Message-ID: <7392eli$9803311910@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 3B"( bf mF mF+ )[6/52] 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: <6fpkn0$8c$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 3B: For several weeks I saw Martha Jane only now and then as she walked across the grounds on her way in or out of the project. She caught sight of me once from a couple of blocks away and smiled and waved and yelled Hi. Meanwhile, it seems my Mom and future step-dad had gone through a brief spat. They started dating again a few weeks later. But my sitter was not Martha Jane. In fact, I had two different sitters at first. The first must not have been very interesting, as I have absolutely no recollection of who they were or how they looked. The identity of the second sitter is also a blank, but I recall that I spent the evening not at home but in the sitter's apartment, across the driveway and at a slight angle from my own building. Through their back kitchen window that night I could see the back door that led to my own apartment. And just to the left was the apartment where Martha Jane and her family lived. At one point that night I saw her in her kitchen; there was no mistaking that pretty face and frizzy auburn hair. I waved to her. Of course, she didn't see me. I went back later and waited for a while but she didn't show again. And by the time the sitter walked me back across the driveway back home, all the lights were out in Martha Jane's place. When I had not seen her for several more days I bumped into her accidentally just as I was going out the front door on my way to school. She came outside at the same time with her schoolbooks under her arm. "Hey, hon," she sang as she locked her door. She beamed at me and gave me her best Southern twang. "Where've you been, sugar?" "where've-you-been-too," I mimicked playfully. "Well," she went on, making a silly face, "Where YOU been?" "Well," I said in the same way, "Where YOU been?" She laughed and gave a mild go-away wave with her free hand. "Oh, silly!" She shook her head. She was wearing a long plaid, pleated skirt and a white blouse. I very clearly remember that morning and how she looked; bright, clean, basic, unpretentious, very very pretty in a simple, uncomplicated way. We walked a few blocks together. I noticed she seemed to be getting thinner. She also looked tired, but cheerful. It turned out she had been working very hard in school and was overly anxious to do well. "You wouldn't know about that yet," she said, "you're barely in the third grade." "What grade are you in?" I asked. "The umpteenth, feels like." Umpteenth was our private code that meant something akin to forever or infinity. "I'm coming over Saturday," she said. She had stopped and seemed serious and looked steadily at me without moving. I said, "Oh. Okay!" and beamed at her. She kept looking at me in the same mysterious way. I didn't know why she wasn't saying anything. She seemed concerned, apprehensive. "Well," she said after a minute and a short breath, "I am *supposed* to stay with you Saturday night, anyway." I did not know what she was getting at or what was going on, or why she emphasized the word "supposed". I do remember the moment clearly. I became very tense; I felt suddenly distant from her and didn't know what was wrong. She asked me pointedly, "Are we still friends, hon?" "Sure we are," I said. "I mean...are we still really, really friends?" I blushed. "Your my own special, very only, very umpeenth- degree friend." "And you're my special little man, hon," she said, but she wasn't smiling, except weakly, sympathetically. We talked a little more, I don't remember what we said. She seemed absent-minded. It was not until Saturday night that I discovered what she was thinking. It was all quite complicated. At least, it was for Martha Jane. As an adult I now understand, but as a 9-year-old I could not fathom it. I viewed things more simplistically. Next Saturday, Martha Jane and I sat and talked after she made dinner and after we cleaned the dishes. Then she studied on the sofa a while. She asked me a series of seemingly unrelated questions, none of which I remember. She was not as openly affectionate as usual and seemed remote, though not at all cold. Our exchanges were brief and rather formal. She asked me about some uncles of mine who had not returned from the war, and she asked if I ever saw my Uncle Frank--my father's brother and one of the few male relatives in my family who had survived and returned home. I told her that Uncle Frank had not seen me since he fin- ished his last hitch in the Air Corps and decided to come back to the States and go to college on the GI Bill. I told her about his getting wounded in a B-26 in the Pacific a few years ago and how he pulled up his pants leg and showed me the pink scars of the three healed bullet holes in his lower thigh. She winced, making an "Ugh" face. She said firmly, "I don't want to hear about it. I've heard enough about the war." So I didn't say any more. I sat on the floor watching her, trying to figure out how to get through to her. Martha Jane announced, "My Uncle Joe died, you know." "Yeah," I said, "Mama told me." "He was sick for so long, from his war wounds. He lived longer than we thought he would, but...It was hard on Mother. That's two men the war took from her, her husband and her brother." She stared ahead pensively, then blinked awake. "Well. Enough of that." I said earnestly from across the room, "I'm real sorry, Martha Jane." She smiled weakly. "Thank you, hon. I know you are. It'll be alright." She looked back at her book and began scribbling in her notepad. For a long time--perhaps for most of the evening, it seems-- she pored over her studies and remained unresponsive. Later that night I felt she was still mourning, despite saying she would get over it. I had seen a whole neighborhood full of hurt, tragic people: widows, the disabled and the paralyzed, the shot-up and the abandoned of the War. I had seen my mom's sister, my young and plain-looking Aunt Martha, when she came to our apartment once in the middle of the night, pounding on our front door and screaming for help until she woke us. My mom scrambled out of bed and I stood in the hallway watching from the bedroom as Mom opened the front door for Aunt Martha, who rushed sobbing into the living room and collapsed in a wailing heap on the sofa. Her husband had beaten her again. Mom and Aunt Martha tried to hide the bloodied bruises from me, but I had already seen them on Aunt Martha's face and arms and I knew what the marks meant without being told. Seeing her, I wanted to cry and throw my arms around her--even though she was, unfortunately, one of those adults I didn't trust. She was even more grimly puritanical and prim than my Mom, and a fundamentalist who considered everything an occa- sion for sin of some kind. But I understood her pain, both physical and emotional, without having it explained to me. That night occurred some years earlier, when I had just turned 6. The commotion woke up Martha Jane's family next door. She and her sister Evelyn came over in their robes and pajamas and Martha Jane went straight over to me because my mother panicked and was rasping, "Get Speedy out of here, get him out of here!" Martha Jane led me to bedroom, where I looked up at her and whispered so the others wouldn't hear, "I already saw it." She looked down at me. "You did what, hon?" I repeated, looking back to make sure the others couldn't hear us, "I already saw it, Martha Jane. I saw what happened." Martha Jane knelt down to me in her rumpled bathrobe and looked into my eyes with her deep, striking green ones. "Then," she said eyeing me seriously, "you understand what happened." I nodded. Then I added, so the others wouldn't hear, "Uncle Bobby hurt her again." We were alone in the room. I could still see in my mind the earlier glimpse of Aunt Martha's bloody lip and the dark bulging eye, and the blue-black on one of her arms. I started crying. I could not stop the tears from falling down my face, despite my attempts at remaining calm. "Oh, honey," Martha Jane implored, "don't get scared and start crying, now." "I'm not scared," I sniffled. "I know how Aunt Martha hurts. It makes me cry." "You--" Her eyes looking into mine softened and seemed to turn to mush. "Oh, you sweet baby." "Why does he do that to her?" "I don't know, hon. But you are so sweet. So very sweet." She closed the bedroom door, shutting us off from the sobbing and wailing in the living room, and put me back into bed. She told me it would all be okay in the morning and she understood my feelings. She sat on the bed and said I shouldn't feel bad about not being with the others and she really didn't want me to feel as though I were being "locked away" in the room. She said, "I'll stay in here with you for a while if you want, okay? So you won't be all by yourself?" I told her, "It's okay if I stay in here, 'cause I know Aunt Martha. I know how she is. She doesn't want us staring at her, she feels all ugly and everything. I'll stay here so she won't feel ashamed. But...they don't have to yell at me. They're always hiding everything and acting like I won't understand." "No, hon. They're just scared, that's all. They're upset." She stroked my head. She told me she would come back later and that she would tell my Aunt Martha about my concern for her. But I said, "No, don't tell her that." "But why not, hon.? I know she'd appreciate it." "I don't want you to." "But, Speedy...honey, why not? What's wrong?" "I don't...want...you...to." "But, hon...?" "'Cause every time she sees me, she'll be embarrassed. She'll remember tonight. That's the way she is." I don't know how long Martha Jane sat looking at me, stroking my hair, with that amazed look on her face. Finally she said, "I have to go in there and help. You sure you'll be alright?" "Yes." She sighed and rose and went to the door, but before going out she leaned inside and blew me a kiss. "You're my little man from now on, hon," she said, and closed the door. That night had taken place some years before and was one of the very early incidents that had so endeared me to Martha Jane, and her to me. Now it was a few years later. And Martha Jane had become more than just a neighbor. More than a friend. And now I saw that she was the one who seemed hurt. Or, at best, worried about something. I didn't know what to do about it. I was good at clowning, though, and I wondered how I could make her laugh. At 9 o'clock she hustled me into the bathroom (no bubble-bath this time. I was getting a little "too old" for that) and she stayed in the living room while I bathed. I dried off and straightened the room, and peeked around the door into the living room. She was on the sofa, studying intensely. But I did see a crumpled kleenex in her hand, and her eyes had reddened. An wave of empathy had me almost crying with her. There was a curtain-covered closet in the hallway between the bath and the bedroom. It could not be seen from where Martha Jane sat on the sofa. I got out of the tub, dried off, and went rummaging in the closet, looking for a funny idea. Martha Jane heard me kicking around. "Speedy, I thought you were going to bed," she called. "Just lookin' for somethin'," I called back. I found my six-shooter outfit in there, and a cowboy hat. I put on my mom's dress with my six-guns and holsters on backward. I had seen enough John Wayne movies to be able to do a fairly acceptable imitation of the guy. I donned this outfit and tied toy spurs loosely on my ankles. Pulling the brim of the hat down low over my eyes, I walked into the living room. I looked ridiculous. I stood there while she had her face in her book. It was a minute before she realized I was there, and when she finally looked up I yelled out in my best John Wayne voice: "Howdy, pil-grum!" She blinked. Her mouth fell wide open and she covered it with the kleenex. I strutted across the room with big stomping John Wayne steps. "pardon me, ma-uhm, but...this town ain't big for thah two of us. One of us has...got tah go." She laughed in her oh-my-god, head-shaking way, not a big laugh but several breathy intakes. She blurted out, "Do you intend to sleep in that outfit?" "Why, yes'm" I said, still John Wayne. With my thumb over my shoulder I indicated an imaginary object behind me. "Just me and... muh horse, over there." "Oh, no," she said. "You are so cute." She wiped one eye with a corner of the kleenex, trying to hide her red eyes. I think she knew I couldn't possibly have missed the gesture, but she kept up the effort. She said, "I have something in my eye, hon. You go on and get ready for bed. Go on, now, it's late." "Well...okay," I said, disapppointed that I hadn't accomplished very much. I walked back to the closet with one of my aluminum toy spurs dragging uselessly off one foot, and removed my silly gear and stored it back in the closet. As I was doing so, I saw Martha Jane turning back the bedclothes in the bedroom. I undressed down to the underwear that I usually slept in and crawled into bed. Martha Jane fluffed the pillows and turned off the lamp. She stood by the bed. "You ready to go to sleep now, cowboy?" "Right, ma-yum." She was silent. She looked at the floor. I saw her eyes water. She was dark against the dim light shedding in from the living room. "You never met your daddy, did you, hon? You never saw him. He got killed over there before you ever knew who he was." I didn't know what to say to that. Every relative I encount- ered--and there were many of them in my huge family--mentioned my dead father at every visit, every Mass, every picnic, every Bingo game, every damn holiday dinner. Now Martha Jane was doing it. I was not angered by it, but I did find myself unable to understand this constant lingering over the memory of dead men I never knew. Martha Jane went on quietly. "My daddy was killed in the war, too. He was one of 'em, too, that...died, got killed." She took a deep, wobbly breath, and sighed. "I guess you're lucky, Speedy, you never knew your daddy, but I knew mine. I used to..." She stopped again, breathed deeply, and when she started again her voice had cracked and broken up. "I used to see him all the time. Every day. So you don't know what that is, when some Army sergeant you never saw before--" and she began talking and crying at the same time-- "shows up at the door with a letter--" She suddenly crumpled and fell to her knees, her hands on her head, which was cradled on the edge of the bed. She cried her heart out, not wailing, but heaving in long, wrenching, childlike sighs. "I miss him! Oh, I miss him! Why isn't he here to help us?" Instantly I went to her, squatting on the bed and holding her head, the only part of her I could reach. She cried and cried and cried. I didn't know what to say, but I did know to hold her and stroke her hair. Eventually she calmed down, and returned my hug with a long tight embrace of her arm around one of mine. With a long sigh, she reached up to the night table for another kleenex and sat on the floor, drying her eyes and looking up at me. "You knew I was thinkin' something, didn't you cowboy?" I nodded. "You...are one little smart-ass," she said, blowing her nose. She sniffed loudy. "You know what a smart-ass is?" "I think so." "Well you are one sweet smart-ass. Now, c'mon..." She stood up and started tucking things in again. "I'm done now, I got it outta my system and it's a-a-all over with. You get yourself to sleep. C'mon, John Wayne." "Martha Jane?" I began. I had not told her what I desperately wanted to tell her. "Yes, hon?" "I..uh...Hmmm." I scratched my head. She came closer to the bed. "What is it, big boy?" "I still never..." "Mm-hm, okay, you still never. You still never what?" "I never told anybody what we did together." She stood deadly still and silent, looking toward the floor, hands on her hips. She pursed her lips and made another sniffle. She didn't say anything. I thought I had offended her. "I mean...," I went on carefully, "in case you were worried about that. I mean, at first I thought that's what...you were worried about." She said, "Oh." She neither moved nor looked at me. "Oh," she said again. "That." "I just wanted you to know," I said, shrinking from her and back into the bed. She shook her head, seemed to ponder deeply. Abruptly she left the room. I lay there numb, figuring I had somehow pissed her off in the worst way. Then the living room light went out. The only light in the room was moonlight falling on the bed. I heard Martha Jane walking toward the bedroom. I turned and could barely see her at first, but soon she appeared in the dim light of the moon beside the bed. She said sternly, "C'mere, Speedy." I crawled to the edge of the bed. She was wearing dark clothes, a blue blouse and a ruffled blue skirt. All I could see were her eyes. "You are one smart little boy," she said. "Yes, I was worried about that. I wanted my daddy to get me out of trouble, I thought I was in trouble about that." She paused and said something, almost to herself, something I would be able to understand only years later. "I am goin' to hell. We're both goin' to hell." She then reached out and pulled me to her by one hand, she standing by the bed with me on my knees near the edge. She looked deeply into my eyes briefly, and then hugged me tightly. There was something serious and desperate, rather than playful, in the way she clasped me to her. So I made no moves on my own. I simply let myself be held, my arms draped loosely around her neck. When she made no response after a moment I gave her a hug and waited. But she stood unmoving beside the bed, silent, enfolding me closely with one arm around my back and the other cradling my head into her neck and shoulder. With my face in her neck I was unable to see hers in the dark, but I could tell that she was looking down at the floor silently for a very, very long time, perhaps for almost two minutes. During that time I very lightly stroked her back and then put my own hand on the back of her neck to let her know that I would wait, wait for her to stop thinking or whatever it was she was doing in that long wordless minute in the dark. She moved her lips; faintly I heard them part, and she took in a small breath as if to speak, but she stopped. I waited for her in the darkness around us. Her eyelashes flicked once, and I knew she was looking past my shoulder, across the bed, out into the moon- lit window behind me. Her lashes flicked again against my cheek, and she looked down once more, breathing. She parted her lips again and they made a mildly dry, sticking sound. And she breathed and waited and waited, as if something from deep inside her were slowly, slowly struggling to the find a place in her breathing and in her voice. She looked down. She swallowed. Hard. "Hon?" she began, tentatively, barely audible. Her lips were so close to my ear I could feel the moisture of her breath on my earlobes. "Do you want to be nasty with me?" My head buried in her neck, I nodded slowly. She paused again, and again I heard her lips part drily near my ear. She continued, softly. "Do you mind if I say it's nasty but I want us to do it anyway?" "I don't mind." "I mean...I mean I know and you know that everybody says it's wrong and we're not supposed to do it, but...I want to anyway. I want you to understand: I know it's nasty...but that's why I like it. And I don't understand it." "But I like it too," I whispered back. Again she hesitated before she relaxed her arms and held me more loosely. "Good," she whispered in my ear. "Good." She stroked my back for a moment and gave my head in her neck a brief affectionate hug. Then her fingers were at the front of my underwear. She tried to find her way into the slit but couldn't, so she pushed her hand gently under the top band. She whispered, "Your dick, hon...", and soon her fingers found me and wrapped around me warmly. "...there he is..." She hugged my cock gently. Then she murmured so softly I could barely hear, even though her lips were still against my ear: "I like it too, hon. I can't help it. We're so much alike." ==================================== THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE by S.J.R. sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM> ============ PART 3B -30- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |