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Subject: {ASSM} ME AND MARTHA JANE '99 (m/F,teen) MJ01To02.TXT
Date: Tue, 8 Feb 2000 20:10:04 -0500
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**** 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, 1999 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.
PART 1A:
This story is told as best as I can recall it. It occurred
during 1948-49-50 and continued through 1957-58. Over the years I
have relived these events countless times, carefully reconstructing
in my mind many forgotten details and conversations -- at one point
undergoing hypnosis to recall details or events that lay buried under
a lifetime of other thoughts and concerns.
During this first period, 1948 to 1950, I ranged in age from 6 to
almost 9. In today's culture this makes me an old geezer. But to-
day's culture appears to lack the older culture's knowledge for
extending its own youth. Thanks to Martha Jane, I acquired that know-
ledge before it became popular to do so; and fortunately, a youthful
look runs in my family (although we tend to lose our teeth early, for
some damn reason). I look 35. I am 5'8" and appear slightly taller,
having learned early to keep a lean figure. Like most males in my
family I looked older early, and younger later. When I was 10 to 16,
I was often mistaken for 12 to 19. Luckily, that trend later reversed
itself. In some ways this was an advantage early on; but it had its
downside, as the reader will see.
Over the years I've discussed these incidents with professionals
(you know, the usual headshrinkers and counselors), most of whom were
scandalized by my tale. In discussing it, and in reminiscing with
parents and relatives about my childhood, I managed to gather some
facts about me as a boy:
I was mentally and sexually precocious. Not that I was a young
Einstein or a certifiable prodigy, but I was quite bright and mentally
overactive. From the time I could crawl I was poking my nose into
everything I could crawl to. In this regard I was difficult to
manage; my mother couldn't keep pace with my endless questions, or my
habit of peeking under everything in sight. When entering a new room
or building, the first thing I did was wonder what was in the closets.
I used to look under the sofa and the chair cushions just to see what
was there (I found lots of pennies doing this, and a wedding ring lost
by a visiting aunt). I also loved listening to 78rpm records on Mom's
then-new Philco tabletop radio-phonograph. The Philco was on several
occasions a source of wonderment to my Mom and relatives -- whenever
they brought me a child's record, I would set it aside untouched and
start playing a symphony (Dvorak's Ninth, the William Tell Overture,
and The NutCracker Ballet were my favorites), or the Peggy Lee album
that had her sultry "Golden Earrings" on it. I listened to Tex Ritter
platters until I wore their shiny black 78rpm waxed surfaces gray and
had to ask for replacements. I knew more about the Philco than Mom
did, once producing for her a crayon drawing of how the old vacuum
tube "tuning eye" worked. My hearing was well developed: I could tell
when the steel-tipped phono needle was beginning to wear before anyone
else could hear the difference, and I knew how to change the needle
myself -- something my mother was never able to figure out. I'm also
told that I was a virtuoso at finding my way into forbidden nooks and
corners that adults considered inaccessible by any means conceivable
to man.
Before I started grammar school I would read the morning paper to
Mom while she fixed breakfast. Reading was something I picked up
from my elderly godfather, who every Sunday read the comics to me
while pointing at each word as he read. An Italian immigrant who
never finished grammar school, he was a slow reader who always read
that way, his index finger leading him word by word across a page.
The first time he read to me I was curious about how the printed
letters corresponded to what he said aloud, so each time he went
through the comics with me I asked him to break down the words he
pointed to. Soon I had him breaking down the syllables in the words
until I learned to put words together on my own. The first printed
phrase I could read on my own was "You betchum, Red Ryder!," a phrase
I used until everyone around me grew sick of it. My teacher and
godfather was also my father's uncle; I knew him as Uncle Johnny. My
great-aunt Frances, Uncle Johnny's wife and my godmother, once caught
me in her back yard trying to lift a heavy old cast iron Underwood
typewriter that someone had abandoned. I was barely six then, and
the ancient 1920's vintage machine probably weighed more than I did.
Aunt Frances wanted me to throw it away, but I insisted on keeping
it. I cradled it patiently on my lap the day I found it while Aunt
Frances drove me back home to Mom. As she drove, Aunt Frances kept
glancing my way, amazed that anyone would want such a huge piece of
junk. But the old machine's feel and construction and the faded,
ornate "Underwood" logo fascinated me, and did so for years.
Quickly and easily bored, I drew my own comic books (mostly
stick-men and outer space battles). I once filled the apartment
with acrid smoke and ruined a cooking pot trying to manufacture my
own crayons -- the odor made Mom sick for days, and it took weeks for
the stench of paraffin to fade. These and other feats of my daring
and heedless youth, along with my obsession with getting the old
black Underwood working again, prompted most of my stodgy family to
consider me a holy terror. They labeled my behavior as weird and
inscrutable.
Most of these activities were the result of prolonged self-
isolation and boredom. I was as impatient with adults as they were
with me. They addressed me as if either they or I were idiots, often
mumbling among themselves as if they didn't think I understood what
they were talking about (some of them knew that I knew, so they would
mumble in Italian -- which of course I didn't understand and which
infuriated me!). They usually answered my questions with religious
myth, or fantasy, or old wives' tales, none of which I accepted,
especially the quaint tripe about storks delivering babies and women
getting big bellies from eating too many popsicles. I soon learned
that adults -- especially my overly religious mother -- could not be
trusted. I became emotionally and intellectually estranged from them
at a very early age, probably around age four. Rather than ask
questions, I did my own investigating. This often led me into
trouble: I once jammed my arm into the ancient Westinghouse laundry
machine Mom had in the kitchen corner, the kind with a mechanized
feed-by-hand rinser-wringer attached to the top of the washtub. The
thick rubber rollers on this machine happened to be engaged at the
time, and the rollers pulled one of my arms through the wringer,
threatening to squeeze the rest of me along with it. My mother heard
me yelling, ran into the kitchen, smacked the roller release lever,
and rescued me.
Unfortunately I learned absolutely nothing from this incident. I
kept right on distrusting the advice of any and all elders and con-
tinued to snoop, probe, and experiment. My active spirits were so
unpredictable that my mother arranged for rest on weekends by sending
me out of the house to spend time with my grandparents and godparents.
I gave this Puritanical crowd the same case of the heebie-jeebies, so
they placated me with plenty of money for movies, comics, magazines,
and whatever else would keep me occupied in a corner or otherwise out
of their hair.
I was not mean-spirited or destructive. I considered other kids
to be mean, dense, and often brutal. My feelings were easily hurt by
name calling and arm punching. I had a nauseating fear of violence,
whether directed at me or at anyone else. Yet physically I was
fairly muscular and aggressive, tending to spend my time in risky
games such as purposely dashing back and forth across Lauderdale
Street, the 6-lane, heavily trafficked main boulevard that ran
through our project. Early on, I conducted my own far flung explo-
rations of nearby downtown Memphis without the slightest idea how to
find my way home. I once wandered around the downtown Memphis water-
front until I truly got lost; I didn't find my way back until 8:30
that night. On returning home I found my Mom had called every rela-
tive in sight; five of them were pacing around our living room
talking with some cops. I casually entered the front door and walked
across the room with a carefree "Hi, folks!" and everyone immediately
descended upon me with yells, threats, moans and tears of consterna-
tion. And though I knew this would be the result if I ever wandered
again, I wandered anyway -- but not without first studying a map of
the city and learning all the routes of the city bus lines, not so I
would never again get lost (I did on several more occasions), but so
I could find my way back in time to avoid their hysteria.
My neighborhood was a Federal housing project. But It was nothing
like modern projects, so it's difficult to describe. The place was in
downtown Memphis, Tennessee and was built in the 1930's to house re-
tired veterans, their widows and children, and government employees
needing housing. World War II made this housing available to war
widows, disabled vets, and military dependents. The rent was $30 a
month. In the 1940's this was still a hefty sum for a widow or dis-
abled vet. The housing staff maintained the area antiseptically
inside and out. Housing staff inspected apartments every 30 days to
make certain the tenants kept them maintained. The project consisted
mostly of rows of small, red brick, single level housing units with
four to six 1-bedroom apartments each. These single floor buildings
extended 6-by-8 city blocks, with the west end bounded by a line of
larger four story buildings with bigger apartments. Each of the one-
bedroom apartments had its own small backyard, which some tenants
equipped with picket fences or even flower and vegetable gardens. The
grounds were webbed with sidewalks lined with trees. The view from
our living room window was of a large public lawn with thick patches
of shrubs, and benches here and there. The lawn extended for about
half a block east to Lauderdale Street, a major crosstown boulevard
that sliced through the middle of the project. Many who are familiar
with the life of Elvis Presley will recognize this project near
downtown Memphis as the Lauderdale Courts, where Elvis lived during
the early 1950's, at roughly the same time I was there.
In the late 1950's, a few years after my mother and my new step-
father moved out of the neighborhood to suburbia, the Feds handed the
project over to the state. Housing for military and government people
had been moved into the 'burbs, so the project became tenanted by
state welfare recipients. In the 1960's the project was turned over
to the county and city, at which point it was populated only by the
homeless, the chronically unemployed, and those living strictly on the
local dole. By that time it had decayed into a crusty slum not at all
like the well kept, flowered neighborhood I remembered.
My mother was a World War II widow. In some ways this contributed
to my early feelings of isolation from her. I distinctly recall
receiving from her the impression that, since my father's death in
combat earning a Silver Star in the B-17 and B-24 battles over Europe,
I had been a great burden to her (there was more to this story than
his death in the war, but that's another tale). Certainly, my Mom
being suddenly left alone in the Lauderdale Courts to raise me and my
younger sister could have had this effect on her. She never openly
voiced any of this, but I clearly remember having received this
"message" from her in many subtle ways. I had a sister almost two
years younger. The two of us in that small apartment were too much
for Mom; so it happened that by the time I was 4 or 5 my sister Ann
wasn't around often, having been taken under the wing of her very
large godmother, my deceased father's Aunt Mary, who allowed my sister
to spend months at a time with her and her husband. My sister wasn't
enamored of life in the project, preferring to be thoroughly spoiled
and pampered by a doting godmother who did her best to play the role,
usually to excess). Sis, whom we called Miss Priss, would stay at our
apartment for a while, then ask to stay at her godmother's for pro-
longed periods, and by the time my sister was 12 or so she practically
moved in with her semi-permanently. This same godmother was also our
great-Aunt Mary. I seemed to barely get along with this shrill woman,
who was also My great-Aunt Frances' sister. Our relationship probably
survived due only to the fact that great-Aunt Mary had boundless
affection for her favorite nephew, my departed father. I found the
woman too smothering and exacting for comfort.
So I was left most often with Mom, whom I didn't trust. I had the
feeling I was in her way. She was attractive and quiet, but a sad and
moody woman, usually too tired or worried to spend much time with me.
I can't fault her; she married too young, got caught up in the tragedy
of the War, and was simply doing her best to cope. With my sister
usually away and with most of the kids in the project being too rough-
neck for my taste, I was left pretty much to myself at an early age.
Very likely this attitude caused me to leave home later, at 18,
to strike out on my own.
The single bright spot was the family next door. Another war
widow lived there with her two daughters. This woman and my mother
became close friends, a relationship that continues to this day even
though the lady moved to St. Louis years ago. Her oldest daughter was
a tall, attractive, brunette young woman nearing her twenties at the
time and whom I seldom saw. She possessed a highly valued high school
diploma, enabling her to find work and help the family financially.
In the South in the 1940's women could expect only minimal pay at
clerical or similar jobs. But she earned enough to keep her younger
sister in high school. This younger sister was Martha Jane. My
earliest clear memories of Martha Jane date from the time I was 6
years old and she was 15. I had a very serious crush on her.
I don't mean that as a six-year-old sexpot I had the kind of crush
that centers on sexual fantasy. I don't recall ever sitting around
fantasizing sexually at that age about Martha Jane. I simply had a
strong, unwavering affection for her. And she had similar feelings
for me -- in later years my mother would say to me, "You know, Martha
Jane just LOVED you! She thought you were the sweetest, cutest thing
on earth! She was the only one who could make you behave."
It was true. With little instruction or any warning that I can
remember, Martha Jane's presence seemed to soothe my savage beasts. I
would knowingly do nothing -- nothing -- to upset her in any way.
Actions that I knew were upsetting to others were automatically fil-
tered out of my behavior when I was around her. By the same token,
Martha Jane always approached me as though I were a person rather than
an imbecile. She gave honest, practical, concerned answers to my end-
less questions and she had a fondness for stories, science, movies,
and music similar to mine. Obviously my insistent questioning and
troublesome behavior were attempts on my part to get attention and
establish some sort of meaningful communication with a mental soul
mate. Most of my large family of relatives were half-literate,
working- or middle-class folks -- nothing immoral about that, and such
is the human stuff that gets work done and is often referred to as the
"salt of the earth." There was no lack of a certain modicum of family
attachment and devotion. But they and I lacked, shall we say, com-
patibility and understanding. Martha Jane apparently fulfilled many
of those needs and shared my mental interests, sometimes sitting for
hours telling me stories or reading to me or simply listening. After
spending some time with her I usually felt serene for a few days. My
frequent bouts of instant boredom and hyperactivity were, for a while,
minimal. Martha Jane reciprocated by treating me with intelligence,
playfulness, and a seemingly endless supply of affection. And she and
I simply seemed to establish an instant rapport together. Adults were
boring and stultifying: she never was. She never raised her voice or
hand to me, nor did she ever have reason to.
At 15, she was a sunny faced, fairly short, trim teenager with a
very poised manner and auburn hair that was so light it often appeared
blonde. She usually wore delicate horn-rimmed glasses. Her hair was
medium length and usually frizzy (I called it fuzzy-cute) rather than
long and wavy like most women and girls I knew. She had strong eyes
that appeared alternately hazel or bright gray green, depending on the
light and on her mood. She wore very sparse makeup, and had a soft
musical voice that I found hypnotic. Pugnosed, a little delicate and
with a bright face that hinted of a few tiny freckles, she was the
typically pretty, early 50's teen. She also had an obvious West
Tennessee Southern twang, which her older sister Evelyn didn't seem to
have.
(* P.S.: In later years I became an accomplished astrologer, and
eventually astrology combined with my computer skills. Astrologically
I recalculated her birthdate, which I had forgotten over the years.
Martha Jane was a Virgo, born September 9, 1933. I later found out
that this birthdate was correct. But I hope I never again have to do
the work required to figure this out!)
Martha Jane, though she was around my mom's place quite often,
didn't spend all of her time with me. She was an avid student. At
that time, poor kids who wanted to get anywhere in life -- especially
to move out of Federal housing projects -- had to get through high
school, or else! It was that simple. We would usually see each other
on our shared front porch if we happened to be entering or leaving our
apartments together. She would greet me out front and spend a while
talking to me there, and we'd go on our way. It was always a pleasant
exchange, though today I remember little of what was said. I do
remember that she would often hug me, kiss my nose, let me give her a
kiss, or in some other way express herself affectionately and atten-
tively to me. Sometimes she visited my mother for an afternoon. They
would sit in our small kitchen and chat over tea or coffee while I
played elsewhere in the apartment.
My earliest memory of Martha Jane must have dated from the time I
was barely 5 years old. I was sitting in a neighborhood movie house,
watching Judy Garland in "Meet Me In St. Louis". It must have been
winter, as I and another adult and Martha Jane, who sat on my right,
were wearing overcoats. I remember looking up at her in the dark as
she laughed at the movie, and I thought she was very friendly, bright,
and likable, much like Judy Garland but prettier.
Martha Jane and I did not spend time alone together until late in
my 6th year, when my widowed Mom began dating the man who eventually
became my stepfather. This started in late 1948. Mom and my future
stepdad didn't date often, since they saw each other regularly during
the week when he stopped by for a quick lunch or dinner or when she
did her grocery shopping at the supermarket on the corner of Lauder-
dale Street. My future stepdad was manager/owner of the place, with
others in his family. They dated only every few weeks or so, very in-
formally. It was some years before they became a serious couple; and
as staunch conservative Catholics, they had a long and leisurely
courtship that continued for years. My mom's first round at marriage
had left her disappointed to the point of shell-shock; she took her
sweet time about getting hitched again. When she did have a dress-up
date, Mom engaged a sitter for me.
Originally my sitter was my maternal grandmother or one of my
mother's younger sisters. But grandma moved to the distant 'burbs and
my two aunts, Martha and Yvonne, found husbands. My mother could
only occasionally afford to pay a babysitter, and she refused to ac-
cept as little as a dollar or two from my stepdad-to-be when baby-sit
money was sparse (now I know where I got most of that independent
streak of mine! It was her own independence that kept her in the
project for so long. After my father's death she was too embarrassed
to accept help and was determined to make life work on her own. Un-
fortunately the right to that streak wasn't looked upon so favorably
in my case).
And Martha Jane, who was such a frequent visitor to our apartment,
recognized only too well that my mom would never accept baby-sit money
from her. So it turned out that my sitter most of the time was Martha
Jane, who offered her services freely. My Mom tried slipping her a
bill or two now and then, but Martha Jane would have none if it. "You
don't have to PAY me to stay with him," Martha Jane would insist. "I
love Speedy!"
This brings me to my nickname: "Speedy". Why I found this name
so embarrassing, even then, is a mystery to me. But I came to be
known as "Speedy." My other nicknames were Mickey (from my godmother)
and Butch (from my paternal grandmother Rose). Where the name Speedy
came from has many myths behind it, but most people say it had a lot
to do with the legendary speed with which I ran away when caught mis-
behaving. Martha Jane addressed me by Speedy for a short time, but
then she stuck with my proper name, Steven. Being called Speedy by
most people greatly annoyed me, but I didn't seem to mind when Martha
Jane did it. I have no explanation for making an exception of her
when it came to my otherwise despised nickname. She said she liked
both names, and that was OK by me.
During these infrequent baby-sit sessions she would usually study.
Sometimes she would do a little cleaning or straightening, purely out
of a desire to help my Mom, and I would always help. I felt "right"
with whatever we did together. I recall the one time that I upset her
during a baby-sit session: I was in our small bedroom. There was a
black telephone set in the room and I wanted desperately to find out
what happened when I dialed 411. The telephone directory listed it as
a free public information number. So I picked up the phone and dialed
411. An operator answered.
"Number, please?" said the voice on the other end.
"Oh," I said nonchalantly, "I don't want a number. I just wanna
talk to you."
Martha Jane must have heard this ridiculous conversation, because
right away I heard her cry out, "Speedy? What are you doing in there?"
She rushed into the room and stood in the doorway, stunned and shocked.
"What are you DOING?"
I was so alarmed that I immediately said into the phone, "I'm
sorry, I didn't mean to bother you, Miss," and hung up. Martha Jane
quickly came to me and took the phone away. I told her I had only
called 411 and was talking to the operator. She looked at me blankly,
and then couldn't help but giggling. "You did WHAT?" All I could do
was look up at her (she was not that tall, but she was then taller
than I). I took the hem of her skirt and scrunched up against her; I
was really afraid I had offended her. I kept saying I was sorry. She
knelt down to my level and patiently explained to me about telephone
operators and how the poor overworked gals got so many crank calls.
She offered, "I'll call up one of my girlfriends sometime, okay? And
you and I can talk to her together and you'll see what it's like." I
said it would be fine, and I hugged her and apologized again and
again, and she accepted and hugged me back and got me ready for bed.
PART 1B:
The fact is, Martha Jane was an upright, well behaved, socially
poised, and even classy young lady. She seldom displayed anger toward
others, apparently never gossiped or had anything maliciously critical
to say about anyone. As far as I can tell, she was just a conscien-
tious, undeniably pretty teenaged girl. She did have an active and
playful nature but for the most part she behaved with the kind of
politeness so common among girls whose Southern moms brought them up
as "proper" and "sociable".
But obviously Martha Jane had her other side. On rare occasions
during that period when she first was sitting for me, I would now and
then look up and find her staring at me. Not "at" me, I should say,
but "toward" me as though thinking of something deep and ponderous.
Or now and then she would, indeed, look right into me with a steady,
serious gaze, but she'd say nothing. I would turn away and go back to
whatever I was doing. I had no idea what she was thinking.
One of these incidents occurred in late 1948, just before or after
Thanksgiving. I was six, Martha Jane was fifteen. She arrived at our
place from next door at about 7 o'clock as my Mom was getting powdered
and done up for a date. I was on the floor of the living room and had
spread old newspapers around to work on the treasured but broken
Underwood typewriter that I had retrieved from the trash only a few
weeks earlier. Martha Jane said hello and hugged me and chatted with
my mother. Mom said, "Just let him play down there and he shouldn't
be any trouble." Martha Jane laughed and said, "Betty, Speedy never
gives me any trouble," at which Mom grumbled, "Give him time."
Martha Jane stood over me and asked what I was doing. My Mom
broke in and said, "He's making a mess with that old typewriter. I
don't see why he doesn't throw it away, it's nothin' but a...hunk of
junk."
Martha Jane bent way down to smile at me and survey the spread of
springs and spare parts strewn over the newspaper. "Hey," she asked,
"are you taking this apart or putting it together?"
"Both," I said, not looking up from my task. "I'm gonna make it
work again."
"But what'll you to do with it, Speedy, after you get it to work?"
"I'll figure somethin' out," I said arrogantly.
"You certainly have enough parts there for inspiration."
My mother came into the room, screwing on an earring. "Don't you
make a mess and drive Martha Jane crazy. She has to study tonight."
"Oh, Betty," Martha Jane said, "he'll be all right."
My mother continued, "I don't know what he wants that thing for,
it must be twenty years old. His godmother buys him toy trains and
toy this and toy that, but he has to fool around with THAT and make a
mess!"
Mom left to finish dressing in the bedroom. I sat on my knees,
hunched over, laboriously studying the puzzle before me. I was so
deeply absorbed that I was startled to hear someone breathing behind
me. I looked up at saw Martha Jane staring at me. I turned so quick-
ly that she barely had time to change the studied expression with
which she had apparently been watching me.
Quickly, she smiled and gave me a big wink. She playfully mouthed
the words, "It's okay."
My Mom left a few minutes later. Martha Jane settled down to a
pile of books on the sofa and studied silently while I knelt on the
floor struggling with my project. Using pliers and a screwdriver, I
managed to straighten most its typeset arms, but some of them were
still getting stuck on certain letters. I worked on it until I became
frustrated and threw the pliers on the floor and pouted.
"What's wrong?" Martha Jane asked, and she came to sit on the
floor beside me.
I showed her how the keys for certain letters were still bent out
of shape and that if I bent one properly, the keys next to it would
snap out of alignment. Martha Jane said, "Speedy, why don't you take
it to a repair shop?"
"It's too old," I said. "Nobody wants to fool with it."
"Tell you what, maybe your Aunt Frances would buy you a new one."
"She won't," I said.
"But she gets you everything you want."
"No!" I said, angrily. "She told me I'm too young to have a
typewriter."
"Too young?" she said, surprised. "You probably know more about
typewriters than she ever will, hon."
"Besides," I added, holding the black albatross by the ends of its
heavy roller platen, "it's mine! I found it."
She pondered aloud, "And nobody wants it but you." She hunched
down beside me and surveyed the damage. "Maybe I can help."
I sighed, "It's no use. It's just too old and banged up."
"Well, Speedy, let's be patient and see what we can do. I'm sure
you can figure it out. Show me what's wrong with it."
I was reluctant and pessimistic at first, but Martha Jane put on
her horn-rimmed glasses and made me show her what the problem was.
She studied everything closely and showed me how to set up the keys so
that the problem was always repeated exactly the same way every time.
She told me how to work on one part at a time and not try to fix
everything at once. Finally we had the machine in one piece again and
I showed her how straightening one key would throw several others out
of whack.
Martha Jane sat back and scratched her head. I stood up beside
her. "Martha Jane," I said, "you don't have to do this. You have to
study."
She said, "No...now you've got me as puzzled about this as you
are."
Suddenly she snapped her fingers and ran into the kitchen. She
came back with some popsicle sticks. We kept popsicle sticks around
for making our own cheap popsicles out of soda or Kool-Aid poured into
ice trays. She showed me how to hold the line of keys in place with
parts made from popsicle sticks, and that would let me work on one key
at a time while keeping the others in place.
"Hey," I exclaimed, "Neat! That's pretty smart for a girl."
"Hm...boys!" she huffed with a laugh, and she went back to the
sofa and her books.
An hour passed while I worked feverishly. And finally the damn
thing worked! I ran to the chest in the corner for paper and put a
sheet into the roller, and used a piece of popsicle stick to replace a
missing part that kept the wrinkled old ink ribbon aligned. Then I
typed and typed and watched amazed as the page filled with perfectly
straight rows of letters for the first time. I was so pleased, I
filled the page from top to bottom with letters that soon were words
instead of random characters. I watched as my thoughts magically
unfolded in printed sentences before my eyes. I typed until there was
no more room on the page, then I ripped it from the roller and ran to
Martha Jane, who was startled by my sudden leap onto the sofa next to
her.
"Look!" I said, shoving the paper under her face.
"Well!" she said, impressed. "That's very nice. See? I knew you
could do it."
Embarrassed, I said, "Look at the last line."
Along the last line I had typed "Thank You Martha Jane Thank You
Martha Jane", in dark gray letters with the old ribbon, all the way
across the page.
"Oh, that's sweet!" she exclaimed. She gave me a hug. "Can I
keep this?"
"Sure."
"Is it all right? It's yours, you made it all by yourself. You
sure you don't want to keep it so you can show your Mama what you did?"
"She don't care."
"Now why would say something like that about your Mama?"
I shook my head. "She don't care. I didn't make it for me, I
made it for you. You helped me make it work."
"But, hon, your Mama cares about what you do."
I shook my head no.
"She does!" Martha Jane insisted.
I shook my head again. "She tells me kid stuff like...she says
babies come from storks, and the storks deliver the babies in diapers
hangin' from their beaks. She's always tellin' me stuff like that."
"And I take it you didn't believe it."
I shook my head no. "That can't be where babies come from."
"Well," she said, "maybe you ought to talk to your Mama about
that."
I shook my head no again.
"So, have you figured out where babies come from all by your self?"
"Not yet. But it ain't from storks."
"You're probably right," she murmured. She gazed at me
inscrutably for a long moment, during which I squirmed and stood on
the floor but bent down to prop my chin on an elbow that I leaned on
the sofa cushion beside her. Then she looked down at the page I had
given her and smiled. "This is so nice of you. I'll take it,
but...you can have it back whenever you want it."
"Okay."
She held her hand on the back of my neck and drew me toward her so
she could kiss me on the nose. "Thank you!"
"Thank you too!" I smiled and blushed and looked at her slender
fingers and her auburn hair and the gentle shape of her face. She
could not have ignored the way my eyes stayed glued on her. She
smiled at me.
She said, pointing to her nose, "Okay, you can kiss me back."
I did and said, "I like your nose."
"Yeah?" she said. She winked at me. "I like yours too."
I feigned an overdramatized blush and a baby-like "Aw, shucks."
"Don't be silly," she laughed, and pointed at my project on the
floor. "I hate to say it, hon, but it's nine o'clock. You have to
clean that up, and I have to get you a bath."
I said okay and quickly straightened things up while she went into
the bathroom and drew the bath. It was time for our bathtub ritual.
The apartments had no showers, but they had new tubs in the small
tiled bathrooms. Martha Jane would fill the tub to just the right
warm temperature for the pink bubble-bath. The magic moment came when
I was fidgeting nude by the tub while the water level slowly rose.
Martha Jane would hold the packet of bubblebath powder high over the
tub.
"Almost ready-y-y..." she'd chant, as I waited.
"Looks okay NOW!" I'd say.
"Nope," she'd say. "Almost...almost...." And finally, "There she
blows!" And she'd upturn the packet until just enough of the pink
powder fell out to make the right amount of bubbly stuff that I liked.
I would hop into the tub and splash and stir up the bubbles until
they overflowed the tub. The bubble-baths were better with Martha
Jane than with anyone else, because others insisted on fewer bubbles
and less time in the tub. But Martha Jane was herself a bubble-bath
lover and seemed to know just how much would be the most fun -- which
in my case was enough bubbles to not only fill the tub to its rim but
to cover most of my head as well, by the time I fluffed it up.
Martha Jane did not dry and dress me. That was up to me. I was a
fidgety kid anyway who liked to dress under my own power. Usually she
stayed in the living room and listened to the radio or studied, and I
would bathe, dry and dress, and empty the tub myself. On those occa-
sions when she did stay in the bathroom as "supervisor", she was there
to make sure I cleaned up my bubbly mess. When this happened, Martha
Jane removed her skirt and blouse and wore her bra and panties, or
sometimes a delicate silk slip, if I were still in the bath; this was
to keep her clothes from being splashed when we got playful and threw
globs of bubble-bath at each other during our occasional bubble-fights
(Martha Jane, neatnick that she was, insisted on cleaning up every
single remnant of any mess we made).
On that night she stayed in the bathroom with me, fully clothed
until I climbed into the tub. She stood in the opened doorway and
watched contemplatively. After a minute she came into the bathroom
and began removing her skirt and blouse. She was almost down to her
slip when I announced, from under the mountain of bubbles that reached
to my nose, that I had to pee.
"Go ahead," she said.
I insisted, "But YOU'RE in here!"
"For goodness' sake, it won't bother me."
But I refused to pee with her in the room and would not get out of
the tub. I remained hidden behind my hill of bubbles.
Seeing my reluctance she said, "all right, I won't embarrass you.
Is Number One all you have to do?"
"Just Number One," I said. "But I hafta do it a hunnert and sixty
three times."
"Yeah, right...keep it under one hundred, bubble-man, and don't
take all night. Do what you have to do, hon, and call me when you're
finished."
That was fine with me. She left the room and closed the door.
After I peed I got back into the tub and shouted that the coast was
clear.
When she opened the door she wore only her bra and panties. For a
while she watched me from the opened doorway while I splashed and
scrubbed, but when it was time for me to finish up she came into the
room and knelt near the tub, watching me as before. I don't remember
what I said to her, but she was laughing about it when I pulled the
stopper from the tub and stood up to dry off while the water drained.
After my upper body was dry I got out of the tub as usual to dry my
legs and feet on the little pink rug in the middle of the white tiled
floor. Martha Jane knelt and stared at me with that same probing
look. I was drying off when she reached up and put two of her slim
fingers around the head of my fledgling penis.
She asked, smiling cautiously, "Dry this too?".
"Yep," I answered innocently.
She continued fondling my tip with her two fingers, gently and
slowly, squeezing lightly or running a finger around the tip.
I stopped my drying and looked down at what she was doing. I
watched her fingers closely, feeling a new and beguiling pleasure at
her soft touch.
"Feel good?" she asked, her eyes studying my reactions. Her voice
had fallen to a whisper. She half smiled with what appeared to be
great interest, curiosity, and uncertainty.
"Yeah," I whispered back.
Our voices were so low that the drip from the bathtub faucet was
easily twice the volume. I remember hearing the faint drip, drip,
drip, thinking that the hot water handle would have to be tightened to
make it stop. But her touch had me spellbound. My tip itched strange-
ly and the skin of my glans seemed to cling to her soft, tentative
fingers.
She whispered furtively, "You like that?"
"Yeah. Feels nice."
"Like it when I squeeze this way?"
"Yeah. Keep doin' it."
Constantly observing my reactions, she continued fondling me and
asking questions. She had a very secretive, whispered manner as if no
one was supposed to hear us, and I fell into this pattern by whisper-
ing back my own answers in the same secretive way. As she played with
me I grew larger -- something else quite new to me, because I thought
that the hardening only happened occasionally when I awoke in the
morning. After a moment she set me on the edge of the tub and knelt
in front of me, stroking my cock, explaining how it would get even
bigger as she did it. Soon I was erect enough to allow her entire hand
to enfold me, at which point she began delicately pumping me toward a
larger erection.
Still whispering furtively, she was delighted at the size of my
young hard-on and made several remarks about how my penis, which
normally was hardly bigger than her thumbnail, could grow to about 4
inches and get much fatter. I was far too young to have an orgasm at
that point, a fact she apparently discovered after several minutes of
this activity. But for quite a while she continued fondling me, and I
grew more and more pleased at the sensations. Vaguely I recall that
she attempted an explanation of the birds and bees (I found her ver-
sion to be much more sensible than that crap about storks!), but I
absorbed precious little of what then was a great deal of heady biolo-
gical detail. At that moment I was more interested in the pleasant
physical sensations of her touch and the strangely enticing intimacy
in her voice and manner.
She studied my facial reactions as much as she did those of my
penis, and with every new touch or change in technique she asked me
how it felt. I would tell her it felt good and told her the kind of
hand movements and squeezes I liked best.
She said, "Now don't tell anybody we did this."
While this may have seemed an odd request to any other young boy,
it didn't seem so to me. From the very beginning Martha Jane's
secretive manner conveyed to me an air of deliciously naughty discov-
ery, of shared and precious secrets. Obviously I wouldn't do anything
Martha Jane didn't want. My distrust of grownups in general had made
me adept at developing many covert activities on my own that offered
refuge from meddling adults. I was intrigued to find that Martha Jane
also had secrets that she kept from grownups but that she was willing
to share with me.
From slightly above her I saw a soft swell of flesh extend
invitingly down into her bra, and I ran my finger over it. "Why do
girls always wear these?" I asked.
Martha Jane told me a bra held a woman's titties securely (Now,
the word "titties," as compared with "breasts", was a valid "Southern"
term. "Breast" sounded too clinical and seemed to apply mostly to
packaged chicken parts. The people I grew up with came from rural
farming families before they lived in the city. The word titties was
perfectly acceptable. I heard it used often in connection with every-
thing from cats and dogs to cows, auto tire aircaps, and baby-bottle
nipples. But from the outset, body words had special connotations for
me and Martha Jane. They were spoken with a unique vocal, emotional,
and sensual coloration that I find indescribable. These same words
would sound entirely different when I heard them used by others. This
use of certain words in certain ways became a part of our strange
relationship at a very early stage. The singular meanings we gave
them appeared to grow entirely under their own power -- the same way
the relationship itself seemed to have powers of its own).
She opened her bra and let me touch her flesh and her nipples. The
feel of her gave me goosebumps. She explained how babies were nursed.
"Babies suck on the nipples," she said, and I asked what it tasted
like. She said she had never had a baby so she had no milk in her but
she said that a baby sucking its mom's tit was a very important part
of the way babies grew up. She asked if I had ever sucked my mom's
nipples. I said I probably didn't (which in retrospect, considering
my mother's staunch puritanism, was more than likely true). I asked
her how it felt and she answered that she really didn't know; no one
ever sucked her nipples. I asked if I could suck them and find out.
At that request, her hand stopped on me and she simply stared at me
for a few seconds, her eyes searching mine, her face a brief blank.
Then she blinked her eyes as if pulling herself out of a deep thought,
and slowly she reached behind her back. A few seconds later, the bra
drooped down to her waist, revealing for me my first sight of round,
white, pale-nippled, perfectly shaped breasts. With one hand she
touched the back of my neck and with the other she lifted one of her
young nipples toward me.
She whispered simply, "Here."
I bent down. The sensation of her marshmallow soft flesh on my
tongue has never been duplicated. I was aware of her smiling down
encouragingly as I took my sample lick. She was delicious. So I took
another, longer lick. Above my head and near my ear, her soft breath-
ing sounded oddly deep and pleasurable. I licked again.
It was a memorable moment. She left me with the impression that
she enjoyed my tongue on her in a way that was an equally unique
experience for her.
I lifted my head, my neck getting a cramp from its bent position,
and as Martha Jane resumed fondling my cock she said in a low, hushed
voice that letting me lick her titties was very, very personal and
that she would never let anyone do it but me.
After a while she had me as erect as I would ever get at that
age. I was in a state not only of physical warmth, but of gratitude
for her having revealed to me actions and pleasures that no one but
Martha Jane and I would ever know about. And Martha Jane was greatly
pleased and surprised at the size of my erection and at my ready
complicity in our naughty game.
"We'll do it again later, okay?" she said, holding my very hard
penis still in her warm hand. "But don't tell anyone else, hon,
because...well..."
She paused. She searched for words.
She said, "Well, they would say this is nasty. They wouldn't like
it and we'd be in trouble." She seemed suddenly nervous and very
serious.
I asked, "Why do they think it's nasty?"
"They just do. Lots of people don't like doing this."
"I do."
"You do? Really?"
"Yes," I said, trying very hard to reassure her, "I like it with
you."
She grinned weakly. "Let's get you dressed and maybe we can do it
again sometime. Sometime later."
I don't remember anything else about that night. But I am certain
this was the night that a significant language with its own coloration
and associations, its own set of gestures and responses, and a heavily
secretive atmosphere introduced themselves into our relationship.
Good little boy that I was, I got dressed. She did, too, and
then she put me to bed, kissed me goodnight, and went into the living
room to study while I fell asleep. I was perfectly content. It was
not so much the physical sensations that left me pleased as it was a
new serenity, a feeling of closeness with the only person in the world
I could trust.
That was the beginning. I did not invest much time thinking about
the details, nor was I old enough to live in constant anticipation of
the next event. I knew only that I was extremely fond of Martha Jane,
that she had a lovely, trim, well formed, touchable body that, appar-
ently, no one else had ever touched. I was also aware, at the time,
of her apprehension and tension. But she needn't have worried;
indeed, I never told anyone about us and was never tempted to. This
was Martha Jane's secret and mine, a haven from the coldness and
fickleness of the outer world. And there was no way I would ever hurt
Martha Jane by getting her into trouble that might keep us apart.
Unwittingly, we had formed both a compact and a revolt.
PART 2A:
I believe that Martha Jane, like me, was mostly curious at first.
And it seems that my surprise and delight at our intimacy was matched
only by her own surprise and delight at my enthusiasm and cooperation.
But we never mentioned our secret to each other when she visited my
Mom, nor when we greeted on the front porch on our way to school in
the mornings that followed.
Several weeks later, a few days after Christmas, the city was
inundated by a heavy winter snow--something Southern cities seldom
experienced. The whole town knew the weather was coming and Mom had a
date to go to what had been set up as a White Christmas dinner at one
of the fancy hotel ballrooms that were popular in the late 1940's. It
was a Friday night. After Mom left, Martha Jane darkened our bedroom
and sat on the bed with me, watching the snow. The bed was in its
usual place in that little room, pushed lengthwise against the wall
alongside the big double window. We leaned on the window sill and
talked and watched the falling snow. I don't remember what we talked
about, but she had told me a story about something-or-other and I was
astonished and said, "Really?", and she said "Yes, it really happened
like that!", and I squealed "REALLY?", and she made a wide-eyed face
back at me and said, "Yes, REALLY!", and we were both giggling. I
have no idea what the subject was, but I remember the essence of the
moment as playful, trusting and warm.
She settled her chin atop one hand on the window sill, and I did
the same. She said in a hushed tone, "Listen. Be very, very quiet,
and listen."
"Okay," I said loudly, smirking.
"Shh!" she said, and we giggled again, and then we sat very still.
Soon I whispered. "There's so much snow comin' down, but it's so
quiet."
"No," she whispered. "You can hear it falling. Listen."
We stayed perfectly still. In the night outside the window the
entire project was covered in a thick, globby blanket of white. The
snow fell with a dreamlike lazy slowness, but so densely it made the
buildings seem dark gray instead of dark brick red, and it completely
obscured the contours of the access driveway that ran behind our
building. I strained nearer the window and listened. After a short
time I could indeed hear it: the muffled, barely audible hissed of
falling snow.
"Hear it?" she asked.
"Mmm. Yeaahh."
"Oh, you're just playing along with me. You really hear it?"
"Yeah," I breathed, fascinated. "Really."
We leaned on our chins and listened more. I turned to her in
quiet excitement at this revelation of the noise of snowflakes
falling. But as my eyes met hers I melted into speechless jelly.
She was watching me with a look of warm, affectionate, captivating
tenderness. All I could do was look back into her eyes helplessly
until, embarrassed at my own startling feelings, I made a funny,
scrunched-up face.
She wrinkled her nose at me. "And 'that' to you too," she said,
"silly-face." Then she jumped off the bed.
"Bubble time!" she announced, and off we went to the bathroom.
She undressed down to her slip, bra and panties, and she held up the
bubble-bath pack and let it go. I hopped into the tub to splash
around and build my usual nose high mountain of bubbles. I didn't
notice until slightly later that she stood there for quite some time
after reaching back to the hook on the bathroom door to fetch her
skirt and blouse; after thinking about it she returned her clothes to
the door hook. Then she removed her slip and knelt by the tub again
in her undies. I got out of the tub and dried off. Once again, after
a long hesitation, she put her fingers around my cock.
Remembering this from before, I stood still and watched her play
with me. Tickles spread through my tummy, and my cock hardened
quickly. I looked at her and grinned, and her eyes met mine with a
widening look of recognition and pleasure.
"That's good," I murmured.
"Yeah? You still like it?"
I told her I did, and something made me shove my pelvis slightly
forward (a totally unconscious movement toward her fingers, the source
of my pleasure), which caused her to look up again in surprise and
with a strange, mischievous glee. The two of us seemed urged on by
some outlandish, mutually shared impulse to make the gestures and to
use the words and sly grins we used
As she played we watched my cock harden and twitch. She said we
would be more comfortable if I sat on the edge of the tub as before. I
did so, and we both watched as she gently pumped me erect. I reached
inside her bra and found a nipple, and we exchanged mutually knowing
smiles as I gently teased her secret flesh. She was still amazed at
how my "teentsy" young organ became so enlarged. Soon I was
thoroughly hard and she was grinning lewdly at me, a delicious and
tantalizing grin that I quickly learned to return.
These mutual glances and simultaneous eye contacts occurred so
often it seems they never ceased. They were another integral part of
our communication with each other. It was part of the continuous
pattern of feedback and feed-in and feed-on that united us. Often it
replaced thousands of words that might have been used to describe a
feeling or a moment. This, too, began happening quite early in the
relationship.
Of course, I didn't climax. The incident soon ended and we re-
turned to the bedroom. We continued watching the snowfall for a long
time. I leaned sleepily on the window sill, and listened to her
magical voice. She was talking about something she was doing at
school. I was soon overcome by the languorous peace of being with
her, something entirely absent from my relationship with my mother.
When I opened my eyes again it was Saturday morning. My Mom was
back home fussing around the house, and Martha Jane was gone.
Several months went their course, and I passed my 7th birthday.
It was around that period, near the end of Spring 1949, that several
more interludes occurred. By this time I would get out of the tub and
Martha Jane would be kneeling and waiting, and I would stand up and
say, "Do me." She would set me on the edge of the tub and pump me to
a strong erection, which she learned to maintain for longer and longer
periods. I don't have a clear memory of what I physically felt at
that time, but I recall that she and I kept finding ways to make it
feel better.
Martha Jane beamed delightedly at my responsiveness. "I love
feeling it jump," she'd say, and she soon discovered that my cock
jerked even more during her early attempts at using her tongue and
mouth on it. Constantly we talked about how it felt and what we
liked. Her favorite ploy was to hold me entirely within her mouth, my
tip barely extending into the narrow channel of her throat, and gently
close her mouth around me and hold me that way so she could feel my
cock throb against her tongue as she softly sucked. I was still too
young to have a true orgasm, but I had no feelings of frustration.
Nor was I particularly anxious about when she would be sitting for me
again. The aspects of our relationship that I sorely missed when we
were apart for any significant time were our fondness for each other
and the simple "rightness" of being with her and hearing her alluring
voice and quiet girlish laughter.
It was sometime during the summer that the bathing routine
changed. It was probably the fourth or fifth episode. I got out of
the tub and stood with my tummy sticking out lewdly so she could play
with me and make me hard, which she did. We both grinned and
whispered in our naughty, secret way as she stroked me, and she
unhooked her bra so I could make little circles around her nipples.
I watched her fingers on me and muttered, "It tickles."
"Want me to do it slower or faster?"
"Slower."
"That way, hon?"
"Yeah. That feels nasty."
"You like it that way?"
"Yeah."
"You mean it feels better, is that what 'nasty' means?"
"Yeah. Feels really good."
She said, "That's what grownups say, hon, they'd say if it feels
good it's nasty." She added ruefully, "They think anything that feels
good is horrible. I really don't understand. You'd think people
already have enough sadness and pain and death in their lives without
making things worse."
It was a concept that she and I would mention many times. It
seemed to be something of which she was often terrified; now and then
she would stop everything, look at me painfully, and then hold me
close to her. That summer was one of the first of those occasions.
Others would follow. But on one night early that summer it happened
for the first time.
She was saying to me, "Squeeze my nipple just a little, hon,
really soft, the way I squeeze your dick...that's nice. I like it
when you just stroke me, like that, around my nipples." I feathered
my fingertips across and around her nipples, and she closed her eyes
dreamily. Then she whispered, "Suck it, hon." I bent down eagerly,
but then paused, curbing my own impulse out of fear of damaging those
delicate globes. I extended my tongue and touched, and then enclosed
the pale nipple with my lips. The damp skin of my inner lips seemed
to dissolve into her flesh. I sucked. She whispered, "A little
harder, hon. Put your tongue under the nipple, and then suck. That's
the way. There. Suck it." I did, and her voice softened into a long,
barely audible outbreath that ended with a pleased, "Mmm. Good. Good.
You do that so well."
I was surprised at the reaction of her nipples. I drew back to
look at them. "It got stiff," I said. "Does it hurt when they get
stiff?"
"No, hon, it means it feels good. Just like getting you hard
feels good for you."
We played and whispered for a while. Then Martha Jane just
stopped. Abruptly and completely, she dropped her hands and stopped
everything.
She settled back onto her folded legs on the floor, and suddenly
she covered her face with her hands. She stayed that way for a
moment, and behind the palms that covered her face she seemed to take
a long, arduous breath. She did that for a few seconds and then
looked up at at me because I had bent down closer to her. I saw she
was suddenly saddened, and as I bent down she looked up at me with
pain and loss on her face. Her hazel eyes searched deeply into mine,
and I could see that they were moist. She spoke softly and plaint-
ively, and, as best as I can recall, she said:
"Do you know who you are, Speedy? You are the smartest, cutest,
most loving boy in the world. D'you know that, hon? But you're gonna
grow up--". She stopped, and placing her hands on each side of face
she brought me down closer to her, so that our foreheads touched. "You
are gonna grow up in a very strange world, with no daddy, like me. And
a mommy who can't live for anything except dying and goin' to be with
God. Oh Speedy, don't you ever grow up to be like that. You hear?
Don't grow up and be afraid and suspicious and narrow and mean, afraid
of everything and of every event and every change in your life. I know
you'll grow up and be so good, and so sweet, and so smart and sensi-
tive...but you'll feel like you're in hell because you're trusting and
sensual and...other people don't tolerate that very well, it's all bad
for them and they'll always say you're too different and--"
I must have had a confused look on my face that made her stop.
I'm sure I did. I don't remember all her words exactly, but I do know
that at that time her words only partially made sense.
She kissed my nose. The lowered head toward the floor and seemed
to give a loud, tired sigh. The episode quickly ended when she stood
up and said, "C'mon, hon. C'mon. Beddie-bye."
PART 2B:
She led me to the bedroom and I jumped onto the mattress, as I
usually did, and waited for her to turn out the light and fluff up the
pillows, as she usually did.
But this time she stood very quietly in the dark near the edge of
the bed. She took off her bra and panties. I had seen her bra-less
often enough, but now she was totally nude. I remember how she
looked, her smoky green eyes and frizzy auburn hair reflecting the
moonlight. She was slim but not skinny, slightly curvy in the upper
thighs but trim enough to appear rather long legged. She had normal,
presentable breasts with mildly pink nipples that were almost the same
color as the surrounding flesh. Martha Jane was 16 then. Her mound
was a prominent swell, made more so by the gentle flare of her hips and
the flatness of her tummy, and below her mound was a small gap, a space
between her slim, firm thighs where her legs and pelvis met. There was
a palm-sized, light, tightly curly tuft of auburn hair just above the
sea-shell curve of the mound, the mysterious mound that was deeply
furrowed by her thick-lipped slit.
Needless to say, I didn't know what many of these spare parts were
for. I remember that seeing her naked for the first time was more
pleasing and soothing than it was titillating. Her body impressed me
as having the form that a female body should ideally have. For me,
the excitement of the moment lay in the fact that she allowed me to
see the secret Martha Jane that no one else could see.
"C'mere," she coaxed sweetly. "To the edge of the bed." I rose
onto my knees and shuffled to the edge of the bed. She smiled and
moved closer to stand directly before me, pulling her shoulders back
and lifting one breast with her left hand while her other hand touched
the back of my neck, urging me toward her and holding me near. In the
dark she whispered, "Here. Suck my titty."
That night she carefully and gently introduced me to the rest of
her body as she stood by the bed. I still remember how she taught me
just the right way to suck her breasts, which I enjoyed immensely.
She crooned, "Put my nipple on your tongue and press it with your
lips...Uh-huh, that's right. Just like before. Ahhh. You do it just
right. You're so sensitive to what I like."
Now and then as I sucked and nipped I'd hear her swallow hard, one
of several clues from her that she had experienced a strong pang of
physical pleasure and was on her way to the next level of new and,
perhaps, secret or even forbidden pleasures that we would discover.
She lovingly watched me suckle and lick from one breast to the other
and asked if I liked it, and with my usual alacrity I replied that I
liked it a lot and I asked if I were doing it right and if it felt
good for her. She said, "Yes you always do everything right. You're
sucking exactly the way I like it." This went on for a long time in
the sensuous dark. What I remember most about it was the giving to
her of so much pure physical pleasure. She was almost clinical at
first, appearing to examine her own feelings and reactions more than
anything else. While she stood enjoying my sucking, she led one of my
hands to her mound and told me that in a little while she would be
very wet and sensitive there but that she wasn't wet just yet and that
later she would be and she wanted me to touch her there when she got
wetter.
She lay in the bed and I lay beside her, cradled into her left
side, nursing at her nipples. She found my balls and began tracing
around them with a fingernail. She did this for a while, giving me an
erotic tickle that made me spread my legs so she could reach me
better. After her light fondling had my cock jerking, her hand went
warmly around my shaft, her thumb making lazy circles around the tip.
Her voice was motherly, cotton-soft magic in the dark, along with her
milky flesh and her nipples and her slow deep breathing: "Would you
like me to milk your dick?"
I nodded, giving her breasts the nipping little kisses that she
liked and that made goosebumps on her arms. I had heard her use the
term 'dick' before, but I didn't know she could 'milk' one. These
became two of my favorite words when I'm aroused. And I was a little
older then, nearing 8, and perhaps some new hormones had begun their
work. A strong sexual giddiness had found its way into my response
pattern. And new words had found their way into our universe. She
was adding them continually, as if their forbidden nature took on an
even more alluring power than usual. What was happening now was less
intellectual, more emotional, and clearly even more sexual.
The pleasure that accompanied my erection soon mounted, for Martha
Jane was showing me that a dick could indeed be warmly, voluptuously,
lovingly hand-milked to a rod-like firmness. She kept whispering to
me as she sought new ways of touching and stroking me and varying the
speed and angle of her motion. She had learned that I preferred a
gradually rising intensity, that I enjoyed lingering at one sensual
plateau for long intervals before going on. It was a technique I
would soon learn to surprise her with, on my own.
And then a new twist introduced itself, seemingly on its own and
without any prior thought or suggestion from her, the same way new
pleasures always did when we were together. Without being prompted I
felt it was time I returned the delight she had given me. I had felt
like doing so for some time; but never having seen her naked, I didn't
have much of a roadmap from which I could draw inspiration. How or
why I managed to accomplish all that I did that night is beyond me,
and was probably beyond Martha Jane. No one had ever explained female
anatomy to me. Breasts and long hair were the only female parts I
knew until that night, except for Martha Jane's brief explanation of
where babies came from and her earlier revelation about how the place
between her legs would get wet when I touched her there.
Somehow I sensed that Martha Jane's ultimate pleasure center would
be between her legs, as was mine. I shifted upward a little, hoping
to use my arms and hands more freely, and this allowed me to snuggle
my face in her neck, kissing her throat and relishing the taste and
feel and scent of her skin there.
"Oh, sweet," she sighed, returning the snuggle by rubbing her
cheek against my head. I was thrilled that she enjoyed it. Then I
began stroking downward along her tummy toward her navel, and then
down her waist to the tops and insides of her thighs. I felt the need
to go slowly, as she had done with me. Then again, I was not quite
sure what I would find or where I should go. Gradually my hand slid
in circles, to and fro, until I found her pubic curls. She didn't
move, but her breathing stopped. Her hand on my cock stopped.
Wondering if I was allowed to continue, I held my hand motionless upon
her bush. A long pause. Martha Jane must have sensed that I was
thinking blindly of how to proceed, for soon she let go of my cock and
gently took my hand from her bush, lifted it, and slowly placed my
hand palm down on her bare, warm mons. Letting her own hand fall
sleepily to her side, she whispered, "Touch me there."
I marveled at the shape and texture of her mound, firm and rounded
just enough to fit against the outstretched palm of my hand; and her
silken tuft whose twirls clung to the edge of my hand. My fingers
drifted downward and found her moist fold. Her free hand returned to
my dick and gave the tip a little squeeze. I raised my head. Her
eyes were closed. She seemed to concentrate entirely on what I was
doing. She didn't say anything. Blindly and with the utmost care, I
explored her dampness. Her flesh there seemed extraordinarily
delicate. I heard her catch her breath as my finger made a path along
both sides of the smooth ridge of her wet and swollen outer lips. Her
hand on my cock remained still, her other arm cradling me at her left
side. Soon my index finger found the places and movements along the
inner side of her damp places that generated quiet sighs of enjoy-
ment. From my vantage point near her upright breasts I saw little of
her wet darkness beyond the faint rise of her pubic hair. As I
stroked slowly up and down the wet inner ridge, I saw her thighs
spread, slowly, moment by moment, an inch or two at a time, until she
raised her knees slightly so her legs could fall outward and she could
completely bare her naked secrets to my hand. Carefully my fingers
learned to open and spread her. Soon, my index finger found her ample
clitoris. At that moment she gave a loud swallow. She murmured
sleepily, her mouth barely moving, "Yes." I pressed the clit, finding
it firm, rounded, slick. She whispered again, "Yes." My finger ran a
small circle around the lubricated jewel, an action that seemed only
natural since her clit was too small and too wet to hold onto, and the
motion was greeted by a slight rise in her hips and a barely audible,
lascivious "Ahhh."
So that was her spot. That was the place. Millimeter by milli-
meter, I began teaching myself about her mysterious clit. Her eyes
remained closed, her head tilted back slightly on the pillow. She
seemed not asleep, but in another world. I heard her breath only
faintly, and for long periods it seemed she was holding her breath.
It's very possible that Martha Jane knew little more about this
part of her than I did (although, today, I suspect she had mastur-
bated, an activity I had yet to discover). She offered no instruc-
tion, guiding me only with hissed whispers of "Yes, hon," and "Ahh,
that's good!" But I soon knew how to touch her clit and her thick
lips and thin inner petals exactly as she liked. The moment when I
discovered the exact clitoral massage and direction that she liked
most, she gave a quick hiss and whispered, "There, hon." I repeated
the motion, and she said again, "Right there. Do that," followed by
my learning to use a very slight pressing motion near the base of her
button, which she greeted with a long, noisy, throaty swallow. Her
thighs fell farther apart and she made small snuggling adjustments
into the mattress with her hips as if attempting to open herself wider
for my fingers. Using words that I could barely hear, she whispered
into the dark air, "So nice."
What she liked was a slow drawing of my finger, held flatly but
gently along her crease, from the bottom of her clit toward the top.
At the top she enjoyed my occasional cradling of the length of her
clit within two of my fingers, and a gentle sliding up and down each
side of the length of it, in much the same way that she often used
only two fingers to stroke my cock. She preferred it done slowly,
with little pressure; and I learned that she enjoyed riding a peak
this way until I left the area and started drawing small, deliberate
middle-finger circles around the nub without actually touching it.
During all this time her face remained slightly turned away from me,
eyes closed, her head back to reveal her graceful throat so that I
could see as well as hear her swallow with nervous pleasure. I
repeated this stroking until she began tightening her arms and seemed
to stiffen everywhere. I would slow down and maintain her excitement
at that level for a while, sliding one finger inside her and marveling
at the grip of her inner muscles, and then I'd go back to the little
circles that pleased her so much. But each time, I made the preferred
stroking motion last for a longer cycle, and shortened the interval of
the slightly less pleasurable circles and finger dipping. I have no
notion where these ideas came from. Now and then she would return to
more normal breathing, but each foray into the more intense level
would find her neck tightening a little more, her occasional breathing
more urgent and broken.
And there was yet another discovery: now and then as Martha Jane
milked me, squeezing gently from base to tip and mildly jiggling me
for a moment with two or three fingers before going back to the long,
hugging strokes, I noticed a drop of slippery liquid at my tip. There
was a very small amount of it, barely a slight smear. I didn't make
much of it at the time, thinking it might mean I needed to go to the
bathroom. But what concerned me more was the mystery and beauty of
her own growing involvement her pleasure, and my own responses to it.
I had no idea where this intensity of feeling would lead; I knew only
that I was making her feel very, very good and that it got better for
her every minute. And the minutes did, indeed, pass. Later I looked
at a clock and found then that it was well after ten o'clock, almost
two hours from the time I'd first stepped from the tub that night.
As Martha Jane's body became more tensed, I discovered a varia-
tion she liked immensely. With that favorite motion of my flattened
finger along her crease and clit, I learned to lengthen the path
and to insert about an inch of my stroking finger inside her
before beginning the upward slide along her clit. I very slightly
increased the speed and pressure and found that she enjoyed it even
more. I was fascinated by the inner texture of her incredibly warm
opening and the way it gripped my finger as I entered and withdrew.
Each dip into her brought a fresh supply of wetness to her clit and
outer lips.
Then she began a rapidly accelerating slide toward her climax.
She had been cradling me with her left arm, but this had drifted
behind her head. Her other hand, which had been milking me, was
drawn quickly to her mouth and curled into a fist that tightened
until her knuckles grew white. Her head craned farther back, her
neck straining. She started holding her breath and then letting it
out and in with a single, delicate gasp and holding it again. Then
I felt her clitoris swell; her knees fell all the way open, stretch-
ing her thighs and raising her mound against my hand. I watched
this with open-mouthed fascination; the memory of the sight of her
outspread thighs and raised hips as she allowed herself a total
immersion into ecstasy continues, after all these years, to redefine
the meaning of the word "naked."
And suddenly, electrically, came a rapid series of quick and
shuddering gasps that stopped short as she took in one last gulp of
air and tightly held her breath. She uttered a last, frantic,
desperate whisper: "oh hon. Ohdontstop."
I was certainly not going to stop, irresistibly engrossed in
giving her such intense enjoyment. She began trembling in small waves
along her waist and arms. She whimpered, and her head dug back
ruthlessly into the pillow. Then she went entirely stiff from head to
toe. Her clit swelled. A tendon flittered in her inner thighs.
Thinking that slowing my movement would prolong her pleasure, I did
so. Her hips lurched once and made a single grinding circle under my
hand, and she again stiffened, taut, and remained completely still for
an alarmingly long time, her flowering heated center weeping stickily
around my finger--until she finally and just as suddenly began to
relax, her hips first giving three or four brief undulations. Her
neck straightened and receded and she took in a long deep breath, her
head falling limply to one shoulder. Soon she began breathing
normally but deeply and tremulously, so I stopped moving my finger but
kept it pressed securely against her still turgid clit. Her wetness
soaked my hand.
Her eyes opened. She blinked and panted. She breathed an
astonished, "Where did you learn to do that?"
I shrugged. "I just thought it was what you wanted."
"You mean you never did that before?"
"Who would I do it with?" I just looked at her blankly. "Did I
do it wrong?"
"Oh you sweet baby," she moaned, almost crying. And in fact she
did half-rise and hug me and she did indeed cry. "Oh my honey," she
moaned. She cried for several minutes, but quietly, in delicate
expulsions of breath (Martha Jane was always a very quiet, very fem-
inine, very elegant crier. I have never been able to forget it). For
a while she held me, rocking to and fro, not letting go of me for a
long time until she fell back listlessly, sniffling, and put a kleenex
to her eyes and nose. She said, almost to herself, "We are gonna go
straight to hell."
I asked, concerned, "Martha Jane? Did I do it right?"
She settled down and cradled me again and said, yes, I had done
it right.
"Exactly right!" she said, and began milking me again.
"Was it Good?"
"Speedy...that was deliciously nasty."
It was one of our favorite phrases (and perhaps the most signif-
icant), along with all the others we adopted as turn-ons. Although
studious and conscientious and polite, Martha Jane used a limited and
earthy vocabulary when naked. She gave the words a seething, lecher-
ous coloration. And she seemed to know exactly how and when to use
them. I soon learned to do the same. It would be some time yet
before I knew what it all meant. But I recall that night as being the
one during which we opened and passed through a door that soon closed
shut behind us, yielding no escape.
She sweetly milked and cradled me and looked deeply into my eyes
with an intense gaze that told me she didn't have sex with only part
of her body. She did it with her face, her eyes, her words, her every
part. She explained that she had just "cum," a word she pronounced
with such dripping salaciousness that I got hard again, even though
cumming was a little abstract for me and she soon gave up trying to
describe it. In any case, I was glad I had given her such intense
gratification. I described what I had seen, heard and felt as I was
making her cum, and her eyes glowed sensuously and mischievously as
she listened. We were tired, but through words and glances we
prolonged a titillating sexual afterglow that lasted several more
minutes.
She tried to demonstrate what cumming was by pumping me briefly.
Both of us soon realized that it wouldn't (couldn't) happen for me
yet. But my feelings of closeness to her were sexually satisfying in
their own way.
As I started falling into sleep, she rose from the bed and began
dressing. My mother would soon be home from her date. Martha Jane
put on her shirt, but stopped to give me a very big kiss on my nose
and a very long, very close hug.
While she finished dressing I was slumbering off. I rolled over,
away from her, snuggled into my pillow, and watched the moonlight
falling on the window sill a few feet away. I felt exceptionally
peaceful and cared for. I felt that the best part was being able to
give her such spectacular enjoyment. The devils in us had been given
space, had played, laughed, sung, shared, had been released into the
night somehow, and had worn themselves out. Now, I felt now like an
angel. I wondered how it could be true, as I had heard in school,
that angels traveled from world to world along alabaster shafts of
moonlight. Looking closely at the light, I tried to imagine how even
the tiniest of angels could glide in the glowing pools that dripped
over the window sill. I imagined what it would be like to travel
upward on those soft beams, beams the color of Martha Jane's warm and
trembling nakedness when I watched her having her long cum with the
moonlight on her neck and hardened nipples.
Martha Jane's clothing whispered as she dressed. Her softly
rounded shoulders and smooth thighs whispered under her clothes. Her
arms and hands whispered as they reached to button her shirt. And her
breathing whispered, still a little shaky from cumming. I remember
those sounds when I see moonlight. I hear them in my dreams.
Continued. . .
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