Message-ID: <10656eli$9804251209@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 10A"( bf mF mF+ )[34/52] 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: <6hrric$46f$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 10A: Martha said over the phone, "I think it's about time you came to New York, if you still want to." "Why this sudden change of mind?" I asked. "Sudden? I've been thinking about it for months. I figured you could handle the shock of New York by now." I chided her, "Listen, that typewriter you sent me -- I promise to use it 'till I wear it out, but...it's a very expensive present. I can't let you pay for it. I owe you." She said she'd purchased it in New York at a low price that I could never match in Memphis. She said that, if I really wanted, I could make up for the cost of the typewriter. "I tried to save some party money for your visit, but it's impossible. You have enough on your own to make it a real vacation instead of a trek. And you can pay me back for your present by treating me too, now and then." "Deal." "And promise me, Steven...while you're here...be my friend." I had no idea what she was getting at. Lack of space in her pad? Too much activity, too many things to see? "Okay," I said. "Don't say okay, if you don't mean it." "Okay." Getting to New York required planning, and some tricky politics with Tony. At first he refused to allow me to spend my money on the trip. He grumbled, "If that friend of yours wants to see you so much, why don't she come home and visit her own folks, and you -- with her own money?" Despondent, I called Martha a few days later and explained the problem. She was disappointed. "I see you two still have problems getting along," she said over the phone. "I wish I'd known about that. But don't get into total warfare with him. From what you're saying, I think you really need to be away from those problems for a while. Don't worry, Steven, just be patient. We'll find a way." I was so angered at Tony's refusal to let me at my own money that I sat at my desk one evening and wrote a long list of the many things I hated about him, citing a detailed history of his "criminal" acts against me. It was a scathing document that I hid in my desk. Unfortunately, I was dumb enough to not destroy it after venting my spleen. My mother found my invective while cleaning my room. One day when I came home from school she entered my room wearing a darkly reproachful look and sat with me on my bed. We had our very first -- and last -- long, intimate chat together. She urged me to be more understanding of Tony. He didn't really hate me. He grew up in a large and very poor Italian family in a poverty zone in Memphis and literally had to fight his brothers and sisters for food. He worked long and hard, he moved us out of the housing project, and he sacrificed his own needs to pay my tuition at Christian Brothers instead of sending me to a public school with inferior academic and social standards. Then she told me the truth about my own father, Steven senior. When he was in training in 1943 in Tucson, Arizona, he lived with another woman. He wrote home saying that he wanted a divorce and that he didn't want to have anything to do with me. When I was 18 months old my Mom and Daddy Joe brought me to Tucson. They urged my dad to live up to his res- ponsibilities and to wait at least until the War was over to see if he still wanted to dissolve the marriage. They reminded him that as a Catholic he was morally bound to try to work things out. My father relented. He came back to Memphis on his way to the European front and made Mom pregnant with my sister. Months later, he wrote a letter the night before his fatal bombing mission, saying that he feared he was going to die because he had been volunteering for too many dangerous assignments in order to complete his tour more quickly. He realized that his behavior had been a death wish; he did not want to return to raise his son and daughter. As she told me this I sat rigid and silent. After she left me alone in my room, I wept. The model on whom I had based my own resistance against my stepdad had been destroyed forever. And so had the trust I'd placed in relatives who had spoken so highly of Steven senior. But this did little to reconcile with me with Tony. I disliked him as much as I ever did, especially after his refusal to allow me to visit Martha. A few days later at breakfast, after Tony left for work, Mom perked up and said, "Guess what? Tony's gonna let you spend a week in New York. But you have to promise not to spend every dime you've saved." I stared at her, surprised and happy and confused. "But why did he change his mind?" "Martha Jane called me and we had a talk about how seeing New York would be good for you. She asked if she could talk to Tony about it, and I said yes. So..." she concluded, breaking into laughter for the first time in many months, "your old girlfriend sweet-talked him into it!" I thanked her. I was not crazy about the idea that I was unable to negotiate with Tony on my own, but I thanked her. I actually gave her a quick hug. And when Tony came home that night, I gave him a somewhat more subdued thanks that included a perfunctory handshake. But these gestures were the maximum that I was willing to concede to either of my parents. I spent the rest of that summer planning the trip and working at my three jobs to stash away more travel money. Finally, on Friday, August 16, my folks drove me to Memphis Municipal Airport to meet my flight to New York. Accustomed to hiding my feelings, I concealed my nearly un- bearable excitement and anticipation behind a mask of calm and reticence as my luggage was tagged and loaded at the ticket counter. I had not expected the departure committee that met us at the airport. In those days, an airplane trip to New York was as exotic an event for my family as a trans-Atlantic cruise. Aunt Frances, Uncle Johnny, Mama Rose, Josephine Louise, several aunts and uncles, a dozen cousins and other kin from both the Ricci and Lobianco families had come to see me off, occupying an entire section of the waiting room. Aunt Frances had no conception of airline travel. As everyone chat- tered and waited, Aunt Frances sat dabbing at her eyes with a hankie as tears ran down her face. When asked why was crying, she pointed out the window at one of the airliners parked near the terminal building. She sobbed, "Your daddy was killed in one of those!" Uncle Johnny swore quietly, "Hell, Frances," and spent most of his time comforting her. My stepdad said, "You don't look very excited about goin', Speedy." My mother laughed and told him, "I know he doesn't look all that excited, but I bet he is. Look at him; whenever he looks like he's not thinkin' about anything, it means his mind is goin' a mile a minute." Soon it was time to embark. At the boarding gate I had so many rela- tives to kiss and hug that Josephine Louise had to remind everyone, "Stop all this kissing or he'll miss his plane!" I kissed Aunt Frances, who was still crying. The last person I hugged and kissed was Josephine Louise. She whispered into my ear, "Be careful. And don't lose your virtue in the big bad city!" I grinned at her and thought: if she only knew! Waving a last goodbye, I slung my borrowed flight bag over my shoulder and headed for the plane, with Aunt Frances wailing pitifully behind me and Uncle Johnny grumbling, "Shit, Frances. Cut it out." I found my window seat, removed and folded the suit jacket I wore, and loosened my tie. As the prop-driven plane roared off the ground I wondered how my father felt when his B-17 climbed into the air. But most of my thoughts were about Martha. Should I let her see me wearing my glasses? I thought not. I removed them and hid them in my spectacle wallet. I worried about the few brownish adolescent pimples that I'd tried for two weeks to eradicate. Maybe she wouldn't notice. After a while the pilot announced that we were cruising at a few hundred miles per hour. Hell, I thought, couldn't we go faster? Three long hours later, I was confronted with the unimaginable bustle of LaGuardia Airport. I walked out of the airplane and into a huge, crowded, pandemonious arrival area. I craned my neck in all directions searching for Martha. How would I ever find her in a crowd like this? I considered putting on my glasses, but I didn't want Martha to see them. She was standing on the ledge of one of the panoramic viewing win- dows, her head several inches above the crowd. When I spotted her she'd just caught sight of me and was beaming at me and waving both arms. When our eyes met she yelled "Steven! Stay there!" She hopped to the floor, disappearing into a roiling ocean of heads and shoulders and elbows. Then she was rushing toward me with outstretched arms. Her auburn hair was pinned back, her face clear and stretched into a wide, happy smile. She wore a white, starched, open-collared blouse, a dark red pleated skirt, and matching heels. She looked as fresh and clean as new snow. And her hazel eyes, bright, electric, eager and happy, had me in a state of instant nuclear meltdown. Almost knocking me down, she hugged me fiercely and squealed, "I'm so happy to *see* you!" My eyes moistened. Breaking our furious clinch with a cheerful grunt, she held me at arms length and looked me over. "None of that, young man! That's no way to start a vacation -- save all that until you find yourself on your way back to dreary ol' Memphis! Stop, now, let me see you. Stand still. *LOOK* at you! And look at those shoulders! Steven, you're gorgeous!" Regaining my composure, I placed my hands around her slim, belted waist. I said, "A few hours a week at Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23 was all it took." "Well!" she said, robustly pulling me against her, "You forget all about that. You're on vacation, hon." She gave me a loud smooch on one cheek. "No delivery bikes here. Just noise and buildings and --" she chuckled -- "trash and muggers. Oh, my, look at you! I can't get over this!" She hustled me into the baggage area. "This is the New York art of waiting for your luggage," she announced sarcastically. "No matter what you do or where you go in New York, expect a waiting line." After claiming my two suitcases she rushed me outside so we could take our place in a long, snaking line of people at the taxi stand. "And this is the art," she announced, "of waiting for a taxi back to town." "We're not in the city yet?" I asked, overpowered by the sight of so many people and so many cars and so much noise and movement. "You're in Queens, Steven. Queens is populated by cousins. Everyone who lives in New York has a cousin in Queens." While we waited, she pointed at everything and explained what was going on. I stood gaping. As we climbed inside a taxi she cautioned me, "Grab anything you can, and hold on tight!" Before I knew it, doors slammed shut around us and I was compressed against the back seat as our taxi screeched away with neck-wrenching speed and soared down the exit drive. "This is a New York City taxi," she explained, lurching about in the seat beside me. "Hold onto that strap over the door before you fly through a window. The first thing a New York taxi driver learns is to maintain a certain state of rage that helps cut through traffic." We zoomed through so many exits and around so many curves that I lost all sense of direction. Soon, far ahead of us, I saw a long line of massive skyscrapers that stretched for miles across the horizon. The city. Manhattan. I stared at it. I listened to it. I gasped. Martha was pointing. "That's the Chrysler Building, the slender one with the art deco, scallop-like stuff on top. And that's the Empire State Building, the one with the tall antenna. And all that along the end, on the left, is Wall Street...And you see that dark brown steeple straight ahead? The one that's in the middle of that big cluster of buildings, directly ahead of us? That's St. Patrick's." My eyes and brain reeled. The city and the careening taxi was one thing, but Martha was yet another. Her profile and her softly parted lipsticked lips captivated me. After she pointed out the skyline she relaxed into the seat and smiled warmly at me. With a supreme effort, I talked myself out of leaping onto her. She asked, "Wanna go grocery shopping with me? I had no idea what to get for food, so I waited until you got here. All I have in my frig is some cottage cheese that died." I stared at her. She said, "You changed. And yet you didn't." "You changed," I said, mesmerized. "For the better." She laughed. "Wait until you find out what a total neurotic New York has made me. When we get home I'll take you to the supermarket. You'll get your first lesson in coping with multiple nervous breakdowns." The taxi crossed the East River at the 59th Street Bridge, zigzagged for several more blocks, then screeched to a stop in front of her apart- ment building, which indeed looked like a one hundred year old tenement. It was on a clean but old and congested block of East 87th. Martha paid the driver and told him to keep the change. As we rushed to gather our luggage on the sidewalk, she spouted a constant stream of instructions and explanations. "You MUST learn to tip while you're here," she said, grabbing a suit- case. "Tipping is part art, part inexact science. It all depends on whether you liked the service. If you do, you give a good tip. If not, be stingy. Either way, you get a drop-dead look, no matter how much you tip. If you don't tip at all you might get shot, but at the very least you'll hear cursing in many exotic languages. Here are the keys to this place...I made copies for you. There's the main key to the front door, the mail box key, two keys for the two locks on my apartment door, and a key to the laundry room. If you lose any one of these keys, you're dead; no one will help you and it's impossible for anyone except a professional burglar to break in through a window. Here's the entrance, now, and of course there's never any room in here, and here's the mailboxes. Here's the intercom -- a real luxury in an old building like this. You never, NEVER buzz anyone in, unless they identify themselves over the intercom; when we get upstairs I'll show you how the buzzer works. This is the first floor, and I live up there on three. There's no elevator, you have to be an Olympic climber to get up these stairs. Be Careful, now! Don't bang your luggage against the walls! I know there's no room for your elbows, but there's never any spare room anywhere in New York, and every noise you make is recorded in detail by the tenants, and they remember it for MONTHS! This is the second floor, this is where Ronnie has her apartment in number 2C, but she won't be home until later tonight and she wants to meet you. Don't let her frighten you, she's just another, typical, hard-pressed, totally insane New Yorker. The guy next to her looks really nice and is very quiet, but Ronnie insists he's a mass murderer on weekends. Now, here's the third floor, and we make a hard right, all the way to the end of the hall -- god, this suitcase is heavy, what'd you pack in here? -- and this is my gorgeous penthouse apartment, right here, number 3C, right above Ronnie's place. And here's the key for the bottom lock...there, and here's the key for the top lock... and, if you don't mind the awful squeak in the door... here's my humble cave." We shoved my luggage inside and she closed the door behind us. We were both out of breath. I asked, "Why are we rushing all the time?" "Everybody rushes in New York." "But why?" "Nobody knows." She stepped into the middle of the tiny living room. "This is the living room. The toilet's over there, that's a closet over there. The bedroom is the same size as the living room, which means no room, period. This is the -- ahem -- dining alcove, Steven. Isn't that marvelous? I have my own dining alcove, just barely enough for one table and two people. And that's the kitchen, and that atrocity over there with the plastic drape across the front of it is the shower." She took a deep breath and paused with her hands on her hips. "Whew! There! The full tour. The place is so small, you don't even have to walk around to see it all." "Well," I uttered, my brain swarming with instructions and informa- tion. "It is small. But it's cute. I hope I don't get in your way." "You will," she said, heading straightaway for a small cupboard door in the kitchen wall, "there's no avoiding it. But we're used to each other, so it won't matter. Now...here's a couple of paper shopping bags from Macy's. Protect these shopping bags with your life! You cannot SURVIVE in Manhattan without good shopping bags, and what Manhattan is mainly about is not the enjoyment of life, it's about surviving. Most of the bags you get are so shoddy they fall to pieces immediately. There's no more heartrending sight than a New Yorker stuck on the street in the rain with a ripped shopping bag, standing there sobbing while their whole life gets strewn on the sidewalk. Oh -- Steven, aren't you going to give your Mom a call?" I shrugged. "Whenever we get to it." "What?" she said, scowling at me. "Hon, what do you mean? You aren't going to call home?" "They never worry about me." "Of course they do. Call her. The phone's over there." Halfheartedly, I dialed my Mom in Memphis. While I talked, Martha gathered and folded a couple of shopping bags, frowning at me now and then. When I finally hung up, she said, "Steven, what a tacky way to treat your folks. You know, they didn't have to let you visit me." "Okay, I called them and said thanks again, and...there." "Well, I see we're going to have a little talk about this...Oh, for- get it, you handle it the way you want to. We have to get going anyway, so...here, take these --" she handed me two shopping bags and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek -- "and here are my keys, and here's my purse... and let's go before the Friday rush hits the market." The supermarket was five blocks away on Third Avenue. I had diffi- culty keeping up with her as she strode quickly down the street. I asked again, "Why are we in such a hurry?" She answered, "Because. You get trampled if you don't stay ahead of traffic." I said, "But there isn't any traffic," and she laughed and said, "Don't worry -- the minute you slow down, they catch up with you." The supermarket was well stocked but unbearably cramped. The few shoppers who were there spent most of their time trying to avoid colli- sions with each other. Like an experienced bird dog, Martha wheeled our cart quickly from aisle to narrow aisle and introduced me to packaged foods I'd never seen in Memphis -- all of it stacked around us from floor to ceiling with hardly a spare inch of open space anywhere. "Always check the eggs," she cautioned as she opened an egg carton. "Check every single one of them. The stockboys handle them as if they thought eggs were made of stainless steel." She found two broken eggs in that carton and went through four others before she was satisfied. Then she rushed into the short cashier's line, then we rushed out of the store, and rushed back to her block, rushed up the stairs, rushed into her apartment, and rushed to put away the groceries. "There!" she proclaimed at last. "Now we can relax!" We stood in the tiny kitchen, with me surveying the tiny room quickly to see where everything was placed. "Well," she sighed with a tired little smile. "What do you think of it?" I gazed at her. She gazed at me. There she stood, five-foot-five, sophisticated, grownup and lovely. The average teenager who once felt ugly next to her older sister now made Evelyn look dumpy. I gathered the courage to ask, "Can I kiss you hello?" "Do," she said. I touched her waist and bent to give her a shy, tentative kiss. Suddenly we embraced. I kissed her -- actually kissed her, full-mouthed and deeply -- a shattering development, considering that Martha and I had romantically kissed in that way on only two occasions during our entire relationship. At the end of it she pulled away from me. "We've never acted this way before." "I know." Her eyes were eager, but somewhere behind her gaze I thought I saw apprehension, misgiving. Then she took my hand and led me from the kitchen. "Follow me." Within a few minutes we were naked in the small, dimly lit bedroom, standing and holding each other tightly. I skimmed my lips along her smooth shoulders and she pulled away and looked at me and ran her hands slowly over every part of me. "Look at you," she breathed. "Look at how you grew. So smooth and firm. You're beautiful, Steven." "Sorry I didn't grow taller." "I don't care about that. Look. Look at this beautiful cock. It's so right. Just the right size and shape. And so hard." I had often visualized our reunion as prolonged and tender, a heavenly chorus lolling in the background as we tenderly relearned each other. But now, overwhelmed, I immediately urged her toward the bed. Quickly she reclined and opened her legs. I lay on her and she raised her knees to accept me. I kissed her again, hotly, as my blind cock found her portal and slowly entered, parting her ready and welcoming outer lips, flexing in her, feeling the warm tight depth of her. She sighed and looked up at me. Her cunt hugged me. I pulled out a little and then we both sighed again as I slowly reentered. She was tight and slick and had already started contracting. She wrapped her legs around mine. I entered more deeply. Immediately, my mind burst with amazement and pleasure at the astounding results of the past two years of my physical development: my cock was incredibly firm, filling her totally, and for the first time I felt my tip nudge against the softly nubby, squirming mouth of her womb. Electrified, my balls readily began a familiar, irresistible churning. Below me, I saw in her eyes the same sense of surprise at the new sensations. She whispered, "God, Steven." I panted, "I don't think I'll last long." "I won't either," she gasped. Watching each other, we both slowed and started cumming. Her lips parted and her eyes fogged and she stiffened. Seconds later I simmered and then gushed profusely and warmly inside her as her contractions swathed the underside of my throbbing shaft. I thought: yes! This is how it should feel. We both came for a long time with her cunt happily convulsing and my cock riding slickly in the hot cum that filled her, and I groaned roughly and heard her whimper. When it ended I nestled my face into her neck. We lay resting for a long while. ==================================== THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE by S.J.R. ============ PART 10A -30- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |