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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 3D"( bf mF mF+ )[08/52]
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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 3D:
That was a sensuous summer. Mom's relationship apparently ran
smoothly for a while and my stepdad-to-be took her out not fre-
quently but regularly. Each time, Martha Jane would show up on time
and we'd fix dinner for each other, clean up, do a little homework,
and then undress each other in the tiny bedroom. Soon the room
echoed with our sighs, whispers, and moans of pleasure and lust.
The only sex we had outside that bedroom was the one time Martha
Jane showed up at our place one rare Saturday afternoon when I had
not been shipped off to relatives for the weekend. Martha Jane had
iced tea with Mom and chatted a short time, and told my mom she
wanted me to come next door and help set up a record player her
sister Evelyn had given to Martha Jane and her mom.
She brought me to her apartment and as soon as we were inside
she took me into her bedroom. I told her I thought she wanted me to
help her with the new phonograph and she giddily and impatiently
replied that the machine was set up already and she really just
wanted us to be alone. "I don't know what's got into me today," she
exclaimed, almost visibly trembling. "I feel so nasty. God, I hope
we don't get caught!" She lay on the edge of her bed with her legs
hanging over the side. Lifting her skirt, she panted, "Fingerfuck
me, hon. Hurry. Somebody might show up." I put my hand inside her
waistband and fingerfucked her inside her panties. She came almost
immediately. Afterwards, nervous and fumbling, she lay me down the
same way and jacked me with my zipper open until I felt that little
buzz in my cock and she pulled a little drop out of me and licked it
off. Then we straightened our clothes and went into her living
room, where she settled down. And just in time: about ten minutes
later her sister Evelyn arrived unexpectedly. I talked with her
briefly and while she was in their kitchen making lemonade Martha
Jane saw me to her door and whispered as I left, "That was close.
But it sure felt good!" Afterward she told me we shouldn't try that
sort of thing again, as the schedule in her place was truly unpre-
dictable and so many of her mother's friends always popped in. And
she said she never, never wanted to risk having my Mom find out.
Had sex been the only aspect of our relationship I have little
doubt that both of us would have soon tired of this sitting routine
and sought more varied pleasures elsewhere or with someone else. But
we had a life outside the bedroom that was also special for us and
that only added to our feelings of intimacy, devotion, and pleasure
in the bedroom.
My back yard was a small patch of lawn about the size of a
modern suburban carport. It lay along the curb of the access drive-
way that fed into the project from the street and led to a parking
lot around the corner of our building. Near the curb was a large
black oak. We spent several evenings there on weekdays at dusk,
just after dinner, as the long summer days ended and the stulti-
fyingly humid Southern air turned breezy and cool, the sky glowing
purple and orange. It was there under the heavy, leafy old oak tree
that I told her about my strange dream with the roaches. She said
she had no idea why I would dream such a thing, but she suspected
the nuns had scared the hell out of me.
Martha Jane and I discussed our dreams frequently during those
waning summer days under the tree. She often dreamed of her father
coming to her in the night, but he was reduced to the size of a boy,
a very small boy almost as small as an infant. His head was
bloodied and disfigured (he had died in combat on Okinawa from head
wounds). He would plead for help, but when she rose to go to him
she saw the rest of the house was filled with more like him, thou-
sands of them, moaning and reaching for her. In the dream her
mother made tea, oblivious to it all and apparently deaf and unable
to hear, but as she sipped her tea she said she didn't want to hear
and appeared to have gone quietly insane. Overcome with helplesness
and rage, she would wake up sweating.
She said she once had a dream about me. I was standing in a
dark room smiling at her. She said my eyes were very large and
very dark, almost gigantic, and they glowed in the dark room. As
she stepped toward me she became very small and felt faint, and
suddenly I was very large and very much older and went to her with
a glass of wine, gently cradling her head in one arm while holding
the wine for her to sip. The wine was warm and was in a small
silver chalice. She said the most striking part of the dream was
my remarkably dark eyes that seemed to fill the room. They were
kind and endearing, but there was something frightening and ruth-
less about them as well.
Across the access driveways were the small back yards of the
building directly behind ours. I never knew our backdoor neighbors
personally. Occasionally I'd look out our kitchen door and see one
of the neighbor ladies standing in her kitchen and talking with
Martha Jane across the driveway.
One of those neighbors, a Mrs. Johnson, would open her back door
each evening just before dark and carefully slip her bathrobed,
paraplegic husband in his wheelchair down the three or four concrete
steps into their back yard. She would make him comfortable there on
their little patch of grass, read the newspapers to him, or tune a
station on their small brown GE portable that rested on the ground
between his wheelchair and her aluminum lawn chair. Many after-
noons, Martha Jane and I sat on the curb and watched this ritual.
We would say hello to Mrs. Johnson and to Mr. Johnson, and Mrs.
Johnson would smile and wave hello and bend down to Mr. Johnson and
tell him we were out there with them. Mr. Johnson was unable to
respond. Nor could he move his legs or arms or his neck or his
eyes. He slumped limply in his wheelchair, wearing striped pajamas
and a brown bathrobe, his eyes ogling blindly ahead, a thin drool
forever flowing down one side of his slack and expressionless face.
Mr. Johnson had been almost blown to pieces on Taiwan. Even at my
age I realized without being told that the man would never move or
talk or lift a spoon of soup to his face.
Martha Jane would watch quietly as they performed this almost-
nightly ritual for a brief stay in the open air. I would look up at her
and see her swallow, for a different reason now, and she would murmur,
"God grant the poor woman patience." I told her about Taiwan, and
Guadalcanal. And she told me how my father had died. He was flight
engineer in a B-17 on his 21st mission when the plane was badly shot up.
They barely made it back to England, where they discovered that the front
wheels would not remain extended for a landing. As engineer in this
emergency, my father ordered everyone but the pilot into the rear of the
aircraft, where most of them lay wounded and unable to parachute out.
With the pilot bringing the plane in, my father stationed himself near
the landing gear handcrank, literally jamming the left wheel straight and
steady with a hand-held crowbar. The wheel held up just long enough for
the plane to land and start to slow. Then the gear collapsed, crushing
him. All the other crewmen were saved.
"You're a lot like him," Martha Jane told me at the end of that
story. "You'll try anything, just to see what happens. You're such
a little outlaw."
We would sit there until the sky grew dark, seeing before us where
so many others had gone, talking vaguely about how far there was to go.
"Sometimes I think we're the only ones who are still in one piece,"
she sighed, her chin propped on her knees. "Sometimes I think we were
put here so we could know how much there is to lose. So we can save
whatever's left." She shook her head. "And sometimes I think: there's
so little left to be saved."
On July 4th she took me to a movie at the neighborhood theatre,
the Suzore's--a seedy, well-used, crowded, and sticky-floored movie
house if ever there was one. The place was a fallen relic of the
1920's, but it had a kind of homey who-cares air about it and the
best popcorn in town. We held hands and shared the popcorn bag,
laughing at the Bowery Boys and hiding our eyes when Charlie Chan
crept through the hidden corridors of a haunted house. The walk
back home was about seven blocks, down the steep, landscaped, four-
block-long hill that led from the top of the project to our building
at the other end. It was one of those hot Southerm nights, humid
but cooling down, the air so still that the voices of people walking
nearby hung in space long after the people had gone. In those
days, before pollution clouded the view, we could see a multitude of
stars overhead. As we walked I pointed out Orion to her, and Alpha
Centauri. I showed her where the Weeping Sisters usually appeared
and told her that the faint red dot near the steeple of St. Mary's
Church was Mars. We were standing in the dark of the open lawn near
the project's administration building. She listened as I pointed
out the constellations, and after a minute I stopped and watched as
she looked up. I was very nearly her own height, then. A half-moon
floated just in front of her, outlining her face. Unable to resist,
I softly cupped my hand over one breast.
She looked down at my hand on her bosom. She didn't pull away,
but she whispered mischievously, "Somebody's gonna see us."
"I don't care," I said.
She laughed and said, "Yes, but I do."
"Okay," I said, and withdrew my hand.
She held my hand at her side as we strolled the rest of the way
home. "It's not that I don't want you to," she said. "It's just
that...I don't ever want anyone catching us and trying to stop us
from doing it."
That summer gave us several nights together, nights of holding
each other warmly and softly, naked, with Martha Jane under me or
hovering over me and whispering her secret needs and pleasures,
showing me something new. I learned to keep her on a dreamy
sensuous edge for a longer and longer time, and then to make her cum
several times, rapidly and intensely. She would almost always fall
sleep or faint afterward, and I had to struggle to stay awake so I
could rouse her in time to straighten up before my Mom returned.
Martha Jane had her 17th birthday in September, 1950. There was
precious little money to spend, but she invited a few close friends
and had a small celebration in her mother's apartment. I was there,
indulging heavily in ice cream and homemade cake.
Martha Jane found it necessary to introduce me personally to
everyone in the place. I was surprised to learn that so many of her
friends were not classmates but older adults. This left me edgy,
especially when she kept introducing me as "my boyfriend, Speedy."
And every older lady in the joint had to say something like, "Oh,
he's such a cute boy!" My discomfort was obvious. At one point I
retreated to a corner and sat unsmiling by myself for a long period.
Martha Jane came over to me and asked what was wrong.
I sat petulantly bumping my heels on the legs of the chair and
averting her eyes.
She leaned down to me. "Speedy, you're too smart and too well-
liked by everyone here to act like this. What's wrong with you,
don't you like these people?"
"They all think I'm cute," I pouted. "And I hate the name
Speedy."
She chuckled and said, "Speedy, let 'em think what they want
to think. It doesn't hurt to cooperate a little bit. And what
difference does it make?"
I adamantly folded my arms.
She stood up and said, "Hmp," with her hands on her hips.
"Face it, hon--you ARE cute!"
I said back, "Hmp!"
"How am I gonna get you to have more experience being around
people other than that fussy family of yours? Hm?"
I said nothing, but kicked away with my heels.
"Okay, sourpuss," she said. Shaking her head impatiently, she
returned to the group. I spent the rest of the day mostly ignoring
everyone until I felt it was time to go home. As I left her apart-
ment I saw her notice me from the corner of her eyes while she spoke
with the others. For the rest of the day I stayed in my living room
and pretty much had the place to myself, my Mom being at Martha
Jane's all afternoon. I listened to the Philco for a while, and
typed on the Underwood. And by dusk I was totally bored.
I went to our back yard, out by the curb near the big oak. For
a while I sat on the curb under the tree, listening to its heavy,
leafy limbs rustle in the breeze. It was dusk, and the early fall
sky had turned red.
Before long I heard the slap of the screen door behind me at
Martha Jane's place. I looked behind me. Sure enough, it was she.
She saw me and walked toward me, her head lowered and her arms
behind her back. I sat with my legs extended from the curb, my
heels on the surface of the driveway. She sat beside me.
"What's the matter, hon?"
"Nothin'," I said.
"Look at me."
"No."
She lowered her voice and said, hurtfully, "Speedy, why are
you doing this to me?"
I sighed deeply and leaned forward, propping my chin on my
raised knees. I muttered, "I dunno." And I didn't.
"I'm sorry you didn't have a good time. I thought you would."
I shrugged, as if to say it didn't matter.
"Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
"I dunno."
"Try, Speedy."
I shrugged.
"Try, hon. Talk to me. You haven't been nice to me all day.
I have a perfect right not to speak to you at all. Do you realize
that? Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
I struggled a bit, and finally managed to say, "I don't...
like it when people expect me to be cute all the time."
"Speedy, they don't 'expect' you to be cute. You 'are' cute.
You really are. You're an unusual person--you don't look like other
boys your age. You have a strong, intelligent, different look and
personality altogether. And that's what people notice about you."
"But...I don't know what to say to people."
"You just say hello, hon. And 'how are you'. You don't have
to say anything special."
"Well..." I stopped. I shrugged helplessly. "People always
expect me to do certain things. And act a certain way."
Martha Jane sighed. "You mean," she said knowingly, "you
mean 'certain' people, don't you? Like Aunt Frances and the rest
of them? And your mother?"
I nodded.
For a while Martha Jane looked at the ground silently. she ex-
tended her bluejeaned legs into the driveway and leaned back on her
arms. "Speedy, do you know what I'm going to do when I go to
college?"
I shook my head.
"I'm going to study to be a teacher. A special kind of teacher.
I'm going to teach children who are...who are different from other
children. Someone like you could be one of those children some day.
But you'll be grown up by the time I get started. You'll be in high
school yourself by then, or nearly there. But you know--? Look at
me, Hon. Look at me."
I did as she asked.
She continued, "There's an awful lot I could learn from you.
You're a really tough case."
"Tough case?" I said. "What's a tough case?"
She raised her eyes, looking up at the sky. "Ah, you're soooo
hard-headed. That's what a tough case is."
I shrugged. "Oh."
"You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
"Movies?" I frowned. "I don't have any money."
"I'll pay."
"But that's not fair."
"Yes, it is. I asked you first."
"Well, if you're askin' me, then I'm not takin' you, you're
takin' me."
"Oh, darn it, why do you have to be so exacting? Listen. Let's
start over again. Now, I'm going to ask you if *you* want to take
*me* to the movies. And you're supposed to say yes."
"Okay."
"Now--you wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
I paused. I still didn't agree with the "politics" of this
game. "But if you're the one who has the money--"
She prompted, impatiently, "Answer yes, darn it."
"Start over," I said. "This time I'll do it right."
"Oh, alright...You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?"
"Yes." I reached up very quickly and kissed her cheek. "Yes,"
I said again, kissing her again. And a third time, "Yes," and
kissed her.
She laughed. "What *are* you doing?"
"I'm kissing you and saying yes."
"Three times?"
"To make up for the times I didn't do it right." One more time,
I gave her cheek a loud, lingering kiss. "...And that's for me
being so snotty on your birthday. I won't do that any more."
"You little heartbreaker."
Martha Jane was looking less like a teenager and more like a
young woman. Her neck, arms, and legs had developed slimmer and
more graceful lines, and she was losing the baby fat in her face
and neck, getting more slender overall. I was nearing my 9th
year and was somewhat muscular and slightly tall for my size, but
certainly not as hefty as many fast-growing boys my age. I was
now only an inch or so shorter than Martha Jane. Like my father
and his brother, there was still something delicate about me from
my paternal grandmother's side of the family.
I mentioned this because at that time I was becoming more and
more aware of my own physical dimension and of the physical side
of this passionate relationship. I noticed this change in both our
appearances a few days after Martha Jane's birthday. She stayed
with me while my Mom's future fiance took her to a Halloween party.
Outside my apartment the kids strolled the Halloween trail for candy
and trick-r-treats, their noisemakers and their giggles echoing in
the night. At that time, however, Martha Jane and I were naked
together in that tiny bedroom. We were giggly and giddy because we
were totaly nude but lying on the bed just below the window sill so
that anyone looking in would see only our faces and elbows. For a
while we talked and watched the goings-on outside.
Then we went into the bathroom so we could make up in Halloween
faces of our own and laugh and point at each other. This was one of
the few times I had seen her naked outside of a bed. Watching her
stand before the bathroom mirror or tiptoe across the living room, I
saw how slim and tight her waist, back, neck and legs had become. I
told her this and she stood in front of me sizing me up. She said
my chest was starting to expand now, my shoulders broadened and
would probably look like my Uncle Frank's one day, and my legs were
longer and leaner and already had fuzz on them.
I told her, "You're getting prettier and prettier all the time,
Martha Jane."
"Oh, stop it."
"But you are," I insisted. "Your eyes are. They're bigger than
they used to be. Yes, they are, I know they are. They have more
blue in 'em than they used to."
"Phooey, hon. Let me see you." She held me at arm's length
and looked me up and down. "Look. You're perfectly proportioned.
Not too big, not too small." She put her hands on her waist and
continued her assessment of my nudity, muttering absently, "I've seen
a lot of pictures of a lot of statues in the art books at the library,
so I know what I'm talkin' about. Look at you. Just perfect. Like
a little Greek statue. The only thing missing is a fig leaf."
"And you look perfect too," I breathed, slowly taking in her
naked form, the graceful slope of her breasts, her slightly parted
thighs and her slender ankles.
"Guess what?" I asked.
"What?"
"Looking at you like this is makin' me excited."
She winked. "C'mon."
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
PART 3D:
-30-
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