The Perfect Wife

"Oh qui Madame. It does need a trim. Madame has the hairiest bush in Orlando. A bit overgrown today I think ... yes ... a bit overgrown. "

"But that gives us a lot shrubbery to work with," he said running his fingers through my pubic hair. "It's very full and lush and I'll make it beautiful for him."

"Well," I said, "do what you think it needs. I want to look my best."

Pierre sat down on a short stool at the end of the table between my legs. His eyes were at the level of my pussy about six inches away. He examined me carefully. Then he looked up and smiled.

"You have a lot of hair growing down on your thighs, Madame," he said, his finger gently tracing the outline of my beaver. "If you plan to wear a Bikini we'll have to wax or shave you down here."

"No bikini," I said. "But I'll be naked a lot."

"Oh Madame, how delightful," he cooed. "Then I would suggest we leave a trace of hair on your thighs just below your bush − only a thin line, of course, but with your dark hair it will stand out. That's very sexy when you're naked and spread your legs."

He bent his head down, his eyes only inches from my pussy. I heard his scissors go clip, clip, as he delicately combed and shaped my bush.

"Spread your legs wider Madame, I need more room to work."

I felt his hands on my inner thighs spreading me wider. Jesus! With soft hands like that creeping up a gal's thigh he could get all the pussy he wanted − if he wanted pussy, which he doesn't. Several of us in the bridge club often talked about Pierre's soft hands on our thighs.

He raised his head from between my knees and looked closely at my beaver.

"Ah qui Madame, that should do it. Very sexy."

He turned his attention to my clit and observed it from several angles.

"Madame has a rather large clitoris. It looks ... ah ... shall we say ... ah ... quite experienced."

"Not as experienced as I would like," I said with a chuckle thinking about two wasted years of marriage.

"Qui," he said. "A common complaint of my ladies."

I felt his finger on my clit, stroking daintily, then more rapidly. Jesus this guys hands! I'm getting a hard on. My clit was suddenly erect under his talented finger.

"And will the gentleman be nibbling on this perhaps?" Pierre said it with a grin.

I laughed lightly. "Sometimes he eats pussy Pierre and sometimes not. With men you never know what to expect."

"Men!" Pierre almost shouted in an exasperated, irritated feminine manner moving his hands with exaggerated gracefulness. "I can never understand them! I doubt I ever will."

Then he began to stroke my clit again, keeping it erect. "There's a lot shrubbery around here, Madame. Not a jungle like I see with some neglected beavers, but still quite dense. Let us see how much we must remove to allow the gentleman the best glimpse of his lunch. We want it enticing but not too revealing − a little tease always helps."

I felt my clit grow harder as he stroked it. He examined it carefully from several angles, being sure to keep me erect. Then he stood up, leaned over, and looked down at it.

"Ah yes," he said. "Just a tantalizing glimpse of the erect head perhaps. Not too much. Not to little. Just right."

Once again bending over, his eyes inches from my clit, I heard his scissors do the clip, clip routine and Pierre mumbled "Not to much, not too little, just right" as he combed and trimmed the pubic hair around the head of my erect clit.

"Now the shaft," he said. Then he mumbled almost talking to himself, "A nice long shaft ... good ... we'll cover it with short curly hairs ... very subtle ... ah ... good."

Clip, clip, comb, clip, clip, comb.

"Please Madame, spread your legs wider. I need room to work."

All the time he worked on my clit he kept it hard as a rock and trimmed the hair around it. Pierre always did it this way. As he had explained to me in the past, he wanted the hair to be right when my clit was "Operational and in working order."

"Now a little touch-up here and there," Pierre said as he combed and trimmed several spots on my bush.

"As I remember Madame prefers just a delicate point of bush on the tummy rather than a straight line across the top of the triangle?"

I told him that was my preference and he clipped away some more. Then he reached over and stroked the lips of my vagina, which were slightly open, and after his work on my clit also slightly moist.

"You're very delicate here, Madame. Is your gentleman, as the Americans say, well hung?"

What a silly way to ask! Being from Brooklyn, Pierre was as American as anyone and he was an expert on well and poorly hung men of every age, race, and persuasion. But it was obvious that he was very interested in the instrument he was preparing me to receive.

"Nine inches and thick," I said with a touch of pride in my voice.

I heard him take a quick deep breath and when I looked at him he was letting it out slowly. His eyes were closed and he was clearly imagining what it would feel like to take a thick nine-incher up his ass.

"That will stretch you out," he said softly. He was fingering my vaginal lips but I knew he was thinking about his own asshole.

And now Madame, let us see to hygiene. He pushed two fingers deep into my moist vagina and moved them in and out quickly. Then he put them to his nose and smelled them carefully with his eyes closed. The he moved his nose down with an inch of my vaginal lips and closing his eyes again he inhaled deeply.

"Qui Madame. Sweet and clean with the delicate aroma of anchovies -- like a well-prepared Caesar dressing. Perfect!" He cooed in his best female sounding voice. Two fingers remained on my labia massaging me softly in a friendly manner.

Looking up from the stool between my legs, he said, "And does Madame anticipate ... ah ... shall we say ... heavy use?"

As he said "heavy use" he caressed my labia with his fingers and giggled softly and suggestively, like a woman. He wasn't thinking of me, of course, he was thinking of the man whose organ would soon be where his fingers were and fantasizing about what that organ might do to him.

I laughed. "Very heavy use Jean Pierre. Very heavy use!"

"How long will your husband be away?" Pierre was very much aware of my situation and I could trust him.

"Four nights," I responded.

"Then Madame will need a bottle of Jean Pierre Vanity Douche. Perhaps two. I prepare it myself."

"I think FOUR bottles will be required Pierre," I replied. "I wish to always be fresh.

"Mon Dieux! Madame! Mon Dieux! Heavy use indeed."

His fingers massaged my vaginal lips softly, almost sympathetically, as he thought about what was about to happen to them, although once again I suspected he was thinking about his own asshole rather than my pussy.

Softly, almost inaudibly he said "Nine inches and thick!"

He looked up at my face, out of his fantasy now, and said, "Qui Madame, we must always be fresh and ready for our gentlemen. One can never know what they will want or when they will want it. Men! I'll never understand them!"

Pierre spread my legs wider, his hands on my knees holding them apart, for one last examination from several angles. Then he stood up.

"Bien," he said. "Let's see how it looks from the front. Stand up and go over to the full length mirror."

I slipped into my heels and walked over to the mirror. My bush looked great! Also my legs in those spike heels. I looked as good half naked as stark naked.

Pierre eyed my beaver professionally and then quickly dropping to his knees, comb and scissors in hand, he trimmed several errant pussy hairs that offended his sense of orderliness.

He stood back and admired his work. The he skillfully fingered my clit to get me hard again.

"And notice, Madame" he pointed, "You can just barely see the head of your erect clitoris and the shaft is covered very subtly with short, curly hairs. Very suggestive! Don't you think? Your gentleman will adore it."

Then he smiled suggestively and said, "Perhaps even take a nibble. It certainly looks good enough to eat."

Of course Pierre was the last guy in the world who would munch on a snatch, no matter how well groomed.

"Thick and lush, Madame," he said, rubbing his fingers through my beaver. "You give an artist a wonderful opportunity to exercise his skills. It's useless to try to make a sparse, almost hairless beaver attractive − better to shave it like a college girl. I do some that way but it takes no artist to do that − only a barber. Bah! Naked pussy! Ugly. Just a vulgar display of available meat."

Two hours and well over a hundred dollars! But worth it.

When Bob got to my house Tuesday afternoon, I took him up to the bedroom and told him what I thought about what he was doing to John. His response was not encouraging. He laughed.

"You've got to understand Diane, it's a special thrill to fuck another guy's wife when he doesn't know about it. Especially a guy you know − the closer he is as a friend the more fun it is. It's fun when you're pounding a pussy to think about the husband who thinks it belongs to him − to wonder if, perhaps later, me might eat some of your leavings."

Then he laughed.

"But it's even better with John because I'm giving him true details about how I'm fucking his own wife and watching him get so aroused that he goes home and fucks her himself. Now that is a real thrill! He DID fuck you that day didn't he?"

"Yes he fucked me. His usual five-minute deal and of course I didn't cum. I was mad, not horny."

"You never cum with John," he said with a chuckle. "His dick's too little and he doesn't last long enough. That's why you're always so horny. That's a turn on for me."

"For you maybe," I said in disgust. "But you're making a fool out of the man I love."

Bob laughed, "Yes Diane, but NOT the man you love to fuck. Besides YOU are the one who chose to make him a cuckold except he doesn't know anything about it so it's okay. He's and ignorant cuckold, not a helpless one who knows his wife is fucking someone else but can do nothing about. Of course some cuckolds get aroused at the thought of their wives getting fucked. Maybe we ought to tell him and find out if it turns him on."

"That's not funny, damn it!" I shouted. I enjoyed fucking Bob but I loved my husband. The thought of him finding out scared me.

"I'm just joking Diane," he said. "You know I'd never tell him or let him find out. We're always very careful."

"Oh and by the way," he continued. "Your loving hubby wants to hear about Gail licking my balls. So you're gonna be extra busy from now on."

Shit! Why that? I suddenly wondered about John's fantasy life. He had never shared any of it with me. What kind of fantasies does he have in his head I wonder? Some guys are turned on by very surprising things − sometimes even repressed fantasies turn them on. I hope he doesn't want to hear about Gail taking a big one up the ass. I couldn't do that! Not Bob's thick monster!

"You're a real bastard!" I said. I was mad.

"Yes I am. You want me to leave?" Bob said still laughing.

"No I don't want you to leave!"

This conversation was going the wrong way. Shit! Never argue with a man when you're horny and want to fuck him. You will always lose!

"What do you want me to do?" Bob asked.

"You know exactly what I want you to do," I said, thinking that the bastard's gonna make me beg for it. And shit! I'm pissed. I don't want him to hear me beg.

"Ask for it!" Bob said softly.

Shit! I closed my eyes and just stood there in silence. I was really pissed. I as not gonna give him the satisfaction! Then I heard him walk out of the bedroom. He turned and looked back through the door with a grin on his face, waiting. The bastard was gonna leave if I didn't beg.

"See you tomorrow," he said, turning to leave.

He had me! If I wanted to get fucked I'd damn well better do what he wants. So finally I did.

Softly, I said what he wanted to hear. "Fuck me Bob. Please fuck me. I really need it. I haven't had it in almost two weeks."

He chuckled. "Good girl. I'm gonna tell John that Gail and I had an argument and I started to walk out and Gail begged for it just like always. Then I made her blow me and I did her doggie. You want to do that?"

He had me − as usual. He owned me. I felt myself getting horny and helpless. My anger calmed down. It really had been almost two weeks. I needed to feel that big thing inside me, so I did what I had to do. I nodded.

"Okay baby. Get naked," he said.

I stripped for him as fast as I could. God I really wanted to fuck!

When I stood there before him, trembling in anticipation, naked in spike heels, he grinned and looked me up and down. I involuntarily pulled my belly in. I threw my shoulders back to show off my tits the way he liked. I was glad I'd had my hair done and my beaver manicured. I wanted to turn him on. I had to turn him on. I had tried so hard to look good.

Finally he said, "Ask for it one more time. Like the slut you are."

Don't argue. You belong to him, I thought. Do what he tells you. I asked for it again.

He nodded and I dropped to my knees and crawled toward him as fast as I could to blow him so I could feel that big thing inside me. The bastard lifted up his scrotum for me to suck his balls before I blew him.

But I finally got laid and the next two hours were like heaven. He gave me three orgasms.

And just as I knew would happen John told that story the day after he got home. His erection became visible as he told me about Gail sucking Bob's balls. John fucked me that afternoon on the patio, horny as hell over a true story about his own wife standing there buck naked begging to get fucked and then giving a blowjob and taking a big one doggie style. Except John thought it was some other poor bastard's wife.

And so it went for over two years. Bob spent maybe seven or eight nights a month in my bed. John heard all the details and couldn't wait to tell me. I got a lot of five-minute late afternoon fucks and a lot at bedtime too that did nothing for me but kept my husband very happy.

I'd never seen hubby so horny. He got so horny that he'd often fuck me on the patio. If a wife's job is keeping her husband sexually satisfied then I was most certainly the perfect wife − a perfect, loving wife. But somehow I wasn't completely sure that this was the way a wife was supposed to keep her husband happy.

And then Bob met a beautiful natural blond bitch named Margie and fell in love. Yeah, for real, he fell in love and proposed. He was going to marry Margie next month at her parents' home in Jacksonville. He let me know that he'd fuck me till then but our affair was going to end after he got married. I began to get depressed thinking about not getting properly laid.

A couple of weeks later the three of us were at the club for dinner. The whores were out tonight I thought as I looked around the dining room. Two trophy wives were here with elderly husbands plus a gal we all knew fucked like a mink.

A few tables away from us was a gal with big tits and bright red hair sitting next to her husband. Her name was Bridget but the gals in the bridge club called her Trixie. She was 35 years old and her distinguished, rich, grey haired husband was at least 75. She looked stunning in a bikini -- her body was everything her husband had paid for.

Trixie had a shaved pussy. It was done regularly by Jean-Pierre who told me that shaved pussies were "Ugly. Just a vulgar display of available meat." And Trixie was most certainly available meat.

Both Bob and the golf pro had fucked her, as well as several other married guys in the club. Her husband didn't seem to mind. He had bought her as a display model but she liked to fuck. She kept looking over at our table trying to get Bob's attention. The bitch!

Her routine was simple. Hubby went to bed early. Trixie then swam naked in her pool. All a guy had to do was join her for a swim and then take her into the pool house where there was a large bed. The guys all said, "A dip in the pool then dip your wick in the pool house." I don't know whether it was true but the gossip at the bridge tables was that sometimes more that one guy at a time joined Trixie for a swim. No gangbangs you understand but occasionally two or three at a time.

I guess some would say that Trixie was a promiscuous slut but she had her standards and she earned the eternal respect of the ladies bridge club, at least the women's liberation section, when she refused to give one of the guys a blowjob.

When he asked her to suck him off, Trixie was supposed to have said, "I'm fuckin for ME not you. You want to fuck I'll spread my legs. You want a blowjob hire a hooker."

But some of the ladies were not her fans. One gal in the bridge club woke up one morning and discovered that her husband had "pool hair."

"That bastard had visited Trixie after I went to sleep," she told her bridge table. "He denied it but I know he fucked her. The horny bastard!"

Across the dining room we saw Walt Higgins and his wife Beth. Walt was a very obese guy and Beth was a buxom thirty-something bleached blond. She looked like a trophy wife but actually they'd been married since college where he'd played football. She was the gal he had dated since high school.

It had been a storybook romance until Walt's weakness for booze got to him. Tonight Walt was getting quite drunk as he often did. Walt had a big belly and Beth had big tits. She also had a reputation for having a needy pussy. According to the gals in my bridge group, the golf pro had been seen frequently helping a drunken Walt home.

Bob had never fucked her. When we finished dinner Bob went over to their table to offer his help in getting Walt home. The bastard! I knew what he had in mind -- a little strange stuff before settling down to married life.

I started to get pissed. But there was not a damn thing I could do about it. John was in town so Bob couldn't fuck me. I was not the only one pissed. Trixie watched him closely and I could tell she was upset at his choice of ladies for the evening.

As Bob and Walt and Beth left together, John leaned over to me and whispered, "That field has been thoroughly plowed, my Dear. Another furrow, even a wide one, won't matter all that much."

But I thought that with those heavy balls of his there's gonna be more than one furrow plowed tonight. The bastard! He'd fuck her all night!

As I thought this, John whispered, "Gale is gonna be jealous but it will get her ass in gear. I can't wait to hear Bob's description of that pussy."

And he heard it. The next evening when John and I were having cocktails on the patio I got the story from John that he had gotten from Bob at work.

"Bob says Beth's a whore just like Gail. She gets naked and begs for it and really pumps her ass. He fucked her most of the night."

"Did he fuck her this morning too?" I asked, thinking about how that bastard always wakes up with a piss hard on and fucks me the first thing every morning.

"Yeah he fucked her big time this morning and then went down to the kitchen and had coffee with her husband before he left. Walt was sober by morning so he must have heard them fucking. I mean Beth's a screamer."

"Was Walt mad?" I asked.

"I'm sure he didn't like it but what the hell could he do? His belly is too big to fuck her himself. I think he loves her − still loves her after all those years. But he can't give her what she needs and she's still young enough to need it. He's probably afraid that she'll leave him if he doesn't let her fuck other guys. She's fucked at least a dozen guys in the past year. At least she usually does it when he's drunk."

"Poor bastard!" John continued. "Bob figured he listened to her grunt this morning when she was working to cum. Says she's a noisy bitch just like Gail. Then hubby has to sit there and have coffee with the guy that just fucked his wife. But the poor bastard's got no choice if he loves her and never wants to lose her."