Mike had to have noticed. Not that my friend said anything. But he had to have seen just how revealing Leah’s pure white swimsuit had become. Even describing it as revealing is understatement. His wife might as well have been stark naked.
Dry, the swimsuit covered the essentials. Unusually for a woman in her early thirties, it was not a bikini, but a one piece, although that one piece was designed to bare its wearer’s flesh. The front, that is. Around the crotch, that is. Instead of angling inwards from the hips, there was nothing covering her hips. The downward curving cut of the material began way up, level with her breasts, baring a good part of her ribcage, and her sides, and left her delightful hips totally, utterly bare. The downward stretch that passed her navel was no more than a hand’s width. It narrowed even more where it cupped her cunt, technically concealing it, but in reality drawing the any healthy male gaze right there, to the reason God made woman.
Of course the swimsuit concealed her breasts, as any one piece would. It was tied high at the neck, pulled taut on either side, the sweeping downward cut skimming the undercurves of what were generous globes of perfect flesh before turning downwards. It concealed them, but even before she used the pool her nipple stubs visibly pushed against the thin, man-made fabric, and her cleavage was exposed, a wide circular cut out, dead centre of those perfect breasts, baring the inner curves of soft, delicious, creamy whiteness.
Not a bikini then, but more revealing, especially since Leah’s one piece was a front piece only, nothing at the back. Behind, beautifully displayed as she walked to the pool from where we had been reclining on our loungers, it was just strings. No fabric covering her back or butt. Nothing. Elasticated strings alone, so fine their white against her white complexion made them all but non-existent, the only give away that said she was not naked, a single metal ring pressed against her spine, a little lower than her shoulder blades.
Three of the strings were fixed to the ring. Two angled out to the sides and slightly upwards, stretched taut to just below her underarms, holding the front in place. The third descended vertically, tracing her spine, only to disappear between firm buttocks. A fourth, separate string around her neck was visible because her hair was cut so short. Army short. Grunt, not officer. Back and sides shaved smooth. Just the top left growing, blonde, complementing eyes of azure blue, two inches long, no more, left trendily untidy, flaunting the rules, two fingers to conformity.
Had she been in the military, that hair might have been buzz-cut short, but Leah was no private in any army. In that swimsuit, nothing about Mike’s wife was private, and certainly not now that she was returning, dripping, from the pool. Wet, what had once been white nylon, or whatever form of polymer, had turned translucent. Only the thickness of the hem remained still visible, framing her breasts, contouring the circular cut out, and dropping to between her legs, either side of her protruding labia, no growth anywhere, those folds of flesh held flat by the now clear fabric stretched across them. Other than those rolled edges of the swimsuit, she might as well have walked back naked. Amazing areoles the size of expresso saucers showed right through. Nothing was left to my imagination. Breasts, cunt, laid bare. My cock twitched. She may have been married to my friend, but my cock is totally oblivious to wedding rings. It could not care. It only cared for female flesh like hers.
Mike would have known, of course. About the swimsuit. He would have known that it would get like that, so absolutely see through. Their move to this house, with its secluded garden at the rear, and seven metre pool, had been two years before my visit. They would have used the pool both summers. The one-piece swimming costume was hardly new. Mike would have seen her wear it in the past, would have known that wet, it bared everything beneath. Of course he would have known. Just like, Leah would have known it too.
Even more than Mike, Leah would have known. Women always know. Nothing about the way they look is left to chance. Maybe the first time, the translucence of the sheer fabric might have been unexpected, but she would have known, this time, exactly how she would look emerging from the pool. This was no oversight, no accident. Just the fact that she had left us, not for serious swimming, not ten or twenty lengths, and not because it was so hot she had to get cooled down, because in England even when the sun is strong, it never gets that hot. It was calculated, planned display. Two minutes max, just long enough to get wet to her neck, and out and back to us again. She was a willing barbie doll, exhibiting her body. With Mike’s approval. Which was why he did not comment, or suggest a wrap, or anything to be more modest. I was meant to see. I knew that straight away. Later, too late, I learned the reason why.
Give Mike his due, he had caught a beauty. Second wife syndrome. So common. For whatever reason, your first marriage comes to an end, and in your early fifties you find yourself single again, and dating, and maybe using online sites, maybe flicking left and right onscreen. In spite of whatever form of settlement, you still have good money in the bank, and are earning even more, so this time around you can impress with restaurants and hotels that you could not afford back when you were dating in your twenties.
Most of the women you are flicking left and right will have hard-wired in their brains the need for safety and security, the instinctive female mindset formed way back from when cavemen competed for their women with their strength and guile. Prove that you can keep her safe, that you can fight off adversaries and wild animals, and if you have a decent cave as well, then she will be yours, to fuck, and give you kids to carry on your genes. The need for comfort and security, deeply engrained, even today. So looks, and even age, are less important. Health and intelligence, augmented by a just as healthy income, a more than comfortable lifestyle, and a well located, luxury apartment, enable you to pick up women who are candy to the eye. You land a trophy wife. Maybe somewhere in the mix true love might take its rightful place, but a beast can land a beauty, if he can offer all the comforts that she needs.
Mike is no beast. He is not exactly a male model, but he looks okay, and he has always worked out just about as much as I have done, so he is still in good shape, but there are men on building sites who look as fit as he does, and they do not get to wed a sugar baby quite like Leah. Wealth works wonders. So Mike now had a wife to boast about, twenty years his junior, and I had no doubt that the choice of Leah’s swimsuit was intended to impress on his old friend from university days that he had landed a gem. It worked. I was impressed.
Leah joined her husband on the lounger on his right. Even if cooling off in the pool had been more an excuse for showing off a near perfect body than critical necessity, the sun was strong enough for us to be in shade beneath a pergola, not tanning in its rays, so my lounger and the vacant one beside me were facing theirs. Which was nice for me, because Leah’s swimwear took a while to dry, and the view while it was still damp was a welcome accompaniment to our catch-up conversation. She saw me looking, but she did not seem to mind.
It had been three years since I had last seen Mike. I had not been in the country for their wedding. I was in Bangkok. A city aptly named, given that low class British slang for my favourite leisure occupation is ‘banging’, and it involves the use of cock. The women I had fucked there were fifty-fifty Thai and non-Thai. What was nice about my minor diplomatic role was that the social world it brought me into, meant meeting both.
