Just before my 9th birthday my godmother, great-aunt Frances,
bought me a new dark brown suit and new shoes for my Confirmation
ceremony at St. Mary’s Catholic Church. It was a dim, cloudy Sunday
afternoon outside; but inside the ornate, high-ceiling Gothic
church, hundreds of banks of candles cast a warm, glorious light
over everyone in the church.
Mom and Aunt Frances and my deceased father’s mother, Grandma
Rose, drove me to the front entrance and let me out on the sidewalk
while Aunt Frances parked her car in the lot behind the church. I
stood on the sidewalk for a moment looking down at myself, all got
up in the immaculate suit and shiny new shoes, my hair slicked with
a hefty, odorous portion of Wildroot Hair Cream. I asked myself if
it were really I in this costume. If I bent my arms, the sleeves
of the suit crinkled and wrinkled stiffly, but when I straightened
my arm the cloth fell back into a smooth, neat tube. I wore a tight
starchy white shirt with a flowery bow tie my aunt had chosen. The
bowtie and the thick collar dug uncomfortably into the front of my
I felt out of place, as emotionally removed from the impending
ceremony as I would have been at a funeral for a perfect stranger’s
dead dog. I climbed the front marble steps and entered the front
vestibule, an imposing, darkly paneled hall where I lined up with
a chatty, squealing assemblage of other suited boys. The girls,
fluttering and chirping like sparrows, lined up at the other end of
the hall in fluffy communion-style dresses and white shoes. Soon
the long-robed nuns in their stiff white bobbing habits shushed us
into silence. They strode quickly through our ranks to check us
out and nod their stern approval.
Even the shuffling of feet on the waxed tile floor came to a
dead stop as my own homeroom teacher, Sister Mary Joseph, sternest
and most dreaded nun of all, strode into the room. No more than a
tiny slip of a woman, her imperious expression and long stride gave
her a commanding manner. She stood exactly in the center of the
long and narrow hall, her arms folded firmly before her so that
her hands were hidden inside the floppy arms of her robe. As she
slowly passed her glowering eyes from one end of our ranks to the
other, her thin lips characteristically pursed and reset them-
selves. The hall suddenly echoed as one of the kids gave a loud
sneeze, which was quickly followed by the echo of four nuns giving
a sharp and loud “Sh!” In the ensuing silence, Sister Mary Joseph
began her announcement in her usual manner, with a rise of her head
and a long deep breath.
“Children,” she said, “you are about to become soldiers for our
lord Jesus Christ.” Pause. “As you attend the holy ceremony of
Confirmation today, you will receive a scapular with an image of
your patron saint.” Pause. “Wear your scapular at all times. It
is your protection from the dangers and temptations you encounter in
your struggle with Satan. Protect it as you would your immortal
souls. Many holy martyrs of the Church have suffered pain of death
rather than lose possession of the holy image we will give you here
today.” Pause. “You are fortunate and honored that your holy
scapulars will be blessed by none other than Monsignor Kearny from
Blessed Sacrament School. He has honored us by agreeing to deliver
the blessing and the sermon today.” Pause. “Now we will all file
into our pews.” Pause. “Be silent. And conduct yourselves as
children of Christ and as you were taught in the rehearsals. Don’t
forget to kneel and to stand at the proper intervals for a High Holy
Mass. And remember at all times that the Monsignor is watching. I
know you will make him proud of each of you, one and all.”
She nodded to a nun at the door, who shoved opened the vast
carved walnut panels that led into the interior. The place filled
with the shuffling of new shoes and rustling of clothes as we
entered double file, first the boys and then the girls, and took our
assigned places in a line of wooden pews along the right side of the
church. As I shuffled slowly in line along the narrow aisle I
passed my family, Aunt Frances and Mom smiling proudly my way, and
my pert grandmother giving me a wink. Their obvious pleasure failed
to improve my humor; the only pleasantness I found in the situation
was the heavy waft of candle smoke and paraffin in the air, and the
dulcet singing of the choir in the loft above and behind us. As
this would be a High Mass, I knew I would at least have the pleasure
of hearing Sister Albert’s accomplished choir singing the Gregorian
Chant required by the formal ceremony.
As usual, the Mass progressed in what I always thought was a
tortuously slow pace. And again as usual, I occupied my wandering
mind by studying the dozens of statuettes that line the walls of St.
Mary’s. St. Christopher: a rugged, bearded, muscular man leaning
heavily on his staff and struggling head first through some
undefined tempest, the child Jesus hoisted on his massive shoulders.
St. Stephen the Martyr: in the swaddling garb of what I later came
to know as the clothing worn by Roman peasants, lashed at his wrists
and ankles to a wooden post, posed with his eyes lifted to heaven,
all done with exacting, lurid anatomical detail.
My gaze never failed to linger on the carved image of St.
Joseph, whose name matched my middle name and who had been chosen as
the patron saint of my Confirmation. Not as herculean as St.
Christopher, he was a long legged figure with a long beard, seated
at his carpenter’s bench with a tacking hammer in one strong hand,
his other arm draped around the shoulders of the peasant boy Jesus,
who clung absurdly dependant at his side. I studied Joseph’s face
interminably, striving to imagine what it might be like to have had
such a father with strong, chiseled features and commanding eyes
under a heavily furrowed brow. I wondered what his beard would feel
And the Virgin Mary, a short, full hipped woman in a simple
white flowing robe with a blue shawl draped about her head and
shoulders. Her slim right hand was raised as if conferring on the
viewer the two fingered blessing that I had seen Pope Pius XII
confer from his balcony in movie newsreels. In her right arm she
held the half nude child who turned its head to gaze at the viewer
with a frown of divine approbation that seemed blatantly inappro-
priate on the infant’s face. Always my eyes fixed themselves on
Mary’s girl like, oval face. The sculptor had fashioned for her a
pair of enchantingly dark, gentle eyes. Her expression was tender,
knowing, forgiving. I could not match my mother’s face with hers,
nor my great-aunt nor my grandmother nor anyone else. I wondered
what it might be like to have such a mother. In many ways her
expression reminded me of one I sometimes saw on Martha Jane. My
eyes moved down to Mary’s small bosom, and warmly I remembered the
moist swell of Martha Jane’s breasts and the feel of her nipples
under my tongue.
I asked myself if the woman who lived within that statue would
be scandalized at my illicit familiarity with the feel and taste of
real, warm, responsive titties. Would she, too, offer a nipple for
I was fully aware of the blasphemous nature of these thoughts.
As Mass moved agonizingly along, we children prepared for communion
by attending the rear confessional one by one. Dutifully, I ducked
into the dark curtained booth and spoke into the cloth shrouded
grating that separated me from the priest, whom I could dimly see
and whom I knew immediately to be the kindly and unflappable
Franciscan, Father Edward.
Dutifully, I contrived a suitably penitent voice. Dutifully, I
recited the same repertoire of sins I usually confessed and for
which I was truly sorry: for saying bad things about my fat Aunt
Mary, whom I really didn’t like, even after I confessed not liking
her; for talking back to my mother or disobeying and upsetting her;
for not making the bed on Saturday; for taking God’s name in vain
when I got angry at a kid on the playground and wished that Jesus
would tear the little bastard’s tongue out and send him to hell to
be devoured by slimy gnomes; and for falling asleep during morning
Brazenly, I made no mention of wondering what the Holy Mother’s
breasts were like. Brazenly, I made no mention of Martha Jane’s
breasts or her thighs or that I had made her cum. Brazenly and
stubbornly I refused to connect Martha Jane with evil, and even if
I could I brazenly and stubbornly refused to betray our trust.
On the other side of the grating Father Edward leaned back in
what I could see was a brown leather backed chair. He gave his
usual sighs and his usual response: “Very well, my child, and is
that all you have to confess?”
“You know you must honor your mother and you must not have
unkind feelings for your aunt, for they all love you and care for
you in ways you do not understand. And for your penance I want you
to say ten hail marys and ten our fathers.”
“And remember to avoid the temptations and the sins of greed,
envy, and lust.”
And then the usual, ritualized dismissal: “Your sins are forgiv-
en. Go in peace, and sin no more. ”
“Thank you, Father.”
I left the man with no inkling of Martha Jane. I wondered if
his benediction forgave me for that as well as for the sins I had
confessed. I thought the penance was a little out of line for not
liking my fat Aunt Mary. Apparently at least half that penance
must have been slated for disobeying my Mom.
Returning to my pew, I found the walls of St. Mary’s reverber-
ating with the husky, amplified voice of Monsignor Kearny. From the
ornate pulpit at the front of the church he inveighed weightily with
his baritone’s voice of doom: “…and be wary, my children, of the
evil nature of the sins of the flesh, sins that render our precious
souls disgusting in the sight of the Lord. For to Jesus and His
Holy Mother Mary, the sins of the flesh are truly the most offensive
sins of all. Because of them we risk the punishment of being cast
down to a terrible, burning place in purgatory for ten thousand
years, and after that, into the flames of hell for all eternity…”
Just ahead of me sat Sister Mary Joseph, nodding slowly in
righteous agreement as the monsignor thundered on. I sighed
impatiently, my eyes wandering until they fell on the statue of
Jesus, gruesomely hanging from a crucifix high over the center of
the altar. I cringed at the sight of the bloody nails…
I have no idea how much of this tripe I did or didn’t absorb,
but at the time I consciously rejected it as irrelevant to what
Martha Jane and I experienced. At that time I found other aspects
of life to be much more frighteningly evil: evil was the beating of
a boy I knew by some unknown kids who came to our part of the
project one day from the big apartment buildings on the hill at the
top of Exchange Street. Evil was the Russians wanting to drop atom
bombs on everyone, and evil was the Nazis and the Japs who had blown
off the arms and legs of soldiers and shot out the eyes of the man
who lived a few doors down from me. But I could not equate evil
with the image of Martha Jane spreading her thighs to allow my hands
to please her. To use a more modern phrase: the equation didn’t
However, I was not so brazen nor rebellious as not to appreci-
ate the majesty of the edifice and interior of St. Mary’s and the
solemnity of the ceremony. Gregorian Chant had its hypnotic quali-
ties, as did the ritual of the purple robed monsignor moving down
a line of piously kneeling children as he draped a scapular ribbon
round their necks.
When he came to me I kneeled properly and straightly. Behind
me, my mother stood with her hand on my left shoulder as the
The Monsignor intoned, “What is the child’s name?”
“Steven,” my mother answered.
“And who,” the monsignor intoned, “is his patron saint?”
“Saint Joseph,” my mother answered.
The monsignor reached toward an altar boy who fished out a
scapular–a thin ribbon with a small, two inch cloth-framed image of
the indicated patron–and then the monsignor draped it loosely round
“Steven, I confirm you as a soldier in the army of Christ under
the guidance of your patron, Saint Joseph.” He followed that with a
symbolic touch of one hand to my cheek, a mere, touching tap of his
palm that signified a slap, which in turn symbolized the martyr’s
blows I would have to endure to defend my faith.
There followed a quickly delivered chant of garbled Latin as he
moved to the next child in line. Even I, brazen and rebellious
sinner that I was, had to admit that the theatrical power of this
pageantry was highly effective. Of course my relatives were in-
ordinately pleased and heaped praise onto me incessantly on the
drive back home, which mercifully was only a few blocks away.
Mom had arranged for a small dinner with my Aunt Frances and
Grandma Rose, who brought ravioli and salad and Italian knot bread
for the occasion. The kitchen being too small, we ate in the living
room on aluminum trays and paper plates. I’d had to fast in order
to attend the required communion during the ceremony, and it was
well past noon; I sat in one corner and ate like a famished cave man.
“Don’t spill gravy on your shirt!” my aunt screamed in her usual
panic, and Mom removed my coat and stuffed a napkin under my tight
collar. The napkin hurt, but I was too hungry to complain.
My mother prompted, “Don’t eat so fast.” I replied by stuffing
ravioli into my mouth until it squeezed out the sides of my lips.
“There,” my aunt grunted, throwing up her hands. “See what he
does? Why won’t you listen to your Mama?”
My mother warned, “You better not stain that suit. Martha Jane
will be here later on. See wants to see you in it.”
At that, I didn’t eat more slowly but I ate more carefully,
making certain the napkin covered as much of my starchy shirt as
But by the end of the day Martha Jane had not arrived. As it
grew dark I went outside our apartment and looked into their
apartment window next door, but no lights were on. Going back to
our apartment I asked my mother what happened to Martha Jane.
Mom answered, “I guess she didn’t have time. She probably went
to the hospital with her mother and her Uncle Joe. He gets sick all
the time with that shot up stomach of his, ever since he came back
Once more before getting ready for bed, I checked Martha Jane’s
apartment. No one was there. Reluctantly I went back to our
bedroom and removed my suit, getting into my undies for bed. Mom was
in her nightgown, turning out all the lights. I lay on the bed in
the lighted bedroom near the window and studied the picture of Saint
Joseph on my scapular. The miniature portrait had been done in
oils, apparently in the late Victorian period. The man was heavily
bearded, piously looking toward heaven with a conventionally saintly
gaze. The scapular itself was a simple device, a black flat rayon
ribbon with the cloth bound portrait dangling by a similar piece of
cloth. The painting was done in the same rich oils as a picture once
shown to my class by Sister Mary Joseph, who had found in a book
what she considered to be a true representation of the fires of
hell. She brandished the book before the ogling eyes of the kids
and told us what would happen to us if we were sent to hell. It
showed a dimly lighted cavern populated by crawling serpents and
evil clouds of smoke. Snarling, leering, crocodile toothed hairless
dogs ate their way through the intestines of screaming victims and
cruelly tore off their arms and legs.
Holding my scapular before me, I wondered if its reputed magic
powers could indeed protect me from such a fate. Certainly, it had
done a shabby job of protecting me from temptation. I couldn’t
imagine how anything could keep me from engaging in future naughty
intimacies with Martha Jane. The mental image that made me feel a
creepy apprehension was that of having to protect the scapular with
my life. Suppose, as Sister Angelica from the fourth grade had pro-
posed weeks earlier, the Chinese Communists invaded the country and
arrested all the Catholics and strangled their children? I would be
found wearing a scapular, a dead giveaway, and would be sadistically
and slowly strangled if I didn’t give it up.
This morbid thought haunted me as Mom climbed in the bed and
shut the light. When I grew a little older Mom would sleep in the
living room on the sofa bed, but in those days she slept with me. My
place was at the window side, because I often enjoyed sitting by the
window sill and looking out into the dark before falling asleep.
Mom said good night and rolled away from me. For a long time I lay
face up, pondering the magnitude of my responsibilities as a soldier
in the army of Christ with an official scapular that I had to wear
at all times to confirm my identity.
Late in the night I awoke and found myself totally alone in the
bed. Feeling something moving under me, I rose on my knees and
looked down. Horrified, I saw dozens and then hundreds of black
thumb sized roaches dashing across the white sheets in all
directions. Frantically I pounded the mattress and made wide
sweeping movements with my outspread hands to wipe them away. They
kept coming, multiplying, crawling everywhere, I couldn’t stop
Suddenly I was awake. I was on my knees in the bed. My Mom
slept on her side, next to me. My hands were spread on the sheets
in front of me. But there were no roaches. Only the clean white
sheets. My heart pounded. I waited for it to stop. The only object
on the sheet before me was the tangled, black-stringed scapular.
I picked it up and placed it on the window sill. As I did so,
my arm was flooded by a narrow beam of moonlight.
Stealthily I moved to the edge of the foot of the bed, then onto
the floor. My heart still pounding slightly with the memory of my
terror, I slowly opened the corner chest and took out a new sheet,
which I brought with me into the kitchen, carefully looking back to
see my mother still asleep. Wrapping the sheet around me, I opened
the back door, wincing as it creaked halfway open. Looking behind
me again, I saw no one following me. I walked into the dark back
yard, barely visible in the light from a street lamp several doors
away near the corner of the building. A cricket chirped lazily. I
moved out near the curb of the access driveway behind our building
and looked across Martha Jane’s back yard, which was next door to
ours. I saw no lights. It was too dark for me to see into their
bedroom window. I wondered where she was. When would she return?
My mother appeared in her nightgown at our back door, frowning
sleepily into the dark with swollen eyes. “Speedy? Speedy?”
Reluctantly, I walked toward her with the tails of my white
shroud trailing at my feet.
“What are you doin’ out here in the middle of the night?” She
bent down and examined me. “Are you walking in your sleep? Huh?
Are you asleep?”
Seeing that she had furnished me with an excuse as good as any I
might conjure on my own, I nodded yes.
“Are you asleep?” she asked again.
I nodded. “I’m asleep,” I said plainly, and looked up to see
if there were any possibility that she believed me.
“Well, come in the house. Come on, get in here and get back to
bed.” She pulled me gently into the kitchen and stroked my hair.
“Are you awake now? Answer me, are you awake now?”
I nodded yes, and kept walking in my oversized sheet to the
bedroom, where I left the sheet on the floor and climbed back into
bed. As Mom settled beside me I nestled back into my pillow, face
up, and looked away from her into the shafts of moonlight that
banded the window sill.
Mom asked irritably, “What *were* you dreaming about?”
“Roaches,” I muttered.
“Roaches. The roaches from the scapular.”
“Roaches?” she repeated, incredulously. “Well, go back to
sleep. Are you all right now?”
I nodded yes, several times.
“Go back to sleep, then.”
She turned away from me and drew the top sheet to her shoul-
ders. Soon she was still, breathing deeply. I lay watching the
moonbeams, listening for echoes of Martha Jane in the room. The
resting woman beside me felt like a foreign object that didn’t sound
or feel like the Martha Jane I wanted to talk to and explain my
I searched the moonbeams and thought about her until I fell
For several weeks I saw Martha Jane only now and then as she
walked across the grounds on her way in or out of the project. She
caught sight of me once from a couple of blocks away and smiled and
waved and yelled Hi.
Meanwhile, it seems my Mom and future step-dad had gone through
a brief spat. They started dating again a few weeks later. But my
sitter was not Martha Jane. In fact, I had two different sitters at
first. The first must not have been very interesting, as I have
absolutely no recollection of who they were or how they looked. The
identity of the second sitter is also a blank, but I recall that I
spent the evening not at home but in the sitter’s apartment, across
the driveway and at a slight angle from my own building. Through
their back kitchen window that night I could see the back door that
led to my own apartment. Just to the left was the apartment where
Martha Jane and her family lived. At one point that night I saw
her in her kitchen; there was no mistaking that pretty face and
frizzy auburn hair. I waved to her. Of course, she didn’t see me.
I went back later and waited for a while but she didn’t show again.
And by the time the sitter walked me back across the driveway back
home, all the lights were out in Martha Jane’s place.
When I had not seen her for several more days I bumped into her
accidentally just as I was going out the front door on my way to
school. She came outside at the same time with her schoolbooks
under her arm.
“Hey, hon,” she sang as she locked her door. She beamed at me
and gave me her best Southern twang. “Where’ve you been, sugar?”
“where’ve-you-been-too,” I mimicked playfully.
“Well,” she went on, making a silly face, “Where YOU been?”
“Well,” I said in the same way, “Where YOU been?”
She laughed and gave a mild go-away wave with her free hand.
“Oh, silly!” She shook her head. She was wearing a long plaid,
pleated skirt and a white blouse. I very clearly remember that
morning and how she looked; bright, clean, basic, unpretentious,
very very pretty in a simple, uncomplicated way.
We walked a few blocks together. I noticed she seemed to be
getting thinner. She also looked tired, but cheerful. It turned
out she had been working very hard in school and was overly anxious
to do well. “You wouldn’t know about that yet,” she said, “you’re
barely in the third grade.”
“What grade are you in?” I asked.
“The umpteenth, feels like.”
Umpteenth was our private code that meant something akin to
forever or infinity.
“I’m coming over Saturday,” she said. She had stopped and seemed
serious and looked steadily at me without moving.
I said, “Oh. Okay!” and beamed at her. She kept looking at me in
the same mysterious way. I didn’t know why she wasn’t saying anything.
She seemed concerned, apprehensive.
“Well,” she said after a minute and a short breath, “I am
*supposed* to stay with you Saturday night, anyway.”
I did not know what she was getting at or what was going on, or why
she emphasized the word “supposed”. I do remember the moment clearly.
I became very tense; I felt suddenly distant from her and didn’t know
what was wrong.
She asked me pointedly, “Are we still friends, hon?”
“Sure we are,” I said.
“I mean…are we still really, really friends?”
I blushed. “Your my own special, very only, very umpeenth-degree
“And you’re my special little man, hon,” she said, but she wasn’t
smiling, except weakly, sympathetically.
We talked a little more, I don’t remember what we said. She seemed
absent minded. It was not until Saturday night that I discovered what
she was thinking.
It was all quite complicated. At least, it was for Martha Jane.
As an adult I now understand, but as a 9-year-old I could not fathom
it. I viewed things more simplistically.
Next Saturday, Martha Jane and I sat and talked after she made
dinner and after we cleaned the dishes. Then she studied on the
sofa a while. She asked me a series of seemingly unrelated ques-
tions, none of which I remember. She was not as openly affectionate
as usual and seemed remote, though not at all cold.
Our exchanges were brief and rather formal. She asked me about
some uncles of mine who had not returned from the war, and she asked if
I ever saw my Uncle Frank–my father’s brother and one of the few male
relatives in my family who had survived and returned home. I told her
that Uncle Frank had not seen me since he finished his last hitch in
the Air Corps and decided to come back to the States to go to college
on the GI Bill. I told her about his getting wounded in a B-26 in the
Pacific a few years ago and how he pulled up his pants leg and showed
me the pink scars of the three healed bullet holes in his thigh.
She winced, making an “Ugh” face. She said firmly, “I don’t want
to hear about it. I’ve heard enough about the war.”
So I didn’t say any more. I sat on the floor watching her, trying
to figure out how to get through to her.
Martha Jane announced, “My Uncle Joe died, you know.”
“Yeah,” I said, “Mama told me.”
“He was sick for so long, from his war wounds. He lived longer
than we thought he would, but…It was hard on Mother. That’s two
men the war took from her, her husband and her brother.” She stared
ahead pensively, then blinked awake. “Well. Enough of that.”
I said earnestly from across the room, “I’m real sorry, Martha
She smiled. “Thank you, hon. I know you are. It’ll be all right.”
She looked back at her book and began scribbling in her notepad.
For a long time–perhaps for most of the evening, it seems–she
pored over her studies and remained unresponsive.
Later that night I felt she was still mourning, despite saying she
would get over it. I had seen a whole neighborhood full of hurt,
tragic people: widows, the disabled and the paralyzed, the shot-up and
the abandoned of the War. I had seen my mom’s sister, my young and
plain looking Aunt Martha, when she came to our apartment once in the
middle of the night, pounding on our front door and screaming for help
until she woke us. My mom scrambled out of bed and I stood in the
hallway watching from the bedroom as Mom opened the front door for Aunt
Martha, who rushed sobbing into the living room and collapsed in a
wailing heap on the sofa. Her husband had beaten her again. Mom and
Aunt Martha tried to hide the bloody bruises from me, but I had
already seen them on Aunt Martha’s face and arms and I knew what the
marks meant without being told. Seeing her, I wanted to cry and
throw my arms around her–even though she was, unfortunately, one of
those adults I didn’t trust. She was even more grimly puritanical and
prim than my Mom, and a fundamentalist who considered everything an
occasion for sin of some kind. But I understood her pain, both
physical and emotional, without having it explained to me.
That night occurred some years earlier, when I had just turned 6.
The commotion woke up Martha Jane’s family next door. She and her
sister Evelyn came over in their robes and pajamas and Martha Jane went
straight over to me because my mother panicked and was rasping, “Get
Speedy out of here, get him out of here!” Martha Jane led me to the
bedroom, where I looked up at her and whispered so the others wouldn’t
hear, “I already saw it.”
She looked down at me. “You did what, hon?”
I repeated, looking back to make sure the others couldn’t hear us,
“I already saw it, Martha Jane. I saw what happened.”
Martha Jane knelt down to me in her rumpled bathrobe and looked
into my eyes with her warm, striking green ones. “Then,” she said
eyeing me seriously, “you understand what happened.”
I nodded. Then I added, so the others wouldn’t hear, “Uncle
Bobby hurt her again.”
We were alone in the room. I could still see in my mind the
earlier glimpse of Aunt Martha’s bloody lip and the dark bulging
eye, and the blue-black smear on one of her arms. I started crying.
I could not stop the tears from falling down my face, despite my
attempts at remaining calm.
“Oh, honey,” Martha Jane implored, “don’t get scared and start
“I’m not scared,” I sniffled. “I know how Aunt Martha hurts.
It makes me cry.”
“You–” Her eyes looking into mine softened and seemed to
turn to mush. “Oh, you sweet baby.”
“Why does he do that to her?”
“I don’t know, Speedy. But you are so sweet. So very sweet.”
She closed the bedroom door, shutting us off from the sobbing and
wailing in the living room, and put me back into bed. She told me it
would all be okay in the morning and she understood my feelings. She
sat on the bed and said I shouldn’t feel bad about not being with the
others and she really didn’t want me to feel as though I were being
“locked away” in the room. She said, “I’ll stay in here with you for
a while if you want, okay? So you won’t be all by yourself?”
I told her, “It’s okay if I stay in here, ’cause I know Aunt
Martha. I know how she is. She doesn’t want us staring at her, she
feels all ugly and everything. I’ll stay here so she won’t feel
ashamed. But…they don’t have to yell at me. They’re always hiding
everything and acting like I won’t understand.”
“No, hon. They’re just scared, that’s all. They’re upset.” She
stroked my head. She told me she would come back later and that she
would tell my Aunt Martha about my concern for her. But I said, “No,
don’t tell her that.”
“But why not? I know she’d appreciate it.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“But, Speedy…honey, why not? What’s wrong?”
“‘Cause every time she sees me, she’ll be embarrassed. She’ll
remember tonight. That’s the way she is.”
I don’t know how long Martha Jane sat looking at me, stroking my
hair, with that amazed look on her face. Finally she said, “I have
to go in there and help. You sure you’ll be all right?”
She sighed and rose and went to the door, but before going out she
leaned inside and blew me a kiss. “You’re my little man from now on,
hon,” she said, and closed the door.
That night had taken place some years before and was one of the
very early incidents that had so endeared me to Martha Jane, and her to
me. Now it was a few years later. And Martha Jane had become more
than just a neighbor. More than a friend. And now I saw that she was
the one who seemed hurt. Or, at best, worried about something.
I didn’t know what to do about it. I was good at clowning, though,
and I wondered how I could make her laugh. At 9 o’clock she hustled me
into the bathroom (no bubble-bath this time. I was getting a little
“too old” for that) and she stayed in the living room while I bathed.
I dried off and straightened the room, and peeked around the door into
the living room. She was on the sofa, studying intensely. But I did
see a crumpled kleenex in her hand, and her eyes had reddened.
A wave of empathy had me almost crying with her. There was a
curtain-covered closet in the hallway between the bath and the bedroom.
It could not be seen from where Martha Jane sat on the sofa. I got out
of the tub, dried off, and went rummaging in the closet, looking for a
funny idea. Martha Jane heard me kicking around.
She called, “Speedy, I thought you were going to bed.”
I called back, “Just lookin’ for somethin’!” I found my six-
shooter outfit in there, and a cowboy hat. I put on my mom’s dress
with my six-guns and holsters backward. I had seen enough John Wayne
movies to be able to do a fairly acceptable imitation of the guy. I
donned this outfit and tied toy spurs loosely on my ankles. Pulling
the brim of the hat down low over my eyes, I walked into the living
room. I looked ridiculous. I stood there while she had her face in
her book. It was a minute before she realized I was there, and when
she finally looked up I yelled out in my best John Wayne voice:
She blinked. Her mouth fell wide open and she covered it with the
kleenex. I strutted across the room with big stomping John Wayne
steps. “pardon me, ma-uhm, but…this town ain’t big for thah two of
us. One of us has…got tah go.”
She laughed in her oh-my-god, head-shaking way, not a big laugh
but several breathy intakes. She blurted out, “Do you intend to
sleep in that outfit?”
“Why, yes’m” I said, still John Wayne. With my thumb over my
shoulder I indicated an imaginary object behind me. “Just me and…
muh horse, over there.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “You are so cute.” She wiped one eye with
a corner of the kleenex, trying to hide her red eyes. I think she
knew I couldn’t possibly have missed the gesture, but she kept up
the effort. She said, “I have something in my eye, hon. You go on
and get ready for bed. Go on, now, it’s late.”
“Well…okay,” I said, disappointed that I hadn’t accomplished
very much. I walked back to the closet with one of my aluminum toy
spurs dragging uselessly off one foot, and removed my silly gear and
stored it back in the closet. As I was doing so, I saw Martha Jane
turning back the bedclothes in the bedroom. I undressed down to the
underwear that I usually slept in and crawled into bed. Martha Jane
fluffed the pillows and turned off the lamp. She stood by the bed.
“You ready to go to sleep now, cowboy?”
She was silent. She looked at the floor. I saw her eyes water.
She was dark against the dim light shedding in from the living room.
“You never met your daddy, did you? You never saw him. He got
killed over there before you ever knew who he was.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Every relative I encountered —
and there were many of them in my huge family — mentioned my dead
father at every visit, every Mass, every picnic, every Bingo game,
every damn holiday dinner. Now Martha Jane was doing it. I was not
angered by it, but I did find myself unable to understand this constant
lingering over dead men I never knew.
Martha Jane went on quietly. “My daddy was killed in the war, too.
He was one of ’em, too, that…died, got killed.” She took a deep,
wobbly breath, and sighed. “I guess you’re lucky, Speedy, you never
knew your daddy, but I knew mine. I used to…” She stopped again,
breathed deeply, and when she started again her voice had cracked and
broken up. “I used to see him all the time. Every day. So you don’t
know what that is, when some Army sergeant you never saw before–” and
she began talking and crying at the same time– “shows up at the door
with a letter–”
Suddenly she crumpled and fell to her knees, her hands on her head,
which was cradled on the edge of the bed. She cried her heart out, not
wailing, but heaving in long, wrenching, childlike sighs. “I miss him!
Oh, I miss him! Why isn’t he here to help us?”
Instantly I went to her, squatting on the edge of the bed and
holding her head, the only part of her I could reach. She cried and
cried and cried. I didn’t know what to say, but I did know to hold her
and stroke her hair. Eventually she calmed down. She and returned my
hug with a long tight embrace of her arm around one of mine. With a
long sigh, she reached up to the night table for another kleenex and
sat on the floor, drying her eyes and looking up at me.
She said, “You knew I was thinkin’ something, didn’t you, cowboy?”
“You…are one little smart-ass,” she said, blowing her nose.
She sniffed loudly. “You know what a smart-ass is?”
“I think so.”
“Well you are one sweet smart-ass. Now, c’mon…” She stood up
and started tucking things in again. “I’m done now, I got it outta
my system and it’s a-a-all over with. You get yourself to sleep.
C’mon, John Wayne.”
“Martha Jane?” I began. I had not told her what I desperately
wanted to tell her.
“I..uh…Hmmm.” I scratched my head.
She came closer to the bed. “What is it, big boy?”
“I still never…”
“Mm-hm, okay, you still never. You still never what?”
“I never told anybody what we did together.”
She stood deadly still and silent, looking toward the floor, hands
on her hips. She pursed her lips and made another sniffle. She didn’t
say anything. I thought I had offended her.
“I mean…,” I went on carefully, “in case you were worried about
that. I mean, at first I thought that’s what…you were worried about.”
She said, “Oh.” She neither moved nor looked at me. “Oh,” she
said again. “That.”
“I just wanted you to know,” I said, shrinking from her and back
into the bed.
She shook her head, seemed to ponder deeply. Abruptly she left the
room. I lay there numb, figuring I had somehow pissed her off in the
worst way. Then the living room light went out. The only light in the
room was moonlight falling on the bed. I heard Martha Jane walking
toward my bedroom. I turned and could barely see her at first, but
soon she appeared in the dim light of the moon beside the bed.
She said sternly, “C’mere, Speedy.”
I crawled to the edge of the bed. She was wearing dark clothes,
a blue blouse and a ruffled blue skirt. All I could see clearly
were her eyes.
“You are one smart little boy,” she said. “Yes, I was worried
about that. I wanted my daddy to get me out of trouble, I thought I
was in trouble about that.” She paused and said something, almost
to herself, something I would be able to understand only years
later. “I am goin’ to hell. We’re both goin’ to hell.”
She then reached out and pulled me to her by one hand, she
standing by the bed with me on my knees near the edge. She looked
deeply into my eyes briefly, and then hugged me tightly. There was
something serious and desperate, rather than playful, in the way she
clasped me to her. So I made no moves on my own. I simply let
myself be held, my arms draped loosely around her neck. When she
made no response after a moment I gave her a hug and waited. But
she stood unmoving beside the bed, silent, enfolding me closely with
one arm around my back and the other cradling my head into her neck
With my face in her neck I was unable to see hers in the dark,
but I could tell that she was looking down at the floor silently for
a very, very long time, perhaps for over a minute. During
that time I very lightly stroked her back and then put my own hand
on the back of her neck to let her know that I would wait, wait for
her to stop thinking or whatever it was she was doing in that long
wordless minute in the dark.
She moved her lips; faintly I heard them part, and she took in a
small breath as if to speak, but she stopped. I waited for her in
the darkness around us. Her eyelashes flicked once, and I knew she
was looking past my shoulder, across the bed, out into the moonlit
window behind me. Her lashes flicked again against my cheek, and
she looked down again, breathing. She parted her lips again and
they made a mildly dry, sticking sound. And she breathed and waited
and waited, as if something from deep inside her were slowly, slowly
struggling to the find a place in her breathing and in her voice.
She looked down. She swallowed. Hard.
“Hon?” she began, tentatively, barely audible. Her lips were
so close to my ear I could feel the moisture of her breath on my
earlobes. “Do you want to be nasty with me?”
My head buried in her neck, I nodded slowly.
She paused again, and again I heard her lips part drily near
my ear. She continued, softly. “Do you mind if I say it’s nasty
but I want us to do it anyway?”
“I don’t mind.”
“I mean…I mean I know and you know that everybody says it’s
wrong and we’re not supposed to do it, but…I want to anyway. I
want you to understand: I know it’s nasty…but that’s why I like
it. And I don’t understand it.”
“But I like it too,” I whispered back.
Again she hesitated before she relaxed her arms and held me more
loosely. “Good,” she whispered in my ear. “Good.” She stroked my
back for a moment and gave my head in her neck a brief affectionate
hug. Then her fingers were at the front of my underwear. She tried
to find her way into the slit but couldn’t, so she pushed her hand
gently under the top band.
She whispered, “Your dick, hon…”, and soon her fingers found
me and wrapped around me warmly. “…there he is…” She hugged my
cock gently. Then she murmured so softly I could barely hear, even
though her lips were still against my ear: “I like it too, hon. I
can’t help it. We’re so much alike.”
At the time, most of this went right past my very young level
of awareness–but I clearly understood that she was troubled. I
knew that I somehow had to stay with her and believe in her and
help her in some way. I wanted to bring indescribable pleasure and
comfort to her. She was making me feel loved and tickly now, and
I wanted desperately to do the same for her. I found the folds of
her skirt and tried to gather them up, but had a hard time; my
hands were too small. She stepped back, not letting go of my cock,
and used her free hand to lift her skirt. She spread her feet
apart and looked down while I massaged her mound over her panties.
She breathed, “Ahhh. That’s exactly how I like that. You
As she had done to me, I slipped my hand under her waistband
and found her pubic hair and her soft folds. She was not wet yet.
But she moved one foot to open her legs a little more so I could
find her crease.
I whispered, “I want to make you feel good.” Now I hoped I was
learning to talk to her as she talked to me. I was beginning to
comprehend the nature of my own very young sensuality, realizing how
so much of it was mirrored by Martha Jane, and learning to try and
contact those elements within her. I was not yet very certain about
any of it. But now I had glimmerings of the giddy adrenal rush gen-
erated by the allure of the forbidden that held us and our secret
world together. And I was beginning to understand as well the para-
doxical, inexplicable comfort we both experienced by giving in to,
rather than resisting, our hunger. In short, I was getting older
and more sexual, and I realized more than ever how complex were the
emotional and physical needs that bound us. It was scary. It was a
lot like rushing blind across the avenue the way I used to, traffic
headed at me in all six lanes, not sure if or how I could make it
safely to the other side–but knowing, from where I stood at that
moment, I would not and could not run back.
Still standing by the bed and cradling my head on her shoulder
while I touched her warming pussy, Martha Jane moved her head
slightly, toward me. Her lips touched my ear. Her mouth opened
and I heard the thin saliva break as she licked my earlobe. And
then my neck. My free hand rested at the back of her neck, and
under my palm I felt the warm skin on the back of her neck move and
flex as she reached farther with her tongue and licked behind my ear,
then down, then into my neck again. Under my other hand, inside her
panties, she was getting wet.
She pulled her head back and looked down and smiled, watching
my hand working between her legs in the dark. She spread her knees
apart a little more. She softly hissed, “Put your finger in me…”
I found her hot opening, now growing wetter, and slowly inserted
what came to me naturally–my longest finger. She urged me,
quietly, “All the way in, hon. Deep…” Her eyes closed and she
gave a low, seething “Sssss” and then “Ahhh.”
I flexed my finger in her. I never ceased to be amazed at
the way the inner Martha Jane could suck on my fingers in her.
I asked, “Did that feel good?”
“Yes. Bend your finger again, like that. Bend it back and
forth inside. Yes. Keep doin’ that.”
We continued for a while, but it soon became uncomfortable stand-
ding. She pulled away and got undressed. Before climbing into bed
she removed my underwear and had me sit up against a pillow that she
placed against the headboard. Then, naked in the moonlight, she lay
before me on her tummy with her head in my lap and, holding my four
inches with one hand, she closed her mouth on me. It was moist, warm,
tickly. She tightened her tongue a little and slowly pulled up, and
then smiled at me.
“Did you like that?”
I was very enthusiastic. “Mm, yeah. That was good.”
She lowered her head and began gently sucking me. She sucked
wetly, slowly for several strokes, then she immersed me in her very
hot mouth, held for a second, then withdrew slowly, sucking upward,
coming off me with a loud swallow of the wetness she had just
sucked off me. She sighed, “You feel so good in my mouth. You fit
all the way inside.”
“I like it, too.”
She licked her lips and sucked me again in the same way, gently
but fully, flattening her tongue along the underside and pressing
slightly, then started bobbing her head in a slow rhythym. I was
hypnotized and amazed. I looked down at her sucking me, at her
closed eyes and her eyelashes and soft, frizzy auburn hair, her
long, slim neck tapering into gently rounded shoulders and grace-
ful arms and a long, straight, firm back, and her small waist and
rounded buttocks and trim, graceful legs. I took in every inch of
this young woman’s body, growing more and more aware of how very,
very beautiful she was physically, even more so as we indulged in
this delightful, secret sin, both of so wanton and utterly naked.
And in the dim moonlight as I watched and felt her suck and lick,
I began to know something of the dark, desperate lust that lurked
in both of us, a lust we both held in common.
She stopped and asked, “Do you know what I’m doing?”
I just stared at her. Of course I knew what she was doing,
though she had never done it so gluttonously. But I didn’t know
what it was called.
“I’m suckin’ you off.” Once again, her eyes had a strange glint
and her voice sounded inordinately wicked. “God, I’ve never said those
words in my life. They sound so dirty. Do you like it when I say
“Yes,” I whispered back, suddenly realizing how breathless I
was. And I was doing some hard, nervous swallowing of my own.
“I like it when you say it. Especially the way you do it.” I was
truly flabbergasted that there were so many ways to bring pleasure
to each other.
She returned to her sucking, which she continued for quite
some time, breaking to gently fist my wetted cock. The cloying
sensuality of her motions and words caused me to make a wide,
seriously wicked grin as I watched her pump me. “That’s good,”
She looked up, grinning back at me. “Yeah?”.
I grinned again too, into her eyes. “Yeah. Keep doin’ it.”
“Feel it, baby. Enjoy it…”
And once again, her eyes and her words and her voice held me
mesmerized. She herself seemed hypnotized by my own spellbound
reaction. We fell into unalloyed devilishness, as if demons within
us had generated a chain reaction neither of us could not stop. She
wouldn’t let up. The lust in her eyes and her voice met mine, mine
met hers, and they fused. We were glued to it, tangled it in. I
kept hearing the nuns and the aunts and relatives warning me, but
all their screaming voices together could not drown the tantalizing
whispers of Martha Jane. And the more my eyes lit up with pleasure,
the more Martha Jane saw it and gloated on it.
She gave a low, dirty chuckle and breathed, “You like it. You
like being like this with me.” She kept looking into my eyes,
directly into them, into my cornea and through the optic nerves
and into my brain. As she wetly stroked my twitching cock I heard
only the wet slush of her hand in the hot spit she had left on me,
and her endless, libidinous whispers. “You like it just as much as
I do, don’t you, I can tell. I like it too. I like watching your
face while I make you feel good. I love your dick. I love touching
it. I love milking it. And suckin’.” She pumped and then sucked
and then pumped me again. I was feeling extremely strange and
giddy, and I knew she did too. A dark wicked wave seemed to wash
into the room and lick me squarely in the scrotum under my balls,
then lick upward along my spine and settle in the back of my head.
I could see the reflection of these new and growing impulses in
Martha Jane’s eyes, I could hear her lascivious whispers echo my
own rising lechery. We fed on it, and fed it back, helpless in the
moonlit room. She fisted me loosely now, looking up at me. I felt
and saw her own eyes catch the glint of lust in mine, and she
leered and pumped and kept whispering. “I feel you likin’ it. I
feel you jerkin’ in my hand. Such a beautiful, hard, sweet little
dick. It gets so big. How does it get so big from being so
“I like you making it big,” I managed to whisper back, but only
after fighting for the breath to say it. I took a deep breath and
gasped brazenly, “I like watchin’ you watch me.”
Her eyes rose, surprised and please that I was joining her in
this hypnotic whirl. “I’m so glad you like this. Want me to suck
you some more?”
“Yeah, it feels so good.”
“I want to suck you and then I want you to fingerfuck me. Like
Uh-oh! A new term in the ever-expanding lexicon. I was taken
by surprise. Another Martha Jane word. At that point I somehow
knew an explanation would be forthcoming. Contented, and learning
for the first time what the word “turn-on” would later come to mean,
I let her suck me and we continued our lurid whispers and glances.
Of course, I did not cum. This was fortunate, in a way, since
literally I didn’t know what I was missing. But at one point a pang,
of sensual tickle coursed through the length of my shaft, and I felt
an oozing from me that mixed with her spit and slickened it. I
wondered if that meant I was cumming.
But the feeling passed too quickly for me to stop and ask
questions about it. For Martha Jane rose to a half-sitting position
alongside me, her head against the headboard. Her left leg lay
between us, bent at the knee toward me so her inner thigh was spread
to expose her mound; and she bent her right knee upward, keeping her
foot on the bed, using her heel to spread her right leg wide and ex-
posing even more of her nakedness. She shoved her hips forward so
that I, lying beside her, could fully see her auburn tuft and the
widening, smooth lipped slit below. With one hand she spread the
stray silken curls that partly covered her, and instructed me on
how to touch her clit and how to insert my finger and how to search
far up inside her and find a magic bundle of muscle and nerve that
made her arch her hips and sigh lustily and made her nipples swell
in my mouth, and she looked down, leering and watching me please her
and telling me to keep fingering her. She said that when she felt
really nasty as she did now that she wanted me to call it her cunt.
As I alternately rubbed her clit and stroked the tender place far
inside her wetness, her words and her voice and her sighs slid into
a barely audible stream of hissed obscenities.
And I remembered doing this to her on other nights and making her
cum, but now I knew she wanted me to call it fingerfucking and that
she liked the word, and I told I liked it, too. She said she liked
me watching her on her side with one leg bent between us and the
other with one knee raised and resting, spread away from her so that
she could use the leverage of that leg to raise her cunt toward me
and we could watch me fingerfuck her, and she liked watching while
I did it. Soon her raised knee drifted down and she lay flat on the
bed and opened her legs and closed her eyes. With a pleased smile
she relaxed her head into the pillow with a soft “Mmmm” and seemed
to just lie there and give up her body to the leisurely enjoyment my
hand on her. She seemed in no hurry to climax. Gradually her
wetness increased and she would tense up and sigh more frequently.
It was a sensual, unhurried paced that both of us had perfected over
several nights together. The fingerfucking skills she taught me had
progressed to the point where I could intuit her preferences and
bring her exactly the climax I thought she wanted.
But that night, with no urging from her, I ventured on my own
into new territory. I don’t remember at what point I was inspired to
take my next action; but Martha Jane was lying on her back, im-
mersed in the pleasure of my mouth sucking her nipples and my finger
orbiting her clit, when I concocted the idea of pleasing her orally
as she had pleased me. I moved from her left nipple to the slope
between her ribs, licking, planting small, sucking kisses downward,
and moved toward her navel. I heard her give a gasp or two, and then
she became strangely still when my lips reached her navel. By then
my torso was uncomfortably bowed inward. I shimmied downward and
licked and kissed lower, and then swished my lips softly back and
forth across her bush. I heard her sigh and, figuring I was on a
productive course, I shifted my body down again, My new position
forced my massaging finger away from her, and I had to crawl over
her leg to get my mouth lower.
She remained still, her eyes closed, moving only to open her legs
a little more to give me room. I settled onto my tummy with my head
between her thighs, below her groin. In previous sessions I had
enjoyed the texture and taste of the smooth flesh of her inner
thighs and now, from there, I began my journey to the ultimate target,
where my mouth had never before ventured. I began above her left
knee, licking and kissing my way inside one leg, then the other, and
then returned to the delicately muscled skin high on the left. I had
learned from Martha Jane’s own mouth the trick of languorous, wet-
lipped teasing, so I let my mouth linger, circling and nipping, mere
inches from her damp center.
With each tiny kiss I moved higher. She parted her thighs more,
the tendons stretching under my lips. I moved higher, onto the soft
pelvic plain near her cunt. I noticed that I no longer heard her
irregular breathing. I raised my eyes to see her lying still, silent,
her eyes shut and her head leaning back into the pillow. She
seemed tense, waiting, holding her breath. I kissed the swell of
flesh between her legs, my nose and cheek grazing her bush, and then
let my flattened tongue trace the full course of her widening furrow.
She exhaled sharply, and just as quickly breathed in, turning her
face to one side. She waited, holding her breath again. My tongue
probed, searching, finding the wet, thin leaves of flesh just inside
her slit, finding her faint scent like that of warm milk. I let my
tongue explore. My tongue and lips were soon coated with a thin,
viscous liquor that felt and tasted like unsweetened cream. Then I
heard her hushed, nervous whisper: “Lick me.” I extended my tongue
and gave her my first lick, upward, passing over her hot entrance and
then up, onto the stem of her emerging clit and its hardening,
rounded tip. She gave a quick, skittish gasp and a loud, thick gulp.
Then she held her breath again. I began making slow, tentative licks
along the inside of her slit, up and down. Her tummy tightened. I
licked along one side of the crevice and then the other, surrounding
but not touching her clit. Her tummy tightened and she whispered
hotly, “Yes!” Then I made the licks shorter, more purposeful,
centered on and around her clit, and as soon as I did she gasped,
“Oh yes!”, sounding more startled and breathless. I experimented,
starting each lick at the root of her clit and pressing up, again
and again, and she breathed even more hotly, her voice a broken,
trembling hiss, “Yes. Yessss.”
I thought: So that’s what she likes. She liked what my finger
had been doing all along; and so I learned to make my tongue do what
my finger had done so many times before to make her cum, pressing
gently but firmly when I licked up, and varying the movement with
narrow circles around and around her sensitive gem. Soon she was
making loud, precipitous gasps, holding her breath for shorter,
irregular intervals. She calmed a little when I changed to tongued
circles. Each time I returned to her clit she began panting again.
While I repeated this routine she reached down to hold my head in
both hands, her fingers digging into my hair, and then her hands
shifted to my shoulders, where she seemed to cling for her life, her
breathing more labored and frantic.
She seemed to have lost control, as if she had not considered
going all the way with this act. But she also seemed mighty pleased
by my complete willingness to lick and lick her and my obvious enjoy-
ment in doing it. The mounting intensity of her reaction surprised
even me, who should have been used to it. I knew she was close to
an orgasm, but I kept borrowing from my fingerfucking skills and soon
taught my tongue to keep her on the edge for a long time. At the
last minute, I came to the brilliant conclusion that if I sucked on
her clit it would feel as good for her as it did for me when she
sucked my cock, if not better. But how to suck something so much
smaller than my cock? I tried it by pursing my lips around her clit
and pressing it and my lower lip upward. Then, while I licked, I
carefully and gently sucked. Immediately, her hips arched and her
nails clamped into my shoulders and her head snapped back. I sucked
again and she made a strange, sudden sound that was like a gulp and a
moan at the same time. A few short seconds later, she arched her
neck and gave a loud, groaning, visceral, “ohgodyes!”. Within
another second, everything happened at once: her pelvis nudged upward,
she mashed her cunt against my mouth, and her head lunged forward and
her shoulders raised off the pillow and her belly contracted and
with her mouth slightly open she winced, winced hard and tight. And
then she came that way, frozen, her clit under my tongue swelling to
a slender, hard sliver. I sucked and licked. For several long
seconds she seemed petrified. And then her head drooped and she
gasped and her hips jerked, and she gasped again and short curls of
hair fell over eyes as her head nodded fitfully, and her tight fists
grasped my shoulders so hard her forearms trembled. Then she
grimaced and whimpered as if in total defeat. Slowly, her head and
shoulders drifted backward.
Abruptly, she went completely limp. Her nails and arms relaxed.
She lay drinking air deeply. I stopped licking and sucking, slavering
her humid cunt with little kisses, and she lifted one hand to caress
She sighed breathlessly, “God! I didn’t think it was possible…
to cum so hard.”
I said against her tummy, “Did I do it right?”
She moaned, “Oh, hon. C’mere. Come up here.”
I rose, and she pulled me by shoulders to her bosom and then
hugged me to her. I rested my cheek against a breast while she re-
gained her breath. Within moments her breath was even and serene.
Her hand fell sleepily off my head and rested at her side.
I must have dozed off myself for a few minutes. She woke with
a start and looked at the clock on the bedside table. “Darn!” she
whispered frantically, “they’ll be coming home!”
Quickly she dressed. As she did, she caught me smiling at her
from my pillow and she told me, “Speedy, you are remarkable. My
god, I wish I could tell someone about this. They’d never believe
me…” She looked at me as if she were in shock. “How do you do
this to me? Where did you learn to do this?”
“Do what?” I asked, truly puzzled.
“You know what I’m talkin’ about,” she scolded mildly, hopping
a little to get her shoes on. She sat on the floor and tied her
laces. “And I tasted your cum in my mouth, too. Did you really
“I…think so.” I didn’t sound very convincing.
“Listen,” she said earnestly, finishing her shoes and getting up
to bend over me. “I want you to grow up and cum. I can’t keep doing
this all by myself. Do you have any idea what you just did to me?”
She gathered up her belongings started straightening the place quickly,
mumbling, “I didn’t even know anything like this was possible. Where
in the world did you learn how to do it like that?”
“You taught me,” I said.
She caught herself, pausing as if startled, and went back to her
hurried straightening. “I’m just talking, hon. You go to sleep.
Your Mama will be home soon.”
She returned to the living room and her books. The light in
there snapped on. I rolled over and looked out the window. I did
not understand the full significance of our sultry behavior that
night, nor the problems it would later engender. But I had experi-
enced an unusually intense level of eroticism that I feared and yet
didn’t fear, something as new and exotic to her as it was to me.
That was a sensuous summer. Mom’s relationship apparently ran
smoothly for a while and my stepdad-to-be took her out infrequently
but regularly. Often it was on weekends when I was with my grand-
parents or godparents. But now and then they went out on a Friday,
and I could be with Martha Jane. Each time, Martha Jane would show
up on time and we’d fix dinner for each other, clean up, do a little
homework, and then undress each other in the tiny bedroom. Soon the
room echoed with our sighs and moans, our whispers of pleasure and
lust. The only sex we had outside that bedroom was the one time
Martha Jane showed up at our place one rare Saturday afternoon when
I had not been shipped off to relatives for the weekend. Martha
Jane had iced tea with Mom and chatted a short time, and told my mom
she wanted me to come next door and help set up a record player that
her sister Evelyn had given to Martha Jane and her mom.
She brought me to her apartment and as soon as we were inside
she took me into her bedroom. I told her I thought she wanted me to
help her with the new phonograph and she giddily and impatiently
replied that the machine was set up already and she really just
wanted us to be alone. “I don’t know what’s got into me today,” she
exclaimed, visibly shaky. “I feel so nasty. Lord, I hope we don’t
get caught!” She lay on the edge of her bed with her legs hanging
over the side. Lifting her skirt, she panted, “Fingerfuck me, hon.
Hurry. Somebody might show up.” I put my hand under her waistband
and fingerfucked her inside her panties. She came very quickly.
Afterwards, nervous and fumbling, she lay me down the same way and
jacked me with my zipper open until I felt that little buzz in my
cock and she pulled a little drop out of me and licked it off. Then
we straightened our clothes and went into her living room, where she
settled down. And just in time: about ten minutes later her sister
Evelyn arrived unexpectedly. I talked with her briefly and while
Evelyn was in their kitchen making lemonade Martha Jane saw me to
her door and whispered as I left, “That was close! But it sure felt
good!” Afterward she told me we shouldn’t try that sort of thing
again, as the schedule in her place was truly unpredictable and so
many of her mother’s friends always popped in. And she said she
never, never wanted to risk having us found out.
Had sex been the only aspect of our relationship, I have little
doubt that both of us would have soon tired of this sitting routine
and sought more varied pleasures elsewhere or with someone else. But
we had a life outside the bedroom that was also special for us and
that only added to our feelings of intimacy, devotion, and pleasure
in the bedroom. On many occasions in that bedroom there was no sex,
save for affectionate hugging and stroking.
My back yard was a small patch of lawn about the size of a
modern suburban carport. It lay along the curb of one of access
driveways way that fed into the project from the street. Near the
curb was a large black oak. We spent many evenings under that tree
at dusk, just after dinner, as the long summer days ended and the
stultifying, humid Southern air turned breezy and cool, the sky
glowing purple and orange. It was there under the heavy, leafy old
oak tree that I told her about my strange dream with the roaches.
She said she had no idea why I would dream such a thing, but she
suspected the nuns had scared the hell out of me.
Martha Jane and I discussed our dreams frequently during those
waning summer days under the tree. She often dreamed of her father
coming to her in the night, but he was reduced to the size of a boy,
a very small boy almost as small as an infant. His head was
bloodied and disfigured (he had died in combat on Okinawa from head
wounds). He would plead for help, but when she rose to go to him
she saw the rest of the house was filled with more like him, thou-
sands of them, moaning and reaching for her. In the dream her
mother made tea, oblivious to it all and apparently deaf and unable
to hear, but as she sipped her tea she said she didn’t want to hear
and appeared to have gone quietly insane. Overcome with helplessness
and rage, Martha Jane would wake up sweating.
She said she once had a dream about me. I was standing in a
dark room smiling at her. She said my eyes were very large and very
dark, almost gigantic, and they glowed in the dark room. As she
stepped toward me she became very small and felt faint, and suddenly
I was very large and very much older and went to her with a glass of
wine, gently cradling her head in one arm while holding the wine for
her to sip. The wine was warm and was in a small silver chalice.
She said the most striking part of the dream was my remarkably dark
eyes that seemed to fill the room. They were kind and endearing,
but there was something frightening and oddly dominating about them
Across the access driveway were the small back yards of the
building directly behind ours. I never knew our backdoor neighbors
closely. Occasionally I’d look out our kitchen door and see one of
the neighbor ladies standing in her kitchen and talking with Martha
Jane across the driveway.
One of those neighbors, a Mrs. Johnson, would open her back door
each evening just before dark and carefully slip her bathrobed,
paraplegic husband in his wheelchair down the three or four concrete
steps into their back yard. She would make him comfortable there on
their little patch of grass, read the newspapers to him, or tune a
station on their small brown GE portable that rested on the ground
between his wheelchair and her aluminum lawn chair. Many after-
noons, Martha Jane and I sat on the curb and watched this ritual. We
would say hello to Mrs. Johnson and to Mr. Johnson, and Mrs. Johnson
would smile and wave hello and bend down to Mr. Johnson and tell him
who we were. Mr. Johnson was unable to respond. Nor could he move
his legs or his arms or his neck. He slumped limply in his wheel-
chair, wearing striped pajamas and a brown bathrobe, his eyes ogling
blindly ahead, a thin drool forever flowing down one side of his
slack, expressionless face. Mr. Johnson had been blown almost to
pieces on Taiwan. Even at my age I realized without being told that
the man would never move or talk or lift a spoon of soup to his face.
Martha Jane would watch quietly as they performed this almost-
nightly routine for their brief stay in the open air. I would look
up at Martha Jane as she watched and I’d see her swallow hard, for a
different reason now, and she would murmur, “God grant the poor
woman patience.” I told her about Taiwan, and Guadalcanal. And she
told me how my father had died. He was flight engineer in a B-24 on
his 21st mission when the plane got badly shot up. They barely made
it back to England, where they discovered that the front wheels
would not remain extended for a landing. As engineer in this emer-
gency, my father ordered everyone but the pilot into the rear of the
aircraft, where most of them lay wounded and unable to parachute
out. With the pilot bringing the plane in, my father stationed
himself near the landing gear, lowering it with the manual crank and
jamming the wheel’s gears straight and steady with a crowbar. The
wheel held up just long enough for the plane to land. Then the gear
collapsed, crushing him. The other crewmen were saved.
“You’re a lot like him,” Martha Jane told me at the end of that
story. “You’ll try anything, just to see what happens. You’re such
a little outlaw.”
We would sit there until the sky grew dark, seeing where so many
others had gone and were going, talking vaguely about how far there
was to go for everyone.
“Sometimes I think we’re the only ones who are still in one
piece,” she sighed, her chin propped on her knees. “Sometimes I
think we were put here so we could know how much there is to lose.
So we can save whatever’s left.” She shook her head. “And some-
times I think: there’s so little left to be saved.”
On July 4th she took me to a movie at the neighborhood theatre,
the Suzore’s, a seedy, well used, crowded, sticky floored movie
house if ever there was one. The place was a fallen relic of the
1920’s, but it had a kind of homey who-cares air about it and the
best popcorn in town. We held hands and shared the popcorn bag,
laughing at the Bowery Boys and hiding our eyes when Charlie Chan
crept through the hidden corridors of a haunted house. The walk
back home was about seven blocks, down the steep, landscaped,
four-block-long hill that led from the top of the project to our
building at the other end.
It was one of those hot Southern nights, humid but cooling down,
the air so still that the voices of people walking nearby hung in
space long after the people had gone. In those days, before pollu-
tion clouded the view, we could see a multitude of stars overhead.
As we walked I pointed out Orion to her, and Alpha Centauri. I
showed her where the Weeping Sisters usually appeared and told her
that the faint red dot near the steeple of St. Mary’s Church was
Mars. On our way down the long, long, hill lined with trees and
buildings we tried to stay in synch singing verses from a song by a
black gospel group, the Delta Rhythm Boys, that was popular then.
The first lien of the song started on a low note, and each line
raised the note higher and higher:
Well, yuh toe bone connected to yuh…foot bone
yuh foot bone connected to yuh…heel bone
yuh heel bone connected to yuh…ankle bone
yuh ankle bone connected to yuh…leg bone
yuh leg bone connected to yuh…knee bone
yuh knee bone connected to yuh…thigh bone
yuh thigh bone connected to yuh…hip bone
yuh hip bone connected to yuh…back bone
yuh back bone connected to yuh…shoulduh bone
yuh shoulduh bone connected to yuh…neck bone
yuh neck bone connected to yuh…head bone
Now hearrr the word of the lord.
We giggled every time we got out of sequence, usually getting
the knees and thighs mixed up or leaving out the back bone. And we
usually started out with a note that wasn’t low enough, so by the
time we hit the last line we were shoving our chins into the air
like baby robins trying to hit that last note. And then we would
laugh and try again.
I asked, “So what the word of the lord have to do with this
Martha Jane said, “I don’t know, but it’s a cute song.”
“Well, the words are easy.”
“Hm, we’re not doing *that* well with the words!”
The middle chorus was catchy. We usually got that one right.
A-Dem bones, dem bones, gonna…walk around
a-dem bones, dem bones, gonna…walk around
a-dem bones, dem bones, gonna…walk around
Now hearrr the word of the lord.
She said, “Okay, now, the word of the lord has to disconnect the
bones, now. Right?”
“Yeah, you start high at the head bone, and you go down, and the
notes get lower.”
“Okay. Here we go –”
Well, yuh head bone connected from yuh…neck bone
yuh neck bone connected from yuh…shoulduh bone
yuh shoulduh bone connected from yuh…back bone
yuh back connected from yuh…hip bone
yuh hip bone connected from yuh…thigh bone . . .
Needless to say, by the time the notes lowered to the toe bone
we had gone far too low, both of us shoving her chins down into
our chests to hit the last ones, and me going onto my knees on
“Oh, Speedy, get up. Those people over there will think you’re
“No they won’t,” I said, getting up and still laughing with her.
We were standing in the dark of the open lawn near the project’s
administration building. She listened as I pointed out the constel-
lations, and after a minute I stopped and watched as she looked up.
I was very nearly her height, then. A half-moon floated just in
front of her, outlining her face. Unable to resist, I softly cupped
my hand over one breast.
She looked down at my hand on her bosom. She didn’t pull away,
but she whispered mischievously, “Somebody’s gonna see us.”
“I don’t care,” I said.
She laughed and said, “But I do.”
“Okay,” I said, and withdrew my hand.
She held my hand at her side as we strolled the rest of the way
home. “It’s not that I don’t want you to,” she said. “It’s just
that…I don’t ever want anyone catching us and trying to stop us
from doing it.”
I conceded sullenly, “I know.”
“Do you? Do you really know?”
She paused as we walked, and she asked, “I have a song for you.
A really cute song.”
“Do you know ‘Bushel and A Peck’? It’s from ‘Guys and Dolls’.”
“Oh yeah, I know that.”
I started singing it, and she joined with me, and we broke into
a little skip-and-walk toward our building:
I luv you
A bushel and a peck
A bushel and a peck
And a hug around the neck
A hug around the neck
and a barrel and a heap
A barrel and a heap
and I think I’m gonna weep
‘Cause I love you
A bushel and a peck
Ya bet ya pretty neck I do!
That summer gave us several nights together, nights of holding
each other warmly and softly, naked, with Martha Jane under me or
hovering over me and whispering her secret needs and pleasures,
showing me something new. I learned to keep her on a dreamy
sensuous edge for a longer and longer time, and then to make her cum
several times, rapidly and intensely. On a few occasions she would
fall into a deep sleep afterward, and I had to struggle to stay
awake so I could rouse her in time to straighten up before my Mom
returned. And after Martha Jane went home I would lie in bed,
remembering for months the 4th of July, and singing to myself,
‘Cause I love you
A bushel and a peck
Ya bet ya pretty neck I do
Martha Jane had her 17th birthday in September, 1950. There was
precious little money to spend, but she invited a few close friends
and had a small celebration in her mother’s apartment. I was there,
indulging heavily in ice cream and homemade cake.
Martha Jane found it necessary to introduce me personally to
everyone in the place. I was surprised to learn that so many of her
friends were not classmates but older adults. This left me edgy,
especially when she kept introducing me as “my boyfriend, Speedy.”
And every older lady in the joint had to say something like, “Oh,
he’s such a cute boy!” My discomfort was obvious. At one point I
retreated to a corner and sat unsmiling by myself for a long period.
Martha Jane came over to me and asked what was wrong.
I sat petulantly bumping my heels on the legs of the chair and
averting her eyes.
She leaned down to me. “Speedy, you’re too smart and too well-
liked by everyone here to act like this. What’s wrong with you,
don’t you like these people?”
“They all think I’m cute,” I pouted. “And I hate the name
She chuckled and said, “Speedy, let ’em think what they want
to think. It doesn’t hurt to cooperate a little bit. And what
difference does it make?”
I adamantly folded my arms.
She stood up and said, “Hmp,” with her hands on her hips. “Face
it, hon–you ARE cute!”
I said back, “Hmp!”
“How am I gonna get you to have more experience being around
people, other than that fussy family of yours? Hm?”
I said nothing, but kicked away with my heels.
“Okay, sourpuss,” she said. Shaking her head impatiently, she
returned to the group. I spent the rest of the day mostly ignoring
everyone until I felt it was time to go home. As I left her apart-
ment I saw her notice me from the corner of her eyes while she spoke
with the others. For the rest of the day I stayed in my living room
and pretty much had the place to myself, my Mom being at Martha
Jane’s all afternoon. I listened to the Philco for a while, and
typed on the Underwood. And by dusk I was totally bored.
I went to our back yard, out by the curb near the big oak. For
a while I sat on the curb under the tree, listening to its heavy,
leafy limbs rustle in the breeze. It was dusk, and the early fall
sky had turned red.
Before long I heard the slap of the screen door behind me at
Martha Jane’s place. I looked behind me. Sure enough, it was she.
She saw me and walked toward me, her head lowered and her arms
behind her back. I sat with my legs extended from the curb, my
heels on the surface of the driveway. She sat beside me.
“What’s the matter, hon?”
“Nothin’,” I said.
“Look at me.”
She lowered her voice and said, hurtfully, “Speedy, why are you
doing this to me?”
I sighed deeply and leaned forward, propping my chin on my
raised knees. I muttered, “I dunno.” And I didn’t.
“I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time. I thought you would.”
I shrugged, as if to say it didn’t matter.
“Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Try, hon. Talk to me. You haven’t been nice to me all day.
I have a perfect right not to speak to you at all. Do you realize
that? Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
I struggled a bit, and finally managed to say, “I don’t…
like it when people expect me to be cute all the time.”
“Speedy, they don’t ‘expect’ you to be cute. You ‘are’ cute.
You really are. You’re an unusual person–you don’t look like other
boys your age. You have a strong, intelligent, different look and
personality altogether. And that’s what people notice about you.”
“But…I don’t know what to say to people.”
“You just say hello, hon. And ‘how are you’. You don’t have to
say anything special.”
“Well…” I stopped. I shrugged helplessly. “People always
expect me to do certain things. And act a certain way.”
Martha Jane sighed. She said knowingly, “You mean ‘certain’
people, don’t you? Like Aunt Frances and the rest of them? And
For a while Martha Jane looked at the ground silently. she ex-
tended her bluejeaned legs into the driveway and leaned back on her
arms. “Speedy, do you know what I’m going to do when I go to
I shook my head.
“I’m going to study to be a teacher. A special kind of teacher.
I’m going to teach children who are…who are different from other
children. Someone like you could be one of those children some day.
But you’ll be grown up by the time I get started. You’ll be in high
school yourself by then, or nearly there. But you know–? Look at
me, Hon. Look at me.”
I did as she asked.
She continued, “There’s an awful lot I could learn from you.
You’re a really tough case.”
“Tough case?” I said. “What’s a tough case?”
She raised her eyes, looking up at the sky. “Ah, you’re soooo
hard-headed. That’s what a tough case is.”
I shrugged. “Oh.”
“You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?”
“Movies?” I frowned. “I don’t have any money.”
“But that’s not fair.”
“Yes, it is. I asked you first.”
“Well, if you’re askin’ me, then I’m not takin’ you, you’re
“Oh, darn it, why do you have to be so exacting? Listen. Let’s
start over again. Now, I’m going to ask you if *you* want to take
*me* to the movies. And you’re supposed to say yes.”
“Now–you wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?”
I paused. I still didn’t agree with the “politics” of this
game. “But if you’re the one who has the money–”
She prompted, impatiently, “Answer yes, darn it.”
“Start over,” I said. “This time I’ll do it right.”
“Oh, all right…You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?”
“Yes.” I reached up very quickly and kissed her cheek. “Yes,”
I said again, kissing her again. And a third time, “Yes,” and
She laughed. “What *are* you doing?”
“I’m kissing you and saying yes.”
“To make up for the times I didn’t do it right.” One more time,
I gave her cheek a loud, lingering kiss. “…And that’s for me
being so snotty on your birthday. I won’t do that any more.”
“You little heartbreaker.”
Martha Jane was looking less like a teenager and more like a
young woman. Her neck, arms, and legs had developed slimmer and
more graceful lines, and she was losing the baby fat in her face and
neck, getting more slender overall. I was nearing my 9th year and
was somewhat muscular and slightly tall for my size, but certainly
not as hefty as some fast-growing boys my age. I was now only an
inch or so shorter than Martha Jane. Like my father and his
brother, there was still something delicate about me from my
paternal grandmother’s side of the family.
I mentioned this because at that time I was becoming more and
more aware of my own physical dimension and of the physical side of
this passionate relationship. I noticed this change in both our
appearances a few days after Martha Jane’s birthday. She stayed
with me while my Mom’s future fiancee took her to a Halloween Eve
Outside my apartment that night, kids strolled the Halloween
trail for trick-r-treats, their noisemakers and their giggles and
squeals echoing in the night from building to building throughout
the project. At that time, however, Martha Jane and I were in that
tiny bedroom together, naked. We were giggly and giddy because we
were totaly nude but lying on the bed just below the window sill so
that anyone looking in would see only our faces and elbows. For a
while we talked and watched the goings-on outside.
Then we went into the bathroom so we could make up in Halloween
faces of our own and laugh and point at each other. This was one of
the few times I had seen her naked outside of a bed. Watching her
stand before the bathroom mirror or tiptoe across the living room, I
saw how slim and tight her waist, back, neck and legs had become. I
told her this and she stood in front of me sizing me up. She said
my chest was starting to expand now, my shoulders broadened and
would probably look like my Uncle Frank’s one day, and my legs were
longer and leaner and already had a tiny fuzz on them.
I told her, “You’re getting prettier and prettier all the time,
“Oh, stop it.”
“But you are,” I insisted. “Your eyes are. They’re bigger than
they used to be.” She smiled and shook her head no, but I insisted,
“Yes, they are, I know they are. They have more blue in ’em than
they used to.”
“Phooey, hon. Let me see *you*.” She held me at arm’s length
and looked me up and down. “Look. You’re perfectly proportioned.
Not too big, not too small.” She put her hands on her waist and
continued her assessment of my nudity, muttering absently, “I’ve
seen a lot of pictures of a lot of statues in the art books at the
library, so I know what I’m talkin’ about. Look at you. Just
perfect. Like a little Greek statue. The only thing missing is a
“And you look perfect too,” I breathed, slowly taking in her
naked form, the graceful slope of her breasts, her lithe, slightly
parted thighs and her slender ankles.
“Guess what?” I asked.
“Looking at you like this is makin’ me excited.”
She held out a hand to me and winked. “C’mon.”
We got into bed. She lay with her head in my lap, sucking me
languidly until the increasingly familiar twinge in my cock sent a
petite droplet of shiny stuff to my tip.
“I can taste it,” she said, tentatively slurping as she raised
her mouth off me. “I taste more of you. Are you starting to
“Poor baby. You still don’t know what I’m talking about, do
I told her I wasn’t quite sure, and she explained again about male
orgasms and ejaculation. This time around, Martha Jane’s description
about the complications of orgasm were more involved and colorful. I
asked her what it was that made the male feel so good that he would
squirt his sperm into the woman; Martha Jane answered that she didn’t
know *exactly* what it felt like for a male when he moved inside the
woman, but she knew that it must feel very similar to what I felt when
she sucked me. That gave me a general idea, but I was amazed to find
out even more about babies and how much of the truth had been
concealed by the adults around me.
I asked, “Does it squirt a lot, or real hard? You know, like
when I go to the bathroom?”
She gave a little laugh and said, “Lord, you do know how to ask
the really tough questions, don’t you?” She said I would squirt about
a teaspoon or a tablespoon or so–at least, that’s what the books
said. And it was nothing like going to the bathroom, but more like a
small, toy water gun that was running low on water. I scrunched up my
face in confusion about that, and then I asked her if she’d ever seen
a man ejaculate. She said, “No, hon.”
I asked, “Well, wouldn’t it be uncomfortable if I got real hard
and squirted all that cum inside you?”
She said, “No, it’s supposed to feel really good for me, too.”
I thought about that for a moment and told her, “You mean, when
I squirt in you, it makes you cum too?”
“Well…sometimes. Not all the time. But I think it would feel
really good to cum at the same time you do. I don’t know. They say
it’s very difficult to time it right so that both people cum to-
gether, but it does happen.”
I said, “When I’m able to cum, I’ll wait for you so we can cum
She laughed hard, her head going back, and as she settled down her
eyes looked sweetly into mine. “Speedy, you’re so ambitious!”
I asked innocently, “Why’s that so funny?”
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s not funny. It’s very nice. Really it is,
it’s a very nice thought.”
“But what did I say? Did I say it wrong?”
She grasped my hands in hers and said quickly. “No, no, no,
honey, no! Not at all. Really. You have no idea how sweet it was
for you to say that. You see, it’s…well, most men don’t care if the
woman cums or not, much less that they climax together. It’s just
that–well, it’s not that easy to do. Really.”
I knew from Martha Jane’s lessons that a guy’s penis got small
after he came. I told her, “I’d always make sure you cum first, so
I can stay hard for you and make it feel really good.”
She held the palm of one hand on my cheek and said warmly, “You
are going to be one wonderful lover. And when you cum inside me, I’ll
make it really good for you, too. I’d make it feel very, very good
for you, so you’d give me lots of cum. I’d love feeling you cum
Martha Jane told me how women kept from getting pregnant by making
the guy use a rubber (she never used the word condom or contracep-
tive. She told me she didn’t like those words because they were
impersonal. “Rubber” sounded more degrading, and that’s the word she
liked to use). I remarked that if I ever had a real orgasm, we’d have
to use a rubber on me.
She frowned and said, resolutely, “No. I’d never make you use a
“But wouldn’t you get in trouble?”
She didn’t answer me. She was stroking my cock, now limp after so
much prolonged stimulation. She looked at me, and then she looked out
the dark window.
I asked, “what’s the matter?”
She said simply, “Wait a minute, hon,” and she looked out the
window and seemed to be thinking deeply about it. After a while she
sat up and smoothed back some stray hair from her face and scowled.
“No. No rubbers.”
I looked puzzled.
“Because…” she continued, pulling a bobby pin from her hair and
holding it in her teeth while she bundled back her hair. I looked at
her long, slim arms and the way her nice breasts rose and sloped
gently into the pale buds of her nipples as she reached behind her
head. “Because…” she went on, securing the bundle behind her with
the bobby pin. Then she abruptly concluded, “Because.”
The look on my face told her that I knew she hadn’t answered me,
but I also knew by her voice that she didn’t want to talk about it.
She lay beside me and I put my head on her breast and we held each
other, and for a while she simply stroked my hair and neck and reached
down to chew my ear. We grew quiet and listened to the squeals and
giggles of the kids outside. After a while she licked her hand and
wet my cock with it and fondled me while I sucked her nipples.
With her face resting on my head as I suckled her, I could feel
her smiling. She asked sweetly, “You really like sucking my titties,
“Yes. You feel so good in my mouth.”
“I’m glad you like it. It feels good to me too. It’s so loving.
I like holding you like this and letting you suck. I like it because
I like the way you enjoy it.”
“It’s fun,” I joked, moving to another nipple.
She laughed. “You funny boy. Yes, it’s fun, it really is fun,
isn’t it? I don’t know…I guess I wouldn’t do this if you were my
same age.” For a long time she said nothing, but stroked my cock
playfully and watched me enjoy her breasts. She murmured, “It’s so
hard to imagine people wanting to hurt us for this. This doesn’t
happen for most people. I don’t think you understand that.” She held
my chin and pulled my head up so she could give me a playful smack on
the lips. She searched my eyes and my face for a moment. “I hope no
one ever hurts you. But it’s going to be very, very hard to find a
woman who understands someone like you.”
I asked her what she meant by that, but she didn’t answer. In-
stead, she brushed it off and played with my pubic fuzz. “You have
such a nice shape,” she mused. “I hope you don’t grow too much hair
on yourself. You’re going to have such a nice cock, just the right
size, not to round, and not too long. Just big enough to make a girl
feel nice and filled. Look, you’re already four inches, maybe five.
You’re going to have a beautiful cock. You have a beautiful cock
now. And it’s so stiff. Look how stiff he is, I can hardly push down
on it. Such a strong cock.” She uncoupled from me and scooted down
to suck me again. Holding my shaft and licking my tip she said
contentedly, “Mmm, so suckable.”
After wetting me she started pumping again, holding me very
loosely so her hands could slide along my shaft and brush my tip in
a way she knew felt good and would keep me hard. She grinned and
said, “It’s good, huh? Yeah? It’s good, I can tell you like it.
I want to make it so good for you.”
It didn’t take long for her to propel me to a pleasurable state
again. I have to admit, orgasm or no, I have never been so physically
pleased by a woman’s hands as I was by the way Martha Jane had learned
to please. It wasn’t long before my rock hard young cock seemed to
develop a life of its own. My legs grew stiff and I can verify that
toes really do curl, for I could look down past Martha Jane and see
them doing so before my very eyes. Another one of those strange waves
of pure pleasure shot into my cock and I seemed to melt under it.
After several seconds of this tension, I felt fluid leak to my tip.
Martha Jane stopped and looked up at me.
“Honey, did you cum?”
I struggled to say, “Uh, I don’t know. It…sure felt good for
She studied me. Sure enough, I had leaked again. I would not
have called it an orgasm, at least not a proper adult orgasm, but she
had brought me great pleasure, both physical and emotional. I felt
tense and a little tired, but happy.
She rose to stroke my face. “Did I hurt you, hon? I didn’t
hurt it, did I?”
I shook my head no. I found it to difficult to speak, my mouth
was so dry. “No, but it…it just felt so good.”
She hugged me. “Oh you almost came. Almost! That’s so nice!”
I felt very good and deliciously wicked anyway, which was enough
for me at the time. I let her hug me for a moment. She said, “It’ll
happen for you someday. It will.”
“And we’ll cum together.”
“Yes. We will.” She gazed at me for a long moment, her hand
caressing and then holding my cheek. “I wish you could feel the
pleasure you give me. I do wish that for you.” And again, she
looked at me. And again, all of a sudden, the unexpected asserted
itself. And this, it was Martha Jane who changed the course of the
As she gazed at me she seemed suddenly sad, and then troubled.
I asked, “What’s the matter?”
She said, “Nothing. Nothing, hon.” She let her hand slip from
my cheek and she sat back on her heels with that troubled look on
her face. “If only I could make you feel that good…”
Her voice trailed off, and she suddenly straightened on the bed
and lay back on her pillow and whispered, “Come here.”
I leaned toward her and she parted her legs and said, “Here.
There was no way I’d refuse. I lay between her legs and made a
long trail of kisses along her legs. I knew she liked small, nipping
licks along the inside of her thighs, and I did that as she stroked my
hair and whispered, “That’s nice, hon.”
Reaching her center, I started with a long lick along her slit,
and she whispered, “Yes.” And all the time one hand was stroking my
hair, and as I licked she parted her legs wider and I found her clit
and gave it a little suck, and she whispered, “Ahh. Good.” For a long
moment I licked her, feeling the heat and moisture build in her. Soon
she was giving the small gasps of pleasure that told me my tongue was
getting to her.
To my surprise, after she had been breathing excitedly for a few
minutes, she stopped stroking my hair and pulled me up by my shoulders,
urging me, “C’mere, baby.” I rose onto my knees. She watched me with
a steady, anxious look.
She whispered, “Come up here,” pulling me toward her by one arm.
Her breath was shaky, quickening, and there was a new urgency, a
queezy tension in her voice. She pulled me forward until I lay on top
of her, and she spread her legs for me. I propped myself on my elbows
to see what she wanted. She whispered hurriedly, “Lift up a little,”
and keeping her eyes on mine and biting her lower lip she felt down,
between us, and found my dick. Then I felt a unique, wet tickle
around my glans, the first time my cock had felt the slithery touch of
the thin petals just inside her pussy, and I realized she was rubbing
my cock in her slit, wetting me.
She saw the surprise in my face and grinned, her breath still
shaky. “Feel that?”
“Yeah. It’s Wet. Tickly.”
She fumbled with my cock for a few more seconds. With an audible
tremble in her voice she whispered, “Move up a little.” I moved my
hips upward, my tummy shifting higher on hers. Then I felt my dick
“Yes, hon,” she breathed. Her troubled eyes seemed to soften, and
she smiled, but there was still audible tension in her voice. “Move
higher. Push, honey.”
I pushed my cock forward. Her eyes stayed locked on mine. I saw
and heard and felt her swallow hard as my cock slid deeply in. The
feeling of being inside her was marvelous.
I gulped and said, “It’s inside you.”
She gave me a strange, wide grin, a mix of pleasure and anxiety.
She whispered excitedly, “Yes. You’re inside me.” Her eyes closed.
She seemed to be concentrating on the feeling of having me inside her.
“It feels good. You feel good in me.” She opened her eyes, biting her
lower lip again nervously, and down below seemed to be making small
adjustments with her hips. Her movements caused her cunt to slide
around on my cock and I gasped at the warm, new pleasure of it.
Her eyes widened. She smiled again and whispered naughtily,
“Did you like that?”
I murmured “Oh, yes,” and I watched her face and I moved my dick a
little, trying to repeat the pleasure, and she kept smiling at me and
she whispered, “That’s it. Move in me. Let your dick enjoy it.” I
moved again, and then I moved back a little and back in, and the in
and out movement felt wonderful. I did it again, and she whispered,
“Yes,” and then I began a slow rhythm in and out and she tensed and
gasped and her eyes fluttered and she whispered again, “Yes. Yes.”
Knowing that she enjoyed my finger moving in and out of her, I
naturally assumed that my cock moving in her would feel even better,
if not just as good, and my cock was a lot bigger than my finger. I
moved as far as I could into her. Her cunt contracted around me and
she clenched her teeth and breathed in with a quiet “ssss.” I moved
out and in, then did it again. I was not moving up and down, but back
and forth, tightening and loosening my lower abdomen, careful to move
only an inch or so, not wanting to lose that astounding feeling of
being warmly sheathed. It was a natural strategy, learned from hours
of fingerfucking and licking: I kept the upper shaft of my cock riding
in her groove, knowing somehow that she wanted contact with her clit.
I was amazed and afraid, and her eyes saw it in mine and mine saw
it in hers. Her eyes narrowed and glistened, and she gulped. “It’s
okay. Don’t stop. It’s okay. It feels good.”
She swallowed again. One of her hands gripped my shoulder and
trembled, and my legs shook. Her eyes kept searching mine. And I
searched for guidance in hers, as I vaguely but fearfully realized
what we were doing. Most of all I was overcome by the unthinkable,
by the fact that I was totally inside her, in her darkest and most
I managed to utter, “I’m…I’m in you.”
She released a sudden half-laugh, half-cry. “Yes! Yes, You’re
in me. Stay in me. I want you in me.”
“It’s so good!”
While I moved on her the look on her face grew to one of delirious
pleasure. She kept whispering, “Yes. Yes.” Soon it seemed that she
might be near to crying, and she shook her head slowly back and forth,
whispering, “Oh, you are so good. You do it just right. Just right.”
I repeated, as if to myself, “Feels so good,” and I kept moving
as she directed.
“Keep moving your dick…deep and slow, like that…Ohhh, it’s so
so good…you do it so…exactly right!…how do you always know?…
ahh…I knew this would happen, I never knew you’d do it so right.” As
her arousal grew she clenched her her teeth and whispered excitedly,
“It’s good. It’s good. I didn’t know it would be so good!” She
gulped hard. Her breathing became an increasingly urgent rasp, her
eyes narrowing tempestuously, and she started talking faster and
faster in a seething whisper, “We’re fuckin’…We’re FUCKin’, hon! I
want you to FEEL it I want you to like it with me, I don’t want any
rubbers because I want you to feel your DICK in me, fucking me.
Fucking! I want to watch your eyes, I want to watch your eyes while
we fuck!” And then her voice rose in pitch, rapidly becoming more
plaintive, with an hysterical edge that sounded as if she might
really cry this time, and she whispered “I don’t want you to stop…
oh god…I don’t want you to stop.”
“I won’t stop,” I panted, working steadily on her. “I won’t.”
Her staring eyes shifted swiftly side to side, searching mine and
in every corner of my face, as if to record with her eyes every detail,
every move I made and every twitch of my face. One hand gripped the
back of my neck, the other below held her hot palm flat on my tummy,
just above my sliding shaft, and I fucked her steadily and she kept
talking in a low whisper that became lower and lower and more and more
“…it’s so good it’s so…Ah!….Ah!…So nasty…I can’t believe
how good you feel! I can’t believe what a beautiful loving good fuck
you are, you do it just right, sooo right, it’s so right and I c—”
She faltered, swallowed hard, and then gasped, “I can’t make you
“It feels too good to stop,” I gasped, my labor requiring more
and more air in my lungs. “It feels good in you.”
“Yes, baby, in me, *in* me!…I never thought it would *be* so–
Oooh. Oh, Ahhh…I want it to last, but…you feel so *good*, you do
it so…you want to stop? Huh? You want to stop and rest so you can
feel it longer?”
I gasped, “No! I don’t wanna stop.”
“I want you to cum.”
Her eyes closed, her neck arching up. “oh baby…oh baby, I didn’t
even think I’d — ” Suddenly her eyes popped wide open, startled,
her neck tensed, and she quickly moved both hands to my shoulders and
gripped hard as if hanging on, and she whimpered “Oh!” and another
“Oh!”, and then she talked faster and faster. “Oh hon I’m …oh it’s
gonna be so good…it’s gonna be so good…” And then the words gushed
from her in a sudden frenzy, “It’sGonnaBeSoGood!”
Her eyes shut tight. Her head swooned back and to one side. Her
mouth opened, but she no longer spoke–and neither could I. I moved
in her several more times and her trembling began, and then the crazy
stiffening. This time she seemed totally lost, helpless but unable to
do anything about it except to keep doing it. Her hips rose and hung
in midair, her thighs stretching wide as if she had somehow lost all
control and had turned her body and cunt and destiny entirely over to
me. Then her suspended hips started a series of small movements,
centered in a very small area from her upper thighs to her navel; and
she seemed to have somehow found a way to hold her cunt poised at the
exact height and angle for my cock to slide snugly in her exactly the
way she wanted, with her swollen clit brushing my shaft, and when her
raised pelvis found that position she held her hips poised exactly so.
Either she planned it precisely, or I had precisely found the very
spot and the very motion she precisely wanted, or else it just
happened that way because everything we did when we were naked somehow
and unavoidably happened that way. Then I felt her cunt suck at my
tip and her hips began a tight, swift churning and I felt her clit
clearly against the half inch of my hard flesh that rode up and down
against it, and I humped more tightly against her and stayed deep and
for a moment we were locked that way, firmly and silently, and we
greasily ground our bellies together, and my shaft scrubbed her clit.
Then she tensed, trembled, and lifted her hips a bare inch higher,
and tensed and trembled again, and whimpered, and then stiffened for
one last, prolonged moment. Her cunt closed and sucked. I knew then
that she was in a different world. If I didn’t yet know what an
orgasm was, I had lying under me the perfect example, sucking pleasure
from my cock with a quiet madness from an unseen place inside her.
The totality of her surrender and the sight of her elegant neck
stretched back in sweet agony filled me with the sight of the ecstasy
that only a complete surrender to lust could achieve. Without
thinking, I stayed deep inside her and, feeling her clit nudging my
shaft, I maintained the slow grinding of my hips in small, rhythmic
circles, which her cunt quickly returned in exactly the opposite
direction at exactly the same time. I clenched my young teeth at the
insane tickle of her inner muscles clinching around my glans and the
oily sucking ring of her outer lips caressing near the root of my
cock, and I knew by the tension in her tunnel and in her thighs on
either side of me that she was more deeply immersed in pleasure than
she had ever been. She remained like that for what seemed to be an
eternity, and I grunted above her in my first deliberate wallowing in
the pure animalistic pleasure and power of what I was doing to her.
The whole time she came, I looked down at her. I have never forgotten
the sight of her below me in the moonlight as I hovered on my elbows
and for the first time used my penis, my cock, my dick to make her cum.
Then her torso seemed to give a strained wrench from within and
she quickly grabbed my butt with both hands and gripped hard, holding
me still and tight, her pelvis pressed against mine. She released a
loud, sharp “Uh!”, and clasped me tightly. Neither of us moved while
she sighed, and sighed again, and again, and then all of her gave a
brief shudder of release, and she began to relax. One arm still held
me fast but she tiredly draped the other over her forehead. She ex-
exhaled wearily, saying between gasps, “God…We did it…It happened
…oh lord…I don’t believe it.” She lay there sucking air. I dipped
my head to her left breast and licked her nipple. She exhaled a long
“Whew.” The nipple was like a small stone. Now and then her hips
gave a little jerk.
It all happened so unexpectedly. I didn’t yet know all the
implications of the orgasm she’d experienced (she would get to that
later, in her own inimitable way). My entry and our screwing and her
cumming seemed to have happened by accident, an accident that overtook
her, swiftly and absolutely. She had cum so quickly and deeply that
we both lay stone quiet for a while as if stunned.
Afterwards she said, “You and I certainly are full of surprises,
aren’t we, hon?” She looked up at me. “I never knew I could cum so
hard…When did–? How do you know just–? Oh, I can’t even think
Again, she tried masturbating me. I enjoyed it, and she did get
out of me yet another buzz of some kind. I told her not to worry,
that whatever I felt it was really a very good and wickedly satisfy-
ing sensation. Then we had to dress.
She left that night as if in a daze.
And like a bag of bones I slept in the moonlight falling on the
part of the bed where I had experienced the unbelievable thrill of
entering the very core of her. In the morning my flesh remembered her
and it seemed her wetness still clung to me. I could feel her on me
for days. And if memory serves me correctly I still cannot say, after
all these years, whether I wandered all day in a dream, or in shock,
Continued. . .