Martha in America Ch. 02

And then we were doing it to each other with no reservations, our fingertips wiggling and probing deeper, and then wiggling and moving in and out as we sucked and licked, and I had my nose buried in her cunt, willing her to come as my hips jerked to thrust him into her mouth, and hers began to jerk too as she moaned loudly and met his thrusts. Her thighs began to quiver, quickly clutching my head as her pelvis jerked to press her engorged knob against my mouth as her asshole clamped tight around my finger - like I knew her cunt was clutching. And then she started to come, biting him in a reflex as she spurted, but then trying to make him come as she spurted again and again, and then he did, not as much as she did, but then finally she stilled, just moaning softly with deep breaths, and I was also moaning, my tired tongue finally relaxing.

It seemed as though we lay like that for a long time, but probably it wasn't any longer the milder interlude before we really started again, and then she let him slip from her mouth - all soft now, just flopping down - and sighed and said:

"I just love anything you do," and slipped her finger out:

"... and that, too," and I did as she nodded, and I replied with my lips moving on her pussy: "And I just love it that you do."

"Um-hmm," she responded and raised her thigh, propping it up with her foot as she chuckled, letting me see her lovely pussy, as sweet and pink as my sister's, but I liked Martha's sparse, light-colored hair better. Instead of seeming to want to hide her pussy, it seemed to be just a token sign of adulthood, leaving her pussy exposed as though it were happy to be seen - like at that moment, or when being naked in the mountains.

Before all this went through my mind, she was already talking, now less intimately:

"It's a good thing that I didn't have anything on the stove. I was thinking about having dinner ready when you came home, but then wasn't sure that it might not be ready before you came. ... Hm-hmm! "I didn't want us to waste any time waiting for it to cook."

I snickered too and held her breast and replied:

"We didn't even waste any time for eating either, just eating each other as a first course."

She snickered and then laughed and agreed:

"We sure did. I even had a second helping. ... I didn't know you could do that. I thought men had to wait longer. You must be real strong."

I snickered and replied:

"How could I keep you waiting, if you wanted a second helping, ... and with your mouth just sucking and licking to have it?"

She almost laughed again as she answered:

"Like yours was. ... God, you do that good!"

"Not any better than you do, thank you."

She snorted and rocked her head forward and kissed him - close up near my hair, and then slid her hand over my hip and played in my curly hairs with her fingers. Then she said:

"I guess having a heavy beard goes along with having hair on your chest."

"Oh, I'm sorry. ... Sorry, it was probably even worse last night."

She snorted again and agreed:

"Maybe, but I didn't notice. It was all too arousing," and she chuckled in a pleased sort of way.

"I'll shave while you're cooking," I offered.

"Are we going to do it again?" she asked, and it sounded like she was really surprised.

"Only if you want to?"

"Hmm! ... Hm-hmm! I don't know. This could become a bad habit - like going in the shower - wanting to have sex before dinner: just thinking about making dinner and wanting to have sex first."

That wasn't really the answer to my question, but I chuckled at what she had said - at what had come to her mind, and replied:

"I don't know. It depends on the company."

"Hm-hmm! It sure would. I guess that it couldn't become a habit unless the company was good."

We both chuckled, and then I said:

"I'll shave now, ... just in case."

She nodded on my thigh and replied:

"I've got to go. May I use yours?"

"Of course," I agreed, and we got up and did.

She used the toilet, which settled my question to myself, if she would do it in the tub again, but that still let me wonder if she really did that all the time or had done it just for me. I turned on the water in the basin to shave.

She watched me start to shave and then grinned and remarked:

"If you go to all the trouble, I guess we ought to," and grinned again.

"Don't feel like you have to just for my sake," I replied and grinned at her in the mirror with shaving soap all over my face.

She just nodded, still grinning, and then said she would start dinner, and went back in my room and picked up her dress and panties, and in the mirror I saw her go off with them in her hand.

I joined her in the kitchen, both of us naked, and she nodded with a smirk when she saw me, and then suggested that I get us a couple of beers. I did, noting that she had bought two six-packs, and opened them and handed her one. She turned to me, and we both said "Skaal," looking at each other, and drank, and looked at each other again, and she giggled and said:

"I never did that before like this," and glanced down at her naked breasts and her aroused nipples, and snorted as she added: "and certainly didn't expect I would here."

We both chuckled, and then she turned back to her cooking. I asked if I could help, but she said that she wanted to do everything "for you," and smiled at me, so I let her, perching on the corner of kitchen table as I sipped at my beer and enjoyed watching her, observing that her nipples stiffened whenever she noticed me looking at her. She was obviously enjoying being nude.

Then she started to set the table in the dining room, making two trips to take everything there. When she returned the second time, she smiled wryly and said:

"Oooh, that's just too strange, setting the table like I so often have, but like this - and she glanced again down at herself - like I have for your parents. ... I just can't see us sitting there like this - especially when I think about sitting there again with them."

She smiled wryly again as she looked at me questioningly, and then asked:

"Can we dress for dinner?"

I nodded, appreciating her feelings and thinking they applied just as much for me - maybe more so - and replied spontaneously to her question: "dress for dinner" with: "Black tie?" She looked surprised and repeated: "Black tie?" looking like she didn't understand the expression. "Tuxedo," I explained, and then remembered the English expression: "Smoking jacket." She nodded but still looked as though she hadn't understood why I had said it.

When I had explained, also that I had something of a problem with sitting at the family dining table naked, she grinned and said:

"No, just something. I'll put on my dress again."

She glanced at where it was lying on a chair. We both had a drink of our beers, sort of to confirm our understanding, and I went back to my room and put on my underpants and shirt and the slacks from the day before, discovering the rubbers still in the pocket. She had her dress on when I returned - with most of the buttons buttoned - and was putting her "fiskeboller" in a serving plate, white dumplings with a white sauce with some little dark berries in it. The boiled potatoes were already dished up, and the salad she had made was ready, so I took them to the table, appreciating again her misgivings about our sitting there all naked. She came in with the "fiskeboller", and I suggested we have another beer, and she agreed, and then as I was about to get them, asked:

"Candles?"

"If you want," I agreed.

When I returned with our beers - in glasses - she was lighting the candles on one of the candelabra that we used for more formal dinners.

She was surprised when I held the chair for her, but smiled appreciatively as she sat down, and then offered to dish up, serving me two of the fish dumplings and ladling the sauce over them, and then putting potatoes on my plate. Then she served herself, as I helped myself to salad and waited for her to take some. Then we smiled at each other, and I felt we were both hesitating and recognized that I was waiting for her pick up her knife and fork - as I would have waited for my mother - and since she still hesitated, I smiled and said:

"Tonight, you're the hostess."

She smiled back then, looking as though she appreciated my having recognized why she had hesitated, and then did take them as she said:

"I guess so," and smiled, waiting for me to pick up mine, and said:

"Like with your mother - or mine, at home."

Then she paused thoughtfully, and I was glad I hadn't already started to eat as she added: "She always said ... a prayer?"

"Grace," I suggested for the word she had been seeking.

"Yes, 'grace', she agreed softly.

"If you want to," I offered, and she looked at me as though she really wanted to, but then she said:

"No, I guess not. Thanks. Funny, I had forgotten that I missed that when I first was here - till I just mentioned it."

I liked that, her spontaneous feeling and her telling me; and her mother's saying grace and still being so realistic/direct - neither the best word - to advise her daughter not to have sex with the "young gentleman," and recalled my mother's mentioning her appreciation for her good table manners.

"If you want to," I repeated as these thoughts went through my mind.

She smiled mildly and said:

"It's too Christian, really a child's prayer."

"How does it go?" I ask softly, curious, but also wanting to let her fulfill her role as hostess - if she felt that that belonged to it.

She looked at me for a moment, a little questioningly, and then with a slight smile said:

"If you want," and thought for another moment and said:

"In English, something like this," and she lowered her head - and instinctively I did too - and she spoke softly:

"Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, and bless the food You ... Thou us given hast."

She looked up again at me with a mildly quizzical expression, as though she liked that she had said it, but was unsure of my response. I smiled mildly, liking that she had wanted to say it, as - I hoped - the appropriate response occurred to me:

"In good Jewish families, the mother is also supposed to say a grace."

I wasn't sure that was really correct, but she smiled gratefully, which was more important, and then to change the subject said:

"You'll like them even less if they're cold," and gestured with her fork at her "fiskeboller."

I tried some, while she looked at me expectantly. They didn't taste like anything, just a mild, white, almost texture-less something, maybe a little like fish, but the creamy sauce and capers - as I discovered the dark berries were - seemed the primary source of any flavor. She was still looking at me, smiling a little as I swallowed - one hardly had to chew them - and remarked before I had to say anything:

"That's the way they are, supposed to be. I guess one can make them, but everyone buys them in the can - just like the one I found here."

She smiled a little triumphantly and finally took a first bite. I took one and remarked:

"Yes, I'm sure, and just about the way I expected."

She grinned and said:

"I didn't expect you to really like them, but we poor Norwegians do."

"Your sauce is very nice," I remarked, hoping it was a personal compliment, but she replied: "It also comes in the can. I just added more capers, like Mother always does."

For a moment, it occurred to me to say something about Jesus' blessing it: maybe to ask if he knew what he was in for as "guest"; or if it was fair to ask his blessings for it. But, of course, I didn't, repressing my cynical vein, My thoughts were only cynical, harmlessly cynical, as I watched her eating with delight, and especially as she remarked between bites:

"I've missed them all winter."

Then she smiled at me and dipped her fork with a piece in the white sauce, moving it around and with her knife helping to collect more of the sauce on it, and I suddenly remembered our talk in the night: what if it tasted like something else? Maybe my expression revealed what had occurred to me.

She smirked and collected more sauce on the piece on her fork, so that it dripped when she raised it, and smirked at me again so that it was only too apparent that whatever she was thinking about had nothing to do with just "fiskeboller" or her mother, and then I heard again her "I've missed them all winter," wondering if it was just my imagination, or if she had already meant it as an oblique reference, if it was just a Freudian slip, maybe one that she only subconsciously recognized as she waited unnecessarily for me to take a bite, to also gather up some of the white sauce. When those thoughts that had come to me, I did it no less generously, letting it drip from my fork too. With just a little smile, we both put our forks in our mouths, and maybe it wasn't an accident that a drop of the white sauce clung to her lip, and maybe even less unintentional the way her tongue gathered it in, especially with the way she smirked again.

"It doesn't taste like that," I remarked, smirking back at her, then suddenly wondering if I had somehow misinterpreted her expression.

But she grinned and replied:

"I know, but I wanted you to think of it."

I smirked again and replied:

"Oh, I did, tastes a lot more interesting."

Then I did something I would never have done with my parents at the table: with my knife I gathered up some of the white sauce - and it did really look like what we were talking about - and put the end of the blade with it in my mouth, and even moved it in and out a little before I drew it out between my closed lips as she grinned at me. With a snort, I remarked:

"Now I know why you like this so much, subconsciously imagining it to be great helping of that "white stuff", as you put it."

She started to snicker and then laughed as I chuckled. Finally she said:

"I don't think so, but I will now," and chuckled and added:

"I guess I did already, sort of. On the way home from the deli where I found them, after what we were joking about last night, the connection did occur to me, ..." and she grinned: "... and then I especially liked my idea of serving them, ..." and she grinned again: "... and of course after what you said about a second helping in your room." This time I started laughing, and she joined in.

"We just have to work on the flavor," I said: "... the capers aren't quite the right thing, ... but very good with the "fiskeboller."

She chuckled with a nod, and I said that I especially liked her salad with a lot of dill in the dressing. She smiled appreciatively and said that they used dill with many dishes in Norway. Then, while we ate, she asked about my job, and I told her, and she told me that in the fall she was going to university in Oslo, studying "Anglistik", and that she hoped to be able to spend a year in England, "to improve her accent," explaining apologetically, that at the university they preferred the Queen's English.

To that, I smirked and replied:

"Then I hope you can really do it 'in English', like Lady Chatterley."

She nodded and smirked, and then agreed:

"Me too, but for now, doing it in American English is better, ... and I don't think the forester's Yorkshire dialect is what they would like."

She smiled, and added:

"But Lawrence makes him quite attractive, sweet, for being so ... rustic."

I looked at her questioningly.

"You know, ... oh, you haven't read it. He puts flowers in her hair," and glance down.

I nodded, envisioning the scene, as she continued:

"You couldn't do that with me," then grinning and adding: "but I could with you: little spring flowers: violets and forget-me-nots. I was trying to think of some others that were small like that, that wouldn't be too big and fall out."

She smiled, and I chuckled, appreciating the thought of her envisioning flowers nestled in my pubic hair and suggested:

"Lilies of the valley, maybe?"

"Oh yes," she agreed with delight: "... the others are both blue. I wanted another color, like a row of white lilies of the valley across the top."

We both snorted at this image, smiling at each other, and she added: "That would be fun, trying to get them in place," and we both chuckled at the idea, smiling again.

"You must have been reading a lot," I remarked.

She smiled, a little abashed, and admitted:

"I cheated, but then I went back to the start and really started to read it. It's good."

"You can read it to me, if we get bored."

"Hmmm! More fun telling you whatever comes to mind."

We smiled, and I said "skaal," and we drank to that, smiling again. We finished eating, and I thanked her for the meal. She smiled and said:

"Vel bekomme," that I interpreted as something like: you're welcome.

"Oh? In Norway, we always say 'takk for matten' after the meal - 'thank you for the meal' - and Mother - or the hostess - always replies: 'vel bekomme,' ... something like: I hope it was good."

I nodded as she went on:

"That was nice that you said so. The first dinner here, I automatically said 'takk for matten,' and then had to explain it. Your mother thought it was a nice expression, but I was embarrassed that it had just slipped out when your father and sister said nothing, ... which at that moment struck me as rude. Sorry, ... different customs."

She smiled apologetically and then added:

"So I especially appreciated that you said something ... and the response just slipped out. You said I was the hostess tonight."

"And a charming one," I replied as she looked a little uncertain after this explanation, and then I raised my glass - suddenly thankful for Dad's advice to always leave a little in it, in case a toast was offered - and again said: "skaal," looking at her, and she blushed and raised her glass and responded: "skaal," looking in my eyes, and we drank, and then looked in each other's eyes again before we put our glasses down, and she was still blushing as she almost whispered:

"That was just right, almost too right."

She smiled at me very sweetly and explained:

"I remember the first time someone 'skaaled' me, my uncle at a party, the first time I was served wine, and I blushed then too."

Martha smiled again and said:

"It wasn't 'too right,' it was just ... "too right."

She smiled at this contradiction, and I did too as she tried to explain:

"Just right, just too appropriate ..." and she smiled in her search for the expression she wanted:

"... so surprisingly appropriate ... here," and she glanced around: "... thank you. Vel bekomme."

With this return to her first response, we got up and started clearing the table in silence. I was thinking that I had had a nice lesson in Norwegian etiquette and very luckily done the right thing. In the kitchen, she smiled at me as though she were still appreciating that I had surprised her with my responses after the meal.

The atmosphere between us as we silently cleaned up was different from what I had expected. Whatever she was thinking, she didn't say anything as she started to wash the dishes - instead of putting them in the dishwasher - making me think that maybe it was a reflex from her home. I started to dry them, and she smiled like that again, and I wondered that we both seemed to have forgotten about going naked, that it seemed, somehow, as though we were both anticipating whatever would happen next as though it were the first time, as though, somehow, the dinner had been the real start of our relationship. It was a nice feeling, a subtle erotic feeling as we exchanged smiles, better than if one of us had suggested: "Now we can take them off again."

As I was drying the last dish, she suddenly asked softly without looking at me: