Santo J. Romeo

Adventures of Me and Martha Jane

Chapter 2A

I believe that Martha Jane, like me, was mostly curious at first. And it seems that my surprise and delight at our intimacy was matched only by her own surprise and delight at my enthusiasm and cooperation. But we never mentioned our secret to each other when she visited my Mom, nor when we greeted on the front porch on our way to school in the mornings that followed.

Several weeks later, a few days after Christmas, the city was inundated by a heavy winter snow--something Southern cities seldom experienced. The whole town knew the weather was coming and Mom had a date to go to what had been set up as a White Christmas dinner at one of the fancy hotel ballrooms that were popular in the late 1940's. It was a Friday night. After Mom left, Martha Jane darkened our bedroom and sat on the bed with me, watching the snow. The bed was in its usual place in that little room, pushed lengthwise against the wall alongside the big double window. We leaned on the window sill and talked and watched the falling snow. I don't remember what we talked about, but she had told me a story about something-or-other and I was astonished and said, "Really?", and she said "Yes, it really happened like that!", and I squealed "REALLY?", and she made a wide-eyed face back at me and said, "Yes, REALLY!", and we were both giggling. I have no idea what the subject was, but I remember the essence of the moment as playful, trusting and warm.

She settled her chin atop one hand on the window sill, and I did the same. She said in a hushed tone, "Listen. Be very, very quiet, and listen."

"Okay," I said loudly, smirking.

"Shh!" she said, and we giggled again, and then we sat very still. Soon I whispered. "There's so much snow comin' down, but it's so quiet."

"No," she whispered. "You can hear it falling. Listen."

We stayed perfectly still. In the night outside the window the entire project was covered in a thick, globby blanket of white. The snow fell with a dreamlike lazy slowness, but so densely it made the buildings seem dark gray instead of dark brick red, and it completely obscured the contours of the access driveway that ran behind our building. I strained nearer the window and listened. After a short time I could indeed hear it: the muffled, barely audible hissed of falling snow.

"Hear it?" she asked.

"Mmm. Yeaahh."

"Oh, you're just playing along with me. You really hear it?"

"Yeah," I breathed, fascinated. "Really."

We leaned on our chins and listened more. I turned to her in quiet excitement at this revelation of the noise of snowflakes falling. But as my eyes met hers I melted into speechless jelly. She was watching me with a look of warm, affectionate, captivating tenderness. All I could do was look back into her eyes helplessly until, embarrassed at my own startling feelings, I made a funny, scrunched-up face.

She wrinkled her nose at me. "And 'that' to you too," she said, "silly-face." Then she jumped off the bed.

"Bubble time!" she announced, and off we went to the bathroom. She undressed down to her slip, bra and panties, and she held up the bubble-bath pack and let it go. I hopped into the tub to splash around and build my usual nose high mountain of bubbles. I didn't notice until slightly later that she stood there for quite some time after reaching back to the hook on the bathroom door to fetch her skirt and blouse; after thinking about it she returned her clothes to the door hook. Then she removed her slip and knelt by the tub again in her undies. I got out of the tub and dried off. Once again, after a long hesitation, she put her fingers around my cock.

Remembering this from before, I stood still and watched her play with me. Tickles spread through my tummy, and my cock hardened quickly. I looked at her and grinned, and her eyes met mine with a widening look of recognition and pleasure.

"That's good," I murmured.

"Yeah? You still like it?"

I told her I did, and something made me shove my pelvis slightly forward (a totally unconscious movement toward her fingers, the source of my pleasure), which caused her to look up again in surprise and with a strange, mischievous glee. The two of us seemed urged on by some outlandish, mutually shared impulse to make the gestures and to use the words and sly grins we used

As she played we watched my cock harden and twitch. She said we would be more comfortable if I sat on the edge of the tub as before. I did so, and we both watched as she gently pumped me erect. I reached inside her bra and found a nipple, and we exchanged mutually knowing smiles as I gently teased her secret flesh. She was still amazed at how my "teentsy" young organ became so enlarged. Soon I was thoroughly hard and she was grinning lewdly at me, a delicious and tantalizing grin that I quickly learned to return.

These mutual glances and simultaneous eye contacts occurred so often it seems they never ceased. They were another integral part of our communication with each other. It was part of the continuous pattern of feedback and feed-in and feed-on that united us. Often it replaced thousands of words that might have been used to describe a feeling or a moment. This, too, began happening quite early in the relationship.

Of course, I didn't climax. The incident soon ended and we returned to the bedroom. We continued watching the snowfall for a long time. I leaned sleepily on the window sill, and listened to her magical voice. She was talking about something she was doing at school. I was soon overcome by the languorous peace of being with her, something entirely absent from my relationship with my mother.

When I opened my eyes again it was Saturday morning. My Mom was back home fussing around the house, and Martha Jane was gone.

Several months went their course, and I passed my 7th birthday. It was around that period, near the end of Spring 1949, that several more interludes occurred. By this time I would get out of the tub and Martha Jane would be kneeling and waiting, and I would stand up and say, "Do me." She would set me on the edge of the tub and pump me to a strong erection, which she learned to maintain for longer and longer periods. I don't have a clear memory of what I physically felt at that time, but I recall that she and I kept finding ways to make it feel better.

Martha Jane beamed delightedly at my responsiveness. "I love feeling it jump," she'd say, and she soon discovered that my cock jerked even more during her early attempts at using her tongue and mouth on it. Constantly we talked about how it felt and what we liked. Her favorite ploy was to hold me entirely within her mouth, my tip barely extending into the narrow channel of her throat, and gently close her mouth around me and hold me that way so she could feel my cock throb against her tongue as she softly sucked. I was still too young to have a true orgasm, but I had no feelings of frustration. Nor was I particularly anxious about when she would be sitting for me again. The aspects of our relationship that I sorely missed when we were apart for any significant time were our fondness for each other and the simple "rightness" of being with her and hearing her alluring voice and quiet girlish laughter.

It was sometime during the summer that the bathing routine changed. It was probably the fourth or fifth episode. I got out of the tub and stood with my tummy sticking out lewdly so she could play with me and make me hard, which she did. We both grinned and whispered in our naughty, secret way as she stroked me, and she unhooked her bra so I could make little circles around her nipples.

I watched her fingers on me and muttered, "It tickles."

"Want me to do it slower or faster?"


"That way, hon?"

"Yeah. That feels nasty."

"You like it that way?"


"You mean it feels better, is that what 'nasty' means?"

"Yeah. Feels really good."

She said, "That's what grownups say, hon, they'd say if it feels good it's nasty." She added ruefully, "They think anything that feels good is horrible. I really don't understand. You'd think people already have enough sadness and pain and death in their lives without making things worse."

It was a concept that she and I would mention many times. It seemed to be something of which she was often terrified; now and then she would stop everything, look at me painfully, and then hold me close to her. That summer was one of the first of those occasions. Others would follow. But on one night early that summer it happened for the first time.

She was saying to me, "Squeeze my nipple just a little, hon, really soft, the way I squeeze your dick... that's nice. I like it when you just stroke me, like that, around my nipples." I feathered my fingertips across and around her nipples, and she closed her eyes dreamily. Then she whispered, "Suck it, hon." I bent down eagerly, but then paused, curbing my own impulse out of fear of damaging those delicate globes. I extended my tongue and touched, and then enclosed the pale nipple with my lips. The damp skin of my inner lips seemed to dissolve into her flesh. I sucked. She whispered, "A little harder, hon. Put your tongue under the nipple, and then suck. That's the way. There. Suck it." I did, and her voice softened into a long, barely audible outbreath that ended with a pleased, "Mmm. Good. Good. You do that so well."

I was surprised at the reaction of her nipples. I drew back to look at them. "It got stiff," I said. "Does it hurt when they get stiff?"

"No, hon, it means it feels good. Just like getting you hard feels good for you."

We played and whispered for a while. Then Martha Jane just stopped. Abruptly and completely, she dropped her hands and stopped everything.

She settled back onto her folded legs on the floor, and suddenly she covered her face with her hands. She stayed that way for a moment, and behind the palms that covered her face she seemed to take a long, arduous breath. She did that for a few seconds and then looked up at at me because I had bent down closer to her. I saw she was suddenly saddened, and as I bent down she looked up at me with pain and loss on her face. Her hazel eyes searched deeply into mine, and I could see that they were moist. She spoke softly and plaintively, and, as best as I can recall, she said:

"Do you know who you are, Speedy? You are the smartest, cutest, most loving boy in the world. D'you know that, hon? But you're gonna grow up--". She stopped, and placing her hands on each side of face she brought me down closer to her, so that our foreheads touched. "You are gonna grow up in a very strange world, with no daddy, like me. And a mommy who can't live for anything except dying and goin' to be with God. Oh Speedy, don't you ever grow up to be like that. You hear? Don't grow up and be afraid and suspicious and narrow and mean, afraid of everything and of every event and every change in your life. I know you'll grow up and be so good, and so sweet, and so smart and sensitive... but you'll feel like you're in hell because you're trusting and sensual and... other people don't tolerate that very well, it's all bad for them and they'll always say you're too different and--"

I must have had a confused look on my face that made her stop. I'm sure I did. I don't remember all her words exactly, but I do know that at that time her words only partially made sense.

She kissed my nose. The lowered head toward the floor and seemed to give a loud, tired sigh. The episode quickly ended when she stood up and said, "C'mon, hon. C'mon. Beddie-bye."