“Well?” I said. “Aren’t you going to show me what you’ve had done?”

The expression on the face of my beloved reminded me of a cat that had just stolen and polished off a whole pot of cream.

“You can look, but no touching ... not yet. I want to enjoy it myself first.”

She took hold of the hem of her dress in both hands and millimetre by millimetre began to lift it. I stopped breathing. Her pubic hair is naturally thick, black and curly and she’d promised me she’d come back from the beauty salon with a new look. A bus ticket? A landing strip? Either would suit her. I’m always ready to go down on her, in any case, and I was almost dribbling at the prospect.

“Bloody hell! It’s beautiful! Can I have a closer look?”

“Yes, but you are not allowed to touch.”

“I promise”.

She had no hair at all! Completely smooth! I fell to my knees, it seemed the obvious thing to do, faced with this vision. I never got tired of looking at the details of her sex, anyway ... Newly waxed, it brought out the swell of her pubic mound and showed off the slot that never ceased to fascinate me. The contrast between the previous black triangle and the pale soft skin which was now exposed, was almost shocking.

I’ve always been intrigued by the different forms that a woman’s sex can take. I’ve had girlfriends with the most discreet of sexes, an almost-invisible cleft. Others had inner labia that showed outside the slot ... in one case spectacularly so. Me, I loved all these variations. My enthusiasm was well-rewarded by my wife’s sex.

She was keeping her legs together, squeezing tight on her thigh muscles, but that only served to emphasise how her sex is never completely closed, and that the edges of her inner labia are always visible.

Now, I could see her clitoris hood, all the more so since her clitoris was starting to swell. I struggled to stop myself from reaching out with my lips towards the little bud. How many hours have I spent sucking on and licking it? Once she’s turned on, it slides out from the hood and makes itself available. At that point, it’s so sensitive that all I have to do is blow on it to make it contract involuntarily, which is often accompanied by an equally involuntary twitch of her abs, and, if I’m lucky, by a groan dragged from the depths of her being.

“Happy?” she asked.

“And how! I was expecting a reduction, not a total clear out! And it makes you look fabulous! What do you think?”

“It’s even more satisfying than I’d hoped. Even the beautician said it looked great and she must have seen loads like that. Does it make sense if I say I feel more than nude?”

“That’s because you are!”

And it was true. The depilation gave a clean and pure outline to her sportswoman’s silhouette.

That weekend I couldn’t count the times I caught her looking at it, touching it and playing with it, like a new toy. She didn’t wear knickers at all. I watched and admired, and although I was frustrated not to be invited to join in, I managed to bite my lip and wait.

It was Sunday night by the time she let me play. She said she’d been seeing how long she could hold out, too. We both loved oral sex, so I licked and sucked to my heart’s content. Once her clitoris was nice and swollen, I caught it between my lips and played at vacuum cleaners until she came a first time. The coolness of the waxed skin added an extra little something to my delight. When she’d told me she was going to try something new, a passing thought had made me concerned that she might look disturbingly like a little girl, but what I was seeing wasn’t like that at all. It was a real woman’s vulva that was centimetres from my eyes, an adult sex plumped up by my attentions. I closed that minimal gap once more and kept sucking until her uncontrolled trembling said she was coming again. Delicious!

For several days after that, we almost gave up on fucking, in favour of endless mutual oral sessions. Sometimes we were competing, to see who could make the other come first. Mostly I lost. Other times, we were interrupted by fits of laughing. At yet others, there was silence, each of us concentrating hard on giving pleasure.

A couple of times I concentrated my efforts on her inner labia, making them dark red. That intrigued her, but she complained that she couldn’t see herself properly. The following evening, she propped a mirror against the wall of our bedroom. I was instructed to suck as hard as I could on her inner labia, for as long as I could. My throat was complaining by the time she stood up and went to examine her reflection, she pulled hard on her labia so they showed outside her cleft.

“Does that look good?” she asked.

“Not as pretty, maybe but very sexy.”

“I like how it looks, and it’s tingling as if I have pins and needles in there. Thank you for indulging me.”

“My pleasure, “I croaked.

.

She was 23 when we met, and I was 28. Four years on, and I could still hardly believe my good luck. Five foot five, dark, wavy hair shoulder-length, eyes so brown they were almost black. 32A bra size, intelligent and well-read. I’d had to teach her about positions other than missionary and push her hard about wearing clothes that showed a bit more skin. I’d enjoyed doing that. She’d finally confessed to some of her fantasies she used to get herself off. Telling them to me made for mutually enjoyable moments. When I told her that for me, fantasy was just the jumping off point, she said, very firmly, that I shouldn’t hold my breath.

I knew, though, that sooner or later she’d want ... or if not, that I’d be asking her ... to let someone else enjoy the view. That started me working out how that hoped-for moment could be made even more erotic by, in some way, enhancing this more-than-nude sex to look even more immodest.

I ended up buying a gold chain, fifteen inches long, with a loop at each end. I vandalised a pair of cheap clip-on earrings and fixed the clips to the ends of the chain. The following night, I set up the mirror. I did my very best to make her inner labia as long and as plump as I could. When she got up to admire the effect in the mirror, I asked her to close her eyes, and then attached the chain. She loved how she looked, how it felt, too. Personally, I wasn’t as delighted as she was. I’d anticipated that the chain would form a symmetrical parabola between her thighs, but it wouldn’t hang right, from my perspective. I was disappointed and she noticed it. She took it off and put it in her jewellery box until I could find the time and the skill to sort it out.

I’d found neither by the time we set of for a week in Ibiza. I was, though, happy that a visit to the beauty salon the day before we left produced a newly-bare sex in time for our holiday. The attraction of Ibiza wasn’t the nightlife, but that we shared with the locals the location of certain wonderful and calm beaches. That didn’t mean that we were going to miss out on meals in some of the island’s excellent restaurants. The one I chose to celebrate our arrival was a smart one, a very upmarket one, in fact.

“I think I feel like making the effort this evening,” she said as she came out of the shower.

“If you like the idea, I’ll be delighted.”

It was the “making the effort” that made my eyes light up. By using that code expression, she was letting me know that she was prepared to indulge my preference for her to be not so much dressed up as stripped down, at least to some extent. For me, and, when she’s the one suggesting it, for her, “making the effort” had a specific meaning. It was a fun thing we shared that had taken a little time to take shape. It wasn’t long after we’d met that I told her I thought she’d be even sexier if she wore fewer clothes for our outings. Without a bra, for example? She went along with that quite easily. Her 32A of bust didn’t really need one. No knickers? She was less keen on that. She’d agree from time to time, but only with dresses or skirts of at least knee length. She didn’t find it comfortable to live with. The first time, she told me afterwards, she felt really embarrassed, with only a little spark of pleasure at her daring as compensation. Luckily, that little spark was just enough to persuade her to try again. The imbalance gradually reversed itself, and being aware that she was bare under even a shortish skirt gradually bothered her less. She was still embarrassed and nervous, but those feelings had become the spice that made her proud that she was taking the risk. She’s a very attractive woman, and we both enjoyed seeing the pleasure, and sometimes lust, too, in the eyes of the people who were watching her. The little extra buzz that only we two shared, from knowing that there was nothing but bare skin under her skirt and top, added to that spice.

“What were you thinking of wearing?”

“I thought my green blouse. Why?”

“No special reason. It’s a good choice. I like that green blouse. It’s smart, but sexy, too. Bra?”

“I thought not. Probably not. No.”

“Without a bra, your nipples will be on show.”

“Really? I didn’t realise that.”

My wife was a liar.

It was a totally classic blouse, tailored in a way that would be fine for the office. The material, though, not so much. Any bra was clearly visible through it. The slightly rough texture of the ultra-fine linen gave her interesting sensations on her nipples, she’d said, on the only other occasion she’d worn it bra-less, in the car on our way home from a concert. Her nipples always stood up at the slightest provocation, and with this blouse, the evening was sounding promising. The fact that it was she who had suggested it was even more so.

“You’ll also be wearing a skirt?”

“I will. Don’t get your hopes up, though.”

It was said with a smile, so I wasn’t too concerned. She went on,

“My white skirt. I don’t want you to get confused by having to decide to admire my legs or my boobs.”

She went off to get dressed.

The white skirt was almost knee length and looked very smart with the green blouse.

It looked quite formal and created a nice contrast with the bare breasts exposed by the blouse. She did her makeup, gave me a quick flash of her tiny green bikini knickers, put on a pair of sandals with a little heel and announced she was ready to go.

We went out to wait for the taxi I’d called. He’d be ten minutes, but the evening was pleasantly warm. Suddenly I had an inspiration.

“How would you like to highlight that you’re not wearing a bra?”

Her holiday smile told me she was open to the suggestion.

“I suppose I could be persuaded, but how?”

“The chain on your nipples?”

“Hum. Not so sure. I’ve never tried that ... Go on then. It’s in my jewellery bag”.

I sprinted back into the apartment, dug out the chain and was back in no time, to find that she’d already unbuttoned her blouse in preparation. Her nipples were already erect, so I gathered that she was ready to try this new experience. I couldn’t help noticing a slight grimace crossing her face as I closed the clips, though.

“You look even more fabulous” I said. It was nothing but the truth.

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I can’t see myself, but the sensations are certainly ... interesting.”

The taxi arrived and we climbed in. The driver, who must have been in his sixties, had the rear view mirror tilted so he could look down into the back seat and I could see the approval on his face as she sat back. We’d been driving for maybe ten minutes when I noticed she wasn’t comfortable.

“Problem?”

“It’s the chain. It’s squeezing my nipples too hard. I’m going to have to take it off”.

“Go on, then. Take it off.”

“The driver’s going to see.”

“So? Given he works in Ibiza, I bet he’s seen bare boobs in his taxi before”.

She sighed, unfastened her blouse and removed the chain. It was true, her nipples were darker and longer than normal. The driver didn’t miss a moment of the process, nor did I. She handed me the chain and gave her nipples a little scrub before buttoning up again.

“Oh, that’s such a relief! I know they say that beauty demands suffering, but there are limits!”

“I can see that, but I’ve never seen your nipples so long! You look stunning...”

“They’re more sensitive than normal, too.” Her tone was telling me that even if she had suffered, she liked the result.

The taxi stopped in the restaurant car park and we got out. I took the driver’s number and said we’d call him to take us home. We were a bit early for our table, and the reception bar was heaving, so we strolled across the car park to the edge of the beach, about twenty metres away. It was a warm, pleasant evening with a nice breeze.

Something was spoiling my enjoyment of listening to the waves and admiring for the nth time the lovely silhouette of my wife. I stuck my hand in my pocket. Of course! The chain. It was niggling me that it had been too tight for her and I was wondering how I could make the clips more bearable without their falling off. I’d really been looking forward to the looks from the other clients as they caught sight of her decorated nipples. I was still fiddling with it, letting it run from one hand to the other, when she noticed what I was doing.

“Please don’t ask me to put it back on. I know it looks good, but it hurts too much. I’d love to have worn it for you ... for me, too. If my nipples weren’t so sensitive...”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence, because I interrupted her.

“I have an idea...”

She knew me too well.

“You mean...?”

“Yes. Will you?”

She sighed, but I knew she’d do it. However there’s still a little dialogue we had to run through first.

“If you want it to be clipped to my pussy lips, I won’t be able to keep my knickers on. You want me to have a bare bum?”

“What a great idea! Why didn’t I think of that? Would you like that?”