The adventures of me and martha jane

THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANEPOSTING SOMEONE'S ELSE'S STORYThe story herein is told as best as I can recall it. It occurredduring 1948-49-50. There are continued incidents that occurred 1952-58.Over the years I have relived these events countless times, carefullyreconstructing in my mind many forgotten details and conversations -- atone point undergoing hypnosis to recall details or events that lay buriedunder a lifetime of other thoughts and concerns.What follows is presented as clearly as I can remember...The single bright spot was the family next door. Another war widowlived there with her two daughters. This woman and my mother becameclose friends, a relationship that continues to this day even though thelady moved to St. Louis years ago. Her oldest daughter was a tall,attractive, brunette young woman nearing her twenties at the time andwhom I seldom saw. She possessed a highly valued high school diploma,enabling her to find work and help the family financially. In the Southin the 1940's women could expect only minimal pay at clerical or similarjobs. But she earned enough to keep her younger sister in high school.This younger sister was Martha Jane. My earliest memory of Martha Janewas when I was 6 years old and she was 15. I had a very serious crush onher.I don't mean that as a 6-year old sexpot I had the kind of crush thatcenters on sexual fantasy. I don't recall ever sitting around fantasiz-ing sexually at that age about Martha Jane. I simply had a strong andmemorable affection for her. And she had similar feelings for me -- inlater years my mother would say to me, "Yes, I remember Martha Jane --she just LOVED you! She thought you were the sweetest, cutest thing onearth! She was the only one who could make you behave."It was true. With little instruction or any warning that I canremember, Martha Jane's presence seemed to soothe my savage b**sts. Iwould knowingly do nothing -- nothing -- to upset her in any way.Actions that I knew were upsetting to others were automatically filteredout of my behavior when I was around her. By the same token, Martha Janealways approached me as though I were a person rather than an imbecile.She gave honest, practical, concerned answers to my endless questions andshe had a fondness for stories and science and movies and music similarto mine. Obviously my insistent questioning and troublesome behaviorwere attempts on my part to get attention and establish some sort ofmeaning- ful communication with a mental soul mate. Most of my largefamily of relatives were half-literate, working- or middle-class folks --nothing immoral about that, and such is the human stuff that gets workdone and is often referred to as the "salt of the earth." There was nolack of a certain modicum of family attachment and devotion. But theyand I lacked, shall we say, compatibility and understanding. Martha Janeapparently fulfilled many of those needs and shared my mental interests,sometimes sitting for hours telling me stories or reading to me or simplylistening. After spending some time with her I usually felt serene for afew days. My frequent bouts of instant boredom and hyperactivity were,for a while, minimal. Martha Jane reciprocated by treating me withintelligence, playfulness, and a seemingly endless supply of affection.And she and I simply seemed to establish an instant rapport together.Adults were boring and stultifying: she never was. She never raised hervoice or hand to me, and she never had reason to.At 15, she was a sunny faced, fairly short, trim teenager with a verypoised manner and auburn hair that was so light it often appearedblonde. She often wore black horn-rimmed glasses. Her hair was mediumlength and usually frizzy (I called it fuzzy-cute) rather than long andcurled like most women and girls I knew. She had strong eyes thatappeared alternately hazel or bright green, depending on the light and onher mood. She wore very sparse makeup, and had a soft musical voicethat I found hypnotic. Pugnosed, a little delicate and with a brightface that hinted of a few tiny freckles, she was the typically pretty,early 50's teen. She also had a very evident West Tennessee Southerntwang, which her older sister didn't seem to have.(* P.S.: In later years I became an accomplished astrologer, andeventually astrology combined with my computer skills. AstrologicallyI calculated her birthdate: Martha Jane was a Virgo, born September 9,1933. I later found out that this birthdate was correct. But I hope Inever again have to do the amount of work required to figure this out!)Martha Jane didn't spend a great deal of time with me or in mymother's place. She was an avid student. At that time, poor k**s whowanted to get anywhere in life -- especially to move out of Federalhousing projects -- had to get through high school, or else! It was thatsimple. We would usually see each other on our shared front porch if wehappened to be entering or leaving our apartments together. She wouldgreet me out front and spend a while talking to me there, and we'd go onour way. It was always a pleasant exchange, though today I rememberlittle of what was said. I do remember that she would often hug me, kissmy nose, let me give her a kiss, or in some other way express herselfaffectionately and attentively to me. On a few occasions she visited mymother for an afternoon. They would sit in the small kitchen and chatover tea or coffee while I played elsewhere in the apartment.Martha Jane and I did not spend time alone together until late in my6th year, when my widowed Mom began dating the man who eventually becamemy stepfather. This started in late 1948. Mom and my future stepdaddidn't date often, since they saw each other regularly during the weekwhen she did her grocery shopping at the supermarket on the corner; mystepdad-to-be was manager/owner of the place, with others in his family.They dated only every few weeks or so; and as staunch conservativeCatholics, they had a long and leisurely courtship that continued foryears. When she did have a dress-up date, Mom engaged a sitter for me.Originally my sitter was my maternal grandmother or one of mymother's younger sisters. But grandma moved to the distant 'burbs and mytwo aunts found husbands. My mother could only occasionally afford topay a babysitter, and she refused to accept as little as a dollar or twofrom my stepdad-to-be (now I know where I got most of that independentstreak of mine! It was her own independence that kept her in the projectfor so long. After my father's death she was too embarrassed to accepthelp and was determined to make life work on her own. Unfortunately theright to that streak wasn't looked upon so favorably in my case).So it turned out that my sitter became Martha Jane, who offered herservices freely. My Mom tried slipping her a bill or two now and then,but Martha Jane would have none if it. "You don't have to pay me to staywith him," she'd say. "I love Speedy!"This brings me to my nickname. Why I found this name so embarras-sing, even then, is a mystery to me. But I came to be known as "Speedy."My other nicknames were Mikey (from my godmother) and Butch (from mygreat-aunt). Where the name Speedy came from has many myths behind it,but most people say it had a lot to do with the legendary speed withwhich I ran away when caught at something. Martha Jane addressed me bySpeedy and sometimes by my proper name, Steven. Being called Speedy bymost people deeply annoyed me, but I didn't seem to mind when Martha Janedid it. I have no explanation for making an exception of her when itcame to my otherwise despised nickname. She said she liked both names,and that was OK by me.During these infrequent babysit sessions she would usually study.Sometimes she would do a little cleaning or straightening, purely out ofa desire to help my Mom, and I would always help. I felt "right" withwhatever we did together. I do recall the one time that I upset herduring a babysit session: I was in our small bedroom. There was a blackphone set in the room and I wanted desperately to find out what happenedwhen I dialed 411. The telephone directory listed it as a free publicinformation number. So I picked up the phone and dialed 411. Anoperator answered."Number, please?" said the voice on the other end."Oh," I said nonchalantly, "I don't want a number. I just wanna talkto you."Martha Jane must have heard this ridiculous conversation, becauseright away I heard her cry out, "Speedy? What are you doing in there?"She rushed into the room and stood in the doorway, stunned and shocked."What are you DOING?"I was so alarmed that I immediately said into the phone, "I'm sorry, Ididn't mean to bother you, Miss," and hung up. Martha Jane quickly cameto me and took the phone away. I told her I had only called 411 and wastalking to the operator. She looked at me blankly, and then couldn'thelp but giggling. "You did WHAT?" All I could do was look up at her(she was not that tall, but she was then taller than I). I took the hemof her skirt and scrunched up against her; I was really afraid I hadoffended her. I kept saying I was sorry. She knelt down to my level andpatiently explained to me about telephone operators and how the pooroverworked gals got so many crank calls. "I'll call up one of mygirlfriends sometime, okay? And you and I can talk to her together andyou'll see what it's like." I said it would be fine, and I hugged herand apologized again and again, and she accepted and hugged me back andgot me ready for bed.PART 1B:The fact is, Martha Jane was an upright, well behaved, sociallypoised, and even a classy young lady. She seldom displayed anger,apparently never gossiped or had anything critical to say about anyone.As far as I can tell, she was just a very conscientious, proper, verypretty teenaged girl. She did have an active and playful nature but forthe most part she behaved with the kind of politeness so common amonggirls whose Southern moms brought them up as "proper" and "sociable".But obviously Martha Jane had her other side. On rare occasionsduring that period when she first was sitting for me, I would now andthen look up and find her staring at me. Not "at" me, I should say, but"toward" me as though thinking of something very deep and ponderous. Ornow and then she would, indeed, look right into me with a serious andcareful gaze, but she'd say nothing. I would turn away and go back towhat I was doing. I had no idea what she was thinking.One of these incidents occurred in late 1948, just before or afterThanksgiving. I was six, Martha Jane was fifteen. She arrived at ourplace from next door at about 7 o'clock as my Mom was getting powderedand done up. I was on the floor of the living room and had spread oldnewspapers around to work on the treasured but broken Underwood type-writer that I had retrieved from the trash only a few weeks earlier.Martha Jane said hello and hugged me and chatted with my mother. Momsaid, "Just let him play down there and he shouldn't be any trouble."Martha Jane laughed and said, "Betty, Speedy never gives me any trouble,"at which Mom grumbled, "Give him time."Martha Jane stood over me and asked what I was doing. My Mom brokein and said, "He's making a mess with that old typewriter. I don't seewhy he doesn't throw it away, it's nothin' but a...hunk of junk."Martha Jane bent way down to smile at me on the floor and survey thespread of springs and spare parts strewn over the newspaper. "Hey," sheasked, "are you taking this apart or putting it together?""Both," I said, not looking up from my work. "I'm gonna make it workagain.""But what'll you to do with it, Speedy, after you get it to work?""I'll figure somethin' out," I said arrogantly."You certainly have enough parts there for inspiration."My mother came into the room, screwing on an earring. "Don't youmake a mess and drive Martha Jane crazy. She has to study tonight.""Oh, Betty," Martha Jane said, "he'll be all right."My mother continued, "I don't know what he wants that thing for, itmust be twenty years old. His godmother buys him toy trains and toy thisand toy that, and he has to fool around with that and make a mess!"She left to finish dressing in the bedroom. I sat on my knees,hunched over, laboriously studying the puzzle before me. I was so deeplyabsorbed that I was startled to hear someone breathing behind me. Ilooked up at saw Martha Jane staring at me. I turned so quickly that shebarely had time to change the studied expression with which she hadapparently been watching me.Quickly, she smiled and gave me a big wink. She mouthed the words,"It's okay."My Mom left a few minutes later. Martha Jane settled down to a pileof books on the sofa and studied silently while I knelt on the floorstruggling with my project. Using pliers and a screwdriver, I managed tostraighten most its typeset arms, but some of them were still gettingstuck on certain letters. I worked on it until I became frustrated andthrew the pliers on the floor and pouted."What's wrong?" Martha Jane asked, and she came to sit on the floorbeside me.I showed her how the keys for certain letters were still bent out ofshape and that if I bent one properly, the keys next to it became misa-ligned. Martha Jane said, "Speedy, why don't you take it to a repairshop?""It's too old," I said. "Nobody wants to fool with it.""Tell you what, maybe your Aunt Frances would buy you a new one.""She won't," I said."But she gets you everything you want.""No!" I said, angrily. "She told me I'm too young to have atypewriter.""Too young?" she said, surprised. "You probably know more abouttypewriters than she ever will, hon.""Besides," I added, holding the black albatross by the ends of itsheavy roller platen, "it's mine! I found it.""And nobody wants it but you," she pondered. She hunched down besideme and surveyed the damage. "Maybe I can help."I sighed, "It's no use. It's just too old and banged up.""Well, Speedy, let's be patient and see what we can do. I'm sure youcan figure it out. Show me what's wrong with it."I was reluctant and pessimistic at first, but Martha Jane put on herhornrimmed glasses and made me show her what the problem was. Shestudied everything closely and showed me how to set up the keys so thatthe problem was always repeated exactly the same way every time. Shetold me how to work on one part at a time and not try to fix everythingat once. Finally we had the machine in one piece again and I showed herhow straightening one key would throw several others out of whack.Martha Jane sat back and scratched her head. I stood up beside her."Martha Jane," I said, "you don't have to do this. You have to study."She said, "No...now you've got me as puzzled about this as you are."Suddenly she snapped her fingers and ran into the kitchen. She cameback with some popsicle sticks. We kept popsicle sticks around formaking our own cheap popsicles out of soda poured into ice trays. Sheshowed me how to hold the line of keys in place with parts made frompopsicle sticks, and that would let me work on one key at a time and keepthe others in place."Hey," I exclaimed, "Neat! That's pretty smart for a girl.""Hm...boys!" she huffed with a laugh, and she went back to the sofaand her books.An hour passed while I worked feverishly. And finally the damn thingworked! I ran to the chest in the corner for paper and put a sheet intothe roller, and used a piece of popsicle stick to replace a missing partthat kept the wrinkled old ink ribbon aligned. Then I typed and typedand watched amazed as the page filled with perfectly straight rows ofletters for the first time. I was so pleased, I filled the page from topto bottom with letters that soon were words instead of randomcharacters. I watched as my thoughts magically unfolded in printedsentences before my eyes. I typed until there was no more room on thepage, then I ripped it from the roller and ran to Martha Jane, who wasstartled by my sudden leap onto the sofa next to her."Look!" I said, shoving the paper under her face."Well," she said, impressed. "That's very nice. See? I knew youcould do it."Embarrassed, I said, "Look at the last line."Along the last line I had typed "Thank You Martha Jane Thank YouMartha Jane" across the page."Oh, that's sweet!" she exclaimed. She gave me a hug. "Can I keepthis?""Sure.""Is it all right? It's yours, you made it all by yourself. You sureyou don't want to keep it so you can show your Mama what you did?""She don't care.""Now why would say something like that about your Mama?"I shook my head. "She don't care. I didn't make it for me, I madeit for you. You helped me make it work.""But, hon, your Mama cares about what you do."I shook my head no."She does!" Martha Jane insisted.I shook my head again. "She tells me k** stuff like...she saysbabies come from storks, and the storks deliver the babies in diapershangin' from their beaks. She's always tellin' me stuff like that.""And I take it you didn't believe it."I shook my head no. "That can't be where babies come from.""Well," she said, "maybe you ought to talk to your Mama about that."I shook my head no again."So, have you figured out where babies come from all by your self?""Not yet. But it ain't from storks.""You're probably right," she murmured. She gazed at me inscrutablyfor a long moment, during which I squirmed and stood on the floor butbent down to prop my chin on an elbow that I leaned on the sofa cushionbeside her. Then she looked down at the page I had given her andsmiled. "This is so nice of you. I'll take it, but...you can have itback whenever you want it.""Okay."She held her hand on the back of my neck and drew me toward her soshe could kiss me on the nose. "Thank you!""Thank you too!" I smiled and blushed and looked at her slenderfingers and her auburn hair and the gentle lines of her face. She couldnot have ignored the way my eyes stayed glued on her. She smiled at me."Kiss me back," she said, pointing to her noise.I did and said, "I like your nose.""Yeah?" she said. She winked at me. "I like yours too."I feigned an overdramatized blush and a baby-like "Aw, shucks.""Don't be silly," she laughed, and pointed at my project on thefloor. "I hate to say it, hon, but it's nine o'clock. You have to cleanthat up, and I have to get you a bath."I said okay and quickly straightened things up while she went intothe bathroom and drew the bath. It was time for our bathtub ritual. Theapartments had no showers, but they had big new tubs in the small tiledbathrooms. Martha Jane would fill the tub to just the right warm temp-erature for the pink bubble-bath. The magic moment came when I wasfidgeting nude by the tub while the water level slowly rose. Martha Janewould hold the packet of bubblebath powder high over the tub."Almost ready-y-y..." she'd chant, as I waited."Looks okay NOW!" I'd say."Nope," she'd say. "Almost...almost...." And finally, "There sheblows!" And she'd upturn the packet until just enough of the pink powderfell out to make the right amount of bubbly stuff that I liked.I would hop into the tub and splash and stir up the bubbles untilthey overflowed the tub. The bubble-baths were better with Martha Janethan with anyone else, because others insisted on fewer bubbles and lesstime in the tub. But Martha Jane was herself a bubble-bath lover andseemed to know just how much would be the most fun -- which in my casewas enough bubbles to not only fill the tub to its rim but to cover mostof my head as well, by the time I fluffed it up.Martha Jane did not dry and dress me. That was up to me. I was afidgety k** anyway who liked to dress under my own power. Usually shestayed in the living room and listened to the radio or studied, and Iwould bathe, dry and dress and empty the tub myself. On those occasionswhen she did stay in the bathroom as "supervisor", she was there to makesure I cleaned up my bubbly mess. When this happened, Martha Jane removedher skirt and blouse and wore her bra and panties, or sometimes adelicate silk slip, if I were still in the bath; this was to keep herclothes from being splashed when we got playful and threw globs ofbubble-bath at each other during our occasional bubble-fights (MarthaJane, neatnick that she was, insisted on cleaning up every single remnantof any mess we made).On that night she stayed in the bathroom with me, fully clothed untilI climbed into the tub. She stood in the opened doorway and watchedcontemplatively. After a minute she came into the bathroom and beganremoving her skirt and blouse. She was almost down to her slip when Iannounced, from under the mountain of bubbles that reached to my nose,that I had to pee."Go ahead," she said.I insisted, "But YOU'RE in here!""For goodness' sake, it won't bother me."But I refused to pee with her in the room and would not get out ofthe tub. I remained hidden behind my hill of bubbles.Seeing my reluctance she said, "all right, I won't embarrass you. IsNumber One all you have to do?""Just Number One," I said. "But I hafta do it a hunnert and sixtythree times.""Yeah, right...keep it under one-fifty, bubble-man, and don't takeall night. Do what you have to do, hon, and call me when you'refinished."That was fine with me. She left the room and closed the door. After Ipeed I got back into the tub and shouted that the coast was clear.When she opened the door she wore only her bra and panties.For a while she watched me from the opened doorway while I splashedand scrubbed, but when it was time for me to finish up she came into theroom and knelt near the tub, watching me as before. I don't rememberwhat I said to her, but she was laughing about it when I pulled thestopper from the tub and stood up to dry off while the water drained.After my upper body was dry I got out of the tub as usual to dry my legsand feet on the little pink rug in the middle of the tiled floor. MarthaJane knelt and stared at me with that same probing look. I was dryingoff when she reached up and put two of her slim fingers around the headof my penis."Dry this too?" she asked, smiling."Yep," I answered innocently.She continued fondling my tip with her two fingers, gently andslowly, squeezing lightly or running a finger around the tip.I stopped my drying and looked down at what she was doing. I studiedher fingers closely, feeling a new and beguiling pleasure at her touch."Feel good?" she asked, her eyes studying my reactions. Her voicehad fallen to a whisper. She half-smiled with what appeared to be greatinterest, curiosity, and uncertainty."Yeah," I whispered back.Our voices were so low that the drip drip drip of the bathtub faucetwas easily twice the volume. I remember hearing the faint drip, thinkingthat the hot water handle had to be tightened to make it stop, but hertouch had me spellbound. My tip itched strangely and the skin of myglans seemed to cling to her soft, tentative fingers."You like that?" she whispered."Yeah. Feels nice.""Like it when I squeeze this way?""Yeah. Keep doin' it."Constantly observing my reactions, she continued fondling me andasking questions. She had a very secretive, whispered manner as if noone was supposed to hear us, and I fell into this pattern by whisperingback my own answers in the same secretive way. As she played with me Igrew larger -- something else quite new to me -- and after a moment sheset me on the edge of the tub and knelt in front of me, tickling andstroking my cock, explaining how it would get bigger as she did it. SoonI was erect enough to allow her entire hand to enfold me, at which pointshe began delicately pumping me toward a larger erection.Still whispering furtively, she was delighted at the size of my younghard-on and made several remarks about how my penis, which normally washardly bigger than her thumbnail, could grow to about 4 inches and getmuch fatter. I was far too young to have an orgasm at that point, a factshe apparently discovered after several minutes of this activity. Butfor quite a while she continued fondling me, and I grew more and morepleased at the sensations. Vaguely I recall that she attempted anexplanation of the birds and bees (I found this much more sensible thanthat crap about storks!), but I absorbed precious little of what then wasa great deal of heady biological detail. At that moment I was moreinterested in the pleasant physical sensations of her touch and thestrangely enticing intimacy in her voice and manner.She studied my facial reactions as much as she did those of my penis,and with every new touch or change in technique she asked me how itfelt. I would tell her it felt good and told her the kind of handmovements and touches I liked best.She said, "Now don't tell anybody we do this."While this may have seemed an odd request to any other young boy, itdidn't seem so to me. From the very beginning Martha Jane's secretivemanner conveyed to me an air of deliciously naughty discovery, of sharedand precious secrets. Obviously I wouldn't do anything Martha Janedidn't want. My distrust of grownups in general had made me adept atdeveloping many covert activities on my own that offered refuge frommeddling adults. I was intrigued to find that Martha Jane also hadsecrets that she kept from grownups but that she was willing to sharewith me.From slightly above her I saw a soft swell of flesh extend invitinglydown into her bra, and I ran my finger over it. "Why do girls alwayswear these?" I asked.Martha Jane told me a bra held a woman's titties securely (Now, theword "titties," as compared with "breasts", was a valid "Southern" term."Breast" sounded too clinical and seemed to apply mostly to packagedchicken parts. The people I grew up around came from rural farmingfamilies before they lived in the city. The word titties was perfectlyacceptable. I heard it used often in connection with everything fromcats and dogs to cows, auto tire aircaps, and baby-bottle nipples. Butfrom the outset, body words had special connotations for me and MarthaJane. They were spoken with a unique vocal, emotional, and sensualcoloration that I find indescribable. These same words would soundentirely different when I heard them used by others. This use of certainwords in certain ways became a part of our strange relationship at a veryearly stage. The singular meanings we gave them appeared to growentirely under their own power -- the same way the relationship itselfseemed to have powers of its own).She opened her bra and let me touch her flesh and her nipples. Thefeel of her gave me goosebumps. She explained how babies were nursed."Babies suck on the nipples," she said, and I asked what it tasted like.She said she had never had a baby so she had no milk in her but she saidthat a baby sucking its mom's tit was a very important part of the waybabies grew up. She asked if I had ever sucked my mom's nipples. I saidI probably didn't (which in retrospect, considering my mother's staunchpuritanism, was more than likely true). I asked her how it felt andasked to suck her titties. She held one breast up for me and told me Icould lick her nipple and see for myself. I did. The sensation of hermarshmallow-soft flesh on my tongue has never been duplicated. I wasaware of her smiling down and encouraging me as I took my sample lick.She was delicious. So I took another, longer lick. Hearing her breathbecome oddly deep and pleasurable, I licked yet again.It was a memorable moment. She left me with the impression that sheenjoyed my tongue on her in a way that was an equally unique experiencefor her. She told me that licking her titties was very, very personaland that she would never let anyone do it but me.After a while she had me as erect as I would ever get at that age. Iwas in a state not only of physical warmth, but of gratitude for herhaving revealed to me actions and pleasures that no one but Martha Janeand I would ever know about. And Martha Jane was greatly pleased andsurprised at the size of my erection and at my ready complicity in ournaughty game."We'll do it again later, okay?" she said, holding my very hard penisstill in her warm hand. "But don't tell anyone else, hon,because...well..."She paused. She searched for words."Well, they would say this is nasty. They wouldn't like it and we'dbe in trouble."I asked, "Why do they think it's nasty?""They just do. Lots of people don't like doing this.""I do.""You do? Really?""Yes. I like it with you."She grinned. "Let's get you dressed and we can do it again sometime."I don't remember anything else about that night. But I am certainthis was the night that a significant language with its own colorationand associations, its own set of gestures and responses, and a heavilysecretive atmosphere introduced themselves into our relationship.Good little boy that I was, I got dressed. She did, too, and thenshe put me to bed, kissed me goodnight, and went into the living room tostudy while I fell asleep. I was perfectly content. It was not so muchthe physical sensations that left me pleased as it was a new serenity, afeeling of closeness with the only person in the world I could trust.That was the beginning. I did not invest much time thinking aboutthe details, nor was I old enough to live in constant anticipation of thenext event. I knew only that I was extremely fond of Martha Jane. I wasalso aware, at the time, of her apprehension and tension. But sheneedn't have worried; indeed, I never told anyone about us and was nevertempted to. This was Martha Jane's secret and mine, a haven from thecoldness and fickleness of the outer world. And there was no way I wouldever hurt Martha Jane by getting her into trouble that might keep usapart. Unwittingly, we had formed a compact and a revolt.PART 2A:I believe that Martha Jane, like me, was mostly curious atfirst. And it seems that my surprise and delight at our intimacywas matched only by her own surprise and delight at my enthusiasmand cooperation. But we never mentioned our secret to each otherwhen she visited my Mom or when we greeted on the front porch onour way to school in the mornings that followed.Several weeks later, a few days after Christmas, the city wasinundated by a heavy winter snow--something Southern cities seldomexperienced. The whole town knew the weather was coming and Momhad a date to go to what had been set up as a White Christmasdinner at one of the fancy hotel ballrooms that were popular inthe late 1940's. It was a Friday night. Martha Jane darkened ourbedroom and sat on the bed with me, watching the snow. The bed wasin its usual place in that little room, pushed lengthwise againstthe wall next to the big double-window. We leaned on the windowsill and talked and watched the falling snow. I don't rememberwhat 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 andwarm.She settled her chin on one hand on the window sill, and I didthe 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 verystill. Soon I whispered. "There's so much snow, but it's soquiet.""No," she whispered. "You can hear it falling. Listen."We stayed perfectly still. In the night outside the window theentire project was covered in a thick, globby blanket of white. Thesnow fell with a dreamlike lazy slowness, but so densely it made thebuildings seem dark gray instead of dark brick-red, and completelyobscured the contours of the access driveway that ran behind ourbuilding. I strained nearer the window and listened. After ashort time I could indeed hear the muffled, barely audible whisk offalling snow."Hear it?" she asked."Yeah.""You wouldn't deceive me would you, mister? You really hearit?""Yeah," I breathed, fascinated. "Really."We leaned on our chins and listened more. I turned to her inquiet excitement at this revelation of the noise of snowflakesfalling, but as my eyes met hers I melted into speechless jelly.She was watching me with a look of warm, affectionate, captivatingtenderness. All I could do was look back into her eyes helplesslyuntil, embarrassed at my own startling feelings, I made a funny,scrunched-up face.She wrinkled her nose at me. "And 'that' to you too," shesaid, "silly-face." Then she jumped off the bed."Bubble time!" she announced, and off we went to the bathroom.She undressed down to her panties, bra, and slip and held up thebubble-bath pack and let it go, and I hopped in to splash aroundand build my usual nose-high mountain of bubbles. I didn't noticeuntil slightly later that she stood there for quite some time afterreaching back to the hook on the bathroom door to fetch her skirtand blouse; after thinking about it she returned her clothes tothe door hook. She removed her slip as well, and knelt by the tubagain in her undies. I got out of the tub and dried off. Onceagain, after a long hesitation, she put her fingers around my cock.Remembering this from before, I stood still and watched herplay with me. I hardened, and tickles spread through my tummy.I looked at her and grinned, and her eyes met mine with a wideninglook of recognition and pleasure."That's good," I murmured."Yeah? You still like this, huh?."I told her I did, and something made me shove my pelvis slightlyforward (a totally u*********s movement toward her fingers, thesource of my pleasure), which caused her to look up again in sur-prise and a strange kind of glee. The two of us seemed urged on bysome outlandish, mutually shared impulse to make the gestures andsay the words we did.As she played we watched my cock harden and twitch. She said wewould be more comfortable if I sat on the edge of the tub as be-fore. I did so, and we both watched as she softly pumped me erect.I reached inside her bra and found a nipple, and we exchangedmutually knowing smiles as I gently squeezed her. She was stillamazed at how my "teentsy" young organ became so enlarged. Soon Iwas thoroughly hard and she was grinning lewdly at me, a grin Iquickly learned to return.These returned glances and simultaneous eye contacts occurredso often it seems they never ceased. They were another integralpart of our communication with each other. It was part of the con-tinuous pattern of feedback and feed-in and feed-on that united us.Often it replaced thousands of words that might have been used todescribe a feeling or a moment. This, too, began happening quiteearly in the relationship.Of course, I didn't climax. The incident soon ended and wereturned to the bedroom. We continued watching the snowfall fora long time. I leaned sleepily on the window sill, and listened toher magical voice. She was talking about something she was doingat school. I was soon overcome by the languorous peace of beingwith her, something entirely absent from my relationship with mymother.When I opened my eyes again it was Saturday morning. My Momwas back home fussing around the house, and Martha Jane was gone.Several months went their course, and I passed my 7th birth-day. It was around that period, near May 1949, that several moreinterludes occurred. By this time I would get out of the tub andMartha Jane would be kneeling and waiting, and I would stand up andsay, "Do me." She would set me on the edge of the tub and pump meerect, 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 feelbetter.Martha Jane beamed delightedly at my responsiveness. "I lovefeeling it jump," she'd say, and she soon discovered that my cockjerked even more during her early attempts at using her tongue andmouth on it. Constantly we talked about how it felt and what weliked. Her favorite ploy was to hold me entirely inside hermouth, my tip barely extended into the narrow channel of herthroat, and gently close her mouth around me and hold me that wayso she could feel my cock throb against her tongue. I was stilltoo young to have a true orgasm, but I had no feelings of frus-tration. Nor was I particularly anxious about when she would besitting for me again. The aspects of our relationship that Isorely missed when we were apart for any significant time were ourfondness for each other and the simple "rightness" of being withher and hearing her alluring voice and quiet girlish laughter.It was sometime during the summer that the bathing routinechanged. It was probably the fourth or fifth episode. I got outof the tub and stood with my tummy sticking out lewdly so shecould play with me, which she did. We both grinned and whisperedin our naughty secret way as she stroked me, and she unhooked herbra so I could make little circles around her nipples.I watched her fingers on me and muttered, "It tickles.""Want me to do it slower or faster?""Slower.""That way, hon?""Yeah. That feels nasty.""You like it that way?""Yeah.""You mean it feels better, is that what 'nasty' means?""Yeah. Feels really good."She said, "That's what grownups say, hon, they'd say if itfeels good it's nasty." She added ruefully, "They think anythingthat feels good is horrible. I really don't understand. You'dthink people already have enough sadness and pain in their liveswithout making things worse."It was a concept that she and I would mention many times. Itseemed to be something of which she was often terrified; now andthen she would stop everything, look at me painfully, and then holdme close to her. This was one of the first of those occasions.Others would follow. But on that night it happened for the firsttime.She was saying to me, "Squeeze my nipple just a little, hon,really soft, the way I squeeze your dick...that's nice. I likeit when you just stroke me, too, around my nipples for a while."I feathered my fingertips across and around her nipples, and sheclosed her eyes dreamily. "Hm-hm, yes...better, hon...you dothat so well..."I was surprised at the reaction of her nipples. "They gotstiff," I said. "Does it hurt when they get stiff?""No, hon, it means it feels good. Just like getting you hardfeels good for you."We played and whispered for a while. Then Martha Jane juststopped. Abruptly and completely, she dropped her hands andstopped everything.She settled back on her folded legs on the floor, and put herhands over her face. She did that only for a few seconds and lookedup at me only because I had bent down closer to her. I saw she wassuddenly saddened, and as I bent down she turned toward me with alook of pain and loss on her face. She spoke softly and plaintivelyand, 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'regonna grow up--". She stopped, and held me down closer to her face,so that our foreheads touched. "You are gonna grow up in a verystrange world, with no daddy, like me. And a mommy who can't livefor 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 upand be afraid and suspicious and narrow and mean. I know you'llgrow 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 sexyand...other people don't tolerate that very well, it's all bad forthem 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 doknow that at that time her words only partially made sense.She kissed my nose. The episode quickly ended when she stoodup and said, "C'mon, hon. Beddie-bye."PART 2B:She led me to the bedroom and I jumped into the mattress, asI usually did, and waited for her to turn out the light and fluffup the pillows, as she usually did.But this time she stood very quietly in the dark near the edgeof the bed. She took off her bra and panties. I had seen her inundies often enough, but now she was totally nude. I remember howshe looked, her smoky green eyes and frizzy auburn hair reflectingthe moonlight. She was slim but not skinny, slightly full in theupper thighs but trim enough to appear rather long-legged. She hadnormal, presentable breasts with mildly pink nipples that werealmost the same color as the surrounding flesh. Martha Jane was 16then. Her mound was slight, but prominent because of the soft flareof her hips and the flat of her tummy and the space between her slimthighs. She had a small light tuft of auburn hair leading to herthick-lipped vaginal slit.Needless to say, I didn't know what many of these spare partswere for. I remember that seeing her nakedness for the first timewas more pleasing and soothing than it was titillating. Her bodyimpressed me as having the form that a female body should ideallyhave. For me, the excitement of the moment lay in the fact that sheallowed me to see the secret Martha Jane that no one else could see."C'mere," she coaxed sweetly. "to the edge of the bed." I roseand stood on my knees on the edge of the bed. She smiled and pulledher shoulders back, lifting one breast with her left hand while herother hand touched the back of my neck, urging me toward her andholding me near. In the dark she whispered, "Suck my titty, hon."That night she carefully and gently introduced me to the restof her body as she stood by the bed. I still remember how shetaught me to suck her breasts in just the right way, which Ienjoyed immensely.She crooned, "Put my nipple on your tongue and press it withyour lips...Mmm-hm, you do it just right...you're so sensitive towhat I like, hon...there, right there...Suck...suck, just likethat..."Now and then as I sucked and nipped I'd hear her swallow hard,one of several clues from her that she had reached a small peak andwas on her way to the next level of new or forbidden pleasure. Shelovingly watched me suckle and lick from one breast to the otherand asked if I liked it, and with my usual alacrity I replied thatI liked it a lot and I asked if I were doing it right and if it feltgood for her. She said yes I always did everything right and I wassucking her just the way she wanted. This went on for a long timein the sensuous dark. What I remember most about it was the givingto her of so much pure physical pleasure. She was almost clinicalat first, appearing to examine her own feelings and reactions morethan anything else. While she stood enjoying my sucking, she ledone of my hands to her mound and told me that in a little while shewould be very wet and sensitive there but that she wasn't wet justyet and that later she would be and she wanted me to touch her therewhen she got wetter.She lay in the bed and I lay beside her, cradled into her leftside, licking her nipples. She found my balls and began tracingaround them with a fingernail. She did this for a while, giving mean erotic tickle that made me spread my legs so she could reach mebetter. After her light fondling had my cock jerking, her hand wentwarmly around my shaft, her thumb making lazy circles around thetip. Her voice was motherly, cotton-soft magic in the dark, alongwith her milky flesh and her nipples and her slow deep breathing:"Would you like me to milk your dick, hon?"I nodded, giving her breasts the nipping little kisses thatshe liked and that made goosebumps on her arms. I had heard heruse the term 'dick' before, but I didn't know she could 'milk' adick. These became two of my favorite words when I'm aroused. AndI was a little older then, nearing 8, and perhaps some new hormoneshad begun their work: a strong sexual giddiness had found its wayinto my response pattern. And new words had found their way intoour universe. She was adding them continually, as if their forbid-den nature took on an even more alluring power than usual. Whatwas happening now was less intellectual, more emotional, andclearly more sexual.The pleasure that accompanied my erection soon mounted, forMartha Jane was showing me that a dick could indeed be warmly,voluptuously, lovingly hand-milked to a rod-like firmness. Shekept whispering to me as she sought new ways of touching andpumping me and varying the speed and angle of her motion. She hadlearned that I preferred a gradually rising intensity, that Ienjoyed lingering at one sensual plateau for long intervals beforegoing on. It was a technique I would soon learn to surprise herwith, on my own.And then a new twist introduced itself, seemingly on its ownand without any prior thought or suggestion from her, the same waynew pleasures always did when we were together. Without beingprompted I felt it was time I returned the delight she had givenme. I had felt like doing so for some time; but never having seenher naked, I didn't have much of a roadmap from which I could drawinspiration. How or why I managed to accomplish all that I didthat night is beyond me, and was probably beyond Martha Jane. Noone had ever explained female anatomy to me. Breasts and long hairwere the only female parts I knew until that night, except forMartha Jane's brief bathroom explanation of where babies came fromand her earlier revelation about how the place between her legswould get wet when I touched her there.Somehow I figured that Martha Jane's ultimate pleasure-centerwould be between her legs, as was mine. I shifted upward a little,hoping to use of my arms and hands more freely, and this allowed meto snuggle my face in her neck, kissing her throat and relishingthe taste and feel and scent of her skin there."Oh, sweet," she sighed. I was thrilled that she enjoyed it.Then I began stroking downward along her tummy toward her navel,and then across the tops and insides of her thighs. I felt theneed to go slowly, as she had done with me. Then again, I was notquite sure what I would find or where I should go. Gradually myhand slid in circles and to and fro until I found her pubic curls.She didn't move, but her breathing stopped. The action of herhand slowed on my cock.I marveled at the shape and texture of her mound, firm androunded just enough to fit in the palm of my hand; and her silkentuft whose twirls clung to my fingers. My fingers drifted downwardand found her moist folds; her unmoving hand gave my dick a littlesqueeze. Her eyes were closed. She seemed to concentrate entirelyon what I was doing. She didn't say anything. Blindly and withthe utmost care, I explored her dampness. Her flesh there seemedextraordinarily delicate. I heard her catch her breath as myfinger made a path along both sides of the smooth ridge of her wetand swollen outer lips. Her hand on my cock remained still, herother arm cradling me at her left side. Soon I found the placesand movements that heightened her enjoyment, although from myvantage point near her upright breasts I saw little of her wetdarkness beyond the faint rise of her pubic hair. Her thighsspread, slowly, moment by moment and an inch or two at a time,until she raised her knees slightly so her legs could fall outwardand she could completely open her naked secrets to my hand. Care-fully my fingers learned to open and spread her, and soon theyfound her clitoris. At that moment she gave a loud swallow and asleepily murmured "Yes..." that was barely audible. Millimeter bymillimeter, I began teaching myself about her mysterious clit.Her eyes remained closed, her head tilted back slightly on thepillow. She seemed not asleep, but in another world. I heard herbreath only faintly, and for long periods it seemed she was holdingher breath.It's very possible that Martha Jane knew little more about thispart of her than I did (although, today, I suspect she had mastur-bated, which was something I had yet to discover). She offered noinstruction, guiding me only with c***dlike whispers of "yes, hon,"and "ahh, that's good." But I soon knew how to touch her clit andher thick lips and thin inner petals exactly as she liked. Themoment when I discovered her most sensitive spot of all, she gave astartled, whispered "There, hon!" I repeated the motion, and shesaid again, "Right there...Right there, yes..oh yes do that," fol-lowed by my learning to use a very slight pressing motion near thebase of her button, which she greeted with a long "Aahhh" andanother noisy throaty swallow. Her thighs fell farther apart andshe made small snuggling adjustments into the mattress with her hipsas if attempting to open herself wider for my fingers.What she liked was a slow drawing of my finger, held flatlybut gently along her crease, from the bottom of her clit toward thetop. At the top she enjoyed my occasional cradling of the lengthof her clit within two of my fingers, and a gentle sliding up anddown each side of the length of it, in much the same way that sheoften used only two fingers to stroke my cock. She preferred itdone slowly, with little pressure; and I learned that she enjoyedriding a peak this way until I left the area and started drawingsmall, deliberate middle-finger circles around the nub withoutactually touching it. During all this time her face remainedslightly turned away from me, eyes closed, her head back to revealher graceful throat so that I could see as well as hear her swallowwith nervous pleasure. I repeated this stroking until she begantightening her arms and seemed to stiffen everywhere. I would slowdown and maintain her excitement at that level for a while, then goback to the little circles that gave her some rest. But each time,I made the preferred stroking motion last for a longer interval,and shortened the interval of the slightly less pleasurable circles.I have no idea where these ideas came from. Now and then she wouldreturn to more normal breathing, but each foray into the moreintense level would find her neck tightening a little more, heroccasional breathing more urgent and irregular.And there was yet another amazing discovery: now and then asMartha Jane milked me, squeezing gently from base to tip and mildlyjiggling me for a moment with two or three fingers before goingback to the long, hugging strokes, I noticed a drop of slipperyliquid at my tip. There was a very small amount of it, barely aslight smear. I didn't make much of it at the time, thinking itmight mean I needed to go to the bathroom.What concerned me more were the mystery and beauty of hergrowing involvement within her pleasure, and my own responses toit. Of course I had no idea where this intensity of feeling wouldlead; I knew only that I was making her feel very, very good andthat it got better for her every minute. And the minutes did,indeed, pass. Later I looked at a clock and found then that itwas after eleven, two hours from the time I'd first stepped fromthe tub that night.As Martha Jane became quieter and more tensed, I discovereda variation she liked immensely. With that favorite motion of myflattened finger along her crease and clit, I learned to lengthenthe path slightly and insert about an inch of my stroking fingerinside her before beginning the upward slide along her clit. Ididn't do this quickly, but I did increase the speed and pressurevery slightly once I found that she enjoyed this even more. I wasawed at the inner texture of her incredibly warm opening and theway it gripped my finger as I entered and withdrew. Each dip intoher brought a fresh supply of wetness to her clit and outer lips.Then she began a rapidly accelerating slide toward her climax.She had been cradling me with her left arm, but this had driftedbehind her head. Her other hand, which had been milking me, wasdrawn to her lips in a fist that tensed until her knuckles grewwhite. Her head craned farther back, her neck stiffened. And asshe always did when her excitement heightened unbearably, she heldher breath, letting it out and in with a single, delicate gasp andholding it again. Then I felt her clitoris swell; the heat of hersucking slit rose quickly and dramatically. Her knees fell openeven more, stretching her thighs and arching her mound into my hand;I watched this in utter fascination. The memory of the sight of heroutspread thighs and slightly lifted hips as she allowed herself atotal immersion into pleasure continues, after all these years, toredefine and reclarify the true meaning of the word "naked."And suddenly, electrically, came a rapid series of quick andshuddering gasps that stopped short as she took in one last gulpof air and tightly held her breath just before uttering a last,frantic, desperate whisper:"oh hon....ohdontstop!"I was certainly not going to stop, irresistibly engrossed ingiving her such intense enjoyment. She began trembling in small,tight, jittery waves along her waist and arms. She whimpered, andher head dug back tightly into the pillow. Then she went entirelystiff from head to toe, breath held. Her clit swelled enormously.A tendon flittered in her inner thighs. Thinking that slowing mymovement would prolong her ecstasy, I did so. Her hips lurched onceand made a single grinding circle against my hand, and she againstiffened, hard, and remained completely still for an alarminglylong time, her flowering heated center weeping slickly around myfinger--until she finally and just as suddenly began to relax, herhips first giving three or four gentle undulations. Her necksoftened and receded, and she took in a long deep breath at last,her head falling limply to her other shoulder. Soon she beganbreathing normally but deeply and tremulously, so I stopped movingmy finger and kept it pressed securely against her still-turgidclit. Her wetness soaked my hand.Her eyes opened. She blinked and panted, breathing anastonished, "Where did you learn to do that?"I shrugged. "I just thought it was what you wanted.""You mean you never did that before?"I just looked at her blankly. "Did I do it wrong?""Oh you sweet baby," she moaned, almost crying. And in fact shedid half-rise and hug me and she did indeed cry. "Oh my honey," shemoaned. She cried for several minutes, but quietly, in delicateexpulsions of breath (Martha Jane was always a very quiet, very fem-inine, even a very elegant crier. I have never been able to forgetit). For a while she held me, rocking to and fro, not letting go ofme for a long time until she fell back listlessly, sniffling, andput a kleenex to her eyes and nose. She said, almost to herself,"We are gonna go straight to hell.""Martha Jane? Did I do it right?" I asked again, concerned.When she settled down she cradled me once more and said, yes, Ihad done it right."Exactly right!" she said, and began milking me again."Was it Good?""Speedy...that was so deliciously nasty."It was one of our favorite phrases (and perhaps the most signif-icant), along with all the others we adopted as turnons. Althoughstudious and conscientious and polite, Martha Jane used a limitedand earthy vocabulary when naked. She gave the words a seething,lecherous coloration. And she seemed to know exactly how and whento use them. I soon learned to do the same. It would be some timeyet before I knew what it all meant. But I recall that night asbeing the one during which we opened and passed through a door thatsoon closed shut behind us, yielding no escape.She sweetly milked and cradled me and looked deeply into myeyes--an intense, probing gaze that told me she didn't have sex withonly part of her body. She did it with her face, her eyes, herwords, her every part. She explained that she had just "cum," aword she pronounced with such dripping salaciousness that I got hardagain, even though cumming was a little abstract for me and she soongave up trying to describe it. In any case, I was glad I had givenher such intense gratification. I described what I had seen, heardand felt as I was making her cum, and her eyes glowed sensuously andmischievously as she listened. We were tired, but through words andglances we prolonged a titillating sexual afterglow that lastedseveral more minutes.She tried to demonstrate what cumming was by pumping mebriefly. Both of us soon realized that it wouldn't (couldn't)happen for me yet. But my feelings of closeness to her wereextremely satisfying in their own right.As I started falling into sleep, she rose from the bed andbegan dressing. My mother would soon be home from her date.Martha Jane put on her shirt, but stopped to give me a very bigkiss on my nose and a very long, very close hug.While she finished dresssing I was slumbering off. I rolledover, away from her, snuggled into my pillow, and watched themoonlight falling on the window sill a few feet away. I feltexceptionally peaceful and cared for. I felt that the best partwas being able to give her such spectacular enjoyment. I feltthat devils in us had been given space, had played, laughed, sung,shared, had been released into the night somehow, and had wornthemselves out. I felt now like an angel. I wondered how it couldbe true, as I had heard in school, that angels traveled from worldto world along alabaster shafts of moonlight. I looked closely andtried to imagine how even the tiniest of angels could glide in theglowing pools that dripped over the window sill. I imagined whatit would be like to travel upward on those soft beams, beams thecolor of Martha Jane's warm and trembling nakedness when I watchedher having her long cum with the moonlight on her neck and hardenednipples.Martha Jane's clothing whispered as she dressed. Her softlyrounded shoulders and smooth thighs whispered under her clothes.Her arms and hands whispered as they reached to button her shirt.And her breathing whispered, still a little shaky from cumming.I remember those sounds when I see moonlight. I hear them in mydreams.I fell asleep.