The Eskimos Have It Right

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. I saw Arnie's and Eric's tongues flick out to moisten their lips.

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

Van a pensar mal de mí—"They'll think badly of me," she said.

I kissed the side of her breast.

I translated for the men, asking them if they minded having Norma's milk for their coffees. Then, when I attempted translating their 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 apparent they were eager. "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, at once protected and free to explore She nodded her head once. "Okay," she said. I'd learned. When my wife decided to do something, she never looked back.

We watched. Norma put down a saucer and cup she'd lifted, took a deep breath, and quickly lifted her left breast, slipping the other hand over it and into her bodice. We saw her work her hand down. Once her fingers were under it, she lifted the entire breast free from her dress.

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 rubbery 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.

She had caught us up in her innocent pleasure. I looked around the table. Like hers, our guests' faces were flushed and shining, their eyes reflecting Norma's delight. But in their depths I saw 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 and the tablecloth and my food, while others shot thick, the spray hissing loudly into the steaming cup. As her milk rose to the surface, it slowly turned the black liquid lighter and lighter, leaving the cream to float on the surface. 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. 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 to engorge 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 talked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Norma began to laugh. Others joined in. She sat with her hands in her lap, laughing so hard that her shoulders shook and tears wet her cheeks. Still serious, and now notably disconcerted, J.S. asked her to sit still, that she was shaking her breasts too much, which only made her laugh more. He tried not to laugh, but after a moment gave up entirely. Calming down somewhat, Norma said, "Okay, okay," and raised her arms to push the sleeves of her dress down and off her arms, freeing them to rest on the backs of the men's chairs on either side of her. Her dress settled around her waist.

Under the table, I unzipped my pants and brought my cock out through the front opening of my underpants (I don't get hard very often anymore, and when I do, it's not the way it used to be, nor does it last long enough, but 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. I'm so full I can't move. Would you get it for me?" 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 exaggerated care of anyone who's had a bit to drink, she carefully slipped to the floor, kneeled, 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, breaking rhythm, caught his breath. Stronger than I, using all the power in his back and arms in a final death-grip, he pulled Norma's sweet face fully on him and stopped. Norma, her mouth and nose pressed tight to his body, and—as she told me later—his cock suddenly swollen more than before, arched her back up in a prolonged, silent gag. It must have constricted her throat around his cock, prolonging his climax, because the cry forced up out of Mel was frightening. For the first time I feared for Norma.

My eyes unfocused, I took in everything at once. Lying prone in my chair, I watched both my wife's expectant body and Mel's face. His eyes closed and body rigidly on the brink of death, every muscle 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. Ripened beyond the breaking point, I saw the first convulsive lurch of Mel's body. 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 throughout her body. It called to both of us. My fingers desperate in the cheeks of her wonderful bottom, I cupped my hips under to feel my balls push onto her clitoris. I saw and, through Norma's body, felt Mel's next shot into her. As Norma's hum became a whine, she pushed back on me and clamped my cock with all its strength. In the candlelight I saw her asshole, red and strained, pushed out with the effort to take me all in. Knowing in that moment that a small corner of her mind 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 surging from my brain, through my spine, and out my cock, to fill her womb.

Teeth clamped, Mel was wracked by another tight spasm. Then, his mouth opened, breath forced from him in a guttural grunt as his body emptied the first of full-bore shots into her. His body jerking forward with each ejaculation, he curled closer over the table. I saw our guest's unbelievably strong body inject 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. With each spasm that wracked Mel's body, Norma's belly convulsed, tightening her asshole, making it seem to wink at me in the candlelight. In the dying throes of my climax, I leaned forward, my face pressing the tablecloth I'd flipped over my food, to find her breasts with both my hands. The exhausted peace that comes at close of a shattering climax swept through me. Settling her bottom against me, Norma backed off Mel. As if coming up after a long dive in deep water, she arched her back and dragged in air, followed by several more heaving breaths. Her training as a SCUBA diver had come in handy!.