wife with other men

I'm curious to hear from men and or women who are not necessarily experienced swingers who have had another male added to the mix. I have been giving some serious consideration to having a MMF with my wife. I'm not bi, although I am curious. But this is about her pleasure not mine. Though I must admit the thought of sharing her with another man is quite pleasurable to me. I would love to see her experience an orgasm from another man. I want to see her loose herself in the throws of passion, and I want to be the last one in.
If anyone is willing to share their experiences and or fantasies I would greatly appreciate it, especially from a womans perspective.
thanks

my gf has slept with other men and told me all about what they did it turns me on so much she only has to start telling me what they did i get rock hard and fuck her while she tells me

Some experience.......

I actually share your interest in sharing my wife with another. We have had some limited, though very satisfying experience with this. To date, we haven't had a mmf or mfm encounter though she and I both would like to given the right circumstances. We did play with another couple last summer and it was fun.

Yesterday I posted the following on another thread about facials and cumshots......so I'll copy and paste it for you!************

I especially love to taste and suck cum from my wife's shaved pussy. To date, I think I have only sucked my own cum from her pussy.

Hmmmm...... Last year, she came home after stepping out for the afternoon and playing with a young studly type we are friendly with. He shot his load all over her after they fucked in his bed. She didn't clean up at all and just got dressed and drove to our place where she had this incredibly big smile on her face. "I did it" she declared and dragged me, or did I drag her, to our bedroom. She had cum all over her stomach, her breasts, and even a little bit in her hair. I don't think I will ever forget though licking the drying cum from just below her left shoulder. And I didn't miss a drop!

What a sexy day!*******

My advice to you is to give it a try, but let the moment carry the decision.

mmm very hot

This is a favorite fantasy of mine also. Very naughty to think about....

I think your wife will like MMF very much and she will have a lot of fun

lots of couples do it

i have been their to simply have unrestricted sex with a guys wife and have him tell me thanks.carefull tho it could lead to him controlling everything,being cuckholded,if you get that

Also highly experienced in your role as step-downer

Further down this first page you'll find my personal account ("The Eskimos Have It Right) of a number of encounters my wife and I had—I, as both encouraged voyeur and she, attended to singly and by multiple lovers. . . .

During the height of the Roman Empire Parthian warlords used to have their prospective wives walk naked through the village to their wedding, so that all could see how lucky they were, so he could enjoy exactly what you want with your wife: the thrill of other men—everyone in the village!—having (visual) carnal knowledge of their/your bride.

There is no greater pride than seeing your wife kneeling, knees spread, arching back to kiss her new lover over her shoulder, breasts raised into his encircling arm, her bottom pushed as firmly as she can into his crotch, and then . . . night after night, enter her, to relive the event with her, in mind and conversation.

There's nothing like it: the planning, the anticipation and the exquisite, hollow-stomached wait before opening the door to her new lover—perhaps having arranged either a surprise for your wife, or for him. What an amazing aphrodisiac.

Thinking back to those always consensual encounters by my wife with other men, I now imagine what it was probably like for her, as I proprietarily watched her prepare for his arrival, following her through the house, seeing her for the first time as Every Woman getting ready for a date—as she must have been, getting ready for me once upon a time ago. . . . I remember that she insisted on washing her hair again. Coming from the shower, she was thoughtfully quiet as she sat naked before the dresser mirror, her back to me, so I could blow-dry her hair as she stared into her own image. Her bottom lay snug between my thighs. Little drops of water fell from the tips of her long hair. She sat quite still as I wielded the blow-dryer, all the while combing her hair out until it was light and silky. At moments I felt as if I were her female roommate, excited for her, fussing over her and making suggestions. I kissed the nape of her neck, lifted her breasts with both my hands and hugged, all the while reassuring her about how she looked and the effect she would have on our invited guest.

Her date’s arrival imminent, I noticed all the details of a woman’s anticipation. As a momentarily-forgotten onlooker, I saw her critical glances into the bathroom mirrors as she experimentally cupped a breast with each hand, then lifted her arms to clasp her hands overhead, breasts rising to best advantage. She applied deodorant and finally carefully smoothed whisps of hair from her face. I helped her dust her back and bottom with powder. And I watched, as if for the first time, I fully appreciated her practiced skill in strategically perfuming her body. She dabbed the glass stopper behind each ear, in the hollows of her collar bones, between and under her breasts, at the top of the divide of her buttocks, on her belly and on the inside of each knee. I was impatient as she meticulously brushed on the little make-up she uses, carefully chose the right shoes for her dress, and gathered her long black hair to hold it in a simple pony tail with her favorite green ribbon, tied into a large bow. I relished her girlish nervousness as we waited in the living room. Nervous perhaps, she looked serious as she asked me once more if she looked all right.

Her attempt at concealing eagerness was the strongest aphrodisiac I can remember. I saw her as she must have been when I first knew her, a young woman getting ready for me—a potential lover.

How must it be for her now? Her husband is beside her—both to protect and to encourage. She is safe, she has the approval, even encouragement from her highest authority, me. . . . And, I observe, like a man, that although she is still hesitant, fearful of rejection (patently ridiculous!) and ravaged by an onslaught of conflictive, random uncertainties, I sense her sexuality rampant in the certainty of fulfillment.

I saw her nipples harden when the doorbell rang. I watched her graceful legs and round, rhythmically-moving bottom as she walked away from me. I heard the music in her voice as she greeted him. Mostly silent, I listened through dinner as they found delight in each other’s conversation. I was proud of how her breasts rose gleaming from the scoop neck of her blouse as she leaned to pour more wine or gather a dish. I was delighted that he was so complimentary about the food she had lovingly prepared. His response to her warm smiles and flashing eyes filled me with admiration and pride.

That he was courteous and relaxed had its effect on my wife. She let go, any fear she had had gone. His eyes began straying over her curves with the same open delight he might have had I not been present. At the same time he congratulated me and my wife on his favorite aspects of our home. Later, he was genuinely appreciative of each of the dishes my wife brought us, her eyes lighting up every compliment, rewarding him with eyes and smiles that would go right through any man. I saw the pleasure light their faces as the evening and her attentive care to keep his wine glass full seemed to bring the two of them closer. Watching them dance in the candlelight, I soon left the room—only to spy on them from the upstairs balcony. I saw his hand stroke her back and finally, hold her neck, as they kissed for the first time.

Later, I went down again. As we danced together—my Norma, sandwiched between us—it was I who lifted her dress over her head, leaving her only in high heels and the ribbon in her hair. It was I who pushed his hands from her waist up to lift her breasts. It was my arms around the two of them that encouraged his hips to press hard against her bottom.

Instinctively finding a way to give them opportunity, I nuzzled her neck, freeing her to turn to kiss him back over her shoulder. Listening to her ragged breathing, I knew how excited she felt with his cock hard up against her bottom, now surely lodged in the cleft between her buttocks, his hands filled with her breasts. I saw him turn her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. when they kissed, their mouths were open, hungry.

I reached between them, unbuckled his belt, flipped open the one button at the top,, and pulled his zipper down. It was my wife's eager hands that left my chest to snake behind her, brush aside my hands, and and force her own between his body and hers. She pushed down the front of his shorts.

That “First date” is burned into my memory—the anticipation shared.

Nessi said:

I think your wife will like MMF very much and she will have a lot of fun

Click to expand...

Do you speak from experience Nessi?

The other guy

A few years ago, I had a secretary who, after a short time, came on to me at the end of the day. I put her off. The next day I talked to her about it. I asked her, "Hey, what would your husband say?" She told me it was his idea.

We had a few encounters. She told me that she had to describe them to him afterwards. Then, after about six weeks, she asked if I would be willing to fuck her while he watched. I agreed...reluctantly. The first time was a bit tough for me. After a few times, it was pretty comfortable. It never evolved to him participating with us. He did eat my cum out of her pussy right after I finished but that was as far as we got.

I was transferred to a new job and that ended the situation. I have to say it is one of my erotic memories.

Hi all

Hi all, new here, just had to reply to this one though.

Seeing your wife with other men is so damn horny, or just knowing she's being fucked by someone else somewhere... I had my first experience of this lovely kink many years ago when my lovely young wife got carried away flirting at a party, she would have been just 22 back then and a very hot natured very sexually experienced young lady for her age... I knew she was a hot number with many wild sexual urges and an inability to achieve satisfaction easily when I married her... She needed a lot of cock to make her happy in those days, it was near killing me keeping up with her permanent wet and wanting state of mind and body.

I had always been fascinated by sex acts and had witnessed and been involved in many threesomes and moresomes as a single guy, and I had been developing fascination with seeing my wife satisfed properly during our first year of marriage... It was that as much as anything, to satisfy her, yes I wanted the voyeur kink of seeing her performing with other men, but mainly I wanted her to be happy and fulfilled whatever that took to achieve... I was also curious to see how much it took to satisfy her sexually, I made her cum every time we had sex, but she was always up and wanting more straight after, no fulfilment as such, mad thrashing about and crying out with her juices flooding in orgasm, then asking for more as soon as she'd calmed a little.

The first time as i say was at a party, it's a long story if told in detail so I'll have to be brief, (I will tell all if anyone wants the juicy details)... My wife took up with a couple of young studs halfway through the party, dancing with them, flirting with them both... very near the knuckle dirty dancing and all sorts... I was a little jealous at first and almost put a stop to it... but as she got more and more relaxed and flirty with them, I began to get aroused, my cock was half hard all the time watching her with the guys on the dance floor and at a table across the room... I eventually made up my mind to keep out of the way and see what developed, I had long suspected that given enough alcohol and enough freedom she would fall prey to the temptation of cheating on me to get her fulfilment... That first time had to be cheating on her part in order for me to be able to take control and demand to be let in on future games with other men... Ok wicked of me, but hey that's life and I didn't dare let on that I wanted it that way to begin with in case it hurt her feelings to know I wanted to use her like that for my twisted pleasure... She had to make the first move.

To cut this shorter, the outcome was that as the evening wore on I became impatient to see her cheat, so much so that I took one of the young guys to one side and confided in him, I told him that if he and his mate wanted to seduce her panties off they were welcome to try... and that there were no holds barred, if they got her in the mood they could both fuck her I told him... I gave him some bull about wanting her to cheat so I could do likewise with other women, I also told him I wanted to see the event with my wife if it happened, as firm proof that she'd cheated I told him... Whether he believed my story or not I don't know, but I do know he had an instant hard-on when I said the words "you can fuck her if you can get her to do it, both of you"... He agreed not to say a word to her about my involvement, he also said he wouldn't tell his mate it was all official in case the other lad got loose mouthed or panicked about being watched by the husband... We agreed a venue, like where the guys would take her to do it so I could find them if need be, and that was all signed and sealed.

Within half hour I saw her creep off out of the party with the two guys in tow... I left it several minutes to give them time to get well away from the party and to where we'd planned her downfall to take place, and then followed them to the grounds of the hall, round back of the summer house in the grounds and gingerly peeped through the fence panel... They weren't messing about, my young wife was already planted against the back wall of the summer house with one guy just finishing unbuttoning her blouse, the other with her skirt up and his hand in her panties fingering her up... Within a couple of minutes her panties were on the ground alongside her, her blouse and bra hanging loose and her tits out on show... Then number one guy dropped his jeans and pants, stooped between her open legs and pushed his cock into her soaking hole... I knelt behind that fence for about 40 minutes with a massive hard-on watching as both guys took what they wanted in turn with her against that wall, both randy young devils had her twice each... she was in heaven, moaning and mumbling, cumming like a train every time they pumped spunk into her.

Eventually they'd had enough of her and started to dress... do you know, she just leaned against that wall with love juice and spunk dribbling down her legs and I heard her say, "Oh come on, lets do it again, I'm still fucking horny"...

Outcome of the whole thing was when she got back to the party I told her I knew she'd cheated on me, she tried to deny it for 10 minutes or so, then gave in and admitted it when she saw I wasn't angry about the sex acts, but I was getting stressed at her for not owning up.

Oh and we took the two young guys home with us after the party and they spent the whole night sharing her with me as we felt the need... she was finally satisfied and sore at about 6am and said "no more".

My wife too. . . .

THE ESKIMOS HAVE IT RIGHT (shared wife)

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 French and Spanish, and learned English, as so many Quebequers do, as a second language. She was twenty-three when I came to know her as one of my students at a university there. Four months after we moved to her native Argentina she gave birth to our daughter, Fatima. And five months later, when Norma was just twenty-seven years old, they were both killed in a traffic accident. Eventually, erotic accounts on the internet, coupled with memories, became a comfort for me.

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 . . . wishing he had approached her when he'd had the chance, perhaps then scheming to find her again. The beauty of Norma's face, the aroma of her skin and the texture of her long hair, the impact of her full breasts (in our last weeks, fat with milk) and her dancer’s waist, round bottom and sculpted legs, made her what Argentines call “un bomboncito,” a bit of candy to melt in your mouth.

There is a custom in Argentina that when a man (or a group of men) sees a truly spectacular girl passing on the street, he pauses, giving her his full attention, and applauds, clapping his hands together silently, as if he were at the theatre delivering a standing ovation. Norma received her share of standing, silent applause.

Socially, my wife avoided alcohol, except in the presence of protective girlfriends or with me. She was one of those women who, upon taking even a sip of an alcoholic drink, not only shed her formality, but became fair game for any interested male. Within minutes of having a drink, her libido could be set afire by a mere glance or touch—my wife dry tinder under a sky of sexual lightning.

And, she was a blusher. If merely from pleasure at a compliment, or when unselfconsciously delighted at some personal achievement, her cheeks glowed. When genuinely embarrassed or highly aroused, the rose in her cheeks suffused her neck, arms and shoulders. Like a fever, it made her breasts swell and harden. When I lifted them, they were noticibly heavier, engorged with the blood of desire. Her ear lobes and nipples darkened, looking as if they burned.

As for affection and trust, ours grew. But I was already sixty years old when I met her, and as our relationship deepened, I felt increasingly guilty that I couldn’t maintain an erection. Although Norma soothed me with little reassurances, saying “No tiene importancia”—it’s not important—I saw that my wife had all the normal needs of a young woman. 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 frustration when I was not able to mount her as she deserved. I could not shake the humiliation of failing to meet her need. Even with chemical aid I was never really hard, nor as big as when I was younger. Increasingly, my inadequacy gnawed at me, at times filling me with shame. I wanted her to miss nothing.

Then, life itself presented an alternative.

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 (she eventually noticed him through his reflection in her vanity-table mirror).

The first time she related one of these passing incidents to me we had just gotten into bed. Curled beneath my arm, she told me that she didn’t feel comfortable being alone in the house with the painters. Thinking the worst, I sat up. She squeezed my hand and said that nothing had happened, really. Just that when I had gone to work early that morning, and she had thought she was alone, she had caught the younger of the two painters looking up her dress. Unexpectedly, along with curiosity and fear, a pang of arousal flickered in me. “How?” I asked.

She told me 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 earlier than before and had stopped, intending to duck under the veranda—where he had left tarps, brushes and cans. He was looking up at her when she became aware of him. “I don’t know how long” she said. “But after, I felt him watching me during the day.”

I asked what he had actually seen. Defensive, beginning to blush, she said “You know, I was wearing my housedress, the old one you like—yellow and buttons up the front. I had that on.”

Her reserve in revealing what had happened and seeing embarrassment darken her cheeks and nipples, drew me into the labyrinth of my wife's secret life. I felt the nervous excitement I'd suffered the first time I'd touched a girl's breast. I wanted to share the heat of Norma's moment on the porch, to relish what the young painter's eyes had taken in. I wanted to know how she had felt, how she felt now. I settled back, drawing her closer into the dircle of my arms. I asked “Is that all, just your legs?”

"He was below me," she said, glancing up at me, her eyes this close so large all I could feel was a need to kiss her. She whispered, as if confessing, "He could see up between my legs." Her ears were pink. I kissed her mouth, burrowing in with my tongue in a long kiss.

Then I asked what panties she had been wearing.

“The ones you bought for me on Florida Street.”

On one of our walks she had worn a pale-yellow silk dress she had bought the day before as a present for herself to celebrate spring. Her white panties sometimes became visible in the strong sunlight as we walked, arousing me—and surely the males who turned to watch her as we passed. I mentioned it to Norma and, perhaps embarrassed, color rose to her cheeks, ears and shoulders.

I soon found myself seated on a low stool in a lingerie shop changing cubicle, the curtain drawn to give us privacy, surrounded by mirrors and looking up at my wife as she tried on different styles and colors of panties. As she turned around for me to see her at every angle, I kissed her bottom, belly and and the undersides of her breasts, letting their weight slide across my forehead as she turned, more and more excited by how each panty transformed her body. The proximity of other men and women moving and talking just beyond the curtain made me want to push it aside and show them what a miracle she was.

Together we settled on a whisp of a silk pair slightly darker yellow than her dress. Close-fitting, the panty above the rectangular patch that conceiled her cunt stretched transparent across the divide of her bottom. When we went out again, I did not tell her that the now stylishly-matching panty was also just visible in the sunlight and that in strong sunlight the shadow of the divide between her cheeks was visible--drawing men's eyes. Their darting glances at her crotch as they approached us, and longing gapes at her bottom that I caught glancing over my shoulder, brightened my afternoon. At home later, I’d asked her to stand over me so I could look up inside her dress, and then pulled her down to sit on my face, to shut the world out in a hot kiss as she surrounded me with the object of so much desire on our walk. Pulling her hips down onto me, I looked up over her belly to her breasts and face, smothering myself with the fullness of her body and its tangy, sweet and salty aromas.

She must have been a memorable sight for the painter as he stood in the dew-wet grass below her that morning, his eyes following the early light up beneath her dress, along her legs, to her transparently-covered bottom. Imagining through his eyes, the voyeur in me suddenly gripped me, perhaps feeling the same excitement I would have felt in his place. I asked, “How close was he?”

Hiding her hot, blushing face in the hollow of my shoulder, she yielded each detail grudgingly--whispering, so that several times I had to ask her to repeat. . . .

She had been standing with her back to him, her legs apart.

She remembered that as she had stretched to fix a clothespin on the line high over her head, a dawn gust of wind had filled her dress, carrying it aloft like the ballooning spinnaker of a sailboat, where it brushed her arms and covered her face. For a moment she couldn’t see her hands to place the clothespin. As yet unaware of the young painter so near, she told me how much she enjoyed the caress of warm air everywhere on her body. She said it felt like when she was a little girl off by herself in a clearing in a forest near Montreal, and had taken off her dress to run through the tall grass, flowers brushing her bare legs.

When she pushed the billowing skirt down to get another clothespin from the bag at her waist, she saw over her hip the young painter's startled eyes as they snapped up to meet hers.

Raising her chin now, she giggled, and said "He looked like I'd caught him with his hand in the cookie jar." Her eyes danced as she looked up at me, shyly biting her underlip. She told me that his rapt face through the lattice of the porch rail had been so close that she plainly saw it turn red in the instant their eyes met. Immediately, he had dipped his head, said “Buenos Días” and then ducked beneath the porch. Although she’d avoided him all day, he’d found a couple of petty excuses to approach her.

After I brought her off with my mouth and hands and we were resting in each others arms, she shyly asked me if the painter having watched her had had something to do with my unusual passion. I laughed, kissed her, and admitted “Maybe.”

On following nights I asked Norma if anything else had happened—if she’d noticed any difference in how the workmen looked at her during the day (I was sure that the young painter had boasted to the older one about what he’d seen). At first she greeted my curiosity about her “little adventure” with mild amusement, then annoyance. On subsequent occasions, when I pushed for titillating details after she mentioned the visit of a delivery man, or how crowded the subway was, she was irritable, offended, saying that by “little adventure,” I meant I didn’t trust her. One evening, after she mentioned that a friend, who I knew had an enduring crush on her, had visited while I was away, I pushed her for details—about how she had dressed and if he’d remarked on how she looked. I even teased her about his long-term infatuation, saying that I’d seen him practically panting in her presence. 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. My wife was silent as I tried to reassure her.

And then one night, as unpredictable as all women, she came to bed with an impish light in her eyes. When I asked, she proudly said she’d had a “little adventure” that day.

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. For the first time my Norma’s eyes crinkled with amusement and her face glowed with uncertain pride as she warmed to my eager questions. Her nipples rose hard against my fingers as she spoke and her legs opened as I pressed to get closer to her. When I asked, she admitted that she’d pushed back against him. The jerky sway of the train and occasional jostling of neighbors around them finally guided his cock to lie up the length of the cleft between the cheeks of her bottom. She remembered how hard and insistent the head of his cock had been against her tailbone. The movement of the train, the anonymity in the pressing crowd and her willing union with the stranger in the overpowering heat of the airless subway allowed him unrestrained access. The soft material of her dress molded unfelt between them. She said that, after a while, she could distinguish the heat of his balls low against her asshole from the hard shaft of his cock. Occasionally, when a sudden lurch of the train pushed them hard together, the head slid to press the small of her back. It had become almost unbearably hot where they joined. When I asked, she admitted she had pushed back, like when she is trying to pee, opening for him. In her words, she was “kissing his friendly hardness.” She said she had been aware of wrinkling her dress, and that despite the heat and the sweat trickling along her back and over her bottom, and the stickiness she felt filling the crotch patch of her panties, she didn't care.

Our love-making that night was for me so much like our first time, frenzied in the back seat of my car on a cliff overlooking Montreal, when we’d had nowhere else to go, parked by other cars rhythmically squeaking in the night..

A few days later we were interrupted in a rapidly heating petting session by the ring of the pizza delivery boy. I was with Norma in her small gym. She was dressed in white cut-off shorts and matching sports bra. The Spandex bra was designed to be worn beneath a gym top. It covered her breasts completely, holding them in semi-circular, wired cups. Wet now with her sweat, and nearly transparent, the material yielded to her nipples, now pushing dark and prominent against the delicate fabric. She said she recognized the boy’s voice, that he had been tongue-tied the other times she had gone to the gate to receive pizzas—“baboso,” she laughed, “drooling.” Once she had gone in a décolleté cocktail dress, her breasts high above the bodice, soft, bright and round in the noon sun beneath the boys stare. And another time, when she wore a pale green Greek tunic she used for dance practice (whose silk clung to her breasts and waist, and swung saucily around her hips as she walked), he was so nervous he had dropped his receipt book.

Caught up in the heat of our play, she humoured me by speaking to the boy through the intercom, leading him—with my coaching—to believe she was alone. “Please wait, I’m in the gym. I’ll be right there," she breathed into the mouthpiece as I tried to suck a Spandex-covered nipple into my throat. She suppressed a long moan, covered the mouthpiece with her hand, and kissed the top of my head. When she removed her hand, I heard the distant buzz of his voice from the phone’s earpiece, and imagined him standing by the gate in the sunlight . . . how it would have been for me long ago when I had worked at such jobs, of how I longed to touch the sometimes carelessly dressed, but always ravishingly happy, round and hungry housewives and girlfriends who came to the door. In a whisper I asked her to ask him how the weather was out there, and I immediately cut off the distant, metallic sound of his words by pressing the earpiece of the phone full against her cunt, so that perhaps she could feel him speaking into her. As I took the phone from her and Norma took her lips from mine, I kissed down her cheek and jaw to the soft hollow of her neck. "Just a moment," she whispered to the boy, her voice ragged. "I’ll be right down.” I urged her to go as she was. . . .

Reluctant on going, she was blushing when she returned, eyes flashing. Setting aside the hot pizza, she jumped into bed. She boasted how the eyes of the young man had nearly popped from his head when she’d opened the door. Kneeling above me now, her breasts swollen with excitement, she explored the material over a nipple with an index finger. I saw what the boy had seen, the filled-to-bursting sports bra, its straps pressing into the flesh of her shoulders. The supple material, molded to her puffy areolas, clung to her nipples. “Look!” she said, leaning forward. She pulled the straps of the wet sports bra from her shoulders and peeled the sweat-dampened fabric from her breasts, letting them fall inches from my face. She said “This is what his eyes did to me,” and as I saw how engorged and dark her nipples were, droplets of milk began to ooze from them.

She said the boy was younger than she remembered, maybe fourteen or fifteen. Norma told me that, feeling safe with me watching over her, and comfortably delighted under the boy’s initially bashful gaze, she had allowed the time with him to lengthen. She told me that at first she felt strange. He was so young, and without looking, she was still self-conscious in knowing what he saw when she caught him glancing at her breasts, his face red but constantly drawn back to them. As the seconds ticked she sensed a change in the boy, and in her body under his eyes. She was aware how her hands moved, slower now, un hurried, more relaxed. She went from feeling moments of acute discomfort, mirrored by the boy, to playfulness, and finally to eagerness in exposing herself. At first the boy had been stunned. Then, when she felt he was as comfortable as she was, and when she thought of me, certainly watching covertly from an upstairs window, she found an excuse to prolong the search in her purse for the correct change.

As she watched her fingers rummage aimlessly in her purse, and she forgot about everything except the boy’s eyes, she discovered that, despite still present but fading embarrassment, she really enjoyed the boy’s eyes ranging her body. She said she felt inexplicably grateful to him for his admiration. She said her “nipples rose to his eyes.” But just as she sensed a man’s boldness rising in the boy, and her own body answering him, he took a step closer to her—Close enough to cast a shadow over her. She said that she felt her breasts harden, her face become hot, and a feeling “like a warm balloon” in her belly, she suddenly realized, looking down, how her breasts must look to him. Hugging herself, her arms inadvertently pressed them together. Nervous, she dug both hands dug into her purse, growing more conscious with every move, of his eyes now frankly devouring her. Each time she delved deeper into the purse, her arms came closer together, squeezing her breasts; each time she pulled something up to see what it was, her arms relaxed, and he could see their fullness. Now unconscious of what her fingers touched, she rummaged aimlessly, realizing that he he must know that she was making a deliberate offering.

In bed with me after, she whispered that she couldn’t tell if it was the feeling of a balloon swelling in her womb for him that created an ache in her breasts, or only the boy’s eyes—feeling to her, she said, “Like hands squeezing my nipples so both breasts hurt, but sweetly.” (Como manos apretándome los pezones hasta que mis pechos enteros me dolían en manera tan dulce!”)

She said she felt pinned by his stare, as if her breasts were his and only his for the moment, and she wanted to give them to him. She saw how the excitement with me in the gym and the naughtiness of her play with the boy had engorged them—with milk and passion—so they had swollen heavily against the Spandex spherical cups of the bra, stretching the damp material thinner. “They swelled for him,” she said. She told me that when she looked down, she saw her areolas and nipples were dark and plain to see . . . the thick nubs not entirely flattened by the soft stretch cloth.

Suddenly, she heard him say in a husky, but bolder voice, “Could I help?” She saw him transfer the weight of the pizza box onto one hand, and (she knew!) that the hand he had freed was going to reach for her, maybe to hold the bag for her, but also maybe to touch her breast! Before his hand could reach her, she had thrust the money into it, took the pizza, thanked him, and quickly turned to go

(I made a mental note to have a small video camera installed facing the downstairs entrance door and one for the gate.)

I asked her to put the bra on again and sit on me, to tell me in every detail what had happened. As she talked, her face, arms and breasts flushed with pleasure. While she talked, I massaged, kneaded and molded Norma from the bottoms of her feet to her neck and head, caught her nipples with my mouth and kissed her neck. The heat of her cunt blossomed on my cock. Between kisses and nuzzling her breasts, I said over and over, “And then?”

There were no half measures for Norma. Her pleasure in our little games grew. After our daughter was born, sex, her dancing and I were only close seconds in her life. She did, however, give herself passionately to each in turn.

Despite the great difference in our ages—38 years—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 put away all doubt. 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. (Since my teens I’ve had a secret term for the feeling I get when a woman moves in to live with me: P.I.R.—Pussy-In-Residence. That was Norma, but better than my adolescent dreams.)

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 her, all the while watching the eyes of men at nearby tables follow her, occasionally hearing their remarks. Often, when I was too tired, she went dancing with a girlfriend but without me, accustomed to return home well after dawn, the friend dropping her off. In bed, I nervously anticipated an account of the evening, waiting for her to shower the smoke from her hair, as she always did before coming to bed. Revived by cascading water, she finally slipped in beside me. If she thought I was faking sleep, she’d tickle me with her hair until I finally grabbed her. Norma brought to bed with her the energy and confidence all women have when clean, and especially after an evening of dance and intense male attention. The evening and the shower often left her in a nervous state of need. As an expedient to arouse me, she was ready to tell me about the night.

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 my wife 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. Even in my presence, to tell him how much she liked his cock, how he made her feel. 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.

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 pausing to appreciate her; of waiters and delivery boys, of policemen and even of other women.

As we walked, I told her how proud I was of her. 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 a couple of tables away. 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 not think too much, that she might do well to rest both her elbows on the table and let the breeze lift the skirt of her summer dress. She did that for me and in bed that 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 watched them and told her of how they had stopped talking and how their faces were 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. Although she appeared expressionless, I could see that although her eyes were serious, how the pleasure flooded her face as she listened. “Now look at the boys for a moment, the three with beers,” I suggested. And she said later that their looks were so hungry on her that she felt pierced through. There at the table under the summer sun and st ares of the boys, when I kissed her cheek and pressed the backs of my fingers to the side of her breast, 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 (face pushing between the cheeks of her bottom, my tongue licking her tailbone), 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 patch between her thighs.

Norma blossomed during pregnancy, making 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 my hands pressing her breasts to my ears, I loved to block out all the sounds of the world except her beating heart, and kiss the salty sweat on her breastbone.

I helped her shop for elegant and sensual clothing, frequently of soft material, that with movement molded in exciting ways to her flourishing body. We both delighted in celebrating her breasts with blouses made of fabrics soft enough to reveal her nipples. I encouraged her to not wear a bra—common here, anyway. I looked 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 showed her off in shopping malls, at wine and book expositions, and when she got in or out of a car. And made suggestions about what she wore 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 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. My sweet Norma had already told me that men began speaking to her in the street when she was only nine years old, her hair long and breasts something of an embarrassment for her at school). Now, when the mood hit her, she tried hard to remember little tidbits from the day or from her past, seeking the pleasure I gave her as I listened.

We had small adventures of exhibitionism during the first trimester of her pregnancy, her breasts semi-exposed to men’s eyes in the humid air of Buenos Aires. As she went up the transparent escalator at the Alto Palermo shopping center in a light summer dress and matching, nearly transparent panties (soft greens or yellows our favorite colors), 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 lose 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 head of his cock, clearly outlined as it tented his summer dress pants, the glans “fat and pretty,” she said, describing how it molded like a face pressed to the soft fabric, revealing the parted soft lips. She told me 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 colors of her skin surfacing in the yielding fabric as she shifted weight from one leg to another under the delivery boy’s gape. Later, she told me that, looking down, she saw that he could see the smoldering glow of her nipples. Another moment, for the first time actively a partner-in-crime to my vicarious lust in her, she went barefoot and naked to the door—at her dare—with only a large white beach towel held before her. 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 what seemed an eternity—perhaps five seconds—a three-quarter rear view of her bottom, dancer’s legs and long hair covering all her back. She practically pushed him out the door.

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 also liked control, and to surprise me). 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 weeks 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 in which we could replace cow’s milk. We even served it cold or, in the winter, 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. A bow of the same white ribbon held her black hair aloft in a ponytail. The dress covered her, but as she moved, the color of her skin appeared as it pressed the fabric (in North America or Canada it’s considered bad taste for a woman to not wear a slip with such a dress, but in South America it’s normal). Although in the cool air of the air-conditioned bedroom very little showed as she turned and swayed in front of the vanity mirror, she’d complained about feeling naked. She was in a mood of formality, hostess in her own home to five successful young men, about whom only a few hours before we had read in the Clarín a brief front-page article celebrating their feat. Reluctant, she yielded to my pleas to not wear something underneath, accepting my argument that a bra would interrupt the classical lines of the dress she loved so much. She did insist on panties. When I saw the thin white ones she chose, I was happy. They were invisible beneath the dress, even when she walked.

But while life is full of unexpected disappointments, it also startles us with gifts. During dinner the flower-garden scented spring breeze that came in through 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 more and more as she moved. The men’s eyes played over her and we enjoyed watching how their comments, translated by me, went directly from her ears to her breasts, the dark rose of her nipples increasingly notable. In the warm air playing over us from a floor fan not far from the table, the boys asked permission to loosen their ties, and we encouraged them to put them aside, to open their shirts.

Since she had never had hair on her body, neither on her arms nor legs nor underarms, without shaving Norma had always been sleek. Her legs were bare. I’ve often thought that this hairlessness, except for the abundance that flowed from her head, had something to do with her one-eighth Mapuche Indian blood. On a lesser body it would have looked the result of artifice. (The few pale, fine hairs on her cunt were noticeable only close up—and then only in good light.)

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 momentarily faded. The light turned it to a pale halo around her body. Norma’s wheat colored skin (trigueña in Spanish) showed peach-colored through the white where a breast, hip or buttock pressed (when I told her about the effect of the candles the following morning, her genuine, thoughtful surprise 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.

While my wife indicated to our guests where to sit, I served wine. When I came to her, 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, and hesitant, 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 a fine sweat that only enhanced her sensuality. The flames of the candles were caught as highlights in her black eyes.

The room was silent each time my wife dipped to fill a glass. Her dress’s thin shoulder strap loosened, and I noticed that 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. Her eyes fixed on the glass, she smiled softly all the while, blushing under the clearly welcome 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. The wine by now having reached every part of her body, especially her brain, she kissed my ear and pressed her body to mine, oblivious of the others.

We are both good hosts. When speaking to Norma the boys were courteous and respectful, until now content to fill only their eyes. They were full of stories, anxious to share them and eager to 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. She egged them on, always asking for more details. As she leaned forward, her lips parted and I’m sure the others were as fascinated as I with how the light played on the saliva glistening from her teeth and tongue. Norma bloomed under their gazes, heated by the collective interest of five fit, attractive men fresh from a conquering adventure (the half-page article with photos about their climb in the Clarín had praised them as professional climbers worthy of emulation by Argentina’s young).

Norma hung on their every word and they plugged into her electric presence, their vigor meeting hers. 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 the long bone and large muscle that only good genes make possible.)

“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’s—John Sebastian—who sat to Norma’s left, eagerly interrupted the others (I felt I could see him leaning across the table). “I wish you guys could see what happens when she walks behind you in front of the candles.” (Soon I found out that J.S. is a marathoner, as Norma was later able to testify.)

I listened to their remarks, voices husky with the longing many men have felt for Norma since she was a little girl (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 who dined with us 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 could hear the rattle of silverware, and then Eric's voice again, as if he'd just swallowed something.)

"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, followed by a silence that told me that he’d probably said what they all. The simple statement and the ensuing pause in conversation seeming to sum up how they felt. (I remember someone told me the next day that Arnie is a sometime professional hunting guide and SCUBA diver.)

Arnie continued quietly, his mind clearly focused on one thing. ”I didn’t get to see all of her with the light behind, like you guys did, but when she came by to collect the soup dish, instead of looking down the top of her dress again, I leaned back and got a good look at her ass. You know, I wouldn’t have taken a look like that, but I think her old man is egging us on—what do you think?”

(I thought that by now they would have suspected that I was turned on by their attention to my wife, and . . . they sounded happy to be where they were.)

For the first time I was able to recognize the voice of Clint, who sat to the right of me at the table. At 32, he was the old man of the team, normally silent, a private guy, maybe a loner, a 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, I took a kind of sideways glance into her top while she was filling my water glass. She looked up at me, square in the eyes—caught me, hands in the cookie jar. Know what hse did? She gave me a really sweet smile. Man, what a woman! You know? Watching her hug and kiss her husband is getting to me.”

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. I pulled the earphones down until they were snug over Norma's ears. I watched her face as the young men’s comments entered her. Her eyes flickered, a hand rose slowly to a breast, and her skin began to redden all over, the blush of arousal making her glow.

I hugged her. We kissed without breaking away, breathing each other in. I didn’t need to hear the comments any longer. I read the effect in Norma’s mouth.

Finally, I pulled away. Kneeling behind her, I left her to listen. I pressed my face to the backs of both her legs, sliding upward and under her dress, until her bottom covered my face, the weight of her cheeks warming mine. I stripped the panties down her legs, leaving them around her ankles, and slid my hands over her hips and waist, 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, most of her weight shifting onto my face and chest. Her body started to shake, and then the spasms of her climax jerked her pelvis hard onto me, straining my neck.

I held her full weight on me, feeling her honey spread until it covered all my face and I could feel it dripping down my throat and onto my chest. I let her sit on me until she could stand again.

(The next day, Norma told me that her climax there in the bedroom with me while she listened to the boys was that strong because of the perfect union of my mouth in her cunt, hands on her breasts and our guests’ comments. She turned on the recording from the night before and found the part she was referring to, so I could appreciate what had happened to her.)

“¿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 rough voice took over. “How could anybody 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. Have you noticed? Her dress has gotten wet and sticks to her. She’s leaking milk.” Everybody talked at once.

“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, it looks like she’s shaved.”

”Whoa, boys!” said JS. “Slow down. That’s his wife, we’re guests, and all this talk isn't relaxing me. Lighten up a bit, hey? I'm no different than you. My cock can’t find enough room in my shorts. So let's calm down, okay?”

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 too.”

“I'd like to find out,” said Mel, seriously.

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

Our guests awaiting us, I enjoyed the last of Norma’s climax–only guessing at the full reason for its power. I slid her panties up over her hips until the narrow strip was snug over her cunt and hiding again 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 with me in the bedroom for a while. But I pulled away, washed my face, neck and chest at the bathroom sink, and then returned to her. I led her by the hand to the stairs, to return to our places at the dining 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.

I took my place at the table, and said “My wife has always been for me the best dish at any meal.” My open declaration brought their eyes to mine, and I took the plunge, saying “I’m really happy you guys appreciate her. For any woman the best sauce to a meal is the admiration of men—and for me, a compliment.”

Finishing the fourth bottle of wine, we had, as a group, reached the stage where everyone feels he is the wisest, most entertaining and handsomest (or most beautiful) person in the world. The men were openly courting Norma.

Each time she went to the kitchen, they now openly followed her ass with their eyes, mouths paused on a morsel of food or a swallow of wine—mesmerized on her return by the shift, judder and sway of her breasts. (And, I'm sure, encouraged by the shy delight and pleased blush that suffused her face under their hungry stares.)

My wife talked, all eyes on her, her hands moving expressively and arms waving as she recounted little adventures of her own—once describing how terrified she'd been when the mainsail of our boat nearly took her overboard. We could see the remembered fright on her face, and then, an embarrassed laugh as just bvefore she told us, she remembered how she had been saved. She’d been stopped by the strap of her heavy duty bra getting caught on a gunwale cleat, and I'd pulled her back aboard before it broke.

It seemed we'd never stop laughing. Norma's release from awkwardness when she blurted out the last part, an intimate detail about her shared with everyone, broke the tension at the table. Her body shook with gales of laughter. The boys, some trying not to choke on food, others with their mouths wide, faces shiny with sweat, candlelight and amusement, never took their eyes from her.

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 continued talking. I was reminded that, when given the chance, women will talk on forever under a man’s appreciative gaze. And here she was, at table with five pair of hungry eyes for her to feed from. The men now looked at her without awkwardness, even vying with each other for her attention. They were now 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 to start her milk, when she was so full. The alcohol had loosened her tongue and made her much more sharing than she was when fully sober. 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 for 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 the top of his pants away from his belly and push his other hand inside, leisurely adjusting himself. Clint followed suit, letting his hand linger. When Norma looked up, the smile that had started on her face as she looked into his eyes froze, and she followed the progress of his hand as he slowly withdrew it.)

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

She replied like any girl from 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.

“Are we being rude? Do you want us to back off? Maybe we’re too personal?”

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

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

His normal reserve had deserted him, eagerness taking over. 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.

“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 babble, Norma shushed me. Está bien, Entiendo—Fine, I understand,” she said, and then giggled shyly.

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 was flat on the top of her breast, the other sliding smoothly forward under the heavy curve. Her fingers and thumb were far apart when she began at her armpit, closing as she slithered ahead, nearly touching as she stopped behind the nipple and we saw the long sprays of milk arc white in the candlelight. Some of the sprays were weak, turning to individual drops in the air, dribbling over her fingers or falling on her dress, the tablecloth, silverware, the side of my wine glass and the food on my plate, while others shot thick, the spray hissing loudly into the steaming cup. As her milk turned the coffee lighter and lighter, a white cap of cream floated to the surface.

The smile that softened Norma’s face glowed from her entire body. It told me that along with the rhythmic to and fro of her hand, the energy from six pair of male eyes were now part of her, drawing the milk from her as our twelve hands held her breast. Her smile. I thought of how the proteins, vitamins and calcium from my wife’s body would be savored in our mouths, pass through our throats and become part of all of us—perhaps contributing to the very fluid these young men’s bodies were now sending into their engorged their cocks, and stockpiling emergency stores of semen. 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, the rest of us eager in our chairs.

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 high, 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. Her smile seemed everywhere in her 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, the rest of us leaning forward.

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 returns 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 still, with Norma, I 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, 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, one after the other, 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 threw her dress over her back and 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 into her. Still seated but with his torso arching over the table, I could see in his face the iron purpose that had led his team to the top of Aconcagua. He dominated and held nothing back. Through my wife’s body I felt his every plunge in her throat. Luckily for me, each time he pushed his belly onto her face, the cheeks of her bottom clamped tight, her cunt swallowing me convulsively. 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 face 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. But at this moment, a corner of my mind feared for her).

Becoming notably harder than I had for many years, I drove into her. Mel began to jackhammer his hips against her, the muscles in his great arms working as he pulled her head hard onto him in time with each thrust. Using Norma’s body, I began matching his plunges, pushing toward him, through her cunt, as he forced himself into her throat. Trapped between us, like the sleeve on two pistons, Norma lent herself to our need. Arms outstretched, hands flat to the floor and knees apart—back swayed lower than mouth and tailbone—she “presented” at both ends. Her body quivered each time my hips slapped her bottom and Mel’s pubic bone bruised her lips. Her breasts shuddered and swung. She was whimpering that high-pitched cry of pleasure I love so much, taking in a sharp breath every time we disappeared into her.

Suddenly, Mel, stronger than I, used all the power in his back and arms to pull Norma’s sweet face fully on him, her mouth and nose flat to his body. He stopped moving. Lips drawn back from clenched teeth and eyes out of focus, he seemed in the throes of death. Norma’s back rose against a prolonged gag. From deep in her throat came a muffled, strangling sound, like a prolonged dry heave. That extra constriction around his cock must have prolonged his climax, for he was locked on the brink for what seemed forever. I feared Norma might choke. The cry forced up out of Mel when the first spasm took him rang from the walls of our living room.

Eyes unfocused, I took in everything at once. Lying prone in my chair, I saw both my wife’s body beneath the table and Mel’s face and upper body. Rigid, he looked on the brink of death. Every muscle in his body strained to pull her on him. Despite my fear for my wife, my cock swelled with the sweet fire I hadn’t enjoyed in years. The first convulsive lurch of Mel’s body triggered my climax. In the throes of our little deaths, Mel’s body and mine were suddenly joined by a humming moan from Norma’s throat that resonated everywhere. I thought it called both of us. My fingers desperate in the cheeks of her wonderful bottom, I cupped my hips under to push my balls onto her clitoris. Through Norma’s body I became aware of Mel’s spasms into her. Each time a small grunt came from her and her she clamped around me. I have no idea if it was deliberate or a natural reaction to the force of mel's ejaculations. In the candlelight I saw her asshole, red and strained, pushed out each time the full weight of her body pushed back against me. Thinking that maybe in a small corner of her mind she was still conscious of me, the triumphal rage I hadn’t felt in years of totally dominating a woman rose in me, and my overload went into her in a single all-out shot, a stream of fire out of the serpent in my brain and through my spine, a primal fury to fill her womb.

Mouth still wide, Mel was wracked by another tight spasm. Each time I felt Norma's body forced back on me by his body emptying another full-bore shot into her throat, his gave a guttural grunt. Body jerking forward with each ejaculation, he curled closer over the table. Our guest’s body, wracked with spasms, injected her time and again. Hardened by years of preparation, two weeks of tortuous effort on South America’s highest mountain, and certainly filled with the unspent semen made in dreams at night since meeting Norma (knowing he would see her on his return, and goaded this long evening under the call of my wife’s cheerfully flaunted body) he was loaded and seemingly insatiable. Toward the end, hunched over the table, hips still insistent with each spurt into my wife’s willing mouth and his eyes closed, he pushed aside his plate and laid his face on the table cloth. Each contraction that sped more semen into my wife shook Mel’s body. And each time Norma’s belly convulsed, tightening the pink flower of her asshole. It seemed to wink at me in the candlelight. In the dying throes of my climax, I too leaned forward, face to the tablecloth I’d flipped over my food. I found her breasts with both hands and held her. The exhausted peace that comes at close of a shattering climax settled through me. Her bottom snuggling against me to not lose my softening cock, Norma backed off Mel. As if coming up after a long dive in deep water, she arched her back, like a cat stretching, and dragged in air. Her experience as a SCUBA diver had brought an unexpected bonus.

When Mel stood, JS eagerly took his place. I saw that out of the sinew of Mel’s thighs and ridged plane of his abdomen, his cock was still so hard that it bobbed in the air. The veins stood out and Norma’s saliva glistened the entire length of it. In the candlelight his pubic hair and belly were matted with my wife’s spit and his sweat, her drool dripping from his balls. In that split second appraisal I saw none of his cum. A man’s semen was magical for Norma. She’d kept Mel's.

I looked under the table and between my legs. Lungs full again, Norma now rested her face and breasts to the floor, leaving her bottom high, between my legs and beyond the edge of the table, bathed in candlelight. I have never seen her more desirable. Like a jewel, a fat, white glob of my semen nestled in the crimson lips of her cunt. Her asshole was relaxed now, and rosy. I kept a staying hand on her bottom as I rose from my place.

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 then the 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 lay 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.

Still up to the hilt in Norma, Arnie’s cock had a white collar of cum around it. Dazed and staring where he entered her, he said, “I couldn’t hold back.” I slipped in and that was it.” Paused by Arnie’s disappointment, and his need to simply sit a moment, Mel, his successor, hovered at his side.

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. I told our guests 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 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 (she told me once that for her it felt like she was kissing his balls with her cunt as he unloaded onto her). The pressure of her lover’s ejaculation was sometimes so strong, with his cock pressed hard between their bodies and compressed by the cheeks of her ass, that his semen shot up her back inside her dress. By the time she’d reached our table again, it had dribbled down over her bottom. Her dress would stick to her as she walked. Once, my wonderful lady allowed a North American basketball player to fill her mouth while they danced in the early morning hours of this just past spring in a dancehall in the fashionable district of Palermo. She told me he was so tall that she merely had to lower her head to accommodate him. She returned to the table radiant, and unknown to her until I told her later, a gobbet of his cum was visible just below a corner of her mouth.

Once, Norma told me that she was sure that I would have liked sucking the other man’s cock. I tried that on the following occasion--with a lifelong friend visiting from Winnipeg, with whom I'd had a couple of boyhood experiments with, who had come to our wedding in Montreal. On meeting Norma he had fallen instantly, shyly in love with her, bewitched from the moment we met him at Jorge Chavez International Airport.

Later, after dinner, I lay under them, My wife on all fours, me looking up at his thighs and cock and balls as he fumbled to find his way into her. Without thinking, I pulled his cock down to wet it with my mouth and guide him into her. I found his cock filling my mouth in that brief moment an amazing turn-on (He told me later that it was an involuntary reaction to the heat of my mouth that he had plunged it straight down, forcing it into my throat, his balls covering my nose and almost, my eyes.

Much of the time he was pounding into her, she kissed him over her shoulder, still kissing him afterward, embracing him while she sat on my face and, whether on purpose or not, pushed his cum down into my mouth.

The circle of shared intimacy between the three of us was the ingredient missing in my life that now completed my own sexual need, one that I suspect completed Norma’s and our friend’s also. What she received from the men who admired her could now fill me too, our passion more intimate every time we were with someone else. Norma’s feminine being now an extension of my sexuality. Sharing her from then on has been an always-renewing boost to my passion for her.

NJ couple

Looking to make friends. Meet us in Atlantic City.

Ill do your wife if thats what you want Jack.

watching buddy fuck my asian g/f

we are not swingers by definition but we love to be kinky. we are both 29. she is a hot little filipina, 5'2", 115lbs, dark skin, c-cups, tight ass and legs, med lenth black hair. we've been together since high school and i used to be real insecure about her dressing so sexy i would get into fights in the mall all the time. she would always dress so sexy, borderline slutty, that guys would stare and say stuff to her right in front of me. in retrospect, i understand now. i do the same thing now.
ironically, my biggest fear became my biggest turn-on. i love to show her off and i always let her tease other men. i'm not sure how this came about. i was her first and she never even dated anyone but me. i guess that's what made this so taboo. i think it all started when we broke up for a short time. when we started talking again, she told me about her adventures w/ other men in nite clubs. she told me how she would dance on the tables w/ her short skirt and all of the guys would gather around her and stare up her skirt. on another occasion, she was dancing w/ 2 guys while both of them had their hands up her skirt and were groping and fingering her the whole time. once she told me, i was shocked and angry at first but then i realized i had to embrace this if i wanted to be w/ her and it turned me on tremendously. from that point on, i began to pursue my new fantasy w/ her. it began w/ having sex in public places so people would see her getting fucked, which happen a lot. i loved it. whenever she would wear he slutty outfits while we were driving, i would always drive alongside a truck driver and let them stare at her tits and look up her skirt. while she was sitting her skirts would always ride-up, giving them a great view.
eventually, i asked my best friend to fuck my girl. he nearly went into shock. i knew he always lusted after her so he obviously accepted. it took a long time for them to feel comfortable around eachother. they were both shy, believe it or not. my girl knew my plan and said she would not do it at first but she gave in and loves it now. they fuck all of the time for over 2 yrs now. i love just watching and listening to them fuck. i even videotape them. my friend only knows that i watch but not record them. my girls knows and we watch the tapes together before we fuck. it really makes her wet. since i knew my friend was clean, i let him fuck my girl raw, no condom. it is so hot watching my buddy fuck my school sweetheart doggy style, w/ no condom. it is just so crazy and unnatural which makes it so erotic. i told him if he ever cums inside her, i will kill him. he is very cautious because he does not want to ruin what he has. he will always pull out and shoot his load on her or on the bed. sometimes he will just wipe his dick off and keep fucking her after cumming. he has got it maid. he does not have to take her out or pay for her. he just comes over, fucks the shit out of her all night, and then leaves. we do this almost every weekend. it never gets old. we are engaged now and they still have really hot sex. i have great sex w/ my girl too. she is very lucky to have such great sex w/ two guys. we will probably keep doing this into our marriage. my girl just feels bad for my friend because she thinks the great sex they have will keep him from finding a good girlfriend for himself.
my girl and i are still planning to go to a swing club. we just want to have sex there w/ eachother first, just so we see how we feel there. she cannot promise me she will have sex w/ a stranger. i don't want to push her to either. she will let other guys kiss her and eat her out though and watch us fuck.
i can go on forever about her so feel free to ask any questions. i have pics of her also.

I had a gf in college who I encouraged to suck/fuck as much cock as she possibly could. She just had to tell me afterwards. I would love to find a girl into that kind of freedom again but I am in Dallas and the girls I have met don't seem to be into that.

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here is a pic of my girl from my prevous post. not the best but it's worth looking at to help w/ my post.

Well Hubby and I have been swingers for a little over 9 years now. I have had a few gang bangs Hubby woule set them up for my Birthday in Florida and we have had a lot of great 3 somes with 2 men and with hubby and a girl. we have had a couple girl frends who went every where with us and a couple guy frends who did too. the best was my 21st birthday hubby set up a gang bang at a swingers club near Daytona beach Fla called the Playgr0und I got 14 guys and 8 girls and each of the guys did me at lest 2 times and a couple did 3 and one guy was able to fuck me 5 times that night. needless to say i was very very full of cum and left a big mess in the seat of the car on the way back to out hotel.

njcouple27 said:

here is a pic of my girl from my prevous post. not the best but it's worth looking at to help w/ my post.

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hey NJ couple your girl if fine as hell.

I'll raise you one bump.

Hey NJ

Whataya mean "not the best"?? Man, she's damn hot!! Show some more!

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don't mean to change the subject but thanks for the compliments fellas. here's one more pic of her on the beach in the bahamas.

Jenni, I was really interested in what you wrote below (have you read what I wrote about my wife, Norma, and me above?). I'm curious, did you let all those 14 guys cum in you? That's 22 loads in you by my estimate--about a third of a cup of cum! Did the risk-taking add to your excitement? Or is there some way of varifying that your partners there are guaranteed clean? We let the five mountain climbers cum in Norma at the height of her ovulation maybe a total of 20 times in the 16 or so hours they were with us, but then waited and hoped the next couple of weeks while we waited for her period to come, which, miraculously, it did. We had wanted another child, and since I was unable to oblige her for a couple of reasons, any one of the climbers would have been ideal.

jade1033 said:

Well Hubby and I have been swingers for a little over 9 years now. I have had a few gang bangs Hubby woule set them up for my Birthday in Florida and we have had a lot of great 3 somes with 2 men and with hubby and a girl. we have had a couple girl frends who went every where with us and a couple guy frends who did too. the best was my 21st birthday hubby set up a gang bang at a swingers club near Daytona beach Fla called the Playgr0und I got 14 guys and 8 girls and each of the guys did me at lest 2 times and a couple did 3 and one guy was able to fuck me 5 times that night. needless to say i was very very full of cum and left a big mess in the seat of the car on the way back to out hotel.

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MilkFountain said:

Jenni, I was really interested in what you wrote below (have you read what I wrote about my wife, Norma, and I above?). I'm curious, did you let all those 14 guys cum in you? That's 22 loads in you by my estimate--about a third of a cup of cum! Did the risk-taking add to your excitement? Or is there some way of varifying that your partners there are guaranteed clean? We let the five mountain climbers cum in Norma at the height of her ovulation maybe a total of 20 times in the 16 or so hours they were with us, but then waited and hoped the next couple of weeks while we waited for her period to come, which, miraculously, it did. We had wanted another child, and since I was unable to oblige her for a couple of reasons, any one of the climbers would have been ideal.

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Yes this is a thing I always wonder about these days Jenni and milkFountain... allowing the guys to go in bare back and cum inside the woman... rubber sex is no fun, I hate condoms, and hate having to insist on them with Julie and other men, I much prefer her spunked right up to the hilt and very sloppy when I take my turn with her after the others have had enough of her... But they are esential these days with strangers, trusted friends get to go in bare though still... When we started out on the swing and multi partner trail there was no AIDS risk to speak of, it was just a rare disease across the other side of the world we'd hardly heard of... Julie prefers a good spunk soaking when she's playing hard, it helps with lubrication and she can go much longer without the need to grease up... She produces plenty of love juice, gallons of it, but after a few hours she does begin to dry up and become sore without added spunk lubricant as she loses the natural fluid in her body with over use.

Julie's record as far as we can remember of the crazy weekend and count up later, was about 14 or 15 guys over a Friday night and Saturday most of the day, she would have been about 28 then and we had two kids at that time... It began at a party when she volunteered to be the nights entertainment for all the guys who wanted her and spent a couple of hours in a bedroom being fucked by all of them in turn, and then went on back at our house after the party when guys came and went for seconds and thirds as they pleased through the remainder of the night and all next day... Don't ask how many times she was actually penetrated and fucked by a cock, we have no idea, we both lost count of that minor detail very quickly in the excitement... but the spunk was pouring out of her, it was all over her, back and front, her hair was matted with it, and she was a total mess, covered with marks and bruises, sore as hell down below, both holes... but she was very happy.

I love this thread.....
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