Black Bull 06: Contact

**** Wednesday morning

Try as I might, focus was proving beyond me. I could hear the man's words, the IT contractor prattling on about some firewall or something. But all my brain could think about was 'The Bull'.

That's what the website was called. Apparently, he was 28 years old, and - if his website was to be believed - was a full time 'Black Bull'. And I thought 'online influencer' was a shaky-sounding career...

The site was packed with testimonials - from wives and husbands - extolling the man's virtues, detailing how, according to one couple, he'd "changed their lives forever." ('Samantha, 39, and Harry, 42, from Brighton').

It was all quite artfully put together, never pushing things too 'in your face', super-explicit, more soft focus photography, details about the man himself and how he'd got into his particular line of work (though it was somewhat cryptic on that). I imagined, mind you, that the 'members area' probably had the more 'edgy' material; indeed, you could apparently watch videos of 'Bulling in action; wives taken and trained'.

"So, if you agree Neil, we'll look into making those changes and getting the whole thing setup as a cloud system."

The disembodied voice on the screen stopped talking, apparently waiting for some input. I snapped out of my reverie, fumbling for the unmute button.

"Sorry. Yes, Sanjay, I think that sounds like a good plan from my end."

This seemed to satisfy the other people on the call, a sudden conversation starting up about the relative merits of Amazon's cloud services vs Microsoft's.

The call ended, happily allowing me to go back to my personal laptop, to my current, much more important task, loading up the site again.

"Catchment area," read the 'Contact me' section. I clicked on the embedded map - we were just inside the circle. Looking at it, I imagined the bull to be located somewhere in south-east London. "Click here to message me - no time-wasters!"

I closed the browser again, trying to figure out quite how to work it into our dinner conversation later that night.

****

**** Wednesday night

"Well, I've never been here before!" said Claire, excitedly, as she stepped out of the cab. She was wearing her favourite little black dress, though it was currently hidden underneath a large raincoat to protect her from the light drizzle, the slate grey, dull skies of London issuing forth their standard autumnal welcome.

I stepped out after my wife, a delivery cyclist whistling past me, almost knocking me over. "Twat!" was all I heard as the man sped away, off to terrorise some other unsuspecting pedestrian.

The light was staring to fade, the clock change only a month or so away. I tipped the cabbie and walked round onto the small cobbled pavement, past the assembled smokers, shivering in their favourite deleterious pastime, the clouds of smoke and vape lending the scene a Victorian-fog ambience.

I'm nothing if not a gentleman - I held my arm out by my side, my wife feeding hers through mine.

"Why thank you, kind sir," she laughed, tripping slightly on a loose cobble.

We walked to the door of the small Italian bistro, tucked into a side street. Outside stood a small pair of faded looking bay trees, like doormen who'd seen better days, but the owner hadn't the heart to pack off to retirement. An Italian flag poked out beneath the bright neon sign - 'La Cucina'.

As soon as we entered, the noise and hum of the restaurant hit us, no music playing, none needed in the converted dock warehouse. The place was small with a low wooden ceiling, only about twenty covers, all two-people tables, clearly a haunt of hip young things judging from the ridiculous facial hair and skinny jeans on display.

A waiter hurried up to us, asking if we had a reservation. "Saunders," said Claire, brusquely, the young man clicking his heels, leading us towards a table near the back of the place.

"Well, this does look nice!" said Claire, as I pulled the seat back for her as the waiter hovered. He sat down the wine list on the table and scarpered off, promising to be back soon.

"Only the best for my wife!" I smiled, the double meaning maybe not quite perfectly hidden by my expression.

"So," I said, perusing the list, looking, as I always did, at the third bottle down from the top, "Sancerre?"

****

I sat back in my chair and drained the last of my wine, reaching across the table to pull the bottle from its metallic cooler.

"That was delicious!"

My wife was still picking at her pasta, moving bits around her plate rather than eating it.

"I don't think I can eat anymore," she said, apologetically, looking down at the half-eaten main, "but it was lovely!"

Right, time to broach this. For real. I ain't gonna die wondering.

"Look," I said, leaning across the table to refill my wife's glass. "I did have something I wanted to talk to you about..."

I tried to smile my best mischievous smile.

"I thought you had an ulterior motive!" laughed Claire, reaching for her now full glass, "Go on then, what's your dastardly plot?"

"Well, you know what we were talking about the other night?"

Steady, steady...

"You mean" - she leant across the table as I leaned in too, our faces inches apart; she whispered conspiratorially - "about how you want to see me cum like a horny little bitch on another man's big dick?"

Houston, we do not have a problem.

She sat back again, smiling wickedly, her eyes sparkling with intent. Her de-shoed foot reached up underneath the table, rubbing my aching groin, my cock rock-hard the second she'd said the words.

"Fuck, yes, exactly that! Well," I said, struggling to keep my composure as my wife massaged my dick, deciding it was high time to take the (metaphorical) bull by the horns, "I think I might have found a... a bull!"

Her foot froze.

"Really?" she said, suddenly serious, "You really want to do this? I want you to be completely sure baby - I don't want us to do anything we come to regret."

Had I misjudged this? Time to be completely honest. That's what you're meant to do in a marriage, right, total honesty?

"Honey," I said, fixing my wife's gaze, my voice dropping lower, trying to sound as assured as I could, "there's never been anything I've been more sure I wanted than this." I picked up her hand from the table, keeping my eyes on hers all the while, and kissed the back of it.

"Oh my God," my wife exclaimed, loudly, her foot coming back to life with renewed vigour, "I can't believe I'm going to say this - yes, yes, I agree!"

The two couples at the nearest tables turned to face us, starting to applaud, the clapping moving organically through the rest of the restaurant until we had a standing ovation from the waiters. I was still holding my wife's hand, both of us with large smiles - but, I'll grant you, slightly bashful looks - on our faces.

"I think they think you just proposed!" whispered Claire, leaning across the table to ensure no-one heard her.

"Well, let's not disabuse them then," I said, whispering back, grinning wickedly.

One of the waiters approached, carrying a bottle of champagne. "Compliments of the house," he declared loudly, more for the room's benefit than the ours. He popped the cork, filling the champagnes flutes another young waiter had placed in front of them.

We both picked up our glasses, clinked them together, and took a sip.

'What the hell?!' I thought, turning to face the room; I stood, raising my glass in the air.

"To my wife!"

"To be!" I quickly corrected myself, as Claire's foot kicked me under the table.

****

Claire was having a little trouble getting the key into the lock. Granted, she was a bit tipsy. But it probably didn't help that I couldn't keep my hands off her, leaning into her as she missed the lock, again, my hands on her backside, kissing the back of her neck. The fact she'd agreed to make my fantasy a reality just made me want her even more.

"Will you please just let me get in!" she giggled.

We stumbled in through the front door, my wife immediately spinning round, embracing me, kissing me passionately as I kicked the door closed behind me.

She turned, holding my hand, kicking off her shoes, leading us upstairs to the bedroom - the idea of what was to come, what possibilities the future held out, clearly had Claire running hot.

Ditto.

We practically fell into the room; I sharply shoved my wife back to fall on the bed, briefly pausing as I looked down at her prone figure, imagining the sight of her being dominated by a big bull.

"Ooo," she cooed as she fell flat on her back, "you do have your motor running, don't you baby?"

That was an understatement.

I grabbed her ankles, pushing her legs back so they folded, her feet on the bed, knees up. Her dress slid down, exposing her underwear - I'm pretty sure I had this wild look in my eyes, a fevered edge to them, as I held the sides of her panties, pulling them off her.

"What's your plan now then, stud? What nasty...Oh!"

I dived in, tasting her excitement, gently lapping at her wet opening, pushing my whole tongue flat against her, slowly working my way up.

"Oh yes!" she moaned as I reached her clit, my hands holding her lips wider so I could gain better access. I licked, flicked, and ever-so-gently nibbled her delicate little bud, as she squealed delightfully for me.

"God, that's right!" she cried as I pushed my talented tongue inside of her, lovingly licking her pussy.

She reached down and grabbed a handful of my strawberry blonde hair, pulling me onto her, into her, as I forced my tongue further inside.

I knew she wanted me to keep pleasuring her, but my mind only had one desire right then.

I heard her cry out, "No, don't stop!", looking back as I moved to the drawers to see her hand reaching down to herself, rubbing her clit furiously.

She must have heard the draw open; I saw a big smile creep across her face.

"I know what you're doing!"

She felt my tongue flick her again, eliciting a sharp moan. Then she felt the end of 'Mr Marcus' on her sopping hole, causing her to cry out, startled, as she felt it gently pushed into her.

"Oh, baby, fuck, yes!" she yelled, reaching for my hair again, holding me down on her clit as I licked rapidly, horizontally, across her. She spread her legs wider, allowing the dildo to sink deeper, opening her, stretching her, filling her.

"God, yes, push that monster all the way into me!" - she had one hand holding the headboard for support, the other holding my head in place - "I want to feel full!"

She screamed the last word at the top of her lungs as I pushed the thing fully in, the enormous girth stretching her gorgeous pink pussy crazy-wide.

I looked up from her as I felt the dildo shifting in my hand, seeing her feet starting to flutter, her toes curling in. I could see she was staring, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, her mouth open in a silent scream. God, she looked so fucking hot, her pussy stuffed full of that gigantic black shaft!

"FUCK!"

She doubled back in on herself, looking down to see my face, covered in her juices, smiling the happiest smile.

"Imagine if this were a real cock!" I said, grinning from ear-to-ear.

She fell back onto the bed, panting.

"Jesus Christ," she panted, in between breaths, "if that were a real cock, I'd still be cumming!"

****

**** Thursday evening

I opened the front door, leaving it ajar, and turned back behind myself to pick up the shopping. I had to squint, the low autumn sun blazing down at an angle.

"Honey, I've got the food!" I shouted, swinging my hips to butt-close the door behind me.

"In here!" came the shout from from the kitchen.

I walked in, past my wife who was sat at the breakfast bar, bending slightly to quickly peck her on the cheek. She didn't move, or even acknowledge me, clearly engrossed in the content of the laptop sat open in front of her.

The late afternoon light was pouring through the slatted blinds on the glass doors, flooding the room with a dark-light, dark-light tiger stripping.

I put the bags down and started unpacking the ingredients for our dinner, an ambitious Thai Pad Green curry I'd liked the look of in a magazine. I looked up at my wife.

"New client report?" I asked, casually.

"No," said Claire, clicking the mouse, "the website you left open."

Jesus, I don't think I'd ever got so hard, so quick.

I left the shopping, standing up by my wife's side, expectantly asking, hoping, "So... what do you think?"

"Well," she said, turning to look up at me, a thoughtful expression on her face, "it clearly is a legitimate business. I checked, and the company is registered at Company House."

"Sure, but that's not what I meant."

"Hey, if we're going to do this, we're not going to just go with some scam artist! It has to be all well above board! Jesus, I mean, if I'm meant to sleep with this man," - my dick jerked up again - "I want to know a lot more about it than just what's on this site! I mean, does he have a sexual health check, is he 'clean'? You really can't be too careful here!"

She was right, of course. Still, this little slice of reality somewhat deflated me. I knew she was right, I knew this was the sort of thing you would have to do. It just seemed so... so mundane, so quotidian. Somehow it slightly punctured the fantasy I'd built up in my mind.

"No," I said, trying not to sound crestfallen. "But what about the guy?" I asked, pointing at the image on the screen.

"For starters, I can't see his face. How do I even know he's attractive? He could look like a black Jeremy Paxman under that mask!" she laughed, picking up her wine glass and sipping.

"I'll grant you, his body does look magnificent," she purred, my heart picking up its speed, "but there's a lot more to it than that. What if there's no chemistry?" She took another sip.

"I think that's why, according to the blog, he suggests a no-strings-attached meet up, face-to-face, first," I said, pointing at the header on the page.

"It's not cheap, either," warned Claire, "look."

She pointed at the 'Pricing' section, clicking the mouse on it. I had to admit, that bit I'd not even considered.

"Jesus! It really is quite dear!"

I'll admit - I was shocked.

The page explained that, for a recurring payment of £1,000 per month - which, it detailed, the word highlighted, must come from the husband/boyfriend/significant other's bank account - the 'full Black Bull package will be delivered'. A testimonial underneath from 'Charles, 41, West London' extolled its worth. "The best money I have ever spent in my life!" it started, "Our marriage has never been more secure, my wife has never been happier and our sex-life has never been better!"

Claire was looking at me again, her face seemingly more radiant than ever.

"Are you really sure you want to pay that?"

Her expression told me she was very keen on a simple three-letter answer.

I smiled, then kissed the top of her head.

"Baby, I'd pay anything to see you happy."

My wife simply beamed back at me.

"Well then," she said, turning back to look at the screen, "let's set up our first meeting!"

Claire selected the 'Contact me' section, filling out some cursory details. She reached down with her free hand, still looking at the screen, the mouse hovering over the 'Submit' button, and held my erect dick through my trousers, squeezing it slightly, making me moan.

She clicked the button.