Message-ID: <7392eli$9803311910@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 3B"( bf mF mF+ )[6/52]
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: <6fpkn0$8c$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 3B:
For several weeks I saw Martha Jane only now and then as she
walked across the grounds on her way in or out of the project. She
caught sight of me once from a couple of blocks away and smiled and
waved and yelled Hi.
Meanwhile, it seems my Mom and future step-dad had gone through
a brief spat. They started dating again a few weeks later. But my
sitter was not Martha Jane. In fact, I had two different sitters
at first. The first must not have been very interesting, as I have
absolutely no recollection of who they were or how they looked. The
identity of the second sitter is also a blank, but I recall that I
spent the evening not at home but in the sitter's apartment, across
the driveway and at a slight angle from my own building. Through
their back kitchen window that night I could see the back door that
led to my own apartment. And just to the left was the apartment
where Martha Jane and her family lived. At one point that night I
saw her in her kitchen; there was no mistaking that pretty face and
frizzy auburn hair. I waved to her. Of course, she didn't see me.
I went back later and waited for a while but she didn't show again.
And by the time the sitter walked me back across the driveway back
home, all the lights were out in Martha Jane's place.
When I had not seen her for several more days I bumped into her
accidentally just as I was going out the front door on my way to
school. She came outside at the same time with her schoolbooks
under her arm.
"Hey, hon," she sang as she locked her door. She beamed at
me and gave me her best Southern twang. "Where've you been,
sugar?"
"where've-you-been-too," I mimicked playfully.
"Well," she went on, making a silly face, "Where YOU been?"
"Well," I said in the same way, "Where YOU been?"
She laughed and gave a mild go-away wave with her free hand.
"Oh, silly!" She shook her head. She was wearing a long plaid,
pleated skirt and a white blouse. I very clearly remember that
morning and how she looked; bright, clean, basic, unpretentious,
very very pretty in a simple, uncomplicated way.
We walked a few blocks together. I noticed she seemed to be
getting thinner. She also looked tired, but cheerful. It turned
out she had been working very hard in school and was overly anxious
to do well. "You wouldn't know about that yet," she said, "you're
barely in the third grade."
"What grade are you in?" I asked.
"The umpteenth, feels like."
Umpteenth was our private code that meant something akin to
forever or infinity.
"I'm coming over Saturday," she said. She had stopped and
seemed serious and looked steadily at me without moving.
I said, "Oh. Okay!" and beamed at her. She kept looking at
me in the same mysterious way. I didn't know why she wasn't
saying anything. She seemed concerned, apprehensive.
"Well," she said after a minute and a short breath, "I am
*supposed* to stay with you Saturday night, anyway."
I did not know what she was getting at or what was going on,
or why she emphasized the word "supposed". I do remember the
moment clearly. I became very tense; I felt suddenly distant from
her and didn't know what was wrong.
She asked me pointedly, "Are we still friends, hon?"
"Sure we are," I said.
"I mean...are we still really, really friends?"
I blushed. "Your my own special, very only, very umpeenth-
degree friend."
"And you're my special little man, hon," she said, but she
wasn't smiling, except weakly, sympathetically.
We talked a little more, I don't remember what we said. She
seemed absent-minded. It was not until Saturday night that I
discovered what she was thinking.
It was all quite complicated. At least, it was for Martha
Jane. As an adult I now understand, but as a 9-year-old I could
not fathom it. I viewed things more simplistically.
Next Saturday, Martha Jane and I sat and talked after she made
dinner and after we cleaned the dishes. Then she studied on the
sofa a while. She asked me a series of seemingly unrelated
questions, none of which I remember. She was not as openly
affectionate as usual and seemed remote, though not at all cold.
Our exchanges were brief and rather formal. She asked me about
some uncles of mine who had not returned from the war, and she
asked if I ever saw my Uncle Frank--my father's brother and one of
the few male relatives in my family who had survived and returned
home. I told her that Uncle Frank had not seen me since he fin-
ished his last hitch in the Air Corps and decided to come back to
the States and go to college on the GI Bill. I told her about his
getting wounded in a B-26 in the Pacific a few years ago and how he
pulled up his pants leg and showed me the pink scars of the three
healed bullet holes in his lower thigh.
She winced, making an "Ugh" face. She said firmly, "I don't
want to hear about it. I've heard enough about the war."
So I didn't say any more. I sat on the floor watching her,
trying to figure out how to get through to her.
Martha Jane announced, "My Uncle Joe died, you know."
"Yeah," I said, "Mama told me."
"He was sick for so long, from his war wounds. He lived longer
than we thought he would, but...It was hard on Mother. That's two
men the war took from her, her husband and her brother." She
stared ahead pensively, then blinked awake. "Well. Enough of that."
I said earnestly from across the room, "I'm real sorry, Martha
Jane."
She smiled weakly. "Thank you, hon. I know you are. It'll be
alright." She looked back at her book and began scribbling in her
notepad.
For a long time--perhaps for most of the evening, it seems--
she pored over her studies and remained unresponsive.
Later that night I felt she was still mourning, despite saying
she would get over it. I had seen a whole neighborhood full of
hurt, tragic people: widows, the disabled and the paralyzed, the
shot-up and the abandoned of the War. I had seen my mom's sister,
my young and plain-looking Aunt Martha, when she came to our
apartment once in the middle of the night, pounding on our front
door and screaming for help until she woke us. My mom scrambled
out of bed and I stood in the hallway watching from the bedroom as
Mom opened the front door for Aunt Martha, who rushed sobbing into
the living room and collapsed in a wailing heap on the sofa. Her
husband had beaten her again. Mom and Aunt Martha tried to hide
the bloodied bruises from me, but I had already seen them on Aunt
Martha's face and arms and I knew what the marks meant without
being told. Seeing her, I wanted to cry and throw my arms around
her--even though she was, unfortunately, one of those adults I
didn't trust. She was even more grimly puritanical and prim than
my Mom, and a fundamentalist who considered everything an occa-
sion for sin of some kind. But I understood her pain, both
physical and emotional, without having it explained to me.
That night occurred some years earlier, when I had just turned
6. The commotion woke up Martha Jane's family next door. She and
her sister Evelyn came over in their robes and pajamas and Martha
Jane went straight over to me because my mother panicked and was
rasping, "Get Speedy out of here, get him out of here!" Martha
Jane led me to bedroom, where I looked up at her and whispered so
the others wouldn't hear, "I already saw it."
She looked down at me. "You did what, hon?"
I repeated, looking back to make sure the others couldn't hear
us, "I already saw it, Martha Jane. I saw what happened."
Martha Jane knelt down to me in her rumpled bathrobe and
looked into my eyes with her deep, striking green ones. "Then,"
she said eyeing me seriously, "you understand what happened."
I nodded. Then I added, so the others wouldn't hear, "Uncle
Bobby hurt her again."
We were alone in the room. I could still see in my mind the
earlier glimpse of Aunt Martha's bloody lip and the dark bulging
eye, and the blue-black on one of her arms. I started crying. I
could not stop the tears from falling down my face, despite my
attempts at remaining calm.
"Oh, honey," Martha Jane implored, "don't get scared and
start crying, now."
"I'm not scared," I sniffled. "I know how Aunt Martha hurts.
It makes me cry."
"You--" Her eyes looking into mine softened and seemed to
turn to mush. "Oh, you sweet baby."
"Why does he do that to her?"
"I don't know, hon. But you are so sweet. So very sweet."
She closed the bedroom door, shutting us off from the sobbing
and wailing in the living room, and put me back into bed. She told
me it would all be okay in the morning and she understood my
feelings. She sat on the bed and said I shouldn't feel bad about
not being with the others and she really didn't want me to feel as
though I were being "locked away" in the room. She said, "I'll
stay in here with you for a while if you want, okay? So you won't
be all by yourself?"
I told her, "It's okay if I stay in here, 'cause I know Aunt
Martha. I know how she is. She doesn't want us staring at her,
she feels all ugly and everything. I'll stay here so she won't
feel ashamed. But...they don't have to yell at me. They're always
hiding everything and acting like I won't understand."
"No, hon. They're just scared, that's all. They're upset."
She stroked my head. She told me she would come back later and
that she would tell my Aunt Martha about my concern for her. But I
said, "No, don't tell her that."
"But why not, hon.? I know she'd appreciate it."
"I don't want you to."
"But, Speedy...honey, why not? What's wrong?"
"I don't...want...you...to."
"But, hon...?"
"'Cause every time she sees me, she'll be embarrassed. She'll
remember tonight. That's the way she is."
I don't know how long Martha Jane sat looking at me, stroking
my hair, with that amazed look on her face. Finally she said, "I
have to go in there and help. You sure you'll be alright?"
"Yes."
She sighed and rose and went to the door, but before going out
she leaned inside and blew me a kiss. "You're my little man from
now on, hon," she said, and closed the door.
That night had taken place some years before and was one of
the very early incidents that had so endeared me to Martha Jane,
and her to me. Now it was a few years later. And Martha Jane had
become more than just a neighbor. More than a friend. And now I
saw that she was the one who seemed hurt. Or, at best, worried
about something.
I didn't know what to do about it. I was good at clowning,
though, and I wondered how I could make her laugh. At 9 o'clock
she hustled me into the bathroom (no bubble-bath this time. I was
getting a little "too old" for that) and she stayed in the living
room while I bathed. I dried off and straightened the room, and
peeked around the door into the living room. She was on the sofa,
studying intensely. But I did see a crumpled kleenex in her hand,
and her eyes had reddened.
An wave of empathy had me almost crying with her. There was a
curtain-covered closet in the hallway between the bath and the
bedroom. It could not be seen from where Martha Jane sat on the
sofa. I got out of the tub, dried off, and went rummaging in the
closet, looking for a funny idea. Martha Jane heard me kicking
around.
"Speedy, I thought you were going to bed," she called.
"Just lookin' for somethin'," I called back. I found my
six-shooter outfit in there, and a cowboy hat. I put on my mom's
dress with my six-guns and holsters on backward. I had seen enough
John Wayne movies to be able to do a fairly acceptable imitation of
the guy. I donned this outfit and tied toy spurs loosely on my
ankles. Pulling the brim of the hat down low over my eyes, I walked
into the living room. I looked ridiculous. I stood there while she
had her face in her book. It was a minute before she realized I
was there, and when she finally looked up I yelled out in my best
John Wayne voice:
"Howdy, pil-grum!"
She blinked. Her mouth fell wide open and she covered it with
the kleenex. I strutted across the room with big stomping John
Wayne steps. "pardon me, ma-uhm, but...this town ain't big for
thah two of us. One of us has...got tah go."
She laughed in her oh-my-god, head-shaking way, not a big laugh
but several breathy intakes. She blurted out, "Do you intend to
sleep in that outfit?"
"Why, yes'm" I said, still John Wayne. With my thumb over my
shoulder I indicated an imaginary object behind me. "Just me and...
muh horse, over there."
"Oh, no," she said. "You are so cute." She wiped one eye with
a corner of the kleenex, trying to hide her red eyes. I think she
knew I couldn't possibly have missed the gesture, but she kept up
the effort. She said, "I have something in my eye, hon. You go on
and get ready for bed. Go on, now, it's late."
"Well...okay," I said, disapppointed that I hadn't accomplished
very much. I walked back to the closet with one of my aluminum toy
spurs dragging uselessly off one foot, and removed my silly gear
and stored it back in the closet. As I was doing so, I saw Martha
Jane turning back the bedclothes in the bedroom. I undressed down
to the underwear that I usually slept in and crawled into bed.
Martha Jane fluffed the pillows and turned off the lamp. She stood
by the bed.
"You ready to go to sleep now, cowboy?"
"Right, ma-yum."
She was silent. She looked at the floor. I saw her eyes
water. She was dark against the dim light shedding in from the
living room.
"You never met your daddy, did you, hon? You never saw him.
He got killed over there before you ever knew who he was."
I didn't know what to say to that. Every relative I encount-
ered--and there were many of them in my huge family--mentioned my
dead father at every visit, every Mass, every picnic, every Bingo
game, every damn holiday dinner. Now Martha Jane was doing it.
I was not angered by it, but I did find myself unable to understand
this constant lingering over the memory of dead men I never knew.
Martha Jane went on quietly. "My daddy was killed in the war,
too. He was one of 'em, too, that...died, got killed." She took a
deep, wobbly breath, and sighed. "I guess you're lucky, Speedy, you
never knew your daddy, but I knew mine. I used to..." She stopped
again, breathed deeply, and when she started again her voice had
cracked and broken up. "I used to see him all the time. Every day.
So you don't know what that is, when some Army sergeant you never
saw before--" and she began talking and crying at the same time--
"shows up at the door with a letter--"
She suddenly crumpled and fell to her knees, her hands on
her head, which was cradled on the edge of the bed. She cried her
heart out, not wailing, but heaving in long, wrenching, childlike
sighs. "I miss him! Oh, I miss him! Why isn't he here to help
us?"
Instantly I went to her, squatting on the bed and holding her
head, the only part of her I could reach. She cried and cried and
cried. I didn't know what to say, but I did know to hold her and
stroke her hair. Eventually she calmed down, and returned my hug
with a long tight embrace of her arm around one of mine. With a
long sigh, she reached up to the night table for another kleenex
and sat on the floor, drying her eyes and looking up at me.
"You knew I was thinkin' something, didn't you cowboy?"
I nodded.
"You...are one little smart-ass," she said, blowing her nose.
She sniffed loudy. "You know what a smart-ass is?"
"I think so."
"Well you are one sweet smart-ass. Now, c'mon..." She stood up
and started tucking things in again. "I'm done now, I got it outta
my system and it's a-a-all over with. You get yourself to sleep.
C'mon, John Wayne."
"Martha Jane?" I began. I had not told her what I desperately
wanted to tell her.
"Yes, hon?"
"I..uh...Hmmm." I scratched my head.
She came closer to the bed. "What is it, big boy?"
"I still never..."
"Mm-hm, okay, you still never. You still never what?"
"I never told anybody what we did together."
She stood deadly still and silent, looking toward the floor,
hands on her hips. She pursed her lips and made another sniffle.
She didn't say anything. I thought I had offended her.
"I mean...," I went on carefully, "in case you were worried
about that. I mean, at first I thought that's what...you were
worried about."
She said, "Oh." She neither moved nor looked at me. "Oh,"
she said again. "That."
"I just wanted you to know," I said, shrinking from her and
back into the bed.
She shook her head, seemed to ponder deeply. Abruptly she
left the room. I lay there numb, figuring I had somehow pissed
her off in the worst way. Then the living room light went out.
The only light in the room was moonlight falling on the bed.
I heard Martha Jane walking toward the bedroom. I turned and
could barely see her at first, but soon she appeared in the dim
light of the moon beside the bed.
She said sternly, "C'mere, Speedy."
I crawled to the edge of the bed. She was wearing dark
clothes, a blue blouse and a ruffled blue skirt. All I could
see were her eyes.
"You are one smart little boy," she said. "Yes, I was worried
about that. I wanted my daddy to get me out of trouble, I thought
I was in trouble about that." She paused and said something,
almost to herself, something I would be able to understand only
years later. "I am goin' to hell. We're both goin' to hell."
She then reached out and pulled me to her by one hand, she
standing by the bed with me on my knees near the edge. She looked
deeply into my eyes briefly, and then hugged me tightly. There was
something serious and desperate, rather than playful, in the way
she clasped me to her. So I made no moves on my own. I simply let
myself be held, my arms draped loosely around her neck. When she
made no response after a moment I gave her a hug and waited. But
she stood unmoving beside the bed, silent, enfolding me closely
with one arm around my back and the other cradling my head into her
neck and shoulder.
With my face in her neck I was unable to see hers in the dark,
but I could tell that she was looking down at the floor silently
for a very, very long time, perhaps for almost two minutes. During
that time I very lightly stroked her back and then put my own hand
on the back of her neck to let her know that I would wait, wait for
her to stop thinking or whatever it was she was doing in that long
wordless minute in the dark.
She moved her lips; faintly I heard them part, and she took in
a small breath as if to speak, but she stopped. I waited for her
in the darkness around us. Her eyelashes flicked once, and I knew
she was looking past my shoulder, across the bed, out into the moon-
lit window behind me. Her lashes flicked again against my cheek,
and she looked down once more, breathing. She parted her lips again
and they made a mildly dry, sticking sound. And she breathed and
waited and waited, as if something from deep inside her were slowly,
slowly struggling to the find a place in her breathing and in her
voice. She looked down. She swallowed. Hard.
"Hon?" she began, tentatively, barely audible. Her lips were
so close to my ear I could feel the moisture of her breath on my
earlobes. "Do you want to be nasty with me?"
My head buried in her neck, I nodded slowly.
She paused again, and again I heard her lips part drily near
my ear. She continued, softly. "Do you mind if I say it's nasty
but I want us to do it anyway?"
"I don't mind."
"I mean...I mean I know and you know that everybody says it's
wrong and we're not supposed to do it, but...I want to anyway.
I want you to understand: I know it's nasty...but that's why I
like it. And I don't understand it."
"But I like it too," I whispered back.
Again she hesitated before she relaxed her arms and held me
more loosely. "Good," she whispered in my ear. "Good." She
stroked my back for a moment and gave my head in her neck a brief
affectionate hug. Then her fingers were at the front of my
underwear. She tried to find her way into the slit but couldn't,
so she pushed her hand gently under the top band.
She whispered, "Your dick, hon...", and soon her fingers found
me and wrapped around me warmly. "...there he is..." She hugged my
cock gently. Then she murmured so softly I could barely hear, even
though her lips were still against my ear: "I like it too, hon. I
can't help it. We're so much alike."
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
============
PART 3B
-30-
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |