Black Bull 03: Work Drinks

**** Friday afternoon

"Urgh, really?"

I'll grant you, the pandemic was an abject nightmare, but one small silver lining was the shift to working from home.

I was sat in my home office, staring out of the window at the just-going-over trees in the garden and fields beyond, the vista a blaze of reddy greens and bright yellows. It hands down beat the view from my actual office - a few workmen and some scaffolding.

"No, no, of course, if it's important, I'll come along. But darling, you know I'm not keen. These work drinks are not my thing.... Hmm. OK, I'll see you around 8."

Claire often had work dos; it's part and parcel of her client-facing role. I tried to dodge them when I could, - much easier to get out of when you're not actually in an office - but she really wanted me along for this one. Fine - I could suck up the boring work chat for just one evening.

****

**** Friday night

I hopped out of the cab, glad to be free of the driver's incessant Daily Mail chat; "it's them immigrants, ain't it?" It did, the consensus was, always seem to be those immigrants.

I pulled my coat tighter around me as the bigot drove off, shielding myself from the rain, the puddles on the narrow street reflecting the sodium yellow street lamps.

The pub was one of those big conversion jobs you get in the city, what clearly used to be a bank or some such, now given over to more hedonistic pursuits. The place was busy, but not yet too heaving, groups of drinkers standing around the grandiose room, some looking up at a large screen TV showing some obscure NBL game, most simply gathered around small tables. There was the reassuring hum of people letting their hair down, the white noise occasionally punctured by someone's overly loud laugh.

I swerved my way to the centre of the room where the large bar was, a 360 degree wraparound, looking for Claire and her work party. I couldn't see her immediately so pushed my way to the marble-topped counter to get a drink.

"I'll have..."

"Hi, can I..."

The service, as I had come to expect from these sorts of places, sucked. There were plenty of staff, but the young male servers seemed to avoid all eye contact with anything with an Adam's apple, whilst the women seemed to simply stare through me. What's a man gotta do to get a drink?!

"I'll have a Guinness, and one for this chap too!"

I felt a large hand on my shoulder, turning to look, then realising the owner was on my other side. I looked up to see Deejay standing there, smiling down at me. Great.

"Hi Neil! You drink Guinness, right?" he smiled, as two young girls behind the bar infuriatingly rushed to be the one to get the order.

"Thanks Deejay."

I'm not a big fan of the meal-in-a-pint, but decided against quibbling; I had a drink, at last!

The concoctions were poured by the smiling winner, a pretty young thing with a nose stud. She'd previously been the worst offender in the seemingly popular game of ignore-the-man-who-wants-a-drink.

"How have you been?" he asked. To be honest, I could live without the small talk.

"Oh, good, good. Have you seen Claire?"

"Oh, sure. We're just the other side of the counter. Come on, let's go say hello to your wife."

We walked round the side of the bar - maddeningly, everyone else seemed to be getting served fine - and there she was, my wife, holding court.

She was leaning up against the counter, her head back, laughing at something one of the four besuited gents gathered around her had said. She was obviously the centre of attention, the four young men all focused in on her. I couldn't blame them.

She was wearing something I'd not seen her in before, a cocktail dress, black, one side cut high so a bare leg was visible, up to the hip almost. I could see one of the suits' eyes gazing down longingly at the bare white flesh; subtle he was not.

"Darling!" she shouted as she saw me approach.

I tried to squeeze my way through to her, but the suits blocked me. I had to settle for standing just outside the little semi-circle as the men all shuffled along a bit to let Deejay in.

"Let me introduce you," she said. "Everyone, this is my husband, Neil. Neil, this is everyone!" - the group all laughed; don't ask me.

Claire must have spotted my drink.

"Are you drinking Guinness?" I could hear the incredulity in her voice, "You hate Guinness!"

"Oh, sorry Neil," said Deejay, the man wearing the sort of smug grin that just makes you want to punch someone, "You should have said!"

"No, it's fine," I lied, "I was hungry anyway." Silence. I do not like these work dos.

"Now, you!" said Claire, her face mock serious, looking at Deejay, "You owe us all a round of shots for that stunt you pulled today!"

A roar went up from the group, Deejay motioning with a hand, a pretty young barmaid somehow understanding exactly what the vague gesture meant, reaching down to bring a bottle of tequila up to the bar. Well, at least I could ditch the Guinness...

****

"I can't believe you did that to him!"

Claire was laughing, her face twisted up at the bitter salt she'd just licked off the back of her hand. It was just the three of us left, the other suits having decided to head off to a nightclub they knew. The bar had emptied out quite considerably, not that this helped the level of service.

"Well," said Deejay, holding his hand out in front of him, palm down, as he sprinkled some more salt on, "he was annoying me."

I must have missed something. "What did he do to whom?"

It didn't help that I felt like I was interjecting. Claire and Deejay were facing each other, Deejay propping himself up on the bar with an elbow, Claire sat on a high stool. I stood to the side of them, facing into the pair. My wife was not even turning to look at me when she talked.

"Deejay here actually pinned one of the accountants up against the wall! He picked him up off of his feet!"

She squeaked the last word then hiccuped. She *does* like her tequila, but it tends to get her pretty wasted, pretty quick. Besides, she'd clearly been on the wine before I'd even got there.

I could imagine the HR clusterfuck if anyone tried what Deejay had done at my work. How the hell had he gotten away with it?

"Can't you get into serious trouble for that sort of thing?"

"Nah," he shrugged, shaking some salt onto the back of Claire's proffered hand, "I actually know his wife quite well."

He looked amazingly happy with himself.

I stuck my hand out, palm down, for him to sprinkle some salt on. The bastard just smiled and put the shaker back down on the bar.

Chivalrous only to my wife, it seemed, Claire leaned in to take the slice of lime he offered her.

"You're so bad!" she whispered.

I could see her eyes glazing over a bit. I made a mental note to make her a proper hangover cure in the morning as I reached across to pick up the shaker.

She deigned to acknowledge her husband - "He's right though," she nodded sideways at me, "you can't be doing that sort of thing. What if he makes a complaint?"

"Trust me," said Deejay, straightening up as he picked up his glass, Claire leaning across herself to get hers, "that pussy won't be doing anything about it."

Oh-oh. I saw Claire take a sharp intake of breath.

Worse - we all downed our shots, but Claire and Deejay just kept their eyes on each other the whole time. Especially when licking the salt. But God damn it, she was so fucking hot flirting with the bastard!

I figured it was a good idea to get us out of there - she was pretty shot already. Besides, as much as I was enjoying the show, my wife, hungover, can be a real bear. Yep, time to skedaddle, I thought.

I pointed up at the grand railway station-esque clock mounted above the bar, "We should get going honey. It's gone 11 - they're going to kick us out soon."

Deejay, true to form, impolitely ignored me, lifting the tequila bottle straight out of the barmaid's hand, filling his and my wife's glasses.

"Say," he said, smiling his smarmy grin at Claire, then nodding in my direction, "did Neil here ever tell you what my costume was about?"

I'm sure I gulped. I know my trousers got a little tighter.

"Er..." was the sum total of my pithy comeback.

"Yeah, you never did explain what a 'bull' was!"

Claire's eyes were full on me now. I could see, behind the glassy look, the wicked little glint in them.

Deejay chimed in again. "Yeah, why don't you tell your wife what a 'bull' is? I bet you know, don't you Neil?"

I swear, I felt myself shrink under their combined gazes. I was trying to figure out what to say, but I was just staring. Staring as I watched Deejay slowly move his big hand down from the bar, resting it on top of my wife's thigh.

I expected her to swat him away. But no.

It felt like it was happening in slow motion - she just looked down at his hand, then back up at me, smiling all the while, both of them smiling as Deejay squeezed her thigh a little tighter, Claire asking me, "Well honey, what is a bull?"

Why didn't she stop him, take his hand off her, slap him? Fuck, why didn't I stop him? Why didn't I step in, tell him to take his fucking hand off my wife? I could have saved myself a hell of a lot of pain if I'd have just put a stop to things, right then and there.

I think my dick must have had some sort of administrative veto over my brain: I just stood, staring, sweating.

"Err, well, from what I read once on the internet, a bull is, er, well..."

Deejay was grinning straight at me, watching me sweat, clearly enjoying himself. I managed to continue, but I couldn't take my eyes off his hand - even as I was speaking, he just moved it up my wife's leg another inch or so.

"A bull is a man who, er... 'makes love' to other men's wives."

"Isn't that just plain old infidelity?" the fucker added, his smile growing ever wider, as if he were some evil Cheshire Cat.

I stumbled on, holding the shot glass down in front of my groin, desperately trying to conceal my growing cock.

"Yes, well, I believe, I mean, I read once..."

"Yes?" asked Deejay, squeezing my wife's leg harder, Claire biting her bottom lip, her held tilted down a little as she looked straight at me with those gorgeous blue eyes.

I swear, those eyes were a challenge - "Look what he's doing baby, look at this big man with his big hand on me - are you going to stop him?" Fuck, you don't know how much I now wish I had!

"I think that the 'bull' does this with the husband's, err, consent." Damn it, the hand holding the glass was starting to shake.

She was just smiling at me, smiling her sultry, sexy smile as she was felt up in front of me. "Isn't that, like, a cuckold?" She practically rasped the word.

It was all I could do to not cum on the spot.

She turned to look at Deejay, the man moving his hand down a little, going from the top of her thigh to her inner leg.

"Is that what you mean about why you think you won't get in trouble with the accountant? Because he's a cuckold and you're the... bull?" She licked her lips.

Deejay stood a little taller and smiled Claire. He leaned into her, his hand moving further up her inner thigh, his fingers disappearing underneath the black fabric of her dress. I watched her shiver and close her eyes.

It felt like my dick was going to punch a hole through my trousers.

My wife slowly leaned into the man, her mouth opening slightly, the tip of her tongue just visible, resting on the inside of her bottom lip. I heard the faintest little moan.

Some small part of my rational brain was shouting at me to do something, to stop this, to stop my wife kissing another man in front of me, a man who was already taking liberties. But the other 99% of my mind was so wrapped up in the insane hotness of it, the crazy, whirling lust churning up inside me, it was practically screaming at them to just fucking kiss!

The bell rang, the lights suddenly coming up. There was a low groan around the bar as the few patrons left realised their time was up, some heading straight for the doors. I let out a massive exhale, not even realising I'd been holding my breath.

Deejay stood back up straight, pulling his hand off of Claire, and downed his shot.

"Right," he said, grimacing from the tequila, "I'm off to see a man about a dog. Neil, good to see you again," - he nodded at me, as if everything was normal - "and Claire, always lovely to see you. You'll be in the office next Monday?"

My wife looked shell-shocked, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, the glassiness gone. She just sat, her breathing fast and shallow.

"Errr... yes, yes, no, of course. I'll be in then."

"Good," he said, turning on his heels, "Night!" He waved back at us as he walked around the bar, towards the front doors, the place now almost completely empty.

Claire hiccuped.

"Time to go baby."

I went to take her arm as she got off the stool, but she just swatted it away.

"I'm fine!" she snapped, then grabbed a hold of it, tripping over an invisible obstacle.

"But maybe I had one tiny drink too many!" She laughed, the noise overly loud, echoing through the empty bar.

I got us to the door in about five minutes, cursing my luck as the rain lashed down while I desperately tried to hail a cab, my brain unhelpfully flashing images of my wife being finger-fucked right in front of me.

****

**** Saturday morning

I gently pushed the bedroom door open, being as careful as I could not to incur hung-over Claire rage. That's not something you ever want to see.

She'd been sleeping it off - I'd been very careful not to wake her.

I figured though that she would be happy to be woken with the only known cure for a hangover - a big, doorstep bacon sandwich, one half brown sauce, one red, just how she likes it. Oh, and an industrial vat of strong coffee.

I'm surprised - she was awake, sat up in bed. The room, mind you, did smell like a brewery.

"Morning," I tentatively tried, "how's your head?" She looked shocking. Actually, she looked like she might hurl.

"Are you OK?" I asked, "Do you want some paracetamol?"

"Oh God, I'm so sorry! I should have stopped him! I should have made him take his hand off me!"

Ah. That. Honestly, I'd wondered if the alcohol wouldn't have burnt the memory away, whether she'd even remember it. I most certainly did.

I had a speech worked out in advance. I was going to waffle some bollocks about third-wave feminism (I don't know - it sounds good), about her being her own woman, not wanting to make a scene. But as soon as I saw her, as soon as I saw the contrition on her face, it just went straight out the window. I couldn't help my stupid grinning face.

"Fuck, are you kidding me? That was so hot, watching you getting felt up like that!" I jumped on the bed, nuzzling her.

I'd already cum twice that morning just thinking about it. I figured it was best to keep that little fact to myself.

She turned to me, her face still scrunched up in worry, "Are you sure darling? You aren't mad?"

Well, I knew one way to show her what I thought about it. I grabbed her hand, putting it on my lap so she can feel just how mad I'm not.

She got the message.

"Oh wow, you did like that, didn't you?!"

Bacon sandwich be damned, there's an even better way to banish a hangover. I put my hands on her shoulders, pushing her back down onto the bed, telling her, "Let's make that hangover of yours disappear, shall we?"

She made this cute little 'ooo!' sound as I grabbed her ankles, pulling her back along the bed, her lower legs dangling off the end.

"Oh, my, you have had your oats this morning, haven't you?!" she shouted. "What have you-ohh, God!"

Hangover cure 101 - get your tongue on that little clit and lick it for all you're worth.

I popped my head up, my mouth shiny from her juices.

"Why don't you just lie back," I smiled, my prick rock hard, "and think about that man's big hands roaming all over your sweet little body, fingering your pussy in a busy City bar in front of your husband?"

I dived back in, hearing her moan, both her hands reaching down to spread herself wider for me. I was determined to make her cum, to cum hard whilst she fantasised about the big bull finger-fucking her in front of me.