Fools for Lust by Maxim Jakubowski Read Free Book Online Page A

line at returning to that nude beach some miles away from the port where they were staying with her cunt in full naked display. He had failed to persuade her to do so, and his innocent request had visibly irritated her. It would seem that a hairless cunt was a private matter that should only be witnessed by a lover of long standing. By coincidence or otherwise, this was to be their last trip together.
    His next mistress was already shaven. Had been so for years, long before he emerged on her scene. It seems the practice was widespread among young women in Germany, and having noted the fact during endless telephone conversations and email exchanges, this was one aspect of hers that had immediately attracted him to her in the first place. And her jovial willingness to sleep with him. Undressing her for the first time, in a hotel room in Frankfurt that smelt of illicit sex already, proved an exhilarating experience, but also a sort of anti-climax as he finally unveiled the silky smoothness of her cunt, and the red gash of her sexual parting in a wet state of readiness. The thought briefly occurred to him that it would have been so much more exciting to have witnessed her passage from hairiness to utter nudity himself. Maybe it wasn’t the state of nakedness of a mons veneris that did these strange things to him, but the very act of revelation, the passage from hirsute parts to billiard ball shininess. He hadn’t had much time to reflect on things though with her, as he quickly discovered the ever so slightly masochistic streak that illuminated the young woman’s sexuality, as she greedily invited him to twist her nipples between the vice of her abandoned hairpins once he had set her dark auburn hair loose.
    â€˜Yes,’ she had moaned, begging for the pain.
    He had soon forgotten the initial ecstatic vision of her smooth cunt as further excesses quickly suggested themselves to him, none of which she rejected during the course of a long night of sheer, mutual madness.
    But the fascination remained. Encouraged, exacerbated, provoked, kept alive by the torrent of images of exposed, naked cunts he kept on coming across in magazines, books and even movies. (European ones by Peter Greenaway, Julio Medem, Mike Figgis and others ...)
    So, it was no surprise that one summer while on holiday on a small Caribbean island, his enfevered mind should spin an unlikely variation on the theme. This was not a place where nudity was tolerated on beaches, despite the idyllic setting that so effortlessly evoked the Garden of Eden and its bucolic innocence. Even topless displays of female pulchritude were few and far between here. The heat over his first few days at the resort had proven oppressive, steamy, sticky, with no relief in sight. On previous trips here, he had been close to the hurricane season and there had always been a gentle wind rising over the ocean from mid to late morning to cool one’s body down. By lunchtime, everyday, he was sweating profusely and his trunks or shorts stuck aggressively to his skin, the friction between the material and his flesh annoying and increasingly unpleasant. Dredging up instant nostalgia and longing for those nude beaches in France he had frequented some years back.
    Maybe he should shave. Like a woman. It might feel cooler , he thought. And then remembered how some past conquest had once mentioned how unpleasant it could become when the hair inevitably grew back, the skin irritable and prone to bursting out in pimples and unseemly bumps. He would use cream. It should be safe if women used it under their arms , he reckoned. He located some in the hotel’s lobby shop and deciphered the instructions in Spanish as best he could ...
    Straight from the tube he squeezed out the thick white paste that smelt of almond oil in parallel trails across his thick, dark curls and flattened and liberally spread the viscous substance until his bush was fully obscured and covered. The label