Message-ID: <10739eli$9804291431@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: {SJR}JDR"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 10E"( bf mF mF+ )[38/52]
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Note: This message was posted by a secure email service. Please report MISUSE OR ABUSE of this automated secure email service to <abuse@anon.nymserver.com>.
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <6i6go6$lq4$1@sparky.wolfe.net>
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
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
risk.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked
the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a
comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories
itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way
to encourage them to continue entertaining you.
The copyright of this story belong to the author, and the fact of this
posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in
any way. In most cases, the author will have further notices of copyright
below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as
well.
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 10E:
We strolled down East 86th Street. It was getting late, yet I was
amazed that the traffic and the people on Lexington Avenue were as
frenzied as they were during the day. Martha led me to a newsstand so
besieged with customers that we had to push our way through to get a copy
of the Sunday Times.
"This is not the way you get it in Memphis," she said, offering me
the hefty newspaper with both hands as if it were a precious gift. She
saw my eyes bulge: the complete New York Times, including sections the
out-of-town editions didn't carry. "Hot off the presses," she said,
pleased at my reaction. "Be careful. The ink's still wet."
We headed home with the Times under my arm, my neck craning to catch
sight of all the activity that flourished in late-night Manhattan.
"Who would ever believe," I said delightedly, "that buying a news-
paper could be such a major event?"
"New York does have its simple pleasures," she said, enjoying my
excitement. "But don't stay up all night with it. You'll have plenty
of time later. Remember, Fiore told you to rest."
Later, upstairs, I crawled into bed as Martha sat propped against her
pillows reading a book.
"You really perked up tonight," she said.
"I did?"
"It makes a big difference when you're around people you actually get
along with. Ronnie was very impressed. See? There really are people
who like you."
"Well," I said grudgingly, "I did pretty good for a fifteen year old."
Martha scowled. "You did well, period! Stop running yourself down,
or I'll spank you."
I lay on my side as Martha paged through her book to lull herself to
sleep, as she usually did when she was alone. I gazed out the window and
listened to the city. Martha was right: being with kindred souls made a
difference. I wondered how I would handle myself when I returned home.
The very idea of having to fly back to Memphis loomed threateningly, mak-
ing the spread of the next eight days seem like a paltry eight minutes.
How much did Martha think I could accomplish in so short a time?
I shifted onto my other side, facing Martha. She put her book down
and looked at me.
"Ready for sleep, hon?"
I yawned. "Looks like it, hm?"
She turned around to shut off the light on the bedside table. She
rested on her side and faced me. Her hazel eyes glistened in the dark as
she smiled at me sleepily.
"I'm glad you're here," she said.
I pursed my lips and made a little kiss. "Me too."
"Goodnight," she whispered.
Settling onto my side facing her, I closed my eyes and tried to stop
thinking. The small kiss I gave Martha reminded me of Ronnie's friendly
kiss as she bid us goodnight earlier. I still felt Ronnie's small, lip-
sticked, warm, sticky lips on my cheek. A mild horniness sprang from
nowhere and spread with a vague tingle through my tired body. This was a
new feeling, purely physical and seemingly unalloyed with any emotion. I
wondered if the yeast and the bellyful of vitamins were responsible. I
wondered whether the tingle meant that Fiore's efforts on my behalf were
beginning to pay off. I wondered what kind of answer I could give to
Martha's confession of a few hours ago.
I opened my yes and saw Martha, on her side, still watching me.
She asked, "Are you thinking again?"
"Mm."
She looked at me for a long moment. Her sleepy gaze changed to a
mild frown. "That was terrible what you told me, about your mom when she
caught you masturbating. Did she really act like that?"
"I got over it."
"No. I don't think you did." She yawned. She fumbled with the slit
of my underwear and found the tip of my flaccid organ. "Maybe I should
check it again, though, and make sure it wasn't damaged." Carefully she
opened the slit and pulled out my cock. She said, "I told you I was
wicked. I can't help it. You're so touchable." She looked down at my
cock stirring languidly between her fingers. "Can I pull him off? It
can feel very nice when you're sleepy."
I smiled, lax and weary except for my cock, which itched pleasantly in
response to her soft hand. "Okay."
She said sheepishly, "You must think I'm terribly perverted, doing
this now. Maybe I am."
"Maybe I am, too. You see how courageously I resist."
Perhaps it was Ronnie's affectionate kiss. Or the lack of sleep.
Any misgivings I may have had about the strangeness of the moment or the
reasons for her need to masturbate me just then were obscured by the warm
tickle of her begging fingers.
She murmured, "I felt lonely, telling you all that about me this
morning. I felt you might think I was pushing you away."
"No," I said. My cock slowly unraveled.
"Steven..." she began falteringly, her hand encircling and hugging my
shaft. She swallowed, thickly. "It's not so easy for me...to open up
that way."
"I know," I whispered back, aware of the same problem within myself.
As I lay on my side watching her I sensed in her careful, delicately
urging fingers and her disquieted tone, our mutual need to coax reassur-
ance from weary flesh.
Sensing that I might be a little numb with drowsiness, she reached
behind her and grabbed a bottle of hand lotion from the bedside table.
Wetting her fingers, she smeared the peach-scented stuff on me and re-
sumed her tender milking. I sighed pleasurably as her slick hand gently
pulled upward, completing each motion with a squishy clench around my tip.
She asked, "Better?"
"Yeah. I'm tired, but I need it."
"I know."
She soon had me stiff, and as she began methodically milking me I
reached under the waistband of her pajamas. On her side, she raised one
knee so I could find her clit. Lazily I made one-finger circles on her
slick nub, now and then dipping inside her to caress the little lump of
nerves that I knew lay deep within. For a long time we masturbated one
another, in no special hurry to finish. We played languorously, sighing
and moaning. She came first, closing her eyes and easing into it with a
long groan, her hand on me pausing in its ministrations while she stif-
fened and enjoyed her cum with quiet desperation. As it ended for her,
her hips undulated softly a few times and then jerked to a stop. She
came out of it gasping wearily. I kept my middle finger in her while she
finished me off. Just before I came she nestled closer, gathering a
portion of her pajamas shirt and baring her flesh just above her navel.
As cum splattered on her she smirked contentedly, murmuring "Mm-hm,
mm-hm," and watched thin rivulets drool down her hip onto the sheet.
When I finished she wiped up with a kleenex, then tugged my shaft firmly
to draw the last of it onto the tissue. With our arms limply entwined,
we fell asleep.
I awoke early Sunday and lay for a while watching Martha sleep. She
was curled into a ball, her pajamas stretched over her smoothly rounded
hips and firm thighs, one hand folded loosely into a fist near her cheek.
She lay on her side, her face toward me, her eyes softly closed and her
lips parted. She seemed touchingly innocent. It had been years since
I'd watched her sleeping. For a while I dared not move; I had only a few
days to see her this way. My brain ached with the question: How could
this woman, this grown woman, so lovely, so intelligent, so accomplished,
appear so childlike as she cuddled in sleep beside me?
I lowered my head to barely touch my lips to hers for a moment. As
always, her flesh seemed to melt into mine.
Knowing I would not fall asleep again, I slid carefully from the bed
and crept into the kitchen, where I rummaged for coffee and set the
percolator brewing. Then I found a pen and some paper and sat at the
dining room table. I gazed at the window in the living room where
Martha had confessed her thoughts and feelings early Saturday morning.
I began writing, one word or phrase at a time. At fifteen, what
could I say to allay the anxieties she expressed? Did she see me as a
man, as a boy, or as a man who happened to be less than sixteen? How
could I have expected her to respond to me in any way other than the way
she responded while standing next to that window? How could I expect her
to embrace an uncertain, undefined future with a partner whose major
claim to fame was a paper route and advanced skills at delivering grocer-
ies in Memphis, Tennessee? Should I proclaim an undying love for her?
My fifteen-year-old heart idealized that love as precious; but a more
cynical old man in my head knew that my youthful heart was susceptible to
indulgence in impractical mush.
The words I wrote fell together and fell apart fitfully. I crossed
them out, rewrote them, crossed them out and began again. Over an hour
later, I had written:
You were always the one who offered first.
Am I the one who only receives?
That in me which I couldn't do, you do.
That which I couldn't have, you give.
I give you that you are more than loved,
but as my secret otherness,
the You-ness I can't be but am,
you are cherished, dearly.
Before I could finish, I heard a muffled knock at the front door.
Thieves? The landlord? Quickly I fetched my pants from a hanger in the
bathroom and stood listening at the front door as I dressed. Again, two
brief, soft knockings. I cleared my throat. Silence. I cleared my
throat more loudly.
"Steven?" a girlish voice whispered from the other side. "Is that
you?"
It was Ronnie. I started to open the door, remembered that I wore my
glasses, removed them, opened the door halfway, and peered out. She
stood in the hallway in her pajamas and floor-length bathrobe. Her face
looked shiny, as if just washed.
"Hi," she said, grinning. She gave me a little wave of her hand.
"Martha up?"
"Not yet."
"Steven, I'm outta coffee." She folded her hands beseechingly and
grin meekly. "Please?"
"Sure," I said, beckoning her inside. I opened the door and held a
finger to my pursed lips. She nodded and tiptoed into the kitchen.
Realizing I was in my t-shirt, I tiptoed to the bedroom and fetched my
shirt. Martha still slept. Closing the bedroom door, I buttoned my
shirt and waited in the living room until Ronnie tiptoed from the kitchen.
"Shh, okay," she whispered. She held a cup half filled with coffee
grinds. She stood near the door waiting, smiling sleepily with hair
falling into her face. I moved quickly to the door.
"You guys sure clean up fast around here," she whispered.
Not understanding, I looked at her.
With her head she gestured toward the living room sofa. "The sofa's
already made up and folded. Unless you sleep on the floor."
"Oh," I said. "Yeah. I woke up early."
She patted me on the shoulder. "Good boy. You Southern guys are so
self-sufficient." Wincing and grimacing playfully, she whispered "shh"
again and opened the door and slithered past it. I stood near the door
and was ready to close it when she poked her head back inside. "Oh, by
the way--" she whispered, craning her neck and face toward me. She gave
me a quick, innocent peck on the cheek. "Thanks." She withdrew, waved a
tiny bye-bye at me with her fingers, and tiptoed down the hall.
Just as I quietly closed the door I heard Martha mutter sleepily
behind me, "Steven, is somebody there?"
She stood in the living room doorway, drowsy, her formerly combed
hair a tousled, light auburn fuzz across her eyes and forehead. She
slumped, she had no makeup, and her pajama sleeves half-covered her hands
as they flopped uselessly at her side. She looked deliciously girlish.
"Ronnie," I said, gesturing toward the door. "She ran out of coffee."
"Oh...She's always out of coffee."
With her pajama bottoms rasping sluggishly along the floor, she
drifted into the kitchen. Quickly, I retrieved my writing from the
table, folded it and slipped it into my shirt pocket. I unfolded the
Sunday paper and spread it on the table and sat, pretending I'd been
reading all along.
In a moment Martha appeared at the kitchen door, still slumping,
squinting at me through half-closed eyes. "You made coffee?"
I nodded.
She paused, scratching her forehead, and rubbed her eyes and
murmured, "Oh. That's sweet." She yawned and drifted toward the bath-
room, pausing on the way to give me a quick kiss on the cheek and say
"Thank you" before stumbling into the tiny room and closing the door
behind her. After a while I heard her clinking around. She dropped
something plastic that rattled on the floor. Soon she drifted past me
again, carrying cosmetics and towels, pausing again to give me another
peck before floating listlessly to the shower stall in the kitchen. She
removed her pajamas, giving me a quick flash of her tightly toned back
and her charmingly round, sloping derriere (I mused: How in the world
would one dare use common street or medical terms to refer to something
so perfectly, delicately, and beautifully shaped?). Stepping inside and
drawing the curtain, she turned on the spray and gave a little squeak.
As she showered I returned to my prized Sunday Times. So far, my
first Sunday in New York was a great success: it was not yet nine a.m.,
and I'd already been kissed by two women and totally turned on by
Martha's luscious nudity. Outside, sparrows chirped merrily.
During my brief shower, Martha applied her makeup quickly and combed
her hair, pinning it back and bobbing it. I was amazed to find that in
mere minutes she transformed the sleepy, frowzily sexy, pajama'd little
girl into a chic, poised, glamorous woman in skirt, blouse, and loafers.
After I dressed we walked down Second Avenue past several bars and res-
taurants that advertised their brunch menus on entrances and on sandwich
boards along the sidewalk. Martha laughed when I asked her what a brunch
was. "Brunch," she said, "is where we're going." She advised me which
of the places along the street had good service and which had good food.
She said, "You have to compromise between service and food. It's a New
York institution: usually, you can't have both at the same time." I chose
food over service, and we went to a place where I ordered eggs benedict
on English muffins (yet another rarity in Memphis) and I was introduced
to a spicy, non-alcoholic version of the bloody mary. I spent most of
the time watching the appearance and behavior of the other customers.
New Yorkers entered a restaurant, quickly sighted a table, and headed
straight for it. Memphians usually stood still, frowned, and seemed to
agonize over a decision before moving falteringly ahead, changing their
minds several times in the process. I also noticed the glances and
stares men directed at Martha.
"You know" I said secretively as we ate, "two men in here are staring
at you."
"That's what New Yorkers do," Martha said, unfazed. "They stare.
They're trained from childhood in effective staring. Don't stare back,
though. They get violent. If you think this is staring, wait until you
get on the subway."
We returned to her apartment. The first order of business was to
stuff another load of nutrients into my mouth, including a tablespoon of
the yeast, which blessedly was getting easier to take. Then Martha pre-
pared food for a picnic in Central Park. She told me more about Ronnie
and how they met and became friends, and things they did together.
Martha had laid out several slices of bread and covered each with
slices of ham and cheese. She said, "I always thought Ronnie was very
pretty." She was pleased when I agreed. She kept talking as she worked.
"Would you like to go out with her?"
"Don't be silly, I don't like her that way. Anyhow, I'm too young."
"Steven--" She sighed impatiently, but continued working. "Ronnie is
now your friend, because she's my friend. And she likes you. I doubt
that she'd scream in horror if you asked her to go out and show you
around. Please get out of the Memphis mode, hon, she's not one of your
tough old aunts. She's more like your cousin Josephine Louise, the one
you used to get all goggle-eyed about. Anyway, you won't even have to
ask, because she's going with us to the beach at Fire Island Wednesday.
And I'm asking her if she'll meet you for lunch after your session with
Fiore tomorrow, and show you how to get to a place on 34th Street where
you can order some decent eyeglass frames for yourself." She stopped
smiling as she worked, speaking somewhat bitterly and almost to herself.
"I don't like the way you're growing up down there. You've proven you can
work hard, you've proven you can get your grades in school, you've proven
that you're desirable and intelligent and sweet. I don't see why they
allow you to just submit and suffer everything the way they do. So many
people, so determined to make you exactly like them..." She looked up at
me, apologetic, seeming almost surprised by her own words. "I'm sorry,
hon. They're good people. But they don't understand you. And they've
left me with an awful lot of work to do and an awfully short time to do
it." She grinned at me, wrapping the sandwiches. "Am I pushing you too
hard? Hm? Why are you so speechless?"
"I just don't talk much."
"You used to talk my head off, years ago. Well, hon, that's all
right. Just be yourself, don't worry about it. Anyway, I have news for
you. I've set you up with a date."
"A what?"
"A date. With a student of mine. Marilyn. She's sixteen. She's
bright, sweet, cute. Done some theater, too. I told her about you and
she wants to meet you."
I paused. "What if she doesn't like me?"
"She already likes you, Steven. And it was her request to begin
with."
"But what if she doesn't like me?"
"If she doesn't," she said firmly as she worked, "then you should
learn to handle it. With grace, confidence, and intelligence...Well, I
see you're not so happy about it. All right, I won't force it. We can
talk about it later, then, and you make up your mind. But it's for
Friday, and I'll be there to chaperone, and...well, you make up your
mind."
"All right, I'll...probably say yes." I said reluctantly.
"Hon," she said frankly, stacking the wrapped sandwiches and looking
in the cupboard for a bag. "don't be a pushover. You can say no to me
if you want to."
I didn't reply. I was thinking: what is she trying to do, get me off
her hands by setting me up with someone else?
"There, now," Martha said finally, placing our sandwiches in a bag
and fetching her purse. "We're ready for Rockefeller Center, and the
park, and a movie I know you'll be crazy about." She stood in front of
me and looked me over. "You look so nice, Steven. Please think it over
about a date with Marilyn. Will you? There may be plenty of people who
would put you down for not being what they expect of everyone else. But
you're different in a very nice way and, frankly, Marilyn's looking
forward to meeting you. I can't imagine a caring, intelligent person who
wouldn't like you. You think about it. C'mon, let's get going."
Her words may have served in one respect to shore up my lagging con-
fidence. But I chilled at the thought that her long-term hopes didn't
appear to be the same as mine. On the other hand, I wasn't that certain
about my own long-term hopes. They had never been defined in my head;
when I tried to envision what Martha and I would be like in ten or twenty
years, I always drew a blank. It was as if I had been living under an
old assumption from the past, when Martha and I were growing up: She had
always been there and, somehow, she always would.
That afternoon she led me through Rockefeller Center and Radio City,
and then a lake in Central Park. We stayed in the park until sunset,
sitting on the grass and snacking. When it was almost time to leave for
the movie in the Village, she packed our leftovers and sat looking up at
me, her skirt spread on the grass around her.
"I know you're having a good time," she said, teasing. "But what
have you been thinking about all day, hon? Come on. You're hiding
again."
Vacillating, I pulled my handwritten note out of my shirt pocket and
gave it to her. "I don't talk that well on my feet yet," I told her. "I
couldn't say it. I had to write it."
She unfolded it and read, her head lowered and her face hidden as I
stood near her. The paper lay loosely in her hands on her lap.
Hearing nothing, I stuttered, "It's just words...it's not finished or
anything..."
"I understand that, Steven," she said quietly. "I know what the
words mean."
"Well...it's not what I was thinking. It's...what I was feeling."
For a long moment she silently looked down at the page. I couldn't
see her face.
"Hon," she said earnestly, "I hope I'm not letting you down."
I shuffled, stirring my feet on the grass. "Well, I did promise I'd
be your friend while I was here. A friend wouldn't put a lasso around
you. A friend wouldn't want to." She didn't move or speak. "I mean...
you wouldn't be the same, would you, with your wings clipped?"
I looked down at her. Nearly horrified, I saw a tear drip from her
hidden face and onto the paper. She sniffed. I tensed: I had not
expected this!
Gently, she wiped the droplet from the paper and fingered a corner.
"Hon," she whispered, "these are the most beautiful words I ever read."
"Well, they're a little...clumsy."
"I don't care," she said firmly. She looked up at me. She smiled
sweetly, gratefully, happily. She wiped a corner of her eye. "It's
lovely. It's simply lovely. And these words...and what you just told
me...it's the most beautiful thing you've ever done. Look at me, you
have me crying like a baby. No one has ever, ever done anything like
this for me! It's so unselfish, so much like the Steven I know!"
She stood, reaching for me. "C'mere," she said, and she embraced me
with a close, tight hug, clinging to me from head to toe. She sniffed
again, and then laughed against me. "Oh, lord, you don't say much. But
when you do, you sure know how to do it!"
I gulped, astounded. She hugged me until I couldn't breathe.
Leaning back, she held me by the shoulders and beamed at me. "Come
on!" she said eagerly. She grabbed my arm and walking briskly, keeping
herself close to me. "We're headed for the rest of your vacation."
I glanced at her as we moved blithely along the path toward the south
end of the park. She smiled, relieved, exhilarated, shaking her hair in
the breeze, squinting into the setting sun.
She said contentedly, "Steven, you're not just a friend. You're not
just sweet. You're one helluva romantic guy. I'm so glad you're here."
I beamed back, smiling inwardly. I thought: victory is so sweet.
Continued...
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 10E
-30-
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |