Message-ID: <7871eli$9804142126@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 7B"( bf mF mF+ )[23/52] 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 . Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6gurun$73l$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 7B: The guy she was talking about soon appeared to my left. He was tall and brawny, well over six feet, with shoulders to match. He had a bellowing, gruffy voice and wore a blue and white wool athletic jacket whose padded shoulders made him look gigantic. He approached our table and called out heftily, "Hi, Janie, you gorgeous heifer, you!" He lifted one large thigh and planted a foot on the opposite side of the table, then lifted the other big leg to stand beside Martha Jane. "Hello, Frank," Martha Jane said politely. With sweeping, commanding, swaggering movements, Frank grabbed a chair and sat backwards on it, huge legs spread and massive arms draped across the chair's metal backplate. "Hiya doin, cutie?" he bantered. He nodded toward me. "Hey, Janie, who's yer friend?" "That's Steven," Martha Jane said. I immediately realized that she had not introduced me as "Speedy." and I gave her a half-hidden Groucho Marx raised eyebrow in return. She winked. "Steven, huh? Hiya, big guy. You look like you're new here this year." Before I could answer, Martha Jane told him that I was her "prize student"who was checking out the campus. Frank continued to make small talk with her, his speech as swaggering and masculine as the rest of him. Finally he asked her, "So, you goin' to the big Homecomin'? Ain't goin' by yourself are ya?" Martha Jane told him she was swamped with work. Frank shook his head. "Damn, Janie, you are the workin'-est heifer I ever saw. C'mon, now, you ain't accepted my invitation for three months." He looked directly at me and winked, "Is she always this hard to get, fella?" "She's a busy girl," I answered, trying to deepen my young voice as best I could. He made another attempt or two at getting a date with Martha Jane, persisting in calling her Janie, and Martha Jane remained politely adamant and told him that her Homecoming weekend would be spent trying to finish her final papers before the semester piled up on her. Eventually he stood up to leave. He joked, "You sure you wanna pass up a big Homecomin' date?" "It's tempting, Frank," she flirted, "and I'm sure I'll regret it for the rest of my days. But, really, I have a lot of work to do." "Still doin' that student teaching, huh?" "Yes, it's a back-breaker." "Well, that's OK, it'll get you a nice job after graduation. But a gal like you, you won't have to put up with that teachin' racket for long, some guy'll snatch you right up before you know what happened." "Yeah right, Frank, happens every day." "Well, see ya, then. You, too, fella." After he was out of hearing range Martha Jane heaved a long, relieved sigh. "See what I mean? Pride of the campus, that big ox. We could sure use all that muscle to help us move...but it's not worth it." "He seemed nice enough," I remarked. "Speedy, he's not nice. He tried to fuck me on the first date, strictly on the dubious merit of his membership on the football team, without so much as a word about how I might feel about it. He was so surprised when I said no! As if it's the first time in his life a girl didn't undress the minute he walked in!" She shook her head. "I hate the name Janie. And I don't like being called a 'cutie' or a 'heifer' as a sign of affection, by some good ol' boy from Arkansas who can't talk about anything but beer, football, and his daddy's money. I should have known better than to go out with him in the first place, but somebody fixed me up and I was in desperate need of a night out." Again, she winked at me. "So don't think you're going to be some kind of dummy the first day you start taking classes here, because most of your mental competition is in the form of that big palooka." We finished our coffee and headed across the campus toward Martha Jane's apartment a few blocks away. Martha Jane said there was no big hurry; she'd spent two weeks packing and she didn't have that much gear to move. The sun was sinking near the rooftops by then, the late after- noon sky beginning to deepen in color. We strolled, and she lit a ciga- rette and talked. She was in her last undergraduate year now, and had spent most of it struggling to make it through in three years and quali- fying for an award that might get her a Master's, and the rest of the time warding off the good ol' boys whom she described as "so eager to get me in bed you can smell the lust a mile off." I told her, "It's because you really are very pretty, Martha Jane." She flicked her cigarette and sent a smooth stream of smoke into the chilly air. "You have a nice way of saying that, but...in Memphis, being pretty just means you're like prey, you're some kind of prize that guys just want to show off and get their cookies with. Have their babies and cook. I don't like being so pretty sometimes. I wish I were more average...or more cosmopolitan, you know--chic, I guess, like my sister Evelyn. She looks so sophisticated, a guy looks at her and knows he has to take his time. But for some reason they see me as a sex kitten who's just waiting to get pounced upon, and I'm supposed to show my thanks by giving up everything I've worked for and sit at home continually getting pregnant out of love for their 'Prince Charming' complex...No. No, I sometimes wish I were not as pretty as they think. I'm being interviewed for teaching jobs, and the men who interview me--well, what they're thinking is written all over their faces, they're so patronizing. They see how I look, that's all. Other than that, I'm just another new special education major, nothing special, nothing unique. And not a word about the work I've done and the research I did, not a minute spent talking about new methods or the problems with abused or precocious kids or any of that. It's just 'Hi, what a pretty girl.' And it never goes beyond that." The place she was moving from was in a small two-bedroom, typical modern apartment building with thin carpets and thinner walls. Her former roommates had been evicted, leaving only a mattress in one of the bedrooms and a painted wooden chair in the living room. All the rest of it -- some bundled clothes, an old trunk, and a few dozen boxes of books -- belonged to Martha Jane. Puffing and heaving, we began loading Evelyn's borrowed Pontiac. Martha Jane was right: those boxed books were *really* heavy. But I was up to the task, exhilarated at finally being able to move and fling some weight around after so much torpor in the suburbs. It wasn't long before we had the car filled with a little more than half of the full load and were on our way in the car to Martha Jane's new place, several blocks away on the other side of the campus in an older part of the neighborhood. Martha Jane drove to an old, well-kept dark red two-story house with white shutters. It stood in the middle of a deep lawn amid many large oak and birch trees. Her apartment was in back, atop the two-car garage behind the house. As I carried the first boxes up the creaky wooden stairway at the side of the garage and entered the front door, I was immediately struck by the serenity and homeliness of the interior. It had a tiny kitchen, a small but ample bedroom in the rear, and a spacious living room. The many curtained windows looked out over the main house, the trees, and the rest of the neighborhood. "Beautiful!" I whispered as I set the box on the floor and looked around. "This is cute!" It was furnished with keepsakes, most of it simple early-American gear having a basic, useful look. One wall had a painted wood bookshelf, another a long ancient sofa with fairly new, flowered upholstery in good shape, a big fluffy easy chair covered with the same fabric as the sofa, and an ancient writing desk with a roll-up top. The carpet had seen better days and was seamed together from several smaller pieces; but it did have a certain bohemian character that fit the circumstances. Her brow dotted with sweat even though the air was cold, Martha Jane followed me inside and dropped the box she carried onto the floor with a thud, and the weight of it pushed her across the room and into my arms. I caught her, and she stopped to give me a hug. "Whew! Damn, where did I get all these BOOKS!?!" She stood still and relaxed against me, catching her breath. "Speedy, you're hardly out of breath! How do you do it? Whew!" I held her lightly, wanting to simply crush her against me. She was wearing a turtleneck sweater and jeans and loafers. The sweater clung to her light frame and slim shoulders; outwardly she appeared dainty, but my hands felt the lithe and solid body under her flesh, and the warmth and feel of her seemed to seep into every pore of my body. Her sweaty cheek was against mine, my lips near her long and elegant neck. Embarrassed by a sudden wave of affection and passion, I pulled back from her and said, "You rest, I'll go get the other stuff." "Oh, I will not!" she protested, leaning into me and still looking for her second wind. "I can carry my own weight in this job, mister. Whew! As soon as I get my breath!" She kissed my cheek and hugged me. "I'm so glad you're helping. You've grown an inch taller, haven't you?" "I have a long way to go before I can compete with guys like that Frank fella." "Don't you *dare* become...whew!...another one of those bull-necked, overgrown jocks." She moved away from me and collapsed onto the sofa. "Thank goodness *everybody* isn't like him! Whew! How did I get so old so fast?" I headed for the front door. "You stay there and I'll bring up some more stuff." "Don't you dare, without me," she said weakly, staring at the ceiling. But I was already on my way out the door and down the stairs, hearing her yell behind me, "Don't you dare!" Grabbing the wooden bannister, I dropped down two steps at a time and was soon into the car and grabbing another box. I was on my way up the stairs with it when Martha Jane met me on her way down. "Don't you carry this stuff by yourself!" I insisted, "Listen, you rest a minute. I'm all right." "Oh, you men, you always think you can do it all." In no time at all we had emptied the car and then collapsed on the long sofa side by side, staring at the ceiling, our feet dangling toward the floor. "Are we finished?" she asked, winded again. "Just one more carload oughtta do it." "Oh, God...whew!...We have to hurry, Evelyn will drop by for her car soon, and we have to get you home." "No. Don't wanna go home." "Don't be silly...whew!...You have to go home, Steven." I stopped thinking for at least half a minute. She had called me Steven! She had not called me "Speedy." It was the first time she had used my proper name, and the first time in my memory that anyone had called me by Steven. I was so surprised I was speechless. After a minute she sat up, her arms hanging limply at her sides, and looked over the half-filled room. "What a mess. Will this endless moving ever come to an end? I'm so sick of it." I lay back into the sofa looking at her. I wondered if she realized she had called me Steven. She rose to her feet with a groan, stretched her back and raised her arms toward the ceiling, then moved slowly and grudgingly toward the door. "Okay, cowboy. Let's get the last of it." On the drive back to her old place she told me she was concerned about how I would get home. "Listen, I have some money. I'll get you a taxi. It shouldn't be more than ten dollars or so from here. I hate to ask Miss Evelyn to give you a ride, she's such a put-upon princess!" "I can take the bus," I said, unworried. "Bus! Your mother will have a fit by the time you get home. Oh, it's my fault, we shouldn't have stopped for coffee, we should have come straight here." "Coffee was only ten minutes, that wouldn't have saved much time." "But it's already *DARK* now!" "Hey, take it easy, we'll be finished soon and it'll be all right. Anyway, I'm having fun." "Yeah, fun!" she pouted. "This is all my fault, trying to do it in one quick flash like this. God knows I've done it often enough to know better by now!" "Martha Jane, it's okay." "It's not okay!" she came back angrily, keeping her eyes on the road. "I'll end up getting you in trouble, and it's my fault!" I didn't reply, as I could see that continuing the conversation would only get her more riled. We had arrived at her old place again. She scurried ahead of me out of the car and into the lobby elevator. As I joined her she smacked the button for floor #3 and waited impatiently while the machine lurched upward. "We have to hurry," she muttered nervously. "It won't take long," I offered. But she just said again, "We have to hurry." We did indeed hurry, even though I assured her that it was only a little after five and that we would likely be finished in less than half an hour. I talked her into lifting two boxes into my arms at once, though she protested frantically until she saw that the boxes I picked out were lighter than the others. We piled everything into the hallway near the elevator, then shoved everything into the elevator and then into the building lobby, and carried it all out to the car. On the way to the new place for the last time, she lit a cigarette and puffed on it deeply and ran a stop sign. "Sorry," she muttered as we careened down the street. Then she let out a nervous laugh and slapped the steering wheel. "God, hon, I hope I'm not having a nervous break- down!" She looked at me and at the road and then broke into a giggle. "Huh? You think I am?" I muttered, "Wait until we get there, so you can park the car first and let me out." "Okay," she laughed. "I'll wait. Then I'll let go." She looked at me and blushed, and then giggled again. "I've already gone spastic." It didn't take long to unload the remaining goods. I again managed to carry two boxes at a time, while she made several trips with her clothes. We were on our way up the stairs with the next-to-last load when someone drove up with Martha Jane's sister Evelyn in the car. Evelyn thanked the driver, a girlfriend of hers who traded quick hello's with Martha Jane and me and who drove off when she saw that all was under way. Evelyn followed us up the steps and into the new living room. She was dressed in a neat and expensive-looking brown business suit that seemed to somehow avoid getting a single wrinkle after a full day at the office. Evelyn herself looked perfectly groomed and unaffected by any aspect of life that I could determine. "Well," she sniffed, looking around the place. "It's certainly homely. Where in the world did they get this rug?" Martha Jane huffed as she dropped some clothes on the big chair. "Evelyn, the place only runs $45 a month. What's wrong with the carpet, anyway?" "It's a little...thin, honey," Evelyn answered absently. She went into the kitchen to look it over. "I guess it's enough for one person, but two would be impossible in here." Martha Jane rolled her eyes at that and waved at me. "C'mon," she said, "one more armful and it's over." "Wait," Evelyn said, strolling to the door. "If you have my keys, I have to meet some important people for dinner and I'll be late if I hang around here. I see you're just about finished anyway." "Yes," Martha Jane agreed, her hands on her hips and her temper flaring a little, "Yes, we are just about finished. I wouldn't want you to be late. Your keys are in the Pontiac." Evelyn stopped at the door. "Speedy, is that you? I didn't recog- nize you, you're getting so grown-up. Have you been helping Jane move?" I nodded. "Yeah, but she did most of the work." "I'll bet," Evelyn laughed in her dry, mildly scornful, successful- lady way. "Jane, I'll come get you Sunday. We're having lunch with our Mom's boyfriend and future husband." Martha Jane's mouth fell open. "Husband? Future husband?" Evelyn smiled broadly. "Yes. It's going to be announced. But don't say anything yet. All right? Please? He thinks it'll be a surprise--as if we hadn't already guessed for more than a year." Martha Jane stared into space, flabbergasted. "So she's going to marry him. She's...going...to...marry...him." "Why not?" Evelyn said merrily, tilting her head with her purposely sexy little smile. "But don't say anything. Till after. Nice meeting you again, Speedy." Evelyn walked out the door, careful not to snag her high heels on the old plank woodwork, and Martha Jane went to the door and yelled out, "Well, thanks for the car today, sister. I hope we didn't damage any- thing." "It's all right, Jane," Evelyn called back, careful not to muss her immaculate shoes as she walked to her car. She looked inside briefly and, satisfied that the last of the load had been placed on the ground outside the car, she smiled and waved before backing up and driving away. I followed Martha Jane down the steps for the last two boxes and the last plastic bag of clothing, which sat in a mild cloud of dust left behind by Evelyn's Pontiac. "Well!" Martha Jane said. "So mama's gonna marry that guy." I said, "They've been dating forever, haven't they? Didn't you tell me about him a long time ago?" "Well, he's nice, and fairly wealthy, but....Oh, forget it. Let's get this stuff upstairs. I'm so tired. I'm really just running out of gas at this point." I stood and waited while she lifted two boxes into my arms and then I turned to go up the steps. But then I heard Martha Jane yelp behind me, followed by a loud thump. She had picked up a heavy bag that pushed her backward and onto the ground under its weight. "You all right?" I asked, and she answered with a dull, "Yeah. Sure." "Don't pick that up, I'll come back and get it." "No, I'll get it." "Martha Jane..." I began impatiently. I stooped to lower the boxes to the ground, then rushed to her and grabbed the plastic-wrapped clothing. "You're getting tired, now, don't carry this. I can get it." Her face seemed blank and her eyes glazed, her brow sweaty and smeared with a lock of auburn hair. I asked, "Did you hurt yourself?" She mumbled, her voice slurry. "Take me up the stairs." "What?" "Walk me up the stairs, please." I held her by one shoulder and we started toward the stairway. "Are you all right?" "Oh, I'm just...tired and feel a little silly after falling down like that. I should have been more careful." Holding my arm with one hand and the handrail with the other, she started up the stairs with me. "Easy, lady." "I'm all right! Just bumped the hell out of my butt, that's all." "That's okay." "It's not okay, I should have taken more time for this...and Evelyn didn't even offer you a ride." "She had that important dinner to get to." "Her and her damn important dinners," Martha Jane muttered. ==================================== THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE by S.J.R. ============ PART 7B -30- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |