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I love Martha, not just as the first person character in this sequel to the story about my birthday present for my sister, but also as an author. Sure, I created her, but her personality evolved during the writing to my liking better than that of some other characters. I have returned to her as the main character in two other series, which may eventually be submitted, which is why this is titled “Martha in America.” I expect the other series will be titled “Martha as a Student in Oslo” and “Martha as a Writer, sometimes of erotic Stories.”

One tends to assume that only families with small children have an au pair. That is how it started in “my” family in the story, but our parents continued to invite European girls to help in the house after we children were older. This story happens the week following my week on Fire Island with my younger sister, which was my “Birthday Present for my Sister”. It is also the first week of my summer job in the City, the beginning of my story “Sandy,” although her name is not yet mentioned. Eventually it may have have several more chapters.

After an early supper with my family on Fire Island, I drove home, wondering if my father’s stern look when we parted had anything to do with Martha, the Norwegian au pair who had stayed with us all winter. I recalled that she had pronounced her name “Marta” when she had introduced herself. My mother had immediately called her “Martha,” so the rest of the family had used the English pronunciation, including me, although I had thought it would have been more appropriate forus to have used her pronunciation, but Mother set the standard for the family. She wasn’t really pretty, but attractive, fair skinned with reddish-blond hair. Since I had a room at Columbia, I had only seen her occasionally on weekends and hardly spoken to her.

Then I was home, and no one was there, just a note from her: “Hallo, I shall be back after the movie. Martha” That was nice, but it felt unusual to be at home with no one else there.

I unpacked, and then looked in the fridge hoping to find a beer, and did, wondering a little that it was a six-pack of cans instead of the bottled beer that our family bought. The Sunday New York Times was lying around. I remembered to call my parents and tell them I had gotten home safely. Then I read the paper and sipped my beer – and dozed. And then woke up and repeated the pattern a couple of times finishing my beer. And then, I guess, I really fell asleep.

Her key in the door awakened me, and I tried to look alert, as though I had been reading, when she stuck her head through the door and said:

“Hi, there you are. Did you see my note?”

“Yes, thanks,” I replied, and then she went to her room in the back of our large apartment, and I returned to reading.

After a few minutes, I heard her in the kitchen, and then heard her call:

“Did you drink one of my beers?”

Oh! That explained the cans, I thought, embarrassed.

“That’s all right,” she added before I could reply, but then did:

“Sorry, I wondered about the cans.”

“That’s all right,” she repeated, her slight Norwegian accent still evident.

“Want another one?” she asked.

This was an entirely new impression of her – what little of one, I had. Of course, she could drink beer, but till now it had never occurred to me that she did – or that she would buy herself a six-pack. But why not?

“Yes, thank you. Please,” I replied.

I heard the refrigerator door close, and a moment later she appeared in the doorway – in a long cotton nightgown – much to my surprise, but it was certainly modest enough, just very surprising to see her there in it. She paused at the door and asked:

“May I join you?”

“Of course, Martha,” I replied, pronouncing her name as she had, and laid my paper aside and then was little surprised at my own formality as I stood up. She must have noticed it too, responding with a soft “oh” as she entered the room and then handed me one of the cans as she remarked:

“Nice, that you said my name like I do, … like in Norway, though I’ve got accustomed to the English pronunciation.”

We both opened our cans, now smiling a little at the contradiction between the formality of my having stood up and drinking out the cans, and then she looked up at me and said. “Skaal.”

“Cheers,” I replied, surprised at her saying the first toast, and we drank, as it occurred to me that maybe that was appropriate, since it was her beer.

Since I had been so formal as to stand up, I realized that I would have to make a gesture that we could sit down, feeling a little surprised at myself again as my hand did so. She moved to the neighboring chair, and then we sat down together, and both had another sip.

I said the first thing that came to mind:

“Is that what all girls in Norway wear?”

Immediately, it occurred to me that I could have asked her what movie she had seen, but she looked down at her nightgown and then up at me and answered:

“In bed. A lot of them, … I think, … most of the time.” bahis firmaları

I thought she smiled slightly as I wondered what movie she had seen and what she would have replied to a question about that, and was not at all expecting her question in return: “What do American girls wear?”

“Pajamas,” I replied, a little flustered: “… at least my sister does, … I think.”

She nodded with a smile and had another sip, and I did too as she asked:

“And the others?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, and then immediately recognized that her question could have suggested that I should know from my own experience. From that: nothing; did Norwegian girls wear long nightgowns when they slept with a guy?

She just nodded again and smiled, as I wondered if she or I had gotten us on this subject, and then thought: at least she had pursued it further – how intentionally? Had her nipples stiffened at something one of us had said? It didn’t seem like they were now. But she had nice, high breasts.

She took a long sip from her can and then looked straight at me and said:

“Oh, I would have thought you knew,” and smiled.

And this time her nipples definitely did stand out! Yes, we were talking about that!

I took an equally long sip, hoping a witty reply would occur to me, but then only answered: “I never asked them.”

When she smiled, maybe having made the correct assumption, I asked:

“Did anyone ever ask you?”

I liked that, and that she grinned with a shake of her head, and then nodded and replied:

“No, I guess not.”

She smiled again and took another sip of her beer. I did too, just a small one, not to empty my can in the middle of this interesting conversation. Where did she think it would lead?

She looked at her watch and then glanced at the TV, that faced the sofa, and asked:

“Do you want to watch the news before we go to bed?”

“Sure,” I agreed, wondering if she had really emphasized the last part of her question or if it had just been her accent or unfamiliarity with nuances of English – or had I just wanted to hear her emphasize it: “… we go to bed”?

When I got up to turn on the TV, she moved to the sofa. After I found the channel, I turned back to sit down on the sofa with her – had she planned that? – and saw that she was sitting in the middle of it, not too far away from me regardless of where I chose to sit. And she was finishing her beer, and then she waited for me to sit down. After I had, she offered:

“Want another beer? I do.”

I wasn’t going to refuse at this point, and agreed:

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll buy some tomorrow.”

She was already getting up to go get them, holding out her hand for my can. I waited for the news to start, and waited for her to return. Would she want me to have my arm on the back of the sofa, suggesting that she sit under it? If she didn’t want that, she could have sat down at the other end of the sofa, and still could. But I hoped she wouldn’t, and moved slightly closer to where she had been sitting with my arms resting on the back of the sofa. Either she would … or she wouldn’t … I heard her open the cans in the kitchen.

She came back with two cans, and I suddenly thought: Either she will offer me my can first, and then sit down further away from me; or she will sit down where she had been before so that she can hand me mine. She did the latter, maybe even sitting slightly closer to me than before. Then she turned to me -even a little closer – and handed me the can in her far hand – that she was holding so that I couldn’t avoid touching her fingers as I reached across and took it. She shifted her can to that hand, still turned to me, and said “skaal” again as she looked in my eyes, and then we drank.

I looked back at the TV, but felt her looking at me, and she nudged me with her elbow. I looked back at her, and she said:

“When someone says ‘skaal” to you – or you do – you have to look in her eyes and say ‘skaal,’ and then drink and then look back in her eyes.”

She looked quite serious after this lesson in Scandinavian etiquette.

“Sorry,” I replied: “… let’s try it again.”

She looked pleased and nodded, holding up her can as she looked in my eyes, and I held mine up as I looked in hers and said “skaal,” and she nodded slightly in recognition as she then said it, and we drank, and then looked in each other’s eyes again, and she nodded with a slight smile and then said:

“Yes, that was right.”

Then she turned to the TV, settling herself even closer to me as she murmured:

“You’ve got nice eyes.”

She did too, I thought, wondering if it was the light from the TV that gave them the color of violets, or irises, yes, more like irises, and I suddenly decided that it couldn’t have been a brown-eyed person that named the colored portion of the human eye its “iris”.

That was an intriguing idea, but then we were watching the news, and sipping at our beers, and when a scene of violence in Vietnam was shown, she started, and my hand unconsciously held kaçak iddaa her shoulder. “Um-hmm,” she acknowledged softly and settled herself a little closer to me under my arm.

It had only been reflexes on both our parts, but the scene on TV had been a catalyst for a physical contact that neither of us objected to. Of course, I thought of my sister – and of Sukie and Pam that first evening [two girls in a story that has not yet been submitted] – but only for an instant as Martha relaxed with her shoulder touching me, and my hand held her a little more consciously. I didn’t dare turn my head to look at her, just noticed that she took another sip of her beer, and took one, myself, wondering, thinking: she certainly didn’t have to sit closer to me, nor change to her nightgown before joining me in the living room, and we had talked about that already; she had almost asked me if I had seen girls in whatever they wore in bed. Did she want me to see her in her bed?! What was she thinking? My hand moved her shoulder.

“Um-hmm,” she murmured almost inaudibly.

Did she really want to do it, I wondered: was she expecting me to let my hand slide down and find her breast – pull it down, herself, like my sister had? It wanted to, and my cock was beginning to think about it. Did she want to? I felt rather than saw her glance over at me.

“Um-hmm,” she murmured again, as though in answer to my questions. I needed another drink of beer – and if we were going to, we needed to finish them, even if my cock was torn between two alternatives at the moment with my drinking a third beer.

Ignoring the news, I held up my can and offered a “skaal.” She turned towards me, her leg touching mine as she looked at me, looked in my eyes, and also said “skaal.” Although I was looking in her eyes as we raised our cans to drink, I could see that her nipples were aroused. And then we looked in each other eyes again, and when my hand held her a little closer, her eyes didn’t leave mine as her tongue moistened her lips. When mine did the same as I drew her even closer, she drew her other thigh up over the one pressing against my leg, turning towards me. We continued to look in each other’s eyes for a moment longer as our hands moved our cans out of the way, as our faces moved closer and tilted slightly – just the suggestion that we both wanted to – and kissed.

Nice soft lips pressed against mine, and then our tongues touching, just tentatively at first, but as her hand – with her beer can still in it – came up around my neck, and my hand slid around her side, there was nothing tentative about the way our tongues moved, and we held each other closer, her breasts pressing against my chest as we embraced each other.

But we had to get rid of our beer cans; I wanted to hold her with my hand, wanted to hold her breast, but for a few moments more we kissed, until she murmured:

“Maybe we should finish our beers.”

We did in the flickering light from an advertisement on the TV, both of us just pouring them back, more than we would have normally drunk in one swig.

As we set our cans down, she burped, and then turned to me looking a little sheepish as she said:

“It was my idea.”

Then we were kissing again, and I drew her onto my lap, feeling that she didn’t have any panties on under her nightgown, and then my hand slid up to her breast, and she pressed it into my hand, firm – like my sister’s, but not as large as hers – and her nipple was all stiff as I rubbed it through her nightgown as we kissed again, and she wasn’t doing anything to discourage me – on the contrary. I slid my hand up and undid a button of her nightgown, and she nodded slightly. Thus encouraged, I unbuttoned the rest of them and slipped my hand inside it and found her breast again, and she liked that. There didn’t seem to be any question now about whether we were going to go further; she wouldn’t have let me go so far with just the two of us alone if she didn’t want to; just the question of how we were going to get from the living room to – where, my room or hers? and who was going to initiate the move. Did she expect me to, expect me to pick her up and carry her to one of our beds?

But then she took her tongue out of my mouth and murmured:

“I have to go, … you know …”

“Me too,” I agreed,” thinking it was going to be a little difficult to make him do that.

She snorted softly and then gave me a kiss and got up. She started to leave as I got up, and then turned, looking at me in her open nightgown, and said:

“I’ll be in my room,” and turned to go without waiting for a response.

Well, that settle that, I thought as I turned off the TV and then the lights, snorting to myself as I wondered if all Norwegian girls were that direct. Lucky guys, then, I thought as I hurried to my bathroom, opening my pants on the way, then going in the washbasin. Was she washing her pussy, I wondered as I quickly washed my cock. Then I got a packet of rubbers, thankful that my sister had insisted that I replenish my supply, and was on the way to her room, a guest room with an old-fashioned kaçak bahis double bed. Had she considered that her bed was bigger than my single one?

She was standing waiting for me in her almost darkened room. She had lit a candle on the bed table – I could still smell the match – still in her nightgown, but she had opened her bed. Had she maybe not been sure I would come?

Then I realized that I still had the rubbers in my hand and put them in my pocket, and was a little embarrassed when I saw that she had noticed them. But she only snickered softly as her eyes returned to my face, and she smiled and whispered: “I have some too.

That broke the ice, and we embraced and kissed again, and then her hands were undressing me, unbuttoning my shirt, as my hands found her breasts again while we kissed, pushing it off my shoulders, and for a moment, I let go of her and let it slip off my arms, and then my hands were around her as we embraced, and I felt her hands on my naked back. I began to gather up her nightgown with my fingers, and she nodded slightly, and then I felt her fingers find the button of my slacks, and the zipper – obviously with some experience. She snorted slightly at feeling my cock stiff inside it, and then she slipped my slacks over my hips and found the top of my shorts. As I gathered up more of her nightgown, her fingers moved knowingly to help the elastic slip down past him, but without touching him as they pushed my underpants down past my hips. But then he was touching her, pressed between our bodies as she raised her arms and let me take her nightgown off.

And then her firm breasts were also touching me as our bare arms slid around the other’s naked body. She snickered softly and murmured with her lips touching mine:

“Dette skal …” and then she started again in English:

“This is going to be one of the times I don’t wear it.”

I nodded as we kissed again and our hands moved, hers exploring as eagerly as mine, from my neck and shoulder down to my ass, holding us together as she moved her hips a little to roll him between us, making him surge. “Um-hmm,” she acknowledged as she sucked on my tongue.

I agreed with a slight nod as I thought: Oh yes, she knows what she wants, knows what she has been wanting, has been missing. All year, since she left Norway? How did Norwegian boys do it? How, what did she like? I shuffled to step out of my loafers and pants, and she took a step back towards the bed. I let go of her and she took another step as I looked at her in the candlelight, and she stood there and let me look as she looked at me. In the dim light, as I raised a foot to take off my sock, and then the other one I could hardly see her pubic hair.

Then she reached out and took my hand and drew it to her breast, and my other hand found her other breast, my thumbs rubbing her pale, stiff nipples as she rested her arms on my shoulders, just looking at me. Then she smiled and said:

“Min mor … I mean: My mother told me not to do with the ‘young gentleman’.”

I was surprised that her mother would have assumed that she might, that she accepted that she would do it all, and that she would be so direct about saying anything. I returned her smile as I fondled her breasts and said:

“And I think the look from my father when we parted meant about the same thing.”

She snorted with a brief grin and moved her fingers on my back and replied:

“So that makes it all right, … since both think we shouldn’t.”

I hadn’t expect this open discussion of morals, well, it seemed more about just breaking specific parental instructions not to do it with each other. No, she didn’t seem to have any moral feelings about it at all – and nor did her mother, apparently.

I smiled with a nod and agreed:

“Um-hmm, … if that ‘makes it all right.'”

Then we were kissing again, she hugging me around my neck while I still fondled her breasts, and then I moved my head down and raised one of them, and she loosened her arms and let me stoop and kiss it, sighing as I sucked on her nipple as my hand slid down to her ass. And then I wanted to kiss her pussy and started to kneel down, holding her ass with both hands as my lips slid down her body, and then they were on her hair, the softest, finest pubic hair, and a little moist still as I moved my lips on it – she had washed – and then held her firm bottom as I pressed my mouth against the firm curve of her pussy and pressed it further down and in between her thighs.

“Oh!” she murmured softly in surprise: “… you want to?”

I nodded as my lips felt the start of hers – starting a little higher than my sister’s.

“Oh,” she murmured again as though it was a new idea for her, or maybe just a new experience, but she didn’t object, and when she felt my tongue on her, I heard her moan softly – not an aroused moan, just a pleased sounding, appreciative little one – and then she rocked her pelvis up, pressing it to my mouth, and my tongue could venture further and found her swollen clitoris, and this time her moan was an aroused “Unnn!” And then I felt her hands holding my head to her as my tongue moved on it. And it tasted so good, her slippery pussy tasted so good, and she was enjoying it, her thighs opening as she pressed my face against her.

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