Wedding Day No. 04

She finished her turn, smiled, hooked her thumbs in the thin strings of the thong, and worked it down, keeping her knees together and squirming, once again Betty Boop incarnate.

Her pussy was as perfect as her ass. Full, slightly plump, outer lips, the labia majora for you nomenclature junkies, were perfectly smooth and nestled in the thigh gap of her well-muscled and delightfully toned legs.

She was lightly tanned with no hint of a tan line anywhere.

She grinned then, perfect teeth showing too white, walked to me until our knees almost touched, turned, bent, and spread her cheeks.

Jesus Christ, the woman's asshole was even sculpted.

When I finally managed to shed my virginity, and I have always wondered about the concept of "losing" something you have tried so damn hard to get rid of, the woman I was with, my cousin's wife if it matters, taught me something that has stuck with me since. "Good sex, Philly," she told me, kissing me and licking my upper lip where my nose was running, "is often messy but NEVER dirty."

I took that lesson to heart and with Leigh, my cousin's wife, I learned the pleasures of analingus and made it part of my lovemaking technique since. My point is that I have seen, in the course of 60 years and my share of women, a lot of assholes. They fall, in my experience, into two basic categories. There are the rose buds, a smooth circle with a tidy puckered opening in the middle, and the balloon knot, a deep crease, usually stained dark, with the anus sort of sticking out like the knot at the end of a balloon.

With Bambi, it was a perfectly done starburst with eight separate lines radiating from the center. It was pink, obviously bleached, and those lines were paler making me think there had been surgery and those lines were some sort of well-designed scar tissue. It was unique, and pretty, and I kissed it.

She giggled, stood, and turned.

"Stand up, Philip," she said, so I stood.

She started undressing me, unbuttoning my shirt, and kissing the skin she revealed. When I reached for her she slapped my hand lightly.

"Let me do the work, Baby," she said in that soft, breathy voice, "Just enjoy.

So I did.

And she was good. I wondered if they still had training schools for courtesans or if this was a natural talent. She made undressing me an erotic event and, okay, the cocaine helped.

I was hard, hell, I was hard like I haven't been since I was a teenager, by the time I stood naked before her.

"How," I said, laying my palms on the narrowest part of her waist, where she was so small I could almost span her by touching the tips of the thumbs and fingertips of each hand, "do you do it?"

"Do what, Baby," she asked, a soft giggle in her voice and her lips brushing my cheek as she spoke.

"The waist, first," I said, meeting her lips with mine for a quick kiss, "but all of it, Bambi. Shit, I can do arithmetic and you've got to be around 50 but you look 20 or so."

She giggled at that and said, "Thank you, Kind Sir."

She pushed me away and took two steps back. She did a slow turn, almost like a model on a dollstand.

"I exercise two hours a day," she said, "watch what I eat, and I'm on a three-month maintenance visit to my friendly plastic surgeon."

I believed her. She was a caricature of Woman in many ways. From those ridiculous tits to that sculpted ass she was a statue, a creation of a sculptor, not a woman at all.

"How did you do it?" I asked, genuinely curious.

She smiled and said, "Well, the body hair was first. I'm one of those natural brunettes with thick hair and my body was covered in a very light down. Well, except for pussy and armpits, and there the hair was very thick and curly. I went natural for a year but then Jerry wanted me smooth. So I spent six very uncomfortable Wednesdays in the Dermatologist's office with lasers and chemicals. What you see is permanent now," and she did a slow turn. I couldn't see a single hair on her body.

"And then?" I asked.

She giggled.

"My face, of course," she said and bent down and pulled her hair back showing a very faint scar line. "This took out forehead wrinkles."

She pulled her hair back from behind her ears showing another scar. "This tucked in my ears."

She kept on, and I watched, fascinated. A faint scar under her eyebrow marked the eyelift. Another tiny scar, carefully hidden in the crease of her belly button, was where the liposuction tube had been inserted. "Some of the spare fat went here," and she touched a tiny scar hidden in the faint line of a jowl of her cheek, but most here, "and," she turned and bent, lifting the perfectly sculpted cheek from her gluteal sulcus showing matched tiny scars below each butt cheek, "most of it went to form these."

She turned then, parting her labia, showing two of those tiny scars beside her clitoris, "And these," she added, using her fingers to show off plump labia.

She lifted her clitoral hood showing her clitoris, very prominent, surrounded by a deep trench, almost a moat protecting it, "While he was in her he cleaned out the fat, leaving me very sensitive."

"I like being," and she paused, and an interesting pair of lines appeared between her eyebrows as she sought the right word, "molded. I like," and there were those two lines again, "being desired."

She closed the distance between us, placed her palms on my face, holding my eyes, "Mostly, Phillip, I like giving and receiving pleasure. Now let's stop talking."

The kiss was a good one, making me wonder if one of her "enhancements" wasn't an extension of her tongue. She probed my mouth deeply.

I suppose it was the drugs at least partly, but my body WANTED this succubus. I was harder than I could ever remember being, I was THROBBING with my desire that quickly became a NEED.

And she knew she had won. I don't know how I knew that, but I knew she knew she had won.

"Do you want Bambi?" she breathed into my ear, and there was something about her talking about herself in the third person that made it clear we were in new territory.

"Bambi never says 'no,' Baby," she whispered softly as she nuzzled my neck, "Just tell her what you want."

The image of that starburst asshole popped into my mind.

"I want you on all fours, on the floor," I said, grabbing a handful of that great mane of hair and twisting.

"Ooooooooooo," she cooed, and then kissed me, kissed down my body as she eased to her knees and kissed my throbbing erection before turning and going to all fours, her back arched to show that perfectly sculpted ass to its best advantage, her head back with my fingers still disappearing into the mass of hair.

She wiggled that great ass and looked back over her shoulder at me. "Take what you want, Phillip," she said, "I like it all."

I got to my knees behind her and I could see how ready she was. The mucus membranes that line her vagina along with the Bartholin's and Skene's Glands deeper inside of her were busy, and she looked almost like it was after sex. Those perfectly sculpted labia were leaking, a thick white drop forming as I watched. And her womanscent changed subtly, getting to me way down below the level of any thought, down where monkeys had never left trees or maybe even where lizards copulated in 15-second encounters.

My body, well, the one-eyed friend between my legs took over.

Oh, I was aware, but it was almost like I was watching someone else.

There was no need to reach down to guide myself. We fit together. I grabbed her hips, just the right amount of fat under the sculpted skin, and thrust into her. She was slick and hot and wet and ready and gasped when I did.

And then she pulled me deeper. The control she had over her vaginal muscles was different than anything I had ever had or even anything I had ever imagined. She didn't just squeeze like other women did. She pulled.

She was holding me so tight it was difficult to pull free, but that amazing starburst of her asshole beckoned.

She groaned when I finally got free and laid my palms on those perfect hemispheres of her ass and spread her.

It was still there. I hadn't imagined it. When I spread her wide there was a perfectly smooth circle with that tiny opening in the middle and those eight white lines radiating from it. I thought of a stylized image of the sun from the CBS Sunday Morning show as, this time, I did need to guide myself.

When I touched she demonstrated amazing muscle control again.

Her anus suddenly bulged out slightly, showing the ring of powerful muscle there, and then, somehow, she opened herself slightly, welcoming me.

"Take what you want," she said, her voice husky with her own arousal.

I was careful.

I watched as my one-eyed friend's head entered her and then I pulled out and drug it through her labia, gathering more of her natural lubricant.

I took my time, then, almost a voyeur rather than a participant.

When I had her slick I pushed all of the way in, drawing a long, drawn-out sigh from her.

And then I watched, my palms holding her spread wide, as I fucked her up the ass.

There was nothing even close to "making love" about this. I was fucking. The drugs helped I suppose, but mostly it was her. The pure animal sexuality of what she was, what Jerry had created, got to me in a way I hadn't been physically aroused since my teenage years.

I watched, then, fascinated, as biology took over. Where I was fucking her was, well, meant for other things. After the first few thrusts a brown ring started showing that besides being a sculpted sex toy, a succubus, she was also human and the natural systems were working. And something about that seemed to drive me harder.

So I fucked and she grunted and I watched that brown ring spread. As the scent of her shifted slightly, the strong earthy smell of shit joining her womanneed, the clean scent of a vagina ready to accept a man's seed, my body reacted with harder thrusts.

She came with a yell, a loud, "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSsssssssssss," and I was about a nanosecond behind her, the final thrust making a loud smacking sound as my pot belly met her perfect ass.

And I came like I was a teenager. I felt the rush of ejaculation in my cock, but also deep in my belly as my prostate emptied, and in my scrotum as my balls released their contents.

I suppose it was the drugs. But it was also the situation. What is it about a wedding? And when you got down to it, she and Jerry had been successful. She was the perfect sex object and my body reacted below the level of thought.

We held that position, locked in the spasm of our pleasure for some timeless time, her back arched, greeting my body, my hands digging into her hips, both of our heads thrown back, both gasping desperately to pay off the oxygen debt we had created.

But bodies fail, and at 75, even under the influence, I softened and slipped out.

She might look 20, but she had a half-century on her clock too, and was panting hard. She whimpered softly as I slipped out, but held still.

After the rush of passion was passed I could see how dirty we both were and I started to get up, to find a washcloth or something to clean up with.

But she caught my wrist as I started to stand.

There was that amazing grace on display again as she squirmed around quickly and got to her feet.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To get a washcloth or something to clean us up," I said.

Her grin was predatory.

"Come to bed, Phillip," she said, and kissed me, "I like to sleep dirty. We can clean up in the morning."

And that is what we did.

On the bed, I was aware of the smell of sex and sweat and shit as I kissed her and then found one of those ridiculous tits with its sculpted nipple, took it in my mouth, and drifted off to sleep as she stroked my hair.