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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 8A"( bf mF mF+ )[26/52]
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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 8A:
The week preceding Martha Jane's last weekend of packing before she
left her charming apartment near Memphis State was a long, numbing one.
As far as I knew, it would be my last chance to spend time with her
before she moved to East Memphis under her new stepdad's watchful eye.
Although we spoke by telephone briefly during the week and set the
schedule for my Saturday visit, there was no mention of what might or
might not happen after that weekend. I was too fearful of bringing it up.
When Martha Jane arrived in her Chevy (which she still didn't like),
I felt distracted and dull. My feeble attempts at appearing cheerful
fell flat. When I couldn't think of anything to say I sat humming an
aimless tune and looking out the car window, pretending to be engrossed
in the passing scenery.
At her apartment I dove into the work of packing, working so quickly
and efficiently that Martha Jane was left with little more than to stand
around and watch. By three o'clock that afternoon I'd packed everything
and there was nothing else to do.
"Well," she said, forcing a cheerful smile through the tension that
had been written on her face since we arrived. She looked around at the
boxes stacked along one wall of the living room. "That's that. Good
work, cowboy, we finished two hours early."
"Yep," I said, knowing that I sounded terse and sullen. But I didn't
know what else to do. I walked into the kitchen to wash my hands.
"So what's next?" she called from the living room.
I sighed. "Can't play records or anything. It's all packed." I
stood in the kitchen doorway drying my hands with a paper towel. "Hate
to see you give up this place."
Martha Jane cleared her throat and said with an air of mystery,
"Well, there is one more thing. I don't know what you'll think about
this...I mean, it's kinda...silly."
I gave her a weak but indulgent smile. "Try me."
She blushed and hesitated before starting for the bedroom. "Follow
me," she said.
She led me into the bedroom and then into the rear bathroom. Her
toiletries were still on the floor in two small shoulder bags. She bent
over the tub and turned on the water. "First, we need a warm tub..."
She adjusted the water flow and then turned to me with a naughty smile.
"Can you guess yet?"
"Looks an awful lot like a bathtub filling up with water, lady."
She winked and wagged a finger. "Not...quite." She reached into one
of the shoulder bags and pulled out a package of blue bubble bath powder
and held it up to me.
"Remember this?"
Blood rushed to my head, and to a couple of other places. I smiled,
still a little unsure, and reached out for the package of bubble bath.
She jumped back playfully. "No, no, that's *my* part. I get to
open the package. Your part is to get nekkid first."
I squinted. "Is this supposed to remind me of what I think it's
supposed to remind me of?"
She winked. "Yes. See, I told you it was silly."
A sudden and chilling thought passed across my mind but, not wanting
to kill the mood for her, I kept the question to myself: did this ritual
mean that I was not going to see her again?
I unbuttoned my shirt. She came to me with a playful gleam in her
eyes and helped me undress, pausing now and then to touch my neck and
sides and to help me unzip my jeans.
She turned to dump the powder into the water. She watched the blue
bubbles expand and rise. When she turned around again, I stood naked in
the middle of the room. Seeing me, her eyes lit up and she walked over
to me. Her face hovered near mine. As she watched my eyes she trailed
her fingers down my tummy and onto the tip of my cock.
"Remember this, too?" she whispered.
"Hmmm. Yes."
"Feel good?"
"Yes. Like the first time."
"Hmmm. Nasty boy." Her hand continued to graze my now twitching
penis. "You have no idea how often I've remembered the first time we did
this." She kissed me on one eye and then the other, and whispered near
my ear: "And since then, little Speedy has grown into a warm, lovable,
sensitive young man. And a wonderful lover."
I managed to keep myself from breaking into tears. I resolved that
this moment, if it was to be our last intimacy, would be as she wanted
it. But my unvoiced questions persisted, and so far my mind was still
uneasy on that score.
I put a wet, open-lipped kiss on her neck and saw and felt goose-
bumps rise on her back and arms. I said, "Hey. The water's ready."
"Oh, yeah," she said. She saw that the tub was now half-filled with
blue bubbles. "But we're both bigger now and we need a little more than
we used to. You go in first."
I pointed at myself as if to question "Me?", and she grinned and
nodded. I settled into the tub, the bubbles engulfing me with an audible
hiss.
She began to undress. "Turn it off when the bubbles are high
enough."
"How high?"
"Nose high."
"Okay."
In a moment she was naked. My cock lurched under the bubbles when I
saw her. She was slim and firm; her legs seemed rather long for a woman
of her relatively petite stature, an illusion caused by her nineteen-inch
waist, the moderately lush flair of her hips and the firm roundness of
her tush. Her breasts sloped smoothly and swiftly into rounded globes
with pointed, dark pink nipples. Her mound was topped with a fine,
curly, almost transparent auburn fuzz that crowned her outthrust smooth-
lipped vulva and extended halfway down the length of her prominent slit,
which now was only slightly parted. But it was all these bound by a
perfection of creamy flesh -- skin so tight and toned that it glistened
along her shoulders and hips and upper thighs -- that, and her long-
necked grace, gave her body an alluring mixture of woman and girl, harlot
and angel.
She grinned as she approached the tub and stepped inside. "You hard
under those bubbles?"
I nodded.
"Well," she said, settling into the nose-high foam and facing me,
"hold that thought j-u-u-st a little longer." She grabbed the bar of
soap and lathered her hands and then reached under the bubbles to stroke
my cock with her slippery fingers.
"Ah," I gasped.
"Good?"
"Mmm."
"Don't cum, hon."
"Aw, no fair."
"Shh. I'll just hold it," and she did. "I have something to tell
you. New house rules."
"Phooey. Rules."
"You'll like this one." She lowered her voice to a more serious
octave. "From here on out, you're not Speedy anymore."
"No?"
"No. You're Steven. You don't look like a 'Speedy' anymore. You
don't think like him and you don't fuck like him. You don't have a
little boy's four-inch dick anymore. You have a fine, perfectly shaped
cock with soft dark brown pubic hair in just the right amount and just
the right places. And a warm heart, and a good mind, and very handsome
eyes. You're Steven now. Is it okay if I never call you Speedy again?"
At the end of her little speech I was a blue-bubbled blob of silly
mush with a melting heart and a very hard cock. If she asked me to shoot
the Pope and steal his name, I would have said yes. I reached for her,
and she moved closer to me and let my arms drape over her soft wet
shoulders before she said, "Wait, there's more."
"Oh. OK. More."
"From now on, I'm no longer Martha Jane. I'm Martha. I'm not a
teenage doll and not a kitten and not a Southern belle, and I'm twenty-
one years old. Not long from now I'll be a professional and I'll dress
like a professional, not like a schoolgirl. I want everyone to call me
Martha from now on. I'll use that name on my resume's and checks and on
everything I sign. And I'll insist on Martha from others. But from you,
Steven--I don't want to demand, I want to ask... will you call me Martha
from now on?"
Too choked up to speak, I nodded slowly and firmly, and then I pulled
her into a hug under the bubbles, and she hugged me back. After a moment
in this humid, bubbly clinch she tapped me on the back with one finger.
"Steven?"
"Yes?"
"You didn't call me Martha yet."
"I will. In a minute."
"Call me Martha now. I want to hear you say it."
"Well...you have your new rules. I have one, too."
"What's that?"
"I will call you by that name very soon, in just a little while, when
the time is exactly right."
"When?"
"You'll see. Soon."
We soaped and rubbed each other, adding some playful touches and
tickles. She said it was the first time she'd had her nipples and cunt
soaped by another's hands. Covered with bubbles, we climbed out of the
tub. She stayed in the bathroom to powder and finish up, while I turned
off all the lights in the apartment so that a soft, late afternoon glow
filtered through the curtains.
When she entered the bedroom I was sitting on the edge of the bed,
my legs under me. She stood a few inches away, fluffing her hair with a
towel.
She asked, "why are you sitting on the edge of the bed like that?"
I said quietly, "C'mere. Stand by the bed," and when she dropped the
towel and came to me I pulled her head close and whispered in her ear,
"Remember this?"
"Remember what?"
"The first time I saw you nekkid. The first time you showed how to
get you wet."
"Oh," she whispered. "Oh. Yes." She backed away one step and
spread her feet so that her love-pod was more available. I whispered,
"Let me fingerfuck you." As her hands found and squeezed my cock and
balls, she opened her legs a little more. Between her smoothly muscled
thighs was a small open alcove shaped and sized perfectly for the palm
of my hand. I cupped her warm mound, which greeted me with a sliver of
slippery moisture along the middle of my palm. She shifted her legs
again, allowing me a little more room to slide a tantalizing finger along
the slick edges of her firmly-rimmed slit. Leaning into me and lifting a
nipple to my lips, she whispered, "Suck my tittie, hon."
I kissed, licked, and then she sighed pleasurably as a nipple entered
my gently sucking mouth. At my fingers, her slit swelled and opened.
Once more she made a fine adjustment with her feet, bending her knees a
little to lift her portal upward and toward me.
She hissed, "Put it in me. Slow. Slow. Ah."
I whispered, "Squeeze my cock. Just a little. Give it a little tug."
"Like that?...Mmm. Yes. Wet."
Several years earlier when this scene was first enacted, I could hold
out for hours. Now, I'd be lucky if I lasted half a minute -- and when
she spread precum over my shaft and circled her fingers around me, that
interval was seriously shortened.
With my free hand I held both of hers motionless at my crotch.
"Wait," I whispered. "Not yet."
"Not yet?"
"Let me fuck you with my finger a minute."
She grinned and smoothed a lock of hair from her forehead so she
could look down and watch my hand on her. "Okay."
For a few minutes that dripped with a seething eroticism I had not
seen in her for some time, I gently stroked and primed her clit, pausing
now and then to fingerfuck her slowly and deeply and properly, searching
her slithery inner walls until I found that rough spot just above the
curve lay that lay beyond her portal and which that made her moan and hug
my finger. In a while her head drifted back and her eyes closed. She
sighed to the ceiling, "Hon, that's so good." I was so turgid I felt
I'd need a firearm permit if I got any harder. Soon she leaned against
me, murmuring, "My legs are getting weak, it's so good."
I whispered, "Lie down." She slid naked into the bed and lay with
her arms draped above her head and her thighs spread wide. She smiled
languidly. She was wet and open enough to start fucking, and she
appeared to think that we were going to do just that. Instead, I lay
between her legs and kissed her cunt and inner thighs. Her head fell
back and she closed her eyes and whispered happily, "Yes."
With one more preparatory smooch on the surface of her cunt, I
whispered, "Tell me when you're close."
"Okay."
"When you're very close."
She crooked one knee and let her leg fall to one side. I could
see her grinning toward the ceiling with her eyes closed as goosebumps
rose on her legs. "Okay."
I tongued her delicately. When I found her clit she sighed, arching
ever so slightly. Wetly I continued, sometimes full-mouthing her entire
mound and then sucking her clit between my tongue and inner lips the way
she liked. Her arms reached behind her head and grasped the edge of the
headboard. A few minutes later she tightened her grip, her knuckles whitening
with the effort, followed by tremors in the stretched tendons of her inner
thighs. She was fully open to me then, her clit almost the size and
hardness of a thin thimble, her thighs drifting apart until her knees
were drawn up with her feet pulled together under my chest. She began
whispering heatedly, "Suck it. Right there, yes...Soft, hon. Suck...
Yes. Mm, yes." I felt the beginnings of the stiffening and trembling
that signaled the onset of her orgasm; I wondered if she'd remember to
tell me when she was near. I did not want to remove my tongue to remind
her, for I knew she was getting dangerously close. I trusted her to be
selfish, to cum whenever and however she pleased. And just as it seemed
she might be ready to go over the edge, she lifted her head and looked
down at me, gasping, "I'm so close!"
Immediately I rose, and the surprise on her face was matched only by
the pleased widening of her eyes as I entered her quickly, deeply and
smoothly, my eyes on hers. She stared at me with wild-eyed, joyful lust
as I began fucking with the slow, steady rhythm I knew she preferred.
She slowly whispered, "Fuucck." Then her writhing inner walls began to
pulse and contract, and she stiffened, and her eyes narrowed, and her
fingers dug into my arms, and she wept softly, "Hon I'm cummin'!", only
for her to find, just as her entire body went into its taut muscle-lock
of pleasure, that I had just jerked and squirted inside her, and her eyes
saw it happening for me and for her at the same time, and she saw and
heard me whisper to her, "Martha," and her eyes glazed wetly with
pleasure and she sank into the undertow of her long deep cum while I
squirted again in her tightening center. I slowed and lengthened my
strokes to prolong the pleasure and to savor the full feel of her,
another hot and very hard spurt jetting out of me with a force that made
me moan, and I crooned to her between my own quickening gasps, "Cum,
Martha. Cum."
As my ejaculations ebbed, she came out of her climax and settled into
the bed with a childlike whimper of surrender and fatigue. Her eyes
closed, and she pulled me against her and started breathing again. I
kissed her ear and throat and hid my face in her neck while I made three
or four last, hungry probes into her, winding down. Feeling her hand
push its way between our tummies, I rose slightly to allow her to wring
the last of me from my tubes, as she so much liked to do. When she
finished I settled onto her, our joined lengths so hot and wet that it
felt like immersion in a bubble bath again. We hugged, and breathed, and
rested.
She purred, "Yes. Oh, yes."
We were dressed and it was dark outside. I sat on the bed watch-
ing her brush her hair. She looked at my reflection in the dressing
table mirror.
"Are you staring at me?" she joked.
"I'm asking you," I tempted.
"Asking me what?"
"Martha..." I stopped.
"Hmm, that sounded nice. And you sure do know a perfect moment when
you see one."
"Martha."
"ye-e-e-s?"
"Will we do this again?"
Her brush slowed, and stopped, and a heavy darkness seemed to fall on
her. After a moment she said, "Oh, Steven."
"I was just asking."
She sighed heavily and began brushing again. "Yes. We'll all be at
my mommy's wedding next week."
Her answer and her dull manner told me the question had upset her, so
I dropped the subject. I lay back into the pillow, resting. With my
eyes closed, I heard her place the brush on her table, then heard the
rustle of her jeans as she walked across the room, then felt the bed
slant as she sat beside me and laid her head on my chest.
"Steven, the answer to that question is that I want to. But I don't
know when. Or how"
"You don't have to answer."
She held her face over mine and removed the arm I'd draped over my
face. Her eyes dug into mine. "Steven, there's something I've wanted to
tell you for a very, very long time. And I can't right now, not right
now. But I will someday. When the time is right."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"When?"
"Oh, you devil..." She put my arm back over my face and pouted. "I
told you, I promise. I keep promises."
"Okay."
"Don't say okay if you don't mean it."
I smirked. "Okay."
She sat up on the bed and said, "But I will tell you part of it at
the wedding. I just should need time to find the words. Deal?"
"Okay."
"Really okay?"
"Yes."
She removed my arm, kissed my forehead, replaced my arm, and rose to
get ready to drive me home. I watched as she moved about the place doing
her Martha chores and touching her Martha things. I could tell she was
hiding some distress from me. I sorely regretted having allowed myself
to blurt out my question about us. I resolved I'd never again mention
it, would never again bring that shadow into her face. Never again.
Her mother's wedding was a festive, crowded, expensive affair, as
ornate as Mr. Buchanan's could afford. I attended the ceremony, watching
from a front pew in the cathedral while Martha, as a member of the bridal
party, stood stiff and uneasy in a pale blue, formal gown. After the
ceremony she came to me during the drawn-out handshake ritual on the
front steps of the church and confided, "How wasteful and barbaric." She
sighed impatiently. "Hundreds of people, tens of thousands of dollars,
all these clothes, all this display -- just so a man and woman can sleep
together."
The huge crowd gathered that evening at the formal dinner and recep-
tion at Colonial Country Club. Mr. Buchanan, finally married, showed off
his bride and his two stepdaughters. "The three prettiest gals in the
whole city of Memphis," he boasted during one of many pre-dinner toasts.
During the evening Martha seated me beside her at a long table apart from
the one where her sister and mom and stepdad were gathered. I waltzed
with her once, both of us blushing as I attempted valiantly to subdue an
insistent erection under my rented tuxedo. Time and again as we attempt-
ed to chat at our table, we were interrupted by one request after another
for Martha's hand on the dance floor. Finally, as the evening's end drew
near, she and I moved outside for a quiet stroll among the cherry trees
and pines in the gardens behind the reception hall. A faint breeze
filtered through the cherry blossoms.
I stood near her as she leaned on the low bough of a cherry tree. I
said little, distracted by the fear that as long as she was living in Mr.
Buchanan's house we would not be free to see each other intimately.
"Something's on your mind, isn't it?" she asked, her eyes searching
mine. Her voice -- needy, cajoling, seductive -- floated through the
sweet spring air and washed over and into me. Her beauty and the perfume
from the cherry blossoms and the moonlight worked on me relentlessly.
She said, "It's so hard for me to tell you what I wanted to say last
week, if you hide from me. It makes me feel I'm here all alone, hon."
Falteringly, my own effort at concealment almost choking off my
voice, I told her that what I was feeling at that very moment, in that
place, would sound strange. "Even a little weird," I said.
"Tell me. Let me decide if it's weird or not."
After beating around the bush for a while, I haltingly confessed that
I wish she'd been my mother. Or my sister. But I guessed I'd have to
settle for her being "my friend."
Hearing this, her eyes softened and she, too, blushed profusely.
"How strange, Steven," she mused. "How so, so strange."
Girlishly, diffidently, almost guiltily, she confessed to me: "Hon,
I'm shocked to admit this to you, much less to myself. But I wanted to
tell you the same thing. I wish you'd been mine, too. My brother. Or
even...my son. Isn't that an outrageous, wicked thing to say? Would we
have slept together? I don't know. But if I ever had a son, I would
want him to be like you."
Deathly afraid of revealing more, I fell silent. Deep inside me, my
emotions swelled and wanted to shout themselves to the world. I was
partially soothed by the sound, somewhere beyond us, of the dinner crowd
singing in chorus. Muffled by distance, the sound of their voices sing-
ing a plaintive waltz drifted through the trees.
The distant voices sang:
Last Saturday night I got married.
Me and my wife settled down...
"It's the last dance," she said. "The bride's choice. My mother
chose that song. It's her favorite. Such a sad song. But so pretty."
I turned to her, to nod in recognition of the bittersweet lyric. At
that moment our eyes met. She smiled sweetly, her eyes looking deeply
into mine, poignant and yearning. I asked myself: yearning for what? Had
I seen, somewhere within the warm affection in those soft, hazel eyes, an
even more meaningful message? Deep inside the glistening pools of the
clear whites of her eyes lay something more, something tense, enigmatic,
hypnotic.
Irene goodnight, Irene goodnight.
Goodnight, Irene,
Goodnight, Irene,
I'll see you in my dreams.
"Hon," she whispered reluctantly, "I have to go. The dance is over
and they'll be looking for me."
Quickly she kissed me on the cheek and hugged me, and then left for
the reception hall. I stood paralyzed, watching her disappear among the
cherry blossoms. Slowly I strolled to the building, not caring whether
my parents spotted me or not. Oblivious to the milling crowd that gath-
ered their belongings and prepared to leave, I crossed the vast hall and
strolled into the parking lot, hoping for a sight of her as she passed
by in the car with her family. Perhaps I'd catch her before she left; so
much was left unsaid. Perhaps I'd get up the nerve to say it.
But the moment had fled, and Martha was nowhere to be seen.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 8A
-30-
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