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The Eskimo

By: ukresearcher



Note: Back in 2006, having accumulated a collection of stories I had written for my own pleasure, I decided to start putting them on Literotica but had only submitted a handful when a computer disaster caused me to lose the lot. Fortunately some instinct told me to hang on to the storage medium and now improved technology has enabled the recovery of all but three of the tales I can remember writing. I intend to start submitting roughly one every week until all are online







My CV reads, John Caine, aged 35, Degree in marketing at Hull University with current employment being that of negotiator for a minor oil company. It would also say that I have been married for ten years with no children or other dependants. Checking my passport will tell you that I am six feet tall, of medium build with no birth-marks or other distinguishing features and a glance at the photograph reveals a serious but not unhandsome clean-shaven face sporting brown hair and blue eyes.

The CV would not show that the degree was a second and barely scraped (and that after promising beginnings) and nor would it indicate that I had been plucked from obscurity for the negotiator position, having spent an uninspired twelve years with the company. I have been lucky, lucky in inheriting a nice house and incredibly lucky in the wife I managed to acquire.

I met Sally when she was twenty, falling first for her baby-blue eyes and masses of wavy golden hair. Further investigation revealed breasts just on the modest side of voluptuous, narrow waist, pert buttocks and legs designed for min-skirts – is it any wonder that I quickly became enamoured of her. Strangely she was also quite keen on me. When we became an item she confessed to having had sex with two guys previously, maintaining that although not one night stands they were not real relationships. Since then she claimed to have kept her knees strictly together. My sexual experience was about average for a bloke of my age – hell I'm trying to be honest here – I reckon that my sexual experience was well below average. Still, I had learned some ways to please a woman and over the next eleven years, Sally and I built considerably upon that.

We married after a year of just living together but found that we were to be denied the pleasure of having children. This was a pity because my wife was very child oriented and has compensated since by always working in nursery education. The inheritance of a nice house from a favourite uncle soon after the wedding removed a lot of financial pressure and possibly explains my lack of dedication to career advancement. However, the remuneration from my position as sub-manager combined with my wife's salary meant that we were comfortable while still needing to count the pennies at times. We could afford the almost obligatory holiday abroad each year and a reasonable amount of socialising. Apart from that we liked to screw, it was our only real hobby and it cost nothing.

A year ago I was told to go to the managing director's office and I went filled with trepidation, thinking that this could only mean redundancy. In the office, he grasped my hand in a very firm handshake and said, "John, it's nice to see you again and how is your lovely wife?"

"Fine," I mumbled. I had only ever passed the MD in the corridor and as far as I knew he had never seen Sally, except perhaps at the firm's Xmas dances.

"Let me put you out of your misery John – this is a promotion. One of our executive negotiators has retired and you have been chosen to replace him."

"Me?" I asked, totally bemused.

"Yes you. We have been keeping an eye on you for a long time and although you are careful to keep a low profile, I can tell that you are a company man through and through."

Now over the years I had put the overtime when occasion demanded but had never volunteered unnecessarily for any. However, I suddenly realised that during my time with the firm, although brighter sparks had joined, passed me and left, I was the only one in the office who had been there when I started. "Yes – I'm a company man," I said.

It was incredible. I was installed in a plush office complete with secretary, given a flash company car, discounted share options, non-contributory pension, and was on more than twice the remuneration. With potential bonuses, I could easily triple my old salary. Sally was pleased but also suspicious. "There has got to be a catch," she said.

She was wrong – there was no catch. Three months passed. I saw a few customers, passed pieces of paper backwards and forwards across my desk and spent a lot of time gazing out of the window. One day the MD poked his head round the door and said, "It's too nice a day to be stuck inside, John. I am going for a quick nine holes on the course, drop whatever you are doing and join me." 

"I'm afraid that I don't play golf," I told him.

"Come anyway," he said. "You better learn damn quick, if not you are going to go crazy stuck in that office all day with sod all to do."

At my next official meeting in his office, I could tell that it was something special from the maps and piles of documents on his usually empty desk. "Have you travelled much," he asked.

"Quite extensively," I said. "Mainly Caribbean, Greek islands – that sort of thing."

"Ever fancied going to the Arctic Circle?"

I had to admit, that particular destination had never figured on my wish list.

"What about Lapland – that's pretty close to the arctic."

"Why do you ask?"

"I've got a job for you John, a big job," he told me. "We are chasing the largest contract that the firm has ever had. I know that it is rather throwing you in at the deep end but all the other negotiators are up to their eyes at the moment. The thing is – do you think you can handle it."

"I will do my best," I said.

"Good man, I knew that I could count on you. There's this chap called Gunnar Erikson – that's actually the Norwegian translation of his name. He is a full blooded Inuit, (that's Eskimo), and he's a chief. We are hoping to exploit the oil and mineral reserves under part of his tribal lands. I want you go up there, meet him and have a look around. Take some photographs, ask questions – you know the kind of thing. The most important thing is that you keep him sweet – those chaps can be a bit touchy if you know what I mean."

"Is there anything else that I should know?"

"Not much. You don't go until the end of next week so you have time to read up on it – get a book out of the library. Do remember that you are not dealing with a savage, this Gunnar got a first class honours degree at Oslo university and he can speak five languages fairly fluently – that's Inuit, English, French, Norwegian and I think Russian."

Sally was exited for me and we both felt that my career in the new job was taking off at last. Her final words before I left were "Be good," to which I replied, "I doubt it there is any alternative where I'm going."

I flew by standard airline to Norway and from there, in a chartered four-seater, on to Lapland. 

It was the back end of their short summer but I thought that it was cold. Gunnar Erikson met me and he was a typical Eskimo. Lank black hair, a flat slightly Asiatic face and a nose squashed as if by the heel of someone's hand, but he still had a kind of rugged grandeur. The only thing that detracted from the traditional image was that he wore a suit rather than the expected furs. His size was impressive because, although a couple of inches shorter, I reckon that he outweighed me by a good 40%. I was to note later it was all solid muscle. This bulk made him appear squat despite his height and he had a slight waddling motion as he walked.

My flight had been delayed so Gunnar suggested that he take me straight back to his home for a meal and that we should cram all of my sightseeing into the following day. I had half expected to be taken to an igloo but the house turned out to be a very substantial log cabin. The food was a national dish of which I could not identify the contents but found it both palatable and filling. His wife, Gunhilda, was larger than he. She was young because I could detect the undoubted bloom of youth on her skin – but was she big. Her pendulous breasts were at least a 50 D cup; I could see no identifiable waist and her tight pink ski pants hardly enhanced those elephantine thighs.

Gunnar explained that his wife had only Inuit and Norwegian so that if I wanted to speak to her, then he would need to act as interpreter. We spent a pleasant evening chatting and drinking, with the alcohol being some potent local brew. Unusually it seemed to enervate rather than induce my customary drowsiness. Gunnar was a very interesting man, talking at length about things I had only read about. He asked about me and gazed for a long time at the photographs of Sally that I proudly showed him. Our childlessness drew his sympathy and commiseration's because he said that he had several offspring, I gathered to different mothers. This was probably a prerogative of his being a chief. 

Gunhilda retired early and kissed him before departing. They did not actually rub noses but kissed with faces head on without the usual tilt to the side. Gunnar ran his hand down her arm with obvious affection. I could not help comparing her to Sally and thinking smugly 'Each to his own'.

In the bedroom I found that I had forgotten to note a position for the light switch when unpacking my bags. As it was not in the obvious place by the side of the door, I decided to undress in the semi-darkness rather than grope about searching. Almost naked, I noticed a large mound already in the bed and with a feeling of horror realised that it had to be Gunnar's wife. Assuming that I must have blundered into the wrong room, I dashed outside to check the door and as that was correct, I crept back to find that my kit was where I had left it. Panicking I looked towards the bed. The covers had been thrown back to reveal that it was indeed Gunhilda, she was naked and she was beckoning to me. With no other real option I got into bed, but instead of sleeping naked, decided to retain my boxer shorts. It was a large, very old fashioned bed with a deep feather mattress. I lay facing outwards, as near to the edge of the bed as I could. After a few moments, the lady heaved herself into the centre of the bed creating such a depression in the mattress that, had I not gripped the edge of the bed frantically then I must surely have rolled down on top of her. She lay close behind me for a very long time making a sort of mewing noise but then returned to her own side of the bed. An hour or so later, she got up and left me alone, when I finally dare to go to sleep.

Next morning I arose and went happily along to the large dining kitchen. Gunnar's face was like thunder and I could not help thinking, how easily he could break me in half if ever I really annoyed him. Trying to ignore his bad mood I said brightly, "Good morning Gunnar, what nice places are you planning to show me?"

"I show you nothing after such an insult," he said through tight lips. "A man who spits on my hospitality – for what does he use my house. I show you nothing. I give you nothing. I will take you to the airport now."

Completely puzzled, I felt that he had been looking partly past me so I glanced over my shoulder to see Gunhilda, sitting by the fire and looking coyly at me. Then I knew how I had upset him. "Gunnar, I am so very sorry," I said. "It is all a terrible misunderstanding. I was trying not to abuse your hospitality – it was not meant as a refusal."

He was still not sure. "You like my Gunhilda then?"

"Oh yes, Bon, Bon," I said, for some reason switching to the only word of French that I know.

To emphasise, I pursed my lips in a silent whistle as if his wife was the most gorgeous creature in the world then kissed my finger tips and pretended to blow the kisses in the air.

His mouth split into a broad grin, "You are a man after my own heart, I can do business with you."

That was one obstacle overcome but another one awaited me. I found that breakfast was roll-mop herrings and the thought of that delicacy had always revolted me. With grim determination I managed to get one down my throat but then pushed the rest of the plateful away saying that I was not very hungry and could I perhaps have a slice of toast instead. Gunnar accepted my suggestion with delight. He took a slice of pre-cooked toast and then produced a small tin with great ceremony. It contained what looked like grey fish paste and, using what appeared to be a special knife, he spread it thickly on the browned bread, then pushed the treat slowly across the table, as if to accentuate the honour done me. It tasted vile. Had I know then, that the 'paste' was raw fish which had been buried for months in the ground until rotted, I would have had even more trouble controlling my heaving stomach.

Gunnar drove me from place to place during the day and I dutifully took photographs wherever we stopped. He seemed impervious to the cold but I felt constantly chilled. I knew that I needed to ask questions but could not think what they should be. My first attempt was a disaster when I asked "What exactly is under the ground here?" He looked at me quizzically and said, "Surely your people know the answer to that far better than I." After that I tried to make my queries more sensible but with no better success for the answers were either non-committal or ambiguous and, on the few occasions I was given a serious answer, the detail went right over my head. None-the-less, I carefully went through the motion of writing down notes.

Again the meal that night was tasty but mysterious and I half wondered if the tender if stringy meat might be caribou. The evening passed as before and there was a repeat of the tender goodnight between my host and his wife. During the day I had been so busy trying to appear erudite; I had almost forgotten I had another night's 'hospitality' to face. Now that knowledge returned with great urgency. I had a vague plan of trying to keep talking and drinking well into the early hours but Gunnar countered this by starting to yawn in an exaggerated manner, very soon after his wife had departed. With no other option, I retired to bed.

The mound in the bed told me that Gunhilda was waiting. With no further point in procrastination, I undressed completely and got in. To gather myself, I lay for a moment on my back only to be assailed by was I assumed was her body smell - to my imagination it seemed a mixture of candle tallow and animal skins. I could have said 'Geronimo', instead in more classical vein I muttered, 'It is a far far better thing I do today than I have ever done' and turned towards her. I could feel the heat from her body as she moved towards me and in a moment, one of her big nipples was digging into me like a finger. My hand moved in the direction her groin, it was like a furnace and her gaping wet cunt seemed to suck my fingers inside. Then a funny thing happened. That objectionable smell changed to pure musk, I was overpoweringly aware of that vast mass of female flesh and I found myself with a full erection.

Her hand quickly found it and she pulled me on top of her. My prick hardly touched the sides but, from a purely physical point of view, I found the experience surprisingly enjoyable. Later, hoping for an encore, she pressed close against me but I had done my duty and snored loudly to discourage her.

Next morning Gunnar was overjoyed that I had pleasured his wife. "A real woman don't you think?" he said winking lewdly at me. 

I was allowed a pleasant breakfast of seabird eggs with toast but I suspect that the butter had not come from a cow. When it came time to leave, Gunnar shook my hand and said, "Tell your boss that we will do business."

On the plane flying home, I composed a report using my lap-top in which I detailed my investigations. Long ago I had acquired the knack of filling a page with meaningful words that said nothing. The dearth of real information did not matter for the important bottom line read, 'Mr Erikson has agreed to enter into meaningful negotiations concerning the mineral resources under his tribal lands."

Sally welcomed me home happily and this turned to joy when I told her of my success. Despite my tiredness from travelling, we enjoyed a long night of uninhibited sex during which I had the light on continually to see her lovely figure. Next morning I printed off my report and handed it to the MD without comment, waiting in anticipation until he reached the punch-line. The news quickly spread and during the rest of the day people were constantly coming into my office to offer their congratulations. My boss made a point of seeing me again at the end of the day and summed it up by saying, "Congratulations again John, it's not in the bag yet but you have made a brilliant start."

During the next few days Sally was eager to hear more details about my trip north and while describing Gunnar extensively, I was pleased that she never asked about his wife.

Following that flurry of excitement the rest of the month was anti-climax until the MD told me that Gunnar was coming down to view our operation.

"There is only one snag, John," he told me. "Gunnar does not like hotels and in principal it is my responsibility to entertain him. The trouble is that my house is being extensively redecorated and Gunnar will be here in three days. I am actually in a hotel myself at the moment."

"No problem," I said. "I am sure that we can put him up for a couple of days." My confidence proved sound because Sally was happy to agree, gaining satisfaction that this involved her in the deal.

Next the MD wanted to see me again and this time he seemed uneasy. "When you were in Lapland, do you mind telling me what the sleeping arrangements were."

I gave an embarrassed laugh. "Actually they were a bit unusual. Both nights, Gunnar's wife was in my bed, at least for part of the time."

"Did you sleep with her?"

"Yes – I told you. She was in my bed."

"Don't be obtuse John. You know what I mean. Did you sleep with her?"

"Yes," I confessed. "The second night I did – I had to. Gunnar made it pretty obvious that if I didn't, the whole deal was off."

The MD looked out of the window. "I was afraid of that," he said. "You do realise that Gunnar will expect you to reciprocate."

With a sinking feeling, I still tried to deny this conclusion. "Gunnar is very proud of his wife and I think this was his way of showing her off. That was in his country anyway – he can't expect the same kind of thing to happen here."

"I am pretty sure that he will John. It is an old Inuit custom. Gunnar may seem very civilised on the surface but underneath he is a primitive as they come."

"It's not on," I said firmly.

"Think about this John," the MD said. "There is too much tied up in this to just dismiss the matter out of hand. I think we ought to get your wife here to discuss the matter – she is involved after all. I will send a car for her now." As he spoke my boss reached out for the telephone.

I managed to persuade him that it would be far better for me to dash home and talk to Sally by myself. "This is all a bit silly," I told her. "It seems that there is an old Inuit custom that a host offers a guest the use of his wife for the night. There is a possibility that Gunnar might expect to sleep with you while he is here. Just say that you won't do it and that will be the end of the matter."

"What happens if I refuse, as you ask?"

"The whole deal will be off but that doesn't come into it."

"Wait a minute," Sally said thoughtfully. "If you didn't sleep with his wife, I don't understand how he can expect to sleep with yours."

I reddened and was unable to reply. Sally gazed at me with understanding on her face. "You did didn't you, you bastard. You screwed his wife."


The Eskimo



"I had to. The deal was off if I didn't. Anyway – she was horrible."

"So you say," Sally snapped back angrily. "Then when I meet her she turns out to be a blonde Valkyrie in a seal-skin bikini."

"She really was gross. Big and fat – I reckon that she must weight three times as much as you."

"If you screwed her to save the deal then why on earth shouldn't I do the same with him?"

"Because I don't want you to," I said.

"Fuck you, I am going to do it," she told me.

Of course I argued against but I could tell that her mind was set. I gave up for then while still intending to return to the attack later. "OK, I'll ring the MD and tell him that Gunnar can still stay with us," I conceded.

"Go into work and tell him the good news face to face," Sally instructed. "It will give you time to sort your head out and get this thing in perspective."

The MD was ecstatic, pumping my hand he enthused, "Good work, good work. You must have been very persuasive." He also told me to take the rest of the time off work until it was time to collect my guest from the airport."

I returned home still unable to accept the idea. After putting up with my muttering for a while, Sally said, "It's only fair, Johnny. If you fucked his wife then he must be entitled to do the same to me."

"That argument doesn't work," I told her. "He wanted me to do it. Gunnar is very proud of his wife and that was his way of showing her off."

"Aren't you proud of me?"

"You know I am. But I am proud just to have them look at you - a man doesn't need to get his dick inside you, to know what a cracker you are." That was a good sentence but I foolishly tried to embellish it. "You see that is Gunnar's problem. His wife looks so gross that you have to have sex with her to appreciate her merits."

"So that is how she was, all hot and eager and panting," Sally said with a grim smile. "I had decided to only to the minimum, just lie back and think of England - or more probably the bonus. Now I am going to give your Gunnar full value for money - I'm certainly not going to be outdone by some Eskimo tart." 

My misery was compounded by the fact that Sally had drawn up a list of tasks to complete, saying that she wanted the house to be immaculate when our guest arrived. She had banked on me being given absence from work for on two of the following days while she was on duty at the nursery. Polishing, cleaning and hoovering, I had to work myself into a frazzle to get the work done but at times it did take my mind off what was to come. However, I could not get over the irony that I was doing all this to impress a man who would finish up fucking my wife. 

Using an open cheque provided by my firm, we stocked up on pickled roll-mops and other Scandinavian delicacies. At the airport Gunnar seemed very pleased to see me and mentioned that Gunhilda asked to be remembered. For the sake of the contract, I tried to be pleasant in return, suppressing my newly found antipathy towards him. At home he was very gallant towards Sally and that irritated me. Finding myself alone with her in the kitchen for a moment, I said spitefully, "Now that you have seen what you've let yourself in for, I hope you are having second thoughts."

"No second thoughts – in fact I think that he is rather handsome," she said. What upset me most, I think, was the look of excitement in her eyes.

During the evening, I found it very difficult to make conversation but my wife more than made up for the shortfall. In fact she chatted to him in a very animated fashion, quite leaving me in the shade. Observing when I was not the centre of Gunnar's attention, I noticed that his heavily muscled thighs were so thick that they made his legs looked short. There was no doubt that he radiated physical power. I was seething inside. His eyes just drank her in. Although nothing was officially arranged, just looking at his face told me that he knew she would be sharing his bed.

At a reasonably early hour, Sally retired. I tried to catch her glance but she seemed deliberately to ensure that our eyes did not make contact. I did try the old delaying tactic, plying him with drink and asking questions but Gunnar was having none of it. "I have had rather a long day. If you don't mind, I would like to get my head down," he said politely.

'Get your head down where – you pervert?' I thought, but all the same forced a smile to my face as he left the room. I had planned to say, 'Have a good night,' but the words stuck in my throat.

Left alone, I turned my CD player up to full volume, grabbed a bottle of whisky and started pouring the alcohol down my throat as fast as it would go. It was past two o'clock in the morning before I dare go upstairs to bed and by that time I was verging on the paralytic. Despite myself, I paused outside the guest room door and listened, drawing some small consolation that there were no sounds of activity. Throwing myself under the covers still fully dressed, I fell asleep straight away.

Next morning I woke with the grandfather of all hangovers and staggered downstairs. Sally was at the stove frying bacon and singing quietly to herself.

"Well?" I asked standing aggressively by her side.

She turned and smiled. "He's built like a bull," she said.

Any further exchange between us was prevented by Gunnar making his appearance, apparently full of the joys of life. He devoured an English breakfast and then topped it of with a quantity of the more northern specialities that we had provided. I did feel some gratitude for the fact that he more or less ignored my wife, addressing all of his remarks to me. With Gunnar actuality sitting in my car waiting to be taken to the firm's premises, I decided that I could not let Sally's earlier comment remain unchallenged so I ran back inside. Grabbing her arm I asked, "What did you mean when you said that he was built like a bull?"

"He was very gentle with me."

"I did not ask you that," I said fiercely. "Built like a bull – you mean he is heavily built."

"You know what I meant. I was talking about his cock." Sally gave a kind of intoxicated laugh and added, "Or should I say 'pizzle'?"

I was so infuriate that I could have shaken her and might have done so had not I seen through the window that Gunnar had got out of the car and was walking back towards the house. Quickly intercepting him, I took him to my place of employment. During the morning, he was conducted by the MD on a tour of the plant and offices with me tagging along but in the afternoon, those two were closeted together. Various experts were called in but for some reason I seemed to be excluded. Through lack of experience at this level, I did not know if this was customary. However, at the end of the day, Gunnar was delivered back into my care to be taken to my home for the night.

Sally had excelled herself cooking and our guest proved to have a prodigious appetite for what she provided – although it was my favourite meal, he ate far more than I. During the evening, Sally showed great interest in his personal history and sat enthralled as he described an Inuit childhood, living in igloos and spending hours sitting fishing through holes in the ice. She also discovered that he had fathered six children to four different women. He had only been married twice, the one to Gunhilda being only for the previous two years. She was twenty-two and had not yet born him a child. Rather mysteriously he said that he planned different negotiations with other organisations and did not plan to impregnate her until they were all completed. My wife also elicited the fact that he was forty – I had been totally unable to estimate his age. I felt that he enthused rather too much about Gunhilda and his remarks discomfited me. "She's a very passionate girl," he said to Sally. "But John will have already have told you that. I do like passionate women."

My wife declared that she was going to bed almost indecently early and of course, Gunnar quickly followed her. I got the whisky, planning to again numb my mind but after one glass, after the previous nights excess, my stomach revolted. Partly lulled by the previous lack of obvious fireworks, I decided on a different strategy. First I crammed my ears with cotton wool and placed my ear-phones on top. Thus protected from unwanted sound, I went to bed with a book. Unbelievably, I was actually getting into the story when a sudden shriek penetrated my audio protection. Thinking that my wife was in pain or being attacked, I ripped off the insulation to realise that she was simply enjoying a god almighty orgasm. Nor was it of fairly short duration, as with me, but seemed to go on and on and on – seemingly for ever. She sounded like a cat. Even when the big one was finally over, sounds of enthusiastic sexual activity went on for ages. I lay trembling all over with bitter bile filling my mouth. Neither prestige of position nor fantastic salary was worth the sacrifice that I had made. Even when silence descended upon the guest room, sleep continued to elude me.

In consequence I overslept, as did everybody else. I banged on the guest room door, shouting that we were late. When Gunnar came into the kitchen, I told him that there was no time for breakfast if he hoped to catch his plane but he might be able to grab something to eat at the airport. Sally appeared just as we were heading for the door looking curiously subdued. Gunnar could do little more than raise his hand to her and then we were off. I did wait until his plane was in the air but then drove back home fast intending to berate my wife for her performance during the night.

She was not at home. First I made myself a coffee, then later a fuller breakfast. It was over two hours before she returned home. "Where the hell have you been," I demanded, the moment that she walked in the door?"

"Walking," she said quietly. "In the woods. I needed to think."

"What was there to think about?"

Sally reached out and took my hand, looking at me with unsure eyes. "Johnny, I never dreamed that it was possible to be made to feel like that."

My wife had warned me that she intended to give Gunnar 'value for money' and I had intended to remonstrate with her for doing it far too enthusiastically but now that went out of my mind because suddenly I was very afraid. "I don't understand," I said.

"I don't understand either – or at least I didn't but I have done a lot of thinking while I was in the woods. His penis is very big and he is a very unusual person also there was all the build up and you were in the house. I think all those factors combined to make me react in an unusual way. It could probably never happen just like that again."

"So why didn't you react like that the first night?"

"As I said, he was very gentle then, I think he was afraid of hurting me. I liked it. It was different and seemed very naughty even though you had already done it to his wife. I thought then that it was just a game but it's not, is it?"

"And last night?" I prompted.

"He was much rougher, much rougher than you ever are or at least it felt like that. Probably that was another factor in my reaction."

"Where does this leave me?"

"It leaves you exactly where you were Johnny, nothing has changed," she said softly. "Something has happened to me but it's over. I'll tell you what I have worked out during my walk. People do different things in their lives. They sky dive or bungee jump and enjoy the experience, they probably won't ever forget doing it but have no real desire to ever do it again. That's just how this is with me."

Her explanation left me feeling much easier in my mind and we spent a relaxed, if pointless, evening just watching the television. In bed I wanted sex. This was not a wish to make love or desire generated by lust, rather it was a dog-like need to remark my territory. Perhaps Sally sensed this because she knocked me back for the first time ever. "I just don't want to Johnny," she said. "I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise." However, when tomorrow night came, while acting in a very flirtatious manner, she continually plied me with liquor, until by bedtime, I was drunk and incapable.

It was not immediate but gradually we got back together until, three weeks later, thoughts of the arctic lothario had faded and we were back to normal – possibly in some ways better than normal. I certainly had no intimation of what lay ahead. 

Returning from lunch, the message that I found on my desk said only that the MD wanted to see me. I went to the top floor, knocked on his door and on being bidden to enter, pushed it open. He beamed expansively at me and said, "Come in John and make yourself comfortable. We're on the last lap."

After I was seated and had lit a cigarette taken from the proffered box he went on, "I have just received a cable from Norway. Gunnar is coming down next week to sort out a few minor details and then he will sign the contract. So you will be having your house guest back for a couple more days."

"I'd rather not," I said.

"There's no 'rather not' about it John," the MD retorted with a hint of steel in his voice. "Your hospitality is not exactly stipulated but it is heavily inferred. I honestly believe that the whole contract depends upon it."

"No," I replied, shaking my head for emphasis. 

"Why ever not?"

How the hell could I tell him that Gunnar made my wife feel too good in bed? "It's just no," I said lamely.

"I am not going to take 'no' for an answer. This is a direct order – you will do what is necessary for the good of the firm."

"I'll resign first," I told him through tight lips. "My answer is still no."

He stood up, going very red in the face. "Then let me give fair warning that you will never get another job that pays as well as this one. I will see to that personally."

"Do what the fuck you like," I shouted back before storming out of the office, slamming the door behind me. 

I sat in my office seething. Although it was a designated 'no smoking' area, I was on my third cigarette when the door opened and the managing director came in. He smiled apologetically at me and said, "Look John. I'm afraid that I was rather hasty back there – this whole Lapland business has got me on edge. I know that you have principles and I respect them so, if ever you do leave the firm under whatever circumstances, you can depend upon getting a top class personal recommendation from me."

"My resignation still stands."

"There is no need," he said happily. "I have spoken to your wife and she said 'yes' straight away."

"You had no right," I shouted, jumping to my feet.

"I had every right. I had more than a right. It is my duty to safeguard this firm and the interests of the shareholders. You have no idea how critical getting this contract is to the firm."

"I didn't know.

"John, John," he said, switching into conciliatory father figure mode. "I suspected that Mr Erickson might have made himself objectionable to your wife in some way and if that had been the case, I would of course have made other arrangements, even at a risk to the contract. That's why I had to speak to your wife directly. As nothing like that seems to be involved, I don't really know what is bothering you."

The MD paused to allow me to explain but I still found it impossible to elucidate. "Right John, he said standing up. "As your wife is quite happy about it, everything can go ahead as arranged and we will say no more about this bit of unpleasantness." With that he left my office. 

I still was not resigned to this but my position had become untenable. I could do nothing until I had opportunity to have it out with Sally so, although it was still early afternoon, I went out to my car and drove home. She was surprised at my unexpected early return but the happy expression on her face was in place before she saw me. "What the hell have you been telling my boss?" I asked harshly before she could speak.

"Just that we would be happy to accommodate Gunnar again."

"Did he mention that I threatened to resign rather than let that happen?" 

Sally shook her head. "Why would you do that?" she asked with genuine puzzlement on her face.

"You know damn well.

"You're just jealous," she said with a little laugh.

"Of course I'm fucking jealous."

"More than jealous – you are being very selfish," she said, starting to get angry herself.

"And how do you make that out?" I asked, matching her heat with my coldness.

"By wanting to stop me doing something that I very much want to do."

"If you mean getting shagged silly by a fucking Eskimo, I think that I have every right to stop you."

"And jeopardising a contract on which your firm depends. You realise that means the livelihood of dozens of people," she said, ignoring my interruption.

That stopped me. "The contact is not that important."

"It is you know. When I told your boss that Gunnar could stay with us, he said that everybody in the firm owed me a big debt of gratitude because without this contract it would go out of business."

Now I understood why the MD had become so irate and my mind whirred madly, trying to work out how the firm came to be in such a parlous state. "Let's have a cup of tea and talk about it calmly," Sally said gently and I was happy to agree. 

When we were sitting with warm drinks before us and I had a cigarette on the go, Sally took hold of my hand and said," Johnny, it's sex, not love. I love you, I always will and this will not affect that. I didn't sleep with Gunnar from choice, it was more or less forced on me but when I did I enjoyed it. It was an incredible experience but one that I was resigned never to have again so can you blame me for grabbing another chance. I would like to have sex with him again but apart from that I have to, it's a kind of duty - even if I loathed the man, I would feel honour bound to do it. Can you understand what I am saying?"

"I think so but I can't get over the fact that you are my wife and he is another man."

"You had it off with his wife so what's the difference?" Sally gave a grin and added, "It was a bit for revenge that I did it with him the first time but that is not a consideration any more."

"Yes it is," I protested. "I had it with Gunhilda once but he has already screwed you twice and now hopes to shaft you another two times. That's not tit-for-tat."

"That is the point though. He has already had me on two occasions so what the hell does another two, or four, or six times matter if it's going to save your job and that of a lot of other people."

Outmanoeuvred on logic, I reverted to emotion. "You enjoy it too much," I said.

"So if I hated it you wouldn't object? Then you would sacrifice me for the good of the firm but because I will get pleasure humping him you get jealous."

"It's not like that," I muttered weakly but deep down I had to admit that it was – it was exactly like that."

"There is no point talking it about it any more," Sally said with an air of finality. "I'm going to do it because I have said that I will, I only hope that you are not going to make this into a big issue between us." 

For the rest of the day we skirted round each other just making general conversation. I could not help being morose but I think my wife made efforts to tone down a buoyant cheerfulness.

In bed I lay on my back with hands behind my head gazing at the ceiling and Sally laid facing away at her side of the bed. Although we were nominally both trying to go to sleep, I was aware of a silence between us. Suddenly she rolled over and gave me a big kiss. "Look at it this way," she said. "You have got me every night of your life. Surely you can spare just two – especially if I make our nights like this." As she spoke, Sally started edging herself down the bed towards my groin.

Later, much later, drifting into a satiated sleep, I thought, 'How the hell could some primitive from the arctic effect us if we could still fuck like that?'.




The Eskimo



The next morning I had hardly arrived in my office when the MD walked in. "Dashed off early to get your wires uncrossed at home, John?" he said.

"Something like that," I muttered unsociably.

"Everything sorted? No talk of resignation today I trust?"

"We won't wreck the contract."

Walking over, the MD clapped me on the shoulder. "We all have to make sacrifices at some time, John," he said. "And after all he's hardly Robert Redford."

Left alone I realised from his parting remark that the managing director knew exactly what this was all about."

We stocked up as before and again I fetched Gunnar from the airport. At the house, he was overly gallant with Sally, bending to kiss her hand and this irritated me from the start. Use my wife as bed furniture if he must, there was no call for slobbering over her in the middle of the day.

During the evening I was all knotted up, I admit it. Both of them realised this and quite naturally drew closer together. Gunnar produced a bundle of photographs, and Sally perched on the arm of his chair to look at them, displaying an unnecessary amount of thigh. For a time she went through the motion of passing the prints on to me but soon stopped when I could not maintain my pretended interest. I sat there seething; particularly infuriated by the way her arm was draped round the back of his chair.

When Sally went to bed, my presumptuous guest had the nerve to leave at the same time with his arm round her shoulders and this proprietorial gesture almost caused me to hurl myself bodily at him. I went to bed soon after and this time I lay blatantly listening. They enjoyed themselves all right, but he took her to no excessive heights of ecstasy. Pleased by this, I judged Sally probably correct in her surmise that the previous incredible passion had been a one-off thing induced by circumstance. 

At work I idled the day in my office while Gunnar sorted out final details with the MD. I was informed that everything would be settled during the day and that Gunnar would go in the following morning for a small signing ceremony, after which I would be taking him to the airport to catch the lunchtime plane. Driving him to my home late that afternoon, I felt almost light hearted. Only one more night to survive and then it would be all over. I could then start enjoying the rewards. I had pulled off the biggest deal in the history of the firm so the prospect that I might one day sit in the MD's chair was not an impossibility. Then there was the promised bonus which would exceed my whole salary for the previous year. Last nights shenanigans during my listening brief had been decently subdued - so what if I did have to overhear a repetition, I could handle that. 

After the meal I started off with my mind right so the subsequent deterioration during the evening was induced rather than inborn. For a start, Sally could not seem to keep her hands of him, not touching in an overtly sexual way but it was touching all the same. For example, she kept casually reaching out to squeeze his biceps or brush the hair out of his eyes. Also for no good reason she found excuse to spend periods of time again perched on the arm of his chair and whenever she stood to fetch something, his hand was there under her bottom helping her up. I tried desperately trying to catch her eye but to all intents and purposes I might not have been there. Had I really been absent, I was convinced that she would have sat on his lap - or even lain on the floor with her legs spread.

They went to bed with arms entwined round each other. I should have been warned, I should have gone out and slept in the car but I still believed that I only had to stand a rerun of the previous night and then the nightmare would be over. I was wrong. She was flying almost straight away and screaming like a banshee. Compared with this, that night of passion on his previous visit was little more than a practice session. I lay bathed in sweat, I almost bit through my lip and the palms of my hands were bloodied where the nails had dug in. There were lulls when I desperately hoped that it was over but it always started again ever more intense than before. During my marriage to Sally our sex session vocabulary was always moderated by love but now when I heard her speaking to him it was pure filth and it sickened me to the core. Her pleas to 'Split me in two' and "Fill me to the brim with your juice', hurt me badly but what hurt far more was the simple statement, 'I need you Gunnar, I need you inside me'. It was as if his giant cock had become the centre of her whole universe. I think that mental exhaustion claimed me before they called it a day because I do not remember them finishing.

A bad dream woke me. Consequently I was up on time and surprisingly so were they but my wife appeared completely fucked. Gunnar wore a look of smug self-satisfaction and, had it not been for his bulk, thought of contract or bonus would not have stopped me planting my fist in the middle of his ugly face. I did not speak at all during breakfast and maintained my silence in the car but then neither did he speak to me. I was in my vehicle first and had to wait, while they presumably said goodbye, but I did not look round to check.

In my office I sat making a chain out of paper clips awaiting my call to the signing ceremony. It did not come. Just before lunch the MD poked his head round the door to say. "Gunnar is being awkward and picking us up on trivial details, The bugger seems to be doing it deliberately. Anyway, the signing will now be this afternoon and you will be taking him for a later plane."

After lunch, again waiting for the signing I made paper aeroplanes and flew them across the office to land in a waste paper basket. I was rather good at this having had so much practice since being made a negotiator. The time crept on and I began to think it would need to be a pretty brief ceremony if Gunnar was to catch his plane. When I already knew that it was impossibly late, the MD told me over the phone that all difficulties were now resolved but the signing ceremony had been postponed until the next morning. "So I'm afraid that you have been lumbered for another night," he concluded.

"That's a bit difficult. Sally has been working today and she will not have cooked for him," I protested.

"Don't worry John, I don't think that Gunnar is much interested in food. Anyway, he will be with you shortly," the MD said briskly, disconnecting the line before I could speak again.

Shortly afterwards, Gunnar stepped silently into my office. "So you are still with us I hear, " I said but my voice was not at all friendly.

His was. He gave me a man to man wink and said, "There have been difficulties but it is all to the good if it allows me to renew acquaintance with your lovely wife. You are an exceptionally lucky man. I believed that Gunhilda was the most passionate creature on God's earth but I was mistaken for the exquisite Sally has a definite edge."

"I'm glad that you think so," I replied – it was a matter of either speak to him or hit him.

"I get the impression that you have become unhappy at being my host."

"You might say that."

"I don't understand." he said. "In my land it is a matter of the greatest pride to let a man that you esteem know your wife. In what other way can he understand how greatly you have been blessed."

"We think a bit differently here – though I'm not saying your way is wrong."

"I must admit that I do find myself in your debt," he said thoughtfully. "Gunhilda is always asking after you, wondering when she will see you again. You must come on private visit, it is cold there for you now, better next year. I will pay all expenses – bring Sally, I will make it for you the holiday of a lifetime."

His speech somewhat mollified me. I had rather felt he had been treating me as a non-entity but now I saw that this was just his way with no offence intended. "Come on Gunnar, let me take you home – although I don't know what we are going to give you to eat," I invited.

Sally was in the kitchen when we drew up by the house. Even at a distance through the window, I saw her face light up when Gunnar got out of the car. She ran out, grabbed hold of his arm and started pulling him into the house. "Gunnar, this is wonderful. I thought that you would be back in Lapland by now," she gushed.

"Perhaps I should be but I could not drag myself away from your charms," he flattered.

Sally said happily that she was doing a Chinese and that there should be plenty for three. So it proved with the addition of extra prawn crackers. Leaving Gunnar at the table, I nipped into the kitchen while my wife was serving the food and ordered tersely. "Keep your hands off him tonight. I may have to let you sleep with him but I don't want you doing things in front of me. And remember to stay in your own damn chair."

The evening was more civilised with Gunnar taking pains to bring me into some interesting conversations. Sally obeyed my instructions but, seeing the look in her eyes as she gazed at him, I got the unavoidable impression of a bitch in heat. Being more circumspect this time, Gunnar allowed a decent interval to elapse before following my wife to bed and I went in my turn believing that there was now an understanding between the three of us. It was actually the lull before the storm.

Taking this unexpected night together and believing it to be their last ever, both Gunnar and Sally proceeded to wring every ounce of pleasure out of it. The previous night I had lain, body numb and sunk in black despair, trying to blank my mind against the sounds but now, quite naturally, I dealt with it in a different way. Perhaps I took Gunnar's earlier words too literally and tried to draw pride and satisfaction from his pleasure. It did not work. I ran a mental video in sync with the genuine graphic soundtrack, imagining his hands on her, her mouth on him and his gigantic prick ramming into her moist, vulnerable twat. For my trouble I acquired a rampant erection, (so painfully stiff and hot that it brought tears to my eyes), which remained with me throughout. I should have masturbated but somehow felt that tossing off to the sound of them fucking, was verging on perversion.

Next morning, I think that they said their goodbyes before breakfast because Gunnar came briskly out to get in the car, simply holding Sally's hand for a long moment before doing so.

On the way he reminded me about his holiday offer saying, "Think about it, I will leave it up to you to contact me if you want to come." The signing ceremony included a few pretentious speeches, (I was not called upon to make one), and then to top it all, the MD delivered Gunnar to the airport personally.

That night, mainly due to that unresolved stiffie, I wanted sex badly. "No – I just don't want to," she said but then, in response to my sullen countenance went on, "Johnny, let me explain. You have been so understanding and because of that I want to give you your best night ever as a reward. Tonight I don't think that I can but tomorrow I will."

Unfortunately, next morning the MD rang to say that there was a special firm's dinner dance to celebrate the contract. Sally and I were to be the guests of honour in recognition of our triumph. For some reason I felt that my wife had an intimation of this event before the call. Needless to say the dance went on very late and we were both too tired afterwards to consider sex. I was to be frustrated thrice because the next night, Sally again used her wiles to get me pissed. Eventually on the fourth night following his departure, we arrived in bed early, fresh and eager. It was wild. Perhaps some of the passion from Gunnar carried over to me – all I know is that Sally kept her promise and gave me the hottest, most uninhibited fucking session that I could remember. If only we could have carried on like that.

Less than a week later, after a lacklustre copulation and feeling morose I said, "Face it, Gunnar is better in bed than me and you ought to admit it."

"Don't be silly Johnny, he is not better only different. Anyway, it's you that I love."

"Then why, whenever you have been with him does it take two or three days before you can bear to let me touch you?" I asked accusingly. "You can't stand an immediate comparison because it would show how inferior I am. That alone proves you think more of him than of me."

Sally looked at me sincerely and said, "You've got it all wrong," then she paused before adding, "But I am not sure that the real reason will make you feel any better."

"Come on, spit it out. Let me hear the worst."

"Gunnar's penis is so big that it stretches me a terrible lot," she said softly. "It takes me two or three days to get back to normal. I kept away from you because I was afraid that seeing how much he had effected me, would upset you."

Sally was damn right. It did not make me feel a whole lot better at all. Because of this I couldn't let the subject drop. "What exactly does he do to you?"

"Just the normal things."

"What is normal. Tell me specifically."

"We kiss, he sucks my breasts and then he sticks his thing in down there."

Considering how graphic she was with him, she was answering me with ridiculous decorum.

"I said 'be specific' – you have got two holes 'down there', a cunt and an arse," I said irritably.

"He sticks his cock in my cunt. There was no chance of it getting it to go in the back way but he did try once. It would hardly fit in my mouth even - and I couldn't get it down my throat at all like I sometimes do with you."

"Now tell me how he makes you feel. Tell me what it's like. I have heard how he makes you go and I want to know how he does it."

Sally shook her head. "You don't really want to hear," she said.

"But I do," I insisted. "I've listened to you with him – oh God how I've listened. The thing is that I have not seen, so my imagination had to fill in the picture. I need to know everything or else I am going to spend the rest of my life wondering."

My wife was still making a negative motion with her head. "I won't help you," she said with complete certainty.

"Tell me anyway."

Sally began to speak quietly. Her eyes were fixed on the floor but she kept glancing up to see what effect her words were having on me. "When he puts his cock in me it is so big and thick that I start getting terrific sensations straight away. It goes in so deep and fills me so completely that I feel as if my whole body is part of his penis. Then he starts moving it in and out and the sensations are incredible. When he starts ramming it in really hard it is difficult to describe. Every nerve ending inside me is screaming in ecstasy. It is like being on the biggest roller coaster in the world with millions of fireworks exploding in my head. I reach a climax and start to cum but when it should start to decrease, he stops perfectly still with his prick right inside and starts rhythmically swelling it even bigger. This makes me keep on cumming and cumming and I can't seem to stop. Johnny - he drives me right out of my mind." 

I got up and left the bedroom so that she would not see the tears in my eyes. What chance did I stand against that?

Over the next three months our relationship deteriorated. The deterioration was gradual but continual. For a start, I began to be haunted more and more of visions of her with Gunnar.

I had always liked to make love with the light on so that the sight of her body could enhance the physical sensation but now I could not view her body naked without seeing him imposed upon her. I had only to catch the merest glimpse of her cunt for my mind to see it painfully stretched with his gigantic cock embedded in it and this had a devastating effect on me. Either I got an immediate erection with a built in hair trigger or I became incapable of performing at all. Sally liked the light on too so I had to resort to shutting my eyes to avoid unwanted visual stimuli. Even this did not work well because, possible trying to emulate him, I screwed her roughly causing Sally to complain, "I don't like it like this. You are fucking me as if you hate me."

The fault was not all on my side. Sally became ever more moody and irritable. In bed, (even when I overcame my other problems), she was far harder to bring to orgasm and made no attempt to conceal her exasperation at my efforts. Unspoken between us was the memory of how easily and profusely, Gunnar had made her cum. By then end of the three months there was no sex, we existed in antagonistic silence and when we did speak it only triggered vicious rows about trivial things.

The day came when I got home to find Sally waiting with her bags packed. "So you are leaving me," I said.

"No, just going away for a few days – I only stopped to explain that to you. Face it Johnny, things are going from bad to worse and it's mostly my fault. I need to sort out things and I can't do that here. But I'm not leaving you because I want to get back to how we were."

"Is it to do with Gunnar?"

"Of course it's to do with him. After that first visit I could have forgotten him, written it off as an experience, like I said then. But going with him again was a desperate mistake because I realised that he could make me feel like that time after time. It got into my head and I made me very unfair to you. Lots of times when you have been making love to me since, I have to admit that I wished it was him. Can you believe that I still love you as much as ever? This is a body thing and I have to find a way to control it."

"Where are you going?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Is it in this country?"

Sally struggled for a long moment and then said "No" although I knew that she had tried to say "Yes".

"France? Germany? America? Timbuktu?"

"If you must know, it's Norway."

"Are you joining Gunnar?"

"No, but I am going to stay in a house that he owns in Norway. He rang about a fortnight ago and asked how I was. He also asked about you. He also wanted to know if we were going on some holiday that he had spoken to you about. Somehow he guessed that I was unhappy and rang again a few days later. I told him that things had got bad between you and me and said that I felt a need to get away from you for a bit. On his next telephone call he told me about his house in Norway. He said that he was tied up in Lapland but that I could have the use of his house for as long as I liked."

"Do you think that he will visit you there?"

"I don't know, he might."

"Do you want him to?"

"Yes," she said.

"Give him my regards." Amazing myself, after speaking, I stepped forwards to take Sally in my arms and kiss her gently. Then, with a nobility that I did not know I possessed, I drove her to the airport and stood watching until her plane had taken off.

I forced myself into work unable to face the empty house. Consequently the MD could not have found a worse moment to make a social call. "After your dealings with Gunnar, you might be interested in this little story," he said without preamble. "It seems that this Eskimo got frozen stiff paddling his canoe amongst the icebergs so decided to do something about it. He gathered some wood and next time he went out there was a nice warm fire burning at the front of the canoe. Unfortunately the canoe caught fire and sank."

"Stupid bugger," I muttered because my boss had stopped his story expecting some response from me.

"There is a morale to the story," here he gave a significant pause and said; "You can't have your kyak and heat it." Then he laughed uproariously.

I just stared at him. "You're meant to laugh or at least smile – it's a joke," he explained before leaving in a huff. My deficient sense of humour must have discouraged him because he never came in my office again. 

It was a long long week that I spent on automatic pilot. I did not think about Sally, I did not think about Norway and what might be happening there, in fact I tried to think about nothing at all. Then one day the door opened and she was standing there. Dropping her bags by her side she looked at me with uncertain eyes. "It's over. I have got him out of my system. I'm back, if you'll have me back?"




The Eskimo



Without a word I stepped forward and took her in my arms. After a long embrace I made her a warm drink and then said, "Tell me about it."

"Gunnar lied," she said. "When I got to his house in Norway, he was there waiting for me. I think I had hoped that he would be so I didn't say anything. We had sex, at night and during the day as well. At first it was marvellous but I got to a stage where I did not want it any more. Part of the trouble was he made me very tender but it did not cause him to slow down. I realised that he needed a woman like built Gunhilda for sex all the time." Sally paused, gave a little laugh and said, "I saw a picture of her – you weren't lying were you."

"She's a lot of woman," I grinned back.

"It's like Xmas, that is the only way I can explain," she started again. "You know how much you look forward to Xmas, it arrives and everything is fantastic but within a few days you are sick of turkey, the decorations and all the other special stuff. You just can't wait to get back to the nice things that you can enjoy for the rest of the year. That is how I feel about Gunnar now. Do you understand?"

"But Xmas comes round every year, what happens then?" I had to ask.

"Gunnar is a kind of Xmas that I never want again."

I looked into her eyes and found that they were clear and full of love. "Take me to bed," she said.

I hesitated. "Isn't it too soon?"

"I only spent only four days in Norway and have been staying at a hotel in England since then. Every day I took very long showers because I wanted all trace of him gone before I came back to you." 

I took her to bed. It was scintillating sex and full of love. This was not a one night reconciliation because for the next fortnight we screwed better and with more pleasure than at any time in our relationship. After over four months the Inuit shadow no longer hung over me. It was heaven. I should have known that it was too good to last.

The day had been like any other until I arrived home from work, to find no meal prepared and Sally sitting in the kitchen holding her head in her hands. She had been crying but when she looked up her eyes seemed to contain a strange mixture of joy and sorrow. "Something has happened," she said.

My heart sank because this could only mean one thing – Gunnar had been to see her. "What is it?"

"You'll never guess."

Sally was quite right. Given a million guesses I would never have forecast what she was about to tell me. Knowing that I could never divine the answer she said, "I'm pregnant."

"You can't be – it's impossible."

"I know it should be impossible but it has happened. I've just got back from seeing the doctor and it's certain. The gynaecologist that I saw soon after we were married must have made a mistake."

"That can't be the reason or else you would have copped for one before now. I've been shagging you for ten years without anything happening."

My wife nodded her head her head in silent agreement but then looked up with a startled expression her face. In that very instant, the same horrible thought struck me. "I'll go and get tested tomorrow," I told her.

At our wedding we had both wanted children but with her far more keen about it than me. After two years of futile trying we both applied for fertility tests and her appointment just happened to be two days before mine. She had returned to tell me that the fault was in her. It seemed that there was a blockage which prevented sperm from reaching her ovaries and this impediment to pregnancy could not be removed. On the day of my test there remained no point and I didn't bother going. With difficulty, Sally had resigned herself to never being a mother but the up side was that we were free to concentrate on sex without thought of coils or condoms or pills to detract from the pleasure. 

Next day I returned home to report that my sperm count was zero. Knowledge of the father was implicit between us but remained unspoken. "You will just have to get rid of it, "I stated bluntly. 

"I don't think that I can," she said slowly.

"You've got to – I am certainly going to bring up Gunnar's bastard."

"I know and I would not expect you to," she said sadly. "At the same time I know that I can't kill it."

"Adoption then?"

She shook her head. "All my life the thing that I wanted most in the world was a baby to love and bring up. Then I managed to resign myself to the fact that it would not happened.

This is a miracle and I just can't turn my back on it."

"Even if it means turning your back on me?"

Tears were streaming down her face. "This is the hardest choice that I have ever had to make but Yes – I will have to turn my back on you."

We sat in silence for a very long time and then she got hesitantly to her feet. "I am going to pack – I'll go somewhere."

"To Norway?" I asked bitterly.

"Not Norway – I don't want him to know, ever."

"Come here," I told her. "I am not going to lose you again now. I will learn to love the baby if only because it is part of you."

I could have said nothing else if I wanted to keep her but an offer made in the heat of emotion can look far less attractive in the cold light of day. I was fully aware of the change this would make to my life and the difficulties that inevitably lay ahead. Is it any wonder that I became very prone to depression.

Since winning the contract, at work I had virtually nothing to do, there were no new customers to see and the MD had stopped taking me out to be humiliated on the golf course. Lately I had lost motivation to even go through the motions and just sat all day sunk in morose contemplation, considering my lot and thinking that life could not possibly get worse.

One day, returning from a very extended lunch, I found a note on my desk saying that the MD wanted to see me. On the way there I felt a real glimmer of hope that I might have some real work in store for that would at least occupy my mind and thus provide distraction from my problems. "Bring me up to date John, what have you been working for the past few months?" he asked as soon as I walked through the door.

"Nothing much. In fact, to be frank, nothing at all."

"That's exactly my point John," he said. "There just isn't the work to go round and that's why we have decided that the firm is employing too many negotiators. Unfortunately, it's a last in first out thing – you know what I am saying John?"

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I stammered, "You are.. You're making me redundant?"

"No, nothing like that. What kind of a firm do you think this is, especially after all your loyalty? The fact is that we never filled your old position and the work has rather piled up. It was thought that, as a company man, you would far prefer to be where you can be really useful."

"I would be nice to have something to keep me busy," I offered, genuinely pleased to be able to help out – and fill my time.

The MD patted my arm. "I knew you would see it our way, John," he said. "You will stay on your current salary until the end of the financial year and you can keep your car until then as well. The other sub-managers have had a 4% increase since you left and the next annual increment is almost due – so it is not too bad."

"You're demoting me?" I accused realising that I would not be just 'helping out'.

"I don't see it that way," he said. "You have simply finished a temporary secondment." 

"No – make me redundant instead." I had rapidly calculated that thirteen years redundancy pay based on my present salary would provide a nice little nest egg.

"That is not an option," he said, the smile suddenly disappearing from his face. "You either return to your old job or you will be dismissed for gross incompetence."

"How the fuck can you say that I am incompetent? I got the contract – the biggest the firm has ever had."

"I can compare the research we had done previously with your so-called effort and show that the work you did was totally inadequate."

"But I still got the contract."

The MD shook his head sadly. "John, you didn't get the contract, your wife did. The delectable Sally. As I said, we had researched this job down to the very last detail. There were other firms sniffing round and all able to match us on back-handers so we needed an edge. Fortunately, we had discovered that Gunnar Erikson is an out and out lecher. Your lovely wife was our ace in the hole."



The Eskimos Have It Right



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 only French and Spanish. 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.

Socially, my wife avoided alcohol, except in the presence of girlfriends who would protect her, or with me. She was one of those women who, upon taking even a small sip of an alcoholic drink, not only shed her formality, but became fair game for any interested male. Lit by a mere glance or touch, she was dry tinder in a forest of sexual appetite. 

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 on her cheeks spread to suffuse her neck, arms and shoulders. Like a fever, it made her breasts swell, and firmer in the hand. Her ear lobes and nipples turned dark.

I was already sixty years old when I met her. 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. As for affection and trust, ours grew. 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 humiliation when I was not able to mount her as she deserved, even with chemical aid. Increasingly, my inadequacy gnawed at me. 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 a little adventure to me, it was only to voice concern. 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. I thought the worst and sat up, anxious. She squeezed my hand, laughed, 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. "How?" I asked.

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 much earlier than before and had stopped, intending to duck under the overhand of the veranda, where he had left tarps, brushes and cans. He was looking up at her when she had become aware of him. "I don't know how long" she said. "I felt like he was spying on me a couple of times during the day." I asked what he had seen. Reluctantly, she said "You know, I was wearing my housedress, the old one you like. It's yellow and buttons up the front. I had that on."

Her reserve in revealing what had happened whetted my curiosity. "Is that all, just your legs?" I asked. "He was below me," she said, impatient that she had to explain. He could see up between my legs," she said, defiantly. Goaded, increasingly curious, I asked what panties she had been wearing. "You know, 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 herself the day before as a present to celebrate spring. But in the strong sunlight her white panties become visible, and I soon found myself seated on a low stool in a lingerie shop cubicle, surrounded by mirrors and looking up at Norma as she tried on panties. Together we settled on one that was light and nearly the same yellow as her dress. Close-fitting, they stretched semi-transparent across the divide of her bottom. At home, I'd asked her to stand over me so I could look up inside her dress. In the early morning light they must have been a memorable sight for the painter. The voyeur in me rising, I asked, "How close was he?" Clearly self-conscious, she yielded each detail grudgingly.

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 like the spinnaker of a sailboat, carrying it aloft, brushing her arms and covering her face. For a second she couldn't see her hands to place the clothespin. She stopped moving to enjoy the caress of warm air everywhere on her body. She told me 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 and flowers. 

When she pushed the billowing skirt down to get another clothespin from the bag at her waist, she saw over her hip the rapt, startled eyes of the young painter. She said that he'd had that caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar look. In the moment before he said "Buenos Días" and ducked out of sight, she remembered seeing through the lattice of the railing only his round eyes and mouth ajar. Although she'd avoided him all day, he'd found a couple of, to her, obviously unnecessary excuses to approach her. 

After we made love, she asked if the painter having watched her had had something to do with my unusual passion. I kissed her, and said "Maybe." On following nights I asked Norma if anything else had happened, if she'd noticed any difference in how the men 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, if he'd remarked on how she looked, and 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 sporadic swaying of the train and occasional jostling of neighbors around them finally guided his cock to lie up the length of the cleft formed by the cheeks of her bottom. She remembered how hard it was against her tailbone. The movement of the train, the anonymity in the pressing crowd and their willing union in the overpowering heat of the airless subway allowed him unrestrained access. The soft material of her dress molded almost unfelt between them. In moments it had become almost unbearably hot where they joined. She had pushed back, like when she is trying to pee, opening for him. In her words, she was "kissing his friendly hardness." Our love-making that night was like our first time, in the back seat of my car, 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 our love-making by the ring of the pizza delivery boy. Caught up in the heat of our play, she humored me by speaking to the boy through the intercom. "Just a moment, I'll be right down. I'm in bed and no one's home." I urged her to go as she was—in white shorts and matching stretch sports bra. Worn beneath tight-fitting gym tops, it was not meant to be noticed. It covered her breasts completely but was nearly transparent, her nipples dark and prominent against the soft cotton and Lycra. 

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 tenting over her nipples with an index finger of each hand. I saw what the boy had seen, the filled-to-bursting sports bra, its straps sinking into the flesh of her shoulders. The supple material hung from her nipples, molding the tops of her puffy areolas. "Look!" she said, leaning forward. She shrugged the straps from her shoulders and let her breasts fall. "This is what his eyes did to me." Her nipples were erect, dark red, and as the material fell away, a droplet of milk emerged.

He was very young, maybe sixteen and, feeling safe with me watching over her, she told me that she had allowed the time with him to lengthen. At first uncomfortable, as the seconds ticked by she sensed the changes in the boy, in her body under his eyes, and in how her hands moved. She went from feeling acute discomfort, mirrored by the boy, to playfulness, and finally to eagerness in exposing herself. At first the boy had been stunned. Then, when instinct prolonged the search in her purse for the correct change, he openly stared. As her fingers rummaged among her things, she forgot about me, and discovered that despite her embarrassment, she really enjoyed the boy's eyes ranging her body. She felt her nipples rise to his eyes. When she simultaneously sensed a man's boldness rising in the boy and her own body answering him—her breasts hardening, face hot, and a feeling "like a warm balloon" in her belly, she noticed that her arms pressed her breasts together. Looking down, conscious of the boy's eyes "Like hands on my breasts," she compressed them more, pushing them forward. She saw how shiny they were, how they bulged. Her nipples were dark, hard enough to tent the soft, stretch cloth. Just as it dawned on her that the boy was fully aware that the hunt for the correct change had gone on unnecessarily long, he said "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 breasts! Before he could complete the move, she had thrust the money into the hand coming for her breast, took the pizza, thanked him, and quickly shut the door.

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. I massaged, kneaded and molded Norma from the bottoms of her feet to her neck and head, feeling the heat of her cunt blossom 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. However, she managed to give herself passionately to each in turn.

Despite the great difference in our ages, 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. (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) 

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. 

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. But often, when I was too tired, she went dancing without me, accustomed to return home well after dawn, a girlfriend dropping her off. In bed, I anticipated an account of the evening, waiting for her to shower the smoke from her hair, as she always did. 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 with her the energy and confidence all women have when clean, and 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 her 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. 

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. The beauty of her face, the aroma of her skin and the texture of her long hair, the impact of her full breasts (then fat with milk) and her lithe dancer's waist, round bottom and wonderful legs, made her what Argentines call "un bomboncito," a bit of candy to melt in your mouth. 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 seated across from us. 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 yellow 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 the pleasure flooding her face as she listened. "Now look at them for a moment," I suggested. And she said later that their looks were so hungry on her that she felt pierced through by them. When I kissed her cheek and pressed the backs of my fingers to the side of her breast, I found they were both 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.




The Eskimos Have It Right Ch. 02



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you think that?" I pressed.

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

"I'm glad, Gustavo.

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

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

"Really?" 

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

"I'm listening."

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

Gustavo remained silent at the other end of the line.

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

"Have you mentioned this to her?

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

"Would you be interested?"

"Are you sure?"

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

"Can you get away late one evening?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




The Eskimos Have It Right Ch. 02



Close by when Gustavo began to rise, I quickly leaned over Norma's back, careful not to touch the bed, and said "I'll be right back."

When it came out of Norma, Gustavo's penis was enormous, fat and swollen. I caught a glimpse of his semen dribbling from her. While he dressed and left, I held Norma and kissed her everywhere, including her cunt, which I was accustomed to do after making love to her. I removed the chords from her ankles and wrists. My wife snuggled to me, kissing me with a soft, happy mouth. She kissed my chest and belly and penis, kissed my mouth like she didn't want to leave it, and I was suddenly reluctant to tell her what happened.

When our breathing calmed down (mine too!), and we had kissed a while, I told her.

For a long time she was confused, unbelieving, thinking I was teasing her or playing around with one of my fantasies. Then, as I saw she realized I was serious, and saw the dawn of realization as thoughts of the experience came together in her head with what she had known of me, outrage filled her. I reminded her that she had agreed that a surprise adventure would be interesting for her, as well as me. But she was angry. Not at all convinced, she only reluctantly let me hold her. I had taken a couple of photos (good) by the candlelight, and she could see him 1. As he had walked toward me, 2. A shot of him on her, from the side, 3. One of their upper bodies as he lay with his face in her hair, her eyes closed, and 4. the last, up between their legs, his body and legs so different from mine—as he filled her with his semen—the strain in his butt clearly defining the moment (I was shocked to see in the photo as I held it for her, a tiny gobbet of semen just under his cock where he entered her, white and unmistakable). 

Still angry, she hardly glanced at the photo, and since in that moment I was afraid to tell her, I had her immediately douche. She returned to bed and we talked. Slowly, as I pressed her, her anger turned to curiosity, asking who he was, where we'd met, did he know her, did she know him, and if he liked her. She became intrigued. When I asked how it felt for her to have such a large cock in her, she was her old self, eager and childlike. Her eyes lit up, exclaiming in lightning fast Spanish, "I thought, wow, you'd regained all your powers! she said. She then placed her hand palm-high on her belly and she said, "You felt so deep in me I felt you here!" I noticed she walked carefully for a couple of days, and her bottom where he had slammed into her for so long and her neck were bruised for more than a week.

Another day I invited him again, this time with my wife's permission, and I joined in, which is another story. 



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.




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!.