AN EROTIC STORY HOSTED BY IMPREGNORIUM.NET

STORY TITLE	The Eskimos Have It Right
AUTHOR	Milk Fountain
CODES	M/F, cheat, cuck, impreg
DATE ADDED	5th January, 2005
AUTHOR EMAIL	Chapman@fibertel.com.ar

I’ve discovered that there are other husbands who feel about their wives much as I did about mine. Like me, they are proud when other men look at them, eventually seeking, even creating situations to expose them to the eyes and hands of admirers.

Norma was born in Córdoba, Argentina, and raised in Montreal, Canadá, where she spoke only French and Spanish. I came to know her as one of my students at a university there. Four months after we moved to her native Argentina, Norma gave birth to our daughter, Fatima. And five months later they were both killed in a traffic accident. Eventually, erotic accounts on the internet, coupled with memories, became a comfort for me.

We began with unexpected adventures—a painter seeing up Norma’s dress for a moment, a friend at breakfast in our home bug-eyed and short of breath as my wife nursed our baby, our young gardener watching through the bedroom window as she ironed a blouse, dressed only in panties—eventually noticed by her through a vanity-table mirror.

The first time she related a little adventure to me, it was only to voice a concern. She told me that she didn’t feel comfortable being alone in the house with the painters. I thought the worst, sat up, and asked what had happened. She hugged me, laughed, and said, nothing, really, just that when I had gone to work and she had thought she was alone, she had caught the younger of the two painters looking up her dress. “How?” I asked. She had been hanging clothes on the porch landing at first light, taking advantage of the warm spring air. He had apparently come silently through the tall yard grass much earlier than before and stopped at the edge of the porch just before ducking under the overhand of the veranda, where he had left tarps, brushes and cans. He was looking up at her when she had become aware of him—for “More than a moment,” she said. “All day he found excuses to spy on me, and now, tomorrow, I don’t want to see him.” I asked her what he had seen. Reluctantly, she said “You know my summer house-dress—the old yellow one you like? I had that on.”

Her reserve in revealing details boosted my curiosity. “Is that all?” I asked. “He could see up between my legs,” she said defiantly. Goaded, I asked what panties she had been wearing. “You know, the ones that match—the ones you bought for me on Florida Street.” On one of our walks we had found a sexy pair of light summer panties for her. They were pale yellow and small enough to stretch semi-transparent across the divide of her bottom. In the early morning light beneath my wife’s dress, they must have been a memorable sight for the painter. The voyeur in me rising, I asked, “How close was he?”

She had been standing with her back to him, her legs apart. She remembered that several times when she had stretched to fix a clothespin, dawn gusts of wind had carried her housedress aloft. Having hung nearly all the damp washing, she had turned to get yet another clothespin from the bag at her waist, and had been startled by his rapt face peering up at her through the lattice of the porch rail, so close that she remembered only his eyes and how his mouth had been a little open. She’d dropped the pin she’d been fumbling for, and heard him say “Buenos Días” as he ducked beneath the porch. She’d immediately gone inside—avoiding him for the rest of the day.

Our love-making that night was brief but spectacular. After, she asked if the painter having watched her had had something to do with my passion. I kissed her, and said “Maybe.” On following nights I asked her if anything else had happened; if she’d noticed any difference in how the young man looked at her during the day. At first she greeted my curiosity with mild amusement, then annoyance. Later, when I pushed her, she cried and told me she didn’t understand how other men wanting her excited me. She said that she doubted my love for her. Sometimes she was firm in her refusal to cooperate; others, reluctant. And then one night, she came to bed with an impish light in her eyes. She related how an attractive business executive in the crowded subway at evening rush hour that day had remained many stops with his hard-on firmly pressed between the cheeks of her bottom, his breath in her hair.

A few days later we were interrupted in our love-making by the ring of the pizza delivery boy. Caught up in the heat of our play, she humored me by speaking to him through the intercom, leading him to believe she was alone. She went to the door in an all-covering but see-through bra and pleated skirt. Reluctant on going, upon returning she was blushing, eyes flashing. Setting aside the hot pizza, she jumped into bed, to boast how the eyes of the young man had nearly popped from his head and, unhooking the bra, asked me to look at how her nipples had swollen—just from the caress of his eyes as she rummaged for change in her purse.

Let me say that there were no half measures for Norma, and so her pleasure in our little games grew. Although after our daughter was born sex, her dancing and I were only close seconds in her life, she gave herself passionately to each in turn.

Despite the great difference in our ages, I found over time that she loved me as unequivocally and as ardently as any woman could love a man, regardless of age. In her presence, in the sound of her voice, in the ways she touched me and looked at me, she was the sun in my universe. (Since my teens I’ve had a secret term for the feeling I get when a woman completely fills my life: P.I.R.—pussy -in-residence, and that was Norma.) She was the first and only woman I’ve ever known who was, once decided, as aggressive about being filled with a man as she was understanding and supportive when I couldn’t.

At the beginning of our relationship, I went through all the doubts, jealousies and fears that an older man would have with a young and beautiful wife. She was at the age of wanting to be with her friends, to go to parties, and especially to go dancing. Sometimes I accompanied Norma, all the while watching the eyes of men at nearby tables follow her, occasionally hearing their remarks. But often, when I was too tired, she went dancing without me, accustomed to return home well after dawn, a girlfriend dropping her off. In bed, I anticipated an account of the evening—while I waited for her to shower the smoke from her hair, as she always did. Revived by cascading water and having organized her thoughts, she finally slipped between the sheets beside me, sometimes tickling me with her hair when she knew I was faking sleep. Norma brought with her the energy and confidence all women have when clean. She was often eager to make love, and as an expedient, ready to tell me about the night.

Socially, my wife avoided alcohol, except in the presence of girlfriends who would protect her, or with me. She was one of those women who, upon taking even a small sip of an alcoholic drink, not only shed her formality, but became fair game for any interested male. Lit by a mere glance or touch, she was dry tinder in a forest of sexual appetite.

And, she was a blusher. If merely from pleasure at a compliment, or when unselfconsciously delighted in some personal achievement, her cheeks glowed softly. When genuinely embarrassed, or highly aroused, the dark rose on her cheeks also suffused her neck, shoulders and breasts. Blooming like a fever, it seemed to make her flesh swell. Her ear lobes and nipples became dark.

I felt increasingly guilty that I couldn’t maintain an erection. Although soothing me with little reassurances, such as “No tiene importancia”—it’s not important—I saw that my wife had all the normal needs of a young woman. As for affection and trust, ours grew. In bed I employed every skill and experience of a long life. But in the frequent moments that our love spilled into passion, I was overcome by humiliation when I was not able to mount her as she deserved, even with chemical aid. It gnawed at me, at times filling me with deep shame. I wanted her to miss nothing.

Eventually, in my imagination Norma replaced the women in other people’s stories I read on the internet of shared wives, of trios and orgies. Unable to support not being the man I had been, I began to suggest little adventures with others. I told her that another man momentarily in our bed would be a gift from me; that if we did this, I would want her to enjoy the man with all her passion—to love his weight on her and answer his hardness pushing up against her heart. I did not want to give her to another man; only to fill her in the moments I couldn’t.

It began innocently enough with our shopping together, an intensely intimate experience for both of us—an exquisitely prolonged foreplay.

Norma is what I’ve always identified in my mind as “eye-candy”— that woman with the proportions and self-delight that raises an ache in a man’s heart and haunts him, following him into sleep, only to greet him upon waking with a throbbing hard-on. The beauty of her face, the aroma of her skin and the texture of her long hair, full breasts (then fat with milk) and her lithe dancer’s waist, round bottom and wonderful legs, made her what Argentines call “un bomboncito,” a bit of candy to melt in your mouth. Taking advantage of weekend strolls through fashionable neighborhoods and shopping malls, we window-shopped until our eyes were caught by a sensual dress, chic shoes, or an interesting bit of lingerie. After, perhaps wearing the newly-bought blouse or skirt, she walked with her arm in mine past sidewalk cafés and in malls, stroked by the eyes of slouching, arrogant youths, who murmured “interesting” things in her ear as they passed, and modishly-dressed business executives, discretely whispering to each other; of distinguished gentlemen my age, of waiters and delivery boys, of policemen and even of other women.

As we walked, I told how proud I was. Once, seated in the spring sun at an outdoor café in fashionable La Recoleta, I leaned into her hair and told her that the growing circles of dampness that her milk made in the silk over her nipples were drawing the stares of the three young men seated across from us. Caressing her thigh, I related in real time how they were looking under the small, clothless round table at her legs each time the wind picked up. Touching her belly with my fingers, I told her how I thought she should stop worrying, rest both elbows on the table and let the breeze lift the skirt of her yellow summer dress. She did that for me and in bed at night we talked of how their eyes had raised her nipples, how I’d seen her blush with pleasure, looking into my eyes as I told her of their faces after an opportune gust of warm spring air had billowed her skirt against the underside of the table. “I’m sure they’re enjoying the pale yellow panties I just bought you,” I whispered. Bashful pleasure flooded her face as she listened, and when I kissed her cheek, I found it was hot. In bed that night, as I massaged the spongy front wall inside her cunt with my thumb and pushed a finger rhythmically in her asshole, I wondered in hot whispers how it would be to invite them into our bed, to replace my fingers with the cocks of the young men who had looked so longingly into the taught, pale yellow material between her thighs.

Norma’s blossoming during pregnancy made me crazy for her. Daily exercise kept her body firm, her bottom nearly as small as before. Her bust did change dramatically. Full before pregnancy— striking because of her small waist and strong, narrow back—it now became heavy, her nipples fat and the areola dark like Patagonian milk chocolate. The weight of her breasts on my face as I pushed under a soft blouse into the shadowy sanctuary of her crowded and breathing dark surrounded me with generosity.

I helped her shop for elegant and sensual clothing, frequently of soft material that molded gracefully to her burgeoning body, and especially I delighted in fabrics soft enough to outline her navel and mold to the shape of her nipples. I looked for blouses or dress tops that celebrated her breasts; and for skirts that in a light breeze showed her legs. Men followed her everywhere with their eyes, even talking to her when I’d left her alone for a moment. I took her so that men could watch her in shopping malls, at wine and book expositions, and when she got in or out of a car. And I helped her dress to meet a delivery boy or other caller in the doorway of our home.

Then, after several of these adventures, she began telling me in bed at night the comments men had made to her in passing during the day (I suspect, as they leaned to whisper in her ear that their words went like lightning from her girl’s heart to her breasts and cunt). And she now sought the pleasure I gave her as I listened.

We had small adventures of exhibitionism during the first trimester of her pregnancy, her breasts warm in the spring air for men eyes to heat further. As she went up the transparent escalator at the Alto Palermo shopping center in a light summer dress and matching, nearly transparent panties, I would stay below, or beside the balcony above, unnoticed, so I could watch. The famously self-contained young men of the Capital who stood below her often lost their cool in trying to peer into the soft dark between her legs. The eyes of those who had hurried to precede her—casually turning around, as if fascinated by the panorama of the shopping center—lowered their gazes to take in the moving curves of her breasts. (She told me once of gazing beneath the broad brim of her straw hat, able to see only the legs of the young man who stood half turned toward her above, and for long moments enjoyed the view of the tip of his cock, as it tented his summer dress pants, the glans “fat and pretty,” she said, describing how it molded the soft fabric, of how kissable it was.

Several times we ordered food delivered, just so I could watch from our bedroom the view from the hidden camera at our home’s entrance when she opened the door to receive empanadas, a pizza or ice cream. Once she went to the door in a many-times-washed and snug nightdress, the shades of her skin surfacing in the soft fabric as my lovely wife shifted weight from one leg to another under the delivery boy’s gape. Later, she told me that, looking down, she saw that her nipples were bright red. Another moment, for the first time actively a partner-in-crime to my vicarious lust in her, she went naked to the door—at her dare—with only a white towel held before her and white high-heeled sandals. Conscious of my eyes through the camera, she astonished me by turning to the hall table for the money to pay the ice cream man—giving him for the space of five seconds a three-quarter rear view of her pleasure-blushed bottom, dancer’s legs and long hair down her back.

Once, well-advanced in her pregnancy and heart-breakingly beautiful—in such good condition and at the same time being one of the lucky women who bloom instead of spread as they swell—she sucked off the delivery boy who told her with such reverence how beautiful he thought she was. Playing to the camera, and to my eye, she told me later that she remembered our having jokingly talked of such an opportunity. She was gleeful when she returned to me upstairs, knelt over me on the bed, and stilled my remarks of gratitude with a kiss that transferred from her mouth to mine the undeniable proof of her intimacy. Instead of meeting her tongue and nibbling lips, I felt her mouth open wide, and instead of her expected tongue a flood of hot liquid poured from her, filling my mouth and nose with the unmistakable aroma of fresh semen (I had tasted mine). When I moaned and passionately kissed her, she worked her tongue, and pushed yet more into my mouth. I am not remotely homosexual, but her delight at the moment and my passion-bloated pride in my wife, allowed me to enjoy in her all sexuality; and at that moment I would have done anything.

Two days after giving birth to our daughter, Norma’s breasts were swollen with milk. From then on her nipples were always fat and distended. She was so spectacular in production that at the end of three months each breast gave about a liter every six or seven hours. Replacing our daily consumption, every day we saved five liters in the fridge and the pantry floor freezer. A sweet Mona Lisa smile lighting her face, Norma was quietly proud that we used her milk in sauces, blender drinks, anything we could replace with cow’s milk with. We even served it cold or in coffee or hot chocolate to our guests—asking a few selected men if they preferred “Cow’s milk or Norma’s.” We often had to clarify what we meant for stunned callers.

***

The account of what turned out to be an orgy begins here. . . .

This last October we invited a group of five Canadian travelers to our home for dinner. They were post-graduate students returning from having successfully climbed the “Polish’s Glacier Route” to the peak of Aconcagua, highest mountain in the western hemisphere. We’d met them by chance in a restaurant the night before. For dinner in our home Norma wore one of her most feminine dresses, an 18th-century, Empire-waist re-creation in fine white gauze. As was the style of that period, a wide silk ribbon artificially defined her “waist” just under her breasts, unnecessarily dramatizing them. In a simple ponytail, her black hair was held aloft with a bow of the same white ribbon. The dress covered her, but as she moved, the color of her skin appeared beneath the fabric. Earlier, when she tried the dress on for me, she’d complained about feeling naked (although, then, in the cool air of the air-conditioned bedroom, there had really been little to see). She was in a mood of formality, hostess in her own home to five successful young men. Unconvinced, she yielded to my argument that she would preserve the classical lines of the dress she loved so much by not interrupting them with distracting underwear. But Norma had insisted on panties. When I saw the thin white ones she chose, I was happy—they were invisible beneath the dress.

During dinner the warm spring breeze coming in from the open windows had joined the wine to warm us all. Fine sweat bloomed on Norma’s skin, dampening the material of her dress. As dinner progressed, her wine-flushed skin appeared and disappeared as she moved, the darkening rose of her nipples increasingly notable as the men’s eyes played over her and their comments, translated by me, went directly from her ears to her breasts.

Since she had never had hair on her body, neither on her arms nor legs nor underarms, and the few stray, light hairs on her cunt were noticeable only close up, without shaving Norma had always been sleek. This added note of perfection, which I often thought had something to do with her one-eighth Mapuche Indian blood, would have looked the result of artifice on a lesser body.

The only illumination for our dinner was from three candles I had put on the sideboard, placed there so that when my wife passed between them and our seated guests, serving each in turn, her dress faded, momentarily becoming a pastel halo on her body. Norma’s wheat colored skin (trigueña in Spanish) showed through where a breast or hip or buttock swelled (when I told her about the effect of the candles the following morning, the surprise on her face was an added pleasure for me). Her beautiful dancer’s feet were visible in transparent, plastic high heels which looked much like Cinderella’s glass slippers. Her legs were bare.

While my wife indicated to our guests where to sit, I served wine. Norma refused, placing her hand over her glass when I offered. She was mildly astonished when I smiled and nodded that it was okay to join us. Surprised, she allowed me to remove her hand and pour. We encouraged the boys to tell us about their adventure, and by the time Norma finished clearing away the soup plates and was serving each of us the Hungarian chicken paprika she had prepared, her face and breasts were flushed with the fine sweat of a summer evening. Her eyes caught the flames of the candles.

The room was silent each time she dipped to fill a glass. Her dress’s thin shoulder strap loosened, and for a moment all eyes followed the drama. As her elbow rose to pour, it raised a breast, its weight shifting heavily above the other. Eyes fixed on the glass, she smiled softly all the while, blushing under the weight of so many appreciative eyes. When she finally sat again beside me, she hugged me as all began to eat. The wine had overtaken her. For several long moments, perhaps uncomfortable for our guests, she ignored her food and began kissing my neck and cheek, snuggling so that her face ceaselessly caressed me. Alcohol hot in her veins, she kissed my ear and pressed her body to mine, oblivious of the others.

The youths were full of stories, anxious to share them and eager add details while they listened to each other. Certainly they were encouraged by the genuine interest I showed and inspired by the full force of the sexual haze growing around my wife. We are both good hosts. When speaking to Norma they were courteous and respectful, happy to fill their eyes with her. And Norma bloomed under their gazes, heated by the collective interest of five fit, attractive men fresh from a conquering adventure (a half-page article with photos about their climb had appeared in the Clarín). She hung on every word and they plugged into her electric presence with their vigor closing the circuit. They competed not only as men among men, but as friends vying for her attention. Our evening was developing into one of those to look back on happily. When Norma excused herself from the table, and I saw that she climbed the stairs and was probably headed for a bathroom, I too excused myself, and followed her—but went directly to our bedroom.

(The first week after we found this apartment I installed mini microphones everywhere, including beneath our dining room table, so that from the master bedroom, my office-library, and the kitchen, we’d always be able to hear that our daughter-to-be-born was well. That night I thought of another use, and had even hooked up a recorder, so that Norma would be able to listen later to our guests’ comments. Once in the bedroom I opened the bedside table drawer where I’d hidden the recorder and put on the earphones. To my delight, the boys’ conversation was entirely about my Norma.)

“She can sit on my face anytime!” (The voice of Eric, a true Viking, an authentic lion, constructed of long bone and muscle.)

“Did you get a load of her tits? They’re so damned ripe!” (Mel’s little-boy’s voice belied his physique—comparatively short, but with body, legs and arms of a bull.)

JS—John Sebastian—who sat to Norma’s left, cut through the others, and they stopped to listen. “I wish you guys could see what happens when she walks behind you in front of the candles.” He must have been talking to He explained. (Soon I found out he’s a marathoner, as Norma was later able to testify.)

I listened to their growled remarks, voices husky with the longing many men have felt for Norma (she once told me that her breasts began showing when she was nine years old and that men were already telling her piropos, compliments, in the street). These testosterone overburdened athletes had been far from sight of any woman for the last three weeks and I could imagine what they felt.

“When she served me the soup,” Eric growled, “Her breast brushed my arm. I thought my cock would come out of my pants and grab her. Man, I can’t tell you—she just looked at me sweetly and her smile almost made me spray my shorts. I swear, I don’t know about you guys, but as long as she’s around, I’m going to have a hard-on.”

“The first time I saw her I wanted to fuck her,” Arnie said, the simple statement for a moment seeming to sum up how they felt. (I remember someone told me the next day that he was a professional hunting guide and SCUBA diver.)

Arnie continued quietly, as if no one had interrupted him, ”I didn’t get to see all of her with the light behind her like you guys, but when she came by to collect the soup dish, instead of looking down the top of her dress, I leaned back and got a good look at her ass. You know, I wouldn’t have taken a look like that, but her old man seems to be egging us on, don’t you think?” (I gathered that they were all aware that I was turned on by their attention to my wife. They sounded happy to be where they were, waiting to see what the evening might bring.)

For the first time I was able to recognize the voice of Clint, who sat to my right. At 32, he was the old man of the team, normally quiet, a thinker and watcher. “We’ve been away from civilization for weeks, not even an ugly woman to look at or listen to, and now her! My God, JS, when Douglas was listening to you tell about the snowfall our first night at base camp on the mountain, Norma was filling my water glass and I took a kind of sideways glance into her top. Just about then she looked up at me, square in the eyes! Damn, caught me with my hands in the cookie jar—and just gave me a really sweet smile. Man, what a woman! The way she hugs and kisses her husband makes me crazy!”

And then I heard the remark that took away from me any reservation about sharing my wife’s charms with these fellows (I’ll never know whose voice it was): “Other than money, he’s okay. You know, she’s okay too. She probably wouldn’t be with him if it were just money.”

Just then I heard the door to the hall bathroom open, and I quickly went to Norma. I took her arm, lay a finger vertically over my lips, and led her back to the bedroom. I wanted her to listen to the boys’ remarks now (I say “boys” because they were so much younger than I).

It is said that a woman enters a man through his eyes, and a man enters a woman through her ears. The earphones comfortably in place over her ears, I watched my wife’s face as the young men’s comments coursed through her. Her eyes flickered, she held a breast, and that bright flush of arousal spread over her skin. We embraced each other, kissing without a break. I didn’t need to hear the comments any longer. I read the effect in Norma’s breathing and in her mouth. I kneeled behind her, leaving her to listen, and with my face pressed to the backs of both legs I slid upward under her dress, until I buried my face in her bottom. I stripped the thin panties down her legs, leaving them around her ankles, and slid my hands over her hips and waist, and up her belly, until I could lift her breasts with both hands. In a few seconds, with my nose and mouth burrowing into her, Norma’s legs went soft. She suddenly ceased standing and most of her weight shifted onto my face and chest. Her body shook and I held her until she could stand again. With my face I spread her honey over her bottom and legs, again and again returning to surround my face with the firm cheeks of her ass.

(The next day, Norma told me that her climax there in the bedroom with me while she listened to the boys was so strong—due to equal parts of my mouth in her cunt and hands on her breasts, the alcohol, and our guest’s comments at that moment. Quickly, I turned on the recording and with Norma’s help found the part she was referring to:

“¿Have you gotten a load of her nipples? At first I could just see them, but later, there they were, staring at me the whole time I was trying to eat.” Eric the Viking was laughing. “I spilled soup several times because I didn’t want to miss anything!”

Mel’s slow, rough voice took over. “How could you miss them?” I heard a low snort. “From over here directly across from her I can practically tell you how many goose bumps are on her areola. Her dress is wet and sticking to her. Have you noticed? She’s leaking milk.” Everybody talked at once. Apparently, because of where they sat, neither Mel nor Arnie had noticed.

“This food’s great, but I’d trade it all for some of that directly from the source” someone said.

“¡Damn, I bet it was fun making a baby in her!” exclaimed Arnie, the diver and climber. “Hey, do you think it’s his? Pretty old, you know.”

“Something else “ said Mel. “From what I can make out, she’s either not wearing panties, or they’re damned small. Whatever, I bet she’s shaved.”

”Whoa, boys!” said JS. “Slow down. That’s his wife and all this talk is making me crazy. So let’s lighten up a bit, hey? My cock can’t find enough room to be comfortable. I’m in pain! Now cut it out!”

Clint, the oldest in the group apparently wasn’t listening. “Yeah, she’s either shaved or not wearing panties, believe me. Sometimes you can kind of see through that dress from the front too, you know. I took a good look.”

“I sure would like to find out,” Mel’s slow voice cut in.

(It had been here that Norma’s climax had overtaken both of us.)

In the bathroom, our guests awaiting us, I enjoyed the last of Norma’s climax –unaware of the full reason for its power. I slid Norma’s panties up over her hips until the thin strap was snug again over her cunt and between the cheeks of her ass. I stood, turned her, and lifted her chin, so that she had to look in my eyes. I told her how proud I was of her. She kissed me passionately, making it clear she wanted to stay. But I pulled away and took her hand to guide her back to the table.)

As we came down the stairs, I kept my eyes on my feet, leaving the men free to rake Norma´s body with the attention it deserved. When I glanced up, they were eating her alive with their eyes. With my words and manner I’d left little doubt that I wanted them to admire her openly, not furtively. “My wife has always been for me the best dish at any meal,” and later, “I’m really happy you guys gobble her up with your eyes. For any woman the best sauce to a meal is the admiration of men—and for me, a compliment”

After finishing four bottles of wine and everyone having arrived at believing they were the wisest, most entertaining and handsomest (or most beautiful) person in the world, the men were openly courting Norma. And when she went to the kitchen, they followed her ass with their eyes, mesmerized by the sway and shift of her breasts and hips when she returned. And when my wife talked—hands moving expressively; arms waving to accompany her laugh—once describing how the mainsail of our boat nearly took her overboard, but she’d been stopped by the strap of her heavy duty bra getting caught on a gunwale cleat (she’d been embarrassed when it happened, but now the telling was hysterically funny for all, and I was reminded how in life she always saw the glass half full). Her long black hair shimmered in the candlelight, perfect frame for the jolt and tremble of her breasts as she talked. Most of the men now looked at her without embarrassment, vying with each other for her attention. They were more at ease—invited by me, made bold by Norma.

A couple of our guests had become more personal in their attention to my wife. Mel, sure of himself, had started gently enough, asking my wife about our baby girl, Fatima, then asked about if she enjoyed breast-feeding. Norma was off, now delighted to talk about anything with our new friends, but like any woman, especially about herself. Soon she was explaining how difficult it was in the mornings, when she was so full, so start her milk. She looked over at me while she commented how helpful I was to suck the first part, when her breasts were swollen hard, until the flow was established and Fatima could take over. Mel asked how it felt to have the milk move in her. Blushing, but I suspect mostly with pleasure, Norma explained that it helped tighten her uterus, and how wonderful it made all of her body feel. Arnie asked if it excited her too. She said, “Yes, it makes a quick let-down. My milk comes fast.” And she absent-mindedly rubbed both wet spots, leaning down to look as she lifted one breast with both hands and then the other, the eyes of five able sportsmen following every move. (I noticed Mel pull away the top of his pants and push his other hand inside, leisurely adjusting himself. Clint followed suit, lingering with his hand inside his trousers. When Norma looked up, the smile that had started on her face as she looked into his eyes, froze, and she looked down as he slowly withdrew his hand.)

When Norma was away to fetch more food or drink (they ate like mountain lions), they congratulated me on my wife—still polite. The atmosphere was hot as Norma served dessert. Mel asked me to ask Norma if there were any more like her where she came from.

Suddenly modest, she replied like any girl from here. “Here there are many more beautiful girls than me. I am only beautiful because you think I am.” She giggled at her own seriousness. The men reassured her that they had never seen anyone as desirable as she. I told them that the other girls in her family were pretty too, but Norma was, as they might have guessed, the beauty. To hide her pleasure my wife leaned forward over her plate to eat, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face. Head bowed and pleasure drawing every line in her body, arms pressing the sides of her breasts so that they rose before her, she was unbearably desirable in the candlelight.

The lemon meringue pie I had taught Norma to make was superb, the men temporarily distracted. I leaned over and pressed a napkin to Norma’s near breast, in an attempt to sop up some of the milk now flowing—direct result of the men’s words and increasing interest. Arnie asked if she always leaked like this, and I told him the truth, that right now he and his buddies were directly responsible for her flow (I don’t think I could have said anything sexier, it electrified the table). “Fatima’s three months old now and Norma is always full of milk, especially in the morning, or like right now, receiving so much attention.” Looking around at each face, I said, “You have no idea what effect your words are having on her.” Letting that comment hand in the air, I explained to them how we made use of her extra milk, even serving it to guests. They were silent.

Clint looked directly at Norma, but spoke to me. “I have two questions for you, and I don’t mean to offend.” I nodded.

“Have we gone too far, do you want us to back off, not get so personal?”

“No,” I said. “What was your second question?”

He looked around the table, at the others, then again at Norma, but still speaking to me. “It’s really a request. Any chance she’ll offer us her milk?”

Discomfort broke through his normal reserve. All at the table listened. With a hand on my arm and her eyes in mine, Norma looked to me for a translation.

“That will depend entirely on Norma,” I said. “We’ll see. . . .” When I explained to Norma, she was quiet too, but then laughed and looked openly into the eyes of all around the table. Every woman is proud of the things a man cannot do. As if to prove my point, her milk now freely flowed from both breasts. Not ready yet (although I’m sure Norma was) to turn my wife over to them, I broke the pregnant silence with the first stupid thing that came to mind, asking Arnie at what altitude they had started using oxygen on Aconcagua. Uncertain, Norma got up for another bottle of wine. She returned with an almost greenish Chardonnay from Mendoza, a perfect compliment to the tart bite of her more-lemon-than-sugar lemon pie. When everyone had had seconds, Norma gathered the plates and went to the kitchen to make the coffee.

In a few minutes, looking anxious, she returned with the coffee pot. She whispered in my ear “What happened to the milk? I couldn’t find any!” Looking up, I hugged her to me.

(I’d hidden it in the pantry freezer.)

“Don’t worry. Just serve the coffee. Norma went around the table, filling each North American-sized cup half full, in the Italian manner. When she had filled mine, I hugged her to me. Still in her affectionate alcoholic haze, she cradled my head in the crook of her arm, pressing it into the side of her breast. The men couldn’t decide where to put there eyes. She was ready for anything.

“Now what?” she asked, her breath warming my ear.

I turned to our guests and explained the lack of milk in the fridge. They looked at me, then Norma. I saw Arnie’s and Eric’s tongues flick out to moisten their lips.

“Honey, please, why not fill our cups with your milk. The boys have already mentioned that they’re really interested.” She was suddenly aware of herself in the eyes of strangers.

Van a pensar mal de mí—“They’ll think badly of me,” she said.

I kissed the side of her breast.

I translated for the men, asking them if they minded having Norma’s milk for their coffees. Then, when I attempted translating their babel, Norma shushed me. Está bien, Entiendo—Fine, I understand,” she said.

She looked uncertainly, thoughtfully at me. Clint started to clap his hands rhythmically, as if cheering on his favorite hockey team. In the space of a breath someone had started to chant Norma! Norma! Norma! They all joined in. They clapped, finally singing at the tops of their voices, and all the while Norma looked to me for a sign. I think only she saw the one nod I gave.

The boys were really irresistible. Everyone started to cheer when her reluctant smile and the pride crinkling the corners of her eyes finally got the better of her.

My lovely wife stood up and began to collect the coffee cups. I stopped her hand with mine. “No, please, right here. I think it wouldn’t be polite otherwise.” Before she could say anything I translated for the benefit of our guests. Although Norma didn’t understand their words, she got the drift—again, it was apparent how they felt. “Please?” I whispered in her ear.

The blush that had started in Norma’s face now reached her shoulders, breasts and arms. She was nervous but glowing with shy vanity, finding herself at once protected and with permission to explore. Resolute, she nodded. “Okay,” she said. When my wife decided to do something, she never looked back.

We watched. Norma put down the saucer and cup she’d lifted, took a deep breath, and quickly cupped her left breast, slipping the other hand into her bodice. We saw her work her hand down, and once her fingers were under it, lift the entire breast out. Only on two occasions does a woman have that kind of high roundness that Norma held in her hand—when she’s 16 and when she’s overfilled with milk. At 27, Norma’s breasts still had the resiliency of a healthy 16-year-old’s. The talk, the wine, and the combined attention of the six men who had planted the words that had contributed so strongly to her climax upstairs, had accelerated her milk production, the skin over her breasts stretched smooth and shining. I believe she was at that moment as beautiful as any woman in history—the quintessential mother, wife, and lover.

She was spraying. Five or six small fountains arced from her nipples, wetting the tablecloth and the food on my plate. A brief giggle escaped her. She smiled at me, playful—like all women with an abundance of milk, delighted in herself.

It was impossible to not get caught up in her innocent pleasure. I looked around the table. Like hers, their faces were flushed and shining, their eyes reflecting Norma’s delight and, in their depths, the bloom of lust.

I looked back at Norma. The fingers supporting her breast were now overrun with milk. She leaned forward and dipped her shoulder, until her nipple and areola nearly entered the mouth of my coffee cup. While we silently watched, she milked herself—one hand flat on the top of her breast, the elbow of the other arm out, hand sliding smoothly forward under the heavy curve from armpit to the edge of the areola, fingers and thumb pressing until they nearly met behind the nipple, and the arcs of milk shot thick and the spray hissed loudly into the coffee. The smile that softened Norma’s face told me that along with the rhythmic to and fro of her hand, the weight of six pair of male eyes were also drawing the milk from her. She took a deep breath, and her smile relaxed her whole body. Calmly encouraging her breast, her let-down was now in full spate, milk coming from her heart. In that electric atmosphere, I think Norma was the only one at peace.

I talked.

“Norma’s first milk is always thin and fast in the beginning. In the morning, or like now, at first you can’t even get a nipple into your mouth. They’re stretched flat, like they’re painted on her breasts. At first, they’re hard to get at. They don’t get big until later on. I like it when her let-down is good and I can’t drink fast enough. For me the best part is after, when her breast is a little more relaxed, and her nipples get so long that when I suck I can get them to go down my throat and I’ve got a whole lot of her breast in my mouth. “ My babbling had its affect. Norma was settled down to the task at hand. I laughed. . . . “This is often my first breakfast, sometimes my only one!”

Although perhaps hearing me, our guests were conscious only of Norma, missing no detail. In sympathy with the exposed breast, the other sprayed against the fabric encasing it. In the still room the unflickering candlelight revealed every detail of her shining hair, wheat-colored skin, rosy with pleasure, puckered nipples now the dark red of blood, and the white streams of milk hissing from them so clear in the air of the darkened room that as the arcs surged when she pressed her fingers forward, the torrents were so strong that you could see how the stream twisted in the air, droplets flying off; or when the pressure weakened, the flow a thin arc of individual drops. Our guests’ mouths were slightly ajar. I noticed that a rogue arc of her milk constantly wet my wrist.

As she milked herself, I thought that I’d never seen her more beautiful. It is true what the Canadian Inuit, the Eskimo, say: If you send your wife to the bed of a traveler spending the night, in the morning she comes to you refreshed, content and loving, and you are all three happy!

I noticed that my cup, less than half full when she started, was now full almost to the brim.

“Enough, dear, I said, nodding toward J.S., seated just on the other side of her. Why don’t you show J.S. how to milk you, so you can hold the other nipple, and not waste your milk?” Thinking she would be shocked by my suggestion, with one hand I quickly tugged the soft top of her dress down over the imprisoned breast and gently helped it out with the other.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to fill two cups at once?” Her eyes were still lowered, but in her voice I heard the clarity and decision that alcohol brings to some.

Women are always surprising me. But her remark slowed me only a moment. I got up from my chair and with a look and gesture motioned to Arnie to take my place. “Bring your cup,” I said.

Norma patiently explained to J.S. and Arnie about not squeezing the nipple itself, which would close the ducts and stop the milk, then showed them with her hands how to hold the breast with the palm of one hand while with the other she pushed from the back of the breast with the other, sliding toward the tip, and stopping just behind the areola. When they said they thought they understood, she lowered her hands to her lap and invited them to try.

Each man gingerly lifted a breast in both hands, and then shifted the weight onto one. J.S. remarked how heavy his was, making his first attempt at milking her. Norma told him to use that weight—that it wasn’t necessary to squeeze so much, just push toward her nipple, and let the weight of her breast do the work of moving her milk. On his second try he succeeded, the milk more or less directed into his cup, which was perched on the edge of the table. A stray fountain of milk wet his pant leg. Arnie had difficulty at first, but before Norma could say anything, J.S. was instructing him, as if he were the experienced old hand.

Norma began to laugh. Others joined in. She sat with her hands in her lap, laughing so hard that her shoulders shook and tears wet her cheeks. Still serious, and now notably disconcerted, J.S. asked her to sit still, that she was shaking her breasts too much, which only made her laugh more. He tried not to laugh, but after a moment gave up entirely. Calming down somewhat, Norma said, “Okay, okay,” and raised her arms to push the sleeves of her dress down and off her arms, freeing them to rest on the backs of the men’s chairs on either side of her. Her dress settled around her waist. Under the table, I unzipped my pants and brought my cock out through the front opening of my underpants (I don’t get hard very often anymore, and when I do, it’s not the way it used to be, nor does it last long enough, but I still climax something fierce).

Once they got the hang of it, Arnie and J.S. were quiet and intent, their faces serious. I saw J.S. look up into Norma’s eyes, making her smile broaden. Once, Arnie licked his fingers, and said “God, that’s good.” Mel said to hurry up, he wanted his turn. Clint said “My coffee’s getting cold,” and Clint added “Save some for me.”

Norma looked up at Clint and told him not to worry.

When Arnie and J.S. had filled their cups (now with far more milk than coffee), they reluctantly yielded their places to Clint and Mel. Arnie quickly kissed the tip of Norma’s breast, lapping the milk dribbling there. She smiled at him, and I saw in the look of her face that the kiss had gone directly from her nipple to her cunt, as was normal in any woman.

While Arnie and J.S. savored their coffees, Eric pulled his chair close, anxious for his turn. Clint said he thought he wouldn’t need Norma’s explanation again, and immediately lifted a breast. Mel watched a moment, and then started to milk Norma, his big hands gentle naturals to the task. I noticed that at different times Arnie and J.S., now seated across the table, put down their cups, and their hands disappeared below the table. Each time it was clear that one hand was forced down inside their pants, only to pull back up again. I caught Arnie’s eye, and he winked at me.

Suddenly, Norma, Clint and Mel burst into laughter. I looked up to see Clint sputtering, milk covering one eye and dripping from his nose.

“Damn! You’ve got so many fountains coming out of you, how do you tell which one goes where? ” My wife raised one hand to rest it on Clint’s shoulder, her eyes closed and again uncontrollably off in peels of laughter.

When Eric had had his turn (I was again seated next to my wife, gently massaging her breast while I held a cup just under her nipple), Norma turned to lay her head on my shoulder, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Satisfied?”

“Almost, I said.” I deliberately let my napkin fall to the floor, and with my foot kicked it further under the table.

“Norma, honey,” I whispered into her hair, “My napkin fell. Would you get it for me? I’m so full I can’t move” She opened her eyes, and I held the tablecloth up for her while she bent to look for it, peering into the dark beneath the table—only a glimmer of the candlelight reaching there. With the slightly exaggerated care of anyone who’s had a bit too much to drink, she slipped to the floor, kneeling, and crawled half a meter into the darkness.

Not hesitating, I threw the tablecloth over the top of my plate and glasses, and lifted my left leg, passing it over Norma to the other side of her body. Even before my foot firmly met the floor, I pulled the thong from between her cheeks, took her hips in my hands, and drew them up until I had them firmly trapped between my legs. In one movement, helping with my fingers, I pushed my semi-erect cock into her cunt—running wet from attention, the romantic surroundings, and our guests’ intimate touch on the sacred person of another man’s wife. I heard the air go out of Norma’s mouth as I plunged in.

“Gentleman, look under the table.”

Everyone lifted the tablecloth where he sat and bent sideways to look beneath the table. In little more than a whisper, but loud enough for Norma and all to hear, I said to Mel, seated directly across from me, “Look for her mouth. You have my permission to fill it.” It was not necessary to say with what.

For me the most exciting moment until then was when Mel, clear and away the strongest of a group of unusually fit young men, held Norma’s head with both hands, closed his eyes and leaned forward, still seated but with his torso arching over the table. Through my wife’s body I felt his every plunge in her throat, unintentionally pushing her so that the cheeks of her bottom clamped tight as her cunt swallowed me. As his climax overtook him, his lips drawn back to show his teeth, he pulled her onto him so violently that the sound of her bottom smacking his pelvis filled the room. She started to gag. Each time she suppressed the urge to retch, her back arched and I felt her cunt grip my cock with all the force in her body (Norma had told me one time that she thought I should suck a cock at least once, to know how wonderful it was to be filled that way when a man lost all control).

Becoming notably harder than I had for many years, I drove into her. Clint saw this and began to jackhammer his hips against her, pulling her on him to meet each thrust. My plunges met his head on. Trapped between us, Norma made no move to escape, bracing her arms straight before her, resisting with her legs. She was whimpering that high-pitched cry of pleasure each time Clint and I rammed her. There was a small tug-of-war as our guest and I approached our climaxes. Stronger than I, Mel caught his breath and, using all the power in his back and arms, in a final death-grip pulled Norma’s sweet face fully on him. Mouth and nose pressed tight to his body the growl of her prolonged gag became a gurgle and a whimper. As both Clint and I paused in the throes of our separate-but-joined little deaths, from Norma’s throat came a humming moan. It seemed to call to both of us. My fingers desperate in the cheeks of her wonderful bottom, I pulled her more tightly onto me.

Somehow, I simultaneously watched both my wife’s expectant body and Clint’s face. Eyes closed, every muscle in his face and arms straining, he held her, frozen on the brink. My cock swelled with the sweet fire I hadn’t enjoyed in years, and just as it ripened to the breaking point, I saw the first convulsive lurch of Clint’s body. I saw and felt his first shot into her. Norma’s hum went straight into a whine, at the same time her cunt clamped my cock with all the strength in her young body. The overloaded fire in me came out in a single, all-out shot, like the long plume of a flamethrower. Clint’s did not. His second spasm looked to take great effort. He clamped his teeth together, and then his mouth opened, his breath forced out in a guttural grunt as his body emptied the first of full-bore shot s into her. Jerking forward each time—body curling closer over the table, our guest’s unbelievably strong body, two weeks of effort on a mountain and this long evening before my wife’s charms—Clint gave her injection after injection. And with each her belly convulsed, spasming her cunt so that I thought I felt my cock enter her womb.

When Mel stood to give his place to JS, I saw that out of the sinew of his thighs and ridged plane of his abdomen, his cock rose so hard the veins stood out. In the candlelight his pubic hair and belly were wet with my wife’s saliva. Her spit dripped from his balls. Seeing none of his cum on him, I knew Norma’s mouth was not filled. Under the table, she rested, face and breasts to the floor, her bottom still high, glowing in the candlelight. A dribble of my cum nestled between the glistening lips of her cunt. Her asshole was relaxed and rosy. I kept a staying hand on her bottom as I rose from my place. I have never seen her more desirable.

Motioning to Arnie, I handed him a condom I’d thoughtfully pocketed sometime in the afternoon. I was going to bring a pillow for Norma’s knees, but then remembered the deep carpet beneath her. I went to the kitchen and hallway to turn out the lights. When I returned, JS and Clint were just finishing kicking off shoes and were still hopping awkwardly to peel out of socks. Arnie was seated in my chair, naked, and slumped back, his big hands holding Norma’s hips, his alcohol-and-candlelit stare somewhere inside Norma’s bottom, far away in the land of cunt. Clint was lying face up under the table, beneath my wife, both his hands holding her breasts, his face hidden and his throat working. A trickle of milk ran down his neck.

Motioning to Arnie, I handed him a condom I’d thoughtfully pocketed sometime in the afternoon. I was going to bring a pillow for Norma’s knees, but then remembered the deep carpet beneath her. I went to the kitchen and hallway to turn out the lights. When I returned, JS and Clint had just finished kicking off shoes and were still hopping awkwardly to peel out of socks. Arnie was seated in my chair, naked, and slumped back, his big hands holding Norma’s hips, his alcohol-and-candlelit stare somewhere inside Norma’s bottom, far away in the land of cunt. Clint was lying face up under the table, beneath my wife, both his hands holding her breasts, his face hidden and his throat working. A trickle of milk ran down his neck.

“I couldn’t hold back,” Arnie said, dazed. “I slipped in and that was it.” The others waited, aware of his surprise, disappointment, and need to just sit there a while, holding her.

The boys stayed until the following afternoon. When we ran out of condoms, I asked Norma how she felt about receiving them without protection, and she asked me how I felt. She already knew my answer before I spoke to our guests, telling them that my wife was ovulating, but that we would indeed like another baby. The effect on all of us was similar to having poured gasoline onto a dying fire. They reassured me that part of their preparation for the trip was a thorough medical exam, including tests for venereal diseases. They had been with no one until now. Mel asked Norma if it were all right, and she merely lay back on the bed, feet flat to the sheet, her knees in the air, and took my hand in hers as she stared at Mel and waited.

As each man came to lift her and fit her bottom between his legs, Norma was delirious, hugging him to her, to bring his mouth to hers in a kiss, and all the while whimpering in that throaty way she has when lost in sex (women do not think they are the center of the universe—they are. Let no man forget that his presence is merely a compliment to her pleasure). She later said that she had never in her life felt so much energy pour into her, that the tension in their bodies, the last toe-pushed drive to plant their seed in her (her words), had made their legs and arms and backs like steel between her thighs, under her hands, and against her back and bottom (and Mel said it was the most times he’d ever ejaculated into a woman—six, he thought).

***

I loved showing Norma off, just as others have with their wives down through the ages (a Parthian warlord would have his bride walk naked through the streets of his city on her way to marry him, so that all could see what a prize he had). We exposed her in many places, under many different circumstances, with many kinds of men. With guests in our home it was particularly exciting and non-threatening, as it was with the boys who make home food deliveries, especially once with a delivery boy from a well-known ice cream parlor here.

We went dancing late at night (nightlife in Buenos Aires never begins seriously until one or two in the morning). I watched her dance with many men well into the dawn—with young boys, high school kids, and men of all ages, wanting so much to be with her). Norma was 27 when she died, and I much older, and so her dance partners treated me respectfully as her probable rich lover. They asked permission to take her for a dance, although a few were defiant upon returning to our table, thinking, I suppose, that whatever intimacy they had enjoyed with her brought with it some kind of ownership, that they might take her from me. But almost always it was fun without consequences.

I liked when she returned to the table with the interior part of the front of her skirt covered with a suitor’s semen, Norma having held his cock between her strong thighs, while her man of the moment thumped his hips against her buttocks, and his cock slid back and forth in the oily heat between the swollen lips of her cunt, Norma having accommodated him by leaning forward, giving him her hooded clitoris to push against. Or when she returned with her bottom and, often, her back, wet with his semen, I knew her partner had laid his cock up between her ass cheeks, pointing at the ceiling, pressing his balls into her heat, and an arm around her breasts, with the other pulling her hips hard against him. He had discovered that my wife would help him slide the length of the valley formed by the two halves of her bottom, gripping him as he sprayed against her asshole. The pressure of her lover’s ejaculation was sometimes so strong in that compressed pocket, that his semen shot up along her back inside her dress, falling by the time she’d reached our table again to paint her bottom. Sometimes his “milk” thoroughly wet her skirt, so that it stuck to her as she walked. Once, my wonderful lady allowed a North American basketball player to finish in her mouth while they danced in the early morning hours of this just past spring in a dancehall in the fashionable district of Palermo. He was so tall that Norma merely had to lower her chin to accommodate him. She returned to the table with her chin and breasts glistening, a gobbet of his cum visible just below a corner of her mouth.

Once, Norma told me that she was sure that I would have liked, at least orally, to have been the recipient of the attentions she received. Thinking about it since, she was right. All that she received from the men who admired her filled me with greater passion for her. Norma´s whole being was an extension of my sexuality, and sharing her beauty an always renewing boost to my passion for her. For this communication I’m using my personal email: Chapman@fibertel.com.ar Whatever comment you might make about us will be highly appreciated and surely answered immediately.