Message-ID: <7975eli$9804171608@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 8A"( bf mF mF+ )[26/52] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Note: This message was posted by a secure email service. Please report MISUSE OR ABUSE of this automated secure email service to . Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6h6jff$t0s$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 8A: The week preceding Martha Jane's last weekend of packing before she left her charming apartment near Memphis State was a long, numbing one. As far as I knew, it would be my last chance to spend time with her before she moved to East Memphis under her new stepdad's watchful eye. Although we spoke by telephone briefly during the week and set the schedule for my Saturday visit, there was no mention of what might or might not happen after that weekend. I was too fearful of bringing it up. When Martha Jane arrived in her Chevy (which she still didn't like), I felt distracted and dull. My feeble attempts at appearing cheerful fell flat. When I couldn't think of anything to say I sat humming an aimless tune and looking out the car window, pretending to be engrossed in the passing scenery. At her apartment I dove into the work of packing, working so quickly and efficiently that Martha Jane was left with little more than to stand around and watch. By three o'clock that afternoon I'd packed everything and there was nothing else to do. "Well," she said, forcing a cheerful smile through the tension that had been written on her face since we arrived. She looked around at the boxes stacked along one wall of the living room. "That's that. Good work, cowboy, we finished two hours early." "Yep," I said, knowing that I sounded terse and sullen. But I didn't know what else to do. I walked into the kitchen to wash my hands. "So what's next?" she called from the living room. I sighed. "Can't play records or anything. It's all packed." I stood in the kitchen doorway drying my hands with a paper towel. "Hate to see you give up this place." Martha Jane cleared her throat and said with an air of mystery, "Well, there is one more thing. I don't know what you'll think about this...I mean, it's kinda...silly." I gave her a weak but indulgent smile. "Try me." She blushed and hesitated before starting for the bedroom. "Follow me," she said. She led me into the bedroom and then into the rear bathroom. Her toiletries were still on the floor in two small shoulder bags. She bent over the tub and turned on the water. "First, we need a warm tub..." She adjusted the water flow and then turned to me with a naughty smile. "Can you guess yet?" "Looks an awful lot like a bathtub filling up with water, lady." She winked and wagged a finger. "Not...quite." She reached into one of the shoulder bags and pulled out a package of blue bubble bath powder and held it up to me. "Remember this?" Blood rushed to my head, and to a couple of other places. I smiled, still a little unsure, and reached out for the package of bubble bath. She jumped back playfully. "No, no, that's *my* part. I get to open the package. Your part is to get nekkid first." I squinted. "Is this supposed to remind me of what I think it's supposed to remind me of?" She winked. "Yes. See, I told you it was silly." A sudden and chilling thought passed across my mind but, not wanting to kill the mood for her, I kept the question to myself: did this ritual mean that I was not going to see her again? I unbuttoned my shirt. She came to me with a playful gleam in her eyes and helped me undress, pausing now and then to touch my neck and sides and to help me unzip my jeans. She turned to dump the powder into the water. She watched the blue bubbles expand and rise. When she turned around again, I stood naked in the middle of the room. Seeing me, her eyes lit up and she walked over to me. Her face hovered near mine. As she watched my eyes she trailed her fingers down my tummy and onto the tip of my cock. "Remember this, too?" she whispered. "Hmmm. Yes." "Feel good?" "Yes. Like the first time." "Hmmm. Nasty boy." Her hand continued to graze my now twitching penis. "You have no idea how often I've remembered the first time we did this." She kissed me on one eye and then the other, and whispered near my ear: "And since then, little Speedy has grown into a warm, lovable, sensitive young man. And a wonderful lover." I managed to keep myself from breaking into tears. I resolved that this moment, if it was to be our last intimacy, would be as she wanted it. But my unvoiced questions persisted, and so far my mind was still uneasy on that score. I put a wet, open-lipped kiss on her neck and saw and felt goose- bumps rise on her back and arms. I said, "Hey. The water's ready." "Oh, yeah," she said. She saw that the tub was now half-filled with blue bubbles. "But we're both bigger now and we need a little more than we used to. You go in first." I pointed at myself as if to question "Me?", and she grinned and nodded. I settled into the tub, the bubbles engulfing me with an audible hiss. She began to undress. "Turn it off when the bubbles are high enough." "How high?" "Nose high." "Okay." In a moment she was naked. My cock lurched under the bubbles when I saw her. She was slim and firm; her legs seemed rather long for a woman of her relatively petite stature, an illusion caused by her nineteen-inch waist, the moderately lush flair of her hips and the firm roundness of her tush. Her breasts sloped smoothly and swiftly into rounded globes with pointed, dark pink nipples. Her mound was topped with a fine, curly, almost transparent auburn fuzz that crowned her outthrust smooth- lipped vulva and extended halfway down the length of her prominent slit, which now was only slightly parted. But it was all these bound by a perfection of creamy flesh -- skin so tight and toned that it glistened along her shoulders and hips and upper thighs -- that, and her long- necked grace, gave her body an alluring mixture of woman and girl, harlot and angel. She grinned as she approached the tub and stepped inside. "You hard under those bubbles?" I nodded. "Well," she said, settling into the nose-high foam and facing me, "hold that thought j-u-u-st a little longer." She grabbed the bar of soap and lathered her hands and then reached under the bubbles to stroke my cock with her slippery fingers. "Ah," I gasped. "Good?" "Mmm." "Don't cum, hon." "Aw, no fair." "Shh. I'll just hold it," and she did. "I have something to tell you. New house rules." "Phooey. Rules." "You'll like this one." She lowered her voice to a more serious octave. "From here on out, you're not Speedy anymore." "No?" "No. You're Steven. You don't look like a 'Speedy' anymore. You don't think like him and you don't fuck like him. You don't have a little boy's four-inch dick anymore. You have a fine, perfectly shaped cock with soft dark brown pubic hair in just the right amount and just the right places. And a warm heart, and a good mind, and very handsome eyes. You're Steven now. Is it okay if I never call you Speedy again?" At the end of her little speech I was a blue-bubbled blob of silly mush with a melting heart and a very hard cock. If she asked me to shoot the Pope and steal his name, I would have said yes. I reached for her, and she moved closer to me and let my arms drape over her soft wet shoulders before she said, "Wait, there's more." "Oh. OK. More." "From now on, I'm no longer Martha Jane. I'm Martha. I'm not a teenage doll and not a kitten and not a Southern belle, and I'm twenty- one years old. Not long from now I'll be a professional and I'll dress like a professional, not like a schoolgirl. I want everyone to call me Martha from now on. I'll use that name on my resume's and checks and on everything I sign. And I'll insist on Martha from others. But from you, Steven--I don't want to demand, I want to ask... will you call me Martha from now on?" Too choked up to speak, I nodded slowly and firmly, and then I pulled her into a hug under the bubbles, and she hugged me back. After a moment in this humid, bubbly clinch she tapped me on the back with one finger. "Steven?" "Yes?" "You didn't call me Martha yet." "I will. In a minute." "Call me Martha now. I want to hear you say it." "Well...you have your new rules. I have one, too." "What's that?" "I will call you by that name very soon, in just a little while, when the time is exactly right." "When?" "You'll see. Soon." We soaped and rubbed each other, adding some playful touches and tickles. She said it was the first time she'd had her nipples and cunt soaped by another's hands. Covered with bubbles, we climbed out of the tub. She stayed in the bathroom to powder and finish up, while I turned off all the lights in the apartment so that a soft, late afternoon glow filtered through the curtains. When she entered the bedroom I was sitting on the edge of the bed, my legs under me. She stood a few inches away, fluffing her hair with a towel. She asked, "why are you sitting on the edge of the bed like that?" I said quietly, "C'mere. Stand by the bed," and when she dropped the towel and came to me I pulled her head close and whispered in her ear, "Remember this?" "Remember what?" "The first time I saw you nekkid. The first time you showed how to get you wet." "Oh," she whispered. "Oh. Yes." She backed away one step and spread her feet so that her love-pod was more available. I whispered, "Let me fingerfuck you." As her hands found and squeezed my cock and balls, she opened her legs a little more. Between her smoothly muscled thighs was a small open alcove shaped and sized perfectly for the palm of my hand. I cupped her warm mound, which greeted me with a sliver of slippery moisture along the middle of my palm. She shifted her legs again, allowing me a little more room to slide a tantalizing finger along the slick edges of her firmly-rimmed slit. Leaning into me and lifting a nipple to my lips, she whispered, "Suck my tittie, hon." I kissed, licked, and then she sighed pleasurably as a nipple entered my gently sucking mouth. At my fingers, her slit swelled and opened. Once more she made a fine adjustment with her feet, bending her knees a little to lift her portal upward and toward me. She hissed, "Put it in me. Slow. Slow. Ah." I whispered, "Squeeze my cock. Just a little. Give it a little tug." "Like that?...Mmm. Yes. Wet." Several years earlier when this scene was first enacted, I could hold out for hours. Now, I'd be lucky if I lasted half a minute -- and when she spread precum over my shaft and circled her fingers around me, that interval was seriously shortened. With my free hand I held both of hers motionless at my crotch. "Wait," I whispered. "Not yet." "Not yet?" "Let me fuck you with my finger a minute." She grinned and smoothed a lock of hair from her forehead so she could look down and watch my hand on her. "Okay." For a few minutes that dripped with a seething eroticism I had not seen in her for some time, I gently stroked and primed her clit, pausing now and then to fingerfuck her slowly and deeply and properly, searching her slithery inner walls until I found that rough spot just above the curve lay that lay beyond her portal and which that made her moan and hug my finger. In a while her head drifted back and her eyes closed. She sighed to the ceiling, "Hon, that's so good." I was so turgid I felt I'd need a firearm permit if I got any harder. Soon she leaned against me, murmuring, "My legs are getting weak, it's so good." I whispered, "Lie down." She slid naked into the bed and lay with her arms draped above her head and her thighs spread wide. She smiled languidly. She was wet and open enough to start fucking, and she appeared to think that we were going to do just that. Instead, I lay between her legs and kissed her cunt and inner thighs. Her head fell back and she closed her eyes and whispered happily, "Yes." With one more preparatory smooch on the surface of her cunt, I whispered, "Tell me when you're close." "Okay." "When you're very close." She crooked one knee and let her leg fall to one side. I could see her grinning toward the ceiling with her eyes closed as goosebumps rose on her legs. "Okay." I tongued her delicately. When I found her clit she sighed, arching ever so slightly. Wetly I continued, sometimes full-mouthing her entire mound and then sucking her clit between my tongue and inner lips the way she liked. Her arms reached behind her head and grasped the edge of the headboard. A few minutes later she tightened her grip, her knuckles whitening with the effort, followed by tremors in the stretched tendons of her inner thighs. She was fully open to me then, her clit almost the size and hardness of a thin thimble, her thighs drifting apart until her knees were drawn up with her feet pulled together under my chest. She began whispering heatedly, "Suck it. Right there, yes...Soft, hon. Suck... Yes. Mm, yes." I felt the beginnings of the stiffening and trembling that signaled the onset of her orgasm; I wondered if she'd remember to tell me when she was near. I did not want to remove my tongue to remind her, for I knew she was getting dangerously close. I trusted her to be selfish, to cum whenever and however she pleased. And just as it seemed she might be ready to go over the edge, she lifted her head and looked down at me, gasping, "I'm so close!" Immediately I rose, and the surprise on her face was matched only by the pleased widening of her eyes as I entered her quickly, deeply and smoothly, my eyes on hers. She stared at me with wild-eyed, joyful lust as I began fucking with the slow, steady rhythm I knew she preferred. She slowly whispered, "Fuucck." Then her writhing inner walls began to pulse and contract, and she stiffened, and her eyes narrowed, and her fingers dug into my arms, and she wept softly, "Hon I'm cummin'!", only for her to find, just as her entire body went into its taut muscle-lock of pleasure, that I had just jerked and squirted inside her, and her eyes saw it happening for me and for her at the same time, and she saw and heard me whisper to her, "Martha," and her eyes glazed wetly with pleasure and she sank into the undertow of her long deep cum while I squirted again in her tightening center. I slowed and lengthened my strokes to prolong the pleasure and to savor the full feel of her, another hot and very hard spurt jetting out of me with a force that made me moan, and I crooned to her between my own quickening gasps, "Cum, Martha. Cum." As my ejaculations ebbed, she came out of her climax and settled into the bed with a childlike whimper of surrender and fatigue. Her eyes closed, and she pulled me against her and started breathing again. I kissed her ear and throat and hid my face in her neck while I made three or four last, hungry probes into her, winding down. Feeling her hand push its way between our tummies, I rose slightly to allow her to wring the last of me from my tubes, as she so much liked to do. When she finished I settled onto her, our joined lengths so hot and wet that it felt like immersion in a bubble bath again. We hugged, and breathed, and rested. She purred, "Yes. Oh, yes." We were dressed and it was dark outside. I sat on the bed watch- ing her brush her hair. She looked at my reflection in the dressing table mirror. "Are you staring at me?" she joked. "I'm asking you," I tempted. "Asking me what?" "Martha..." I stopped. "Hmm, that sounded nice. And you sure do know a perfect moment when you see one." "Martha." "ye-e-e-s?" "Will we do this again?" Her brush slowed, and stopped, and a heavy darkness seemed to fall on her. After a moment she said, "Oh, Steven." "I was just asking." She sighed heavily and began brushing again. "Yes. We'll all be at my mommy's wedding next week." Her answer and her dull manner told me the question had upset her, so I dropped the subject. I lay back into the pillow, resting. With my eyes closed, I heard her place the brush on her table, then heard the rustle of her jeans as she walked across the room, then felt the bed slant as she sat beside me and laid her head on my chest. "Steven, the answer to that question is that I want to. But I don't know when. Or how" "You don't have to answer." She held her face over mine and removed the arm I'd draped over my face. Her eyes dug into mine. "Steven, there's something I've wanted to tell you for a very, very long time. And I can't right now, not right now. But I will someday. When the time is right." "Promise?" "Promise." "When?" "Oh, you devil..." She put my arm back over my face and pouted. "I told you, I promise. I keep promises." "Okay." "Don't say okay if you don't mean it." I smirked. "Okay." She sat up on the bed and said, "But I will tell you part of it at the wedding. I just should need time to find the words. Deal?" "Okay." "Really okay?" "Yes." She removed my arm, kissed my forehead, replaced my arm, and rose to get ready to drive me home. I watched as she moved about the place doing her Martha chores and touching her Martha things. I could tell she was hiding some distress from me. I sorely regretted having allowed myself to blurt out my question about us. I resolved I'd never again mention it, would never again bring that shadow into her face. Never again. Her mother's wedding was a festive, crowded, expensive affair, as ornate as Mr. Buchanan's could afford. I attended the ceremony, watching from a front pew in the cathedral while Martha, as a member of the bridal party, stood stiff and uneasy in a pale blue, formal gown. After the ceremony she came to me during the drawn-out handshake ritual on the front steps of the church and confided, "How wasteful and barbaric." She sighed impatiently. "Hundreds of people, tens of thousands of dollars, all these clothes, all this display -- just so a man and woman can sleep together." The huge crowd gathered that evening at the formal dinner and recep- tion at Colonial Country Club. Mr. Buchanan, finally married, showed off his bride and his two stepdaughters. "The three prettiest gals in the whole city of Memphis," he boasted during one of many pre-dinner toasts. During the evening Martha seated me beside her at a long table apart from the one where her sister and mom and stepdad were gathered. I waltzed with her once, both of us blushing as I attempted valiantly to subdue an insistent erection under my rented tuxedo. Time and again as we attempt- ed to chat at our table, we were interrupted by one request after another for Martha's hand on the dance floor. Finally, as the evening's end drew near, she and I moved outside for a quiet stroll among the cherry trees and pines in the gardens behind the reception hall. A faint breeze filtered through the cherry blossoms. I stood near her as she leaned on the low bough of a cherry tree. I said little, distracted by the fear that as long as she was living in Mr. Buchanan's house we would not be free to see each other intimately. "Something's on your mind, isn't it?" she asked, her eyes searching mine. Her voice -- needy, cajoling, seductive -- floated through the sweet spring air and washed over and into me. Her beauty and the perfume from the cherry blossoms and the moonlight worked on me relentlessly. She said, "It's so hard for me to tell you what I wanted to say last week, if you hide from me. It makes me feel I'm here all alone, hon." Falteringly, my own effort at concealment almost choking off my voice, I told her that what I was feeling at that very moment, in that place, would sound strange. "Even a little weird," I said. "Tell me. Let me decide if it's weird or not." After beating around the bush for a while, I haltingly confessed that I wish she'd been my mother. Or my sister. But I guessed I'd have to settle for her being "my friend." Hearing this, her eyes softened and she, too, blushed profusely. "How strange, Steven," she mused. "How so, so strange." Girlishly, diffidently, almost guiltily, she confessed to me: "Hon, I'm shocked to admit this to you, much less to myself. But I wanted to tell you the same thing. I wish you'd been mine, too. My brother. Or even...my son. Isn't that an outrageous, wicked thing to say? Would we have slept together? I don't know. But if I ever had a son, I would want him to be like you." Deathly afraid of revealing more, I fell silent. Deep inside me, my emotions swelled and wanted to shout themselves to the world. I was partially soothed by the sound, somewhere beyond us, of the dinner crowd singing in chorus. Muffled by distance, the sound of their voices sing- ing a plaintive waltz drifted through the trees. The distant voices sang: Last Saturday night I got married. Me and my wife settled down... "It's the last dance," she said. "The bride's choice. My mother chose that song. It's her favorite. Such a sad song. But so pretty." I turned to her, to nod in recognition of the bittersweet lyric. At that moment our eyes met. She smiled sweetly, her eyes looking deeply into mine, poignant and yearning. I asked myself: yearning for what? Had I seen, somewhere within the warm affection in those soft, hazel eyes, an even more meaningful message? Deep inside the glistening pools of the clear whites of her eyes lay something more, something tense, enigmatic, hypnotic. Irene goodnight, Irene goodnight. Goodnight, Irene, Goodnight, Irene, I'll see you in my dreams. "Hon," she whispered reluctantly, "I have to go. The dance is over and they'll be looking for me." Quickly she kissed me on the cheek and hugged me, and then left for the reception hall. I stood paralyzed, watching her disappear among the cherry blossoms. Slowly I strolled to the building, not caring whether my parents spotted me or not. Oblivious to the milling crowd that gath- ered their belongings and prepared to leave, I crossed the vast hall and strolled into the parking lot, hoping for a sight of her as she passed by in the car with her family. Perhaps I'd catch her before she left; so much was left unsaid. Perhaps I'd get up the nerve to say it. But the moment had fled, and Martha was nowhere to be seen. ==================================== THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE by S.J.R. ============ PART 8A -30- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |