The Eskimos Have It Right

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.

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

Two days after giving birth to our daughter, Norma's breasts were swollen with milk. From then on her nipples were always fat and distended. She was so spectacular in production that at the end of three 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). Earlier she'd complained about feeling naked in the cool air of the air-conditioned bedroom, but there had really been little to see. But, she had been in a mood of formality, hostess in her own home to five successful young men. Unconvinced by my pleas to not wear something underneath, she yielded to my argument that she would preserve the classical lines of the dress she loved so much by not interrupting them with distracting underwear. She did insist on panties. When I saw the thin white ones she chose, I was happy—they were invisible beneath the dress.

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

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

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

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

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

We are both good hosts. When speaking to Norma the boys were courteous and respectful, content to fill 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. Norma bloomed under their gazes, heated by the collective interest of five fit, attractive men fresh from a conquering adventure (a half-page article with photos about their climb had appeared in the Clarín). She hung on every word and they plugged into her electric presence with their vigor closing the circuit. They competed not only as men among men, but as friends vying for her attention. Our evening was developing into one of those to look back on happily. When Norma excused herself from the table, and I saw that she climbed the stairs and was probably headed for a bathroom, I too excused myself, and followed her—but went directly to our bedroom.

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

"She can sit on my face anytime!" (The voice of Eric, a true Viking, an authentic lion, muscular and long-boned.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I sure would like to find out," Mel's slow voice cut in.

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

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

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

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

A couple of our guests had become more personal in their attention to my wife. Mel, sure of himself, had started gently enough, asking my wife about our baby girl, Fatima, then asked about if she enjoyed breast-feeding. Norma was off, now delighted to talk about anything with our new friends, but like any woman, especially about herself. Soon she was explaining how difficult it was in the mornings 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.