swell of her breast and
sneaked under the nipple. "Was that good?" she asked. "You getting
used to cumming now?". I told her it was good, but it was still a
little scary. She said, "Speedy, I can't imagine you being afraid
of anything like that."
"No," I said, "not that kind of scary. It's just...it's
different. It takes over, and it all happens at once."
"That's the way it's supposed to feel, hon." She walked to the
bedside table, got a kleenex, and wiped off her breast. "But don't
worry. You'll get accustomed to letting yourself go. I love
watching you cum. I never thought I'd enjoy it so much, but you get
so hard and it's so intense for you. I like that about you." She
wadded up the kleenex and bent down to kiss me on the nose. "That's
one of a lot of things I like about you."
She did not see me again until Thursday, three days later. Where
she was for three days I didn't know. She called at least once a
day, and on Wednesday morning she came clomping with her high heels
and purse and Sunday best to see that I had not transformed the
apartment into a Frankensteinean horror. Each night just as I
climbed into bed she would phone from next door and ask how I was.
The phone rang Tuesday night around 9:30. I picked up.
"Hello," I began. "This is the Louvre. Wanna buy some French
post cards?"
"Speedy, what if this had been someone else on the line?"
"I would say 'wrong number' and hang up."
"Did your mom and dad call today?"
"Yes."
"So how are they doing?"
"Sounded like she was having a good time."
"Just 'she'? What about your new daddy, didn't he have any-
thing to say for himself?"
"He never talks to me."
"Now, that's mean. Maybe you just never talk to him."
"I don't think he knows how to use a telephone yet."
"Speedy, you must learn to like him. He's your daddy now."
"It feels funny talking to you on the phone and you're right
next door. Are you gonna sleep over here?"
"...I can't, hon."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"I just...can't. I know it's silly, but I can't. I'll have to
tell you all about it."
"Okay."
"You all tucked in bed?"
"Yep."
"Well, you go to sleep. And don't be afraid to call me if
anything goes wrong, okay?"
"All right."
"G'night, cowboy."
"G'night, Miss Scarlett."
In later years, spending most of a vacation alone would not have
been my first choice. But that week my mind seemed particularly alive
and sensitive. Waking, walking about town, entering a movie and
walking back out, and then strolling home, I followed the path of the
rising, passing, and setting sun as I had never done before. In the
late afternoon I made a sandwich, packing it and a wedge of cheese
into my G.I. Joe mess kit, and defied the world by hiking all the way
to the edge of Exchange Street, at the very zenith of the hill at the
avenue's end, and sat on a bluff overlooking the river. Battle-
hardened youth that I was after this gruelling six-block walk uphill,
I ate from the kit and swigged heartily from my canteen filled with
Nehi Grape Soda, and watched the sun go down on the flat, distant
shore of Arkansas. The sky changed colors minute by minute, so
gradually that it was always a surprise when I surveyed the horizon
again to see how the silent panorama had repainted itself. Before
dark it turned magenta, then intense purple, and finally black. As
the sky dimmed, distant lights not seen in the sunlight became visible
one by one. I wondered what might be out there. I wondered what it
might be like not having to return home but to keep on going,
straight, past those lights and onto new lights, new rivers, new
bridges and towns.
What got me back home was not a strong desire to be there but to
be in bed when Martha Jane called. The phone rang at exactly 9:30
and I picked up.
"Why, Martha Jane, you sound so clear on this wonderful invention,
Mr. Bell's telephone, just as if you were right next door!"
"Silly. Were you a good boy today?"
"No."
"That's the spirit. Did your mother call?"
"Yes, they're fine. She called around supper time."
"They'll be back Friday, then. And next week you'll move out
of the Lauderdale Courts forever. Won't that be great?"
"I guess."
"You don't sound so happy about it."
"Well..."
"Oh, you will be when you get there. And you'll have that
wonderful room all to yourself instead of keeping your things in
cardboard boxes in that closet."
"Well...maybe."
"Oh, c'mon, you'll love it."
"I'll have different neighbors, though."
"...I'll have to talk to you about that...We'll have a nice talk
all about that tomorrow. You still want to go with me to Memphis
State?"
"I'm ready now."
"I'm over here with textbooks up to my nose, so I'll be up a
while. But I'll still be up bright and early, so you better get
your beauty sleep. You all tucked in bed?"
"I sure am, Miss Scarlett."
"You didn't leave a stinky sink full of dirty dishes, did
you?"
"No'm, Miss Scarlett."
"...Are you mad at me for not being over there?"
"No'm, Miss Scarlett."
"Well...Okay. I'll be there at ten in the morning."
"Yes'm, Miss Scarlett."
"You be all ready to go."
"Yes,'m, Miss Scarlett."
"Stop it. G'night."
Late in the night I was standing in the middle of the universe
and I had the sensation of getting larger and smaller at the same
time, while the universe shrank and expanded at the same time, and
the part of me that shrank was not getting small fast enough for the
universe that was shrinking, and the part of me that was expanding
was not expanding fast enough, and the part of the universe that was
shrinking kept pulling my expanding self back into the part that was
shrinking, and yet nothing was changing at all in any direction. As
I tried to comprehend this a low-pitched hum grew louder, louder,
and soon it was a deafening buzz that threatened to crush even my
thought.
I woke up, literally poised to jump through the ceiling. I was
gasping and sweating. I was not in bed, but standing in the pitch
black hallway between the bedroom and living room. Apparently I had
leapt from the bed in a single broad jump, as I vaguely remember
being in the air just before I jerked to a halt.
In the kitchen I made a glass of ice water and brought it to the
living room, where I sat in front of the Philco and turned it on.
The pearlescent eye of the green tuning tube glowed and stared at
me. I picked up static. Trying to relax, I listened. After a
minute I heard a voice in there. I could not hear the words.
Concentrating on it took my mind off the nightmare and the eerie
panic that crept into me when I remembered it.
This was a dream I'd had before, perhaps a year earlier. I
never told anyone about it; I didn't know how to describe it. Back
in bed, I removed my underwear and moved to the bed to be naked
under the moonlight. Lying on by back, I spread my legs and looked
at my growing, lean, surprisingly strong-looking young body. I
tried to remember what cumming felt like. It was unimaginable
while it was happening, and so it was when I tried to recall it. A
small machine whirred inside my chest, urging me to do something;
like the voice in the static, my brain could not understand what the
machine was saying. I gazed past the moonlight and out into the
city. Out there, awake, all the things I wanted to do were waiting.
A cricket chirped. I heard the sugary spring Southern night
air glide past the window and felt me and the yard and the tree and
Martha Jane next door and our little patch of earth turning slowly
together in the universe. As fell asleep again I imagined I could
feel the morning approaching us.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
PART 6A
-30-
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