Message-ID: <7941eli$9804161525@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 7D"( bf mF mF+ )[25/52] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Note: This message was posted by a secure email service. Please report MISUSE OR ABUSE of this automated secure email service to . Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6h45kn$b0q$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 7D: Mom convulsed into a tight ball on her side and retched quietly, weakly, making a small sticky red stain in the kleenex she held to her mouth. Then she relaxed with a pitiful moan. "What's wrong?" I asked, going swiftly to her side of the bed. She licked her lips clean and tried to catch her breath. Not getting an answer, I raised my voice fearfully. "What's wrong? What happened?" "I'm sick, Speedy. It came on...all of a sudden." "What's wrong? When did it start?" "Called your daddy...but he said he had to work late." I was incensed at her words. "Had to work late? Work late? What does he expect you to do, just stay sick?" "Well, I don't know...maybe it'll just clear up." "How long have you been sick?" She shrugged, taking in a deep breath and wiping her lips again. "A couple of hours, I guess." "You've been sick for hours and he just says he has to work late?" I threw up my hands in anger and walked in a small, confused circle in the room and looked back down at her with my eyes flaring. "What can I do?" She shook her head. She hid her face from me and did not seem to want to tell me what was happening. "I don't know...Call your daddy, and see what he says." I went straight to the kitchen wall phone and telephoned the grocery store. My stepdad answered the phone with a tired, bored voice. "Mama's real sick," I said. "She's throwing up blood." "Hell, it's one of those female things, she's been sick to her stomach and throwing up for weeks." "But she's throwing up blood!" I insisted. "You don't throw up blood when you're just sick to your stomach." "I told you, it's one of those female things. That kind of stuff is all in their minds, anyway." "Well...what should I do?" "Don't do anything," he answered, unconcerned. "I'll be home in about an hour or two. Tell her to drink some water." "But...she's acting like it hurts really bad." "You know how she is, she overdoes everything. Tell her to drink some water or some soda, and I'll be home later." His indifference told me I was wasting my time. I said I would look after Mom, said goodbye and ran back into the bedroom where I stood beside the bed, helpless and frustrated. "He said drink some water and he'll be home later." "I can't drink water," Mom said, her breath short and labored. "I tried that, it came right up." Then she made a retching sound again, down deep in her throat, and tried to hold back. But another convulsion soon overtook her and she coiled up again, her neck stretching in a fierce heave outward, and more blood spilled onto the tissue and onto the bedspread. This time she did not simply moan and come out of it, but bent herself into a small trembling circle and grasped her stomach and began to cry and cough. I touched her shoulder, but did not know what to do. She heaved again, and groaned, and finally relaxed. "Mom...What can I do?" She hid her face but reached out with one hand and grabbed my arm tightly. Her fingers trembled and her entire form shivered. She spoke with a breathless rasp, "Go down the street...to Aunt Catherine's. I tried to call her, but her line's busy...bring her here." My Aunt Catherine was one of my stepdad's sisters. She lived in a house a few doors down from ours. Quickly, my fear for my Mom's pain giving me a bloodcurdling case of the shakes, I ran to the front door. "Put your jacket on!" my mother yelled. "It's cold outside!" I thought: to hell with the damn jacket! I rushed into the night and ran up the street as fast as I could. By the time I pounded on Aunt Catherine's front door I was out of breath. I tried not to panic. I told Aunt Catherine to get to my house as fast as she could, that my Mom was deathly sick and it was getting worse. She stood in the doorway gaping at me. "Why, Speedy, what's wrong?" "I don't know. She needs somebody. Hurry!" "But what's the--?" "Now! She needs somebody now!" Quickly she grabbed her overcoat and threw it loosely over her shoulders. "You stay here," she said, trying to calm both herself and me. "Watch my baby, Speedy, I can't leave her here alone. I'm goin' down there right now, don't you worry." And she ran down the sidewalk with her loose coat flapping in the wind. I watched Aunt Catherine's sleeping infant for over half an hour. Several times I peeked out the front door to see what might be happening down the street at my house. Then an ambulance with flashing lights pulled into our driveway. I longed to get a closer look but was afraid to leave the baby alone. Going back to check on the child I found her still sleeping, and by the time I returned to the front door, two white- uniformed attendants were shoving a loaded stretcher into ambulance. I could not see much detail. The lights began flashing again and the ambulance backed out swiftly, then screeched as it turned up the street and took off with sirens wailing. My mother had suffered a miscarriage. I was deeply affected and spent days shuddering at the thought of how emotionally and physically painful it must have been for her. But at the same time I was angered at discovering that not one of my puritanical family or relatives would mention the details or even the word "miscarriage" in my presence -- I gathered what had happened from bits and pieces of conversation that leaked out now and then. During the few days my mom spent in the hospital I was shipped off to my maternal grandmother's house a few miles down the road and endured her endless chatter and bad jokes when she drove me to school each morning in her creaky 1950 Ford. She evaded my questions about what had happened to my mother, but I figured it out when I overheard her telling a neighbor that "the baby died." It was with deep concern that I came from school one day and Grandma told me she was taking me home because my mother would be out of the hospital that afternoon. As we drove and my grandma lapsed into another awful and unmemorable country joke, I felt some hope that perhaps the unfortunate incident would somehow narrow some of the distance between my family and myself. Waiting for Mom and my stepdad to show up, I paced the living room floor restlessly until I saw our tan Ford arrive shortly before sunset. Mom was in a bathrobe and overcoat and my stepdad, now treating her with more deference and attention than I had seen before, opened the car and slowly and carefully led her to our door. Mom entered, looking tired but happy to be home again, and looked down at me and gave me a weak hug. "Well," she said, "I'm back." "What was wrong with you?' I asked. "Are you all right now?" She averted my eyes and turned to go to the bedroom. "Well, I was just real real...sick, Speedy." My stepdad held her arm as she slowly and haltingly made her way into the hallway and the bedroom. He completely ignored me, which was exactly what I would have expected. I watched my mother struggle into their bedroom, bracing herself against a door or a wall as Tony guided her past the framed portraits of the Virgin and the Sacred Heart and Saint Jude in the hallway. I watched her getting farther and farther away from me. Farther than ever. I felt her pain. I felt her loss. And I felt a distance that I had little hope of breaching again. Later in my room and I heard the two of them talking in hushed tones. Mom was crying softly. My stepdad spoke in a consoling manner I'd never heard him use. "His soul will be protected, I know it will," he said. "But, Tony, I was unconscious," my mother softly cried. "No one knew to baptize the child. It'll be in limbo forever." "There, now," he kept saying. The incident had changed the way my stepdad generally treated Mom. But it did nothing to quiet my anger nor smooth the raw feeling I had of not being part of the household I lived in. I was disgusted with the way he'd ignored her pain for weeks until the result was disaster and heart- break. I was glad he'd had a comeuppance and that he'd earned it the hard way. And I knew that my mother's rigid religious fervor meant that I would never be able to share with her my blasphemous ideas or my certainty that answers to the mysteries of the universe did not lie in fairy tales. I could have said that the hereafter didn't exist anyway. I could have fudged and said that surely their all-merciful God would not forever consign an innocent fetus to limbo. But there was no way, in that house whose furniture and walls were dotted with pictures of saintly figures and suffering martyrs and plastic figurines of Jesus, that I could communicate through their wall of myth and superstition. I understood their pain. But I could not forgive them for leaving me alone in a world so different and so distant from theirs. Near my thirteenth birthday, Martha Jane called and said that Mr. Buchanan's Easter present to her and her sister Evelyn would be to marry their mom soon after Easter and move all of them into his big East Memphis home. Martha Jane had mixed feelings about it. "I'm glad for mother," she told me over the phone. "But I don't know if I can live in that house. He's nice. But he's still a redneck and I just can't seem to work past that fact." "At least you won't have to spend the rest of your college career moving from place to place." "True, but...one more move, actually." "Oh no, not again!" "Yes, but it's just a move *out* of where I am, and into that big house. Oh, well, at least this time I'm his future daughter, so he's hiring some movers." "Being his daughter does have its advantages," I offered. "Come over and help me pack." "When?" "I have two weekends when I can do it, the first and second Saturdays in April. Which one would you like?" "Both," I said. "Which one?" "Both," I repeated. Her voice on the other end of the line almost sounded as if she were winking at me. "Okay," she said. "This time we'll have longer to play. I'll have a car to use. Not Evelyn's, this time. My daddy-to-be is buying me one." On a Saturday a few weeks later, Martha Jane showed up in a bright blue Chevrolet. But she didn't look happy behind the wheel. I said after I got into the seat beside her and we were on our way to her place, "Wow, what a car!" "It's not me!" she moaned. "This huge gas-burner is NOT ME! Speedy, I'm scared. Really. I should love this, but I hate it. I feel as if I'm selling out. And it takes me an hour to park it." "Well...you can always give it back." "But this is terrible! I feel so dishonest. I dread to think of how I'm going to be punished for this...this terrible sin! I've invested so much in claiming I was on my own and had my own ideas, and now I'm sell- ing out." I spent the afternoon with her and helped her pack books and clothes. She was cranky the whole time. I tried to joke around and make light of Mr. Buchanan and to convince her that at least her life would be settled for a while. "I don't know what's going to happen to me," she said at one point. "I had finally got the feeling that I was in control of my life and I could honestly be myself. Now I have to spend every day in that house pretending that I agree with everybody, when I really and truly don't." "I know," I said ruefully. "How well I know." "Hon, can I say something?" She was sitting on the floor with her legs under her and a pile of books in her lap. "You can say anything you want, Miss Scarlett." "Something's...wrong inside you, isn't it?" "Wrong? What you mean, Red Ryder?" "Because you're trying too hard to erase yourself and you never talk about what you think or feel anymore. You're being nice to me about anything and everything, to the total exclusion of yourself." I laughed. "You don't like me paying attention to you? I'm having a good time, just helping you today. Really. Honest." "How are things with your mom and your stepdad? You never mention them. I don't have the slightest idea what's up with you and them." I didn't know what to say. My own feelings about the way I'd been living and how powerless I felt were thoroughly confused. And I didn't want to spoil my time with Martha Jane by getting into it. I mumbled something, a careless "Nothing much going on about that," and she was quiet behind me for a while. For sometime afterwards we didn't talk much except to say that another box was packed or to ask which box to pack next. At around six o'clock she decided we should stop for the day so she could make salads for dinner. "You sure got quiet," she said after I had been eating wordlessly in front of her at the table for five minutes. I shrugged. "Burned out from all this packing, I guess." "I guess," she said. She sighed. "Me too." "So...you'll be living the life of a cool little East Memphis socialite from now on." "Please. Don't talk about it while I eat." I sat and chewed and tried to think of something else to say. But the only thing I could think about was that Martha Jane would not be in that college forever, that she would be teaching one day, perhaps far away. I knew better than to bring up that subject. In fact, everything that I could think of as material for discussion somehow led to the fact that the one person in whom I could place any trust was surely going to be out of the picture sooner or later. And on that particular day I wanted very much to undress her and touch her, but I had grown fearful of even saying anything or making a move in that direction. I blinked and looked up. She stared questioningly at me. "Were you in a trance?" she asked. "No," I said. She eyed me skeptically. I shrugged and confessed, "Yes." "I asked you if you have any girlfriends at school." The question sent a chill up my spine. "No," I said. "Someone as active as you, and you don't have some girl after you?" I shook my head no. "Why not, hon?" I shrugged--a big, on-purpose, don't-give-a-damn shrug. "I'm not interested in anybody." "I see..." She got up and poured some soda into her half-empty glass. Wordlessly she returned to the table and sat. After a moment she looked into her glass and said slowly, "I wonder... Speedy...oh, never mind." I did not know what she was hinting at. I looked up to find her staring at me again. I had just taken a big bite of salad. Desperately reaching for something to talk about that had nothing to do with my thoughts or with anything else, I pointed at my face and said with a full mouth, "Nice salad. Good." She gave me a sad little smirk. "Speedy, you're not talking to me. You're just throwing words across the table." "I'm eating," I said, and tried to grin with lettuce sticking out one side of my lips. "You're a miserable failure as a liar, you know that?" "What am I lying about, Miss District Attorney?" "The same thing I'm lying about." "You? What are you lying about?" She hesitated. She opened her lips to speak, but didn't. I repeated, "What are you lying about and why?" She took a deep breath and looked me right in the eye. "I'm not lying, really. It's just that there's something I'm not talking about." I joked, "Well, gee, thanks for telling me that there's something you're not telling me about." "You're doing it, too. But you won't even tell me that you're not telling me about it." I shook my head and moved uneasily in the chair. "Miss Graham, this sounds so complicated." "Speedy, what do I have to do to keep you from going inside yourself like that? You're so clever about it, but you're so distant when you do that, and it's something you do again and again and --" "No," I said quickly. I gave her a tired, strained smile. "No, Martha Jane, it's...things I don't know how to talk about yet." "Oh, goodie, I think I hit the target! What? What things?" "No." "What things?" "No!" I insisted, verging on defensive anger. I'm sure I turned a little red, but I let it go no further than that. I was getting better at holding it all in, because I was sure that a tear would show, or I'd let slip some desperate motion or remark. But all I let out was a quiet and definite no. "Well," she said reluctantly, "all right, then. I won't nag." "Let's pack some more stuff," I said, brightening up. "No." "Martha Jane...I'm -- I guess I'm just bored and tired." "You sure?" "Mm-hmm." The look on her face told me she didn't believe me. But all she said was, "Will you promise not to run away while I take a shower? I'm all dusty from this work." "Can I shower first? You really had me sweating today. What a slave-driver." "Okay. You, then me." I showered first, very quickly--not that I was so grungy, but I wanted to prepare a surprise for her while she washed. After I dried off, she followed. While she showered I remained undressed, cleaned up the kitchen, turned down all the lights, readied the bed, and lay naked in the bedroom face-up with my hands behind my head and my cock standing straight up in the air. She came out of the bath toweling her hair. She stopped short in the doorway when she saw me. Her eyes widened and she laughed. "Well, well! Am I to gather from this that you are making the moves this time?" "Isn't it my turn?" She smirked. "Let me clean up the kitchen." "I already did it." "Oh," she said, impressed. "Really! My--All this, and he does dishes, too." She threw the towel aside and climbed on the bed and crawled stealthily toward me. "C'mere, you..." Almost an hour later she lay naked under me with her knees raised while I fucked her rapidly in the soft bed in her dark bedroom. She had cum twice, once under my mouth and once with me inside her. "Slower," she taunted, her eyes fixed on mine. "Let it build up." "...it's so good, it's close now..." "Let it feel good longer, honey. Look at me." She held my face gently but firmly. "Let me see your eyes." I trained my eyes on hers. Her hazel orbs searched mine knowingly. She stroked my face as I moved in her. I was physically close to climax, but emotionally distant -- and Martha Jane had uncanny ways of sensing it. She said, "You've been hiding something from me for a long time." Trying to evade her, I stared back intently. "No." "You don't have to tell me what it is. But I don't want it holding you back from me when we fuck. Let go of it. Let it go so you can really enjoy fucking me." Her offer melted my resistance, and I could not prevent my face and eyes from softening with gratitude -- a reaction she acknowledged with a little grin of recognition. I stopped moving. I tried telling her, "I keep thinking...I don't know how to say it..." "Shh. No thinking. It's so seldom that we can be together like this. I'm being very selfish: I want to give you a wonderful cum. I want you to stop thinking and cum." I began moving in her again, but she cradled my face once more and said, "Slow, hon. Make it last until you can stop thinking so much." I slowed my pace and lengthened my strokes so that I withdrew almost all the way out before going even deeper in her. "Good," she said. "Yes. Take your time. Go deep." I dreaded she would make it so good that I would forget myself com- pletely, that my fears and anger would have me crying or screaming when I came. But her eyes and voice enticed me out of myself despite all my recent conditioning to the contrary. I felt my emotions welling up to match the intense pleasure I felt inside her. She urged me on with lusty whispers and an ingenious knack for holding me on the edge and delaying my release until the defenses that imprisoned my pleasure behind a wall of rage and isolation had been obliterated. For a long time she would not let me cum until I was so overpowered with lust that, with a helpless sob, I relinquished all control to my back and hips and allowed them to pump my cock into a mindless state of raw pleasure. Below me, she received my surrender with a sweet smile. Everything disappeared. I yelled. I slowed and spurted. She hissed, "Yessss...yes, hon...MMM! So MUCH!...yes, baby!...oh yes enjoy it, such a good cum..." When she felt my orgasm waning she rolled her hips in a slow arc and drew my last remnants into her clutching warmth. As usual, she thoroughly destroyed and drained me. I fell asleep in her arms until she woke me up to drive me home. On the way she asked if I felt better. I answered, yes, I felt better. But what I did not say was that nothing had changed. Continued... ==================================== THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE by S.J.R. ============ PART 7D -30- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |