He Should Have Asked Me First

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.

The Thai women were mostly government employees, or their wives, looking for casual satisfaction like myself. Some catering staff as well, of course, waitresses and management both. Naked, penetrated, a woman’s status is of trivial interest. My cock does not distinguish. The non-Thai were diplomatic staff of other nationalities, European, American, Asian, encountered in the diplomatic circles that my role required me to frequent. Not many were high ranking, but a woman’s rank is less important than her expertise in bed. I had been pleased to do more than done my share of promoting international relations on behalf of Brits in Thailand.

Thai or non-Thai, when it came to the more carnal pleasures, wedding rings were an irrelevance, other than to signify the need for slightly more discretion. My wife had taught me that the wearer of a wedding ring may still seek intercourse outside their marriage bed. She certainly did. Not with my approval. And not that I blame the men. She was at fault. They just took advantage of her willingness. So I divorced her. Since then, I can admit with neither pride nor shame, that I have fucked more than my share of women wearing rings. On principle. Not displaced revenge. A more straightforward principle, that if a woman that I fancy wears a wedding ring, but still will let someone, not her husband, fuck her, then it might as well be my cock enjoying their illicit cunt, and not some other guy’s.

With that philosophical approach in mind, and with no qualms whatsoever, I enjoyed the view of Leah’s perfect body as Mike and I caught up, and as I learned a little more about this wife of his. Daughter of a banker. Private school. Psychology at university. Now providing psychotherapy for female prisoners serving out their sentences, which went some way to explain her choice of non-conforming hairstyle. Her close shaved scalp around the back and sides, with untamed hair on top, would go down well with the offenders that she worked with. Form a connection and maybe they will open up more readily. Be more amenable to working out their issues. Serve out their sentence, and then not re-offend. It also gave Mike’s wife a distinctive touch of class when in a cocktail dress, as I had seen on several of his Facebook photos. It certainly looked good with wet and transparent swimwear. Lucky guy, my friend!

Skip the conversation at the pool, and more at dinner, and move to when we had all three of us gone to our bedrooms, lights were switched out, and I was beneath the single sheet that was all I needed in the summer heat, not yet asleep, when my door opened. She came in silently. Bare feet on the carpet. Bare everything. Stark naked.

Outside, there was a moon, and moonlight filtered through my curtains, giving the pale whiteness of her body a soft tinge of something greyish blue, almost a ghostly apparition. Slender, though with generous breasts, lithe in her frame and limbs. Delicate hands, one of which eased back the sheet, and then she was beside me, on her side, that same hand around my cock. No apparition. Warm flesh, soft breasts, firm thighs, pressing close against my body as she caressed and stroked me with that slender hand.

“Mike asked me to look after you,” Leah said.

For whatever reason, I did not feel the least bit surprised. Neither did my cock. It just did what comes to it so naturally when a naked woman lies beside me, fondling it. It grew. Leah stroked it more as it responded, stiffened, widened, lengthened, and swelled to its full, purposeful dimensions.

“Did he, now?” I said.

Maybe I was not surprised because of the swimsuit exhibitionism outside at the pool that afternoon. Maybe it was just some instinct, that had told me this might happen. Something subconscious. Nothing in the years that I had known Mike had suggested that he might enjoy wife sharing, but something about this catch up visit had been different. Something impenetrable, that I could not get a handle on. A feeling, that my friend’s wife might just be available. And here she was, beside me.

“That’s assuming you’d like to be looked after,” she said, still stroking where it mattered.

“I think that you can tell,” I answered.

She raised her upper body, leaning on one elbow, bent at the waist to bring her head over my stomach, and rested it there. I caressed her shoulder. Her mouth enveloped my cock head and she started to use her tongue, lapping at the sensitive head, slowly, but deliberately, side to side, round and round, one way, then the other, tip touching the rim, playing the frenum. She had done this before. More than once. Practice makes perfect, and it seemed like she had had practice in this special skill.

I shave. Women seem to like it. Less risk of curls between their teeth. It has become a part of my routine. It means that I am smooth there, and just that bit more sensitive to the softness of a woman’s hair. Except she had no hair, or not where the side of her head was resting on me. Smooth scalp on smooth lower stomach. A different feel. A new sensation. Complementing what she was doing with her mouth.

I put my hand to her head, behind her ear. More smooth scalp. It felt amazing. You could develop a fetish for smooth scalp. Had it not been for the growth of hair on top, she could have been one of those perfect female androids, yet to be invented, but that will almost certainly be mass produced next century to please their owners. Or a genuine submissive, who compliantly allows a domineering master to shave their heads and body smooth. Not my thing, but the feel of Leah’s so smooth scalp beneath my palm still intensified the way my cock felt in her mouth.

She moved her head again, closer to my groin, taking another inch of cock into her mouth. Then she slowly turned and raised herself, and brought one of her legs between mine, closely followed by the other, so that she was kneeling in a yoga child pose, facing me, bent forwards, holding my cock so that it was now angled vertically, but still inside her perfect mouth. Next, she lowering her upper body fully, breasts against her knees, taking within her mouth more and more of my rigid cock shaft’s length, until her nose came to press against my lower abdomen, her lips were touching groin around my shaft, and the head was nestled nicely in the moist warmth of her throat.

My cock head relished the soft flesh embracing it, rippling gently, as she controlled the reflex instinct to back away. One hand was at my side, her bent slender arm helping to support her upper body weight. The other stroked its way up my ribcage, over my chest, up my neck, fingers curving around my chin, touching my lips, finding their way inside, probing gently. There was a hardness on one finger, something fixed to it, unyielding. My tongue explored the diamond setting of her engagement ring, and the smooth, unyielding surface of her wedding band. My cock twitched in her throat, betraying its wayward preference for adultery.

She raised her head again, but with no sense of urgency as she inhaled, replenishing her breath before she took my cock head deep inside her throat again, this time raising and lowering her head, fucking me orally, deliciously. Raise your body, back away a little, breathe again, lower your head, relax your throat, accept the firm thickness of invading cock, hold still, let him enjoy, and then repeat. Pull back, breathe, lower again, relax, control that reflex, hold, repeat again. Back, breathe, lower, hold, repeat. She knew what she was doing. My cock loved every exquisite moment.

Introduce variety. Lick and suck his testicles. Tongue caress the full length of his shaft. Deep throat the guy again. Pleasure him. Again. And again. She knew exactly what to do, steadily bringing me closer and closer to the moment of eruption, when I would spurt directly in her throat, no bitter taste, just the swallowing of copious, warm semen, except I was enjoying it too much to want to let it end, and by power of will and contraction of my pelvic muscles, I held that moment off, fought to control the impulse, until I nearly shot my load, the stimulation so overpoweringly intense.

Nearly, but not at that moment, not in her throat. She sensed the moment, the twitch of muscles as my groin prepared itself to detonate and release its reservoir of semen. She drew her head away before it happened, hand to my cock, finger at my frenum, thumb opposite, tucked beneath the flange, and squeezed. It did as she intended, tamed the instinct to ejaculate. The need subsided. I relaxed. She looked me in the eye and softly said two words.

“Not yet.”

Even in dim moonlight, her eyes were still that azure blue. You can read expressions in moonlight. Hers was calm, controlled, almost amused. She knew what she was doing, not wanting me to come, not in her mouth, wanting more, not just my pleasure, but much, much more than that. I had not yet been inside her, and it was clear she wanted things to go much further. She wanted me to take her all the way. Or more accurately, that was where my best friend’s wife intended to take me.

Those blue eyes still looking into mine, she raised herself upright, crawled on her knees, over my legs and up my body, to almost level with my chest, and then reached between her legs to guide my cock as she lowered her body to a squat. Her cunt was slick as baby oil. No added lubrication needed. It oozed fluid, so that my cock head slid deep within with no resistance, until those labia that I had last seen pressed flat against her by her transparent swimsuit, were pressed just as flat against my groin.

Her torso upright, full breasts lit by moonlight, areoles perfect, stubs thickly proud, hands splayed on my abdomen to help with balance, she used her thighs to rise upwards until only the swollen head of my cock was still inside her cunt, her labia now wrapped around my shaft, pink folds of nether flesh in the dimness of refracted moonlight. Then she descended, and a million nerve endings shrilled to exquisite sensation as flesh slid through flesh, reopening, stretching, penetrating to the very depths.

She waited, her cunt muscles tightening and relaxing around my shaft, then raised her butt again in perfectly controlled slow motion, just to the flange. Hold a moment, back down just as slowly, delighting in each millimetre of re-entry. Wait again. Enjoy the depth of penetration. Then repeat. And again. And deliciously again and again and again.

Then she began to vary it. Sometimes slow, easing upwards, descending half an inch each breath she took. Sometimes, hard and fast, allowing gravity to slam her butt against my groin, to thrust my cock up into her cunt at gasp inducing speed. Her gasps. Not mine. I just lay back and enjoyed. And exercised more power of will and pelvic muscles so as to prolong the pleasure.

Mike’s wife could fuck. Lucky sod, to have his ring on her. To fuck this exquisite body any time he chose. Perfect body. Perfect, practiced technique. They say it takes ten thousand hours to master any instrument. Her instrument was her cunt, and she knew how to play a man’s strings, how to use rhythm, tempo, vibrato, staccato, fortissimo.

She knew how to let go, as well. How to release any remaining inhibition. How to disengage control and let her body do its thing, let the sensations that shuddered through her take her to a place where nothing mattered, other than that sheer heaven of grunting, gasping, breath taking delight. She had not yet ridden my cock to ejaculation, but she rode her cunt to her own climactic, orgasmic ecstasy. Her entire body convulsed, feverishly shivering and shaking, breasts wildly undulating, hands tearing at my chest so fiercely that I had to grip her wrists and lift them from me. Finally collapsing onto me, soft breasts on my chest, she drew herself back from her nirvana, slowly coming to, as if rousing from a dream, then whispered.