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Subject: {ASSM} ME AND MARTHA JANE '99 (m/F,teen) MJANE06.TXT
Date: Tue, 8 Feb 2000 22:10:03 -0500
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<1st attachment, "MJANE06.TXT" begin>
**** 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 6A:
Neither my parents nor Martha Jane's mother were home that week.
For the first time, Martha Jane slept overnight with me. When I woke,
earlier than usual, the morning sun was just peeking over the rooftops
of the project buildings beyond mine. Two radiant shafts of sunlight
poured through the bedroom's double window and across the middle of
the bed. Martha Jane was not with me, but I knew where she was by the
muffled sound of running water behind the closed bathroom door.
I could not have asked for a more perfect morning. In the big old
oak beyond the bedroom window a batch of sparrows chirped away. I lay
listening to them, feeling the sun's warmth soak into the blanket.
The pillows and the bed and my own body seemed permeated with the
faint bouquet of Martha Jane's hair and skin. Between my legs was a
new wake-up sensation: it felt as if my lower tummy and my genitals
were coated with a fine, powdery film of something uniquely female,
not sticky or pasty, but soft as down, a feathery lingering of Martha
Jane's feminine essence, on and just under my own flesh.
I slipped into my jockey shorts and got out of bed. When I
knocked on the bathroom door Martha Jane called out, "Hi! I just got
in the tub. Wanna join me?"
I told her I'd love to. I entered the bathroom and stood in front
of the sink, scrutinizing my image in the mirror.
She noticed me and said, "Do you spend every morning looking at
yourself?"
I replied, observing the same old me in the reflection, "I don't
look any different."
She smirked, soaping her legs. "But how do you FEEL?"
I took in a deep breath, my shoulders back, chest out, arms ex-
tended far at each side, and intoned as loudly as I could in my best,
deepest, Texaco Opera Theater baritone, "Steee-vennn!". I beat my
chest several times and grunted like a gorilla. Then going back to my
operatic bellow, I sang from the Barber of Seville: "Lala Lalala
Lalala Lalala Lala...Figaro! Figaro! FigaroFigaro Feeeeeeee-gah-ro!"
She said, "My, my! Were you, uh, referring to last night?"
I grinned.
"Verrry flattering." She stood up in the tub and moved to one
end to make room for me. "C'mon, let's wash the sleep off you."
I climbed in and she handed me the soap, but before I got started
she held me close to her bubbly-slick nakedness and hugged me.
"You were asleep when I woke up," she said. "You're a wonderful
lover." She kissed my forehead, and for a minute we held each
other. I said quietly against her ear, "Hello."
She pressed her cheek against mine and with a warm, girlishly
happy little whisper, she said simply, "Hi." That tiny, two letter
word, and the magic of the sound and the uncomplicated feeling that
she put into it, soaked into my ear and through my brain and went
straight to my heart. Years later I would lose track of many details
about that morning and that week. But I have always remembered, pre-
cisely and minutely, the way she whispered, "Hi" when we were standing
in that little tub.
I started soaping up, watching her do the same. Our elbows bumped
a few times, and when she bent down to soap her feet our heads nearly
collided. We both laughed, giggling and joking that both of us had
outgrown the old bathtub we used to play in.
After I was soapy she took the bar of soap from me and lathered
her hands, and reached down to wash my cock.
She winked. "Remember this?"
I moaned, "Mmm." It felt startlingly good.
"I never thought of using soap on you when we started all this.
Of course, you're a lot bigger now."
She rinsed and stepped out of the tub to dry off. She said she
had chores to do that day, but we had time for breakfast and a little
talk. I saw a small, blue, leather bag in the corner of the room and
asked, "That's all you brought over here with you?" She told me the
blue bag was filled with enough spermicide and powders to lower the
Indian birth rate. She blushed and said, "You put an awful lot of you
in me." She told me that after I fell asleep she had douched twice,
and again before I came into the bath.
"Douched?" I asked.
"It's a long story. Later." She blushed again.
Then I understood. "Oh. You mean, 'cause we didn't use a rubber?"
She sighed impatiently. "Yes."
"I don't mind using one."
"No!" she said firmly, laying out jars of makeup along the edge of
the sink. "And you just forget that those ugly things exist."
I asked, indicating the blue bag, "Doesn't all that stuff make you
sore or dry inside?"
"We can always apply some...lotion," she said, blushing anew. I
was amused at her modesty. After a night of raw passion, she blushed
and avoided my eyes continually. She got into her bra, panties, and
slip right away--a far cry from the way we started out a few years
before. As I dried off I watched her, fascinated and charmed at the
sight of her putting on makeup.
She eyed me through our reflections in the mirror. "What are you
staring at?"
I answered, "Watching you doing woman things."
She laughed mildly, dabbing at her face with a small, fluffy
brush. "I'm glad you find it so amusing. We women think it's just a
pain in the neck."
"I like watching."
"How can you get such a thrill out of watching a female cover up
what she really looks like so she can throw the wool over everyone's
eyes?"
"I like watching women do woman things."
"I see."
I paused. "I like watching you do woman things. It's not just
watching. It's watching you."
"Mmm. That's sweet."
"I'll fix breakfast," I said, hanging up my towel.
"Mmm. All this, and he can cook."
"Sure," I said. "I've been hanging out in a restaurant for years."
"Well...I'll try anything once. As long as the two of us don't
end up needing a stomach pump."
I was pretty noisy about it, but I managed to get the eggs sunny-
side up and the toast looking just right in two plates on the small
kitchen table. Out in the back yard I found a wild daisy and placed
it in a small glass of water on the table. She entered the kitchen in
her slip. "Wow," she said, "Look at this, picture perfect! It's
Beautiful. Can we really *eat* this?"
We ate and talked.
She told me about her schedule for the week. Just listening to
all that she had planned was exhausting. "I'm a work fiend," she con-
fessed. "I feel guilty if I don't work myself to death every day."
She told me about her classes, the kinds of projects she was doing,
the problems she encountered with teaching in special education. I
told her, "But you like it," and she nodded. "Yes," she said, chewing
off a corner from a piece of toast, "not because I'm so dedicated, but
because I'm so neurotic. I'm terrified of ever being poor like this
again." I asked her more about what she did, about the people she met
at school, about what college was like.
"The first thing you should know," she warned with a strong edge
of sarcasm, "is that every professor at Memphis State is a Communist.
And anyone who shows up expecting to actually learn anything is a
pathetic egghead. All the girls are virgins, regardless of how many
football players they've slept with." She went on with this litany,
exaggerating each item and apparently having a good time doing so.
But after a while I realized that she was actually defining herself as
hardworking and dedicated, but strictly an outsider.
She stopped at one point and looked at me hesitantly. "Speedy,
would you...would you like to spend an afternoon with me and go to
Memphis State? It's the holidays, but they're open--at least the
library is. That probably doesn't sound very exciting, but--"
I breathed in amazement, "Really?"
"Do you want to?"
"That would be the best adventure I've had since Uncle Johnny
let me spend two hours in the Bump 'em Cars at the fairgrounds."
"Yes, well, it does get a little like the Bump 'Em at exam time,
but...don't get all worked up, now, it's not the biggest thrill I
could think of for anybody, especially you."
"But," I said earnestly, "it's what you do."
She stared at me, taken aback.
I went on enthusiastically, "It's your...it's your world, like
mine is in the movies and the plays. And yours is college and
learning to be a teacher. Of course I want to see it."
She cleared her throat, propping her elbows on the table and
folding her hands. "Speedy, do you know how many boys your age and
older--much older--just want to spend an afternoon with me so they can
get inside my pants?"
"Get inside your pants? Hm, that's a funny expression, I never
heard that one before. You mean...to fuck?"
"I mean that's all they want to do."
"Don't they ever do anything else?"
"A lot of them, Speedy, no. Do you know what a tragedy it is in
my life just to have a very unpleasant argument with some boy because
I have work to do and I don't have time, just no time right away,
right then, right now, to go out with them? They think I'll hop into
bed with them to express my undying gratitude for their taking me to a
football game and watching them scream and guzzle beer and make idiots
of themselves."
"So," I said, tenuously, "...so do you, y'know...do it?"
"Of course not. And then I don't hear from them for two weeks, or
two months. Until they get horny again and their usual status hungry
tarts aren't around, and all of a sudden they develop this deep and
sudden interest in what I'm doing with my life and my time."
I grimaced. "What shitheads."
"That's a very...apt description, hon."
"Apt?" I echoed.
"Yes, it means--"
"Don't tell me. I wanna look it up."
"I'll tell you what," she said, reaching across the table and
taking my hand, "You go with me, say, Thursday afternoon, and I'll
show you lots of things you can look up. Would you like that?"
I thought a moment. "Memphis State on Thursday, and 'The High
and the Mighty' on Saturday."
"The High and the Mighty?"
"At the Warner's. It's a great movie, you'll love it."
"Why, Speedy, are you asking me out on a date?"
"Didn't you ask me on a date?"
"Well, Memphis State isn't really..."
"You'll love the movie."
"You've already seen it?"
"Sure."
"And you want to see it again?"
"I always see the good ones again."
She looked at me. "Well, okay, we'll make a deal. I have mid-
terms exams all week, and I must--I simply must make the grades, hon,
so..." She stopped again, and I wondered what the big problem was.
"Okay. Thursday and Saturday. But I have to have the rest of the
week to study and look for a job. Okay?"
I grinned. "Sure!"
We cleaned up a little, as I had left some record albums lying
about, and Martha Jane made phone calls while she polished her shoes.
Still in her slip, she went into the bedroom and started making the
bed. When I went in there to help her we were almost finished when
she asked me to sit on the bed and started undoing my jeans. I told
her I thought she had to get dressed for her interviews and then get
her things ready to move out of her old apartment, but she said we
still had a little time and she could stay in her slip for now.
"I've always been curious about something," she said, pulling my jeans
and shorts down and taking hold of my cock. "We still have some time
before I go. I want to show you something about your body." Of
course, I didn't object. With my legs hanging over the bed and Martha
Jane kneeling before me, she licked and sucked me until I began to
harden. Then she started jacking me off with lazy, loose-fisted,
pumping, her hands gliding smoothly up and down my moistened shaft.
Again I was startled to feel all the stirrings in my groin as the
pleasure mounted.
Her eyes tracked mine playfully. She asked, "Still have a little
cum left for me?"
"Sure," I said, silently asking myself if, indeed, there would be
as much as a single drop.
She said, "How about if I do it this way?", and she bent down to
wet me with her mouth again and then rose to watch my face as she
began methodically hand-milking me, gripping only the front half of my
erection and wringing upward from shaft to tip. It was a very
pleasing sensation.
"Yeah," I murmured, closing my eyes.
She insisted, "Think that'll make you cum?"
"Yeah. Ahh."
She purred provocatively, "Good, baby. Mmm, your dick likes it.
He's getting nice and stiff." I could tell by the low, sly tone of
voice that she was getting into that peculiar, hyper-erotic mood of
hers, the mood that always transformed me into a cooperative little
satyr with no way of resisting her.
She took one of my hands and put it into my crotch under my balls.
She said, "Feel here, underneath. Keep your hand there. When you cum
you'll feel the muscles jump." Sure enough, I could already feel
swelling and movement down there. Keeping her eyes on mine, and with
a steady, intent look on her face, she used her free hand to lower the
straps of her slip and lift the front of her bra above her breasts.
She leaned toward me, bringing her bosom closer to my cock. She
watched her hand wringing my burgeoning organ and whispered naughtily,
"I've always wondered what this feels like. C'mon, now."
I'd begun to feel those secret muscles stirring under my fingers.
I gasped a warning, "I'll get it on you," but she said, "It's okay. I
can change. Mmm, he's so hard. So nice and hard. Am I doing it
right?"
"Mm, yeah, it's..uhh! Mmm, 's really good." My tired balls were
starting to tighten and ache. "Don't stop."
She studied my cock as the pleasure grew, the tone of her cooing
and chanting becoming more salacious and provocative. "Nice and slow,
now. Take your time, hon. Enjoy it. Feel the pleasure. Feeeeel it.
Ahhh. Nice and slow, so we can give him a good cum. A good, long
cum."
Her hot talk and skilled hands were carrying me over the edge.
My eyelids drooped. Although my resources were limited at that point,
I felt an orgasm welling up. Martha Jane hissed excitedly through her
teeth, "So close. So-o-o close." Then my cock lurched and my balls
squirmed, and the tubes writhed inside. The sharp pleasure sent
a quick, ecstatic throb through my penis, and then Martha Jane gave
a surprised "Oh!" as my tip spit a thin white dollop that splatted on
her left tit. She kept wringing me. Then there were two small but
powerful spurts in quick succession that leapt straight onto her
nipple. Martha Jane grinned, hissing sultrily, "Yesss. Mmmmmm."
And she kept watching while she slowly, patiently, delightedly wrung
from me all the cum she could get. It gurgled weakly from my slit to
drip like watery tears over her hand, which started making sloppy,
squishing noises.
I lay back onto the bed, panting open mouthed. She stood and
leaned over me, chuckling. A drop of me ran down the swell of her
breast and sneaked under the nipple. "Wasn't that good?" she asked.
"Are you getting used to cumming now?". I told her it was good, but
it was still a little scary. She said, "Speedy, I can't imagine you
being scared of it."
"No," I said, "not that kind of scary. It's just...it's so
different. It takes over. And it all happens at once."
"That's the way it's supposed to feel, hon." She walked to the
bedside table, got a kleenex, and dried her breast. "But don't worry.
You'll get accustomed to letting yourself go. I love watching you
cum. I never thought I'd enjoy it so much, but you get so hard and
it's so intense for you. I like that about you. It's very erotic."
She wadded up the kleenex and bent down to kiss me on the nose.
That's one of many things I like about you."
She did not spend a long time with me until again until Thursday,
four days later. Where she was for those days I didn't know. But
she seemed continually busy, rushing into the place in the morning to
check on things, giving me a couple of hurried phone calls during the
day or dropping by when she went to her place to pick up something or
other. By the end of the day, when she stopped by for a brief supper
or sandwich that I'd fix for her, she always looked harried and tired.
Each day when she called she usually left a phone number if she was
going to be in one place for a while, and it was always the number of
some girlfriend or other, or her older sister's office number. On
Wednesday morning she came clumping into the apartment with her high
heels and purse and Sunday best to see that I had not transformed the
place into a gothic horror. And each night just as I prepared for bed
she would phone from next door and ask how I was.
The phone rang Monday night around nine o'clock. I picked up.
"Hello," I began. "This is the Louvre. Wanna buy some French
post cards?"
"Speedy, what if this had been someone else on the line?"
"I would say 'wrong number' and hang up."
"Did your mom and dad call today?"
"Yes."
"So how are they doing?"
"Sounded like she was having a good time."
"Just 'she'? What about your new daddy, didn't he have anything
to say for himself?"
"He never talks to me."
"Now, that's mean. Maybe you just never talk to him."
"I don't think he knows how to use a telephone yet."
"Speedy, you must learn to like him. He's your daddy now."
"It feels funny talking to you on the phone and you're right next
door. Are you gonna sleep over here?"
"...I can't, hon."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"I just...can't. I know it's silly, but I can't. I'll have to
tell you all about it."
"Okay."
"You all tucked in bed?"
"Yep."
"Well, you go to sleep. And don't be afraid to call me if
anything goes wrong, okay?"
"All right."
"G'night, cowboy."
"G'night, Miss Scarlett."
In later years, spending most of a vacation alone would not have
been my first choice. But that week my mind seemed particularly alive
and sensitive. For one or two days, I felt like the king of the hill.
Waking, walking about town, entering a movie and walking back out, and
then strolling home, I followed the path of the rising, passing, and
setting sun as I had never done before. In the late afternoon I made
a sandwich, packing it and a wedge of cheese into my G.I. Joe mess
kit, and defied the world by hiking all the way to the edge of
Exchange Street, at the very zenith of the hill at the avenue's end,
and sat on a bluff overlooking the broad Mississippi River. Battle-
hardened youth that I was after this grueling seven block walk uphill,
I ate from the tin kit and swigged heartily from my canteen filled
with NuGrape Soda, and watched the sun go down on the flat, distant
shore of Arkansas. The sky changed colors minute by minute, so
gradually that it was always a surprise when I surveyed the horizon
again to see how the silent panorama had repainted itself. Before
dark it turned magenta, then intense purple, and finally black. As
the sky dimmed, distant lights not seen in the daylight became visible
one by one. I wondered what might be out there. I wondered what it
might be like not having to return home but to keep going, straight,
past those lights and beyond the horizon to new lights, new rivers,
new bridges and towns.
What got me back home was not a strong desire to be there but to
say hi to Martha Jane when she stopped by near dinner time. We ate a
quick dinner and she went home to study. And each night at around
9:30 I'd get another phone call. We would chat, with Martha Jane
bitching that all the work that had piled up was destroying her Spring
break. Then I'd go to sleep, thinking about her studying next door,
only a few yards away.
On Wednesday night I was sitting up in bed, waiting for her to
call. As usual, the phone rang at 9:30 and I picked up.
"Why, Martha Jane, you sound so clear on this wonderful invention,
just as if you were right next door!"
"Silly. I am. Were you a good boy today?"
"No."
"That's the spirit. Did your mother call?"
"Yes, they're fine. She called around supper time."
"They'll be back Sunday, then. And next week you'll move out of
the Lauderdale Courts forever. Won't that be great?"
I said joylessly, "I guess."
"You don't sound so happy about it."
"Well..."
"Oh, you will be when you get there. And you'll have that big
new bedroom all to yourself instead of keeping your things in
cardboard boxes in that closet."
"Well...maybe."
"Oh, c'mon, you'll love it."
"I'll have different neighbors, though."
"...I'll have to talk to you about that...We'll have a nice talk
all about that tomorrow. You still want to go with me to Memphis
State?"
"I'm ready now."
"I'm over here with textbooks up to my nose, so I'll be up for
a while. But I'll still be up bright and early, so you better get
your beauty sleep. You all tucked in bed?"
"I sure am, Miss Scarlett."
"Well, that was nice little dinner you made for me tonight. You
didn't leave a stinky sink full of dirty dishes, did you?"
"No'm, Miss Scarlett."
"...Are you mad at me for not being over there?"
"No'm, Miss Scarlett."
"Well...Okay. I'll be there at ten in the morning."
"Yes'm, Miss Scarlett."
"You be all ready to go."
"Yes,'m, Miss Scarlett."
"Stop it. G'night."
Late in the night I was standing in the middle of the universe
and I had the sensation of getting larger and smaller at the same
time, while the universe shrank and expanded at the same time, and
the part of me that shrank was not getting small fast enough for the
universe that was shrinking, and the part of me that was expanding
was not expanding fast enough, and the part of the universe that was
shrinking kept pulling my expanding self back into the part that was
shrinking, and yet nothing was changing at all in any direction. As
I tried to comprehend this, a low-pitched hum grew louder, louder,
and soon it was a deafening buzz that threatened to crush even my
thoughts.
I woke up, literally poised to jump through the ceiling. I was
gasping and sweating. I was not in bed, but standing in the pitch
black hallway that led out of the bedroom to the living room. Appar-
ently I had leapt from the bed in a single broad jump, as I vaguely
remember being in the air just before I jerked to a halt. I stood
there catching my breath in the dark, holding my hands before my eyes
and watching them tremble.
In the kitchen I made a glass of ice water and brought it to the
living room, where I sat on the floor in front of the Philco and
turned on the radio. The pearlescent eye of the green tuning tube
glowed and stared at me. I picked up static. Trying to relax, I
listened. After a minute I heard a voice in there. I could not hear
the words. Concentrating on it took my mind off the nightmare and
the eerie panic that crept into me when I remembered it.
This was a dream I'd had before, perhaps a year earlier. I
never told anyone about it; I didn't know how to describe it. Back
in bed, I removed my underwear and moved to the edge of the bed neat
the window to be naked under the moonlight. Lying on by back, I
spread my legs and looked at my growing, lean, surprisingly strong-
looking young body. I tried to remember what cumming felt like. It
was unimaginable while it was happening, and so it was when I tried to
recall it. A small machine whirred inside my chest, urging me to do
something; like the voice in the static, my brain could not understand
what the machine was saying. I gazed past the moonlight and out into
the project. Beyond the stringy, black leafed limbs of the big oak
behind our building hung a hazy quarter moon and several floating
wisps of gray cloud. And there were so many, many stars.
Out there, forever awake, waited all the things I wanted to see
and do.
A cricket chirped. I heard the sugary spring Southern night air
glide past the window. I felt myself and the yard and the tree and
Martha Jane next door and our little patch of earth--all of them at
once, turning slowly together in the universe. Remnants of the dream
dissolved under continual replays of the sensation of Martha Jane
holding me after my first cum. As I fell asleep again I imagined I
could physically feel the morning approach us.
PART 6B:
Thursday was overcast and chilly. Martha Jane and I made a long
trip over two city bus lines to the campus of Memphis State, which
was farther out than I had ever gone in my explorations. Martha
Jane sat with her face buried in a textbook during the ride. At one
point we had to get off the bus and transfer to another, with Martha
Jane complaining as she got her books together, "Rats, I'll never
get through this chapter, and I have to return this book today!"
When we arrived at the campus stop I was both excited and apprehen-
sive. There was so much to it! Surrounded by a well-to-do suburb
that was built in the 1920's, the campus of big Georgian buildings
and dorms spread over a rustic landscape that alternated between
broad green pasture and heavily forested alcoves of pine, maple, oak
and magnolia.
I'm certain I must have seemed like a spellbound infant.
Tongue-tied, I stayed at her side like a puppy as Martha Jane, one
arm carrying a paper shopping bag loaded with books and notebooks,
led me down the long rambling drive toward the main library. I
spent so much time looking up and stretching my neck to take in
everything that I tripped over every curb and twig along the way.
Martha Jane finally had to lead me by the hand. At the library's
columned entrance I ran to the door and tried to yank it open for
her. Surprised by its weight, I was jerked back against the door
and had to lean far backward to open it again.
She laughed, "Don't be in such a hurry."
Inside, I was overcome by the solemnity and silence in the large
and spacious building, which was far more imposing than the small
branch library I knew in my neighborhood. Martha Jane walked ahead
of me to the front reception desk. I followed, my neck craning and
my eyes agape at the high walls solid with shelves and books. My
tennis shoes squeaked softly on the tile floor and echoed into the
ceiling. I was so flabbergasted that I walked right into her as she
stopped to have the receptionist check her bag. I shifted to avoid
standing on her feet, apologizing so loudly that my voice shot back
at me several times over, startling me, and I had to lower my
volume. Turning around and trying to take it all in, I took a step
or two in each direction to try to see down the paths of shelves and
oak tables to my left and right, only to stumble backward with a
loud clunk into the face of the reception desk.
Martha Jane said quickly to the receptionist, "He's going to be
with me. He's not a student or anything, he doesn't have an i.d.--"
The bespeckled, matronly woman smiled at Martha Jane and handed
her back the shopping bag of notebooks. The lady looked exactly the
way I had always imagined movie librarians would look.
"That's perfectly all right," the woman said warmly, and she
peered down at me cheerfully through her bifocals. "Well, young
man, this must be your first visit."
Martha Jane laughed and blushed. "Yes, it is. I'm afraid he
doesn't have his bearings yet. Bumping into everything..."
"Oh, don't you worry, he'll find his way around. You enjoy
yourself, young man. If you're interested, there is a child's
section right over there in that far corner just past the card
catalog cabinet."
I asked, "Where do you have the newspaper stacks? I guess I'll
start with The New York Times Index? Do you have it back to the
1920's?"
She looked at me and then at Martha Jane, a little surprised.
Martha Jane grinned at her. "He likes newspapers."
"Oh, how interesting. He's your son, is he? Oh, I'm sorry, you
certainly don't look that old. A relation?"
"No, he's my, uh..."
"Student," I interjected, somewhat formally. Behind me, out of
the lady's sight, I felt Martha Jane poke a finger in my back.
"Oh, I see. How nice, bringing your students to the library in
person, that's a wonderful idea. Well, now, you get settled and
then come back here and I'll show you to the periodical stacks."
"Thank you," I said, and Martha Jane also whispered a thank you
and led me by the hand into a small alcove with a large writing desk
upon which she parked her shopping bag. She smiled wryly at me as
she removed her sweater. "You're my what? My student?"
"It had a certain status."
She blushed. "I'm glad you spoke up. I had to stop myself
because I almost said you were my boyfriend. I'm certain she would
have got a rise out of that."
I smiled broadly.
"Now, you've been in libraries before, so you know what the
general setup is. I'll be working right here if you need anything,
or anybody at the big front desk can help you."
She left me on my own. A young woman at the front desk gave me
a brochure with a map of the building and directed me to the card
catalog filing cabinet. On first seeing it I was taken aback. So
many drawers! And in each drawer were hundreds of index cards, some
packed so tightly they had to be shoved back firmly to be read. I
didn't know where to begin. There were so many choices. The
problem was, I wanted to see everything at once. Going through them
grew stultifying after a while; I wanted something more substantial,
something I could hold in my hands.
Leaving the card catalog as a hopeless case of too much to absorb
at once, I moved to the stacks themselves. Looking over the titles,
I couldn't imagine how any book or index or subject might be missing
from this building. Following the map, I took the elevator to the
next floor and found myself confronted with hundreds of shelves,
thousands of books. The musk of paper filled the room. And on the
next floor I encountered the same odor, and the same endless maze of
stacks and shelves and labels and volumes. On the elevator again,
to yet another floor and more of the same. And from there, a curled
iron stairway leading to still more, and then to another wing of
more floors, more tiers of books. I grappled with one thick book
that almost pulled me to the floor as it slid from its shelf. It
was a weighty volume of nineteenth century photographs. Opening its
large pages separated by translucent tissues which themselves had
chipped and yellowed, I found myself in the grip of an eerie
fascination with the faces of the people in the pictures. Starkly
and stiffly posed, their eyes seemed alive and knowing--a strange
and hair raising sensation, because these people had posed for the
photographs in the 1870's. There were long shots of tailcoated,
booted men in front of banks and post offices and on street corners.
And there were pictures of the streets. New York City in 1876. An
interior of a fancy restaurant, the shot taken so that hazy rays of
sunlight from the tall windows lined up along the right drenched the
floor and the tables, leaving the corners of the room in dense
shadow. I could smell the wood frames of the massive windows, hear
the photographer prompting carefully as he held the shutter open for
the long exposures required in those days. The streets and the
buildings and the rooms struck me as oddly familiar; I was not
surprised at seeing them, and felt that I was seeing nothing new.
Everything seemed to be exactly in its proper place. The surprise
was my knowing that it was so, that I had seen these buildings and
their arched windows and tall shadowed doorways before.
A rustle of clothing startled me. I looked up. Martha Jane was
strolling toward me. I had been studying the book so closely that
my eyes watered and the back of my neck was cramped.
"You've been gone for hours," she said. "I looked everywhere
for you. Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"I'm sorry," I stuttered, finding my mouth dry.
"Find anything interesting?"
"This," I said, holding the book open with both hands. I
touched my fingers to a full page photograph of 4th Avenue, in
downtown Manhattan, taken in 1881.
She looked at it. "What about it?"
"I've..." I was startled as the words came out of my mouth,
almost on their own accord. "I've been here."
"Here? You've been on this street before?"
I nodded.
"Speedy, this is...Hon, this street is in New York City. The
picture was made sixty or seventy years ago. Maybe it reminds you
of Adams Street in Memphis. It looks a lot like it."
I shook my head slowly, not believing it myself. "No," I
muttered. "I mean it feels like...I was here, on this street. This
street."
"You mean, like deja vu. You know about deja vu?"
"Yes. I remember looking it up. This is what deja vu is?"
Standing beside me, she gazed into the picture. I saw her eye-
lashes flutter as she scanned the page from corner to corner. I
felt embarrassed. It was true: the photograph was from another
century, from a place I'd never seen.
She looked into my eyes with her vivid green orbs floating in
white. "You feel you were there? Really?"
I nodded.
"I've had feelings like that too, hon."
Her words both astounded and intrigued me. For a moment both of
us stared at the photograph.
Then she said, "Come with me. I want to show you something."
She led me down the iron staircase and then down another, to a
floor of magazine stacks and dozens of metal shelves piled with
loose papers and brochures. She took me to a corner where her hand
went straight to an enamel-backed issue of a National Geographic.
"Look at this," she said mysteriously, and flipping the pages
along her thumb she seemed to know exactly the page she wanted and
found it right away. She held the magazine open and motioned for me
to take it. "Look," she said quietly.
It was a grayed, gold bordered monochrome photograph. The woman
was in a shawl and held a child wrapped so heavily that only part of
its forehead could be seen. In the background was what appeared to
be a desert. The picture was taken from the knees up. The woman
wore what looked like a light gray (pale blue? pale yellow?) heavy
shift tightly girdled at the waist with a white cord. The folds and
shadows of the loose garment revealed that she was slim and deli-
cate. Looking suspiciously toward the camera, her bright eyes
projected a mixture of fear and concern. Her left arm cradled the
child closely; but her right extended across the front of the
child's wrapped body, facing the camera, and the sleeve of her
garment fell back to reveal her long, slender white arm with her
fingers spread around the child's covered head.
She breathed, "It's me."
And as I continued studying the woman, who did not look like
Martha Jane except for her remarkable eyes, Martha Jane stretched
her right hand across the page and spread her fingers in the same
pose that was in the picture. I was silent, numbed. Their arms and
hands looked alike.
She mused aloud, "There's probably nothing to any of it. It's
just a feeling I have when I see this picture. I've looked at it
dozens of times. But always, I get the same feeling. I've seen
that desert. And those mountains back there on the landscape." She
sighed, taking the magazine from me. "Or maybe I'm just going crazy
or..." She jammed the magazine back in its place and added soberly,
"...maybe I just take myself too seriously."
I felt giddy at the prospect that I wasn't the only creature in
the world who had otherworldly sensations. Martha Jane reinforced
that when she said, "Speedy, I hope you don't think I'm just weird,
but I feel those things all the time."
I said earnestly. "I feel the same way sometimes."
As she led me out of the room she confided, "Speedy, you're the
only person in the world I could have shared that with."
"What do you think it means that we both feel those strange
things?"
She put a finger to her lips and whispered mischievously, "Shh.
It means we're both crazy."
I whispered back, "I won't let the lady at the front desk know."
"Come on, let's go to the cafeteria before they close, and get a
late lunch. I'll introduce you to the wonderful world of institu-
tional food."
The cafeteria was closing when we arrived, so we picked out cold
sandwiches and cokes in plastic cups and went outside to sit on the
massive limestone steps of the administration building. From there
most of the campus spread before us, as far as we could see, into a
dense wood beyond a grove of magnolias. A chill, early spring wind
picked up and rustled the stiff leaves of the magnolias. Some
sparrows and mockingbirds hopped around us and we pitched them the
crumbs that were left from our lunch. Martha Jane was finishing the
last of her coffee, which she referred to as "college soup."
"Horrible stuff," she said, sipping. "It's addictive. Ruins
your tummy. Gives you insomnia."
"Why do you drink it?" I asked.
"Because it's oh so necessary, hon. When you get into college
you'll find out how very very needed it is. I was falling asleep
taking those notes in the library. Sometimes you think you'll go
into a coma, but you just keep on working."
She finished the coffee and sat one step lower than me, her
knees raised and her head propped on them. She looked up at me
sideways.
"You're finally leaving the project. I'd give anything to be
leaving, though I know I will someday, not long from now. Did you
know my mother's dating now? She met a very nice man in the office
supply business. He has a beautiful home right out there, near
where you'll be living with your mom and your dad. He's in a richer
neighborhood, so I know it's not quite the same, but...it'll be
yours, and you'll have your own place. You're way too old to be
living in a closet, you have too many interests. I should think
you'd be very happy about all that. But you're not."
I shook my head. I pinched a small piece off the remains of my
sandwich and pitched it to a lone mockingbird a few steps below.
"Why not?" she asked gently.
I didn't respond, holding back the real answer. Finally I just
shrugged.
"Is it because I won't be your neighbor anymore?"
I nodded.
"Speedy, that's very nice. But you can't give up everything
just to live next door to me. I'm hardly there anymore, anyway.
And when I can, I'll be moving away again. Then what would you do?"
"Well...I'll stay in the project until you move again."
"And then what?"
I shrugged.
"And then what?" she repeated.
"I don't know."
"Speedy, listen to me--"
I tried to remain casual. Stubbornly I said, "You're my friend."
"I know, hon, but both of us have to get out of that place
sooner or later. Both of us need homes, not just a hole in a wall."
"You're my friend," I said again, offering another crumb to the
white trimmed mockingbird, who chased greedily after it.
"I know, but you'll have other friends. A whole neighborhood
full of them, not like those rough kids downtown."
"You're my friend," I said again, stubbornly, and pitched
another crumb.
"And you'll be in high school before long, at Christian
Brothers, and there's so many smart kids there just like you--"
"Don't make me cry!" I demanded, crying and then choking it back
in the same instant--but not soon enough to stifle the single tear
that dripped down my face. My nose ran and I sniffed loudly.
"Honey!" she whispered in amazement. "Here..." She produced a
kleenex from her sweater pocket and reached up toward my face.
But I took it from her. "No!" I said stubbornly, and wiped my
nose. "No, I won't cry. I will...not...cry. I'm too old to cry.
I don't have any business crying."
She started to rise but I put my hand on her shoulder, so she
moved up only one step and was sitting next to me.
"Baby," she crooned, "you've been holding this back from me for
a long time, haven't you?"
"There's nothing to hold back. You're my friend. That's all.
I've lost friends before. And I liked people who didn't like me." I
struggled for a minute to find the right words, angry at my inabili-
ty to explain myself as well as she could, and at making a fool of
myself for crying in the first place. "I know you have to leave the
place. I know you want a home. This week I went down to the river
front and watched the sun, and I saw the whole world in front of me
and I wondered how big it was, how much of it is out there and how
much I had to do. How much I had to learn. It's your world, too.
I know you'll leave, or I'll leave. And I'd never try to stop you.
I'd never try to take that away from you and I'd never blame you,
like I did last time. 'Cause I know it's not because of me, it's
because of what you have to do, it's what you want. And because--"
I blew my nose hard, once and for all. "Because I know you don't
like schmucks. And I don't wanna be a schmuck!"
"Speedy..."
I would not look at her. I could feel her looking across at me,
leaning toward me. I protested sullenly, "I don't have to actually
*like* leaving my friend on the other side of town, do I? I don't
have to be a schmuck, but I don't have to like it either."
At first she didn't say anything, and I refused to let her see
my face until I felt I was in control again.
I felt her arm go around my shoulder. She put her cheek to mine
for a second, then pulled away from me. "Look at me," she said.
When I hesitated she said, "Look at me, hon."
I turned to her and she had her teeth and jaw set in a playful,
mock-tough, happy little smile. She said, "C'mere" and put both
arms loosely around my neck and pulled me to her slightly so that
our foreheads were touched.
She said, "Hey, bud, answer one question."
"Yeah?"
"Did you mean everything you just said?"
"Yes."
"You didn't just get it from some movie somewhere?"
I sniffled. "This ain't Hollywood."
"Speedy...Steven...don't ever let me call you a little boy
again. Don't even let me think it. If you catch me doing it,
remind me of today. Promise?"
"Promise."
"I've got a proposition for you, Mister Ricci."
"Proposition?"
"Yeeeahh...We still going to the movies Saturday?"
"If you want."
"Yes, I want, but after that...I want you to spend the night
with me."
I gaped at her, already getting excited about it.
She stuck her tongue out, far out, and licked my nose. "So
there."
"What if my folks come home early or something? The next day's
Sunday."
"Then we'll stay up and keep watch."
I said, "You don't have to. Stay with me, I mean."
"Yes I do, hon. Yes I do."
PART 6C:
That night while she typed a report for her classes I put together
a small dinner in her kitchen. When it was ready she came to the
table with two big textbooks, sat down, opened one of the books, and
kept her nose in it while she stuffed two spoons of food into her
mouth and chewed ravenously. I watched her. She chewed and read and
chewed and read. After a moment she glanced at me.
She said earnestly, "Hon, I'm sorry. I'm not ignoring you. I
told you it would be a rough week."
I shrugged. "It's okay."
"It's not okay. This is your vacation."
I said, "I want you to be able to get out of the Lauderdale
Courts."
She stared at me. Then she gave me a wry smile and slowly shook
her head back and forth. "And now I'm gonna be real mean and inform
you that I don't even have time to clean up these dishes."
I sipped from my glass of soda. "I'll clean up."
"Your mom and dad are paying me this week to look after *you*, not
the other way arou--"
I said coolly, again, "I want you to be able to get out of the
Lauderdale Courts."
She didn't say anything. She just looked at me, and I couldn't
tell if that dark look in her eyes was anger or frustration or if she
was simply tired.
She said grumpily, "I'm very irritable right now, and this has
been a crappy, hectic week, and I'm having--" She stopped short,
closed her eyes, took a breath, and said more slowly, "And I'm having
a terrible time with this report, and I--I don't know if I can do all
of it. I don't know if I'm that smart or that quick to do it all and
do it right." She stopped again, looking down at the floor. Then she
winced, hard, and the skin around her eyes reddened, and she whispered
angrily, "And I'm getting scared!" Then she sniffed and cried, one
hand covering her eyes.
I rose from my chair and crossed to her side of the little table
and stood behind her and held her by her lovely, supple, womanly
shoulders and cradled her head against my tummy. She sniffled and
wept for a minute, and then abruptly she sighed and relaxed and said
with a very controlled, firm voice, "Okay. It's over. I got it out
of my system and it's over." She patted me on the hand and said,
"Okay, hon. Sit down, now. Let's eat."
How confusing, I thought. Her behavior wasn't totally unfamiliar,
as my mother had mood swings like this on a daily basis. I sighed
resignedly and returned to my chair. Martha Jane stabbed her food
and ate -- somewhat sullenly, but calmly.
She said, "You're very sweet to fix this up for me. God knows I
wouldn't have time to do it myself. Just ignore me. I don't feel
right about having you baby me."
I joked, "You baby me."
She threw me little smooch across the table.
Within a minute she was again eating and studying at the same time
but without frowning and fretting. When she was finished she said
quickly, "Okay. Thank you. Gotta get back to that typewriter." She
grabbed her book and sped into her bedroom.
I cleaned up and put the slim leftovers in the refrigerator. From
her bedroom I could hear the tap tap tap of her portable typewriter.
I knew she was heavily into the books again, so when I was ready to
leave I lingered briefly in the doorway to her bedroom. She was on
her knees on her bed, hunched over the typewriter with a pencil in her
mouth.
I called in, "Hey. Thanks for the library today."
She said with her pencil in her mouth, "Okay, hon. I liked it,
too."
"Well...I'll talk to you later."
She removed the pencil and said quickly, "Hon! I'll call you
tonight. Okay?"
"Sure."
She winked at me, unsmiling. "Thanks for putting up with me."
"Any time."
She said, "Hmp. Careful. You'll bite off more than you could
chew in a lifetime. G'night, hon."
"G'night."
I left, and just as I was closing the door I heard her smack the
typewriter and swear mildly, "Damn. I hate machines. I hate *all*
machines."
I got into bed at a quarter to nine with a pad of note paper and
was struggling with a mushy little poem about Martha Jane when the
telephone in the living room rang, as usual, at precisely nine o'clock.
"Hello?" I said.
She said tonelessly, "Hello." On the other end of the line I
heard what sounded like Martha Jane inhaling from a cigarette and
blowing smoke. "Are you awake?"
"Yeah."
Another drag on the cigarette. "You've been very sweet to me
today. All day."
"You needed a little help, I guess."
"Yeah. I guess. You know, I don't like needing help."
"I know."
"Just like you."
I said, "I know."
Another drag. "Speedy, you're not so dumb. You know?"
"I have good taste in women, too."
She snickered. "Well...maybe." Another drag. "I'm really tired,
but I still have a lot to do."
"I hope you'll have a little something left for Saturday."
"Now, don't forget, your Aunt Frances is taking the afternoon off
from the restaurant tomorrow to take you to Oak Hall's for some new
clothes."
"Yech!"
"Now, Speedy."
"Okay, I'll be nice."
"She'll shoot me if I let you forget." She inhaled and exhaled.
"This paper work is due Saturday. It'll be finished by then, and we
can have a good time for a change."
"Would you like a little help?"
"What?"
"What you like a little help?"
"What do you mean?"
"I can type."
There was a pause. Another drag. She said "Hon, you're sweet.
But no. I have to do this myself. I make so many changes, it would
never get done. But thank you."
"Well...okay. Anything I can do, let me know."
"Okay." I heard her give a long sigh and there was a rustle of
clothes, as if she were shuffling around on the bed. "Look at this
place. Books everywhere. I erased so much I have eraser shreds all
over the bed." Another pause. She was speaking very softly and
wearily. "I've been working too hard, taking a little break now. I
can't stay up much longer, though. I have a job interview tomorrow."
Another drag on the cigarette. "Hon?"
"Yes?"
"All this work has put me in such a crazy mood. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
"I'm still sorry."
"I want you to be able to get out of the Lauderdale Courts."
Another pause, a long one. She said, "Are you going to sleep
soon?"
"Yeah."
A pause. A whoosh of smoke. "Would you like a little help?"
"Hm?"
"Would you like a little help?"
My brain melted. I was hoping that she meant what I thought she
meant. I said, as evenly as I could, "Okay."
"Are you in bed?"
"I will be."
"I'll be there in a minute."
It seemed like a very long minute, during which I got naked and
waited for her in bed with no light except the small lamp on the
bedside table. In a short time I heard the key turning in the front
door. Soon she stood in the bedroom doorway wearing her fluffy,
quilted bathrobe, looking tired and drawn. She pouted, "I can't stay,
you know. I mean I still have stuff to do. But you've been so
sweet..." She moved to the bed table and turned out the light.
She said, "Come here. Just sit on the edge of the bed, hon."
I did so, sitting upright with my legs over the side. I expected
her to remove her bathrobe. Instead, she simply nestled into me,
still standing, and put her arms around me and hugged me with my face
cuddled into her bosom. After a moment I raised one hand to cup her
robe-covered breast, but she said, "Hon, no, don't squeeze. Just
touch. It feels okay if you just touch. I'm really very...just too
sensitive right now. Everything's, y'know, kinda sore from all this
pressure and work. Just hold me, hon."
She stroked my back with one hand and my hair and neck with the
other, and she placed little kisses on my forehead. She whispered,
"We can't do much tonight, I'm so tired and everything. But I'm in
this mood, and I...want to do something...special. Something we never
did before."
I couldn't imagine what that could be. I thought that over the
years we had shared every pleasure imaginable. With my mouth against
her bathrobe I asked, "Never?"
"No. Not really. Not exactly." She started placing little nips
and kisses along my neck and then my shoulders, and then she knelt to
make a trail of nips and licks down my chest and then my tummy. She
whispered, "You feel good." And I whispered, "You do, too," which was
quite true.
When her lips reached my groin she paused and laid her cheek on my
thigh and with one hand used two gentle fingers to squeeze off the
drop of fluid that had oozed onto my tip. She rubbed her wet fingers
together and then she delicately wrapped her hand around my erection
and held it, motionless.
She asked, "Does that feel good?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember the first time you used your mouth on me? The
very, very first time?"
"Uh, yeah."
"The way you did it was so slow, so...loving and so gentle. And
it was so good when I came." She gave my cock a single, soft squeeze.
The delicacy of it made my cock arch upward. I could feel her smiling
against my leg. Then she whispered, "I want to do it to you that way
tonight. I want to make it very nasty. Is that okay?"
I swallowed hard. What in hell would make her think it wouldn't
be okay? I wet my dry lips with my tongue and whispered back, "Yes."
"Good."
She settled onto her knees and placed her face over my cock and
gazed up at me with a heartfelt expression. "I can't let you inside
me tonight. I'm just too...tired, and I'm such a mess. But I can
fuck you with my mouth." She paused, looking at me. "Is that okay?"
"That's a silly question."
She grinned. "I just want to know if that will be...enough."
"Anything you do is always more than enough."
Still gazing at me, she gave my cock another one of those tortur-
ing little squeezes. I felt it throb and send up another bubble of
pre-cum. I gulped, hard. "That's good."
"Like it?"
"Yes!"
"Hon, have you -- have you masturbated since you were with me?"
I shook my head no. "I never masturbate."
She looked down at my waiting cock and said, almost as if to
herself, "Then I'll do it really slow. So it'll last." She squeezed
again, and it throbbed and I gasped and gripped the edge of the bed.
She grinned at my cock, squeezed again, and looked up at me when I
moaned.
"Are comfortable, sitting that way?"
"Want me to move?"
"No. I just want to know if it's comfortable."
"Yeah. It's good."
"Good." Then she added with a naughty whisper, "It's easier for
me to swallow this way." She opened her mouth and placed it over my
cock and lowered her head. Then she closed her warm mouth around me
and held still.
The significance of her last remark wasn't apparent to me until
a few minutes later. At the moment, all I wanted to do was jump
through the ceiling. My balls already felt heavy and swollen with
four days of unused cum.
At first, she held her mouth still on me and lazily let her tongue
caress the underside of my hard shaft. The wet, grainy friction made
my cock feel as if a new injection of hardness had flowed into it.
For a while she used only her tongue. Then, slowly, she began moving
her head up and down. I groaned. She chuckled with her mouth full.
I knew by her slow pace that I was in for an excruciating session.
I felt my orgasm approach several times. Martha Jane was skill-
ful, especially at holding me still inside her mouth until I settled
down. But within a few moments I realized I would go over the edge.
It was a disarming thought: Martha Jane had sucked me many times,
sometimes for hours, but I was younger then, and a little smaller, and
I didn't cum. Now that I knew what cumming really was, I feared I'd
uncontrollably jam my cock down her throat or choke her with cum.
My tightening balls signaled that it was too, too late. And it
felt too, too good. I throbbed against her tongue. Instead of
stopping she slowed, tantalizing, tonguing, with shallow, steady
strokes. Then the climax pounced. It was unexpectedly intense, for
after many, earlier, incomplete times, this was the first time I'd
know the full pleasure of Martha Jane sucking me off. Sensations
piled one upon the other: lips sliding loosely, her tongue slithering,
the orgiastic itch mounting; the wet tongue-tip under my glans, my
slit spewing the first ejaculate, drenching her tongue. Then all at
once: my head craning back, the furious pulsing in massaging suction,
my gasps, her mouth starting to take cum with quick, short, rhythmic
sucks, each suck a lewd, spitty slurp, filling the room with the lurid
sound of her suck, suck, suck, suck, suck, getting louder, wetter, the
spurts stronger. Then the cadence slowed, the loud sucks longer,
sounding thick and sticky...Until the fireworks behind my eyelids
faded. My torso relaxed, my fists gripping her soft hair. Martha
Jane slowed to slavering, deep mouthed pulls, gulping, as I dribbled
my last. I wanted to hold her, hug her. But all I could do was float
back onto the bed, gasping and whimpering. Her mouth tenderly cleaned
and nursed and licked until I was soft and dry. She lay beside me,
her head on my chest. It all seemed shockingly salacious; I was
trembling.
She said, "There. Now you know another way to cum."
I panted, "I didn't think you wanted it in your mouth."
"Some girls don't. I did."
I offered meekly, "Well, I thought it was over, but then it just
seemed to keep on going--"
"Speedy, don't apologize. I wanted it. I liked it. Didn't
you?"
"You couldn't tell?"
She smirked. "Of course I could tell. I just want you to admit
it."
"Oh."
"So admit it."
"Okay. I liked it. It was...really good."
She teased, "Why are you so bashful about admitting it?"
"Because I heard that girls didn't like it."
"And what girl told you that?"
"No girl, I just...it was something I heard."
She spoke seriously, stroking my chest, telling me that she was
pleased that I was still my sweet, considerate self but that she en-
joyed it when I came in her mouth and that whenever she fellated me
(and that, oddly, was the very term she used) she wanted me to climax
fully and completely. She said, "There's no sense in my taking the
patience to learn how to fellate you the way you like it, if you're
too embarrassed to give me the pleasure of feeling you cum."
She gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek. "I better go back and
finish up."
"Sure you don't want me to help you with it?"
"No. You can't. Just leave me alone and let me do it my way and
I'll feel better about it."
"Okay."
She sat up and tightened her robe and looked down at me again,
smiling. "You know what I like about making you a cum with my mouth?"
"What?"
"I don't need that stuff in the blue bag." She bent down and
kissed me on the cheek again and whispered, "G'night, hon."
"G'night."
She left. After my front door clicked shut I lay remembering
every blessed minute of her mouth on me. I worried about her; I won-
dered if she were still awake, still typing, still struggling. I
didn't want her to leave the Courts. But I didn't want her to have to
stay, either. For a long time I rolled this way and that, unable to
get comfortable. I couldn't let myself go to sleep knowing she was
was still working.
An hour passed. I leaned into the open bedroom window and
listened. Sure enough, from the back yard I could hear the type-
writer in her bedroom.
I got dressed and went into the kitchen and made a pot of tea.
I knew she liked tea, and I knew it was favored over coffee. So I
put three tea bags in the pot and after it brewed I went into the
dark back yard with the teapot and walked to her bedroom window.
There she was, hunched over the machine, scouring through a book and
then pecking at the machine and scouring through a book again. I
wondered if I would scare the hell out of her if I suddenly appeared
at the window, or if I should knock on the kitchen door.
While I was making up my mind, she rubbed her eyes and yawned and
then took a long, arms-out stretch. As she did, her face turned
toward the window. I was standing there with the teapot, about six
feet away. She stared at me, expressionless, then she frowned,
shaking her head. I grinned at her. She mimicked my stupid grin
with one of her own, and then motioned with her hands for me to go
to her kitchen door.
I waited at her back door, my hands cradling the teapot. She
turned on the kitchen light, opened the door, and leaned against
the sill with her arms folded.
"And what do you think you're doing?"
I held up the teapot. "Tea," I said.
She just looked at me, her mouth pursed and a frown across her
forehead. She said, "You're supposed to be asleep."
I said, "So are you."
She pursed her lips again, still frowning. Then she shook her
head slowly and reached out and took the pot from me, placed the pot
on the kitchen table, and came back to the door.
She said sternly, "Do not *ever* tell your mother this story
about how you stayed up half the night like this, because of me, or
she would kill me."
I said quietly, "Yes, ma'am."
"Now stop worrying about me and get yourself in bed."
"Yes, ma'am." I turned to go. Well, that was it. I had inter-
rupted her again and pissed her off. And she had seldom, if ever,
spoken to me so sternly, so I figured she was REALLY pissed.
But then I heard her say, "Wait a minute." And when I turned
to her she said quietly, "Come here, Speedy."
I thought: Oh, shit, there was nothing I feared more than the
wrath of Martha Jane. I trudged back the few steps to her kitchen
door and stood before her. She looked at me, her bathrobe half open
and her hair disheveled and her eyes gaunt. She repeated, "Come
here." I stepped into the kitchen and she stood in front of me and
looked right into my eyes and reached over with one arm to turn out
the kitchen light. Then, in the dark, she closed the kitchen door
and took me into her arms. And she held me so tightly I could
hardly breathe.
She clasped me to her, swaying me side to side, and then she was
still and she said, "Do you know how much I love you?"
I returned the hug. I wanted to cry. "Yes," I said.
She said, "Well, you better know. You better."
She raised her head and took a breath, and loosened her hold on
me. "Okay. Now, you go back to bed."
"Yes, mam'am," I said. I was smiling at her.
She raised her eyes and clenched her fists and said, "Stop
grinning, and mind me. You little heartbreaker."
I said, "Yes, ma'am," stepping backward out the kitchen door.
"And stop worrying about me."
"Yes, ma'am."
She leaned against the kitchen door. "And stop saying yes ma'am."
I didn't say anything. I just smiled. She sniffled. And then
she gave me a huge blush and rubbed her nose and sniffled. And she
smiled bashfully as she closed the door. The door clicked shut. She
stood there, rubbing her eyes.
Standing in her dark back yard, I pursed my lips and threw her a
big, loud kiss. She didn't answer. But I knew she saw it. Through
the thin white curtains on the kitchen door I saw her eyes focus on
me. I gave her another smile. Then I returned to my place. There, I
thought. At least I'd done something for her. At least I helped a
little. At least I was able to fight back at the bad guys and the
forces of oppression, even if in a small way.
As I fell asleep I noticed that the faint sound of typing was
still going on. It must have been long past midnight.
I woke up late the next morning, after she had left for the day.
But she must have come into my place while I slept because I found
the empty teapot on the kitchen table.
On Friday afternoon I was starting to fix a dinner for us when I
heard her enter her apartment next door just after four o'clock. I
knocked on her door. She opened it and just stood there looking numb,
her eyes red and swollen. She announced unceremoniously that she had
finished the paper and turned it in, just in time. Then she left me
standing at the door and wandered clumsily toward her bedroom, mutter-
ing incoherently, "I have to get some sleep. I can't stay awake
another minute. Really. I can't."
I followed her into the bedroom. She had already fallen across
the bed, face down. I waited a few seconds, but she didn't stir.
I bent over her and asked, "Want me to wake you up for dinner?"
She breathed a muffled "No" into the bedspread.
I waited again. All I heard was the start of deep, tired,
regular breathing. She was already asleep.
She didn't move at all when I slipped off her loafers. With some
effort I lifted the dead weight of her legs onto the bed, carefully
shoved and pulled until she was lying fully on the bed. She groaned a
little and was quiet again. I put a blanket over her and leaned down
to look at her. She was completely gone, her face pale and lifeless.
I returned to my apartment and ate dinner alone. Worried about her, I
went to her place late Friday night and checked on her. She was
asleep, lying exactly as I'd left her a few hours earlier. I went back
home and lay in bed, worrying about her, amazed at her dogged
determination to succeed. She slept all night Friday and well into
late Saturday morning.
PART 6D:
Saturday night we walked through light drizzle all the way to the
Warner's on Main Street and saw "The High and the Mighty." The minute
the film was over, I knew I'd go back to see it again and again.
"Oh, my," Martha Jane said as we rose from our seats to leave.
"That was pretty schmaltzy, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, it was. Schmaltzy. That's what makes a great movie."
"You just say that because John Wayne was in it and he saved the
airplane."
"But that's what schmaltz is."
We had been sitting near the screen. As we turned to exit, we
were confronted with a thick crowd moving at a snail's pace.
She said, "It'll take forever to get out of here, Speedy."
"Don't worry. Follow me." I led her on a detour down one of the
side aisles where I pushed down the handle on a black-painted door
that was difficult to see. It opened into an empty alley that led to
the main street.
She said, "Hey, I'm glad I decided to bring you along."
Outside, the drizzle had progressed to a light rain. I walked
into it. "It's like Gene Kelly in 'Singin' in the Rain'," I said,
holding out my arms.
"You won't start tap dancing, will you? Speedy, get under the
umbrella with me. You'll get soaked."
I walked ahead of her. "But I want to. It's drama, it's
Hollywood. It's schmaltz."
"It's stupid."
I stayed ahead of her, getting wetter by the minute. Now and then
I'd look back at her, a few yards behind me under her umbrella. "Come
on, Scarlett! Where's your sense of adventure?"
"It's right here under this umbrella."
A man in a rain coat and plastic covered hat passed me on the
sidewalk going the other way. He looked at me, and I gave him a silly
smile. Then he looked at Martha Jane behind me, who strained to give
him a perfectly normal smile.
She called out to me, "People are staring at youuuu."
"Martha Jane, honey," I said cockily. "this is my night. I just
got that feelin', baby. It's like...like money from home. Like,
nothin' can stop me now."
"Pneumonia will stop you. You've seen too many movies."
"Look!" I exclaimed, and stopped short. I pointed across the
street at the Memphis Light, Gas and Water office building. Built in
the 1920's, it was famous for its thousands of 60-watt electric bulbs
that lined the frontage and the entrance marquis. Onto the sidewalk
they cast a strong yellow light that shimmered in the rain and glowed
as brightly as the bulbs themselves. "Look at that! It looks just
like the ending of the movie tonight. Remember John Wayne whistling
at the end, and walking down the sidewalk with all the yellow lights?"
She looked at me sternly and said, "No."
"C'mon, let's walk in the yellow light."
"Get under the umbrella," she said, harder now.
"But what's wrong with me doin' it myself?"
"Because," she said, getting upset, "I'm wearing a wool sweater
and it'll get wet and ruined and I can't afford another one! Get
under here with me and stop making me so angry with you!"
Surprised, I walked to her. She scowled angrily and started
walking toward home. For a tense moment we didn't say anything. I
took the umbrella, offering to hold it for her, and she smiled tightly
and said, "Thank you, you're a gentleman," and we walked under the
umbrella together. I looked at her. She looked straight ahead and
wouldn't look at me. But after a minute she took my arm and put hers
through it.
"It wasn't you," she said. "It was me. Some things just remind
me that I'm poor. I've worked so hard. And I wear the same sweater
for six years, and the same shoes, and borrow clothes from more
fortunate girls with more money so I can look for work. And all I do
is work and I'm still not out of it. And I don't have a job and I
looked for one all week." She sighed heavily. "But I won't quit
school to take a full time job." She paused as we walked, and then
began again. "I applied for a job yesterday and the guy, the boss, he
had me in his office talking to me and he started telling me about how
demanding the job was, how there was all this clerical work and he
said I could have it, but I'd probably have to cut some of my classes
if I wanted the work because it took so-and-so many hours a week...
Well...I told him there was no chance I'd quit any of my classes, and
he said, well, he could make a little deal. A little deal, he said.
There would be a little something extra, after hours, and he could pay
me for it. He could pay me a lot for it, he said. And the way he was
looking at me...He knew I was desperate. He could tell I needed the
job. So he was going to make me a little deal. A little after hours
deal. Speedy, I...sometimes I hate being pretty. I hate being
trapped. Evelyn's getting successful now, people are finding out how
good she is at her job, and when a man looks at her like that and
wants to make a little deal she can just tell him to shove it. I
can't do that yet. I can't say that without losing out. So I passed
it up. I told him thanks, but no. And I walked out. But I didn't
want to say thanks -- I wanted to say 'shove it, mister'. I didn't
even get that much satisfaction out of it. All I could do was walk
away from it and just forget about it."
I didn't know what to say, so I walked with her silently and put
my hand on the arm she had locked in mine.
"I'm getting too desperate. I want it too much. I have to stop
wanting it so much. You were having such a good time and I don't
often see you feeling that good. I didn't mean to stop you. I might
have even been...a little jealous, seeing you let go and watching you
say 'screw you' to the world."
She simmered down and walked silently for a moment.
"Hey," I said. "I've got a Hank Williams album at home my Aunt
Frances bought me."
She smirked at me. "Well, you certainly know how to change the
subject, don't you? You don't fool around."
I shrugged. "I guess you said what you wanted to say."
She hugged my arm. "You know something? You're a pretty cool
guy. I kinda like you."
I winked at her.
She winked back. "So, you want to play Hank Williams and turn out
the lights and watch the rain?"
"Sounds nice."
"You, uh, wanna try it nekkid?"
I looked at her, then cleared my throat. I blushed.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "Oh, don't tell me I embarrassed you!
Oh my lord, you have to be kidding! "
"I kinda thought, after what you just told me..."
"I was talking about a pot bellied beast who was taking advantage
of me and girls like me. He had an office full of them, all practic-
ally the same age. I wasn't talking about you. You're different.
We're different. Don't you know that?"
I shook my head. "Maybe I'm too young. Sometimes girls are, uh,
verrry mysterious."
"You don't seem to have a problem understanding me...most of the
time."
"Most of the time," I said.
"Okay. We'll go home. Turn out the lights. Play Hank Williams.
And I'll tell you all you want to know about 'us girls'."
"Deal," I said.
Sometime later, Martha Jane and I lay nude together in her dark
apartment, listening to the rain patter against her bedroom window.
The Hank Williams album had long since been played and replayed, and
she had explained to me a great deal about women, and different kinds
of women, and girls, and the way she thought about sex and boys when
she was my own age. She wanted to get me used to letting go and
trusting my orgasms. She had me sit against the headboard with some
pillows behind me and said, "Cum in my mouth first. That way, you can
stay hard longer when we fuck." I gave instructions while she sucked,
and now and then she stopped to ask how this or that felt. She was
very obliging, and I was pleased at how much she deduced on her own;
she seemed to have a knack for the right technique at the right time.
She sucked slow and steady and I came hard and plentifully, and this
time she kept her mouth closed on me and I felt the new pleasure of
being enclosed by soft, tiny sucks while I spurted.
Not to be outdone by her oral skills, I told her there was still
more I wanted to know about women. Specifically, about her. More
specifically, about her most pleasurable spots and how she liked to be
licked. Her full grown breasts felt soft and creamy, and she told me
it was okay to suck her nipples because she wasn't sore and sensitive the
way she had been earlier. Another half hour passed as she spread her
legs and educated me in more detail about her tummy and thighs and
cunt. She was much better at explaining the technical details than I
was at explaining my own, though at one point she had to make me stop.
I asked her why and she caught her breath and said, "God, I never
thought I'd enjoy this so much. It's so intense, I thought I was go-
ing crazy." I reminded her that I had felt pretty much the same way
before I allowed myself to cum in her mouth. She took in a deep,
nervous breath and sighed, "Hon, you're getting so terribly good at
this!" After she rested she asked me to keep going and explained more
to me, although at times she was so breathless I had trouble under-
standing her. Eventually her sentences made little sense and she
stiffened and quivered with a very long, gasping climax.
She explained the differences between how it felt when I made her
cum manually or orally, and how her outer lips were especially
sensitive right after she came. So, since I was hard, I entered her
and we started fucking slowly and she sighed, "That feels so good
after I cum! Ah, it's good!" She asked if it felt different for me,
now that I'd already cum once, and I said it felt more sensitive but
that I also felt more in control. So we practiced learning how we
could tell when either of us would start cumming and how to stop it
but keep the pleasure going until we were ready to start again. Both
of us started a long climb that took us to an edge where we didn't
want to stop and couldn't. I ejaculated inside her when she was in
the middle of her orgasm; I was so intensely pleasured by the way her
orgasmic contractions milked me that I didn't want to move or withdraw
from her when it was over. For a long time we held each other until
she said she had to get her little blue bag and go in the bathroom.
This time I didn't mention rubbers, knowing how much she disliked them.
When she was finished we took a quick, rinsing bath together (her
low-rent bathtub, like mine, had no shower). As we rested in bed she
said she was okay and we snuggled warmly. Soon we were touching
again, and stroking, and she scooted down in the bed and sucked me
some more. It took a while to harden me, but eventually she put me
half hard inside her and moved under me while I propped myself high on
my arms. Less urgent and hysterical now, we were both almost clinical
as we talked about our sensations and tried new techniques. When I was
hard enough I screwed her the way she told me she liked, bringing her
to an edge and then changing my movements to slow her down, until
finally she began to sound much less scientific as she gasped a
constant stream of lascivious talk and said she wanted to cum, so I
fucked her the way she wanted and didn't stop until she climaxed. I
let her rest a minute and started again, keeping her on the edge, and
finally she came so hard I thought afterwards that she had fainted. I
was thoroughly tired by then and didn't cum, though I was close a few
times and highly sensitized. But at that point I needed rest more
than I needed another orgasm.
For a while we talked sleepily, listening to the rain that still
slopped outside the window. She put her head on my chest and I taught
myself to massage her temples with my thumbs. I caressed her that way
until I knew she was asleep. Watching her doze on me was a marvel.
Filled with tenderness, I continued stroking and touching her, finding
the exact shape of her gentle shoulders and her back, playing in her
hair, learning the wonder of the hollows and curves of her trim waist
and smooth, gently curved hips. Her deep and steady breathing became
my music for the night, along with the waning rain. I didn't want to
fall asleep right away. I wanted to keep holding her and listening.
I wanted the night to go on. I considered staying awake all night and
would not allow myself to fall asleep; this would make the night last
longer, I reasoned, and by morning it wouldn't matter.
But I was asleep before I knew it. I found myself in the middle
of the universe again. I was floating. Somewhere in the distance I
heard the hum, almost imperceptibly, and I thought this time I would
wake up and pay attention and I would know what it was. But then the
dark that had no shape began changing and not changing shape and I
thought: no no no here it comes again --
I was standing in her kitchen. Panting. I gulped, trying to
figure out how I got there. Behind me I heard her bare feet running
toward the room. She whispered frantically, "Where are you? Speedy,
where did you go?"
Turning, I saw her arrive in the doorway, and then she rushed
toward me. I stumbled to her and when I felt her nakedness against
me I clasped her tightly and wanted to disappear into her breasts.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong? You almost knocked me off the bed,
you jumped out and ran so fast! I never saw anyone run so fast!"
I gasped, "I dreamed this before."
"Of course you were dreaming, of course. Are you okay now?"
"I dreamed this before," I repeated, I held more tightly. One
hand at her back, my other held her by her smoothly globed buttocks
and pressed her into me voraciously. She reciprocated and writhed
into me. Her pliant body fit into me as if her flesh and bones were
part of mine. My cock was incredibly hard against her pubic hair.
"Hon, your heart's beating so fast! What's wrong?"
"I had this dream before," was all I could say. I let go of her
and pulled her by the hand and led her back into the bedroom. "I'm
okay, I'm...waking up. I'm okay." Still holding her hand I gest-
ured for her to climb in, and when she was in the bed on her back I
pulled her knees wide and opened her legs and mounted her, clasping
her more tightly than ever, my face in her neck, her firm breasts
against me. Frantically, not knowing if my fumbling and trembling
and my large erection stemmed from panic or aggression or both, I
searched for her with my cock.
She whispered, "Wait...let's get me wet." She licked her palm and
rubbed herself with it but I knew that wouldn't make her wet enough so
I scooted down and licked her--slowly, thinking she'd get naturally
wetter if I did it the way she liked. After a few seconds under my
tongue she urged me, "Good, hon. Get inside me. Hurry."
I moved up again, quickly, lunging with my cock and missing. Her
hand helped, and I went straight in. Doing something I had never done
before, I put my hands under her round bottom, hid my face in her
neck, and just fucked, quickly, deeply, hungrily. She moaned, "It's
good. It's good." Her legs coiled around my waist, raising her cunt.
My big rod rutted smoothly in and out of the wet tube. I came
quickly, hearing the vague slap slap slap of my tummy against hers,
the rhythm getting slower and more arduous as I climaxed. It was not
a long or a very wet cum but it was blindingly intense, her cunt
milking me until I stopped moving.
I lay limply on her, sucking air, afraid to let go, amazed at how
I had just fucked her so thoroughly and quickly. She caressed my neck
and back.
She whispered, "What's wrong? What happened?".
I moaned into her neck, "I don't know what it is."
"But what did you dream, hon?"
"I don't know what it is," I said again.
"Are you okay now?"
"Yes. I came in you. You'd better go in the bathroom." I
started to move off her, but she stopped me.
"No. Not until you're asleep."
"I'm okay."
"Shhh. I won't leave you alone."
I was still inside her, shrunk to a peanut. I said, "But I didn't
wait for you to cum."
She said, "Hush." She put a hand on my back and one on my rear
and pressed me into the pliant, warm, clinging length of her and
squeezed her cunt on me. She said "Shh" again. Then she rested and
held me.
I didn't merely sleep: I fell unconscious. I woke much later as
the birds were just beginning to sing in the dark. Their song meant
the sun would rise soon. The rain had stopped. Martha Jane lay on
her side, one arm around my waist. Her face was toward mine, eyes
closed, lips softly parted, hair splayed over the pillow. I kissed
her cheek very lightly, not wanting to disturb her. Faintly I could
smell her body on me and felt her dried moisture between my legs. I
put my hand on her waist and slept again.
In the morning we woke and bathed together and I made breakfast
again. As we ate I was unable to explain my dream to her, though I
tried. She got dressed and went to the supermarket and I went to my
apartment and got my bed ready for her. Late in the morning she
returned and we got back into bed, this time at my place. She grinned
as we embraced and said, "We owe the old place one more try before
you're gone." I was still a little tired and she wanted to talk about
my dream, but I stopped her by fingerfucking her until she had a
prolonged orgasm, during which her hot and frantic whispers never
stopped. Then she was very tired, and we rested and made lunch, then
got back into bed and napped for half an hour. We got up and bathed
again. Though still tired, I asked if we could fuck. She smiled and
led me back to bed, joking, "Hon, I know we have to make up for lost
time. But all at once?". Languidly she lay back with her thighs flat
and spread watched me fuck her. I didn't know if I could cum or not;
I simply didn't want it to end. I stroked lazily in her until I tired
again, but I still didn't cum. She moved me to the edge of the bed
and lay on top of me, moving gently on me, first in circles for a
while and then up and down until she was tired as well. Having her on
top left me more rested and very erect and horny, so I moved her onto
her back on the edge of the bed. With her legs dangling to the floor
I stood between her long, gracefully shaped thighs and found the bed
just high enough to let me stand and enter her deeply.
She lay restfully and looked down to watch, one hand behind her
head and the other stroking the exposed base of my shaft. I stood
between her outstretched legs, marveling at the alluring sight of her
spread legs, their her supple muscles and tendons stretching upward
toward the warm center that enclosed my cock. The skin of her inner
thighs had a tight, athletic tone and smooth flesh that whispered
faintly as I stood and pistoned steadily in her cozy wetness. I
watched her watching me. Again, there was something new: sexual
exhaustion. I wouldn't have thought it possible, yet here it was.
But finally, almost out of breath and with the provocative vision of
her flat tummy and raised pelvis inspiring me, I could feel my shaft
start twitching weakly.
She asked, "Are you close?"
"Mmm, yeah."
"Wait," she said, smiling devilishly. She held my hips to make
still and then she sat up a little, saying "I've always wanted to do
this." Biting her lip girlishly, she looked into my eyes and held my
half immersed shaft with one hand while pressing the fingertips of her
other hand into the muscles under my balls.
"Cum in me this way," she said. "Let me jack you off into me."
With that, she began gently but quickly masturbating me with half my
cock in her.
I moaned as my head drifted backward.
Her breasts jiggled a little as she neatly pumped me with three
slender fingers, rapturously studying my reactions and telling me, "I
can't believe how wicked this feels."
Soon I groaned aloud that I was very close. She jacked me some
more, not strongly, just enough to carry me along an almost painfully
slow, irresistible glide into a long, libidinous cum, which finally
arrived with a smashing wave of sensation at the tip of my cock where
the wet ring of her outer lips held with me its warm, sticky cling.
Helplessly I watched as my knees bent, spreading my thighs bawdily;
and with a jerk of my hips a little blob of cum shot out of me like
a bullet.
My shaft pulsed wildly against her fingers and she beamed at me,
surprise and lust flooding her face. "There, baby...Ahh, there!"
She gently squeezed my balls, murmuring gluttonously "I can feel it,"
seeming very pleased with herself. She watched my face and drained
the last, watery remnants, and she whispered devilishly, "This is so
nice."
I collapsed on her. My aching balls felt permanently emptied. I
was completely out of air. I had never felt so tired. And here was
yet another first: Now I knew how a sore cock felt.
She gave a low chuckle as I rested. I was still standing (but
barely!), but was bent over her with my face in her neck as she lay
on the bed with her lovely legs hanging over the side.
She said, "Hey, you animal, you really liked that, huh?"
I nodded, coughing and struggling to get my breath.
She chuckled again, contented. "Oh my, so did I. I'm still sur-
prising myself. I have such a wicked streak in me."
I panted into her neck, "You always make it...feel so good!"
"Because you make it so good for me, too. You always do. It's
special, the way we please each other, the way you always seem to
just...know."
I craned my neck and gave her a long kiss on the cheek.
By that afternoon, when we started straightening up for the return
of our relatives, both of us were saying we probably wouldn't want to
have another orgasm for months.
Of course, we were wrong about that.
Continued. . .
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