The Esimos 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.