Message-ID: <7246eli$9803251540@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 2A"( bf mF mF+ )[3/52]
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Note: This message was posted by a secure email service. Please report MISUSE OR ABUSE of this automated secure email service to <abuse@anon.nymserver.com>.
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <6facs8$sl4$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 2A:
I believe that Martha Jane, like me, was mostly curious at
first. And it seems that my surprise and delight at our intimacy
was matched only by her own surprise and delight at my enthusiasm
and cooperation. But we never mentioned our secret to each other
when she visited my Mom or when we greeted on the front porch on
our way to school in the mornings that followed.
Several weeks later, a few days after Christmas, the city was
inundated by a heavy winter snow--something Southern cities seldom
experienced. The whole town knew the weather was coming and Mom
had a date to go to what had been set up as a White Christmas
dinner at one of the fancy hotel ballrooms that were popular in
the late 1940's. It was a Friday night. Martha Jane darkened our
bedroom and sat on the bed with me, watching the snow. The bed was
in its usual place in that little room, pushed lengthwise against
the wall next to the big double-window. We leaned on the window
sill and talked and watched the falling snow. I don't remember
what we talked about, but she had told me a story about something-
or-other and I was astonished and said, "Really?", and she said
"Yes, it really happened like that!", and I squealed "REALLY?",
and she made a wide-eyed face back at me and said, "Yes, REALLY!",
and we were both giggling. I have no idea what the subject was,
but I remember the essence of the moment as playful, trusting and
warm.
She settled her chin on one hand on the window sill, and I did
the same. She said in a hushed tone, "Listen. Be very, very quiet,
and listen."
"Okay," I said loudly, smirking.
"Shh!" she said, and we giggled again, and then we sat very
still. Soon I whispered. "There's so much snow, but it's so
quiet."
"No," she whispered. "You can hear it falling. Listen."
We stayed perfectly still. In the night outside the window the
entire project was covered in a thick, globby blanket of white. The
snow fell with a dreamlike lazy slowness, but so densely it made the
buildings seem dark gray instead of dark brick-red, and completely
obscured the contours of the access driveway that ran behind our
building. I strained nearer the window and listened. After a
short time I could indeed hear the muffled, barely audible whisk of
falling snow.
"Hear it?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"You wouldn't deceive me would you, mister? You really hear
it?"
"Yeah," I breathed, fascinated. "Really."
We leaned on our chins and listened more. I turned to her in
quiet excitement at this revelation of the noise of snowflakes
falling, but as my eyes met hers I melted into speechless jelly.
She was watching me with a look of warm, affectionate, captivating
tenderness. All I could do was look back into her eyes helplessly
until, embarrassed at my own startling feelings, I made a funny,
scrunched-up face.
She wrinkled her nose at me. "And 'that' to you too," she
said, "silly-face." Then she jumped off the bed.
"Bubble time!" she announced, and off we went to the bathroom.
She undressed down to her panties, bra, and slip and held up the
bubble-bath pack and let it go, and I hopped in to splash around
and build my usual nose-high mountain of bubbles. I didn't notice
until slightly later that she stood there for quite some time after
reaching back to the hook on the bathroom door to fetch her skirt
and blouse; after thinking about it she returned her clothes to
the door hook. She removed her slip as well, and knelt by the tub
again in her undies. I got out of the tub and dried off. Once
again, after a long hesitation, she put her fingers around my cock.
Remembering this from before, I stood still and watched her
play with me. I hardened, and tickles spread through my tummy.
I looked at her and grinned, and her eyes met mine with a widening
look of recognition and pleasure.
"That's good," I murmured.
"Yeah? You still like this, huh?."
I told her I did, and something made me shove my pelvis slightly
forward (a totally unconscious movement toward her fingers, the
source of my pleasure), which caused her to look up again in sur-
prise and a strange kind of glee. The two of us seemed urged on by
some outlandish, mutually shared impulse to make the gestures and
say the words we did.
As she played we watched my cock harden and twitch. She said we
would be more comfortable if I sat on the edge of the tub as be-
fore. I did so, and we both watched as she softly pumped me erect.
I reached inside her bra and found a nipple, and we exchanged
mutually knowing smiles as I gently squeezed her. She was still
amazed at how my "teentsy" young organ became so enlarged. Soon I
was thoroughly hard and she was grinning lewdly at me, a grin I
quickly learned to return.
These returned glances and simultaneous eye contacts occurred
so often it seems they never ceased. They were another integral
part of our communication with each other. It was part of the con-
tinuous pattern of feedback and feed-in and feed-on that united us.
Often it replaced thousands of words that might have been used to
describe a feeling or a moment. This, too, began happening quite
early in the relationship.
Of course, I didn't climax. The incident soon ended and we
returned to the bedroom. We continued watching the snowfall for
a long time. I leaned sleepily on the window sill, and listened to
her magical voice. She was talking about something she was doing
at school. I was soon overcome by the languorous peace of being
with her, something entirely absent from my relationship with my
mother.
When I opened my eyes again it was Saturday morning. My Mom
was back home fussing around the house, and Martha Jane was gone.
Several months went their course, and I passed my 7th birth-
day. It was around that period, near May 1949, that several more
interludes occurred. By this time I would get out of the tub and
Martha Jane would be kneeling and waiting, and I would stand up and
say, "Do me." She would set me on the edge of the tub and pump me
erect, which she learned to maintain for longer and longer periods.
I don't have a clear memory of what I physically felt at that time,
but I recall that she and I kept finding ways to make it feel
better.
Martha Jane beamed delightedly at my responsiveness. "I love
feeling it jump," she'd say, and she soon discovered that my cock
jerked even more during her early attempts at using her tongue and
mouth on it. Constantly we talked about how it felt and what we
liked. Her favorite ploy was to hold me entirely inside her
mouth, my tip barely extended into the narrow channel of her
throat, and gently close her mouth around me and hold me that way
so she could feel my cock throb against her tongue. I was still
too young to have a true orgasm, but I had no feelings of frus-
tration. Nor was I particularly anxious about when she would be
sitting for me again. The aspects of our relationship that I
sorely missed when we were apart for any significant time were our
fondness for each other and the simple "rightness" of being with
her and hearing her alluring voice and quiet girlish laughter.
It was sometime during the summer that the bathing routine
changed. It was probably the fourth or fifth episode. I got out
of the tub and stood with my tummy sticking out lewdly so she
could play with me, which she did. We both grinned and whispered
in our naughty secret way as she stroked me, and she unhooked her
bra so I could make little circles around her nipples.
I watched her fingers on me and muttered, "It tickles."
"Want me to do it slower or faster?"
"Slower."
"That way, hon?"
"Yeah. That feels nasty."
"You like it that way?"
"Yeah."
"You mean it feels better, is that what 'nasty' means?"
"Yeah. Feels really good."
She said, "That's what grownups say, hon, they'd say if it
feels good it's nasty." She added ruefully, "They think anything
that feels good is horrible. I really don't understand. You'd
think people already have enough sadness and pain in their lives
without making things worse."
It was a concept that she and I would mention many times. It
seemed to be something of which she was often terrified; now and
then she would stop everything, look at me painfully, and then hold
me close to her. This was one of the first of those occasions.
Others would follow. But on that night it happened for the first
time.
She was saying to me, "Squeeze my nipple just a little, hon,
really soft, the way I squeeze your dick...that's nice. I like
it when you just stroke me, too, around my nipples for a while."
I feathered my fingertips across and around her nipples, and she
closed her eyes dreamily. "Hm-hm, yes...better, hon...you do
that so well..."
I was surprised at the reaction of her nipples. "They got
stiff," I said. "Does it hurt when they get stiff?"
"No, hon, it means it feels good. Just like getting you hard
feels good for you."
We played and whispered for a while. Then Martha Jane just
stopped. Abruptly and completely, she dropped her hands and
stopped everything.
She settled back on her folded legs on the floor, and put her
hands over her face. She did that only for a few seconds and looked
up at me only because I had bent down closer to her. I saw she was
suddenly saddened, and as I bent down she turned toward me with a
look of pain and loss on her face. She spoke softly and plaintively
and, as best as I can recall, she said:
"Do you know who you are, Speedy? You are the smartest, cutest,
most loving boy in the world. D'you know that, hon? But you're
gonna grow up--". She stopped, and held me down closer to her face,
so that our foreheads touched. "You are gonna grow up in a very
strange world, with no daddy, like me. And a mommy who can't live
for anything except dying and...goin' to be with God. Oh Speedy,
don't you ever grow up to be like that. You hear? Don't grow up
and be afraid and suspicious and narrow and mean. I know you'll
grow up and be so good, and so sweet, and so smart and sensitive,
but you'll feel like you're in hell because you're trusting and sexy
and...other people don't tolerate that very well, it's all bad for
them and they'll always say you're too different and--"
I must have had a confused look on my face that made her stop.
I'm sure I did. I don't remember all her words exactly, but I do
know that at that time her words only partially made sense.
She kissed my nose. The episode quickly ended when she stood
up and said, "C'mon, hon. Beddie-bye."
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
============
PART 2A
-30-
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |