Message-ID: <7528eli$9804032235@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 4C"( bf mF mF+ )[12/52]
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: <6g1e2l$57e$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 4C:
Robert paused, and began again with a strained voice and face.
"You chillun cain't be playin' around here together no mo'. I done
got the word on it from yo' brother Steve, and from Miz Sansone
across the street. She call me on my phone at home, and when Miz
Josephine Sansone calls me at home, I know it's ser'ous. She seen
us all on the wagon yestiddy, and she say...she don' wonna see no
more of it with you and Mister Speedy."
"But why?"
"Now, I told you, child, please mind me." He looked up and took
a step toward me. "Mister Speedy, I sho don't like this. But I
got to do what Miz Sansone say."
I looked into his sad eyes and said, "Uncle Robert, you don't
have to call me mister. I'm supposed to call *you* mister."
"I appreciate that and I know what you mean, but...Miss Josephine,
and yo' Aunt Lucille and Aunt Frances is all in a big uproar, and...
I ain't got no choice in this."
I asked, "But who told you we were out on the wagon? Was it
Josephine Louise?"
"No suh, now, yo' cousin Miss Josephine Louise, she didn't have
nothin' to do with this. So don't you go blamin' her. She's the
sweetest lady I know, and she wouldn't do nothin' like that. Now...
it don't make no difference who said what and who done what. The
end of it is, yo' Aunt Josephine and Aunt Lucille and Aunt Frances
don't want you and Stepper together 'round hyah. And they ask me to
tell you they don't think it's safe, you runnin' round in shantytown."
Stepper broke in excitedly, "Speedy, I'll meet you up by Saint
Patrick's church from now on, won't nobody--"
"Now, Stepper!" Uncle Robert said firmly. "Please, child. You
heard what I said." Uncle Robert turned to me. "I'm really sorry,
Mister Speedy."
I said, feeling very staunch and grownup, "I know how they are,
Uncle Robert. I understand."
"Well, I know you is a smart boy, and a good boy, and I know
you see what's going on. I wish it could be dif'ernt, and I ain't
sayin' it's right, but--"
"I *know* it ain't right!" I said defiantly. "It's not fair!"
"Mister Speedy, please. We all know what's going on hyah, so
let's don't dwell on that 'cause they ain't nothin' we can do about
it. Miz Sansone and them is yo' people, yo' family, and you got to
do what they say. So don't be makin' trouble for yuhself. I
confess I did see yo' cousin Miss Josephine Louise at the grocery
sto' this morning when she come to work, and she say she knew what
was happenin', too, and she was sorry. So I know how you and her
feel about dis, but..." Uncle Robert grabbed Stepper's hand again
and straightened up. "But I makes my livin' from Miz Sansone and
other folks round hyah, and...well...we got to do what we got to do.
Come on, Stepper. Let's go see 'bout some lunch."
Silently I watched them go, torn between pity and affection for
Stepper and Uncle Robert, and my growing dislike for what seemed to be
a mounting tide of opposing forces from adults, mean kids, the possi-
bility of Martha Jane leaving after high school, aunts who hated
giving cookies, and moms who gave no reason for banishing my friends.
As Stepper and Robert walked away, Stepper turned and gave me a lost
look that tugged at my heart. But out of view of Robert he winked,
pointing at himself and then at me, and the message I got was that he
would find a way to come to me. I nodded. When they disappeared into
Stepper's slanted wooden house down the driveway, I turned and trudged
back toward my aunt's house with dragging feet. I was in no mood to
give up an afternoon of Stepper and Uncle Robert for one with grownups
I increasingly resented and could not fathom.
This wasn't the end of it with Stepper. A few weeks later at the
end of March, he met me in the Lauderdale Courts project. He'd
brought with him his pride and joy--a leatherette bag of genuine
cat's-eyes marbles given him for his birthday by his Aunt Harriett. I
knew this to be a prize, as an entire bag of 24 cat's-eyes cost more
than many poor black families earned in a week.
We gathered with several other kids in a patch of orange dust
a few yards west of my building, near a thick grove of hedges.
This was safe from my mother's view and within sight of most of the
other kids who lived nearby. We called this grassless patch of worn
ground the Marble Court. It was the perfect surface for hand-
shooting marbles. The common belief was that only sissies played
marbles on smooth surfaces; shooting and rolling in fine dust re-
quired great skill.
About five boys my age, and Stepper and I, and a number of young
boys and some girls were gathered at the Marble Court as Stepper
amazed everyone with his expertise at marbles. I was almost tempted
to take bets on the little tyke, as I had seen Leo Gorcey do with
Huntz Hall in a Bowery Boys movie.
The sun was lowering toward the rooftops near dinner time,
and kids were wrapping up their final marble shots, when four older
boys strolled hurriedly across the lawn toward us. Looking over my
shoulder, I recognized two of them as a couple of tough kids that
had been in fistfights in the area.
One of the boys standing near me saw them as well, and he leaned
close to me. "Hey, Ricci," he said, calling me by my last name,
"here come some of them guys from the big buildings on the hill."
I murmured back, "Maybe we oughtta stop the game and spread
out. They're always lookin' for trouble."
"Naw, they look like they're goin' somewhere in a hurry. They
might not stop here. Make like we don't see 'em."
The other kids, not noticing the quartet, were on the ground,
anxiously hunched around a boy who was making a critical shot. As
I tried to appear unaffected, I heard with a chill the footfalls of
the boys walking swiftly through the grass near my back. With a
sigh of relief I heard them approach and then pass, appearing to be
on their way into the project without noticing us.
But then one of the four yelled, "Hey, Herschell, look at this!"
He suddenly appeared in front of me, headed deliberately toward the
kids hovering around the game.
One of the other four yelled, "Hey, JB, what the hell 're you
doin'?"
"Just a minute," the hefty boy named JB yelled back, "Lemme
see somethin'."
"Oh, what the hell!" swore one of the toughs. "You're wastin'
my time, JB. You're always wastin' my time!"
JB stepped roughly into the group playing marbles. The kids
stood and scattered immediately. Only another boy and Stepper were
left on the ground.
"Hey, nigger, what you got down there?"
Stepper remained still, staring up at him warily with wide,
white yes.
"You got cat's-eyes, nigger? Hey, Herschell, this nigger's got
some cat's-eyes. Got a nice set, too."
"Are you kiddin' me?" Herschell yelled back. "C'mon, man,
we ain't got time for that. We're gonna miss tickets for the game
tonight. Cut the crap and get movin'. C'mon!"
JB stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at Stepper
with a mean smile. "Them your cat's-eyes, boy? Huh? They belong
to you?"
"Yeah," Stepper said politely, starting to get up. "They's
mine."
"Well, they ain't yours no more," JB said, and he reached down
and scooped up a handful of cat's-eyes. Stepper had no choice; JB
was twice his size, and almost twice mine. All the other kids
began spreading out, away from the Marble Court.
The other three toughs were still walking on their way. "C'mon,
JB," one of them yelled. "We ain't waitin', man!"
JB eyed Stepper with a menacing false friendliness, as Stepper
carefully moved away from him. "Thanks, nigger," JB said, grinning,
spilling the marbles loudly from one hand to the other.
I was a few yards away from JB. I calculated that if I broke
into a quick run, I could pretend to have just arived on the scene
and could brush against his hands, knocking the marbles away. If
the goods were spilled everywhere and his friends were urging him
to leave, he might just forget the whole thing and move off. I was
desperate that Stepper should not lose those marbles and that the
rest of us would not be intimidated. Before I knew it I was rushing
across the front of JB's view, headfirst.
I struck his hands with my right shoulder and arm. Marbles
flew everywhere. Quickly I jerked to a stop and said, "Oh,
'scuse me, mister! I didn't see ya." I bent down, retrieving
marbles, most of which had fallen in the nearby grass.
"Hey, Herschell," I heard JB yell over my head as I bent.
"You see what that little shit did to me?" He gave a rough laugh.
I didn't know what he would do next. I could not see him from
my bent-over position. But I knew I was terrified. I could see
my hands quiver as I fished for one marble at a time. I had no
idea what would happen next.
I didn't have to wait long to find out.
I heard and felt a violent, dull thud on the left side of my
face. My head snapped to the right, straining my neck, and the rest
of me followed into the dirt. I don't remember falling, so I must
have gone down instantly. I hit the ground tummy-first with a
single bounce, my mouth and nostrils filled with sticky, choking
brown powder. One of the little girls behind me screamed. To my
left I heard feet pounding from the direction of the other three
toughs. I was numbed by a growing hum of sickening fear. Were all
four of them going at me? What a stupid thing I'd done!
One of the toughs had run to us and hissed angrily, "JB,
goddammit, get yer butt movin. You wanna see this game, stop
fuckin' around and let's go!"
"Okay, man, okay," JB said, swaggering over to me. "You see what
this nigger-lover did to me? Like I wouldn't know what he was up to.
Hey, boy! You think I'm stupid or somethin'?"
I didn't answer. I didn't think I could speak anyway. I lay flat
in the dirt. Maybe he'd think I was knocked out.
The second tough walked away. "SCrew it, man, I'm tired of your
foolishness. Hey, Herschell, keep movin', this stupid motherfucker's
gonna stay here and play. So long, JB!"
"I'm comin', man, I'm comin'," I heard JB say absently. From the
corner of my left eye I could see his shoes approach me slowly. Then
the shoes moved so quickly they were a blur, and I shifted two or
three feet to the right as a fierce blow crashed into my left side and
ribs. This time I got a good face-full of ground and felt my forearms
scraping roughly into it. I then realized the left side of my face
was swelling from the earlier blow, and the rapidly spreading mixture
of numbness and stinging pain in my left side meant that I had been
kicked hard. I lay frozen and nauseous, waiting for more.
But more didn't come. JB scoffed, "Nigger lover," and out of
my right eye I saw him walking off. "Okay, fellas, I'm comin"," JB
yelled.
My worst fears gone, the ability to move returned to my limbs. I
saw drops of blood in front of me on the ground, and my nose itched
maddeningly. Rapidly, fear was displaced by rage--so much so, I felt
I might go out of control. I trembled more from anger than from
pain. I rose to my elbows and knees, a throbbing ache spreading
through my head and face. I wondered if the bastard had broken my
nose, or a cheekbone, or a rib. More blood dripped off the tip of my
nose into small red blots in the dust.
Stepper and two other kids were onto me right away.
"Hey, Ricci! Ricci!" one of them pleaded. "You okay?"
I heard someone sniffling and crying just over my head. I
opened my eyes and saw Stepper's shoes.
"Speedy," Stepper sobbed. "Say somethin'. You alright?"
"I'm okay," I mumbled, surprised that my mouth could move, but not
surprised that it hurt my nose and jaw.
"He's okay!" one of the kids screeched. "C'mon, let's get 'im
up."
I let out a powerful, growling scream. "Don't touch me! Nobody
touch me! Leave me alone!"
I sensed the others were startled and that they began moving away
cautiously. All but Stepper. He was still crouched near me, his hand
on my back.
"Speedy, please tell me you okay," he sobbed.
I was up on my knees now, and settled back on my haunches. I
nodded. "It's okay, Stepper. I'm bleedin, I guess, but I'm all here."
"This my fault, man."
"To hell with that," I breathed. "I don't wanna hear that."
He sobbed, "He got you in the face, man, and kicked you good.
He didn't have to do that."
"Well," I said angrily, "he didn't have to, but he sure did,
didn't he?" I tried to laugh. My left side burned. I leaned forward
on my hands and let the blood drip from my face. I hissed, "I'll kill
the son of a bitch. I'll kill 'im."
"No, Speedy, you take it easy. We gotta find somebody to help
you. We gotta find somebody."
"No. Stop it," I gruffed in a dull monotone. I felt something
wildly irrational sweeping through me, starting in my gut and spread-
ing into my arms. It was a rage from my dreams about being beaten,
trapped, powerless.
Wobbling, I struggled to stand. Stepper helped me. At first
he tried grabbing me round the waist, but I winced and yelled.
"I'm sorry, Speedy, I forgot."
"It's okay," I mumbled, sounding drunk and unable to find an
equilibrium. I finally stood but swayed, my movements muddled.
Stepper was still trying to help me. I gently pushed him away.
"No," I groaned roughly. "Stepper, no. Move away. Please.
Gimme room."
"You okay?"
"I'm gonna be alright," I slurred, not really sure about it. I
tried to turn and walk to my right, but stumbled. In case anyone
might be thinking of rushing in to steady me I yelled, "Stay away!"
To my left I saw a very young girl in a light blue dress, so
small she seemed puppet-like, rushing as fast as her little feet
could carry her toward the corner of my building a few hundred
yards away. The front screen door of the apartment on that end of
the building opened--it was Martha Jane's door--and the girl and
two other kids were animatedly talking to her and pointing toward
me. Other kids were rushing in from across the lawn, toward the
Marble Court where I stood caked with tan dust, lightly dripping
blood down my green plaid flannel shirt.
My rage swelled, ignited, exploded. Not only had someone beat
the hell out of me, but now every kid and mother and everyone else
in sight was going to see me stumbling and bleeding. My eyes
clouded with dust, I saw Martha Jane go to the little girl, take
her hand, and start running toward me. Her mother's face appeared
at the screen door and peered out at us anxiously. I was enraged
at being doubly mortified, at being beaten and being seen beaten.
It was too late for anyone to squelch the primal force that
overtook me so quickly. I stumbled toward the grove of hedges and
began tearing away at one of the shrubs, ripping it apart, looking
for a club, a stick, anything with which to strike at anything
else. I heard myself scream incoherently, a long, throat-scalding
yell. I grasped at the shrubs, throwing ripped-off leaves and
twigs everywhere. I encircled one shrub in a superhuman effort to
pull it from the ground. Of course it was impossible, but I tried
anyway. The hard edges of the branches dug into my arms and torso.
I grunted and again screamed, trying to uproot the plant that was
taller and wider than I was.
I heard Martha Jane plead behind me, "Speedy, what are you
doing? Stop it! Please stop!"
And poor Stepper, pleading and begging, "No, miss! Leave 'im
alone. Pleeease! He'll be okay. I seen 'im do this before!
Please, miss, don't! He won't even know who you are!"
"God, what's he doing?"
"He'll be okay! Please!"
After that I was aware of precious little except my own blind
fury. I jerked at the shrub until I my arms could no longer grasp it,
then trampled randomly into the grove of hedges and found an old four
foot limb on the ground, a dead limb fallen months or years ago from
the giant black oak nearby. I picked it up and charged toward the
tree. I was dimly aware of faces watching in shock as I raised over
my shoulder a dead black limb whose height and size nearly equalled
mine. Crying, screaming, bleeding, I smacked the old wood against the
trunk of the oak. The faces of four toughs loomed before me, and the
faces of those who lied, cheated, stole, killed, maimed. I let into
the tree with savage vehemence and loud whacking sounds. Each effort
tore along my injured side. I didn't care. Again and again I struck.
With each blow, splinters and chunks of black dead bark flew every-
where. Soon one end of the limb was frayed, yellow shards spewing in
all directions. When too weak to hold the log I let it drop; then
after a huge gasp of new air I picked it up again, raised it overhead,
and hurled it lengthwise at the tree with a furious scream. The
broken log bounced back toward me. Stumbling, I grasped it with sore
hands and tried to raise the log over my head again.
I faltered, drained and feeling barely conscious. My legs gave
out first, the weight of the log pulling me to my knees. The
screaming gave way to sobs and heaves. I was out of breath with
the effort. I settled backward onto my ankles.
A soft voice, tremulous, wary, a young woman's voice, was just
behind my shoulder.
"Speedy? Can I touch you, hon? I won't try to hold you down.
I just want to take care of you, hon. Can you hear me?"
"Why won't they let me fight?" I sobbed, choking.
"Can you hear me, hon?"
The limb lay across my thighs. I let it go and it rolled away.
I slumped. I was too tired to move. I felt like falling asleep.
Martha Jane's hand was on my left shoulder. When I didn't resist,
her other hand touched my other shoulder.
A tall long-legged woman in a print house-dress stood near my
left. I could barely see her. She stared at me with a horrified
grimace.
"Is he alright? Lord, what's wrong with that poor child?"
"I don't know," Martha Jane said. "But he's alright now.
Speedy? Can I touch you, hon?"
"Oh, lord," the woman above me groaned, her voice thick with
disgust at the sight of my face.
"Please, Miss Ferguson." Martha Jane said firmly. "I'll take
care of him. Don't just stand there staring at him."
"Well!" the woman said, and turned and walked away.
Martha Jane sat behind me on the ground and tried gently to steady
me by my shoulders. I felt her put her face to my cheek from behind,
one hand holding my forehead. "Lie back, hon. Come on, lie back
against me. I'm holding you. Lie back."
I drooped, emptied, and fell back against her. She cradled me
into her bosom, which became dotted with blood. Holding me with one
arm around my shoulders as I slumped against her, she stroked my
forehead with her other hand. "Let your head fall back, baby. Let it
fall back on my shoulder. That's right. That's right. Shh. Rest
now."
Stepper had stopped crying. He was on the ground in front of me.
"He done this before," he told Martha Jane. "Some kids at High Street
Park, they stole this girl's bicycle and pushed her around some, and
we showed up a minute later, like, the guy's was just takin' off.
They got away. Speedy got so mad, he tore up a garbage can. He said
he mad, he wanted to fight back. So he took it out on this big drum
can. He threw it on the ground over and over till the bottom came off
and it jus' fell apart. Then he was okay."
"I see," Martha Jane said. "Shh. You doin' better now, hon?"
I was too bombed out to respond. Stepper said, "He's alright
now, lady. He just had to let it all out."
I fought to stay alert. I knew the right side of my face had
swollen and was closing my right eye. Looking down, I saw my
blood on Martha Jane's pale green bodice. I tried in vain to pick
at it, not knowing what to do.
"Don't worry about that. You just rest."
I looked into her eyes. They were bright, piercing green,
wide with concern and fear.
"I want to fight," I whimpered.
"I know, hon. Listen to me. I know. But you're hurt and you
have to rest." She called the little girl who had run to summon
her. "Margaret! Margaret, go tell my mother, at that front door
over there, tell her to get Speedy's mom. Go tell her, sweetheart.
That's a good girl."
I moaned, "I have to sit up."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
She helped me sit up on my knees.
Stepper knelt in front of me. "Yo' Mama's gonna be comin',
Speedy. You don't need no more trouble from me. This is the third
time I got you in trouble." He put the bag of marbles in my shirt
pocket. He clasped one of my hands in his two, tightly. Then
quickly he got up and started running across the lawn.
"Stepper," I tried to shout, but I could only croak. "Stepper!"
Martha Jane said, "Let him go, hon."
"But he'll never come back! I know he won't!"
"Speedy...let him go. You have to let him go."
My mother and little Margaret came rushing toward us. Mom was
hysterical, screaming, flailing her arms. "Oh my boy! What
happened to my son? What did they do to my boy?"
All I could say to myself was, "Oh, no. Shit." Now relatives
would be converging from everywhere. As if getting beat up hadn't
been enough!
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
PART 4C
-30-
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |