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Subject: {SJR}JDR"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 13E"( bf mF mF+ )[50/52]
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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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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 13E:
I blinked. The room was black. The candle was out. Vaguely, I
heard distant sparrows. Vaguely, I felt a warm, small, still hand rest-
ing on my cheek, barely touching my skin. I saw lips near my face, and a
face so close to mine that my sleepy eyes couldn't focus on it. Before I
saw any features or sensed any other signals, I knew the face and hand
were Martha's. I was on my back but leaning slightly to my right, my
right arm slung across the bed toward the night table at the right of the
bed. The only thing I could see clearly in the black room was the lumin-
ous dial on the clock. It was five minutes after five.
Without a word, Martha lay on her side, close to me, one soft, re-
laxed nipple on my right shoulder. I closed my eyes again, drifting in
and out of sleep as my drowsy brain tried to put the room back together.
Her left arm cradled my head into her shoulder. Her length lay snuggled
along my right side, her tuft warm and crinkly against my right hip, her
right leg draped around my right thigh. I settled fully onto my back and
her face turned and looked into mine. She said nothing. Her only move-
ment was the slow grazing of a finger across my forehead. She repeated
the motion over and over. I felt her eyes gazing at my face, then felt
her head move as she looked toward the window when a small gust ruffled
the curtains, and then she looked into my face again. I opened my eyes
briefly and found her gazing at me: a warm, calm, caring, sisterly
gaze. I closed my eyes again and wondered if this part of the long night
were a dream. The lust that earlier drenched the room had evaporated.
The room was a still, silent peacefulness. I floated, feeling only
Martha's heat against me and her leg over mine and her finger on my
forehead. Time passed. Her right hand that had stroked my forehead now
cradled my cheek, her thumb softly rubbing my left eyebrow. My eyes
closed. I felt the warmth of her face close to mine and felt her gaze.
Her thumb made love to my eyebrow, carefully, soothingly. Then her thumb
stilled and her hand pressed my cheek almost imperceptively, and her very
warm, moist, soft lips fit themselves perfectly to mine -- a strangely
unsexual, unwanting kiss, a simple touching. She did this several times,
lifting her head and then matching her lips to mine. And then her lips
stayed, pressing slightly. A genuine, easy, affectionate kiss. She
lifted her face again and touched her lips to my cheek, nose, eyelids,
and then down my other cheek and across my jawline and then around my
neck. No demands. No urgency. Only a touch of her lips. And this, too,
she repeated, and then again. There was a pause and I felt her gazing
and heard her breathing calmly and she seemed to be not gazing, but
watching, waiting. And then her lips on mine again, but this time more
wetly, more warmly, and it was more a kiss than a touch, her own lips
slightly parted and wetter now, and she pressed her lips to mine but, at
the same time, she didn't press; she skimmed her inner lips across my
lips. And for a long time that way she made gentle love to my mouth with
hers. And then her mouth met mine and the nipping and light puffing
kisses began, trailing down my neck and onto my right shoulder, then
across my throat and onto my left shoulder, her lips opening and her
tongue touching my flesh but not moving, remaining there, tasting,
giving, and I let my head fall to the right and blinked. The clock said
five twenty-nine.
She withdrew her tongue, lifting her head, and stroked the spot on my
shoulder that her tongue had warmed, and then her tongue returned, and
the small, soft kisses returned, across my nippples, pinching me ever so
slightly. Then her shoulders moved and her right hand stroked my left
waist and her lips moved downward, her head dipping gently and sweetly,
and she kissed so lightly and so quietly that I heard nothing but her
breathing. She made wide circles on me, circles that became slowly
smaller, a mouth that became slowly wetter, and the circle started above
my navel and swung around my left hip and across the top of my right
thigh and then across the left thigh and then around my left hip and back
to the spot above my navel. And the kisses never changed but the circle
became smaller and smaller. After a long time the circle was only a few
inches around my softened cock. I blinked again and the clock said
five-fifty-one. Inexplicably, her mouth seemed lustless, angelic,
motherly, innocent. She merely touched, and loved. And then the circle
was smaller and the slow, infrequent kisses moved into my pubic curls and
then to my cock, and a few seconds passed between each kiss as she
touched them to my sleeping shaft, from the bottom and slowly to the top,
then down. And then she stopped, and nestled closer, bringing her head
over my loins, and I looked down and saw her gazing at my cock, her left
hand circling and then holding it with only an inch of the awakening tip
above her thumb, and she seemed to study this sight with a gentle,
girlish pout. And then she lowered her head and licked my tip. She gazed
again, the same way as before, and still holding me she made a little 'o'
with her lips and circled my tip with her inner lips and gently tongued
the slit, and she did this for several seconds.
Then she removed her hand and her lips and started all over again,
above my navel, in a wide circle. And she closed the circle slowly, and
kissed up and down my listlessly but gradually responding shaft, which
ached from its earlier striving. And then the lick, and then her wet
lips gently mothering my tip. All the while, there was no demand, no
hunger. Only a learning, a knowing, a loving. I looked at the clock.
Six seventeen. I thought: only Martha could do this. Only Martha would
think of this. Only Martha could love in a way that was flaming lust
and, later, angelic nurturing.
Now her lips at my tip opened. Slowly, not inch by inch but milli-
meter by millimer, her lips sunk down and her mouth enclosed me. The only
sound in the room was her breathing through her nose. After, it seems,
three minutes, she engulfed my half-hardness completely. And then it was
another three minutes, it seemed, while her mouth and tongue rose back to
the top, and then her inner lips and her tongue swabbed me gently, and
her mouth let me go. And she continued to hold me and she gazed at me
while she swallowed and she settled closer. And then she did the same
thing all over again. And after she had gone through the same, unhurried
enclosing for the fourth time, I was rigid and hard and good as new,
saying hello to the roof of her mouth with a feeble pulse now and then,
especially on the downstroke. The rest of me was torpid and slow, but my
cock reached skyward. Now I was slick with her, and after she removed
her mouth her cupping hand enclosed me and stroked me easily, loosely,
slowly, and she watched, calm, unhurried, serenely pleased as I grew in
her hand.
And then the soft, subtle sucking began. One suck, two, three, and
then her lips would gently enclose and wetly swathe the sensitized tip,
circling slowly. And never a hurry, never seeking more, never a thought
of the next moment, but always a slow, moist lingering in the present.
Then I surmised what she was doing. As I had done in the streets, she
was memorizing. She seem to nurse, protect, savor, and record each
moment, each sensation, each response. Her eyes never left my cock. And
as she saw my hardened shaft pulse, the glimmerings of a satisfied smile
crossed her face, and she lifted up and put her hands astride my head and
her knees astride my chest, and she raised onto her arms and looked down
between us and centered her middle over mine and, carefully, she lowered
herself and pressed my cock against my stomach and setted on me with the
top half of my cock nestled in her tuft and the lower half cradled in her
humid slit. Then she settled onto her elbows and arranged her nipples on
mine, and she hugged her body against me, and hugged her elbows into me,
and hugged her knees into me, and held my face. Her lips hovered over
mine briefly. Her eyes flutterd and closed and she whispered with a
soft, almost religious hush, "Baby. My baby." And then she kissed my
mouth. Fully, her lips pressing and gliding, her tongue slithering.
Without hunger, without yearning. But with patient need and relish.
Her lips left mine. Rising again, she looked down the length of us
and I looked down and watched and she watched as she carefully raised her
belly and allowed my cock to stand. She lifted a little higher, and her
slick outer lips found my tip, and circled it, and she let her sticky
outer ring caress and then enfold my tip, as the lips of her mouth had
done, and she raised and lowered, minutely, barely visibly, and her outer
lips kissed and bathed my tip. My cock yawed and greeted her, and
nestled to her. I heard her steady, concentrated breathing, and my own
broken sighs. I rested my hands on her circling hips and let my head
fall back, and enjoyed not the lust but the love, the pleasure of being
learned, intimately mothered, friended and pleased. Each movement, each
pleasure, each moment was its own. There seemed to be no impatience for
whatever was next. Her cunt caressed my tip for a while, and she lifted,
her breath mildly irregular as her slit relinquished me, and I felt a
thick, warm drop from inside her, whose source could only have been my
cumming inside her earlier, that trickled onto my tip and teared downward
and then onto my tummy.
And then with a quiver in her breath she contacted my tip again, this
time sliding her wet opening along my shaft until I felt the tip of her
firming clit slide along my flesh. She nudged my tip and, still looking
down, massaged my slit with her clit, around, up and down, and her breath
quickened. She wetted and pleasured her clit on me for a moment, and
then she raised again, and her slit clung to my tip and my my cock was
lifted straight up. And with a long sigh through her nose and a serious,
intent pout, she lowered and then engulfed me fully, and ground her belly
benignly on me. Relaxing onto her elbows, she brought her face close to
mine again, and tenderly held my face between her palms, and kissed me.
Then, her breathing broken only by small, occasional gasps of pleasure,
she started fucking me languidly.
Or, I should say, made love to me and paused just long enough to
memorize every move, every response, every sensation. Her eyes closed,
her mouth calmly set, she rose and fell on me with apparent relish and
care and concentration. When my breath quickened and my cock lurched in
her, she stopped, paused, and raised her tummy and looked down again. And
started over, from the first loving swab with her outer lips, and then to
the nudging and sliding of her clit, and then to enfoldment, and then
fucking.
And again she did that, and again. And on the fifth effort, I felt
her back tense and curl, and she didn't pause in sliding her clit along
my shaft. She gasped, and her face near mine breathed with a short,
broken, quickening rhythm, and she closed her eyes and her lips tight-
ened and she frowned as if deep in concentration, and her clit on me was
as firm and taut as a sparrow's beak, and her juice flowed on me and she
came, quietly, with a long trembling sigh, and her hands tightened on my
face, and her arms shook, and then she pressed her clit against my
cock and paused, and quivered, and jerked with a small, low-pitched,
clipped "Hm!" from deep in her throat, and then another pause and a long
quiver and a jerk and a then "Hm!", and then again, and still another,
and then she slumped with a long, wobbly exhalation, and then she raised
on her hands again and swallowed hard and whimpered, and she rested for
a brief while while her breathing slowed.
Then she looked down between us, aimed, enfolded me, relaxed on her
elbows at my sides, and held my face tenderly. And began again.
It was nearly seven before I found the strength to climax. Finally,
the blissful agony began. I felt the first twitch in my tired balls.
Martha looked down, and slowed, but kept going. Her inner cunt milked me
on each upstroke. And I thought: How does she know? How does she
know? I spouted. Thin, watery squirts were all I could manage. But it
was warm, eager, leaping high into her like salmon. I kept cumming after
my weak, empty tubes had given their last, and I heaved and panted and my
shaft continued to pulse. I think I made a loud noise but I couldn't
hear myself. The long orgasm was poignant and tight and deep. She
milked me snugly and let me wander in my cumming for as long as I could.
Then she melted into me everywhere. She closed her elbows and her
knees and her arms on me and her torso pressed into me and she became a
mothering cocoon around me, and she kissed me passionately. She stroked
my hair and kissed my face. She whispered, "Baby. Baby."
After lunch and packing, we took a brief stroll along the river near
Gracie Mansion. I leaned on a railing and looked toward the city and
down the line of the promenande into Manhattan.
"Will I see this again?" I asked.
"Oh, of course you will," she said. She stood behind me, her short
hair rustling in the breeze, and put her arms around me and folded them
around my chest. She spoke, then, more than she had spoken all morning.
She spoke clearly, slowly, her voice raised barely above the sounds of
the breeze, the rustling trees, and the flowing river.
"Hon, you may be only five-foot-seven and wear glasses, and you look
sweet and innocent...but you have a great power inside you. You have an
intensity that is...consuming, and almost frightening. I know you do,
because I've seen it, I've felt it. And I know you do, Steven, because I
have it in me, too. This week, I knew what I probably always knew...That
intensity has bound us for a long time. I discovered that if I couldn't
express it with you, I felt smothered. And when we smother ourselves,
that intensity controls us and it makes us do things we should never,
never do. Being mean to each other in so many subtle, hidden ways. And
being too nice for too long until one of us explodes. Taking, without
knowing we're taking. Or...making promises we have no way of keeping.
Steven, don't let them smother you back home. When you're smothered,
your strength becomes rage, it becomes hatred. It can be so very cruel.
But you're too outwardly kind, and you don't turn that cruelty and rage
onto others. You turn it against yourself. Don't smother yourself,
hon. Understand yourself. Use it, the way you told me you want to.
Don't go back to the way you were, or you're going to hate yourself, and
your needs will turn against you. Or even against me. If nothing else,
when I see you again I want you the way you are right here, today."
She hugged me from behind. "That's my last speech, cowboy. Last
lecture for the semester. You ready to go?"
"No," I said.
"I know, hon. Come on."
Martha and Ronnie and I in a taxi. Ronnie smiling and only half
awake, even at three in the afternoon. Martha subdued. I pretended I
didn't give a damn. We all smoked.
Mertha and I and Ronnie in LaGuardia. Martha and Ronnie talked. I
paced and looked out the viewing windows, and smoked. Time moved more
quickly. The past week seemed like only a few seconds, a few, paltry
seconds. Time rushed. It rushed into my face. I couldn't stop it. I
couldn't slow it down. The more I thought about, the faster the clock
changed.
"Announcing American Airlines flight 54 to Washington, D.C., Atlanta,
Georgia..."
"That's it," I said into the window. I strode to the seats where
Martha nd Ronnie stood to hand me my carry-on bag and my copy of the
Sunday Times.
"Watch those stewardesses," Ronnie said. "I hear they're pretty
loose women."
I shook my head, pleasantly. "Ronnie, you wore me out."
She took a drag off her cigarette and grinned and exhaled. "Eh. You
can make more, right? Takes you Southern guys a little longer, thank
god."
I slung my bag around my shoulder and walked to Ronnie and reached
for a handshake. She took my hand, and then pulled me to her and held me
tight. Into my neck she said, "Thank you, Steven. Thank you so much."
She leaned back and beamed at me. "You comin' back soon? Right?"
I said, "Nah, you'll be married."
"Yeah, right. Gimme a kiss. C'mon." I did, and she smiled and
pinched my cheek and wiggled it. "Hmm, MMM!"
I turned around and looked at Martha. My tongue froze in my head.
She smiled calmly. Her hazel eyes watered. Martha threw Ronnie a
glance, and Ronnie walked away, waving a small bye-bye and smooching at
me.
"Steven," Martha said. She pursed her lips and swallowed. "Damn,
what happened to those ten days we had a few days ago?"
"Yeah, I know." I glanced behind me and saw the passengers filing
slowly through the exit door. I said to Martha, "I have another minute,
anyway."
"Hon," she began. She sighed and bit her lip and held her hands
behind her skirt. "Oh, there's never enough time."
"I don't know," I said. "We seem to be pretty good at catch-up,
don't we?"
"Steven, I...Steven, I don't know what to say, except...I know you
expected more..."
"I'm not expecting more," I said, gently.
She looked down at the floor. "Steven, I'm letting you down. You're
not saying it, but I know I am. But I can't say okay if I don't mean
okay, and -- "
"Hey, I thought the lectures were over for the semester."
She blushed. "Damn, you sure know how to be nice about it, don't
you? Thank you. I'm so afraid sometimes, that you're just saying it."
She kept smiling, she had to wipe a corner of one eye. "Will you forgive
me, Stephen?"
I frowned, in my best Cary Grant manner. "For what?"
She said softly, "For not giving you everything."
I sighed and glanced to see how short the line was. I said, "Well,
let's see...You didn't lie, you didn't cheat. You helped me get rid of
my pimples and you got me a great haircut. You fixed me up with a great
date and you shared Ronnie with me. You took my ignorance and you gave
me knowledge. You, uh... You were my friend, my teacher, my sister, even
my dad and my brother. You were my mother, my confessor, my girlfriend,
my lover, and my sweetheart. Let's see, you, uh...You gave me affection,
passion, lust, and...you gave me love." I sighed and looked up at the
ceiling, and hung my head in mock sadness. "But I guess I just can't
forgive you, Martha, for spending so much money on that typewriter."
"Stop it, Steven," she moaned, and she held herself close to me and
then she gripped me tightly and cried a little. She said, "Don't you
dare make me cry in here, I'll slap your face." She put her arms around
me as tightly as she could and we hugged and swayed for a minute. She
whispered, "Goodbye, Speedy. Goodbye, now. Go on." She held herself
from me. Her eyes were red, but she grinned. "Go on, get on your plane,
before my landlord finds out about you and raises my rent."
I stared at her. "You called me Speedy?"
She blushed again, and pushed herself a little farther back. "Do you
know, when you were with me early this morning, you called me Martha
Jane?" She saw the surprise on my face, and she released her tension with
a quick little laugh. "You did. Go on, Steven. Go on, you'll miss your
plane!"
I looked at her. She backed away. Several yards beyond her, Ronnie
waved and smiled. My eyes were on Martha. My eyes wouldn't leave her.
"Steven," she insisted, crying. "Steven, go on!" She stopped
backing away when I threw her a kiss. She waved at me, her other hand
rubbing her forehead and wiping an eye, and I turned and started for the
exit. The other passengers had gone ahead. At the door I stopped and
looked at her again. She smiled, sadly, and she lifted a palm and waved
weakly. "Go on!"
Inside the door I showed a stewardess my tickets and receipts. She
smiled and said thank you. I went down a short stairway and out another
door. Into the sun. Onto the walkway. I slung my bag over my shoulder
and walked. Ahead, more blazing sun and blinding concerete and another
stewardess and the metal boarding ramp and the DC-4. Ahead, Memphis.
Halfway to the plane I slowed. Why had she called me Speedy? Why
would I have to forgive her? An unseen, ominous weight dragged me to a
stop halfway down the walkway. I waited. Three of me waited: one me
behind, one me ahead, one me watching the other two. Why did I have to
go? Why couldn't I stay where I was? I turned around to scan the huge
terminal and the dark, looming windows. I saw only the reflection of the
airplanes and the airfield. Where was she? Why did I have to leave?
The stewardess ahead called, "We're boarding, sir."
I looked ahead, lost in the middle of the walkway. With a friendly
smile we're taking you back. Back where you came from. Back where you
started. Back to the home that isn't a home. Back to the stifling heat and
the bleeding saints, the plastic christs, and the old women and old men
lashing me down for a ride to a heaven that didn't exist.
"Boarding, please," she insisted nicely.
Not being myself, I took a step forward. One step farther away. A
second step, a second step farther away. Then more steps, and farther
away. One universe expanding, one universe contracting. Myself, growing
and shrinking. One person moving forward, one moving back. Onto the
ramp, my face a pale mask of the striving within. Up the ramp. Into the
door. Down the aisle. Into my seat. I sat. I slumped, numb. I gazed
out the window, my eyes unfocused. Soon the ground crept by, and then
the ground soared by, and then New York disappeared below the window.
One of me stayed on the ground, without provisions or hope or sight
or legs, and refused to leave.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
PART 13E
-30-
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