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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 8B"( bf mF mF+ )[27/52]
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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
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 8B:
In early June of that year she graduated with honors and a Bachelor's
degree in special education. The ceremony was held on a Sunday after-
noon. I was staying at my godparent's restaurant in downtown Memphis at
the time and was able to get a ride to Memphis State with Aunt Frances,
who grumbled about having to make a special trip all the way out there.
When we arrived on the main boulevard that bounded the campus, Aunt
Frances frowned in bewilderment. "Where are all the people who go to
school here?"
Looking around, I saw students swarming all around us. I answered,
"This whole crowd is students, Aunt Frances."
"This is what they wear to school? They don't have to wear uniforms
on Sunday?"
"Aunt Frances, you don't wear uniforms in college."
"The nuns let them go to class with no uniforms?"
"Nuns don't teach the classes out here, Aunt Frances."
"Oh," she said, her eyes widening even more in shock and confusion.
"Which one of these buildings do the nuns live in?"
"There aren't any nuns, Aunt Frances. No Nuns!"
"Look at the way these boys come to school. Hmp. No ties, no nice
shoes. Look, that one boy over there, he's the only one with a tie!"
For over forty years she had driven down the same streets to work and
Mass and home again, oblivious to growth and changes in other parts of
the city; nor could she imagine an educational institution other than the
Catholic elementary girls' school she had last attended in 1918. When
she dropped me off near the administration building I explained to her
how to get back to Central Avenue a few blocks away, a street she knew
only because Immaculate Conception Cathedral was located on it, even
though this was the first time she had been on that street's ten-mile
eastward extension that had been built in the 1940's. I gave up trying
to explain college to her.
Later, seated in the balcony of the auditorium, I spotted Martha in
the procession of students in cap and gown, as well as her mother and
Evelyn and another female relative who sat in the audience. I hadn't
seen Martha in several weeks; she looked pleased, if not visibly ex-
hausted after the crunch of her final exams. When she walked to the
podium to accept a special certificate of honor, I wondered how soon she
would leave Memphis State, or if she would leave the city altogether. At
the end of the ceremony I found her in the audience and traded niceties
with her relatives. She offered to give me a ride back to my Aunt Fran-
ces' place downtown, which I gladly accepted -- although, as she drove me
in her Chevy, I found I was holding back so much of what I really wanted
to say that I said little. Whether or not she noticed this, I didn't
know. She seemed limp, glad that it was finally over. So far, she'd
heard nothing from her applications for graduate aid.
Arriving at the restaurant on Calhoun Street, she smiled tiredly and
thanked me for showing up at her graduation. I tried to be as cheerful
as I could. As I got out of the car she said, "Wait a minute! Don't
you dare leave me without a hug!"
She got out of the car and met me on the driver's side, where she
threw her arms around me and gave me a close, long, moaning hug.
"We'll get together soon," she said. "At last, I'll have some free
time."
From the street we saw my relatives inside the restaurant -- Aunt
Frances and Mama Rose and a couple of visiting aunts. They waved at us
through the restaurant's front window. We waved too, and as Martha got
back into her car she blew me a kiss and a sympathetic smile: "Don't let
'em drive you crazy, hon!" Then she drove away, leaving me feeling
rather lonely but knowing that she was leaving temporarily, and that she
was headed for a well-deserved rest.
A few weeks later I was again spending Saturday afternoon at the
Tremont Cafe. I was completely unprepared for her excited phone call.
"I don't believe it!" she squealed excitedly over the line. "Steven,
I don't believe it! It came in the mail, just this afternoon! Columbia!
Columbia University in New York! I don't believe it! New York City!"
I don't remember the rest of the telephone call. She had been award-
ed a scholarship and a graduate teaching assistantship at Columbia. She
had not expected it, and I even recalled her saying when she mailed her
application months earlier that she doubted anything would come of it.
It was another week before she picked me up at the Tremont to spend
Sunday afternoon with her. She drove into the county and into Shelby
State Park, where we parked her Chevrolet in the tourist's lot and went
for a stroll deep into the woods of the park. I was familiar with the
area through my brief tour with the Boy Scouts at St. Michael's School.
We were both rather subdued, but glad to see each other. For some time I
did not ask the big question, but I finally summoned up the nerve to do
so as we rested on the grass atop a heavily forested hill and snacked on
some cold fried chicken I had brought along from the Tremont.
"So when will you be leaving for New York?"
She smiled at me warmly, touching my cheek and then squeezing my
arm. "I don't really know, Steven, but it will have to be soon. Very
soon. You have no idea, the confrontations I had with Mr. Buchanan. It
happened just yesterday, when I told him I was going to leave home to
take the assistantship. It was almost a shouting match. He got down to
saying: how *could* you move to New York when you have a home right here
in Memphis and an obligation to marry and keep the family going?"
I turned away, toward the distant valley. I had no idea she would
meet with such resistance from her stepdad. It made the distance from my
own family seem secondary, at least for the time being.
She went on. "He's dead set against my leaving. Especially to big,
bad New York. You know how people are in Memphis, they think Memphis is
the whole world, the only possible choice. Why would anyone dare run off
to another city, when everything one could ever need is right here in
good ol' Memphis?"
"But you can't give it up. It's what you worked for. You earned it.
You broke your back for it."
"He treated me as if I were some kind of ungrateful beauty queen. I
even offered to give back the Chevrolet. I never wanted it that much in
the first place -- I always knew that damn car would be symbolic of
trouble sooner or later."
"So, will you give it back?"
"He won't let me. Can you believe it? He wants me to keep it. He
thinks he can buy me with it. He thinks that car would be as important
to me as it is to him." She lowered her face and set her jaw firmly.
"But it won't work. I found a friend who can sell it for whatever cash
we can get. And I'll need it in a place like New York. I haven't saved
a dime and Mr. Buchanan certainly isn't going to help me out. Mother
offered to wheedle something out of him, but I won't let her. I know it
sounds crazy, but I still want to do this on my own."
She stopped and looked at me. Her hazel eyes were sisterly and
knowing. "You don't want me to go, do you?"
"I never said that."
"Steven, I know you never said it, but..." She looked down and
fingered a fallen leaf. "It's just as sudden for me as it must be for
you." She looked up at me. "It's not forever."
"Not forever?"
"Only for a Master's. Only two years. I'll be teaching and working,
so there won't be any crash course this time. It'll take me the full two
years to get through it. So...it really won't be that long. Besides --
you'll find a girlfriend, you know. You'll forget all about me."
I gave a low, wry laugh. "Right."
"You will, Steven. You're becoming a very accomplished young man.
You'll be in high school then, your social life will have changed. And
you'll be older and taller. You'll be different. So very different by
then."
"And you'll find somebody, too," I said, avoiding her gaze.
She sighed and shook her head and looked out over the bucolic scene
before us. "I don't know, hon. I don't think so. I'm not planning on
it. All I'm planning on is all the hard work I'll have ahead of me.
Graduate school at a first-rate place like Columbia is no pushover. It's
no picnic at all, from what I hear."
She looked back at me, apparently to check my reaction to her words.
I shrugged and laughed it off. I played with a long blade of grass that
I pulled from the ground.
"So," she insisted, "how do you really feel, Steven?"
"It's yours," I answered stoically. "You worked for it. You should
have it."
She searched my eyes and then smiled wanly, looking away. "All right,
if that's really what you wanted to say. You're unnecessarily brave
about this."
"How?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know. I expected something else from you. Maybe some-
thing poetic. Or even angry. But you don't reveal much about yourself
the way you used to. Do you really feel so noble and sure of yourself
...or are you just accepting it for my benefit?"
I considered my answer quickly, but carefully. I wondered if she
could tell that my reply didn't exactly match my feelings. I lied: "I am
this noble. I am this sure of myself." Then I partly told the truth:
"And I am doing it for your benefit."
She smiled. Broadly. Lovingly. She put her hand on my arm and
squeezed.
"Thank you, Steven. Thank you for that."
As we left the park and headed back to the city and the Tremont Cafe,
I felt her and everything about her slipping away. My anxiety welled so
violently, and I concealed it with such difficulty, that my chest and
head felt physically crushed. I gazed blindly out the open window on my
side of the car, afraid that if I exposed my face to her she would know
everything I felt and thought. The world that passed my view at fifty
miles per hour on the highway seemed to be little more than a rush of
strange, alien objects that threatened to swallow me up and smother me at
any moment. I was torn between needing her and letting her go to claim
what was rightfully hers. And I was afraid that any open expression of
my fear and helplessness would be an affront to her, would reveal that I
really and truly was only thirteen years old and that I would not know
what to do without her.
She didn't say much. She drove with her eyes leveled straight ahead
on the highway. I wanted desperately to hold her. Then it hit me that
not only was Martha on her way out of my life, but all of the places
where we could have been alone and unseen had already vanished. The
Lauderdale Courts was gone, her apartment was gone. I knew of no place
where we could be together. I harried myself with worry over what she
would think if I asked her if we could go somewhere and be together
again. Would she feel that I were attempting to hold her back? In the
past, we had not always had sex when we met; in the past I felt assured
that it would happen again, later, when the opportunity arose. Now,
suddenly, I realized that "later" was not going to happen.
I shuffled in my seat, folding my arms tightly before me in an effort
to appear only mildly affected -- which, of course, I soon realized only
revealed the storm inside me. It was a strange effect, to be able to
stand so far away from myself and observe with embarrassment how I moved
and spoke and appeared. It was something that happened to me more often
and was becoming a modus operandi that left me feeling extremely uncom-
fortable about myself.
Eventually I asked with great effort, "Will I be able to see you
again...before you leave?"
To my surprise, she smiled wickedly. "You mean...you wanna try to
get together somewhere?"
"Yeah."
She smirked. "I was wondering how long I'd have to wait for you to
ask first. Well...I'll see if I can arrange something."
A few days later she called and told me that she would be leaving in
two weeks. She would leave by train and move to New York. She had a
college girlfriend who lived there and who would help her get settled.
Going by airplane would be faster but much more expensive; the cheaper
train fare and the cash from the sale of her Chevy would have to suffice
until money from her award at Columbia materialized in the fall.
She relayed all this information as though it were secondary -- or
perhaps too unpleasant to contemplate at the moment. Quickly she changed
the subject and told me that all her college friends had left Memphis for
the summer, so she knew of no one's apartment where we could hide out for
a day. And it wouldn't be possible for us to spend an entire night
together: neither of us could think of a good excuse for my being out all
night that would be acceptable to my parents or hers. So she would rent
a room in a new Holiday Inn motel in southeast Memphis on Airways
Boulevard in a part of town our acquaintances never frequented, and where
not even her car in a motel parking lot would be recognized.
She picked me up on a Saturday afternoon at the Tremont Cafe. I
didn't tell my parents about it; my isolation from them had intensified
to the point where a few mumbled words at the breakfast table during the
week were all that transpired between us. But I did tell my Aunt Frances
and Mama Rose and the others at the restaurant that Martha and I were
going on a picnic in Riverside Park and then to the movies, and that we
wouldn't return until later that evening.
I slipped into her car and we both smiled and waved at onlookers in
the restaurant's front window, then pulled away and headed for Airways
Boulevard. For a few blocks I didn't speak.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "You're so quiet." She winked. "Afraid
we'll get caught?"
"Oh, nothing," I murmured dully. For the first time in my relationship
with her, I actually felt we were being deceptive and sneaky. In the past,
our getting together had somehow seemed like a naturally occurring event,
like occasional rain or a change of season.
I told her, "More and more, I'm leading a secret life that no one
knows anything about."
"Steven," she said seriously, watching the road as she made the wide
turn into busy Airways Boulevard, "I've been doing that with my folks for
a very long time." She sighed heavily as she pressed the accelerator and
merged with traffic on the road that widened into the highway to Birming-
ham. "I haven't had time to worry if it was the right thing to do, or
not. But if I were to stay sane...it was necessary. It's not me, and
it's not you. It's the world."
Soon the homes and businesses along the busy highway thinned out. We
passed the airport area and then the wide expanse of land occupied by the
outdoor drive-in theater district. Beyond that point, I was in a totally
unfamiliar part of town. When we pulled into the parking lot of the huge
Holiday Inn, I felt lost and shaky. She and I had always been alone in
familiar, secluded, cozy places; the building I saw in front of me was
impersonal, massive, and coldly public in the hard midday June sun.
She pulled into a parking space in the lot behind the building, shut
down the engine and turned to me. She laughed. "You look scared to
death."
"I'm not," I lied.
"Is this place okay? I realize it's not like home--"
"Yes," I said, opening my door and moving out bravely. "Let's go."
Our room on the second floor was neat and spacious. It smelled of
cleaning fluid. It was so meticulously color-coordinated in dark browns
and burnt orange that it seemed almost monochrome. Martha closed and
double-locked the door behind us and motioned toward the wide bed. "Have
a seat," she said. "Try it out." As I sat on the firm bed she yanked on
the cord of the halfway-open drapes and pulled them shut, closing us off
in a square white-walled room that was now dimly lit only by remnants of
sunlight seeping around the edges of the floor-length drapes.
I had a paper bag of snacks and Cokes on my lap. I reached over to
the nearby chair and placed the bag there while Martha removed the small
overnight bag from around her shoulder and placed it on the desk near the
wall. Sitting next to me on the bed, she caught her breath and pushed a
few stray locks of hair from her face.
"Well," she breathed. "It's a little antiseptic."
"I could get used to it."
She shivered and rubbed her bare arm. "Let's turn down that air
conditioner before we both become frozen peas in here."
I got up and then knelt at the air conditioner, found the controls in
the dim light and turned the temperature and the fan halfway down.
Standing, I turned to see her sitting on the bed and looking about the
place warily. Her discomfort appeared to be similar to mine. As I
watched her she looked in my direction, caught me eyeing her, and smiled
apologetically.
I smiled back. "Anyway...it's quiet. Just feels a little strange."
"A little sleazy?" she asked jokingly. "What do you say we take a
shower and rinse off all this summer sweat? It was so muggy in that car,
I'm all clammy."
In the big reverberant bathroom we ran steaming water in the shower
and got undressed, eyeing each other with a growing sense of intimacy and
anticipation. The discomforts of the place and the room were soon dis-
placed by our grinning and tittering and our bumping against each other
under the water. We unwrapped the little bar of hotel soap and swathed
each other provocatively, Martha closing her eyes and moaning as I
caressed her hardening nipples with my sudsy fingertips.
She toweled off quickly, and while I dried myself she went into the
main room. When I shut the light and left the bathroom I saw that she
had lit a cigarette and was sitting on the bed against the headboard, her
knees drawn up to her chest and her arms around her slender, shiny
shins. Naked, she seemed daintily trim and diminutive, her firm breasts
jiggling as I got into the bed. She exhaled a thin stream of gray smoke
and gave me a sly smile. I smiled back. Before me, between her thighs
and half-hidden behind her calves, was the smoothly domed swell of her
furrowed conch, sparsely fuzzed with tiny auburn cilia, the rims of her
narrow slit just beginning to glisten with her dew. Its primal, she-
animal character presented itself in impudent contrast to the statuesque
elegance of the rest of her.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 8B
-30-
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