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Subject: {ASSM} ME AND MARTHA JANE '99 (m/F,teen) MJANE04.TXT
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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 4A:
I had a bad cold. It was just before Thanksgiving. Wearing a
heavy brown flannel robe, I sat up against the headboard as Martha
Jane settled near me on the bed and sat Indian-style. In her hand she
had a bottle of green cough syrup, a bottle of cod liver oil, and a
bottle of ear drops.
"Okay, hon, time for dessert."
"That's not dessert," I complained.
"This is dessert for sick folks." She shimmied her hips into
the mattress to get comfy. "Now, let's see, what does this say...?"
She examined the label on the cough medicine. "One tablespoon.
Okay!" With a giddy smile she fished for the spoon in the parapher-
nalia she had gathered in a large dish towel spread on the bed. She
held up the spoon. "One tablespoon!" she announced. Seeming to
enjoy every minute of it, she unscrewed the cough medicine, held the
spoon up as she poured the dark green gunk, and carefully brought
the spoon toward my face. "Oookay...a-a-all for you, hon. C'mon.
Yumyum. Yumyum."
"Yumyum Yuch!" I pouted.
"Come on now, you don't want to stay up coughing all night like
you did last night, do you?"
I frowned at the spoon.
"C'mon. It tastes good."
"I already had some of it and I know it doesn't taste good. It's
terrible, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth for hours."
"Well, Speedy, it doesn't taste good because it's medicine. It
isn't supposed to taste good."
"Why don't they make it in the first place so it *does* taste
good?"
"'Cause if it tasted good in the first place, you'd drink it all
the time. You'd live on it, and then it would make you sick."
"If it's medicine, why would it make me sick?"
"Listen, stop bein' so logical. Here. Yumyum. C'mon."
I opened my mouth and she tilted the spoon into it. I swallowed
and grimaced.
"There, I knew you'd like it."
"Yech."
"Now where's the cod liver oil..."
"Yecch!" I growled, as disgustingly as I possibly could,
stretching my mouth into a horrific grimace that went from ear to
ear. I held the pose as if frozen into it.
"Oh, stop. It can't taste that bad. Here..." She carefully
squeezed an eyedropper of amber oil into a spoon, and then squeezed
the juice from half an orange into it. As she did this I sat rigidly
against the headboard as if long petrified, my face still frozen in
the same gruesome pose.
"Speedy, stop making that ugly face. Now, here...here's your cod
liver oil. Come on, stop makin' that face and swallow this."
I looked her straight in the eye, with the same face.
"Speedy, that is the ugliest thing I ever saw. Stop, so we can
get this over with."
I let my face relax, sighed heavily, and opened my mouth. The
orange juice didn't do much to hide the bitter, fishy taste that clung
to the inside of my mouth. "Yah!"
"That's a good boy, that's two outta three. Now let's get this
off the bed so you can lie down and I can fix those ears." She placed
the dish towel of goods on the side table and sat up on her knees on
the bed, holding the bottle of ear drops. "Lie down on your side.
C'mon, you've had earaches before, you know what to do. At least your
ears can't taste this."
"They can too," I insisted.
"Lie down the other way first, facing away from me. That's
right. Now, here..." She bent over me and placed the tip of the
filled eyedropper into the opening of my ear. The sudden contact of
the cold glass tip made me jerk and quiver involuntarily.
"Oh!" She jumped and pulled her hand away. "Oh, Speedy! Did I
hurt your ear?"
I shook my head no. "It itches!"
"Oh my god, don't do that! You almost gave me a stroke. I
thought I hurt you!"
I coiled up into a ball and feigned a low, pitiful groan, then
another.
"Oh, behave. You're not funny. Be still."
I relaxed on my side and then cringed as the cold thin fluid
filled my ear with a small roaring noise. "It itches. Eeew, it's so
itchy."
"It'll settle in and be okay," she said, stuffing a piece of
wadded cotton in my ear. "Now turn over so I can do the other one
...Turn over."
I lay still.
"Speedy, turn over so I can do the other one."
I sat up and pretended I was in a breathless daze. "What? Did
you say somethin'? I can't hear. Where am I?"
Holding the ear medicine in one hand and the eyedropper in the
other, she started to laugh, resisted it, and closed her eyes
patiently. "Speedy, please...you'll make me laugh and spill this
stuff all over the bed. Now...please...stop."
I groaned, "Okay," and laboriously rose to turn over on my other
side. Already weak, I feigned an even greater weakness, moving slowly
and spasmodically, writhing at every turn as if in pain. "Oh...Uh...
Mr. Holmes!...uh..call Dr. Watson right away!... it's the deadly,
poisoned ear drops...cgh, cgh."
"Speedy, if you make me spill this..." She started to laugh
again, and held it back with clenched teeth. "Stop, or I'm gonna
spank your butt 'till it falls off on the floor."
On my side facing her, I lay still.
On her knees, she shuffled closer to me. "Honestly, I never in my
life saw anybody go through such agony...Now here, this is the last
one."
Once more, the cool fluid rushed into me and greasily leaked over
my eardrum. I shivered again with the same itch in my ear as before,
and Martha Jane sealed my ear with cotton. Then she sat back and
sighed, drooping.
"I am exhausted from this! You're worse than a room full of sick
puppies."
I smiled angelically.
"Don't you smile at me like that, you little devil." She leaned
closer to me and half whispered, scowling. "Hey, you have to get
well. We can't fuck while you're sick like this, you're too weak.
So there."
She rose from the bed and brought the bottles and table cloth into
the kitchen. While I heard her running water and cleaning I made
myself comfortable in the bed, lay on my side, and pulled the covers up
to my neck. I shivered as the 'flu coursed through me, but soon the
blanket warmed me and I relaxed.
Martha Jane turned off the lights, except for one small lamp in
the living room. Then she came into the bedroom and turned out the
ceiling lamp using the switch on the wall by the door, and reached
under the bedside lamp to turn off the last light in the room. We
were dimly lit by the glow from the small living room lamp.
Martha Jane hiked up the legs of her jeans to make herself more
comfortable in bed, and quietly lay down beside me. She held her palm
against my forehead. "You still have a little fever," she whispered.
She fiddled with the blankets and straightened my pillow. She felt me
tremble. "You still have chills?"
Lying on my side, I nodded slowly.
"Well, don't you worry, they'll go away soon." She stretched and
pulled blankets about, soothing out the twists and tangles that were
made while we struggled earlier with the medications. "You just stay
nice and warm and...take your medicine the way you're supposed to,
and...before you know it...you'll be well and gettin' right back into
trouble, good as new." She rested on her elbow beside me. "You ready
to go to sleep?"
I nodded. Then another wave of the chills and shivers rippled
through me. I clasped my arms closer around myself to fight it off.
She asked, "Want me to keep you warm?".
I nodded yes, several times.
She moved closer to me, putting one arm around my head to cradle
me onto her bosom, and using the other arm to rub warmth into my
back and shoulders. I snuggled into her and she said, "There, now."
As soon as I was settled against her she unbuttoned her shirt and
opened it loosely. She pulled up her bra, baring her breasts, and
wiggled down so that her left nipple grazed my cheek. Against my
feverish face her soft tit felt warm as toast. I reached up and
kissed the pale pink bud of her nipple. She whispered, "There...
Sleep, hon."
The shivers made another brief pass as I fell asleep against
her.
.....A week or so later I was standing in Martha Jane's kitchen
as her mother, a thin lady who looked much older than my own and
who resembled her darker brunette daughter more than her fair,
auburn haired Martha Jane, carefully handed me a large tablespoon
filled with dark green syrup. Her mother always spoke slowly and
with a slight rasp, having never completely overcome the lung
problems that she developed from the long and severe illness fol-
lowing her husband's death in the war.
"There," she told me, "now go in the bedroom and give that to
Martha Jane. And be certain she takes every drop of it."
"Yes, ma'am," I said. Holding the filled tablespoon face high
before me, I walked carefully through their living room and into
Martha Jane's bedroom. She sat up in bed, a pink wool blanket up
to her waist, the place littered with used kleenex and her school
books. Her eyes and nose were swollen and red. In one hand she
held a thoroughly used tissue.
I grinned maniacally at the door and chanted, "Yumyum!"
She winced. "Don't yumyum me, you--Is it already time for
that awful stuff again?"
"Yumyum!"
She called into the kitchen, "Mother, I thought I already took
this stuff!"
"It's four times a day, Martha Jane," her mother called back.
"Oh my," she moaned. I had climbed onto the bed and, on my
knees, moved closer to her with one hand holding the spoon and the
other cupped guardedly beneath it.
"You were right," she said, sniffing. "That stuff really does
taste awful. And you can taste it for a week!"
"Yumyum," I said, moving the spoon closer.
"Oh," she whimpered, wincing again. "Do I have to?"
I nodded. "It hurts me more than it hurts you."
"Right," she muttered, eyeing the spoon with mild terror. "Oh...
all right." She opened her mouth and I dipped the spoon inside.
Mugging and wincing, she took it all, swallowed, and slithered her
tongue around thickly. "Oh, that is *so* disgusting! This is
supposed to be the atomic age. Can't modern science do better than
this?"
Her mother came into the room and retrieved the spoon. She
stood beside the bed shaking her head and fretting.
"Look at this," her mother said, indicating Martha Jane's books
and papers all over the bed. "Look, she won't even stop when she's
sick as a dog. I don't know what to do with her, Speedy. She was
awake half the night studying, and if she wasn't studying she was
coughing *and* studying."
"I have to graduate," she muttered petulantly. "On time!"
"But, Martha Jane, you can't learn very well if you don't sleep.
It just makes your 'flu that much worse. You need rest, dear."
"Yes, mother, I know, I know, you're right, you're right." She
sighed, sounding peevish and testy. Nervously she played with a
kleenex, then quickly raised the kleenex to her nose and sneezed
into it.
I said, "Bless you."
Martha Jane wiped her nose and said into the tissue, "I hate
people staring at me when I'm sick. I'm so ugly."
Giving up, her mom turned away and said, "All right, I'll go back
in the kitchen. Speedy, you visit a while, and try to talk some
sense into her."
Her mother left and I started to settle on the edge of the bed,
but Martha Jane said, "Don't get too close," holding up a hand. She
sneezed again and then and held out her palm, indicating the box of
kleenex near my knees. I gave it to her and she plucked a new tissue.
She said, "I hate this."
"I'm sorry," I said, and sat on the bed anyway. I leaned forward
to kiss her.
"No," she whispered. "You'll get this same cold again." She held
the kleenex to her nose and sniffled. "Well, all right, a little one.
Right here--" she indicated her forehead. As she held the kleenex
over her nose I leaned forward and gave her a noisy kiss in middle of
her forehead. "Thank you, Speedy. I'm sorry, you're really sweet.
Don't pay any attention to me. I'm sick. Oh, I can't even stand to
hear myself say it. I'm sick!"
I asked, "Is this gonna keep you from school?"
"No, no, it'll just slow me down and make it tougher than it
should have been. I'll have to work like the devil to keep up. I
already worked myself to death, getting in school a year ahead of my
age to begin with. I hope it doesn't hurt my grades." She settled
against the pillow behind her and gazed determinedly out the window.
"I have to make those grades. I have to get out of here. I have to
get out of the 'Lauderdale Courts U.S. Government Housing Facility'."
Though I wanted her to get well, the thought that she might soon
leave the project was disturbing. Fortunately for her, the Christ-
mas break would soon be underway and she would not miss many of her
classes. And I knew she still had the winter and spring to go be-
fore graduating. But by this time, graduating and leaving were
mentioned more frequently than I found comfortable.
Falteringly I tried to think of the questions that would give me
more information about what might happen in the near future. "Would
you move out as soon as you graduate high school?" I asked.
"Oh no, hon, I still have college to go. You can't get a decent
job with just high school--at least, a girl can't. Not in good ole
Memphis, Tennessee. My poor sister got her diploma and she does ok,
but it's nothing to crow about. She was hoping she'd make more, and
she wanted to rent a place for all of us. But she can barely support
herself after giving Mother a little to keep us going." She sighed
again, this time with exaggerated longing, and whined, "Why can't she
marry some filthy-rich man who shows up here in that driveway with
sacks of money...? Oh, well, Evelyn wouldn't do that. She wouldn't
marry *just* for money. She'd marry for *everything*, not just the
money."
"Would you?" I asked, half smiling, half not.
She said directly and firmly, "No." She blew her nose. She
added, "But I wouldn't complain if some was included."
I had no idea what to do about her completing high school, going
to college, and leaving. But I knew she was unhappy where she was.
Heedless of the fact that the forces of time and economic necessity
and all the rest of it were far beyond my control, I was determined
during the following weeks to please her so well that she might have
second thoughts about never seeing me again. Within a few days she
recovered from her cold and used her Christmas break to work
doggedly on catching up with her studies. Trying to make myself
indispensable, I checked with her daily during the holidays to see
if she needed anything. If she needed note paper I volunteered and
ran to the drug store to get it. I trailed along with her to the
public library and hunted down books for her.
The weekend after Christmas, Mom had a date and Martha Jane sat
with me. I spent the entire night waiting on her, fixing dinner and
washing the dishes, bathing and cleaning up while she studied. I
even prepared the bed myself so that by nine o'clock she came into
the bedroom to check on me and found everything in place.
"Well!" she said, sliding into bed and hovering over me with
a warm smile. "You didn't even need me here tonight, did you?
You did everything all by yourself."
"You were busy," I said.
"Yes, I was. And so were you. And I'm glad you let me study,
hon. I needed it. And don't think I didn't notice. Now--is there
anything I can do for you?"
I didn't answer. But I could see a sultry look in her eyes.
In the pause that followed while I sent signals to her with mine,
she soon saw a similarly suggestive look in mine.
But she paused to glance quickly down at herself and the badly
wrinkled clothing that she had all day while studying. She winked
at me playfully and whispered softly, "Wait. I'm all sweaty. I
have to clean up a little. Now, you wait right here and don't go
anywhere."
She skittered into the bathroom and closed the door. I heard bath
water running for about five minutes, and a little later she opened
the door, turned out the bathroom light, and came into the bedroom
wrapped in a wrinkly old bathrobe that she had worn for years because
in winter the apartment was, like all the others, very chilly. Her
old robe didn't fit that well anymore, seeming a little short, more
like a short sarong than an ankle length garment. And it was too
tight around the shoulders, so that even when she held it closed in
front the lapels ventured outward, revealing the soft glimmering swell
of her breasts.
She had just started to slide into bed when I got up and scooted
down, off the foot of the bed and onto the floor. I said with
feigned elegance and formality, "Wait a moment, madam. The, uh,
services of this establishment go beyond cooking dinner and making
beds."
She said dryly, "Oh? Really?"
"It includes turning out the lights," I said, walking around the
bed and shutting off the bedside lamp. In the dark I continued,
"And many other services to insure that you rest peacefully during
your stay with us." I removed my underwear.
She asked primly, batting her eyelashes at me, "And, uh, do the
services include the manager of the establishment making himself
nekkid?"
I answered, "Yes, madam. They also include the management
making the guest nekkid, too."
"Oh my," she whispered. "I'm shocked. And pleased."
I reached for her hand with mine, and pulled slightly so that she
rose from the bed and stood before me. I noted that we were nearly
the same height now. She was only slightly taller. In a single
motion, I pulled off her robe and dropped it to the floor. It was, I
believe, the first time I had undressed her myself. I whispered,
"All madam has to do now is lie down."
She whispered back, "And then what happens?"
"Management, uh...manages."
"I can't wait."
She moved into the bed, going near the other side to give me
room, and I followed. I stayed on my knees, watching for a moment as
she lay flat on her back, stretching to get comfortable. Her hands
were behind her head, her slim body fully extended in the moonlight.
She spread her thighs slightly, just enough for me to see in the dark
that she had begun to moisten and open. I hovered over her, surprised
at how, more and more, I should be so deeply affected by the sight of
her. Then I settled on my elbows close to her.
She started to put one arm around me, but I whispered, "No.
Don't move."
She lay silently and waited. I began slowly and softly kissing
her entire body, starting with her nose, her face, her neck. "You
don't have to do anything," I whispered. It took me about ten minutes
to move my lips from her neck to her toes before I started traveling
back up, along up her thighs. Whenever she tried to help, I would
tell her to lie still. One time she asked me, "Don't you want me to
do anything for you?" I answered, "You are." From that point on she
gave herself to my mouth and hands.
I lay on my tummy in the space between her legs, my mouth nipping
at the sensitive skin high inside her upper thighs. She gave a series
of tiny gasps as my lips licked a path toward her cunt. Watching her
from below, I shortened each lick as I moved upward, closer. I don't
know how these techniques ever got into my young head. I learned from
things she did to me and from her responses. I could see the tension
in her tightened fists as I neared her center. I knew that when she
started holding her breath she'd be ready for the touch of my mouth
directly on her. Soon she lay tense, holding her breath for long
seconds at a time, her tummy contracting expectantly. I removed my
lips from her completely for only a second or two, then lowered my
tongue to nestle directly and lightly on her clit. She exhaled and
whimpered, and her hips swivelled once before she raised her pussy to
me again and held still, waiting for more. I removed my lips again
for another brief pause, then curled my mouth into her slit, took her
clit in my lips, and lightly sucked. She whimpered helplessly. I
gave her clit a few more easy sucks, then sucked continuously and
licked. To my surprise, she immediately started cumming. This was
sooner than I had planned, but I was not one to interrupt. Still
sucking, I arched my tongue rhythmically and slowly along her nub.
She got stiffer, her hips rising higher off the bed. Her head rolled
to one side. She uttered a strange, muted sound that I can describe
only as the sound of a beautiful young woman cumming deep and hard,
and I could feel her tummy and taut thighs quiver through most of it.
Soon her hips fell back to the bed and she let out a long, breathy
"Oh! God!". I licked and kissed around her wet slit, waiting for the
signals that told me her hot clit had calmed down. Her thighs
jerked once and I knew she was returning to earth.
I unmouthed her as she regained her breath and I licked her cunt
petals lightly, feeling the heat of her orgasm and smelling the moist
remains of soap and powder on her, nipping at her thighs again, and
then I rose to lie fully on top of her. For a moment I kissed her
neck and her nipples. Then, rising on my elbows, I aimed my cock and
slid in, hearing myself give a shaky sigh of lewd pleasure as I felt
my dick go all the way in, slow and deep.
"Ah, hon," she gushed, though she still could hardly breathe.
"God, that feels good!" I didn't move. I could feel her clasp me
inside, once for several seconds, then two or three contractions
around my shaft that waned in strength.
I rose on my elbows. Slowly, the new young animal in me rising
gradually and fully until I found myself breathing through clenched
teeth, I looked down at where we were so deliciously joined. Then,
and wordlessly and with a deliberate and unchanging rhythm, I fucked
her until she came again. I said nothing for the long minute that I
pumped in and out with long, deep, steady strokes, nothing until she
gave a final quake and went entirely rigid, and as she lay suspended
and frozen in bliss I moved my lips near her face and breathed, "Cum
...cum" again and again, wavering only when I felt that odd tickle as
my cock slid in her vaginal contractions, and a vague, irresistible
writhing in my lower gut and a faint sensation of some small 'some-
thing' oozing through the length of my cock.
By the time she relaxed we were both overcome. Neither of us
could move. Eyes closed, she lay stroking the back of my neck.
After a while she whispered, "You are such a wonderful fuck."
To which I could only mutter into her bosom, "I had help."
With her cheek resting on my head I felt her face form a wide
smile. Without seeing her, I could envision her teeth gleaming in
the dark.
"Flatterer," she purred, sounding sinfully pleased.
PART 4B:
Two technicalities that didn't particularly plague me at that
time were: whatever happened to Martha Jane's virginity? And what
did she use for birth control?
I assumed that my early sexual equipment had not yet developed to
the size required for breaking hymens. This seemed reasonable, though
I did have about five inches erect in those days and from what I had
seen and heard from other boys my age, I was above average in that de-
partment. At the swimming pool in the project and at Malone Pool, a
municipal public swimming pool nearby, plenty of kids showed up who
didn't hesitate to drop drawers in public and hop into their swim
trunks. From all I saw, I was a definite contender. From Martha
Jane's testimony, of course, I was the best in the business.
Birth control was a different matter. I did my own research, at
considerable consternation to the librarian who fetched dozens of
medical references out of the library stacks. The best information
I could gather and decipher led me to conclude that it was medically
possible for me to do some damage--though I doubted I'd find a
urologist who would dare confirm it.
In addition to official references, I garnered more information
from every young boy's ultimate source: the firsthand tales of that
worldliest of peers, the local 12-year-old womanizer. I don't
remember this kid's name, but he frequented the big grassy lawn that
stretched before my building. It was a ritual about once a month for
this nice looking, hefty redheaded kid to pontificate on the handling
and seduction of young girls before a group of enthralled listeners
age 4 to 14 or so. At about that time I decided to hang around for
some of these sessions, during which I heard the usual rumors about
virginity often passing without pain or bloodletting, or via other
means (sports, et al). He had his own lurid stories to relate, and
often did so with amazing clinical detail that, through my experi-
ence with Martha Jane, convinced me that at least some of his reports
seemed authentic.
I decided Martha Jane's hymen had probably been taken by me--
exactly when, I couldn't say--and that its inconvenience had been
masked by ardor and passion.
My scouring about the world was not limited to what I could find
in a boring book. I did consort with peers now and then, especially
on the school playground at lunch and recess. I developed no close
or frequent friends. The one buddy I did take up with was Stepper.
I spent about a year kicking around with him. He was a black
boy my own age. We didn't see each other regularly because he lived
on the other side of the downtown area, near my Aunt Frances' home.
I met Stepper on one of my expeditions into the downtown business
district. Having been packed off to my godmother's place for a week-
end, I had spent the morning sitting around their restaurant near busy
Union Station. The usual procedure when I spent weekends with my
godparents or my father's parents was to spend evenings in their home;
but since they had no sitter for me and everyone in the family manned
the business during the day, they would drag me downtown with them
when they opened the Tremont Cafe in the morning. I spent half my
time gobbling down ice cream and Cokes and whatever was on the menu,
and the other half exploring the nearby railroad yards, playing Army
games near the grounds of the mammoth post office building next door,
or poring over comic books and sipping milk shakes. I had exhausted
my supply of comics that day and sat around looking bored, so my
godmother, my great-Aunt Frances, handed me two bucks for more comics.
Searching the newsstands nearby in Union Station and Central
Station uncovered nothing new. So in my usual (i.e., unpredictable)
way I wandered into the thick of downtown Memphis until I discovered a
new and gigantic supply of comics in a hotel near Beale Street. In
1949 two dollars would buy a sackful of comics, and a sackful is what
I held under my arm as I started back toward Aunt Frances' place.
Just beyond the corner of Beale and Main I heard a jazz band.
Following the sound, I found a small crowd listening to the three-
piece band on a block on Beale Street. This was an event in Memphis,
there being ordinances against such things. All three players in the
band were blacks, with a drummer and a bass player, and a trumpeter in
a straw hat with a bright yellow feather. The fourth member was
Stepper, a gangly black kid in loose clothing who was shuffling and
tap dancing. The kid's style caught my eye. He seemed very smooth
and adept; I had seen enough Fred Astaire flicks at the Suzore's to
recognize fancy footwork.
After he performed a couple of numbers he took a big bow from the
crowd and leaned against the wall of the building for a break while
the band started a number without him. That's when I walked over to
him and, too shy to know how to start a conversation with a person who
seemed so accomplished, I shuffled around without a word until he
happened to notice the corner of a comic book cover that had crept up
over the edge of the paper bag I held.
"Say," he said, pointing to the bag, "you got Plastic Man in
there!"
"Yeah! You know about Plastic Man?"
"Do I? My favorite. Got them funny glasses, and go stretchin'
his neck all the way around buildin's an' everything. Yeah, it's
funny, it's really weird artwork, the way they draw that guy."
We established an immediate rapport. I found it odd that a kid
who performed with such alacrity and precision could have such a
sleepy, lazy manner of speaking. There was much about Stepper that
I found intriguing: he had a flair for dance and a sense for music
that has never been matched by any kid I knew before or since. He
had practical and apparently hard-earned "street smarts" that I
envied. At the same time there was something about him that was
even more childlike than his 8 or 9 years. I kept seeing him as a
youngish Pied Piper.
Before I left that day I offered him my copy of Plastic Man. He
thanked me but said he wouldn't have time to read it on the spot.
But I held the book out to him and said, "No, keep it. It's
yours. I'll get another one."
The kid beamed a big, surprised smile at me and said thanks.
He asked if I hung around there often, and I said I'd try to get back
on a weekend. As I was leaving he said, "Hey, you ever get back here,
look for me. Ask for Stepper. That's me."
A few weeks later I again saw Stepper dancing with the street
band. When I talked with him during his break I was surprised when he
reached into a wrinkled paper sack, pulled out the Plastic Man comic
and handed it to me. He said he hoped it wasn't too damaged, he had
given it to his smaller brother Junior. And even his 5-year-old
sister Truluv had read it.
I asked, "Really? You have a sister named 'True Love'?"
"Yeah, Truluv," he said, and he spelled it for me. "That was my
Aunt Harriet's idea. She got a lot o' goofy ideas."
When Stepper was finished for the day he gave me a brief tour of
Beale Street, which had not changed very much since its heyday at
the turn of the century. This street was "downtown" for blacks who
lived in that area, although many of the businesses had since been
bought out by whites.
Stepper told me his real name was Franklin, which he didn't
like. He insisted on being called by his nickname, Stepper. He was
amused when I told him I had the opposite problem and that I hated my
nickname. Stepper lived in a small house near Beale Street with his
mother, an uncle, his sister Truluv and his baby brother Junior, and
their dog Agnes. It turned out that his home was in the same
neighborhood as my Aunt Frances and her next door neighbor, my Aunt
Josephine Sansone. Stepper said he was familiar with those names.
He told me he had an older uncle, Robert, who was a handyman and junk
collector in the neighborhood. He cruised the area with his mule and
wagon and made part of his living making deliveries or picking up used
tires, refrigerators, sinks, or whatever refuse could be sold or
rebuilt. The local shopping area had a small supermarket, a liquor
store, a cleaners, and a restaurant and beer hall on the corner of
Linden Street. My dad's relatives owned that property and ran the
businesses. The area was a decaying part of Memphis built in the
1890's. The old two story houses that were still standing were
populated by whites, many of them either closely or distantly related
to me. The other side of the area was literally a shantytown
populated by poor negro families who lived in houses little better
than shacks.
Stepper became my indispensable guide to many of the dangers I
had somehow avoided downtown. Standing on a street corner one day
he pointed out a very large lady shopper who was crossing the
street, walking in our direction.
"Lookit that lady," he murmured close to my ear as he pointed to
her. "See, she got two shoppin' bags she's holdin' in one arm, and
that other bag she got down at her left side. Lookit dem two bags
she's holdin' in her right arm. See dat? It wouldn't take nothin'
to bump up aside her a little bit, and dem bags come tumblin' down
all over the sidewalk. You could grab three or four, maybe five
things outta that bag and run like the devil, she'd wouldn't know it
'till too late to catch you."
He showed me how several shoppers left themselves vulnerable and
how he could make a getaway unscathed.
I asked him how he knew these tricks.
"My brother, he 19 years old and he have this friend, name is
Joel. Joel brung me down here one time and showed me all them
tricks. Said he wanted me to do it with him. But I wouldn't do it."
"Have you ever done anything like that?"
"Nope. Not me. And I'm glad I didn't. 'Cause Joel, he's in the
penal farm for it right now. And I'm not. But I hope I never get to
the point where I have to steal like that."
"Why would you have to steal?"
"'Cause you get hungry. You don't have no home. Then you got
to. Got to buy sump'n to eat. Ain't no other way."
Stepper guided me to many of the secret places in unlikely parts
of the city. Like me, he was inveterately curious. We saw each other
every few weeks or so and explored areas that had not been touched or
seen by anyone in years. We crept through the dank, silent warehouses
of the old cotton shipping district, unused at that time for dozens of
years, and found remnants of an entire railroad network that connected
the shipping docks. We followed the railroad itself through an old
part of town, onto the bluffs along the waterfront, across the Missis-
sippi River on the old Harriman bridge and into Arkansas on other
shore. Traversing the old railroad bridge was scary: there was no
walkway and only a thin metal cable for a handrail, and therefore
there was no escape from oncoming trains, short of diving into the
river. The heavily rusted tracks told us that the bridge had been
unused for years. Still, we played it safe and walked back to town
over the DeSoto Bridge, which had a pedestrian walkway.
It took over an hour to return to Memphis. Along the way, Stepper
entertained me by forming his fingers tightly around his lips and
showing me how to "trumpet" a blues number with his hands.
When it came to adventuring with people, however, we didn't fare
so well.
One hot, sticky June day I brought Stepper into my back yard in
the Lauderdale Courts and told him to wait while I went inside to get
us some lemonade. Mom was making a pitcher of it when she noticed
Stepper waiting out there near the edge of the access driveway.
She asked, "That little boy out there...is he with you, Speedy?"
"Yeah, that's Stepper. Can he have some, too?"
"Well," she began, looking at him irritably. She turned and
pulled two tall glasses down from the pantry on the wall, and started
clunking ice cubes into them. "All right, but listen to me..." She
bent down close to my face and in a stern whisper, so Stepper wouldn't
hear, she warned me, "...I'll give him some this time, because I don't
think I ever mentioned this to you before. But don't you bring any
black boys around again. Hear?"
Confused, I looked out through the rear screen door at Stepper,
who stood unknowing with his back to us and looked about at the goings
on around him. I turned back to Mom and asked, "Why not?"
"Because we don't socialize with them."
"But why not?"
"Because he's--" she lowered her whisper to a barely audible
level-- "black."
"But why don't we--?"
"Because we don't. Now you mind yourself, Speedy, and don't ask
me why not, just don't do it anymore."
She gave me two glasses of lemonade and went about cleaning up,
doing little to hide her displeasure.
Perplexed at the harshness of such rules and her unflinching in-
sistence, I walked outside and handed Stepper the lemonade. He took a
quick drink and yelled toward my mother in the kitchen, "Thank you,
ma'am. This is real good. You make it really good!"
My mother brought her face to the screen door and gave him a
stiffly polite smile. "I'm glad you like it." Then she went back
to work.
Stepper drank the lemonade in one long, noisy series of gulps and
wiped his lips. Without changing his casual manner he said quietly to
me, "Hurry up and finish yours, and let's go."
"Where we goin'?" I asked.
"You in trouble about this, I can tell. Ain't you?"
I shrugged and sipped my lemonade.
He asked again, "You in trouble, huh?"
I drank deeply and paused. "What makes you think so?"
"I can tell," he said.
Conspiratorially, we both behaved offhandedly as I finished my
lemonade and returned the glasses to the kitchen. "Thanks, ma," I
said nonchalantly as I walked out.
"You be back here at six," she warned.
"Yes, ma'am."
Stepper and I decided that from then on we would meet in a part
of the project where my mother wouldn't see us--which would be any-
where except in my tiny back yard.
Shortly thereafter I was similarly approached by my Aunt Frances.
One Sunday morning as she was cleaning up the breakfast dishes be-
fore leaving to work at the restaurant, she called me inside. I had
been playing in the back yard with Stepper and his little sister
Truluv, throwing a ball for their dog Agnes to fetch.
Aunt Frances stood in her kitchen with her hands on her very wide
hips, her big face frowning. "You don't let any of them kids come in
this house when we leave you alone here, do you?"
"No, ma'am," I said -- lying, of course, since Stepper and I had
already explored the unlived-in, unfurnished second floor of their
big old Victorian house.
"Hm-hm," she muttered to herself, displaying her usual distrust.
"You watch out who you play with around here. Those kids belong in
niggertown, over there on Linden Street. They don't have no
business around here."
"Yes, ma'am, " I said dutifully.
Naturally, I disobeyed. On weekends when I stayed with Aunt
Frances and they were home, I met Stepper behind the house. The
back yard had a wooden one-car garage, and a vine covered wire fence
that ran along the gravel alleyway separating shantytown from the
homes on Aunt Frances' block. Our favorite spot to meet was in the
dirt-and-gravel driveway behind the garage.
I was waiting there one day eating a cookie out of a big batch
Aunt Frances was making for the restaurant. Stepper came around the
corner of the curved alley.
"That looks good, " he said. "What kinda cookie?"
"Oatmeal," I said. "Wait. I'll get you one."
"That's okay, I don't want one that bad. Don't get in no
trouble."
"I won't," I said. "Just wait." I went through the yard and
paused at the rear door, quickly swallowing the last cookie bite, and
walked into the kitchen. Aunt Frances stood in a white chef's apron
at the big center table, rolling out cookie dough. I asked for
another cookie.
"I just gave you one. You ate that already?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well...all right, but this is the last one. Don't you spoil
your lunch."
"Thank you," I said obediently, and once outside I dashed behind
the garage. Stepper's little sister TruLuv stood shyly beside him.
I gave the cookie to Stepper and said, "Now she doesn't have one."
"She can have some o' mine," Stepper said.
"No," I said. "Wait here." I dashed again to the back door,
paused to settle down, and strolled casually into the kitchen.
"Can I have another one?"
My Aunt Frances looked down at me in disbelief. "What? I just
gave you another one!"
"I ate it."
"You ate that big cookie already? Don't you chew?"
My Uncle Johnny sat in the living room reading the paper. He
called out in his soft, wheezy voice. "What's the matter, Francis?"
Aunt Frances called back in her shrill voice, "Your nephew eats
cookies faster than I can make 'em."
"Well, give 'im another one."
"He's had two already."
"He's a kid, they eat all day. Won't hurt anything."
Aunt Frances gave me another cookie, with a strong warning: "Now
this is the last one. Don't eat so many cookies, they're not good
for you when you eat so many."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
I ran outside. Behind the garage, Stepper and Truluv had been
joined by their baby brother Junior and Agnes the dog.
I handed Truluv the cookie. "Wait," I said.
Back to the kitchen door. I paused a longer time, hoping it was
enough to cover the consumption of another cookie. Then I went into
the kitchen.
Aunt Frances balked and scowled. "Don't tell me you want another
one!"
"Yeah."
"How do you eat so fast?"
My Uncle Johnny called, "What's the matter now, Frances?"
"Your nephew already ate that other cookie!"
Uncle Johnny gave his usual laugh, an ironic, tired little
wheeze. "Hell, I'm not surprised. What's he want now?"
"What do you think he wants? He wants another one."
"Give it to him, Frances, what the hell..."
"Here!" Aunt Frances said, posing two big cookies in my face.
"No more, Now!"
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
I ran back to the garage and behind it, and gave Junior his
cookie. When I held the last cookie for Agnes, she raised up on her
hind legs and took it all in one chomp.
"What about you?" Stepper said, munching. "Now you ain't got one."
"Aw," I said, "I get cookies outta her all the time."
Stepper grinned, his teeth covered with crumbs. "You somethin'
else, boy."
This resulted in my being introduced to Stepper's Uncle Robert,
the junk man, a tall, portly, silver haired elder who reminded me of
cheerful Uncle Remus, whose Walt Disney movie I'd recently seen. Along
with Stepper and Truluv, we went riding on Uncle Robert's junk wagon
up and down Linden and Lauderdale Streets all that weekend. I spent
one Sunday at Robert's own shanty, where he made a batch of the
warmest, crunchiest, greasiest, tastiest Southern fried chicken I ever
ate. He called me "Mister Speedy, suh" and showed me how he collected
the junk and cleaned it up.
It was a few weeks following the February cookie incident that I
was on Robert's mule powered junk wagon with Stepper and Truluv and
Agnes. We sang and joked our way merrily down Lauderdale in front of
my Aunt Frances' home when we passed my beautiful cousin Josephine
Louise, who was walking toward her mother's home next door to my Aunt
Frances.
We kids waved and screamed hello. Josephine Louise at first
didn't hear, but when she did she turned to us and her face lit up.
Josephine Louise was a creature of magical beauty. Her wide red
sensuous mouth and huge doelike eyes were almost as hypnotic to me
as Martha Jane's earthy, classic charm. She smiled and waved.
"Hi, Speedy. Y'all havin' a good time?"
"Yep," I yelled back, proud of myself as a veteran rider of wagons
and expert on the back end of mules.
"Stay outta trouble now," she called, and winked her sexy wink.
As the wagon clattered by with its tin cans rattling and its mule
clopping along, I watched Josephine Louise's sultry slinkiness turn
and walk up the front path to her home. If ever I had been crudely
horny as a very young boy, Josephine Louise was the cause of it.
It was on that day that the proverbial excrement first hit the
proverbial fan concerning Stepper...
The following day, a Sunday, I sneaked around the garage behind
Aunt Frances' house and met Stepper in the alley. We began walking
through the shantytown toward his house when we were met by his Uncle
Robert. We both expected his usual, toothy grin and good cheer.
Instead, he had a long and serious face.
"Stepper, you come hyah," he called somberly from a few yards
away. He stopped to wait for Stepper to go to him. Both of us could
tell by his cheerless tone that something unpleasant was brewing.
Stepper looked back at me as he went to his uncle. "Wait here,
Speedy, Uncle Robert's got somethin' to tell me. I'll be back."
But as soon as Stepper joined his uncle, Robert took the boy's hand
and held him still. He straightened up and looked down at Stepper
sternly. "Stepper, child, I got somethin' ta tell ya. This is
serious, now. You got to pay attention and you got to mind what I
say."
"What is it, Uncle Robert?"
PART 4C:
Robert paused, and began again with a strained voice and face.
"You chillun cain't be playin' around here together no mo'. I done
got the word on it from yo' brother Steve, and from Miz Sansone across
the street. She call me on my phone at home, and when Miz Josephine
Sansone calls me at home, I know it's ser'ous. She seen us all on the
wagon yestiddy, and she say...she don' wonna see no more of it with
you and Mister Speedy."
"But why?"
"Now, I told you, child, please mind me." He looked up and took a
step toward me. "Mister Speedy, I sho don't like this. But I got to
do what Miz Sansone say."
I looked into his sad eyes and said, "Uncle Robert, you don't have
to call me mister. I'm supposed to call *you* mister."
He lowered his head for a second, and then looked at me again.
"I appreciate that and I know what you mean, but...Miss Josephine,
and yo' Aunt Lucille and Aunt Frances is all in a big uproar, and...
I ain't got no choice in this."
I asked, "But who told you we were out on the wagon? Was it
Josephine Louise?"
"No suh, now, yo' cousin Miss Josephine Louise, she didn't have
nothin' to do with this. So don't you go blamin' her. She's the
sweetest lady I know, and she wouldn't do nothin' like that. Now...
it don't make no difference who said what and who done what. The end
of it is, yo' Aunt Josephine and Aunt Lucille and Aunt Frances don't
want you and Stepper together 'round hyah. And they ask me to tell
you they don't think it's safe, you runnin' round in shantytown."
Stepper broke in excitedly, "Speedy, I'll meet you up by Saint
Patrick's church from now on, won't nobody--"
"Now, Stepper!" Uncle Robert said firmly. "Please, child. You
heard what I say." The big old man turned to me. "I'm really sorry,
Mister Speedy."
I said, feeling very staunch and grownup, "I know how they are,
Uncle Robert. I understand."
"Well, I know you is a smart boy, and a good boy, and I know you
see what's going on. I wish it could be dif'ernt, and I ain't sayin'
it's right, but--"
"I *know* it ain't right!" I said defiantly. "It's not fair!"
"Mister Speedy, please. We all know what's going on hyah, so
let's don't dwell on that 'cause they ain't nothin' we can do about
it. Miz Sansone and them is yo' people, yo' family, and you got to
do what they say. So don't be makin' trouble for yuhself. I
confess I did see yo' cousin Miss Josephine Louise at the grocery
sto' this morning when she come to work, and she say she knew what
was happenin', too. And she sorry. So I know how you and her feel
about dis, but..." Uncle Robert grabbed Stepper's hand again and
straightened up. "But I makes my livin' from Miz Sansone and other
folks round hyah, and...well...we got to do what we got to do." He
looked down at Stepper. "Come on, Steppuh. Come on, let's go see
'bout lunch."
Silently I watched them go, torn between pity and affection for
Stepper and Uncle Robert, and my growing dislike for what seemed to be
a mounting tide of opposing forces from adults, mean kids, the possi-
bility of Martha Jane leaving after high school, aunts who hated
giving cookies, and moms who gave no reason for banishing my friends.
As Stepper and Robert walked away, Stepper turned and gave me a lost
look that tugged at my heart. But out of view of Robert he winked,
pointing at himself and then at me, and the message I got was that he
would find a way to come to me. I nodded. When they disappeared into
Stepper's slanted wooden house down the driveway, I turned and trudged
back toward my aunt's house with dragging feet. I was in no mood to
give up an afternoon of Stepper and Uncle Robert for one with grownups
I increasingly resented and could not fathom.
This wasn't the end of it with Stepper. A few weeks later at
the end of March, he met me in the Lauderdale Courts project. He'd
brought with him his pride and joy--a leatherette bag of genuine
cat's-eyes marbles given him for his birthday by his Aunt Harriett.
I knew this to be a prize, as an entire bag of 24 cat's-eyes cost
more than many poor black families earned in a week.
We gathered with several other kids in a patch of orange dust a
few yards west of my building, near a thick grove of hedges. This was
safe from my mother's view and within sight of most of the other kids
who lived nearby. We called this grassless patch of worn ground the
Marble Court. It was the perfect surface for hand-shooting marbles.
The common belief was that only sissies played marbles on smooth
surfaces; shooting and rolling in fine dust required great skill.
About five boys my age, and Stepper and I, and a number of young
boys and some girls were gathered at the Marble Court as Stepper
amazed everyone with his expertise at marbles. I was almost tempted
to take bets on the little tyke, as I had seen Leo Gorcey do with
Huntz Hall in a Bowery Boys movie.
The sun was lowering toward the rooftops near dinner time, and
kids were wrapping up their final marble shots, when four older boys
strolled hurriedly across the lawn toward us. Looking over my
shoulder, I recognized two of them as a couple of tough kids that had
been in fistfights in the area.
One of the boys standing near me saw them as well, and he leaned
close to me. "Hey, Ricci," he said, calling me by my last name, "here
come some of them guys from the big buildings on the hill."
I murmured back, "Maybe we oughtta stop the game and spread out.
They're always lookin' for trouble."
"Naw, they look like they're goin' somewhere in a hurry. They
might not stop here. Make like we don't see 'em."
The other kids, not noticing the quartet, were on the ground,
anxiously hunched around a boy who was making a critical shot. As I
tried to appear unaffected, I heard with a chill the footfalls of the
boys walking swiftly through the grass near my back. With a sigh of
relief I heard them approach and then pass, appearing to be on their
way into the project without noticing us.
But then one of the four yelled, "Hey, Herschell, look at this!"
He suddenly appeared in front of me, headed deliberately toward the
kids hovering around the game.
One of the other four yelled, "Hey, JB, what the hell 're you
doin'?"
"Just a minute," the hefty boy named JB yelled back. "Lemme see
somethin'."
"Oh, what the hell!" swore one of the toughs. "You're wastin' my
time, JB! You're always wastin' my time!"
JB stepped roughly into the group playing marbles. The kids stood
and scattered immediately. Only another boy and Stepper were left on
the ground.
"Hey, nigger, what you got down there?"
Stepper remained still, staring up at him warily with wide, white
yes.
"You got cat's-eyes, nigger? Hey, Herschell, this nigger's got
some cat's-eyes. Got a nice set, too."
Herschell yelled back angrily, "Are you kiddin' me? "C'mon, man,
we ain't got time for that. We're gonna miss tickets for the game
tonight. Cut the crap and get movin'. C'mon!"
JB stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at Stepper with
a mean smile. "Them your cat's-eyes, boy? Huh? They belong to you?"
"Yeah," Stepper said politely, starting to get up. "They's mine."
"Well, they ain't yours no more," JB said, and he reached down and
scooped up a handful of cat's-eyes. Stepper had no choice; JB was
twice his size, and almost twice mine. All the other kids began
spreading out, away from the Marble Court.
The other three toughs were still walking on their way. "C'mon,
JB," one of them yelled. "We ain't waitin', man!"
JB eyed Stepper with a menacing false friendliness, as Stepper
carefully moved away from him. "Thanks, nigger," JB said, grinning,
spilling the marbles loudly from one hand to the other.
I was a few yards away from JB. I calculated that if I broke into
a fast run, I could pretend to have just arrived on the scene and
could brush against his hands, knocking the marbles away. If the
goods were spilled everywhere and his friends were urging him to
leave, he might just forget the whole thing and move off. I was des-
perate that Stepper should not lose those marbles and that the rest of
us would not be intimidated. Before I knew it I was rushing across
the front of JB's view, headfirst.
I struck his hands with my right shoulder and arm. Marbles flew
everywhere. Quickly I jerked to a stop and said, "Oh, 'scuse me,
mister! I didn't see ya!" I bent down, retrieving marbles, most of
which had fallen in the nearby grass.
"Hey, Herschell," I heard JB yell over my head as I bent. "You see
what that little shit did?" He gave a rough laugh. I didn't know
what he would do next. I could not see him from my bent-over posi-
tion. But I knew I was terrified. I could see my hands shake as I
fished for one marble at a time. I had no idea what would happen next.
I didn't have to wait long to find out.
I heard and felt a violent, dull thud on the left side of my face.
As the saying goes, I didn't even see it coming. My head snapped to
the right, straining my neck, and the rest of me followed into the
dirt. I don't remember falling, so I must have gone down instantly. I
hit the ground tummy first with a single bounce, my mouth and nostrils
filled with sticky, choking brown powder. One of the little girls
behind me screamed. To my left I heard feet pounding from the direc-
tion of the other three toughs. I was numbed by a growing wave of
sickening fear: Were all four of them going at me? What a stupid
thing I'd done! The dumb stunt I'd stolen from a movie hadn't worked.
One of the toughs had run to us and hissed angrily, "JB, god-
dammit, get yer butt movin. You wanna see this game, stop fuckin'
around and let's go!"
"Okay, man, okay," JB said, swaggering over to me. "You see what
this nigger lover did to me? Like I wouldn't know what he was up to.
Hey, boy! You think I'm stupid or somethin'?"
I didn't answer. I didn't think I could speak anyway. I lay flat
in the dirt. Maybe he'd think I was knocked out.
The second tough walked away. "Screw it, man, I'm tired of your
foolishness. Hey, Herschell, keep movin', this stupid motherfucker's
gonna stay here and play with the babies! So long, JB!"
"I'm comin', man, I'm comin'," I heard JB say absently. From the
corner of my left eye I could see his shoes approach me slowly. Then
one shoe moved so quickly it was a blur, and I shifted two or three
feet to the right as a fierce blow crashed into my left side and ribs.
This time I got a good face full of ground and felt my forearms scrape
roughly into it. I then realized the left side of my face was swell-
ing ing from the earlier blow, and the rapidly spreading mixture of
numbness and stinging pain in my left side meant that I had been
kicked hard. I lay frozen and nauseous, waiting for more.
But more didn't come. JB scoffed, "Nigger lover!" and out of my
right eye I saw him walking off. JB yelled to the other guys, "Okay,
I'm comin'!"
My worst fears gone, the ability to move returned to my limbs. I
saw drops of blood in front of me on the ground, and my nose itched
maddeningly. Rapidly, fear was displaced by rage--so much so, I felt
I might go out of control. I trembled with anger more than pain. I
rose to my elbows and knees, a throbbing ache spreading through my
head and face. I wondered if the bastard had broken my nose, or a
cheekbone, or a rib. More blood dripped off the tip of my nose into
small red blots in the dust.
Stepper and two other kids were onto me right away.
"Hey, Ricci! Ricci!" one of them pleaded. "You okay?"
I heard someone sniffling and crying just over my head. I opened
my eyes and saw Stepper's shoes.
"Speedy," Stepper sobbed. "Say somethin'. You all right?"
"I'm okay," I mumbled, surprised that my mouth could move, but not
surprised that it hurt my nose and jaw.
"He's okay!" one of the kids screeched. "C'mon, let's get 'im up."
I let out a powerful, growling scream. "Don't touch me! Nobody
touch me! Leave me alone!"
The rage in my voice startled them. They began moving away cau-
tiously. All but Stepper. He was still crouched near me, his hand on
my back.
He sobbed, "Speedy, please tell me you okay."
I was up on my knees now, and settled back on my haunches. I
nodded. "It's okay, Stepper. I'm bleedin, I guess, but I'm all here."
"This my fault, man."
"To hell with that," I breathed. "I don't wanna hear that."
He sobbed, "He got you in the face, man, and kicked you bad. He
didn't have to do that."
"Well," I said angrily, "he didn't have to, but he sure did,
didn't he?" I tried to laugh. My left side burned. I leaned forward
on my hands and let the blood drip from my face. I hissed, "I'll kill
the son of a bitch. I'll kill 'im."
"No, Speedy, No! We gotta find somebody to help you. We gotta
find somebody."
"No. Stop it," I gruffed in a dull monotone. I felt something
wildly irrational sweeping through me, starting in my gut and spread-
ing into my arms. It was a rage from my dreams, about being beaten,
trapped, powerless.
Wobbling, I struggled to stand. Stepper helped me. At first he
tried grabbing me round the waist, but I winced and yelled.
He cried, "I'm sorry, Speedy, I forgot."
"It's okay," I mumbled, sounding drunk. I pushed up on my arms,
one of which crumpled while I tried to find my equilibrium. I finally
stood but swayed, my movements muddled. Stepper was still trying to
help me. I gently pushed him away.
"No," I groaned roughly. "Stepper, no. Move away. Please.
Gimme room."
"You okay?"
"I'm gonna be all right," I slurred, not really sure about it.
I tried to turn and walk to my right, but stumbled. In case anyone
might be thinking of rushing in to steady me I yelled, "Stay away!"
To my left I saw a very young girl in a light blue dress, so small
she seemed puppet-like, rushing as fast as her little feet could carry
her toward the corner of my building a few hundred yards away. The
front screen door of the apartment on that end of the building opened
-- it was Martha Jane's door -- and the girl and two other kids were
animatedly talking to her and pointing toward me. Other kids were
rushing in from across the lawn, toward the Marble Court where I stood
caked with tan dust, lightly dripping blood down my green plaid
flannel shirt.
My rage swelled, ignited, exploded. Not only had someone beat the
hell out of me, but now every kid and mother and everyone else in
sight was going to see me stumbling and bleeding. My eyes clouded
with dust, I saw Martha Jane go to the little girl, take her hand, and
start running toward me. Her mother's face appeared at the screen
door and peered out at us anxiously. I was enraged at being doubly
mortified, at being beaten and being seen beaten.
It was too late for anyone to squelch the primal force that over-
took me so quickly. I stumbled toward the grove of hedges and began
tearing away at one of the shrubs, ripping it apart, looking for a
club, a stick, anything with which to strike at anything else. I
heard myself scream incoherently, a long, throat scalding yell. I
grasped at the shrubs, throwing ripped-off leaves and twigs every-
where. I encircled one shrub in a superhuman effort to pull it from
the ground. Of course it was impossible, but I tried anyway. The hard
edges of the branches dug into my arms and torso. I grunted and again
screamed, trying to uproot the plant that was taller and wider than I
was.
I heard Martha Jane plead behind me, "Speedy, what are you
doing? Stop it! Stop!"
And poor Stepper, pleading and begging, "No, miss! Leave 'im
alone. Pleeease! He'll be okay. I seen 'im do this before!
Please, miss, don't! He won't even know who you are!"
"God, what's he doing?"
"He'll be okay! Please!"
After that I was aware of precious little except my own blind
fury. I jerked at the shrub until I my arms could no longer grasp it,
then trampled randomly into the grove of hedges and found an old four
foot limb on the ground, a dead limb fallen months or years ago from
the giant black oak nearby. I picked it up and charged toward the
tree. I was dimly aware of faces watching in shock as I raised over
my shoulder a dead black limb whose height and size nearly equaled
mine. Crying, screaming, bleeding, I smacked the old wood against the
trunk of the oak. The faces of four toughs loomed before me, and the
faces of those who lied, cheated, stole, killed, maimed. I let into
the tree with savage vehemence and loud whacking sounds. Each effort
tore along my injured side. I didn't care. Again and again I struck.
With each blow, splinters and chunks of black dead bark flew every-
where. Soon one end of the limb was frayed, yellow shards spewing in
all directions. When too weak to hold the log I let it drop; then
after a huge gasp of new air I picked it up again, raised it overhead,
and hurled it lengthwise at the tree with a furious scream. The
broken log bounced back toward me. Stumbling, I grasped it with sore
hands and tried to raise the log over my head again.
I faltered, drained and feeling barely conscious. My legs gave
out first, the weight of the log pulling me to my knees. The
screaming gave way to sobs and heaves. I was out of breath with
the effort. I settled backward onto my ankles.
A soft voice, tremulous, wary, a young woman's voice, was just
behind my shoulder.
"Speedy? Can I touch you, hon? I won't try to hold you down.
I just want to take care of you, hon. Can you hear me?"
"Why won't they let me fight?" I sobbed, choking.
"Can you hear me? Speedy!"
The limb lay across my thighs. I let it go and it rolled away.
I slumped. I was too tired to move. I felt like falling asleep.
Martha Jane's hand was on my left shoulder. When I didn't resist,
her other hand touched my other shoulder.
A tall long legged woman in a print house dress stood near my
left. I could barely see her. She stared at me with a horrified
grimace.
"Is he all right? Lord, what's wrong with that poor child?"
"I don't know," Martha Jane said. "He's all right now. Speedy?
Can I touch you, hon?"
The woman above me groaned, "Oh, lord," her voice thick with
disgust at the sight of my face.
"Please, Miss Ferguson." Martha Jane said firmly. "I'll take
care of him. Don't just stand there staring at him."
"Well!" the woman said, and turned and walked away.
Martha Jane sat behind me on the ground and tried gently to steady
me by my shoulders. I felt her put her face to my cheek from behind,
one hand holding my forehead. "Lie back, hon. Come on, lie back
against me. I'm holding you. Lie back."
I drooped, emptied, and fell back against her. She cradled me
into her bosom, which became dotted with blood. Holding me with one
arm around my shoulders as I slumped against her, she stroked my
forehead with her other hand. "Let your head fall back, baby. Let it
fall back on my shoulder. That's right. That's right. Shh. Easy,
now."
Stepper had stopped crying. He was on the ground in front of me.
"He done this before," he told Martha Jane. "Some kids at High Street
Park, they stole this girl's bicycle and pushed her around some, and
we showed up a minute later, like, the guy's was just takin' off.
They got away. Speedy got so mad, he tore up a garbage can. He said
he mad, he wanted to fight back. So he took it out on this big drum
can. He threw it on the ground over and over till the bottom came off
and it jus' fell apart. Then he was okay."
"I see," Martha Jane said. "Shh. You better now?"
I was too bombed out to respond.
Stepper said, "He's all right now, lady. He just had to let it
all out."
I fought to stay alert. I knew the right side of my face had
swollen and was closing my right eye. Looking down, I saw my blood on
Martha Jane's pale green bodice. I tried in vain to pick at it, not
knowing what to do.
"Don't worry about that. You just rest."
I looked into her eyes. They were wide with concern and fear, the
piercing green irises darkening.
I whimpered, "I want to fight."
"I know, hon. Listen to me. I know. But you're hurt and you
have to rest." She called the little girl who had run to summon her.
"Margaret! Margaret, go tell my mother, at that front door right over
there. Tell her to get Speedy's mom. Go tell her, sweetheart.
That's a good girl."
I moaned, "I have to sit up."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
She helped me sit up on my knees.
Stepper knelt in front of me. "Yo' Mama's gonna be here, Speedy.
You don't need no more trouble from me. This is the third time I got
you in trouble." He put the bag of marbles in my shirt pocket. He
clasped one of my hands in his two, tightly, his mouth set and his
little white eyes looking at mine. Then quickly he got up and started
running across the lawn.
I tried to shout, but I could only croak. "Stepper!"
Martha Jane said, "Let him go, hon."
"But he'll never come back! I know he won't!"
"Speedy...let him go. You have to let him go."
My mother and little Margaret came rushing toward us. Mom was
hysterical, screaming, flailing her arms. "Oh my boy! What happened
to my son? What did they do to my son?"
All I could say to myself was, "Oh, no. Shit." Now relatives
would be converging from everywhere. As if getting beat up hadn't
been enough!
PART 4D:
Martha Jane and my mother helped me walk into our apartment, where
they settled me face up on the sofa and placed a wet rag over my face.
Mom called the relative who lived closest to us in town, my Grandma
Rose Ricci, to hurry over in their car and get me to nearby St.
Joseph's Hospital. But Grandma Rose was too distraught to drive and
she called my Aunt Frances, who in turn was so distraught she called
my Aunt Josephine, who in turn was also so distraught she called her
niece, my cousin Josephine Louise, who lived a couple of miles away
in the big house next door to my Aunt Frances at the other end of
Lauderdale Street. That seemed to calm my mother, who knew that
Josephine Louise drove like the wind.
Within 20 minutes Josephine Louise arrived in Aunt Frances' black
1948 Dodge, the car packed to the hilt with relatives like clowns in
a circus act. They rushed into our little apartment and shook the
walls with their hysteria. Martha Jane, stroking my forehead and
cheek with the cool wet cloth, watched calmly with me as yet another
car, my aunt Josephine Sansone's red Buick, drove up and halted in
the access drive behind our building, and Grandma Rose and the
Ricci's and Gagliano's got out. They had not yet entered our back
door when a third car, my grandfather's Oldsmobile, pulled up behind
the Buick.
"My God," Martha Jane whispered incredulously. "How many more
of them are there?"
I said dryly, "Nobody knows."
My distraught mother, looking toward the back door and seeing all
the people, put one hand to her cheek and moaned, "Oh, lord, they'll
all see my house in such a mess!"
They entered noisily, all the women moaning and wailing and my
Aunt Frances swooning into a chair. Soon the place was so full, no
one could walk. Aunt Frances' husband, my Uncle Johnny, coolly and
sanely brought the crowd to attention. "You all remember why we're
here," he said, gesturing toward me with his hat. "We gonna take him
to the hospital, or we gonna stand around and faint?"
They all gaped at each other momentarily, then everyone started
issuing different instructions at once. My mother and Josephine
Louise edged their way to me through the panic. The two of them
calmly lifted me into Josephine Louise's arms.
"Come on, Speedy," she said, carrying me with one arm around the
back of my neck and the other under my knees. "While they work this
out, we'll go to St. Joseph's. Follow me, Betty," she said to my
still distraught mother, and she wiggled her way through the crowd,
through the kitchen, and out to her car. My mom and Martha Jane
followed, with Uncle Johnny almost casually in the rear, hat in hand.
The last I heard from the others, they were still screaming at each
other in my living room about who was going in who's car...
At St. Joseph's I was cleaned, poked, wrapped, injected, xray'd,
gowned and wheeled up to a bed with a window overlooking the project a
few blocks away. A doctor who looked and sounded like Joel McCrea
with a Southern accent told everyone I was a sturdy kid and no great
damage was done--although I would have to keep my arm in a sling for a
several days to keep from stretching torn muscles around my left rib
cage, and I'd have a fat cheek for a while, and I'd have to wear a
thick pad on my side for a few weeks to restrain movement there, and I
was warned to not strain myself by attacking any more trees.
I was in St. Joseph's for two days, strapped tightly in a corset
to keep my torso immobile, and continually monitored by a nonstop
parade of Italian aunts, uncles, godparents, great-aunts and uncles,
great-grandmother Nifa and her two morbid sisters, cousins, near
cousins, and several people I never saw before who claimed they were
related. Nurses groaned and complained, shuffling people in and
out of the waiting room and forced to keep count of how many people
were in my room at once. I was kissed on the cheek by innumer-
able elderly aunts, most of whom appeared grieved as if I were dead
and already laid out in my coffin instead of propped up in bed.
I was obliged to "be nice" and appreciative and, as Josephine
Louise whispered to me with her luscious, red, magnificently sexy
mouth close to my ear at one point, "Look as if you're in mortal
pain, Speedy. These old Victorians just thrive on melodrama."
Martha Jane visited me each day, but we were hardly able to have
a few words between ourselves. On the second day she had enough time
alone with me. While the others were out getting coffee, we had a
brief chat.
"I'll bet you just love all this attention," she said.
"Martha Jane, you know I feel so creepy around them. I get the
same questions: Hi, Speedy, how are you? How old are you now,
Speedy? How are you doing in school? What do you want to be when
you grow up? Did it hurt bad? Was your--?"
She interrupted, touching my hand. "Now, Listen. You should be
grateful all these people care so much for you. Your Grandma Rose has
been so nice, they could have just sent you straight home two days
ago, but your Grandma Rose is footing the whole bill so you could be
more comfortable here."
"But--"
"But nothing, Speedy. You have to admit, that was very generous."
Guiltily, I conceded, "Well, I do like my Grandma Rose, she's the
only one I like."
"And your poor Aunt Frances and Uncle Johnny--"
I groaned and slapped my forehead. "No, not Aunt Frances!"
"Stop that, hon, I know she's hysterical and irritating, but she
means well. Your daddy was her all time favorite, and so are you."
I moaned in mock dismay, "No, no, not Aunt Frances..."
"Stop, it squirt," she reprimanded gently. "They all love you,
and you know it. You devil, you're just eating all this up. It's
more attention than you or anybody else gets in a lifetime."
"Okay," I pouted.
"Don't say okay unless you mean it."
"Okay."
She rose and gathered her sweater around her shoulders. "I gotta
go study, hon." Leaning down to me, she looked back at the door to
see if anyone might be listening. She whispered, "You get well.
Hear me?"
"Okay."
"Because..." She licked my ear. "I miss us."
I smiled, blushing. "Me too."
With a peck on the cheek she was gone. And just in time for the
return of Aunt Frances, Uncle Johnny, Grandma Rose, Aunt Josephine,
Aunt Lucille, Aunt Mary, Uncle Louie, Mom, my sister, Aunt Catherine,
one of my *other* Aunt Catherine's, Aunt Yiya, Aunt Theresa, Grandpa
Joe, another Aunt Josephine, Uncle Vito, Uncle Lawrence, Aunt
Cecilia...
By the end of the second day I felt well enough to start getting
unbearably bored again. Whenever I shifted restlessly my injured side
would sting and cramp. Except for visits to the restroom and the
coffee shop, Aunt Frances and Uncle Johnny were a permanent fixture in
the room, Uncle Johnny sighing restlessly and winking at me now and
then, recognizing our mutual discomfort. The worst part of the day
was when Aunt Frances began cajoling my mother into moving out of the
project.
My mother protested, "But I want my children and I to have our
privacy," trying to be as nice as she could about it. "And where
would we stay? I wouldn't want to take rent money from all my
relatives. I just can't live that way."
"But, Betty," my Aunt Frances pleaded. "You and Speedy could live
with *us*."
On hearing that, I raised my eyes to Heaven. Please, Jesus. Not
that.
My mother said no, it just wouldn't work. She thanked Aunt
Frances. She told her she had a good relationship with my stepdad-to-
be, it looked as if they were steady now, and perhaps they would marry
in a year or two. I was grateful for her persistence. Not only would
I not be able to bear seven days a week of Aunt Frances, but leaving
the project meant leaving Martha Jane. Aunt Frances didn't let up all
day, but Mom didn't give in and didn't even appear to be tempted--for
which I was deeply grateful. Maybe there really was a God.
In a spare moment, when no one was looking, I found myself unable
to resist the urge to stick out my tongue at Aunt Frances. I did so,
briefly, about half an inch of it. And just as I did, Aunt Frances
looked at me.
I withdrew my tongue immediately, but already her big round eyes
had widened and her eyebrows rode halfway up her forehead.
She turned to Uncle Johnny, beside her. "Johnny, did you see
what he did?"
"What'd he do, Frances?" asked Uncle Johnny, trying to keep
awake.
"He stuck his tongue out at me."
Uncle Johnny's repressed laugh started out as a smirk, then he
deftly transformed it into a wheeze, and then a mild cough. "Forget
it, Frances. The boy don't feel well."
Three or four weeks later, when Martha Jane was with me again, my
cheek had cleared but I was still wearing the heavy restraining pad at
my left side, held in place by thick layers of gauze around my middle.
Martha Jane turned the lights out early. I had already got into bed
and was lying on my back when she turned out the last light and walked
over to the bed. In her jeans and white shirt she lay down beside me
and began taking off my clothes in the dark. When my shirt came off
she traced the bandage with her finger.
"That's horrible what that little rat did to you."
I said stoically, William Holden-style, "I can take it."
"Sur-r-re, you can, cowboy." she said. "You sure threw a fit.
I knew you had a temper, but...I had no idea it was that much of a
temper."
I sat up while she removed my shirt. She unbuckled my belt and
unzipped me, shoving my pants to my knees. She stood up, pulling my
pants off past my feet by its legs.
"I hope you never get so mad at me that you direct that awful rage
at me, Speedy."
"I can't hurt people," I said.
"What do you mean, you can't hurt people?"
"I can't hurt people. Only things. I can't hurt them, even if I
hate them."
"Why not, hon? You had every right to take that tough kid and
beat the--" She stopped herself, and continued removing my socks.
"I'm sorry. I don't mean that. You had every right to, but you
wouldn't have done it. Because you're sweet. Even though you don't
like your Aunt Frances and all those other people, you wouldn't hurt
them. You're a very brave boy -- it takes courage to be sweet."
"He had me so angry," I said. "Why do people have to take from
others like that? Poor Stepper, he's so poor and he doesn't have
anything. And he can't help it if he's black. Why does the world do
that?"
"I don't know, hon. I wish I had the answer." She had removed
my socks, and now she grabbed the sides of my underwear. "Lift," she
said. I did, she pulled, and I was naked.
She stood looking down at me in the dark. Silently she unbut-
toned her shirt, looking at me with a little half smile on her face.
All the buttons undone, she shifted her shoulders back and the shirt
seemed to simply breathe off her. Then her bra. The moon glowed
along one side of the swell of each sumptuously curved breast. She
unbuckled the belt of her jeans, twisted the top button open, pulled
the zipper down.
"That horrible, violent day is all over now," she whispered. She
pulled down her jeans, dropped them on the floor, and slipped her thin
panties down her long, perfect legs. In the moonlight her auburn tuft
glowed like a softly lighted powder puff. I was getting hard watching
her. My cock weakly stirred and straightened. A slab of moonlight
fell directly on it. It rose, slightly. Martha Jane looked at it and
bent down and, one finger at a time, she put her hand around it and
held it so that only the tip stood out above her small fist.
"I don't know why people have such meanness," she went on, almost
absently, watching my cock. "I don't know why they have to hurt each
other. When they could give themselves pleasure and affection."
"I would never hurt you, Martha Jane," I whispered.
"I know you wouldn't, hon. And I hope I never hurt you." She
leaned down and licked the part of my cock that protruded above her
fingers, then lightly sucked it. "He's so sweet. Look how big he
gets."
I gulped, and my cock stirred. She felt it and grinned. "His
little slit looks as if could almost talk," she said.
She lay down beside me near the window and our arms went around
each other. Propped on one elbow, she caressed my chest. I lightly
squeezed a nipple.
She whispered, "No more meanness. No more hurt. No more hate.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if that could happen?"
"It happens here," I offered, "when I'm with you."
"What a nice thing for you to say, Speedy," she breathed, sur-
prised, her eyes glowing. "What a lovely thing to say." She held my
face in her hands and pressed her cheek to mine. Her lips at my ear,
she whispered, "How can I make you feel good? We have to be careful
with that thing on you. You can't move very much."
"I don't know," I pondered. "I wanna make you feel good, too."
"I know what," she said, and got onto her knees beside me and bent
over my chest and held her face over mine. "I know what we can do."
"What?"
She kissed my nose. She kissed my right eyelid. She kissed my
lips. "You just wait..."
"What?" I asked again.
She raised her face above mine again and touched a finger to my
lips.
She whispered slowly, "Don't...talk."
She was so quiet, I heard the "k" in the last word linger in the
air for several seconds.
She kissed my ear.
Her voice was a languorous, barely audible whisper, mildly
taunting, motherly, lecherous, all at once. She continued, "The
management of this establishment is establishing new management."
She nipped at my throat, around the side of my neck to my other
ear. One of her nipples grazed one of mine. She craned her neck up
and put her lips onto my ear.
"Don't move."
She kissed my neck, licked my neck, trailed kisses slowly across
my chest with tiny, almost unheard little puffs and lickings. She
kissed not with her lips, but with the inside of her lips. She put
her lips on my left nipple and softly opened them, made a tiny pool of
the inner lining of her lips around my nipple, and gently sucked. My
cock got very hard. She used the tip of her tongue, only the tip, to
move down my chest until she got to the bandage. Then she looked down.
"You're so big and hard," she observed aloud, under her breath.
"How nice."
It was so quiet and still in the room I could feel the moonlight
on my stiffened, upright cock. My eyes were closed. Now I knew why
she swallowed so much when I did this sort of thing to her. It was
something to replace speech, for there were no words for the pleas-
ure she was giving me.
Watching my cock intently, she moved as if in slow motion, and
still on her knees she stretched her elegant neck forward in the dim
light and poised her head straight over my erection. She opened her
mouth. She lowered her head, straight down, slowly and cautiously,
hardly touching my cock with her mouth. When her head was all the way
down, and her lips grazed my pubic fuzz, she closed her mouth around
me fully, sucked, and drew up. She did this four times, wetly. Soon I
throbbed and felt that tiny, barely discernible 'something' inside me
being siphoned up my shaft into her mouth. Apparently she tasted it;
she came off me, licking the inside her mouth.
Then she turned to face me, hovered over me. She lifted one leg
over me, her knee settling into the bed on my other side.
She whispered, "Careful. Don't let me hurt you."
"It's okay," I whispered back. It always seemed so sacrilegious
to talk aloud at such moments. Like shouting in church.
Her face over mine, her knees on each side of me, her back raised
so we didn't touch below the waist, she looked down and positioned
each of her nipples over each of mine, then pressed them into me.
"Does it hurt your side if I press my titties on you like that?"
"No." I mouthed the word, rather than speak it. I was speech-
less, enchanted, amazed.
She was looking down between us, between her breasts, and she gave
a small, nervous laugh. "I'm not really sure how to do this. "I never
did it before. Let's see..." She was kneeling over me, her legs at
each side of my chest. Closing her eyes and rising on her arms, she
bit her lower lip in deep concentration, and down below she slowly and
tentatively hunted in small movements with her wet cunt, searching for
my standing cock. Her outer lips found my tip. I closed my eyes and
relished her labia's faint, sticky touch. She made a small circle with
her hips, then second and third time, wetting me. I heard her breath
slowly. Then she lowered onto me. With a long sigh she took me all
the way into her. I moaned.
She opened her eyes and looked down at me.
"That okay?" she asked.
"That feels so good!"
She whispered, "Yes, it does." Her cunt gripped me. "Very
good." She gripped me again. "Mmmm."
For a while she experimented, sometimes moving up and down; some-
times circling just my tip with her warm slithery outer ring; or
taking me all the way and grinding her clit against my shaft, which
she seemed to enjoy the most; or taking me in only halfway and pumping
rhythmically for a while. Several times she asked me, "Is your side
okay?" and I told her it was. She searched and discovered, patiently
and ardently, often breathing lustily in my ear with the most obscene-
ly graphic phrases she could think of, telling me "I feel your dick
getting harder in me," and asking "do I feel good and tight inside?".
In time she became less careful, gradually more swept up by her own
pleasure. Soon her wet channel began contracting irregularly, at
which point she would stop moving and would hover over me, still,
panting for a moment. Then she would start again, growing tighter
around me, her grinding more urgent and uncontrolled. As her breath
grew more ragged she sighed and whimpered, now and then whispering
hoarsely, "Oh, hon! Oh. Fuck." Gradually she assumed more often the
position of settling tightly on me, all the way down, squeezing hard,
and grinding her bush against me. And eventually she stiffened, her
straightened arms quivering. Her grinding became so intense she
rocked the bed. I knew she would be unable to stop this time around.
She began to chant, "oh hon...oh...oh," and then she began to
sing, "oh hon...!" and finally she moaned loudly, "Oh, yes!" Her head
snapped down and she writhed her clit furiously against my shaft,
holding her breath, and I circled my hips in the opposite direction
against her and she answered with a low groan, "Yes...", and her cunt
clamped on me madly for a long moment. Then she passed her peak, her
head rising back and then falling forward, and her back and arms
slackened, and she held still, gasping deeply and loudly and quickly,
and I saw her breasts had swollen against me and were hot. A vein on
one side of her neck throbbed above my lips I reached up and sucked it
and her hips jerked once, making the bed squeak, and her neck was hot
and salty with sweat and I stroked her hair as if spreading balm on
her agonizing pleasure, and she rested, still sucking me inside now
and then, and I felt her hot cuntlips drain wetness around the root of
my shaft. Twice my cock had felt the long moment of sweet tickling
inside her as she moved on me, twice I had felt some of me seep into
her, and I was content with both her pleasure and mine.
Continued. . .
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