[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."
I clutched at straws, "How do you know he'll be there this afternoon?"
"He's always there on Wednesday afternoons." Her eyes were excited again as they met mine. "Does that mean you agree?"
When I arrived home Celine was impatiently waiting in the lounge with a brief bikini already on. It was obvious she didn't intend swimming because she was gorgeously made-up. What jolted was the eager way she asked, "Can I go out to the pool now?"
"Sure, if that's what you still want to do."
"You don't understand, do you?" She gave me a sympathetic glance before she headed towards the ranch-slider door to the rear patio. There she paused with her hand on the catch and looked back at me. "It's really a big thing for a woman to let a guy see her naked..." She left the statement hanging and, for the hell of me, I didn't know what she meant. She could tell. "Just watch and enjoy."
She didn't wait to find out if I thought that would be possible or not.
If I forced myself to watch – and there's no denying the attraction – I would be able see the surrounds of the pool outside through the glass, and Bob, if he was in his upstairs room, could not see me. I doubted I would enjoy it though.
The impulse to run out and stop Celine from taking off her bikini didn't last very long. If I thwarted her I'd have to face the recriminations. Like when I'd tried stopping her flirting with other men, with a predictable result.
'He's got no balls,' you're thinking. Not a view Celine would share. Except in her fantasies it now seems, she's acted as if my pair produces all the spunk she'll ever want.
My attention had not left what she was doing out by the pool. Having squinted towards the sun theatrically she pulled a banana-lounger side-on, pretending to be positioning it in the best spot for sunbathing. In effect, though, it was with an eye to giving Bob the best view.
Wearing sunglasses, and still in her bikini, she lay back on the lounger.
Nothing happened for a time. I guess she was waiting for Bob to notice she was out there. Maddeningly, it gave me time to think, regret, and go through an agony of jealousy. Another guy – a voyeur – was going to see my wife nude and close-up through binoculars. If that wasn't bad enough, she actually knew he was going to be looking, and not only didn't mind but got aroused by the idea. On top of that, he was old enough to be her father, and was likely going to use perving at her to jerk off.
Capping everything else was the fact I hadn't objected, and was standing where I could be an up-close witness to it happening.
I watched as Celine casually take off her bikini top. I assumed she'd caught sight of Bob, though she concealed it well. She lay back again, pretending to enjoy the sun on her bare skin, though the fact her breasts were white against the tan elsewhere revealed going topless was not something she did every day.
I wasn't counting how many minutes she stayed like that before she reached for her bikini bottoms and slid the little garment down her legs and off her feet, leaving only a white mirror image on her skin. There's something especially thrilling about seeing a beautiful young woman stripping off anything that looks like panties.
Celine stayed on her back after that, and kept her legs together. I guess she was teasing Bob, leaving him wondering if she was going to reveal more, which she eventually intended to, I was sure.
She started by parting her legs – as if relaxing in the sunshine. With binoculars, if his hands weren't trembling too much, Bob would be able to see she liked going completely hairless down there and that her legs no longer concealed her perfect camel toe.
A few moments later, to give him a rear view of her pussy and peach, she turned over, with her feet still apart.
No wonder I felt a stirring in my trousers and lost count of the minutes again. Not that it seemed a long time before she turned on her back once more. This time, she opened her legs wider and put her hand between them – not concealing anything but flat against her thigh, with just a finger extended to the nearest puffy pussy lip. She used it to tease open the 'lid' of her chocolate box on one side, and show a hint of the pink delights inside her cute little package.
Lowering her other hand, she used a finger to open it on the opposite side too. The pale pink slash she revealed showed up pretty well in the sunshine, even from where I was standing. It would have looked fabulous seen through binoculars from next door, and Bob was no doubt expecting she was in the act of masturbating.
