The Eskimos Have It Right Ch. 02

In "The Eskimos Have It Right," I wrote about my wife, Norma. Following is a small chapter in our lives after the memorable occasion with the mountain climbers.

My wife and I had discussed light bondage and even inviting another man to be with her (I am almost three times her age, still virile, but unable to become truly hard and unable to maintain an erection). She shyly told me she'd rather it were a surprise, maybe even arrange it so he could not see her face, not recognize her.

A young acquaintance of mine, Gustavo, a 26-year-old tri-athlete who works out at the same gym I go to, had asked me one day who this vision was who came to pick me up every day. She was walking toward us when he asked, his eyes taking her in from head to toe. As cool as he was, I saw the shock register when I told him Norma was my wife. He's married to a beautiful girl who sometimes came to the club with him, but when she was not there, I saw his attention wander to the backsides and breasts of other women. Over a fruit smoothie at the club bar the next day he told me he had married too young, was now a shipping executive, in charge of providing crew and handling general logistics for much of Argentina's sea trade.

I waited a few days and then called him one night. After the usual amenities, he asked what I'd called about, and I mentioned his obvious appreciation of my wife. Laughing nervously, he back-pedaled, denied any great interest, and then listened silently to me as I reassured him, saying that, like any other man secure in his marriage, I took his attention as a compliment. I made it clear how much Norma and I loved each other, that we had no doubt about loyalty to each other—that our passion was intact, even after more than a year of my semi-impotency. Gustavo was politely sympathetic, mumbling something about that being understandable at my age, and congratulated me on having a wife who also understood. I thanked him and then took the plunge.

I asked if he really thought she was beautiful. Gustavo laughed lightly and said she was "un bomboncito"—a delicious morsel—tossing the compliment off casually, sheering away from any disrespect by commenting that everyone at the gym mentioned how much a lady she was, friendly but always focused on her exercise. Deferring to his expertise as an athlete, I asked if he thought her exercise regime was right for her. He mentioned that he thought she was one of the few women who came to the gym, including a couple of the instructors, whose body was perfectly formed. I thanked him, and when I told him that she did other exercise—ballet classes, swimming, biking, nights out dancing salsa and running—which helped mold her body, he said he wasn't surprised. He laughed again and said in English that she was a "hard body."

"Well, not really," I said. "She's always self-conscious about her breasts and how round her hips are, that she's too big in the bust.

"Does she run very long?" he asked. "Why? I countered. Suddenly he was reticent. "Well, you know, maybe even with a sports bra, the shock to a woman's breasts may in the long run damage tissue."

"So, you do you think her breasts are too big."

"No, no, not at all!" he quickly answered. "Well, yes . . . maybe. It's just that running may not be the right sport for her."

"Well, I've wondered. She competes with friends in swimming. Do you think her breasts slow her down?"

Gustavo's laugh exploded in my ear, this time relaxed, and less self-conscious. "Maybe, but I wouldn't worry about that!"

I laughed with him, but then asked what he meant.

"She's so beautiful, I wouldn't change a thing."

"So you don't think her breasts are too big?"

"You're kidding. They're perfect!" he said.

"Well, maybe not for some sports," I said.

"Look, the other guys at the gym—all of us—think she's drop-dead beautiful. Hahaha, we wish our girlfriends were built like that."

"Good. So, you like her breasts the way they are?"

"Well, sure! I like big breasts. I mean, they're really beautiful too."

"Do you think the rest of her is okay, too—hips and all that?

"Are you asking me as an athlete, or as a man?"

"As a man. What do you think about her, what do the guys say?"

There was a pause. Then, when it came, his voice was more serious.

"Everybody says she's edible." I sensed a slight choke in his voice, and felt that in that moment we had crossed some line.

"Do you think that?" I pressed.

"Douglas, no disrespect. . . . But, hell yes." It was the first time he had used my given name.

"I'm glad, Gustavo.

"I'm just surprised. You're so relaxed talking about her with me."

"Actually, I'm relieved that she excites you."

"Really?"

"I have an idea. . . . That is, if you really like her."

"I'm listening."

"I'm more than twice my wife's age, and I'm not physically quite as capable as I once was. I love her, and don't want her to miss anything." (I paused, and wondered if his silence was shock, or that he wanted me to go on.) "I'm not much afraid of her running off with anyone—especially someone married, like you—and I've thought of a way of giving her something any woman her age needs—a thorough fucking, a gift from me. Give her something I can no longer do. Do you understand?"

Gustavo remained silent at the other end of the line.

"If you're interested, I thought of surprising her, laying her face down on our bed in the dark, her wrists and ankles tied to the four corners, and let you take my place on her—anonymously, no questions, no names exchanged, just give her what you feel. And then leave."

"Have you mentioned this to her?

"We've talked about it—you know, pillow talk, exploring. She said she doesn't want to know beforehand, for me to make it a surprise." I paused again.

"Would you be interested?"

"Are you sure?"

"If you can make love to her, fuck her brains out without hurting her or humiliating her, absolutely." "God, I'd love to. Yes, sure. I can do that. Why not?"

"Can you get away late one evening?"

He agreed he would remain anonymous, ask no personal questions and not even think about any emotional involvement beyond the moment.

My wife picked me up at the gym three times during the following week. I'd told Gustavo what time she'd arrive, and he watched each time, looking her over, and each time I asked what he found most attractive in her that day. On the third time, I asked Norma that morning to wear her yellow summer dress, my favorite, with her matching yellow high heels and pale yellow panties, no bra. I knew that in the bright light of the gym the the last time, at my suggestion, sharing a large smoothie at the bar, so that it was natural for me to introduce them when she came up to us. The following day, I called him and arranged everything for the following evening, a Thursday night. He said to call him at home about 10:30 p.m. and he'd tell his wife that he had to meet a colleague to check on a ship just into port.

About eleven the following evening, by the light of three candles, I lay in bed, kissing my wife all over. I rolled her face down, and pushed two pillows under her hips, placing her bottom high, facing the bedroom door. The candle on the dresser at the foot of the bed lit the alley between her legs. For the first time I tied her wrists and ankles to the four posts of the bed. I excused myself, as I had so many other times when I wanted to get massage oil, go to the bathroom, or secretly (I supposed) take a Viagra pill.

As planned, Gustavo was waiting outside the kitchen door. I let him in and instructed him to undress in the kitchen and then wait by the bedroom door, where he'd be able to peek in and wait for my signal. I returned to the bedroom. As I came through the door I saw what Gustavo would see in a moment. The light from the candle on the vanity table a yard from the foot of the bed softly lit the soles of Norma's feet and the insides of the calves and thighs of her splayed legs. With her hips high on the pillows, her bottom was open and radiant in the tenuous light, the moisture on her puffy cunt gleaming in the dark between the glowing mounds. Her arms, tied to the bedposts, stretched dramatically from either side of her black hair coursing the length of her back. As Gustavo walked toward my wife, he would be looking up her legs to the parted moon of her bottom, open for him. The dark red of her cunt was an easy target, even in this fragile light. I looked back, and saw that Gustavo had arrived. He was peaking around the corner, his eyes wide on the scene before us. I could see that he was naked. Half hidden behind the doorjamb, the candlelight faintly caught one long muscular leg, his hand on the jamb, a shoulder and his entire face. I looked back at my wife.

Norma looked like smooth marble in the soft light—if marble can glow like a ripe peach. We saw her whip her head from one side to the other, tossing her hair the length of her back and making it shimmer as it settled again over the first swell of her bottom. She tentatively pulled on the cords tying her arms to the bedposts above her. At the same time she squirmed, moving her hips as she tried to raise a leg to one side, but then subsided, only her bottom fidgeting nervously from side to side.

I carefully climbed onto the bed, and grasped an ankle in each hand, and then slid my hands firmly up the insides of her legs, until I came to the tops of her thighs, and pushed my hands up against, and then over the cheeks of her ass. I caressed her, stroked her, kissed her and finally again buried my face between the cheeks of her ass. I burrowed in. Little, rhythmic cries accompanied my tongue and nuzzling nose.

After I'd lain between her legs for several minutes I rose and again whispered "Just a moment, I'll be right back." As I withdrew from the bed, her cries subsided to a protesting whimper. I turned from the bed to find Gustavo already in the room. Athletically dramatic in the candlelight, he strode purposefully to the bed, the gleaming black of his eyes focused on my wife.

In the candlelight I saw that he was exactly what I had wanted for my wife. Long-muscled, he had trained for both strength and endurance. His circumcised erection, easily 21 or 22 cms long (somewhat more than 8 inches), cast a tall shadow across one thigh, waving slightly as he walked the two meters to the bed. The head of his cock was an angry, dark red and wet with precum. I remember thinking, He's not wearing a condom! I had not mentioned it, our phone conversation somewhat awkward, and his eager entrance, the imperative of his cock high in the air, and his quick mounting of the bed and in the same motion, my wife—carried me along in the sudden fire of the moment. I watched silently as I saw his hips strain forward over Norma's, his penis waver, and then nose into Norma.

Often, when I was on her from behind, My wife would look over her shoulder to watch, even arching back to kiss me. I had explained this to Gustavo, suggesting that he firmly hold her neck with his right hand, pinning her to the bed, so she wouldn't discover—at least right away—that she had a new lover. And that's what he did. He immediately seized her neck in one hand, pushing her face into the sheet, and planted his other hand in the small of her back, pinning her. **** I was relieved and delighted by Gustavo. . . . (I had told him how I was with my wife—by turns loving and gentle, or overpoweringly insistent.) He was passionate and affectionate with my wife, kissing her shoulders and neck, stroking her body, molding it with his hands. He was lost in my wife,

I saw that he was lost in the world of cunt, oblivious to my presence. He did have stamina. My wife's cries were now so sharp I knew the neighbors could not avoid hearing her. I watched a long time. Norma's own body pressed her breasts so they swelled beside her. He moved with a steady rhythm, fast and constant. Each time he thrust, I saw the hollows in the cheeks of his ass as snapped forward and forcefully pushed the last inch, flattening her bottom.

Her cries came sharp each time he cupped his pelvis to find her womb. The cheeks of her bottom grew large and full against his belly as he slapped into her. Looking up between their legs, for an instant I could see beyond his balls to the barrel of his penis when it appeared, glistening in the candlelight, and see the divided, liplike undersides of the glans momentarily visible in the sheath of her cunt. Only the blunt of the head was still hidden in her. Then, in a flash, the shaft would disappear again, like the piston of a great locomotive moving forward, a bolt shot decisively home, an arrow sent to kill. His forward thrust jarred my wife's entire body, and then his balls—like veined hen's eggs held tightly in their sack—they shook and then swelled against her as they struck, firm in the lips of her cunt, ceasing to quiver as he pushed all his weight from braced toes. Below his balls, I could see the faint, white pearl of her clitoris, clear of its pouch—round and white in the candlelight, like the swollen head of a small penis. My wife tried a couple of times to lift her head, but he held her down, slamming into her even harder, to distract her, I thought—like placating a child, giving it something it wanted more.

Then, he lifted her a little by her neck. He slid his left hand between the sheet and her body to hold her breasts, his arm a muscular cradle, the fingers of his large hand, daily gripping a shot put, curled so they brimmed with her right breast. Curled over her, his face buried in her black hair (which still covered her back, strands sticking to it with sweat), he tried with each thrust to pierce deeper, beyond her vagina, to plunge it, and I'm sure, into her womb. So, I imagined, its cleft head and one eye peered into the secret dark further than I had ever been.

Listening to the solid impact of Gustavo's body on Norma, her cries repeated in unison with his thrusts, and the rasp of his breathing, I imagined I could feel in my own body how his pelvis fit hers, remembering how it is to violently seek closeness, bone to bone, and the need screaming from the tip of my spine to the overly full need in the head of my cock as it found home. I watched my wife's bottom under his attack, how it rose to meet him, the complex shudders, swells, ripples, and shivers of the cheeks, how they reformed, round again in an instant, the cleft between them a dark shadow. Her cheeks accommodated themselves so sweetly to the thrusts of this athlete that I had seen easily throw a bigger man than he to the mat. She met the increasingly runaway power as he pulled her to meet him. Her bottom cushioned both him and her, as each time his lunge met, and then lifted her hips, raising them so that for a moment her back bowed, belly and shoulders pushed to the bed, her breasts flattened so they swelled to the sides. Her tight cry wrenched from her each time the impact of his hard muscles drove his cock high inside my wife and shook her breasts and ass, became both call and protest.

After what seemed forever—perhaps half an hour—Gustavo's penis had swelled. It was bigger and swollen. His balls were also puffed up, but held tight to his body. He had maintained a steady rhythm, his passion not having diminished with each impatient jab. But finally, his drives into her slowed. Each thrust became shorter. His back, buttocks, and legs swelled with strain. I could see him gathering all his energy to steer his cock into her, to focus his entire being—all those years of energy built by hard-willed effort and strain, the hours of sweat and exhaustion showered away at dawn or late in the evening—all brought together through the long muscles of his arms forcing her down, his thighs bulging as he pushed knees and toes into the bed to curl his spine to aim the hoarded and now constantly growing store of semen he wanted to spew into my wife's womb. He pushed in one last time, and stopped.

Norma's neck was strained, trying to raise her head. Her breasts were fat beside her but her belly disappeared into the bed, her waist still held down by Gustavo's restraining hand. I could see that she was helping him by raising her hips with her considerable strength. Her legs were trapped between his as he knelt over her bottom, and they were long. Her dancer's feet pointed toward the bedposts, toes curled. Her hands now were against the headboard of the bed, pushing and palms flat, her fingers arched, as if she were doing pushups. I could see her face, strands of sweat-dampened hair stuck to her cheek and across her eyes and mouth. Her mouth was open, tongue lying pink and fat against her lower lip, filling her mouth. Her saliva had wet the bed around her mouth. Her eyes were half open, but glazed, looking off into some distance, herself lost in the world of cock. All her years of ballet class, aerobics, running, inline skating, skiing and nights danced away in salsa clubs, had sculpted her to lithe, animal readiness for this moment. Sweat gleamed on her face, breasts, back, arms and legs. Her fingers gripped the headboard. And I saw in her face and tensed body full realization and absolute openness to Gustavo's energy—to his semen, to his sperm, to his seed. Every muscled line in her body strained to help him. She pushed her breasts into his circling arm and grasping hand, and arched her back to open her bottom to receive him. She closed her eyes and mouth and I saw her nostrils flair as she sucked air to fill her lungs.

All Gustavo's muscles clenched, his butt looked small, hollowed, but hers pushed high and round, swollen against his belly. From his hunkered position, crouching on her, his muscles were pumped up as if for a bodybuilding exhibition. Still holding her neck, his other arm curled around her breasts, he was frozen against her

Gustavo suddenly reared up, carrying her bottom with him, so that her legs were stretched straight by the chords holding them to the posts at the foot of the bed. He roared once, like I have heard a man roar when pierced by a bayonet. And he erupted into her. The first was a slow spasm, his face pained. Mesmerized, squatting at the foot of the bed now, I watched each pulse that coursed through the ridge just behind his balls. I had been watching the sweat on his back slide into the crack of his ass, to to dribble down over his balls to mix with my wife's cunt honey. Now I saw him fall forward, flattening himself along her back, his hips pressing the cheeks of her bottom so hard that, her ass swelled pale under his darker skin in the same heart-achingly feminine way her breasts rose from inside the embrace of his arm. My wife was so beautiful in that moment I felt a flood of love fill me.

Lying full length, Gustavo kissed the top of Norma's head, and continued pumping his semen into her, his hips jerking violently each time, again, like a dying man. Eventually, his thrusts and the pulses I could see between his legs—of the semen going out of him and into my wife—subsided. It was then that Norma's climax came—on top of his, riding it like a surfer caught in the breaking curl of a wave, surrounded by foam and overwhelming roar. Her mouth opened. Her scream was nasal. High, like a child's cry, she squeezed it out as if giving birth (or, like I have heard her on the toilet, painfully constipated). Her fingers clawed the sheets into her hands, while she pushed back with her forearms, her body soft but strained and shaking. Her climax was so deep, so full, and so genuine, that a tremendous sadness and happiness filled me at the same time. I moved to stand close by the bed, beside them. Gustavo's face, dripping with sweat onto my wife's hiar, looked drained, but his eyes were round. I imagined that he was feeling the miracle beneath him. Through Norma's hair I could see only an ear, the tip of her nose, and her mouth, still open wide, her saliva pouring from one corner of her mouth.