Martha in America Ch. 04

And she seemed to enjoy doing that, too. I certainly was enjoying it, and enjoying lapping on her moist pussy. Then she had him back in her warm mouth, wanting her dessert, and I felt her chuckle again and wondered if she was thinking the same thing, but she was going to have to work for it, like I was, and she knew it, too, sucking and licking and moving her head on him as I buried my nose in between her inner lips and sucked and licked her clitoris, delighting that I was making her press it up to me, her pelvis rocking against my mouth as she hummed, vibrating on my cock and making me move it in her mouth. And our hands were encouraging each other to move, and our fingers trying to arouse each other that way, too, not just trying to, making each other respond: my cock surging as I clutched her fingertip, and she clutched mine as her hips moved to press her aroused little button against my tongue. And then she was clutching my finger again and again, and I knew her pussy was clutching too, wanting to come, like my cock wanted to come, surging and moving as she sucked on it. And then it did, as I clutched more of her finger with a gasp and grunt. She moaned as I came and clutched my finger as it moved in her, and then her thighs quivered and clutched my head as she suddenly spurted her sweet love juice in my face as her hips jerked quickly, spurting again and again, her aroused orgasm distracting me from my own, but I knew it had been good, and knew she had liked it as she moaned again and then just gasped in rhythm with the movement of her hips and the spurting of her orgasm.

We both just lay there, hugging each other's hips with both hands.

I almost dozed off, but then was awakened by her sucking and licking my soft cock as she chuckled - probably at its changed state. She let it slip from between her lips and chuckled again and said:

"I think that was the last helping I can have." I snickered and agreed:

"That's good, 'cause I don't think I could offer you another one."

We both snorted. I kissed her pussy and said:

"Good morning, again."

"You, too," Martha replied, and then we got up.

Then we were in the bathtub, starting to pee again, and when I directed it up on her, she snickered, and then still going herself, dropped to her knees and said: "All over me," and cupped her hands under her breasts again, catching it as it flowed down from her chest. And then to my surprise, she lowered her face and closed her eyes and repeated: "All over," and I did, pressing the last of my stream up all over her face. She snickered with her eyes and lips still closed and then looked up at me, smiling wryly, and then got back up. I drew her wet body to me and kissed her, tasting my urine on her lips, and then licking around her mouth to emphasize that I was tasting it and then kissed her again, wondering if she could taste it on my tongue as she snickered. Then she slid one hand up her body between us, and with a glance up at me licked the drops she had collected from her palm.

"Funny," she remarked with a smirk:

"... doesn't taste like anything special, ... not like you ..."

"Or you," I interjected.

"Um-hmm," she agreed with a smile, and collected some more with her other hand and tasted it too with a snort.

"Why did I suddenly want to do that?" she asked, more to herself:

"... want you to do that?"

"'Cause it's real intimate, ... wanting to have anything that has to do with it, ... maybe. Sort of like a dog marking his territory - wanting to be marked as belonging to me."

Martha snickered and almost laughed, while I was wishing I had found some way of leaving myself out of it.

"Yeah, maybe," she agreed with another snicker: "... I wanted you to do it, ..."

"And I wanted to, too," I added,

"To mark me as yours?"

"I don't know, ... maybe a primeval urge ... to let the other males know: this female is mine, I fucked her, ... and I want to fuck her again, so stay away, ... or watch out."

Martha laughed, and I laughed with her, pleased with my story, despite the fact that it was skirting the delicate subject.

"I like that. ... Hm-hmm! You must have done it before, if you thought about that," and she looked at me questioningly. I nodded and replied:

"But that explanation just occurred to me."

"Really? ... Other girls wanted it, too?"

"A couple," I admitted.

"Hmm! I bet. They wanted it as a sign that you wanted to do it again with them."

We both chuckled, and then she added:

"But you've got to do it every day; it washes off."

I nodded with a grin, hoping that was her solution to the delicate subject, and it seemed the cue to start our shower.

When we had finished and dried ourselves, it was still very early, just after seven. Martha snickered and asked what I wanted for breakfast, not making any move to get dressed, so we went to the kitchen like we were, and I said that I would make a big omelette for us. Martha set the table and made coffee while I chopped an onion and a green pepper that I found, and some bacon, and then started the omelette, frying the bacon as I stirred four eggs.

When Martha came and stood next to me, I put my arm around her shoulder and she held my waist - nice, warm and familiar, feeling her body against mine. But then I needed both hands again, and she tended to the coffee. And then we were eating, smiling - maybe smirking at our nudity. She complimented my omelette, and then we were chatting about her plans for the day again: going to the Met and maybe some galleries in the area, all within walking distance. She told me that in the museums in Oslo there were very few pictures by well known artists; Munch, of course, but then mainly those of artists known in Scandinavia, but then she enthused about something called the Vigeland Park, a creation by that sculptor of bronze and granite nudes, and explained the themes of the park.

Then we were finished, and Martha cleared away the plates and poured us another cup of coffee, and then, before she sat down again, asked:

"May I sit on your lap?"

I nodded with a soft snort and smile and pushed my chair back as she put her cup and saucer down where she could reach them and sat down across my lap.

"Nice, good idea."

"Um-hmm," she agreed, putting her arm around my shoulders and smiling at me, and then asked:

"What was that for, what you did when I asked?"

"The snort?" and I did so again.

"Yeah, that, the 'snort,' 'pruste' in Norwegian," she replied: "... Why?"

"A few years ago - four, five - my sister asked to sit on my lap. She didn't wait for me to ask why or say no, and then asked me to show her how adults kiss. I hardly knew myself, just hearsay. We didn't. She reminded me about that last week, when we were, chuckling and asking what might have happened if we had."

Martha chuckled with a grin and said:

"Maybe a good thing that you didn't."

"Probably; she was thinking it could have been a lot fun – now, with hindsight."

"Maybe I should have asked my brother back then, but I doubt that he knew, and I didn't know to ask."

"Just have to try; no prior experience necessary."

We both chuckled, and again I appreciated that she had immediately referred to her own experience with her brother. We had a sip from our coffee cups, and she chuckled again as we set them back down. I held her breast, the most logical thing to do in the position we were in. Martha nodded, and we both had a sip of coffee. Then my hand was back on her breast, and she leaned against me, relaxing. I squeezed her breast. "Um-hmm," Martha responded softly.

Then I remembered that she was going to the Met and recalled going there with my sister a couple of years after that, our mother's suggestion for a rainy weekend cultural afternoon. We hadn't been enthused by her suggestion, but went, walking the few blocks together under an umbrella. On the way, she had grinned at me and told about the first time Mother had taken her there, not avoiding the galleries with classical paintings of nudes. She had been surprised and embarrassed, telling me with a giggle that she had just started wearing bras. When I replied that I had also been embarrassed at about that age during a similar museum visit with Mother, we both had grinned and agreed to look at them again. "And men for me," she had said with a grin.

She didn't get to see as much of nude men as she wanted, but but we saw plenty of Baroque breasts, slender Renaissance nudes, and nice 19th century French ones. I had to shush her wanting to remark about them, especially when she started telling me that hers were better or that the girls in a couple of paintings had her figure. I was supposed to know that? I hadn't needed her telling me. Mother had been delighted that we had spent so long in the museum and enjoyed our outing, without knowing why, of course.

With this recollection, I told Martha:

"Once she and I went to the Met. You can do what we did, looking for breasts like hers, or like yours," and I fondled them both.

"You did that! Any luck? How old were you?

"Hmm? Fifteen, seventeen?

"And you did that? Must have been interesting. Paintings or statues?"

"Both. Oh, we then looked at Greek vases and she got to see more of the men than on the paintings."

"Hmm! I can imagine! And 'like hers'?"

"One really perfect French painting, ... - oh - and another one, also French that she insisted was like her when she was fourteen."

"How was that? Not like me, although Edvard Munch painted a couple of girls that had about as little as I did at that age."

"But he must have thought it attractive."

"And hers?"

"If she was right, ..."

"You weren't looking?"

"Enough to know that she had more than a lot of girls in my class, but not undressing her with my eyes."

"You didn't have to. And the picture she liked?"

"Like halves of a grapefruit, ... not too large a grapefruit."

"Hm-hm-hmm! And when she was fourteen? There really are some like that?"

"If she said so. In that picture, ... some very nice smaller ones, Botticelli, but not like hers. I seem to remember some painting or a drawing by an earlier French artist - seventeenth, eighteenth century? - that were, however, also of girls that looked her age, like the one in that other painting. I saw those pictures in books, not in a museum, however."

Martha snickered again and replied: "And you want me to look for them?"

"Just for something to do in the museum. ... I know looking at the men isn't very satisfying."

Martha snickered again and countered:

"You don't know what a girl's imagination can do, ... once she knows what one really looks like."

We both chuckled, and I squeezed her breast again and held her hip a little closer with my other hand. "Um-hmm," she agreed again with a deep chuckle and then kissed me.

Then she was sitting astride me, and we were kissing again, and then agreeing that we should have a supply of rubbers in the kitchen, but then he was in her, anyway, as we kissed.

We didn't have enough time to finish. Maybe we both had sort of realized that when we let him slip into her, wanting to, not wanting to waste time getting a rubber, but knowing we would have to stop before he got carried away. We did, both a little disappointed, of course, but we would have had to stop for a rubber. She followed me to my room and watched me get dressed, her nipples stiffening when she saw me looking at her appreciatively in her nudity when I was tying my necktie.

"Funny," she said with a smile: "... funny, feeling more naked when you're all dressed."

"Nice, nice way to remember you during the day," I replied with a smile.

She smiled and raised her hands to her breasts for a moment, and then asked:

"What do we want for supper?"

"Anything you want." She thought for a moment and then said:

"Oh, I know. I'll take you to a little Norwegian restaurant. You took me out last night."

"I'll take you."

"No. A nice girl doesn't let the man pay for everything, ... at least not at home, ... if you know what I mean."

"But nice girls do here,"

"But I want to, ... I'd feel better about it," and then she smirked and added:

"... especially when I'm standing like this. It's cheap; I can afford it."

"Okay, but then you'll have to wear something; you've got no pockets, like that."

She snickered with a nod, and then I had to be off, agreeing to meet her in the apartment after my work, and we parted with a kiss and embrace at the door, wishing each other a nice day.

The best part of my day was recalling Martha: sudden images of her - not always nude, like when we skaaled in the oyster bar - but usually, and always when I went to the bathroom, and then was wondering what she was doing at that moment, and then wondering that I had told her about my sister and me, ... and that she had been so understanding, once smirking to myself as I wondered if she would tell me which artists had painted bosoms like my sister's "half grapefruits."

Towards the end of the day I wondered if she would want to finish what we had started after breakfast before we went to the Norwegian restaurant, and it occurred to me that we could have a beer or two first, liking the idea as a way to reduce the cost of her invitation. And I liked that too, appreciating that her gesture - a Norwegian or European custom - avoided the impression that a girl was being "kept", especially in Martha's situation - with a sudden image of her standing there nude when she had invited me. Yes, that was nice, that she wanted to demonstrate that our lovemaking was entirely voluntary on her part.

I had to smirk again - this time while I was collecting the last outgoing mail - it sure had been voluntary: her "I'll be in my room" the first evening, and her "hiding him" in the night, when I had been dreaming of my sister. Then I hoped I wasn't blushing at that recollection as I gathered another handful from someone's out basket.

On the way home, most of that went through my mind again, especially the question if she would want to do it again before supper, making me snort as it occurred to me that we must be in December now by her calculation of catching up on the sex she had missed during the winter - once a week! Wishful thinking! But she sure wanted to try! And I had to smirk again as I hurried back to our apartment, wondering how she would greet me - just at the door; or suggestively in some manner, maybe already drinking a beer, or the ultimate, already naked? But I doubted that - unless, maybe she had been home longer and reading again.

But she wasn't there when I opened the door and knew she would have at least called to greet me when she heard me - unless maybe she were sleeping. Or maybe just pretending to sleep, I thought, a suggestive alternative I hadn't thought of. I quietly went to her room, but no, her bed was empty, neatly made. As I took off my jacket and went to my room, I realized that the question had now turned to how I should greet her. At first, in my room, I thought that she had also made up my bed, but then remembered that I hadn't slept in it, but she had put away my clothes. I hung up my jacket and then decided that having a beer would be best way to suggest that we relax - "relax"? - a little at home before we went out, but then on the way to the kitchen I heard her key in the door, and went to greet her.

"Oh, you're here already, ... sorry. I lost track of the time, ... looking for your sister, ... I mean, the artists."

She snickered and held up a little bag from the museum's store. She handed it to me and said:

"You were right, Botticelli's aren't big enough, shaped right."

She snickered again, and I with her at this way of greeting each other and at her eagerness at following my suggestion.

"I've got to go, ... be right back," and went off towards her room.

"Want a beer?" I called after her, and she called back:

"Yes, please," and disappeared.

In the kitchen, I got out two beers and opened them, wondering if we should use glasses and go in the living room, but Martha joined me before I could decide. I handed her one and offered: "Skaal," and she responded and we drank, glancing at each other again as she said:

"Good idea, just what I wanted."

Then she saw the bag on the table and asked:

"Haven't you looked at them yet? They're for you. ... Hm-hmm! I told the young man at the cash register that they were for my brother, because they reminded me of his girlfriend."

I chuckled as she handed the bag me again and said "thank you" as I took out a few picture post cards, snickering then when I saw that they were all of buxom nudes or semi-nudes. "Right?" she asked, looking at me and then having a sip of beer.

"Umm-hmm, very. How did you find them?"

She chuckled and asked if we didn't want to go and sit down, so we went in the living room, but as we were about to sit on the sofa, I remembered that I should call my parents and did as Martha sat down and had a sip of her beer.

My father answered the phone this time, thanking me for remembering to call again, asking about my job, but then he sounded more serious as he told me that my mother had told him about my taking Martha to the oyster bar. "I hope it wasn't a date," he added: "... you shouldn't mix with the staff, especially ..." and he lowered his voice: "... with the two of you alone there."

I felt myself begin to blush as I replied: "Of course not, Dad. Just like I told ..." He interrupted me: " Just as." "Just as I told Mother, I thought it would be nice for her to see some of New York that she wouldn't otherwise, ... and save her from having to cook every evening." He seemed to accept my explanation and asked what we were going to have for supper that evening.

"It's another Norwegian specialty, she said," I lied, blushing some more: "... a surprise," pleased then with my prevarication as I saw Martha nod with an understanding smile at my predicament.

"Um-hmm," he replied and then added: "Remember what I said."

"Of course, Father," I replied: "... and love to Mother ..."

Martha waved: "... and..." and then I thought better of passing on greetings from her - she should be in the kitchen - : "and hope you are having a good time." He didn't seem to notice that I had changed what I was going to say and returned greetings from my mother, and then we hung up.

I took a long drink from my can, and Martha took another smaller one, looking at me questioningly.

"I 'shouldn't mix with the staff'," I quoted for her benefit, and we both snorted, and then she chuckled, and then snickered, more than seemed necessary, but then I understood why when she said:

"Of course not. You're supposed to treat an au pair like a member of the family, ... and that's all you've been doing ... just like another sister."

"You tell him that."

We both chuckled, a bit restrained, and had another drink. I sat down and asked her about the pictures.

"First I went through the painting galleries. Hm-hmm! That painting by Courbet? The girl in the water?"

"That's the one, for hers then, she said. Same now."

"Hmm! Nice! But as a fourteen year-old? Girls that age shouldn't be artists' models."

"Only for Munch in Norway?"

"Have to ask my brother if he likes her."

"Or remembers you like that?"

"You want him to?"

"A little, after all you know about my sister and me."

She nodded with a smile and continued:

"Lots of nice girls, some like me. I enjoyed looking at them too. But I could wonder how Mars and Adonis would have really looked in the situations they were shown with Venus."

I chuckled as she went on:

"And then in the store, I looked around, but didn't know where to start, and then thought of looking in a book that surveyed ... is that the right word?" I nodded.