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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 3A"( bf mF mF+ )[5/52]
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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
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These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
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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 3A:
Just before my 9th birthday my godmother and great-aunt Frances
bought me a new dark brown suit and new shoes for my Confirmation
ceremony at St. Mary's Catholic School. It was a dim, cloudy
Sunday afternoon outside; but inside the ornate, high-ceiling
Gothic church hundreds of banks of candles cast a warm glorious
light over everyone in the church. Mom and Aunt Frances and my
deceased father's mother, Grandma Rose, drove me to the front en-
trance and let me out on the sidewalk while Aunt Frances parked the
Buick behind the church. I stood there for a moment looking down
at myself, all got up in the immaculate suit and the shiny new
shoes, my hair slicked with a hefty, odorous portion of Wildroot
Hair Oil. I asked myself if it were really me in this costume.
If I bent my arms the sleeves of the suit crinkled and wrinkled
stiffly, but when I straightened my arm the cloth fell back into a
smooth, neatly creased tube. I wore a tight starchy white shirt
with a flowery bowtie my aunt had chosen. The tie and the thick
collar dug uncomfortably into the front of my throat.
I felt out of place, as emotionaly removed from the impending
ceremony as I would have been at a funeral for a perfect stranger's
dead dog. I climbed the front marble steps and entered the front
vestibule, an imposing, darkly paneled hall where I lined up with
a chatty, squealing assemblage of other suited boys. The girls,
fluttering and chirping like sparrows, lined up at the other end of
the hall in fluffy communion-style dresses and white shoes. Soon
the long-robed nuns in their stiff white bobbing habbits shushed us
into silence. They strode quickly through our ranks to check us
out and nod their stern approval.
Even the shuffling of feet on the waxed tile floor came to a
dead stop as my own home-room teacher, Sister Mary Joseph, sternest
and most dreaded nun of all, strode into the room. No more than a
tiny slip of a woman, her imperious expression and long stride gave
her a commanding manner. She stood exactly in the center of the
long and narrow hall, her arms folded firmly before her so that
her hands were hidden inside the floppy arms of her robe. As she
slowly passed her glowering eyes from one end of our ranks to the
other, her thin lips characteristically pursed and reset them-
selves. The hall suddenly echoed as one of the kids gave a loud
sneeze, which was quickly followed by the echo of four nuns giving
a sharp and loud "Sh!" In the ensuing silence, Sister Mary Joseph
began her announcement in her usual manner, with a rise of her head
and a long deep breath.
"Children," she said, "you are about to become soldiers for our
lord Jesus Christ." Pause. "As you attend the holy ceremony of
Confirmation today, you will receive a scapular with an image of
your patron saint." Pause. "Wear your scapular at all times. It
is your protection from the dangers and temptations you encounter
in your struggle with Satan. Protect it as you would your immortal
souls. Many holy martyrs of the Church have suffered pain of death
rather than lose possession of the holy image we will give you here
today." Pause. "You are fortunate and honored that your holy
scapulars will be blessed by none other than Monseignor Kearny from
Blessed Sacrament School. He has honored us by agreeing to deliver
the blessing and the sermon today." Pause. "Now we will all file
into our pews." Pause. "Be silent. And conduct yourselves as
children of Christ and as you were taught in the rehearsals. Don't
forget to kneel and to stand at the proper intervals for a High Holy
Mass. And remember at all times that the Monseignor is watching.
I know you will make him proud of each of you, one and all."
She nodded to a nun at the door, who shoved opened the vast
carved walnut panels that led into the interior. The place filled
with the shuffling of new shoes and rustling of clothes as we
entered double-file, first the boys and then the girls, and took
our assigned places in a line of wooden pews along the right side
of the church. As I shuffled slowly in line along the narrow aisle
I passed my family, Aunt Frances and Mom smiling proudly my way,
and my pert grandmother giving me a wink. Their obvious pleasure
failed to improve my humor; the only pleasantness I found in the
situation was the heavy waft of candle smoke and parafin in the
air, and the dulcet singing of the choir in the loft above and
behind us. As this would be a High Mass, I knew I would at least
have the pleasure of hearing Sister Albert's accomplished choir
singing the Gregorian Chant required by the formality of the
ceremony.
As usual, the Mass progressed in what I always thought was a
tortuously slow pace. And again as usual, I occupied my wandering
mind by studying the dozens of statuettes that line the walls of
St. Mary's. St. Christopher: a rugged, bearded, muscular man
leaning heavily on his staff and struggling head-first through some
undefined tempest, the child Jesus hoisted on his massive shoulders.
St. Stephen the Martyr: in the swaddling garb of what I later came
to know as the clothing worn by Roman peasants, lashed at his wrists
and ankles to a wooden post, posed with his eyes lifted to heaven,
all done with exacting, lurid anatomical detail.
My gaze never failed to linger on the carved image of St.
Joseph, whose name matched my middle name and who had been chosen
as the patron saint of my Confirmation. Not as herculean as St.
Christopher, he was a long legged figure with a long beard, seated
at his carpenter's bench with a tacking hammer in one strong hand,
his other arm draped around the shoulders of the peasant boy
Jesus, who clung absurdly dependant at his side. I studied
Joseph's face interminably, striving to imagine what it might be
like to have had such a father with strong, chiseled features and
commanding eyes under a heavily furrowed brow. I wondered what
his beard would feel like.
And the Virgin Mary, a short, full-hipped woman in a simple
white flowing robe with a blue shawl draped about her head and
shoulders. Her slim right hand was raised as if conferring on the
viewer the two-fingered blessing that I had seen Pope Pius XII
giving from his balcony in movie newsreels. In her right arm she
held the half-nude child who turned its head to gaze at the viewer
with a frown of divine approbation that seemed blatantly inappro-
priate on the infant's face. Always my eyes fixed themselves on
Mary's girl-like oval face. The sculptor had fashioned for her
a pair of enchantingly dark, gentle eyes. Her expression was
tender, knowing, forgiving. I could not match my mother's face
with hers, nor my great aunt nor my grandmother nor anyone else.
I wondered what it might be like to have such a mother. In many
ways her expression reminded me of one I sometimes saw on Martha
Jane. My eyes moved down to Mary's small bosom, and warmly I
remembered the moist swell of Martha Jane's breasts and the feel
of her nipples on my tongue.
I asked myself if the woman who lived within that statue would
be scandalized at my illicit familiarity with the feel and taste of
real, warm, responsive titties. Would she, too, offer a nipple to
me for sucking?
I was fully aware of the blasphemous nature of these thoughts.
As Mass moved agonizingly along, we children prepared for communion
by attending the rear confessional one by one. Dutifully, I ducked
into the dark curtained booth and spoke into the cloth-shrouded
grating that separated me from the priest, whom I could dimly see
and whom I knew immediately to be the kindly and unflappable
Franciscan, Father Edward.
Dutifully, I contrived a suitably penitent voice. Dutifully, I
recited the same repertoire of sins I usually confessed and for
which I was truly sorry: for saying bad things about my fat Aunt
Mary, whom I really didn't like, even after I confessed not liking
her; for talking back to my mother or disobeying and upsetting her;
for not making the bed on Saturday; for taking God's name in vain
when I got angry at a kid on the playground and wished that Jesus
would tear the little bastard's tongue out and send him to hell to
be devoured by slimy gnomes; and for falling asleep during morning
Mass.
Brazenly, I made no mention of wondering what the Holy Mother's
breasts were like. Brazenly, I made no mention of Martha Jane's
breasts or her thighs or that I had made her cum. Brazenly and
stubbornly I refused to connect Martha Jane with evil, and even if
I could I brazenly and stubbornly refused to betray our trust.
On the other side of the grating Father Edward leaned back in
what I could see was a brown leather-backed chair. He gave his
usual sighs and his usual response: "Very well, my child, and is
that all you have to confess?"
"Yes, Father."
"You know you must honor your mother and you must not have
unkind feelings for your aunt, for they all love you and care for
you in ways you do not understand. And for your penance I want you
to say ten hail marys and ten our fathers."
"Yes, Father."
"And remember to avoid the temptations and the sins of greed,
envy, and lust."
"Yes, father."
And then the usual, ritualized dismissal: "Your sins are forgiv-
en. Go in peace, and sin no more. "
"Thank you, Father."
I left the man with no inkling of Martha Jane. I wondered if
his benediction forgave me for that as well as for the sins I had
confessed. I thought the penance was a little out of line for not
liking my fat Aunt Mary. Apparently at least half that penance
must have been slated for disobeying my Mom.
Returning to my pew, I found the walls of St. Mary's reverber-
ating with the husky, amplified voice of Monseignor Kearny. From
the ornate pulpit at the front of the church he inveighed weightily
with his baritone's voice of doom: "...and be wary, my children,
of the evil nature of the sins of the flesh, sins that render our
precious souls disgusting in the sight of the Lord. For to Jesus
and His Holy Mother Mary, the sins of the flesh are truly the most
offensive sins of all. Because of them we risk the punishment of
being cast down to a terrible, burning place in purgatory for ten
thousand years, and after that, into the flames of hell for all
eternity..."
Just ahead of me sat Sister Mary Joseph, nodding slowly in
righteous agreement as the monseignor thundered on. I sighed
impatiently, my eyes wandering until they fell on the statue of
Jesus, gruesomely hanging from a crucifix high over the center of
the altar. I cringed at the sight of the bloody nails...
I have no idea how much of this tripe I did or didn't absorb,
but at the time I consciously rejected it as irrelevant to what
Martha Jane and I experienced. At that time I found other aspects
of life to be much more frighteningly evil: evil was the beating
of a boy I knew by some unknown kids who came to our part of the
project one day from the big apartment buildings on the hill at the
top of Exchange Street. Evil was the Russians wanting to drop atom
bombs on everyone, and evil was the Nazis and the Japs who had
blown off the arms and legs of soldiers and shot out the eyes of
the man who lived a few doors down from me. But I could not equate
evil with the image of Martha Jane spreading her thighs to allow my
hands to please her. To use a more modern phrase: the equation
didn't compute.
However, I was not so brazen nor rebellious as not to
appreciate the majesty of the edifice and interior of St. Mary's
and the solemnity of the ceremony. Gregorian Chant had its
hypnotic qualities, as did the ritual of the purple-robed mon-
seignor moving down a line of piously kneeling children as he
draped a scapular ribbon round their necks.
When he came to me I kneeled properly and straightly. Behind
me, my mother stood with her hand on my left shoulder as the
ceremony required.
The Monseignor intoned, "What is the child's name?"
"Steven," my mother answered.
"And who," the monseignor intoned, "is his patron saint?"
"Saint Joseph," my mother answered.
The monseignor reached toward an altar boy who fished out a
scapular--a thin ribbon with a small, two-inch cloth-framed image
of the indicated patron--and then the monseignor draped it loosely
round my neck.
"Steven, I confirm you as a soldier in the army of Christ under
the guidance of your patron, Saint Joseph."
There followed a quickly delivered chant of garbled Latin as he
moved to the next child in line. Even I, brazen and rebellious
sinner that I was, had to admit that the theatrical power of this
pageantry was highly effective. Of course my relatives were in-
ordinately pleased and heaped praise onto me incessantly on the
drive back home, which mercifully was only a few blocks away.
Mom had arranged for a small dinner with my Aunt Frances and
Grandma Rose, who brought ravioli and salad and knotbread for the
occasion. The kitchen being too small, we ate in the living room
on aluminum trays and paper plates. I'd had to fast in order to
attend the required communion during the ceremony, and it was well
past noon; I sat in one corner and ate like a famished cave man.
"Don't spill gravy on your shirt!" my aunt screamed in her
usual panic, and Mom removed my coat and stuffed a napkin under my
tight collar. The napkin hurt, but I was too hungry to complain.
"Don't eat so fast," my mother prompted. I replied by stuff-
ing ravioli into my mouth until it squeezed out the sides of my
lips.
"There," my aunt grunted, throwing up her hands. "See what
he does? Why won't you listen to your Mama?"
My mother warned, "You better not stain that suit. Martha
Jane will be here later on. See wants to see you in it."
At that, I didn't eat more slowly but I ate more carefully,
making certain the napkin covered as much of my starchy shirt as
possible.
But by the end of the day Martha Jane had not arrived. As it
grew dark I went outside our apartment and looked into their
apartment window next door, but no lights were on. Going back to
our apartment I asked my mother what happened to Martha Jane.
Mom answered, "I guess she didn't have time. She probably
went to the hospital with her mother and her Uncle Joe. He gets
sick all the time with that shot up stomache of his, ever since he
came back from overseas."
Once again before getting ready for bed, I checked Martha Jane's
apartment but no one was there. Reluctantly I went back to our
bedroom and removed my suit, getting into my undies for bed. Mom was
in her nightgown, turning out all the lights. I lay on the bed in
the lighted bedroom near the window and studied the picture of Saint
Joseph on my scapular. The portrait had been done in oils, appar-
ently in the late Victorian period. The man was heavily bearded,
piously looking toward heaven with a conventionally saintly gaze.
The scapular itself was a simple device, a black flat rayon ribbon
with the cloth-bound portrait dangling by a similar piece of cloth.
The painting was done in the same rich oils as a picture once shown
to my class by Sister Mary Joseph, who had found in a book what she
considered to be a true representation of the fires of hell. She
brandished the book before the ogling eyes of the kids and told us
what would happen to us if we were sent to hell. It showed a dimly
lighted cavern populated by crawling serpents and evil clouds of
smoke. Snarling, leering, crocodile-toothed hairless dogs ate their
way through the intestines of screaming victims and cruelly tore off
their arms and legs.
Holding my scapular before me, I wondered if its reputed magic
powers could indeed protect me from such a fate. Certainly, it
had done a shabby job of protecting me from temptation. I couldn't
imagine how anything could keep me from engaging in future naughty
intimacies with Martha Jane. The image that made me feel a creepy
apprehension was that of having to protect the scapular with my
life. Suppose, as Sister Angelica from the fourth grade had pro-
posed weeks earlier, the Chinese Communists invaded the country
and arrested all the Catholics and strangled their children? I
would be found wearing a scapular, certainly a dead giveaway, and
would be sadistically and slowly strangled if I didn't give it up.
This morbid thought haunted me as Mom climbed in the bed and
shut the light. When I grew a little older Mom would sleep in the
living room on the sofabed, but in those days she slept with me.
My place was at the window side, because I often enjoyed sitting
by the window sill and looking out into the dark before falling
asleep. Mom said good night and rolled away from me. For a long
time I lay face up, pondering the magnitude of my reponsibilities
as a soldier in the army of Christ with an official scapular that
I had to wear at all times to confirm my identity.
Late in the night I awoke and found myself totally alone in
the bed. Feeling something moving under me, I rose up on my knees
and looked down. Horrified, I saw dozens and then hundreds of
black thumb-sized roaches dashing across the white sheets in all
directions. Frantically I pounded the mattress and made wide
sweeping movements with my outspread hands to wipe them away.
They kept coming, multiplying, crawling everywhere, I couldn't
stop them...
Suddenly I was awake. I was on my knees in the bed. My
Mom slept on her side, next to me. My hands were spread on the
sheets in front of me. But there were no roaches. Only the
clean white sheets. My heart pounded. I waited for it to stop.
The only object on the sheet before me was the tangled, black-
stringed scapular.
I picked it up and placed it on the window sill. As I did
so, my arm was flooded by a narrow beam of moonlight.
Stealthily I moved to the edge of the foot of the bed, then
onto the floor. My heart still pounding slightly with the memory
of my terror, I slowly opened the corner chest and took out a new
sheet, which I brought with me into the kitchen, carefully looking
back to see my mother still asleep. Wrapping the sheet around me,
I opened the back door, wincing as it creaked halfway open. Look-
ing behind me again, I saw no one following me. I walked into the
dark back yard, barely visible in the light from a streetlamp
several doors away near the corner of the building. A cricket
chirped lazily. I moved out near the curb of the access driveway
behind our building and looked across Martha Jane's back yard. I
saw no lights. It was too dark for me to see into their bedroom
window. I wondered where she was. When would she be back?
My mother appeared in her nightgown at the back door, frown-
ing sleepily into the dark with swollen eyes. "Speedy? Speedy?"
Reluctantly, I walked toward her with the tails of my white
shroud trailing at my feet.
"What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night?" She
bent down and examined me. "Are you walking in your sleep? Huh?
Are you asleep?"
Seeing that she had furnished me with an excuse as good as any
I might conjure on my own, I nodded yes.
"Are you asleep?" she asked again.
I nodded. "I'm asleep," I said plainly, and looked up to see
if there were any possibility that she believed me.
"Well, come in the house. Come on, get in here and get back to
bed." She pulled me gently into the kitchen and stroked my hair.
"Are you awake now? Answer me, are you awake now?"
I nodded yes, and kept walking in my oversized sheet to the
bedroom, where I left the sheet on the floor and climbed back into
bed. As Mom settled beside me I nestled back into my pillow, face
up, and looked away from her into the shafts of moonlight that
banded the window sill.
Mom asked irritably, "What *were* you dreaming about?"
"Roaches," I muttered.
"What?"
"Roaches. The roaches from the scapular."
"Roaches?" she repeated, incredulously. "Well, go back to
sleep. Are you alright now?"
I nodded yes, several times.
"Go back to sleep, then."
She turned away from me and drew the top sheet to her
shoulders. Soon she was still, breathing deeply. I lay watching
the moonbeams, listening for echoes of Martha Jane in the room.
The resting woman beside me felt like a foreign object that didn't
sound or feel like the Martha Jane I wanted to talk to and explain
my dream to.
I searched the moonbeams and thought about her until I fell
asleep again.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
============
PART 3A
-30-
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