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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, even the hands of admirers.
Norma was born in Córdoba, Argentina, and raised in Montreal, Canadá, where she spoke French and Spanish, and learned English, as so many Quebequers do, as a second language. 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.
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 . . . wishing he had approached when he had the chance, perhaps then scheming to find her again. The beauty of Norma’s face, the aroma of her skin and the texture of her long hair, the impact of her full breasts (in our last weeks, fat with milk) and her dancer’s waist, round bottom and sculpted legs, made her what Argentines call “un bomboncito,” a bit of candy to melt in your mouth.
There is a custom in Argentina that when a man or group of men see a truly spectacular girl passing on the street, he or they pause, stand to attention and applaud, as if at the theatre delivering a standing ovation. Inveitably, they raise their chins in pride–the tribute accepted. Norma received her share of standing ovations. (I used to joke when she arrived home from errands: “Did you have any standing ovulations today?”)
Socially, my wife avoided alcohol, except in the presence of protective girlfriends or with me. She was one of those women who, upon taking even a sip of an alcoholic drink, not only shed her formality, but became fair game for any interested male. Within minutes of having a drink, her libido could be set off by a mere glance or touch—my wife dry tinder under a sky of sexual lightning.
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 in her cheeks suffused her neck, arms and shoulders. Like a fever, it made her breasts swell and harden. When I lifted them, they were noticibly heavier, engorged with the blood of desire. Her ear lobes and nipples darkened, looking as if they burned.
As for affection and trust, ours grew. But I was already sixty years old when I met her, and 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. 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 frustration when I was not able to mount her as she deserved. I could not shake the humiliation of failing to meet her need. Even with chemical aid I was never really hard, nor as big as when I was younger. Increasingly, my inadequacy gnawed at me, at times filling me with shame. 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 one of these passing incidents to me 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. Thinking the worst, I sat up. She squeezed my hand 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. Unexpectedly, along with curiosity and fear, a pang of arousal flickered in me. “How?” I asked.
She told me 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 earlier than before and had stopped, intending to duck under the veranda—where he had left tarps, brushes and cans. He was looking up at her when she became aware of him. “I don’t know how long” she said. “But after, I felt him watching me during the day.”
I asked what he had actually seen. Defensive, cihangir escort beginning to blush, she said “You know, I was wearing my housedress, the old one you like—yellow and buttons up the front. I had that on.”
Her reserve in revealing what had happened and seeing embarrassment darken her cheeks and nipples, drew me into the labyrinth of my wife’s secret life. I felt the nervous excitement I’d suffered the first time I’d touched a girl’s breast. I wanted to share the heat of Norma’s moment on the porch, to relish what the young painter’s eyes had taken in. I wanted to know how she had felt, how she felt now. I settled back, drawing her closer into the dircle of my arms. I asked “Is that all, just your legs?”
“He was below me,” she said, glancing up at me, her eyes this close so large all I could feel was a need to kiss her. She whispered, as if confessing, “He could see up between my legs.” Her ears were pink. I kissed her mouth, burrowing in with my tongue in a long kiss.
Then I asked what panties she had been wearing.
“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 the day before as a present for herself to celebrate spring. Her white panties sometimes became visible in the strong sunlight as we walked, arousing me—and surely the males who turned to watch her as we passed. I mentioned it to Norma, and she was immediately embarrassed.
I soon found myself seated on a low stool in a lingerie shop cubicle, the curtain drawn to give us privacy, surrounded by mirrors and looking up at my wife as she tried on different styles and colors of panties. As she turned around for me to see her at every angle, I kissed her bottom, belly and and the undersides of her breasts, letting their weight slide across my forehead as she turned, more and more excited by how each panty transformed her body. The proximity of other men and women moving and talking just beyond the curtain made me want to push it aside and show them what a miracle she was.
Together we settled on a whisp of a silk pair slightly darker yellow than her dress. Close-fitting, the panty above the rectangular patch that conceiled her cunt stretched transparent across the divide of her bottom. When we went out again, I did not tell her that the now stylishly-matching panty was also just visible in the sunlight and that in strong sunlight the shadow of the divide between her cheeks was visible–drawing men’s eyes. Their darting glances at her crotch as they approached us, and longing gapes at her bottom that I caught glancing over my shoulder, brightened my afternoon. At home later, I’d asked her to stand over me so I could look up inside her dress, and then pulled her down to sit on my face, to shut the world out in a hot kiss as she surrounded me with the object of so much desire on our walk. Pulling her hips down onto me, I looked up over her belly to her breasts and face, smothering myself with the fullness of her body and its tangy, sweet and salty aromas.
She must have been a memorable sight for the painter as he stood in the dew-wet grass below her that morning, his eyes following the early light up beneath her dress, along her legs, to her transparently-covered bottom. Imagining through his eyes, the voyeur in me suddenly gripped me, perhaps feeling the same excitement I would have felt in his place. I asked, “How close was he?”
Hiding her hot, blushing face in the hollow of my shoulder, she yielded each detail grudgingly–whispering, so that several times I had to ask her to repeat. . . .
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, carrying it aloft like the ballooning spinnaker of a sailboat, where it brushed her arms and covered her face. For a moment she couldn’t see her hands to place the clothespin. She enjoyed the caress of warm air everywhere on her body. She said 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 young painter’s startled eyes as they snapped up to meet hers.
She giggled, then said “He looked like I’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.” Her eyes danced as she looked up at me, shyly biting her underlip. She told me that his rapt face through the lattice of the porch rail had been so close that she plainly saw it turn red in the instant their eyes met. Immediately, he had dipped his head, said “Buenos Días” and then ducked beneath the porch. Although she’d avoided him all day, he’d found a couple of petty excuses to approach her.
After I brought her off with esenyurt escort my mouth and hands and we were resting in each others arms, she shyly asked me if the painter having watched her had had something to do with my unusual passion. I laughed, kissed her, and admitted “Maybe.”
On following nights I asked Norma if anything else had happened—if she’d noticed any difference in how the workmen 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 and if he’d remarked on how she looked. I 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 jerky sway of the train and occasional jostling of neighbors around them finally guided his cock to lie up the length of the cleft between the cheeks of her bottom. She remembered how hard and insistent the head of his cock had been against her tailbone. The movement of the train, the anonymity in the pressing crowd and her willing union with the stranger in the overpowering heat of the airless subway allowed him unrestrained access. The soft material of her dress molded unfelt between them. She said that, after a while, she could distinguish the heat of his balls low against her asshole from the hard shaft of his cock. Occasionally, when a sudden lurch of the train pushed them hard together, the head slid to press the small of her back. It had become almost unbearably hot where they joined. When I asked, she admitted she had pushed back, like when she is trying to pee, opening for him. In her words, she was “kissing his friendly hardness.” She said she had been aware of wrinkling her dress, and that despite the heat and the sweat trickling along her back and over her bottom, and the stickiness she felt filling the crotch patch of her panties, she didn’t care.
Our love-making that night was for me so much like our first time, frenzied in the back seat of my car on a cliff overlooking Montreal, 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 a rapidly heating petting session by the ring of the pizza delivery boy. I was with Norma in her small gym. She was dressed in white cut-off shorts and matching sports bra. The Spandex bra was designed to be worn beneath a gym top. It covered her breasts completely, holding them in semi-circular, wired cups. Wet now with her sweat, and nearly transparent, the material yielded to her nipples, now pushing dark and prominent against the delicate fabric. She said she recognized the boy’s voice, that he had been tongue-tied the other times she had gone to the gate to receive pizzas—”baboso,” she laughed, “drooling.” Once she had gone in a décolleté cocktail dress, her breasts high above the bodice, soft, bright and round in the noon sun beneath the boys stare. And another time, when she wore a pale green Greek tunic she used for dance practice (whose silk clung to her breasts and waist, and swung saucily around her hips as she walked), he was so nervous he had dropped his receipt book.
Caught up in the heat of our play, she humoured me by speaking to the boy through the intercom, leading him—with my coaching—to believe she was alone. “Please wait, I’m in the gym. I’ll be right there,” she breathed into the mouthpiece as I tried to suck a Spandex-covered nipple into my throat. She suppressed a long moan, covered the mouthpiece with her hand, and kissed the top of my head. When she removed her hand, I heard the distant buzz of his voice etiler escort bayan from the phone’s earpiece, and imagined him standing by the gate in the sunlight . . . how it would have been for me long ago when I had worked at such jobs, of how I longed to touch the sometimes carelessly dressed, but always ravishingly happy, round and hungry housewives and girlfriends who came to the door. In a whisper I asked her to ask him how the weather was out there, and I immediately cut off the distant, metallic sound of his words by pressing the earpiece of the phone full against her cunt, so that perhaps she could feel him speaking into her. As I took the phone from her and Norma took her lips from mine, I kissed down her cheek and jaw to the soft hollow of her neck. “Just a moment,” she whispered to the boy, her voice ragged. “I’ll be right down.” I urged her to go as she was. . . .
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 over a nipple with an index finger. I saw what the boy had seen, the filled-to-bursting sports bra, its straps pressing into the flesh of her shoulders. The supple material, molded to her puffy areolas, clung to her nipples. “Look!” she said, leaning forward. She pulled the straps of the wet sports bra from her shoulders and peeled the sweat-dampened fabric from her breasts, letting them fall inches from my face. She said “This is what his eyes did to me,” and as I saw how engorged and dark her nipples were, droplets of milk began to ooze from them.
She said the boy was younger than she remembered, maybe fourteen or fifteen. Norma told me that, feeling safe with me watching over her, and comfortably delighted under the boy’s initially bashful gaze, she had allowed the time with him to lengthen. She told me that at first she felt strange. He was so young, and without looking, she was still self-conscious in knowing what he saw when she caught him glancing at her breasts, his face red but constantly drawn back to them. As the seconds ticked she sensed a change in the boy, and in her body under his eyes. She was aware how her hands moved, slower now, un hurried, more relaxed. She went from feeling moments of acute discomfort, mirrored by the boy, to playfulness, and finally to eagerness in exposing herself. At first the boy had been stunned. Then, when she felt he was as comfortable as she was, and when she thought of me, certainly watching covertly from an upstairs window, she found an excuse to prolong the search in her purse for the correct change.
As she watched her fingers rummage aimlessly in her purse, and she forgot about everything except the boy’s eyes, she discovered that, despite still present but fading embarrassment, she really enjoyed the boy’s eyes ranging her body. She said she felt inexplicably grateful to him for his admiration. She said her “nipples rose to his eyes.” But just as she sensed a man’s boldness rising in the boy, and her own body answering him, he took a step closer to her—Close enough to cast a shadow over her. She said that she felt her breasts harden, her face become hot, and a feeling “like a warm balloon” in her belly, she suddenly realized, looking down, how her breasts must look to him. Hugging herself, her arms inadvertently pressed them together. Nervous, she dug both hands dug into her purse, growing more conscious with every move, of his eyes now frankly devouring her. Each time she delved deeper into the purse, her arms came closer together, squeezing her breasts; each time she pulled something up to see what it was, her arms relaxed, and he could see their fullness. Now unconscious of what her fingers touched, she rummaged aimlessly, realizing that he he must know that she was making a deliberate offering.
In bed with me after, she whispered that she couldn’t tell if it was the feeling of a balloon swelling in her womb for him that created an ache in her breasts, or only the boy’s eyes—feeling to her, she said, “Like hands squeezing my nipples so both breasts hurt, but sweetly.” (Como manos apretándome los pezones hasta que mis pechos enteros me dolían en manera tan dulce!”)
She said she felt pinned by his stare, as if her breasts were his and only his for the moment, and she wanted to give them to him. She saw how the excitement with me in the gym and the naughtiness of her play with the boy had engorged them—with milk and passion—so they had swollen heavily against the Spandex spherical cups of the bra, stretching the damp material thinner. “They swelled for him,” she said. She told me that when she looked down, she saw her areolas and nipples were dark and plain to see . . . the thick nubs not entirely flattened by the soft stretch cloth.
Suddenly, she heard him say in a husky, but bolder voice, “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, maybe to hold the bag for her, but also maybe to touch her breast! Before his hand could reach her, she had thrust the money into it, took the pizza, thanked him, and quickly turned to go
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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