I nodded and returned her grin, and then stood up and helped her sit up. She looked down at him with a snort and then reached down and slipped the rubber off, holding it up with a smile, and repeating: “the proof of your pleasure.”

I nodded, and almost expected her to do what my sister had done, but she didn’t, only swung it a little with a smirk, and then said:

“I have to go, anyway,” and slipped off the table as I nodded.

As she left, she glanced back with another smirk, swinging the rubber in a full circle as though it were a trophy, and then disappeared as I smiled to myself.

Then I thought that it was a good idea to go too, and went in the sink, rinsing him and the sink when I had finished, and wiped him off with the dishcloth, snorting slightly at the thought that it would be used again – but only to wash dishes for us, so it didn’t really make any difference.

She came back, nonchalant, despite her nudity, smiling at me, but the sight of her coming into our kitchen that way accentuated the awareness of my own nudity in the otherwise so familiar surrounding, making me a little embarrassed – not at her presence, but at being like that in our kitchen. But it was nice that she seemed comfortable with it. Or maybe she didn’t as she looked at me with a wry smile and asked:

“What do we do now?”

She grinned a little sheepishly before she added:

“It’s too early to go to bed, … – Hmm! – and we’ve sort of done that already.”

I could only agree with a nod and an impulsive snort.

“Have another beer?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea.”

As I got them, it occurred to me that she never said “yeah” like my sister or another American girl would – or I did. I opened them and handed her one, and then we said “skaal”, and our smiles were different than before: not quite smirks, more as though we had winked at each other.

“And now’?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied: “… whatever you want to do. I guess we could watch TV.”

“I’ll get the towel I used,” she replied and went off, while I went and turned on the television, remembering that that was how it all had started the previous evening.

She returned with the towel as the picture on the TV came up, spreading it out on the sofa where we had been sitting the night before. I sat down in the corner of the sofa, and then, before she could sit down next to me, I turned and spread my legs, inviting her to sit between them. “Oh, yes,” she agreed; and did, nestling herself back against me before either of us considered what program was on the TV station. It was a film or detective series, but as my hand slid around her shoulder and held her breast, it wasn’t very important. We watched it and sipped our beers, more aware of the comfortable position we were in.

“We got a TV for the Winter Olympics,” she volunteered: “… to watch the Norwegians win – but only black and white.”

“And did they?”

“Of course. “Our school champion almost made the team.”

“Like me,” I replied, and took a sip of my beer, suddenly wondering if drinking beer with the girls I had made love with had had a negative influence on my training. She chuckled and said:

“Good athletes are good lovers,” and then added:

“You should have made the team,” and held my leg as she took a sip, too.

I thought she meant that as a compliment, and liked that it had occurred to us both to think about love making, although my thought had sort of contradicted hers.

“Tell me about your family,” I suggested.

“Oh, my father works for an insurance company, and my mother started working again last year, when I finished school as a … for a dentist, like she had before we were born.”

“As a dental assistant?”

“Yes, a dental assistant.”

“And your brothers?”

“The elder one is almost finished with his studies, economics I guess you call it. He wants to work for a bank, has during vacations. And the other one will start studying when he has finished his military.”

“Military service.”

“Yes. … I missed him when he went away for training, … maybe more than my parents did.”

“You were pretty close.”

We had a sip of our beer. She glanced back at me, and then rubbed my leg with a soft snort and agreed:

“Yes, I guess we were … are.”

Her correcting the tense made me wonder why she had done so: the “are” to cover for a more specific “were”? When she took another sip of beer and didn’t say anything, while I did, somehow seemed to confirm my thought.

“Yeah, I guess,” she repeated, and my first thought was that it was the first time I heard her say “yeah”, and then my second one was that she was thinking about something specific, something apparently nice, if they had been close enough for her to want to distract from it, but then her “Yeah, I guess” didn’t suggest anything, unless she wanted to pursue the subject, maybe from our situation.

“Um-hmm,” I responded, wondering what hers would be. She rubbed my leg again and had another sip of her beer, and then snorted again softly and glanced back at me again and said:

“Once at the cabin – we three children share a room, but my eldest brother was away on their school summer trip before “artium,” our school graduation. I was thirteen. One night there was a thunderstorm, really violent, like sometimes in the mountains, and lightening struck a tree near us with a great light and crash of thunder, completely frightening me. The boys had a double bunk and I, a bed under the window. I was so frightened that I just ran and jumped in my brother’s bed. He had the lower one. And he held me – like a big brother should. After a few moment, he said I should turn over, and I did, clasping his hand, just so comforting after being so scared by the lightening and thunder. He whispered something about also having been scared, but he had been the big brother I wanted, needed at that moment.”

She glance back at me again before she continued:

“Oh, nothing happened. He had just done the right thing, and I liked him better for having done it. Oh, we still argued with each other after that, but it was different then.”

“A cathartic experience.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Hmm? Not quite sure: an experience that changes something for the better; I think just for the better.”

“It was. I guess he liked it too, since we fell asleep that way. Would have surprised our parents, but we woke up early, both a little surprised. We didn’t do that again.

She glanced back at me again, and I nodded with smile. She nodded and after a moment said. “Maybe my dream last night was a little … , you know, … trying to avoid being too obvious.”

I nodded and agreed:

“They can be like that, at least you remember them that way, or don’t, like you said, till the recollection is so vague that it doesn’t matter.”

She nodded with a smile and then chuckled when I felt her nipple tighten in my palm as she glance at me with a grin, and then asked:

“Why am I telling you this?”

“‘Cause I asked about your brothers, and this is what you wanted to tell me, it seems,”

She snorted and thought for a moment and then nodded slightly and agreed:

“I guess so. Yes, it was a little too personal to tell anyone else, and then sometimes you completely forget …”

“Conveniently,” I interjected.

“Um-hmm. Hmm! Like when I was telling about us in the mountains, never told anyone about that either.

She looked at me, and then smiled, and I squeezed her breast, and she snorted softly and said: “Yes, like that. … Towards the end of the next summer, my mother said I had to start wearing a bra when school started, and bought me a couple. One day, after we had been swimming in the fjord and were back home and had showered, I suddenly wanted to try one on, and then wanted to show him. I guess I really wanted to show him me – that I was big enough to wear it – or just wanted him to see me in just panties and the bra.”

We both chuckled, and she went on:

“I just went in his room, the door was half open, and he was standing in his underpants and looked startled when he saw me, and I was a little embarrassed, but it was a nice feeling too, seeing him looking at me like he was – a nice feeling in my new bra, my nipples. I wonder if he could tell? We just stood there for a moment, staring at each other, and I went back to my room, wondering why I had gone to his.

She looked at me as though she were wondering what I was thinking, and I told her:

“I guess a girl just wants to show her first bra to someone; best to show a brother.”

“Something like that. We never mentioned it, but when he looked at me on the way to school the first day, I felt my nipples and blushed.”

“Growing up?”

She chuckled and nodded, then murmured:

“You’re a big brother.”

This was getting ticklish! I sure was, but not how I could tell anyone! But I had to say something:

“She didn’t show me hers.” Just told me she was going to go topless!

“And didn’t ask you anything about boys?”

“Did you ask him?”


“Maybe she asked her sister, easier than asking me.”

“Of course,” she agreed with understanding smile, but then remarked:

“I could imagine that with her figure, she really need one before I did.”

“She did, but you do too, now. No, you don’t, really.”

I fondled her nice firm breast. She nodded slightly and murmured:

“Thanks,” but then added: “She told me that she was thinking about going topless in France, if any of the other girls in the group did.”

“She did? She wants to?” I prevaricated.

“She was thinking about it, asking if I had, if I thought all the girls in France did.”

“Have you, do they?”

“Yes; I don’t know. She was worried about looking like she never had before.”

“I won’t ask how.”

“Martha smirked slightly and said:

“She said that she was hoping to … ‘practice’ with her girlfriend on Fire Island.”

“But she wasn’t out there with her.”

“But she was with you.”

“Yes, my birthday present for her, after she suggested it would be better than the just big-brotherly hug she had first wanted.”

“She wanted one too, and a lot bigger brother?”

“But then just a week on the island.”

“But still wanted to ‘practice’?”

“Don’t ask. Yes!”

“Hm-hmm! She did?”

“Couldn’t stop her. Hm-hm-hmm! Getting a girl’s bra off can sometimes be difficult …”

“I saved you the trouble,” she interjected with a grin.

“Thank you, but the idea of forcing her to put it back on …”

“Seemed like almost as much fun?” she interjected again with a grin.

“I didn’t.”

“Could have been like a big-brotherly hug.”

“She didn’t want one, not like that.”

“Oh, she did want one, just not like that? Must have been interesting.”

“Sisters aren’t suppose to go topless with their brother.”

“I would have liked to.”

“Maybe you still can.”

“Oooh! You want me to?”

“Maybe not, for his sake.”

“He would like it too much? … Did you?”

“He’s a man, isn’t he?”

“Not as well-built as you are.”

“And you’re not as – quote – ‘well-built’ as she is, but that doesn’t matter, either way.”

“It doesn’t. Sure, I would let him see me topless now. Hm-hmm! Have to remember that I said that.”

“And make it ‘interesting’ for him?”

“Oh, like that? She did, and … well, it was ‘interesting’ for her too?”

“If she wanted to go topless and was wondering how boys – men – in France in their tight briefs would be.”

“She talked about that? Want another beer?”

We emptied our cans, and I sprang up to get them, hoping my cock’s wagging a little wouldn’t suggest that it knew more about how ‘interested’ it and I had been – more like just “how!” I returned with two opened cans, not having had enough time to sort my various thoughts.

Would I admit to everything? She seemed sympathetic from her remarks about her brother. But one just can’t tell anyone that one had sex with one’s sister! But I had already admitted that she had been interested in seeing that I was aroused. Had Martha understood that? It seemed like it, but would she already be assuming more? Hell! No, it had been more like heaven; how could she not assume that a week like that wouldn’t have led to something?

I was back, handing her her beer and saying “skaal.” She responded, no longer sitting under my arm. We smiled, and were silent for a moment, her nipples popping out, before she murmured:

“I wouldn’t mind if my brother wanted to.”

She suddenly blushed and murmured:

“I said that?!” and gave me a very wry little smile.

I nodded, and we looked at each other, shrugging slightly. I guess my expression keyed off something; we both suddenly started laughing, pure nervous release. Her breasts jiggled so delightful. We caught our breath and looked at each other again with quizzical expressions. I murmured:

“Something like that, if that’s what you meant.”

“Hmm? I guess so? Vague dreams.”

She just looked at me, not asking about my “something like that,” but it had pretty much admitted everything. I nodded slightly and repeated:

“Something like that, wanting to, more her wanting to.”

She nodded again, and murmured:

“After what I said, I guess you know I was thinking so, and thinking about him, and thinking, well, it must have been inevitable, … and, well, if it happened …?”

“It did. Hmm? Easier than trying to put her top back on. I didn’t try to. But, well, we did, and of course then I wanted to.”

She gave me another understanding smile and nodded with another shrug and replied:

“If you both wanted to, I can understand. Nice for you.”

“Um-hmm, and especially nice that you feel that way.”

She nodded with smile, and we almost spilled our beers as we embraced. We had another sip, and then she said:

“I’ve got to go.”

I nodded again, and she got up, handing me her beer and smiling at me before she went off. I got up and turned off the TV and took the towel from the sofa and turned off the lights. I took another sip of beer and took our half-empty cans to the kitchen before going to my bathroom. I then thought to take my razor to shave in the morning and went towards her room. She met me in the hall, as though she had been on the way to my room.

“Yours, your bed is bigger,” I suggested.

She just nodded with a smile, and we went to her room, to her bed in the dark, lying down and drawing the covers up, and then kissing again as our hands immediately slid down and held each other. And they were both wanting it as I wondered what she wanted to do, how she wanted to do it.

But she asked first:

“What do you want to do,” and then chuckled deep in her throat and added:

“I never asked that before, didn’t imagine we had a choice, … and usually he was already …”

She broke off her sentence, either because it didn’t need completion or because she felt that it was tactless to mention doing it with someone else at that moment.

“I wasn’t going to ask you,” I replied as my finger moved gently in her.

She sighed with each breath, purring in her throat, enjoying it for a few moments, and I was enjoying it too, feeling her soft, smooth, moist pussy around my finger and feeling her fingers on him.

“Maybe we both want the same,” she murmured and purred again.

I nodded, exchanging purring sounds with her.

“What about some desert,” I suggested.

“Umm-hmm,” she agreed, adding a chuckle to her purring:

“I was thinking of that too; after the first course, and the main course, that would be an appropriate way to finish the dinner.”

Then she snickered and added:

“something with a creamy filling.”

I snickered and agreed:

“For you, maybe an éclair. I want a piece of hair pie,” using a vulgar expression that seemed especially appropriate at that moment.

“Hair pie?” she repeated.

I hadn’t expected her to know the expression, but then after she had said it herself, she snickered and asked:

“Do guys call it that?”

“When they’re thinking about having it for dessert,” I answered.

She snickered again and said:

“As long as you don’t eat it with a fork.”

She was already starting to turn around under the covers. And then I was showing her how I liked to eat hair pie, and she was doing things that one doesn’t do with an éclair in company, even if one especially likes the sugar or chocolate coating, but if one did, it would be the best way to enjoy it, and she was, and her éclair was too. And my hair pie was enjoying it too, suddenly reminding me of the bottle in Alice in Wonderland that said: “Drink me. Drink me.” But my pie was saying: “Eat me. Eat me,” and I was doing everything I could to fulfill its request, thinking it was some sort of a cherry cream pie, but the only cherry I could find, no matter how I sucked on it, and no matter how much the pie seemed to want to let me have it, I could only nibble at it with my lips. And she was having a similar problem, wanting to taste even more of her éclair’s coating, not satisfied with just licking around the end of it, but seeming to want to taste it further up along it, and it was trying to help her – like my pie was. But it tasted so good, that for a while I gave up on the cherry and sought a fresh taste of its delicious, slippery crème, trying to get more of it from deep in the pie, but then it wanted me to try get that little cherry again, and I wanted to, too; it was just so enticing the way it tried to help me when I sucked on it, like her éclair was trying to help her. It wanted her to find as much of its coating as she could. And when it realized that she couldn’t find any more, no matter how hard they both tried, it felt like it wanted her at least to have some of its crème for her effort, and when she moaned in appreciation, it gave her some more, and she liked that too, so it gave her even more. And then it was as though my juicy pie knew what it was doing and wanted to reward me for trying so hard to get the cherry and gave me a taste of its wonderful, juicy filling, coming all warm from deep inside it, like from an oven-warm piece of pie, hot and sweet, and then again, while it still wanted me to have the cherry, And then it seemed like her éclair and my hair pie suddenly gave up on their efforts to satisfy us, holding still as Martha and I sighed with deep moans.

And we were satisfied, so satisfied that we just lay there; her strong thigh was an even better pillow than that of my sister, and I was almost asleep when I felt her free my head from between her thighs, and then felt her éclair slip from between her lips, flopping down, as though it had lost its coating and the crème stuffing that had made it hard and full before. With this thought, I dozed off.

I was awakened by her gently slipping her thigh from under my head as she started to turn around. I moved back up onto the pillow as she lay down with her back to me. I moved closer to her and put my arm around her and found her breast with my hand. She chuckled and murmured:

“A chocolate éclair. That’s what I was thinking of, a cream-filled chocolate éclair.”

“Me too, or maybe just a sugar-coated one.”

“I like chocolate,” she murmured and purred like before.

“It felt like it. I was thinking that you were trying to lick it all off.”

She snickered softly and agreed:

“I was. Thank you. Good night.”

“Thank you too, and sleep tight,” I rejoined, and then snorted and asked:

“Or should I have said ‘takk for matten’?”

She snickered, almost laughing, and replied:

“Vel bekomme. … Maybe I should have. Takk for matten.”

“Vel bekomme.” We both chuckled and then were silent.

We must have slept well; I didn’t remember having woken up in the night, when I woke up the next morning, lying on my other side, but this time I immediately knew where I was before I opened my eyes. And when I did, I knew it was still quite early and knew Martha was lying behind me. I snorted softly as I remembered our “dessert.” But then I felt that I had to use the toilet and tried to slip from under the covers without waking her, glancing back to see her lying there before I went to her bathroom, but then decided to go to my own in order not to wake her.

When I returned, she was still lying like I had remembered, but her eyes opened and she said: “I missed you, wondering where you’d gone, and when.”

She held open the covers for me, revealing her breasts, and I crept back into bed with her as she straightened out her legs to make space for mine as she lowered the covers around me, leaving her arm on my side.

“Good morning. … Just now. I didn’t want to wake you. Did you sleep well?”

“Um-hmm, you too, I hope.” I nodded.

“I was dreaming about you and your sister, … or maybe dreaming that it was me … and my brother. … Yes, somehow it was at home, in one of our rooms, but it was you and she. Funny.”

“Um-hmm,” I agreed, wondering what my sister and I had been doing in her dream, something that she wanted to do with her brother but suppressing that by seeing us do it instead. In a dream you don’t see yourself. Curious, at the risk of having to tell more about my sister, I went ahead and asked: “And what were we doing?”

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

“Too vague, maybe not wanting to watch you with her.”

“Kind of you. I wouldn’t want to watch you and your brother either.”

“I wouldn’t want you to either!”

“Bad, good enough that we both could want to.”

You can say that!” Martha agreed in a pure New York accent that reminded me that I had become so accustomed to her slight Norwegian one, that I usually didn’t notice it.

We chuckled, and then her hand slipped down and fondled him. She asked:

“Are you an early riser?”

“Hm-hmm, sometimes he rises before I do.”

“He?” she asked as she fondled him, and then snorted and wrapped her fingers around him and said:

“Oh, he?” as she squeezed him, and I nodded.

“I didn’t know that. Hm-hmm! Gives you something to do until you get up. Hm-hmm.”

“Um-hmm. If you want to.”

I rolled on my back and when my hands urged her to move on top of me, she did so immediately, with her legs outside mine as she grinned down at me, and then we were kissing. Then he was up between her legs, and I suddenly wondered if she would react like my sister had done if he touched her. She was pressing her pelvis down against me as we kissed. I rolled my hips up and he touched her, sliding up a little, and she chuckled softly as her tongue moved in my mouth, and when I did it again, she arched her back, raising her hips a little, but not enough – he slid up again. And then I felt her knees press down to raise her hips a little higher. Yes, she did! And when he pressed against her again, and didn’t slid up, she chuckled again softly, holding her hips still, waiting for him to press again, for him to find her opening, and he did. Just like with my sister, she let him move in her slightly, her tongue still as she held still and let him rub just inside her. Yes, just like my sister had! And then – just like her! – she couldn’t stand it any longer and rolled her hips down and let him go deep into her.

“Hm-umm,” she chuckled and started to kiss me again, but then her hand was searching for a rubber under the pillow, and when she found it, she raised her hips, and he slipped out of her, and then we quickly had it on him. She snickered when she felt how slippery he was, but then he was back in her. She had drawn her knees up, and I sat up, hugging her to me as we kissed again, and then I was sucking her breasts, letting her lie back in my arms, and then in just one as my other hand slid down, encouraged by her nod, and then it found her asshole, and then we were fucking, and kissing again, until she was only gasping with her aroused “Oh, oh-oh. Oh!” as she started to come, and then with more like that as I came too, and then we were just holding each other, she with both her arms around my neck and her calves clutching my hips.

After a few moments, she raised her head from my shoulder and said brightly:

“I wasn’t really sure we wanted to do it … after last night.”

She kissed me and added:

“But then, …” and she snickered: “… what you were doing … we just had to.”

As I nodded, she smirked and added:

“Real fucking good,” and smirked again with a snort. I snorted too and asked:

“Where did you learn that?”

“Hmm! Hm-hmm. On the street, … on the streets of New York. … I was shocked the first times I heard it, but now it seems most appropriate.”

I nodded with another snort, and she snorted softly, too, and added:

“I suddenly wanted to say it. … Why not? If we do it, and it’s that good?”

“Um-hmm, you’re right, thank you. It was real fucking good.”

Martha snickered and then grinned and said:

“I bet your family doesn’t know you use that kind of language.”

“I hope not!”

We both snickered, and he slipped out of her, and we snickered at that, and then got up, while it occurred to me that my sister did know I used that kind of language – or had I?

As I dropped the rubber in the toilet, she snickered again and stepped into the tub, and then looked surprised when I joined her, but then snickered again with a nod, and we both went, grinning at each other and watching each other, and she was surprised again when I aimed him up at her, but then snickered again, seeming to enjoy it. And then we showered together. As she washed him, she murmured:

“I guess you’ve done this before … and that,” and she glanced up at me.

I nodded, hoping that my having done it with another girl didn’t upset her, but she just snorted and remarked:

“She must have been sort of like me.”

“Um-hmm, … ‘real fucking good’, … if you don’t mind my saying so.”

She snorted, and then we finished showering, and she watched me shave, and then we dried ourselves off in silence.

I’ll make breakfast while you get dressed.”

I went to my room, wondering if she was going to get dressed. But then when I was half-dressed, she came to my room in the dress she had had on the evening before, reminding me at once that we had left our clothes in the kitchen. She held out mine in her hand as she snickered and remarked:

“There must be some funny people living here. Look what I found in the kitchen.”

“Hmm!? Funny, but real nice.”

“Um-hmm. … Hm-hmm, I think we took care of October in one night.”

She grinned as she put my things on the chair. And then she went back to the kitchen before I could reply.

She had made soft boiled eggs – two for me. At my questioning look, she chuckled softly and said:

“They say if men eat enough eggs, they want to do it. Or maybe it’s that they can do it more. I guess it’s the protein.”

I chuckled with her as I recalled an article that told that in New Guinea, the natives thought that having children came from eating pork, something they only did at feasts.

“Thanks, I replied with a grin: “… maybe it’s true, … can’t hurt,” and then told her about the article.

She laughed, and then as we ate, I remembered that I had said that I would take her to the Oyster Bar, and then remembered that oysters also had a lot of protein – and that they were also supposed to be an aphrodisiac – probably for that reason, too – but it suddenly occurred to me that it was probably more because their soft, slippery form suggested something about a woman’s aroused pussy. I didn’t mention that, but did remind Martha of my promise to take her to the Oyster Bar, wondering if in Europe people thought they had the same effect.

“Oh yes,” she agreed, and we agreed that it would avoid her having to cook dinner. I wondered if her slight snicker indicated that she was just thinking about our saving time that way, or if it confirmed that in Norway people believed oysters had the same effect.

She decided that she would go to the Brooklyn Museum, pleased then at remembering that it would have been closed the previous day, Monday, so she couldn’t have gone anyway, something that hadn’t occurred to her when she had been thinking about doing so. We agreed to meet at the Oyster Bar at six thirty, and then, after I had brushed my teeth, we kissed, and I squeezed her breast, and then suggested that she should wear something else.

“Of course, … and a bra too. I think some people noticed yesterday … but it was sort of nice.”

I chuckled and glanced down at her nipple, obvious under the thin cloth of her dress, and agreed:

“I can imagine. New York is not Oslo. Lucky guys there.”

She snickered again, and then I was off to work.

The most interesting thing that happened that day at the company was that a manager took the student help to lunch and talked about the firm. The members of the group also got to know each other a little better, about as many girls as guys, and not unattractive girls. But with Martha at home alone with me for the rest of the week, I wasn’t too interested in other girls.

Martha was waiting discreetly for me when I got the Oyster Bar in underground passage of Grand Central Station, window shopping in the area. I wondered if she expected a kiss in greeting, but she stuck out her hand with a smile, and when I reached out mine in a reflex, she gave me a firm handshake, much firmer than an American girl would. And then we went into the Oyster Bar and found seats at the bar.

She had obviously already looked at the menu in the window, immediately remarking that she hadn’t known there were so many different kinds. When we got the menu, she thought they were all pretty expensive, wondering at the differences in prices, but I told her emphatically: “I’m treating tonight,” and then explained that some varieties offered came from further away, airfreight, and that some were rarer, and then we agreed to start with half a dozen each of two different types. But then the waiter suggested we could a share a mixed dozen, sampling four types, so we did that and ordered two draft beers.

When the beer was served, we skaaled properly, and then the oysters were brought, a ring of a dozen on a tray of ice, obviously four different types from their size and their shells.

“How do you eat them?” Martha asked, looking at the tray a little wonderingly and glancing at the variety of condiments: ketchup, horseradish, Tabasco sauce and lemon.

“Mother insists on eating them straight,” I replied, immediately wishing I had left her out of my explanation:

“… without anything, but dad and I like them dipped in a mixture of ketchup and horseradish with lemon juice and a dash of Tabasco sauce, and some people like to just squeeze a little lemon juice over them.”

“Oh. Well, … I’ll try them your way first,” and smiled at me. So I mixed up a little dish of everything and then suggested that she choose one.

She smiled at me again, a little uncertainly, and picked up her oyster fork and chose a smaller one as she asked before she put her fork in it:

“And they were just alive?”

“Um-hmm, … but they don’t move.”

She glanced up at me again, as though that was what she had been worrying about, and put her fork in it, and looked a little relieve that I had been right.

“They’re kind of slippery, … sort of like you are.”

She seemed to understand immediately, giving me a quick grin, and then as she stirred her oyster in the sauce replied just as softly:

“‘No worse than oysters or beer.’”

She grinned again and remarked:

“So I don’t have to like them, even if I like the other.”

“But since you do, you will probably like them, too,” I rejoined.

She smiled at me and put it in her mouth, holding it for a moment and then chewing thoughtfully as I watched her for a moment and then also chose one of those she had taken.

“Your sauce is sharp,” she commented, as I dipped my oyster in it:

“… but I liked it. Kind of hard to tell how the oyster tasted, but it wasn’t bad, no worse than “fiskeboller” probably.”

She smiled at me as I ate my oyster and nodded with a smile.

“May I have the last one of those?”

“Of course,” I agreed, and she grinned and whispered:

“I want to try it ‘naked’,”

and put her fork in it and put it in her mouth, smiling at me as she ate it, and then smirking as she swallowed and then asked softly:

“I’m like that?”

“Better,” … all smooth and slippery … and taste even better, … and are so juicy.”

She smirked again with a little snort as it occurred to me that the proper way to eat oysters “naked” was to slurp them from the shell, to also get the juice.

“If you like them ‘naked’, people who like them ‘naked’ eat them straight from the shell, to get the juice.”

She snorted again with another smirk as I took one and demonstrated for her, letting the oyster and juice slide into my mouth, wondering if everyone else – the men, anyway – had the same thought that had just occurred to me.

“And your mother prefers them that way?” Martha asked and grinned.

“Hm-hmm. Um-hmm, but I doubt for that reason.”

We both chuckled, and then she tried one that way, her eyes smiling at me as she tilted the shell up to her mouth. She chewed and swallowed it and then whispered:

“I like oysters, especially now that I know why you do,” and smirked again.

“I’m glad, … but that hadn’t occurred to me before, … just now … with you. I may forego the sauce in the future.”

She smiled, and her thighs moved slightly, and then she whispered:

“Later, I think I’m all slippery. It would be a shame to waste your sauce now.”

We shared a quick grin, and then she said “skaal,” and we had a drink of our beers.

Then we ate the rest with sauce. I was planning to eat something else after the oysters, but we agreed to have another dozen, and she told me about her visit to the museum, snickering when she told me about Rodin’s over life-sized statue of Balzac, expressing her surprise that Rodin would have sculpted him that way and that the statue would be shown in an American museum.* We order a second beer when the oysters came, a different selection of four types, and enjoyed them with and without sauce, only suggesting with our eyes the innuendoes we were sharing.

* “Monument to Balzac” [Readers may enjoy finding websites to this and other works of art mentioned.]

“Takk for matten,” Martha said when we had finished, and I remembered to say “Vel bekomme,” and we finished our beers with a final “skaal” after I had paid.

Then we were walking back to our apartment, just glancing at each other as we strode rather than strolled, and I appreciated her nice gait, the way her legs swung from her hips, different the way City girls walked, somehow sensually animalistic it seemed. In the elevator, we just smiled at each other, and then in our apartment – although it seemed so obvious what we both wanted to do – neither of us knew quite what to say. After a moment of silence, she said:

“I want to change,” glancing down at her skirt and blouse, and then added:

“Oh, call your parents. Your mother reminded me yesterday that you should.”

“Um-hmm, … thanks.”

My sister answered the phone, very nonchalantly with an “Oh, hi,” when she heard my voice and asked how my job was. I told that it was fine and asked how things were going with her as I looked at Martha. She plucked at the top button of her blouse, and I nodded, and she went off to her room as my sister replied and then asked:

“Do you want to talk to Mother?”

“Not especially, … but if she does, otherwise just give them my love and tell them that everything is fine here.”

“She does, … here”

Then my mother was on the phone, asking about my job, and then about what we had had for dinner. I told her about Martha’s fish dumplings, and she appreciated my description of them, but thought I had to been too generous by taking her to the oyster bar, but I countered that I thought she should see something of New York that she wouldn’t otherwise, and my mother seemed then to agree. By then, I felt that I had to go to the bathroom, especially when I heard Martha flush the toilet, and was relieved that my mother finished the conversation, asking me to call the next evening. “Love to Father,” I replied, and then could hang up.

When Martha heard me going to my room, she called:

“I’m going to take a shower.”

“Good idea,” I called back as I started to unbutton my shirt.

“I’ll wait for you,” she called back.

“I’ll hurry,” I replied, and did, taking of my shirt and jacket together as I got to my room and the rest as fast as I could, and then had to hold my cock to be sure I didn’t drip as I hurried to her bathroom.

She was already standing naked in the tub, snickering when she saw me.

“I have to go,” I said as I stepped in the tub with her.

She snorted when she saw me start as soon as I let go of my cock, and chuckled when I directed my stream up on her again, and when I tried to reach her breasts with my stream, she snorted again, but then stooped down so that I could, seeming to enjoy it – yes, definitely, cupping her hands under her breasts to catch it as she glanced up at me with a sort of surprised smile. And then we showered with lots of intimate contact, and I remembered to shave, and she snickered as she watched me.

Then we were drying ourselves, both of us smiling a little and making purring sounds, pleased, mildly aroused, animal noises. We knew what we were going to do next.

But Martha asked anyway:

“And what are we going to do now,” as she smiled again mischievously.

“It’s too early to go to bed. … Maybe we should have dessert. … I mean, we really didn’t have much to eat; maybe you want something else before we go to bed.”

She tried to repress a snicker as she grinned with a nod and agreed:

“That would be a good idea. What would you like … for dessert?” and she grinned again.

“I was thinking more about what you might like;” I replied, and then snorted and added:

“If I can give it to you.”

She almost laughed, but then answered:

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I want the same thing I had last night. What else can you suggest?”

She snickered and hung up her towel and took mine from me as I nodded with a grin and agreed:

“No, that would be boring. I don’t have much of a choice to offer. What about a banana?” She snickered as she hung up my towel and I added:

“That’s not much of a dessert. I think the one … the only one in the house isn’t very ripe. You know, not soft and sweet, probably pretty hard.”

She snickered and glanced down at him and then back up at me with a grin as I continued – liking the simile I had found:

“Maybe it won’t taste so good that way. Oh, I know – if we have any – you could have it with chocolate sauce. You like chocolate.”

Martha grinned and nodded and replied:

“But I’ve never had banana with chocolate. Is that something American girls like?”

“I’ve never offered it to them,” I answered with a chuckle, and she giggled and responded: “I’m not sure I would like that … but I know we have some.”

“Oh, that’s good, You didn’t know if you would like oysters before, either. I bet you would like a banana with chocolate sauce on it; sort of like a banana split without the ice cream and whipped cream.”

She snickered and replied:

“I never had one, but we also have some whipped cream – a spray can. I think I would like to try it; sounds like a very special dessert. But what about you? What would you like for dessert?”

Martha looked at me with a more serious expression on her face.

“I don’t know, … I don’t usually have dessert. I think I’ll just watch you enjoy yours, and then maybe something will occur to me.”

She snickered with a grin and remarked:

“I hope so. I feel kind of funny eating when people are just watching me. … But if you want to …”

I nodded and asked:

“Where’s the chocolate sauce?”

“In the kitchen, in the fridge,” she answered.

September 2018
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