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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 1B"( bf mF mF+ )[2/52]
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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 1B:
The fact is, Martha Jane was an upright, well behaved, socially
poised, and even a classy young lady. She seldom displayed anger,
apparently never gossiped or had anything critical to say about anyone.
As far as I can tell, she was just a very conscientious, proper, very
pretty teenaged girl. She did have an active and playful nature but for
the most part she behaved with the kind of politeness so common among
girls whose Southern moms brought them up as "proper" and "sociable".
But obviously Martha Jane had her other side. On rare occasions
during that period when she first was sitting for me, I would now and
then look up and find her staring at me. Not "at" me, I should say, but
"toward" me as though thinking of something very deep and ponderous. Or
now and then she would, indeed, look right into me with a serious and
careful gaze, but she'd say nothing. I would turn away and go back to
what I was doing. I had no idea what she was thinking.
One of these incidents occurred in late 1948, just before or after
Thanksgiving. I was six, Martha Jane was fifteen. She arrived at our
place from next door at about 7 o'clock as my Mom was getting powdered
and done up. I was on the floor of the living room and had spread old
newspapers around to work on the treasured but broken Underwood type-
writer that I had retrieved from the trash only a few weeks earlier.
Martha Jane said hello and hugged me and chatted with my mother. Mom
said, "Just let him play down there and he shouldn't be any trouble."
Martha Jane laughed and said, "Betty, Speedy never gives me any trouble,"
at which Mom grumbled, "Give him time."
Martha Jane stood over me and asked what I was doing. My Mom broke
in and said, "He's making a mess with that old typewriter. I don't see
why he doesn't throw it away, it's nothin' but a...hunk of junk."
Martha Jane bent way down to smile at me on the floor and survey the
spread of springs and spare parts strewn over the newspaper. "Hey," she
asked, "are you taking this apart or putting it together?"
"Both," I said, not looking up from my work. "I'm gonna make it work
again."
"But what'll you to do with it, Speedy, after you get it to work?"
"I'll figure somethin' out," I said arrogantly.
"You certainly have enough parts there for inspiration."
My mother came into the room, screwing on an earring. "Don't you
make a mess and drive Martha Jane crazy. She has to study tonight."
"Oh, Betty," Martha Jane said, "he'll be all right."
My mother continued, "I don't know what he wants that thing for, it
must be twenty years old. His godmother buys him toy trains and toy this
and toy that, and he has to fool around with that and make a mess!"
She left to finish dressing in the bedroom. I sat on my knees,
hunched over, laboriously studying the puzzle before me. I was so deeply
absorbed that I was startled to hear someone breathing behind me. I
looked up at saw Martha Jane staring at me. I turned so quickly that she
barely had time to change the studied expression with which she had
apparently been watching me.
Quickly, she smiled and gave me a big wink. She mouthed the words,
"It's okay."
My Mom left a few minutes later. Martha Jane settled down to a pile
of books on the sofa and studied silently while I knelt on the floor
struggling with my project. Using pliers and a screwdriver, I managed to
straighten most its typeset arms, but some of them were still getting
stuck on certain letters. I worked on it until I became frustrated and
threw the pliers on the floor and pouted.
"What's wrong?" Martha Jane asked, and she came to sit on the floor
beside me.
I showed her how the keys for certain letters were still bent out of
shape and that if I bent one properly, the keys next to it became misa-
ligned. Martha Jane said, "Speedy, why don't you take it to a repair
shop?"
"It's too old," I said. "Nobody wants to fool with it."
"Tell you what, maybe your Aunt Frances would buy you a new one."
"She won't," I said.
"But she gets you everything you want."
"No!" I said, angrily. "She told me I'm too young to have a
typewriter."
"Too young?" she said, surprised. "You probably know more about
typewriters than she ever will, hon."
"Besides," I added, holding the black albatross by the ends of its
heavy roller platen, "it's mine! I found it."
"And nobody wants it but you," she pondered. She hunched down beside
me and surveyed the damage. "Maybe I can help."
I sighed, "It's no use. It's just too old and banged up."
"Well, Speedy, let's be patient and see what we can do. I'm sure you
can figure it out. Show me what's wrong with it."
I was reluctant and pessimistic at first, but Martha Jane put on her
hornrimmed glasses and made me show her what the problem was. She
studied everything closely and showed me how to set up the keys so that
the problem was always repeated exactly the same way every time. She
told me how to work on one part at a time and not try to fix everything
at once. Finally we had the machine in one piece again and I showed her
how straightening one key would throw several others out of whack.
Martha Jane sat back and scratched her head. I stood up beside her.
"Martha Jane," I said, "you don't have to do this. You have to study."
She said, "No...now you've got me as puzzled about this as you are."
Suddenly she snapped her fingers and ran into the kitchen. She came
back with some popsicle sticks. We kept popsicle sticks around for
making our own cheap popsicles out of soda poured into ice trays. She
showed me how to hold the line of keys in place with parts made from
popsicle sticks, and that would let me work on one key at a time and keep
the others in place.
"Hey," I exclaimed, "Neat! That's pretty smart for a girl."
"Hm...boys!" she huffed with a laugh, and she went back to the sofa
and her books.
An hour passed while I worked feverishly. And finally the damn thing
worked! I ran to the chest in the corner for paper and put a sheet into
the roller, and used a piece of popsicle stick to replace a missing part
that kept the wrinkled old ink ribbon aligned. Then I typed and typed
and watched amazed as the page filled with perfectly straight rows of
letters for the first time. I was so pleased, I filled the page from top
to bottom with letters that soon were words instead of random
characters. I watched as my thoughts magically unfolded in printed
sentences before my eyes. I typed until there was no more room on the
page, then I ripped it from the roller and ran to Martha Jane, who was
startled by my sudden leap onto the sofa next to her.
"Look!" I said, shoving the paper under her face.
"Well," she said, impressed. "That's very nice. See? I knew you
could do it."
Embarrassed, I said, "Look at the last line."
Along the last line I had typed "Thank You Martha Jane Thank You
Martha Jane" across the page.
"Oh, that's sweet!" she exclaimed. She gave me a hug. "Can I keep
this?"
"Sure."
"Is it all right? It's yours, you made it all by yourself. You sure
you don't want to keep it so you can show your Mama what you did?"
"She don't care."
"Now why would say something like that about your Mama?"
I shook my head. "She don't care. I didn't make it for me, I made
it for you. You helped me make it work."
"But, hon, your Mama cares about what you do."
I shook my head no.
"She does!" Martha Jane insisted.
I shook my head again. "She tells me kid stuff like...she says
babies come from storks, and the storks deliver the babies in diapers
hangin' from their beaks. She's always tellin' me stuff like that."
"And I take it you didn't believe it."
I shook my head no. "That can't be where babies come from."
"Well," she said, "maybe you ought to talk to your Mama about that."
I shook my head no again.
"So, have you figured out where babies come from all by your self?"
"Not yet. But it ain't from storks."
"You're probably right," she murmured. She gazed at me inscrutably
for a long moment, during which I squirmed and stood on the floor but
bent down to prop my chin on an elbow that I leaned on the sofa cushion
beside her. Then she looked down at the page I had given her and
smiled. "This is so nice of you. I'll take it, but...you can have it
back whenever you want it."
"Okay."
She held her hand on the back of my neck and drew me toward her so
she could kiss me on the nose. "Thank you!"
"Thank you too!" I smiled and blushed and looked at her slender
fingers and her auburn hair and the gentle lines of her face. She could
not have ignored the way my eyes stayed glued on her. She smiled at me.
"Kiss me back," she said, pointing to her noise.
I did and said, "I like your nose."
"Yeah?" she said. She winked at me. "I like yours too."
I feigned an overdramatized blush and a baby-like "Aw, shucks."
"Don't be silly," she laughed, and pointed at my project on the
floor. "I hate to say it, hon, but it's nine o'clock. You have to clean
that up, and I have to get you a bath."
I said okay and quickly straightened things up while she went into
the bathroom and drew the bath. It was time for our bathtub ritual. The
apartments had no showers, but they had big new tubs in the small tiled
bathrooms. Martha Jane would fill the tub to just the right warm temp-
erature for the pink bubble-bath. The magic moment came when I was
fidgeting nude by the tub while the water level slowly rose. Martha Jane
would hold the packet of bubblebath powder high over the tub.
"Almost ready-y-y..." she'd chant, as I waited.
"Looks okay NOW!" I'd say.
"Nope," she'd say. "Almost...almost...." And finally, "There she
blows!" And she'd upturn the packet until just enough of the pink powder
fell out to make the right amount of bubbly stuff that I liked.
I would hop into the tub and splash and stir up the bubbles until
they overflowed the tub. The bubble-baths were better with Martha Jane
than with anyone else, because others insisted on fewer bubbles and less
time in the tub. But Martha Jane was herself a bubble-bath lover and
seemed to know just how much would be the most fun -- which in my case
was enough bubbles to not only fill the tub to its rim but to cover most
of my head as well, by the time I fluffed it up.
Martha Jane did not dry and dress me. That was up to me. I was a
fidgety kid anyway who liked to dress under my own power. Usually she
stayed in the living room and listened to the radio or studied, and I
would bathe, dry and dress and empty the tub myself. On those occasions
when she did stay in the bathroom as "supervisor", she was there to make
sure I cleaned up my bubbly mess. When this happened, Martha Jane removed
her skirt and blouse and wore her bra and panties, or sometimes a
delicate silk slip, if I were still in the bath; this was to keep her
clothes from being splashed when we got playful and threw globs of
bubble-bath at each other during our occasional bubble-fights (Martha
Jane, neatnick that she was, insisted on cleaning up every single remnant
of any mess we made).
On that night she stayed in the bathroom with me, fully clothed until
I climbed into the tub. She stood in the opened doorway and watched
contemplatively. After a minute she came into the bathroom and began
removing her skirt and blouse. She was almost down to her slip when I
announced, from under the mountain of bubbles that reached to my nose,
that I had to pee.
"Go ahead," she said.
I insisted, "But YOU'RE in here!"
"For goodness' sake, it won't bother me."
But I refused to pee with her in the room and would not get out of
the tub. I remained hidden behind my hill of bubbles.
Seeing my reluctance she said, "all right, I won't embarrass you. Is
Number One all you have to do?"
"Just Number One," I said. "But I hafta do it a hunnert and sixty
three times."
"Yeah, right...keep it under one-fifty, bubble-man, and don't take
all night. Do what you have to do, hon, and call me when you're
finished."
That was fine with me. She left the room and closed the door. After I
peed I got back into the tub and shouted that the coast was clear.
When she opened the door she wore only her bra and panties.
For a while she watched me from the opened doorway while I splashed
and scrubbed, but when it was time for me to finish up she came into the
room and knelt near the tub, watching me as before. I don't remember
what I said to her, but she was laughing about it when I pulled the
stopper from the tub and stood up to dry off while the water drained.
After my upper body was dry I got out of the tub as usual to dry my legs
and feet on the little pink rug in the middle of the tiled floor. Martha
Jane knelt and stared at me with that same probing look. I was drying
off when she reached up and put two of her slim fingers around the head
of my penis.
"Dry this too?" she asked, smiling.
"Yep," I answered innocently.
She continued fondling my tip with her two fingers, gently and
slowly, squeezing lightly or running a finger around the tip.
I stopped my drying and looked down at what she was doing. I studied
her fingers closely, feeling a new and beguiling pleasure at her touch.
"Feel good?" she asked, her eyes studying my reactions. Her voice
had fallen to a whisper. She half-smiled with what appeared to be great
interest, curiosity, and uncertainty.
"Yeah," I whispered back.
Our voices were so low that the drip drip drip of the bathtub faucet
was easily twice the volume. I remember hearing the faint drip, thinking
that the hot water handle had to be tightened to make it stop, but her
touch had me spellbound. My tip itched strangely and the skin of my
glans seemed to cling to her soft, tentative fingers.
"You like that?" she whispered.
"Yeah. Feels nice."
"Like it when I squeeze this way?"
"Yeah. Keep doin' it."
Constantly observing my reactions, she continued fondling me and
asking questions. She had a very secretive, whispered manner as if no
one was supposed to hear us, and I fell into this pattern by whispering
back my own answers in the same secretive way. As she played with me I
grew larger -- something else quite new to me -- and after a moment she
set me on the edge of the tub and knelt in front of me, tickling and
stroking my cock, explaining how it would get bigger as she did it. Soon
I was erect enough to allow her entire hand to enfold me, at which point
she began delicately pumping me toward a larger erection.
Still whispering furtively, she was delighted at the size of my young
hard-on and made several remarks about how my penis, which normally was
hardly bigger than her thumbnail, could grow to about 4 inches and get
much fatter. I was far too young to have an orgasm at that point, a fact
she apparently discovered after several minutes of this activity. But
for quite a while she continued fondling me, and I grew more and more
pleased at the sensations. Vaguely I recall that she attempted an
explanation of the birds and bees (I found this much more sensible than
that crap about storks!), but I absorbed precious little of what then was
a great deal of heady biological detail. At that moment I was more
interested in the pleasant physical sensations of her touch and the
strangely enticing intimacy in her voice and manner.
She studied my facial reactions as much as she did those of my penis,
and with every new touch or change in technique she asked me how it
felt. I would tell her it felt good and told her the kind of hand
movements and touches I liked best.
She said, "Now don't tell anybody we do this."
While this may have seemed an odd request to any other young boy, it
didn't seem so to me. From the very beginning Martha Jane's secretive
manner conveyed to me an air of deliciously naughty discovery, of shared
and precious secrets. Obviously I wouldn't do anything Martha Jane
didn't want. My distrust of grownups in general had made me adept at
developing many covert activities on my own that offered refuge from
meddling adults. I was intrigued to find that Martha Jane also had
secrets that she kept from grownups but that she was willing to share
with me.
From slightly above her I saw a soft swell of flesh extend invitingly
down into her bra, and I ran my finger over it. "Why do girls always
wear these?" I asked.
Martha Jane told me a bra held a woman's titties securely (Now, the
word "titties," as compared with "breasts", was a valid "Southern" term.
"Breast" sounded too clinical and seemed to apply mostly to packaged
chicken parts. The people I grew up around came from rural farming
families before they lived in the city. The word titties was perfectly
acceptable. I heard it used often in connection with everything from
cats and dogs to cows, auto tire aircaps, and baby-bottle nipples. But
from the outset, body words had special connotations for me and Martha
Jane. They were spoken with a unique vocal, emotional, and sensual
coloration that I find indescribable. These same words would sound
entirely different when I heard them used by others. This use of certain
words in certain ways became a part of our strange relationship at a very
early stage. The singular meanings we gave them appeared to grow
entirely under their own power -- the same way the relationship itself
seemed to have powers of its own).
She opened her bra and let me touch her flesh and her nipples. The
feel of her gave me goosebumps. She explained how babies were nursed.
"Babies suck on the nipples," she said, and I asked what it tasted like.
She said she had never had a baby so she had no milk in her but she said
that a baby sucking its mom's tit was a very important part of the way
babies grew up. She asked if I had ever sucked my mom's nipples. I said
I probably didn't (which in retrospect, considering my mother's staunch
puritanism, was more than likely true). I asked her how it felt and
asked to suck her titties. She held one breast up for me and told me I
could lick her nipple and see for myself. I did. The sensation of her
marshmallow-soft flesh on my tongue has never been duplicated. I was
aware of her smiling down and encouraging me as I took my sample lick.
She was delicious. So I took another, longer lick. Hearing her breath
become oddly deep and pleasurable, I licked yet again.
It was a memorable moment. She left me with the impression that she
enjoyed my tongue on her in a way that was an equally unique experience
for her. She told me that licking her titties was very, very personal
and that she would never let anyone do it but me.
After a while she had me as erect as I would ever get at that age. I
was in a state not only of physical warmth, but of gratitude for her
having revealed to me actions and pleasures that no one but Martha Jane
and I would ever know about. And Martha Jane was greatly pleased and
surprised at the size of my erection and at my ready complicity in our
naughty game.
"We'll do it again later, okay?" she said, holding my very hard penis
still in her warm hand. "But don't tell anyone else, hon,
because...well..."
She paused. She searched for words.
"Well, they would say this is nasty. They wouldn't like it and we'd
be in trouble."
I asked, "Why do they think it's nasty?"
"They just do. Lots of people don't like doing this."
"I do."
"You do? Really?"
"Yes. I like it with you."
She grinned. "Let's get you dressed and we can do it again sometime."
I don't remember anything else about that night. But I am certain
this was the night that a significant language with its own coloration
and associations, its own set of gestures and responses, and a heavily
secretive atmosphere introduced themselves into our relationship.
Good little boy that I was, I got dressed. She did, too, and then
she put me to bed, kissed me goodnight, and went into the living room to
study while I fell asleep. I was perfectly content. It was not so much
the physical sensations that left me pleased as it was a new serenity, a
feeling of closeness with the only person in the world I could trust.
That was the beginning. I did not invest much time thinking about
the details, nor was I old enough to live in constant anticipation of the
next event. I knew only that I was extremely fond of Martha Jane. I was
also aware, at the time, of her apprehension and tension. But she
needn't have worried; indeed, I never told anyone about us and was never
tempted to. This was Martha Jane's secret and mine, a haven from the
coldness and fickleness of the outer world. And there was no way I would
ever hurt Martha Jane by getting her into trouble that might keep us
apart. Unwittingly, we had formed a compact and a revolt.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 1B
-30-
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