Norma, Eskimos Have it Right Ch. 01

(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 and love for her, allowed me at that moment to enjoy in her all sexuality.

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 a couple of liters in the fridge and 2 or 3 in the pantry floor freezer. A sweet Mona Lisa smile lighting her face, Norma tried to hide how pleased she was 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.

This all led up to the evening that became an orgy. . . .