Message-ID: <10424eli$9804191435@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 08C"( bf mF mF+ )[28/52] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Note: This message was posted by a secure email service. Please report MISUSE OR ABUSE of this automated secure email service to . Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6hcgrf$hh9$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 8C: She indulged in her cigarette, her voice throaty, secretive, con- spiratorial. "This is beginning to feel very naughty," she said. "All those people driving by," I said, joining in her mood, "not knowing we're nekkid." "Yeah," she breathed, pleased. She took another puff. "After today, you'll have to go to confession." "I don't go to confession. I just pretend I do." "Don't you feel strange about that?" "A little. But it's what I have to do." "It's a sin," she said, testing me. "Only for everyone else." "This...is a sin," she announced, a little amused. She reached over to the ashtray and slowly, carefully, mashed the cigarette several times against the glass until it was completely extinguished. "It's the major, most unacceptable, most outrageous...most delicious sin." "Can I have one of those?" I asked mischievously. "One of what?" she asked, settling against the headboard. "One of those," I said, motioning my head at the ash tray. "Don't you dare. It's an awful habit. One of my few vices. I'm not lazy, I'm not narrow-minded, I'm not hateful. I don't rob anyone, I don't kill anyone, I don't hate anyone. I'm not a racist, not a bigot. But I do smoke. And I'm a hypocrite. And deep inside, I'm ruthless." I asked, surprised, thinking she was joking, "You are?" "Yes. I am. I have such a sweet, innocent, kitten-like look. Mr. Buchanan thinks that Evelyn and I are both virgins. Saints. But Evelyn fucks. And I fuck." She looked at me, expressionless, studying me. I gave an embarrassed laugh. "That's not so sinful." "Oh, it is. It's a sin because I like it so much. You can't like something that much without it being a sin. It's so difficult to let someone else know how much I like it. It's so good with you, but even with you sometimes...I get a little scared of myself, it's so good and so...unexpected. Sometimes, hon, it's so much of a strain on me. Really. It's not always so easy to let you know that about me. I am a terrible sinner when I'm nekkid with you." "Really? After all we've done?" "Yes." She suddenly and playfully hid her eyes with one hand. "Oh, I can't believe this. Why am I so embarrassed? It's like telling you about my period. It's so silly." I paused. "Is that the secret that you wanted to tell me about? That you think this is a sin?" "No, hon, no. My big secret is something else, and I can't tell you that now." She uncovered her eyes and with a coy smile she leaned her head on her knees, smiling at me indulgently. "But I will tell you one day, don't worry." "Okay," I said, disappointed. "Do you think this is a sin?" "Yes. Sort of." "Sort of?" "Well...only because everyone else says it is." "Yes...I know what you mean." She dropped into deep thought for a moment. She rubbed her leg and then her voice shrank into that of a hesitant little girl. "Hon...do you like sinning with me?" "Yes. That makes me as big a sinner as you are." "Then there's no hope for us," she said, grinning slyly and lowering her legs, stretching out and lying naked and open. "Sin with me," she crooned. "Lick me." As I moved over her and bent to kiss her firm inner thighs she looked down. Fastidiously, she brushed her pubic curls aside and gently parted her cuntlips for me. "Lick me, hon." Gradually she became almost uncontrollably licentious, whispering and rasping lewdly and with an abandon I hadn't seen since our nights in the Lauderdale Courts. I have no idea what incited this effusion of raw lust; I could only guess that, like me, she was grasping at something that would soon end. She seemed to have somehow reached back to her six- teenth or seventeenth years, when it was all new and unimpaired by change or necessity. I realized that I was not the only one in that room who felt afraid and threatened. As I mouthed her cunt she moved my body around so that my knees straddled her head and my cock fit easily into her mouth. She sucked me slowly and lecherously, her hips jerking now and then when I sucked her clit. Soon I rose and stretched over her, entered deeply, and fucked in long deep strokes. Her head raised and resting against the headboard, she grinned and watched me fuck her. Soon she stiffened and climaxed, wrenching her head back and to one side. She finished with a lurch of her hips, gasping and sighing, "Fuck...oh, fuck." Raising her knees, she reached between us to touch my shaft and feel the spurts hurtling into her. She watched with salacious glee while I finished cumming. We napped, waking in mid-afternoon. Whispering sultrily she leaned over me and quickly jerked me off, entreating me as I came, "C'mon, hon. C'mon. Ah. Those hot little squirts. Yes." We rested again and then drove to the Howard Johnson's down the street and ate like cave people, giggling and spilling things. Martha would grin and say something stupid like "Pass me the salt, hon -- " and then lean close to me over the table and whisper laughingly, "-- and squirt on my tits!" We squealed and sniggered and I would reply with something like "Cum on my ear," which threw her into a squirming fit. She said, "Mr. Buchanan would have a stroke. Haha, Evelyn would have a stroke. The walls of the First Baptist Church of Memphis would come tumblin' down, and the doors of the temple would be rent asunder." We returned to the room. Dusk found us sinning and lusting like animals, me licking her slowly, her spread thighs taut and trembling as I made her cum, and then we fucked and I made her cum again, then again. Each orgasm for her was deeper, harder, more paralyzing than the one before. Each time she would clench my shoulders and with her lips near my ear she would moan, "Again. Again, Steven. Fuck." Until finally her fourth cum was a long pleasure-drenched struggle, and when it finally arrived I felt my own orgasm creep slowly from my strained back and then into the tip of my cock, on whose length her clinging cunt fed greedily and invoked yet another hot jet from my balls. I yelled and then groaned, straining on outstretched arms and quaking knees, as I watched her long body writhe in ecstatic lust with our last prolonged, exhaust- ing, excruciating release. For almost an hour afterward, we held each other silently. I lay on her for a while, then rolled over and lay with her head on my shoulder. Soon we changed positions again, me lying on her breast before we curled up spoon-style. At one point she sat up, leaned back against her pillow, and lit a cigarette. I watched her inhale and then slowly exhale. After a moment she whispered, "Steven." I looked at her and waited. She paused and took another puff. She shook her head no, once. She whispered, "Nothing." Finally, it was time to dress and leave. She drove me back to my Mama Rose's house. We arrived at eleven, an hour after the Tremont had closed. "You be good to your Mama Rose," Martha told me from her car window. "she's so sweet." "I'll come to Union Station next Saturday and see you off." "You don't have to," she said quietly. "You sure?" "I'll be there," I said, winking -- not knowing if I were really up to it, but letting her think I believed I was. She winked back. Unsmiling, she stepped on the gas. She and the car raced down the street and grew smaller. I stood on the curb and watched, wondering what the hell I was going to do. Of all the weeks Martha and I had spent apart, that week of waiting for her departure was the longest that I remember. The only memory I have of that week was of standing in our front yard one sultry afternoon with the cloying humidity hanging in the air as I stared into the vast suburban sameness around me. As in an underexposed, bleached-out still photograph, nothing seemed distinct. Nothing moved. But I felt the earth move; and I felt time move, slowly and relentlessly. During breakfast on Friday morning my mother told me, "This coming weekend will be the last week for you to have nothing to do while school's out. Your daddy wants you to work at the grocery during the week, starting Monday." "You have to learn the value of a dollar," my stepdad grunted as he came to the table for his coffee. He took a quick sip and then bent over to tie his shoes. "Learn about runnin' a business," he went on. "Sackin' groceries. Trim the produce. Then we'll get you on the big bikes with the delivery crew, and you can make some money. Ten cents for every order you deliver in the Lauderdale Courts. The work ain't that hard, but it'll help put some muscle on you, get you out in the sunshine and the open air." I mentioned that a new play was going to start soon at St. Michael's and that I had been assigned a role. I would have to leave the store by five to get a bus in time for rehearsals. Unfazed, he continued. "That school dramatics crap will just have to wait. The store stays open 'til seven during the week and 'til nine on Saturday. So your games at school can wait until September." "...Yessir." "You just tell them at school that you're sorry, but your time belongs to the Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23 until school starts again." "Yessir." "That dramatics shit is a lot of foolin' around anyway." "Yessir." "The money you earn will be yours. I'll keep it in a checkin' account for you, at Union Planters, just like a regular checkin' account. I'll keep tabs on it. You can spend it, but get somethin' you need and can use at school. Don't spend it on crap." "Yessir." The conversation ended. It was perhaps one of the longest exchanges I'd had with my parents in several months. For the rest of the day I moped in my room. Near dusk I drove my squeaky kid-sized bicycle to Gaisman Park. The bike was an undersized blue machine that Aunt Frances had given me for Christmas when I was nine years old. The thought that I'd be able to earn my own money for a sparkling new bike was a comfort, at least. At thirteen, going on fourteen, I needed more mobility; for the time being I was limited to city buses and my own two feet. The idea of buying a full-sized bike gave me something to look forward to. And, hopefully, a few months of hard work at the supermarket in my old neigh- borhood would get me back into the heart of the city and give me some- thing to think about other than Martha's absence. By sunset I returned home and told Mom I didn't want dinner. I boarded a bus and made the long trip into old Memphis and the home of my Mama Rose and Daddy Joe Ricci, my deceased father's parents. Usually I alternated my weekends between them or Aunt Francis and Uncle Johnny. Being with my grandparents was more subdued and folksy than weekends spent with my disoriented Aunt Frances and my tired and ailing but affec- tionate Uncle Johnny. The Ricci's lived in a newer home, a tidy 1920's brick duplex occupied on one side by my grandparents and on the other by their daughter, my Aunt Baby Sister, so called to distinguish her from several other Aunt Catherines in the clan. The Ricci's kept a living ar- rangement that even in my youth I considered unusual. My Uncle Johnny and Aunt Frances, with all the extra space they had in their big old Victorian home, slept together in the same room and the same bed; but Daddy Joe and Mama Rose, in their smaller duplex, kept separate rooms. Mama Rose's room was in the middle of the long hallway that led through their side of the duplex. Behind her room was the bedroom that once belonged to my Uncle Frank and my father. Frank was never around, having used his GI bill to get through Vanderbilt University in Nashville, after which he landed a job with a local bank and found an apartment elsewhere in Memphis with his recent bride, my glamorous and vivacious Aunt Leigh. Behind Frank's room, at the far end of the hall, was the small add-on that was Daddy Joe's solitary room. Gentle, submissive and soft-spoken, Mama Rose would greet me from the front door of their corner house when I got off the bus across the street. Watching the street carefully in both directions, she would wear a frown of concern until I safely crossed the six lanes of busy Peabody Street, and then she would smile her warm motherly smile as I strode up the front steps and onto their little brick-walled, plant-lined front porch. Like her older sisters, My Aunt Frances and my sister's godmother Aunt Mary, Mama Rose had a squeaky voice: but hers was a small, serene one that matched her manner and her diminutive size. Like my deceased father, she had black hair; but her caring, madonna-like eyes were a bright blue that could be seen across a room. There was a quiet joy in her whenever she greeted me and led me into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal or some milk and cookies. When I entreated her to not go through trouble on my behalf, she would insist on waiting upon me, circling about the kitchen with her weak little walk and her bad back, looking far older than her fifty-odd years as if some great weight had attached itself to her petite frame at some point in the past. Always, there was a sweet remark about how I looked just like my daddy, Steven Senior. Always. And always she would at some point confuse me with her son Frank, whom I also resembled. And almost always she would at some point call me Steven instead of her favorite nickname Butch (and where she came up with Butch, I'll never know. She was the only person who called me by that name instead of by Speedy). And always, at some point, she would call me Frank, then give a shy little laugh and apologize, saying, "Oh, I mean Butch. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Did you hear me say Frank? Wasn't that silly?" After I snacked I would ask about Daddy Joe, and a shadow would fall over her face--a quick and barely visible flash of something sad and lonely in her--and she would recover and say, "Oh, he's back there in his 'man's room', where he always is. You go see him, and then we have to get to sleep and go to the Tremont in the morning. Go on, go see him. You know he loves you, Butch. He always wants to see you. You go on and I'll clean up in here." At the end of the long unlit hallway, Daddy Joe was in his room. He was a short, kindly but fidgety man who spoke and moved suddenly, jerkily and unpredictably. I had a strange liking for him; not the same warm and comfy affection I had for the saintly Mama Rose--but an affection mixed with a wariness of his nervous style and his occasionally bitter cynicism that seemed to underlay his reactions to everything and everyone around him. As usual, he sat in the small, chilly room with the windows wide open, he in his worn, heavy brown leather chair with his short legs propped on a matching footstool. He held a pipe in one hand, a National Geographic magazine and a newspaper in his lap. Around him were his man's trophies that graced the walls of his man's room: an oversized 1948 calendar with color photos of legendary racehorses like Citation and Sea Biscuit; a yellowed, framed, original copy of the announcement of the Wall Street crash in the New York Herald; over three decades' worth of the National Geographic; old copies of the Wall Street Journal; an ancient telegraph set from the Frisco Railroad, where he worked for many years as a youth; a battered dumbbell with two heavy, rusting weights; a photograph of Charles Atlas tugging a subway car in the 1930's; and portraits of Theodore and Franklin Roosevelt. He would greet me with a big grin and a coarse but chummy "Aaaaa!", a kind of gruffly playful reproach accompanied by a firm ruffling of my hair and a pinch on my ear. Then a quick hug, his red cheeks always scratchy and tickly against mine. And then questions: how was I? Would I grow any taller? What was I doing in school? And always, regardless of my answers, a waggish "Aaaaa!" as he unexpectedly rose from his chair and ruffled my hair again. I never quite knew when he was going to jump up and pull that frolic on me. Our conversations were more like an effort on my part to find out who he really was, while he remained roguishly elusive. I mentioned that I had received a birthday card from my Uncle Frank and he asked, "Yeah? You ever see your Uncle Frank?". I answered no, and he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and a gruff, "Ha! Your Uncle Frank. To hell with him, Speedy-boy. Right? Never comes to see *ME*! Huh, SPeedy-boy? Sonofabitch." As usual, he immediately changed the subject and asked about my Mom. I said my mother and daddy were doing well, and he muttered, "Your 'daddy'. Hmp. Your daddy's dead," a frequent remark to which I never had a reply, and he would growl "Aaaa!" and ruffle my hair again and then confound me by cheerfully asking if Mama Rose had fed me well when I came in. "Your Mama Rose is sweet on you, Speedy-boy. You're her boy, you know that? She's sweet, your Mama Rose." This meandering and inconclusive conversation seldom varied. Neither did it last very long, as Daddy Joe would want to spend some time going over the stock quotations in the newspaper. He would preface this by again mentioning his plans for the day when he hoped to retire from the liquor business, cash in his stocks and move to Hot Springs, Arkansas, where he would play the horses all day and "live like a white man." He sent me back into the caring hands and motherly smiles of Mama Rose, who laid out my pajamas and turned back the bedspread in Uncle Frank's room, and tucked me in with a peck on the cheek and a little sing-song about, "Oh, I love my little Butch, just like your daddy Steven." And after the lights went out I would be in that room alone with my father's ghost and the relics of my mysterious, long-absent Uncle Frank. I often wondered, if either of them had been around, how I would talk to them and what they would advise me about my situation. How would they, grown and apparently sane men, handle it? Why were they always gone? What were they really like? Was I like them? Would I be able to tell them about Martha? Certainly, despite their affection, neither Mama Rose nor Daddy Joe nor anyone else could be someone I trusted with the story of me and Martha Jane, whom I now called Martha but whom I still pictured as the original Martha Jane, and who would be leaving the next day. ==================================== THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE by S.J.R. ============ PART 8C -30- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |