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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 7D"( bf mF mF+ )[25/52]
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The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
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This particular series is by Santo J. Romeo. That might even be his
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followed suit. It is more a tragic story of coming of age than simply a
sex story, and individual segments might not contain any sex. The entire
story, however, is a hot one.
========
**** WARNING **** WARNING **** WARNING ****
THIS DOCUMENT IS A SEXUALLY GRAPHIC STORY ABOUT AN INTENSE SEXUAL,
EMOTIONAL AND INTELLECTUAL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A TEENAGE GIRL AND
A YOUNG BOY AND THE COURSE OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP OVER A PERIOD OF
10 YEARS. IT IS A DRAMATIZATION ABOUT REAL PEOPLE AND THEIR CON-
FLICT WITH SOCIAL EXPECTATIONS. IF THIS SUBJECTS OFFENDS YOU OR IF
SEXUAL LANGUAGE UPSETS YOU, OR IF YOU DON'T WANT THIS MATERIAL SEEN
BY UNDER-18 OR OTHERWISE UNQUALIFIED PERSONS, DELETE THIS DOCUMENT.
THIS DOCUMENT IS COPYRIGHTED 1994, 1996 BY SJR. SO--HEY, YOU CAN
COPY IT BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE IT OR SELL IT UNLESS I SAY SO.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
============
PART 7D:
Mom convulsed into a tight ball on her side and retched quietly,
weakly, making a small sticky red stain in the kleenex she held to her
mouth. Then she relaxed with a pitiful moan.
"What's wrong?" I asked, going swiftly to her side of the bed.
She licked her lips clean and tried to catch her breath. Not getting
an answer, I raised my voice fearfully. "What's wrong? What happened?"
"I'm sick, Speedy. It came on...all of a sudden."
"What's wrong? When did it start?"
"Called your daddy...but he said he had to work late."
I was incensed at her words. "Had to work late? Work late? What
does he expect you to do, just stay sick?"
"Well, I don't know...maybe it'll just clear up."
"How long have you been sick?"
She shrugged, taking in a deep breath and wiping her lips again. "A
couple of hours, I guess."
"You've been sick for hours and he just says he has to work late?" I
threw up my hands in anger and walked in a small, confused circle in the
room and looked back down at her with my eyes flaring. "What can I do?"
She shook her head. She hid her face from me and did not seem to
want to tell me what was happening. "I don't know...Call your daddy, and
see what he says."
I went straight to the kitchen wall phone and telephoned the grocery
store. My stepdad answered the phone with a tired, bored voice.
"Mama's real sick," I said. "She's throwing up blood."
"Hell, it's one of those female things, she's been sick to her
stomach and throwing up for weeks."
"But she's throwing up blood!" I insisted. "You don't throw up blood
when you're just sick to your stomach."
"I told you, it's one of those female things. That kind of stuff is
all in their minds, anyway."
"Well...what should I do?"
"Don't do anything," he answered, unconcerned. "I'll be home in about
an hour or two. Tell her to drink some water."
"But...she's acting like it hurts really bad."
"You know how she is, she overdoes everything. Tell her to drink
some water or some soda, and I'll be home later."
His indifference told me I was wasting my time. I said I would look
after Mom, said goodbye and ran back into the bedroom where I stood
beside the bed, helpless and frustrated.
"He said drink some water and he'll be home later."
"I can't drink water," Mom said, her breath short and labored. "I
tried that, it came right up." Then she made a retching sound again,
down deep in her throat, and tried to hold back. But another convulsion
soon overtook her and she coiled up again, her neck stretching in a
fierce heave outward, and more blood spilled onto the tissue and onto the
bedspread. This time she did not simply moan and come out of it, but
bent herself into a small trembling circle and grasped her stomach and
began to cry and cough.
I touched her shoulder, but did not know what to do. She heaved
again, and groaned, and finally relaxed.
"Mom...What can I do?"
She hid her face but reached out with one hand and grabbed my arm
tightly. Her fingers trembled and her entire form shivered. She spoke
with a breathless rasp, "Go down the street...to Aunt Catherine's. I
tried to call her, but her line's busy...bring her here."
My Aunt Catherine was one of my stepdad's sisters. She lived in a
house a few doors down from ours. Quickly, my fear for my Mom's pain
giving me a bloodcurdling case of the shakes, I ran to the front door.
"Put your jacket on!" my mother yelled. "It's cold outside!"
I thought: to hell with the damn jacket! I rushed into the night and
ran up the street as fast as I could. By the time I pounded on Aunt
Catherine's front door I was out of breath. I tried not to panic. I
told Aunt Catherine to get to my house as fast as she could, that my Mom
was deathly sick and it was getting worse.
She stood in the doorway gaping at me. "Why, Speedy, what's wrong?"
"I don't know. She needs somebody. Hurry!"
"But what's the--?"
"Now! She needs somebody now!"
Quickly she grabbed her overcoat and threw it loosely over her
shoulders. "You stay here," she said, trying to calm both herself and
me. "Watch my baby, Speedy, I can't leave her here alone. I'm goin'
down there right now, don't you worry." And she ran down the sidewalk
with her loose coat flapping in the wind.
I watched Aunt Catherine's sleeping infant for over half an hour.
Several times I peeked out the front door to see what might be happening
down the street at my house. Then an ambulance with flashing lights
pulled into our driveway. I longed to get a closer look but was afraid
to leave the baby alone. Going back to check on the child I found her
still sleeping, and by the time I returned to the front door, two white-
uniformed attendants were shoving a loaded stretcher into ambulance. I
could not see much detail. The lights began flashing again and the
ambulance backed out swiftly, then screeched as it turned up the street
and took off with sirens wailing.
My mother had suffered a miscarriage. I was deeply affected and
spent days shuddering at the thought of how emotionally and physically
painful it must have been for her. But at the same time I was angered at
discovering that not one of my puritanical family or relatives would
mention the details or even the word "miscarriage" in my presence -- I
gathered what had happened from bits and pieces of conversation that
leaked out now and then. During the few days my mom spent in the hospital
I was shipped off to my maternal grandmother's house a few miles down
the road and endured her endless chatter and bad jokes when she drove me
to school each morning in her creaky 1950 Ford. She evaded my questions
about what had happened to my mother, but I figured it out when I overheard
her telling a neighbor that "the baby died."
It was with deep concern that I came from school one day and Grandma
told me she was taking me home because my mother would be out of the
hospital that afternoon. As we drove and my grandma lapsed into another
awful and unmemorable country joke, I felt some hope that perhaps the
unfortunate incident would somehow narrow some of the distance between my
family and myself. Waiting for Mom and my stepdad to show up, I paced
the living room floor restlessly until I saw our tan Ford arrive shortly
before sunset. Mom was in a bathrobe and overcoat and my stepdad, now
treating her with more deference and attention than I had seen before,
opened the car and slowly and carefully led her to our door.
Mom entered, looking tired but happy to be home again, and looked
down at me and gave me a weak hug. "Well," she said, "I'm back."
"What was wrong with you?' I asked. "Are you all right now?"
She averted my eyes and turned to go to the bedroom. "Well, I was
just real real...sick, Speedy."
My stepdad held her arm as she slowly and haltingly made her way into
the hallway and the bedroom. He completely ignored me, which was exactly
what I would have expected. I watched my mother struggle into their
bedroom, bracing herself against a door or a wall as Tony guided her past
the framed portraits of the Virgin and the Sacred Heart and Saint Jude in
the hallway. I watched her getting farther and farther away from me.
Farther than ever. I felt her pain. I felt her loss. And I felt a
distance that I had little hope of breaching again.
Later in my room and I heard the two of them talking in hushed
tones. Mom was crying softly.
My stepdad spoke in a consoling manner I'd never heard him use.
"His soul will be protected, I know it will," he said.
"But, Tony, I was unconscious," my mother softly cried. "No one knew
to baptize the child. It'll be in limbo forever."
"There, now," he kept saying.
The incident had changed the way my stepdad generally treated Mom.
But it did nothing to quiet my anger nor smooth the raw feeling I had of
not being part of the household I lived in. I was disgusted with the way
he'd ignored her pain for weeks until the result was disaster and heart-
break. I was glad he'd had a comeuppance and that he'd earned it the
hard way. And I knew that my mother's rigid religious fervor meant that
I would never be able to share with her my blasphemous ideas or my
certainty that answers to the mysteries of the universe did not lie in
fairy tales. I could have said that the hereafter didn't exist anyway. I
could have fudged and said that surely their all-merciful God would not
forever consign an innocent fetus to limbo. But there was no way, in
that house whose furniture and walls were dotted with pictures of saintly
figures and suffering martyrs and plastic figurines of Jesus, that I
could communicate through their wall of myth and superstition.
I understood their pain. But I could not forgive them for leaving me
alone in a world so different and so distant from theirs.
Near my thirteenth birthday, Martha Jane called and said that Mr.
Buchanan's Easter present to her and her sister Evelyn would be to marry
their mom soon after Easter and move all of them into his big East
Memphis home. Martha Jane had mixed feelings about it.
"I'm glad for mother," she told me over the phone. "But I don't know
if I can live in that house. He's nice. But he's still a redneck and I
just can't seem to work past that fact."
"At least you won't have to spend the rest of your college career
moving from place to place."
"True, but...one more move, actually."
"Oh no, not again!"
"Yes, but it's just a move *out* of where I am, and into that big
house. Oh, well, at least this time I'm his future daughter, so he's
hiring some movers."
"Being his daughter does have its advantages," I offered.
"Come over and help me pack."
"When?"
"I have two weekends when I can do it, the first and second Saturdays
in April. Which one would you like?"
"Both," I said.
"Which one?"
"Both," I repeated.
Her voice on the other end of the line almost sounded as if she were
winking at me. "Okay," she said. "This time we'll have longer to play.
I'll have a car to use. Not Evelyn's, this time. My daddy-to-be is
buying me one."
On a Saturday a few weeks later, Martha Jane showed up in a bright
blue Chevrolet. But she didn't look happy behind the wheel.
I said after I got into the seat beside her and we were on our way to
her place, "Wow, what a car!"
"It's not me!" she moaned. "This huge gas-burner is NOT ME! Speedy,
I'm scared. Really. I should love this, but I hate it. I feel as if
I'm selling out. And it takes me an hour to park it."
"Well...you can always give it back."
"But this is terrible! I feel so dishonest. I dread to think of how
I'm going to be punished for this...this terrible sin! I've invested so
much in claiming I was on my own and had my own ideas, and now I'm sell-
ing out."
I spent the afternoon with her and helped her pack books and clothes.
She was cranky the whole time. I tried to joke around and make light of
Mr. Buchanan and to convince her that at least her life would be settled
for a while.
"I don't know what's going to happen to me," she said at one point.
"I had finally got the feeling that I was in control of my life and I
could honestly be myself. Now I have to spend every day in that house
pretending that I agree with everybody, when I really and truly don't."
"I know," I said ruefully. "How well I know."
"Hon, can I say something?" She was sitting on the floor with her
legs under her and a pile of books in her lap.
"You can say anything you want, Miss Scarlett."
"Something's...wrong inside you, isn't it?"
"Wrong? What you mean, Red Ryder?"
"Because you're trying too hard to erase yourself and you never talk
about what you think or feel anymore. You're being nice to me about
anything and everything, to the total exclusion of yourself."
I laughed. "You don't like me paying attention to you? I'm having a
good time, just helping you today. Really. Honest."
"How are things with your mom and your stepdad? You never mention
them. I don't have the slightest idea what's up with you and them."
I didn't know what to say. My own feelings about the way I'd been
living and how powerless I felt were thoroughly confused. And I didn't
want to spoil my time with Martha Jane by getting into it.
I mumbled something, a careless "Nothing much going on about that,"
and she was quiet behind me for a while. For sometime afterwards we
didn't talk much except to say that another box was packed or to ask
which box to pack next. At around six o'clock she decided we should stop
for the day so she could make salads for dinner.
"You sure got quiet," she said after I had been eating wordlessly in
front of her at the table for five minutes.
I shrugged. "Burned out from all this packing, I guess."
"I guess," she said. She sighed. "Me too."
"So...you'll be living the life of a cool little East Memphis
socialite from now on."
"Please. Don't talk about it while I eat."
I sat and chewed and tried to think of something else to say. But
the only thing I could think about was that Martha Jane would not be in
that college forever, that she would be teaching one day, perhaps far
away. I knew better than to bring up that subject. In fact, everything
that I could think of as material for discussion somehow led to the fact
that the one person in whom I could place any trust was surely going to
be out of the picture sooner or later. And on that particular day I
wanted very much to undress her and touch her, but I had grown fearful of
even saying anything or making a move in that direction.
I blinked and looked up. She stared questioningly at me.
"Were you in a trance?" she asked.
"No," I said. She eyed me skeptically. I shrugged and confessed,
"Yes."
"I asked you if you have any girlfriends at school."
The question sent a chill up my spine. "No," I said.
"Someone as active as you, and you don't have some girl after you?"
I shook my head no.
"Why not, hon?"
I shrugged--a big, on-purpose, don't-give-a-damn shrug. "I'm not
interested in anybody."
"I see..." She got up and poured some soda into her half-empty glass.
Wordlessly she returned to the table and sat.
After a moment she looked into her glass and said slowly, "I wonder...
Speedy...oh, never mind."
I did not know what she was hinting at. I looked up to find her
staring at me again. I had just taken a big bite of salad. Desperately
reaching for something to talk about that had nothing to do with my
thoughts or with anything else, I pointed at my face and said with a full
mouth, "Nice salad. Good."
She gave me a sad little smirk. "Speedy, you're not talking to me.
You're just throwing words across the table."
"I'm eating," I said, and tried to grin with lettuce sticking out one
side of my lips.
"You're a miserable failure as a liar, you know that?"
"What am I lying about, Miss District Attorney?"
"The same thing I'm lying about."
"You? What are you lying about?"
She hesitated. She opened her lips to speak, but didn't.
I repeated, "What are you lying about and why?"
She took a deep breath and looked me right in the eye. "I'm not
lying, really. It's just that there's something I'm not talking about."
I joked, "Well, gee, thanks for telling me that there's something
you're not telling me about."
"You're doing it, too. But you won't even tell me that you're not
telling me about it."
I shook my head and moved uneasily in the chair. "Miss Graham, this
sounds so complicated."
"Speedy, what do I have to do to keep you from going inside yourself
like that? You're so clever about it, but you're so distant when you do
that, and it's something you do again and again and --"
"No," I said quickly. I gave her a tired, strained smile. "No,
Martha Jane, it's...things I don't know how to talk about yet."
"Oh, goodie, I think I hit the target! What? What things?"
"No."
"What things?"
"No!" I insisted, verging on defensive anger. I'm sure I turned a
little red, but I let it go no further than that. I was getting better
at holding it all in, because I was sure that a tear would show, or I'd
let slip some desperate motion or remark. But all I let out was a quiet
and definite no.
"Well," she said reluctantly, "all right, then. I won't nag."
"Let's pack some more stuff," I said, brightening up.
"No."
"Martha Jane...I'm -- I guess I'm just bored and tired."
"You sure?"
"Mm-hmm."
The look on her face told me she didn't believe me. But all she said
was, "Will you promise not to run away while I take a shower? I'm all
dusty from this work."
"Can I shower first? You really had me sweating today. What a
slave-driver."
"Okay. You, then me."
I showered first, very quickly--not that I was so grungy, but I
wanted to prepare a surprise for her while she washed. After I dried
off, she followed. While she showered I remained undressed, cleaned up
the kitchen, turned down all the lights, readied the bed, and lay naked
in the bedroom face-up with my hands behind my head and my cock standing
straight up in the air.
She came out of the bath toweling her hair. She stopped short in
the doorway when she saw me. Her eyes widened and she laughed. "Well,
well! Am I to gather from this that you are making the moves this time?"
"Isn't it my turn?"
She smirked. "Let me clean up the kitchen."
"I already did it."
"Oh," she said, impressed. "Really! My--All this, and he does
dishes, too." She threw the towel aside and climbed on the bed and
crawled stealthily toward me. "C'mere, you..."
Almost an hour later she lay naked under me with her knees raised
while I fucked her rapidly in the soft bed in her dark bedroom. She had
cum twice, once under my mouth and once with me inside her.
"Slower," she taunted, her eyes fixed on mine. "Let it build up."
"...it's so good, it's close now..."
"Let it feel good longer, honey. Look at me." She held my face
gently but firmly. "Let me see your eyes."
I trained my eyes on hers.
Her hazel orbs searched mine knowingly. She stroked my face as I moved
in her. I was physically close to climax, but emotionally distant -- and
Martha Jane had uncanny ways of sensing it.
She said, "You've been hiding something from me for a long time."
Trying to evade her, I stared back intently. "No."
"You don't have to tell me what it is. But I don't want it holding
you back from me when we fuck. Let go of it. Let it go so you can
really enjoy fucking me."
Her offer melted my resistance, and I could not prevent my face and
eyes from softening with gratitude -- a reaction she acknowledged with a
little grin of recognition.
I stopped moving. I tried telling her, "I keep thinking...I
don't know how to say it..."
"Shh. No thinking. It's so seldom that we can be together like
this. I'm being very selfish: I want to give you a wonderful cum. I
want you to stop thinking and cum."
I began moving in her again, but she cradled my face once more and
said, "Slow, hon. Make it last until you can stop thinking so much."
I slowed my pace and lengthened my strokes so that I withdrew almost
all the way out before going even deeper in her.
"Good," she said. "Yes. Take your time. Go deep."
I dreaded she would make it so good that I would forget myself com-
pletely, that my fears and anger would have me crying or screaming when I
came. But her eyes and voice enticed me out of myself despite all my
recent conditioning to the contrary. I felt my emotions welling up to
match the intense pleasure I felt inside her.
She urged me on with lusty whispers and an ingenious knack for
holding me on the edge and delaying my release until the defenses that
imprisoned my pleasure behind a wall of rage and isolation had been
obliterated. For a long time she would not let me cum until I was so
overpowered with lust that, with a helpless sob, I relinquished all
control to my back and hips and allowed them to pump my cock into a
mindless state of raw pleasure. Below me, she received my surrender
with a sweet smile.
Everything disappeared. I yelled. I slowed and spurted.
She hissed, "Yessss...yes, hon...MMM! So MUCH!...yes, baby!...oh
yes enjoy it, such a good cum..." When she felt my orgasm waning she
rolled her hips in a slow arc and drew my last remnants into her
clutching warmth.
As usual, she thoroughly destroyed and drained me. I fell asleep in
her arms until she woke me up to drive me home. On the way she asked if
I felt better. I answered, yes, I felt better. But what I did not say
was that nothing had changed.
Continued...
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 7D
-30-
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