Message-ID: <7296eli$9803272123@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 3A"( bf mF mF+ )[5/52] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Note: This message was posted by a secure email service. Please report MISUSE OR ABUSE of this automated secure email service to . Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6ffhn9$hql$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 3A: Just before my 9th birthday my godmother and great-aunt Frances bought me a new dark brown suit and new shoes for my Confirmation ceremony at St. Mary's Catholic School. It was a dim, cloudy Sunday afternoon outside; but inside the ornate, high-ceiling Gothic church hundreds of banks of candles cast a warm glorious light over everyone in the church. Mom and Aunt Frances and my deceased father's mother, Grandma Rose, drove me to the front en- trance and let me out on the sidewalk while Aunt Frances parked the Buick behind the church. I stood there for a moment looking down at myself, all got up in the immaculate suit and the shiny new shoes, my hair slicked with a hefty, odorous portion of Wildroot Hair Oil. I asked myself if it were really me in this costume. If I bent my arms the sleeves of the suit crinkled and wrinkled stiffly, but when I straightened my arm the cloth fell back into a smooth, neatly creased tube. I wore a tight starchy white shirt with a flowery bowtie my aunt had chosen. The tie and the thick collar dug uncomfortably into the front of my throat. I felt out of place, as emotionaly removed from the impending ceremony as I would have been at a funeral for a perfect stranger's dead dog. I climbed the front marble steps and entered the front vestibule, an imposing, darkly paneled hall where I lined up with a chatty, squealing assemblage of other suited boys. The girls, fluttering and chirping like sparrows, lined up at the other end of the hall in fluffy communion-style dresses and white shoes. Soon the long-robed nuns in their stiff white bobbing habbits shushed us into silence. They strode quickly through our ranks to check us out and nod their stern approval. Even the shuffling of feet on the waxed tile floor came to a dead stop as my own home-room teacher, Sister Mary Joseph, sternest and most dreaded nun of all, strode into the room. No more than a tiny slip of a woman, her imperious expression and long stride gave her a commanding manner. She stood exactly in the center of the long and narrow hall, her arms folded firmly before her so that her hands were hidden inside the floppy arms of her robe. As she slowly passed her glowering eyes from one end of our ranks to the other, her thin lips characteristically pursed and reset them- selves. The hall suddenly echoed as one of the kids gave a loud sneeze, which was quickly followed by the echo of four nuns giving a sharp and loud "Sh!" In the ensuing silence, Sister Mary Joseph began her announcement in her usual manner, with a rise of her head and a long deep breath. "Children," she said, "you are about to become soldiers for our lord Jesus Christ." Pause. "As you attend the holy ceremony of Confirmation today, you will receive a scapular with an image of your patron saint." Pause. "Wear your scapular at all times. It is your protection from the dangers and temptations you encounter in your struggle with Satan. Protect it as you would your immortal souls. Many holy martyrs of the Church have suffered pain of death rather than lose possession of the holy image we will give you here today." Pause. "You are fortunate and honored that your holy scapulars will be blessed by none other than Monseignor Kearny from Blessed Sacrament School. He has honored us by agreeing to deliver the blessing and the sermon today." Pause. "Now we will all file into our pews." Pause. "Be silent. And conduct yourselves as children of Christ and as you were taught in the rehearsals. Don't forget to kneel and to stand at the proper intervals for a High Holy Mass. And remember at all times that the Monseignor is watching. I know you will make him proud of each of you, one and all." She nodded to a nun at the door, who shoved opened the vast carved walnut panels that led into the interior. The place filled with the shuffling of new shoes and rustling of clothes as we entered double-file, first the boys and then the girls, and took our assigned places in a line of wooden pews along the right side of the church. As I shuffled slowly in line along the narrow aisle I passed my family, Aunt Frances and Mom smiling proudly my way, and my pert grandmother giving me a wink. Their obvious pleasure failed to improve my humor; the only pleasantness I found in the situation was the heavy waft of candle smoke and parafin in the air, and the dulcet singing of the choir in the loft above and behind us. As this would be a High Mass, I knew I would at least have the pleasure of hearing Sister Albert's accomplished choir singing the Gregorian Chant required by the formality of the ceremony. As usual, the Mass progressed in what I always thought was a tortuously slow pace. And again as usual, I occupied my wandering mind by studying the dozens of statuettes that line the walls of St. Mary's. St. Christopher: a rugged, bearded, muscular man leaning heavily on his staff and struggling head-first through some undefined tempest, the child Jesus hoisted on his massive shoulders. St. Stephen the Martyr: in the swaddling garb of what I later came to know as the clothing worn by Roman peasants, lashed at his wrists and ankles to a wooden post, posed with his eyes lifted to heaven, all done with exacting, lurid anatomical detail. My gaze never failed to linger on the carved image of St. Joseph, whose name matched my middle name and who had been chosen as the patron saint of my Confirmation. Not as herculean as St. Christopher, he was a long legged figure with a long beard, seated at his carpenter's bench with a tacking hammer in one strong hand, his other arm draped around the shoulders of the peasant boy Jesus, who clung absurdly dependant at his side. I studied Joseph's face interminably, striving to imagine what it might be like to have had such a father with strong, chiseled features and commanding eyes under a heavily furrowed brow. I wondered what his beard would feel like. And the Virgin Mary, a short, full-hipped woman in a simple white flowing robe with a blue shawl draped about her head and shoulders. Her slim right hand was raised as if conferring on the viewer the two-fingered blessing that I had seen Pope Pius XII giving from his balcony in movie newsreels. In her right arm she held the half-nude child who turned its head to gaze at the viewer with a frown of divine approbation that seemed blatantly inappro- priate on the infant's face. Always my eyes fixed themselves on Mary's girl-like oval face. The sculptor had fashioned for her a pair of enchantingly dark, gentle eyes. Her expression was tender, knowing, forgiving. I could not match my mother's face with hers, nor my great aunt nor my grandmother nor anyone else. I wondered what it might be like to have such a mother. In many ways her expression reminded me of one I sometimes saw on Martha Jane. My eyes moved down to Mary's small bosom, and warmly I remembered the moist swell of Martha Jane's breasts and the feel of her nipples on my tongue. I asked myself if the woman who lived within that statue would be scandalized at my illicit familiarity with the feel and taste of real, warm, responsive titties. Would she, too, offer a nipple to me for sucking? I was fully aware of the blasphemous nature of these thoughts. As Mass moved agonizingly along, we children prepared for communion by attending the rear confessional one by one. Dutifully, I ducked into the dark curtained booth and spoke into the cloth-shrouded grating that separated me from the priest, whom I could dimly see and whom I knew immediately to be the kindly and unflappable Franciscan, Father Edward. Dutifully, I contrived a suitably penitent voice. Dutifully, I recited the same repertoire of sins I usually confessed and for which I was truly sorry: for saying bad things about my fat Aunt Mary, whom I really didn't like, even after I confessed not liking her; for talking back to my mother or disobeying and upsetting her; for not making the bed on Saturday; for taking God's name in vain when I got angry at a kid on the playground and wished that Jesus would tear the little bastard's tongue out and send him to hell to be devoured by slimy gnomes; and for falling asleep during morning Mass. Brazenly, I made no mention of wondering what the Holy Mother's breasts were like. Brazenly, I made no mention of Martha Jane's breasts or her thighs or that I had made her cum. Brazenly and stubbornly I refused to connect Martha Jane with evil, and even if I could I brazenly and stubbornly refused to betray our trust. On the other side of the grating Father Edward leaned back in what I could see was a brown leather-backed chair. He gave his usual sighs and his usual response: "Very well, my child, and is that all you have to confess?" "Yes, Father." "You know you must honor your mother and you must not have unkind feelings for your aunt, for they all love you and care for you in ways you do not understand. And for your penance I want you to say ten hail marys and ten our fathers." "Yes, Father." "And remember to avoid the temptations and the sins of greed, envy, and lust." "Yes, father." And then the usual, ritualized dismissal: "Your sins are forgiv- en. Go in peace, and sin no more. " "Thank you, Father." I left the man with no inkling of Martha Jane. I wondered if his benediction forgave me for that as well as for the sins I had confessed. I thought the penance was a little out of line for not liking my fat Aunt Mary. Apparently at least half that penance must have been slated for disobeying my Mom. Returning to my pew, I found the walls of St. Mary's reverber- ating with the husky, amplified voice of Monseignor Kearny. From the ornate pulpit at the front of the church he inveighed weightily with his baritone's voice of doom: "...and be wary, my children, of the evil nature of the sins of the flesh, sins that render our precious souls disgusting in the sight of the Lord. For to Jesus and His Holy Mother Mary, the sins of the flesh are truly the most offensive sins of all. Because of them we risk the punishment of being cast down to a terrible, burning place in purgatory for ten thousand years, and after that, into the flames of hell for all eternity..." Just ahead of me sat Sister Mary Joseph, nodding slowly in righteous agreement as the monseignor thundered on. I sighed impatiently, my eyes wandering until they fell on the statue of Jesus, gruesomely hanging from a crucifix high over the center of the altar. I cringed at the sight of the bloody nails... I have no idea how much of this tripe I did or didn't absorb, but at the time I consciously rejected it as irrelevant to what Martha Jane and I experienced. At that time I found other aspects of life to be much more frighteningly evil: evil was the beating of a boy I knew by some unknown kids who came to our part of the project one day from the big apartment buildings on the hill at the top of Exchange Street. Evil was the Russians wanting to drop atom bombs on everyone, and evil was the Nazis and the Japs who had blown off the arms and legs of soldiers and shot out the eyes of the man who lived a few doors down from me. But I could not equate evil with the image of Martha Jane spreading her thighs to allow my hands to please her. To use a more modern phrase: the equation didn't compute. However, I was not so brazen nor rebellious as not to appreciate the majesty of the edifice and interior of St. Mary's and the solemnity of the ceremony. Gregorian Chant had its hypnotic qualities, as did the ritual of the purple-robed mon- seignor moving down a line of piously kneeling children as he draped a scapular ribbon round their necks. When he came to me I kneeled properly and straightly. Behind me, my mother stood with her hand on my left shoulder as the ceremony required. The Monseignor intoned, "What is the child's name?" "Steven," my mother answered. "And who," the monseignor intoned, "is his patron saint?" "Saint Joseph," my mother answered. The monseignor reached toward an altar boy who fished out a scapular--a thin ribbon with a small, two-inch cloth-framed image of the indicated patron--and then the monseignor draped it loosely round my neck. "Steven, I confirm you as a soldier in the army of Christ under the guidance of your patron, Saint Joseph." There followed a quickly delivered chant of garbled Latin as he moved to the next child in line. Even I, brazen and rebellious sinner that I was, had to admit that the theatrical power of this pageantry was highly effective. Of course my relatives were in- ordinately pleased and heaped praise onto me incessantly on the drive back home, which mercifully was only a few blocks away. Mom had arranged for a small dinner with my Aunt Frances and Grandma Rose, who brought ravioli and salad and knotbread for the occasion. The kitchen being too small, we ate in the living room on aluminum trays and paper plates. I'd had to fast in order to attend the required communion during the ceremony, and it was well past noon; I sat in one corner and ate like a famished cave man. "Don't spill gravy on your shirt!" my aunt screamed in her usual panic, and Mom removed my coat and stuffed a napkin under my tight collar. The napkin hurt, but I was too hungry to complain. "Don't eat so fast," my mother prompted. I replied by stuff- ing ravioli into my mouth until it squeezed out the sides of my lips. "There," my aunt grunted, throwing up her hands. "See what he does? Why won't you listen to your Mama?" My mother warned, "You better not stain that suit. Martha Jane will be here later on. See wants to see you in it." At that, I didn't eat more slowly but I ate more carefully, making certain the napkin covered as much of my starchy shirt as possible. But by the end of the day Martha Jane had not arrived. As it grew dark I went outside our apartment and looked into their apartment window next door, but no lights were on. Going back to our apartment I asked my mother what happened to Martha Jane. Mom answered, "I guess she didn't have time. She probably went to the hospital with her mother and her Uncle Joe. He gets sick all the time with that shot up stomache of his, ever since he came back from overseas." Once again before getting ready for bed, I checked Martha Jane's apartment but no one was there. Reluctantly I went back to our bedroom and removed my suit, getting into my undies for bed. Mom was in her nightgown, turning out all the lights. I lay on the bed in the lighted bedroom near the window and studied the picture of Saint Joseph on my scapular. The portrait had been done in oils, appar- ently in the late Victorian period. The man was heavily bearded, piously looking toward heaven with a conventionally saintly gaze. The scapular itself was a simple device, a black flat rayon ribbon with the cloth-bound portrait dangling by a similar piece of cloth. The painting was done in the same rich oils as a picture once shown to my class by Sister Mary Joseph, who had found in a book what she considered to be a true representation of the fires of hell. She brandished the book before the ogling eyes of the kids and told us what would happen to us if we were sent to hell. It showed a dimly lighted cavern populated by crawling serpents and evil clouds of smoke. Snarling, leering, crocodile-toothed hairless dogs ate their way through the intestines of screaming victims and cruelly tore off their arms and legs. Holding my scapular before me, I wondered if its reputed magic powers could indeed protect me from such a fate. Certainly, it had done a shabby job of protecting me from temptation. I couldn't imagine how anything could keep me from engaging in future naughty intimacies with Martha Jane. The image that made me feel a creepy apprehension was that of having to protect the scapular with my life. Suppose, as Sister Angelica from the fourth grade had pro- posed weeks earlier, the Chinese Communists invaded the country and arrested all the Catholics and strangled their children? I would be found wearing a scapular, certainly a dead giveaway, and would be sadistically and slowly strangled if I didn't give it up. This morbid thought haunted me as Mom climbed in the bed and shut the light. When I grew a little older Mom would sleep in the living room on the sofabed, but in those days she slept with me. My place was at the window side, because I often enjoyed sitting by the window sill and looking out into the dark before falling asleep. Mom said good night and rolled away from me. For a long time I lay face up, pondering the magnitude of my reponsibilities as a soldier in the army of Christ with an official scapular that I had to wear at all times to confirm my identity. Late in the night I awoke and found myself totally alone in the bed. Feeling something moving under me, I rose up on my knees and looked down. Horrified, I saw dozens and then hundreds of black thumb-sized roaches dashing across the white sheets in all directions. Frantically I pounded the mattress and made wide sweeping movements with my outspread hands to wipe them away. They kept coming, multiplying, crawling everywhere, I couldn't stop them... Suddenly I was awake. I was on my knees in the bed. My Mom slept on her side, next to me. My hands were spread on the sheets in front of me. But there were no roaches. Only the clean white sheets. My heart pounded. I waited for it to stop. The only object on the sheet before me was the tangled, black- stringed scapular. I picked it up and placed it on the window sill. As I did so, my arm was flooded by a narrow beam of moonlight. Stealthily I moved to the edge of the foot of the bed, then onto the floor. My heart still pounding slightly with the memory of my terror, I slowly opened the corner chest and took out a new sheet, which I brought with me into the kitchen, carefully looking back to see my mother still asleep. Wrapping the sheet around me, I opened the back door, wincing as it creaked halfway open. Look- ing behind me again, I saw no one following me. I walked into the dark back yard, barely visible in the light from a streetlamp several doors away near the corner of the building. A cricket chirped lazily. I moved out near the curb of the access driveway behind our building and looked across Martha Jane's back yard. I saw no lights. It was too dark for me to see into their bedroom window. I wondered where she was. When would she be back? My mother appeared in her nightgown at the back door, frown- ing sleepily into the dark with swollen eyes. "Speedy? Speedy?" Reluctantly, I walked toward her with the tails of my white shroud trailing at my feet. "What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night?" She bent down and examined me. "Are you walking in your sleep? Huh? Are you asleep?" Seeing that she had furnished me with an excuse as good as any I might conjure on my own, I nodded yes. "Are you asleep?" she asked again. I nodded. "I'm asleep," I said plainly, and looked up to see if there were any possibility that she believed me. "Well, come in the house. Come on, get in here and get back to bed." She pulled me gently into the kitchen and stroked my hair. "Are you awake now? Answer me, are you awake now?" I nodded yes, and kept walking in my oversized sheet to the bedroom, where I left the sheet on the floor and climbed back into bed. As Mom settled beside me I nestled back into my pillow, face up, and looked away from her into the shafts of moonlight that banded the window sill. Mom asked irritably, "What *were* you dreaming about?" "Roaches," I muttered. "What?" "Roaches. The roaches from the scapular." "Roaches?" she repeated, incredulously. "Well, go back to sleep. Are you alright now?" I nodded yes, several times. "Go back to sleep, then." She turned away from me and drew the top sheet to her shoulders. Soon she was still, breathing deeply. I lay watching the moonbeams, listening for echoes of Martha Jane in the room. The resting woman beside me felt like a foreign object that didn't sound or feel like the Martha Jane I wanted to talk to and explain my dream to. I searched the moonbeams and thought about her until I fell asleep again. ==================================== THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE by S.J.R. sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM> ============ PART 3A -30- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |