[Author's caution: This anacreontic story may not be your cup of tea, so please don't read it if you prefer lascivious description.]
My search for the perfect pussy ended in marriage. I got a little older while I was looking, but my taste for nineteen-year-old women did not, which made the search even more challenging.
Some of you will be wondering, in disbelief, why I wanted the perfect pussy not the perfect wife. It was no blunder. Early in my bachelor years I fixated on the chance of coming across a pussy that was tight, which ruled out girls who had given birth or liked masturbating with objects larger than an average male erection; was kept bare, further limiting my choice to young women who preferred having full Brazilians and, most important of all, had pubes like a puffy camel toe, with a perfect split that hid everything inside.
In case you're wondering what the attraction of the latter is, think of a chocolate box. You don't get to see or smell the contents until you open it, and the sense of anticipation is only rivalled by the visual and olfactory sensations when you do.
'The guy married a cunt,' others of you might be thinking. Which is unkind. The fact is Celine has a face as pretty as her cunt. ...Okay, quit laughing. I didn't mean she had a face like a cunt. I was just contrasting the beauty of two quite different parts of her anatomy – I know the difference between French kissing and cunnilingus. Or, as Celine calls the latter, 'Lap lapping.'
She even has a shortened version when she's really ready to beg for it, as in, "Laplap, PL-EE-ASE, PL-EE-ASE, darling!"
And, yes, her breasts are worth mentioning too, though I don't think she has a pet name for either of the perky two that adorn her chest. Anyhow, you'll have gathered by now that Celine is pretty gorgeous, and it goes without saying she's a blue-eyed blonde and not overweight.
That doesn't mean I think brunettes, or women with any other hair colour, are unattractive; the joke about marrying a brunette and screwing a blonde is offensive to both of them. Nor do I feel unsympathetic for women with a weight problem. It's just a matter of my personal preference. You might say that, physically, I did find the perfect woman – for me – in Celine.
'Uh, oh,' I can hear you thinking, 'she just has to have personality flaws.' Don't we all? Heterosexual or not, for a man there's no perfect woman. Sometimes I wish Celine could have a brain transplant. Not that she's dumb – it's just that if she had a man's brain we could get closer and fight less. 'Latent homosexual tendencies,' I can hear you judging me. Not at all. I find the same-sex idea totally unappealing.
Celine also has a single-minded preference for the opposite sex. She's the worst – or best – flirt there is, depending on your point of view. It drove me crazy with jealousy at the start, and that was what we used to fight most about. How I came to look at it in the end, though, was that if I loved her I had to accept her the way she was. After all, as she said herself, "Just because I like to make men think there's a chance of getting in my panties doesn't mean they're going to."
In the three years of our marriage Celine has left a staggering number of men horny and unsatisfied. Yeah, some of them may have grateful wives or partners as a result, but women tend to hate Celine, seeing her as either a serious rival or a threat. It's inevitable when men flock to her proximity at a party or other social event. She's very fond of touching them with her hand – never genitally of course – and isn't above pressing her breasts against an arm when she leans close to hear what a man's saying in a noisy situation. It often makes her nipples hard I've noticed, and so have a lot of other guys.
Naturally, she also uses her fabulous eyes. They can reduce a man to tears, raise him up to think he's in with a chance, show him how grateful she is for a compliment, or hint at how much she's in the mood to be fucked without any intention of giving in to it. Add wit, intelligence, and a quick temper and you now have a fair idea of what Celine is like.
'Still too good to be true,' you might be thinking. You don't have to live with her every day – like through her periods – I do. Still, the worst part has to have been my fear of the inevitable – that eventually she'd want to move flirting to another level.
She revealed it the day she said to me during breakfast, "Bob's been watching me in my swimsuit when I'm out by the pool." (Bob had recently moved in next door. We'd heard from another neighbour that he'd just turned fifty, was a widower, and had retired after selling a successful nationwide business.)
"You mean he's been glancing over the fence at you?"
"No. Watching me through binoculars from his upstairs room."
That was creepy! "Do you want me to speak to him?"
She knew what I meant but seemed annoyed there was something I didn't get, and said, "No... I like it."
That didn't help my understanding at all. "But he's over twice your age!"
"What does that matter? He's quite a good-looking man."
"He's a pervert!"
Celine giggled. "That's what turns me on... Do you think he jerks off while he watches me?" Her excited eyes left me in no doubt it was what she hoped he did.
"I guess," I grudgingly went along with her.
She said animatedly, "I quite like the idea of Bob secretly masturbating while he watches me – especially the bit at the end when he ejaculates everywhere. I let myself imagine cum dribbling down the wall below his window."
"You'd better hope he's not a stalker as well," I warned, wanting to spoil her fantasy. She failed to react, so I asked, "Does he know you've spotted him?"
"I don't think so... Does it upset you that I like it?"
I was upset all right, but I said neutrally, "Men have always been attracted to you."
"I'd be abnormal if I didn't like that," she said defensively.
I kept to myself what I thought was abnormal; she'd taken her mild exhibitionism over the line with her masturbation fantasy.
She was looking at me expectantly, but I knew the dangers of trying to guess what was on her mind. "You'll have to spell it out for me," I said.
"Spell out what?"
"What you're thinking."
"Nothing. I just wanted to let you know what's been happening, that's all."
"And?" I knew there was more to it than that.
She giggled self-consciously. "You read me like a book." I wished I did, but had a horrible feeling that, if I could, I wouldn't like it after all. She eyed me expectantly then gave up waiting, "Can't you guess?"
I shook my head.
She started hesitantly, "There's a guy getting off on watching me in my swimsuit..." Then she went on more brazenly, "I'd like to know if you'd object to my letting him see me in my birthday suit instead." She further proposed, "Maybe you could come home early this afternoon and I could do it then. It looks like it'll be a nice warm day."
I could understand she wanted me home for her safety, but not the rest. "What are you saying? That you'd like to invite him over to a striptease?"
"Of course not. I just want to sunbathe nude out by the pool for him. I feel sorry for the guy not having a wife anymore."
