Black Bull 08: First Date

**** Monday morning

"Claire, are you coming in? The meeting's due to start in five - you know how shit the IT is here."

Jeez, the man was loud; I could hear his voice as if he were right here with me, coming through loud and clear on my wife's mobile.

I could just make out the scuffle of documents, the general hum of an office - I very much hoped she was trying to keep *this* particular conversation as private as possible. I'm all for sharing, but there are some things...

"I know, I know it's expensive," she said to me, "but if we want to fast-track the results, it's the only way. You book it, I'll pop by straight after work."

"Sure, I'll phone them later."

I'd obviously sounded slightly subdued, my wife picking up on my tone.

"Hey, look, it was all your idea, right? So you're paying! Plus..." she said, pausing, hopefully checking no-one was stood nearby, her voice lowering, "it's *hotter* if you pay for everything - remember the power dynamic!"

I heard the loud man in the background again, "Claire, it's starting now!"

"Fuck's sake Ram!" she shouted, before continuing on to him, "What have I said before about these sorts of negotiations?! Treat 'em mean-"

I heard Ram again, sounding crestfallen even muffled through the mobile, "I know - keep 'em keen."

Her voice was clearer now, the phone obviously back to her ear, "Love you honey!"

"Love you too darling!" I replied, before the line cut out.

****

**** Saturday afternoon

"Ground-rules," said my wife, huffing as she hoisted the two large shopping bags up onto the breakfast bar counter, "Ground-rules are something we need to discuss."

She hopped up onto the high stool, sighing, as if a day's shopping for expensive underwear really took it out of you; tough gig. She turned to me, smiling as she took the mug of coffee I offered as a restorative for her hard life.

Claire has been out all day with Kate. They'd called it a 'shopping date' (an idea that made me shiver at the sheer misery I imagined it would entail had I been dragged along; mercifully, they'd gone alone). They'd trawled Oxford street, stopping for lunch (and a sneaky drink at a high-end wine bar - "My feet hurt - I need wine!" had been Kate's simple logic).

I tried to pry one of the bags open slightly, to get a peek at whatever undoubtedly expensive products 'Intimisimi' were in the business of selling.

"Hey!" snapped my wife, slapping my hand, "I'll model them for you later! Right now, we're talking ground rules!"

I simply smiled, a cheeky grin on my face like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the sweet jar.

"I hope you didn't tell Kate what you were really buying these for!" I said, ignoring her chosen topic; ground rules be damned - I wanted to see what slutty gear she'd bought!

"Well," she said, a cheeky smile on her face, pulling the bags across the counter-top, away from prying hands, "I didn't lie. I just didn't tell her the *whole* truth. I told her I wanted some sexy things for a date night we'd organised."

"Good idea," I said, trying to sidle closer to the bags as Claire's eyes narrowed, watching me closely, "you can't be caught out in some complex story you've concocted if you just *omit* things."

"My thoughts exactly," she agreed, moving the bags away again.

"But you're ignoring my question - ground rules."

"You didn't ask a question," I said, a smug expression on my face. My wife gently slapped my chest in mock annoyance.

"You know what I mean!" she squeaked, "We need to establish some basic rules. For example," - she nodded at the bags of lingerie in front of her - "I will only wear underwear I specifically buy for the occasion with Samuel."

I *was* a bit confused by that. She had plenty of nice, sexy stuff - what the hell was the issue with it?

"I don't get that. I mean, that lovely little blue number you wore for my birthday - what's wrong with that?"

Claire just stared at me, an expression of genuine hurt on her face.

"That was for *your* birthday! It's just for *you*, and you alone! I might be sleeping with this man, but *you're* my husband!"

Oops. Here was my gorgeous, sexy wife, trying to make clear that, even though I wanted her fucked by a big bull, there were still important distinctions to be made; she might have a bull, but *I* was the important one here, *I* was the one she still kept 'for your eyes only' things for.

I immediately felt guilty, holding my arms out in front of me, wide apart, to signal my contrition and desire for a hug. She embraced me, snuggling her face into my neck.

"I'm sorry baby," I whispered.

She pulled herself away from me, smiling again, clearly forgiving my minor faux pas.

"That's OK. But look, *ground-rules*."

She put extra emphasis on the phrase.

"Number 1 - condoms. He may be all checked out, but I'm not getting pregnant!"

Shit! How dumb can a man be?! I'd not even considered *that*! I'd had the op some years back, so it just never came to mind. Granted, some small, sordid little part of my brain was busily fantasising about her bull's child growing in her swollen belly... But Jesus, no! I mean, the *reality* of that would have been too awful to contemplate.

"Christ, no! Yes, 100% - condoms are a must."

There was one other thing on my mind... I turned away from Claire, staring away out of the glass doors, into the fading afternoon outside.

"What about photos?" I asked.

"Photos?" replied my wife, seemingly surprised. "I'd honestly not thought about it. Why, do you want a 'souvenir'?"

She smiled her sexy little smile at me.

"*Hell* yes! I want to be able to capture my wife being ravaged on record forever!"

"OK, but nothing online! No cloud! I do *not* want anything popping up on the internet!"

"No problem."

"One final one - we do all of this together."

I chuckled to myself.

"I don't think it's very likely *I'm* going to be making any trips on my own!"

Claire playfully slapped my shoulder.

"I know *that*! But, I mean, if he wants to, say, 'do things with me alone', that's an immediate 'no' - this is *our* marriage, and we're the ones running it. Sure," she continued, a dreamy smile suddenly forming, "*I* want all the pleasure I can get!" - it was my turn to bat her - "But I want *you* to being loving it too! We're in this together!"

She leaned in, pecking me on the cheek.

"Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Good," she said, picking the bags off of the table, turning, and walking towards the door to the rest of the house. She looked back over her shoulder at me as she reached the threshold and winked.

"I'll call you up in a few minutes - you can give me a review of my purchases."

"Hubba-hubba!" I shouted as she started upstairs, laughing.

****

"Wow! I mean, just wow!"

"But *which one*?" implored Claire, turning in front of the full length dress mirror, straining to look over her shoulder at her sexy little backside.

She was wearing a virginal satin-lace white lingerie set, a delicate white bra with a pair of matching, high-cut knickers. She had a frilly garter belt sat daintily just above her belly button, the thing a mere one-inch strip around her, two small fasteners leading down the front of her hips, two curving voluptuously over her bottom, attaching to a pair of white stockings. Her buttocks stuck out a little more than usual due to the pair of black spiked three-inch heels she sported. By the *Gods*, she looked fine!

"Oh my lord," I enthused, "that man is going to need *some* restraint not to explode on the spot when he sees you!"

I looked over at the bed, amazed at how much packaging was apparently needed for such small items.

My wife looked across at me.

"But this one, or the black one?"

"I think this one. The black is good - hell, the black is *great*! It's a bit 'sluttier'," - Claire tutted at me, the mild chiding's effect somewhat diminished by the big smile she wore - "but I think the white is just, I don't know, *sexier*, you know?"

"Like I'm just about to be married, and he's having his way with another man's bride?" she said, her face all faux-innocence.

"God yes!"

She'd tipped me over the edge - I got up off of my chair, waking purposefully over to her. I grabbed her slender waist, a devilish grin on my face.

"Now let's get you out of all this. *Right now*."

I pushed her back onto their bed, Claire giggling as she fell.

****

**** Saturday evening

"Oh my God, I'm so nervous!"

I could tell - my wife was clasping my hand, almost painfully tight as we walked along the river front.

It was just before five, the sun starting to drop down below the horizon, giving the Thames a lovely sheen of gold, the evening bringing the first hints of a chill.

The wind got up, blowing Claire's long beige coat up, making her let out a small started 'eep!', trying to catch the fabric and brush it back down.

The south side of the river was very busy, small groups of couples sitting, al fresco, braving the gusts, a large throng of Chinese tourists blocking everyone's path as they pointed and excitedly snapped pictures of the Towers (of London *and* Bridge), the guide with the umbrella held up apologising profusely to angry locals as they tried to get by.

We'd agreed to have the first 'date' with Samuel tonight, meeting at his place at half five. 'Bulling' clearly paid the bills, the man's address a swanky upper floor penthouse on the south bank of the Thames.

We'd stopped for a drink along the way at one of the generic bars along the riverfront, to calm both our nerves. Claire, in particular, was on edge.

I'd tried to reassure my wife - "You look *amazing*!", I'd said, completely honestly. She was wearing her favourite little black dress, deciding to pair it with the white lingerie, though she'd ditched the stockings.

We weaved our way down through a narrow side street, dipping away from the main throroughfare, away from the tourists coming down from the bridge. We reached the front entrance of the building, the smartly dressed young doorman doffing his stovepipe hat as he held the door for us.

The lobby was a large, bright rectangle, a touch sterile, like a posh opticians, a reception sat against the back wall, a bank of elevators to the left of it. There were no buttons, two-way phones or the like anywhere to be seen.

"I guess we just have to ask the concierge?"

We walked to the front desk, a perfectly turned out young woman sat behind it, typing at a ferocious pace, staring intently at a screen and occasionally pushing her thick black glasses back up her thin nose. She didn't look up even as we stood directly in front of her.

"Excuse me!" said Claire, curtly.

The redhead looked up from her screen, still hammering away at the keys.

"Hello!" she said, a fixed smile on her pretty freckled face, "How can I help you today?"

I have to admit, I'm a complete sucker for that soft, lilting southern Irish accent.

"We're here to see Mr Akinyemi," replied Claire, her tone forceful, businesslike.

The receptionist's expression changed, the robotic smile replaced by something more knowing, an eyebrow arching up. She stopped typing, finally giving up on her magnum opus.

"I'll let him know you're here. Please, take a seat."

She gestured over to a table in the corner, four large seventies-looking chairs surrounding it, all weird colours and horrible angles. We went over and sat, awkwardly.

I picked up a massively out of date issue of 'Men's Health', aimlessly flicking through the pages promising '6-pack abs with no crunches!' and how to 'Effortlessly pick up any woman you want - a guide for introverts'. My wife fidgeted with her phone.

A sudden 'ding' announced the opening of one set of elevator doors, both of us immediately looking up, like meerkats, from our minor distractions to see Samuel purposefully striding across the lobby to meet us.

He was dressed smartly, the same jeans and smart brown trainers, but wearing this time a pressed white shirt, tucked in around the waist. The bright white of the shirt and the surrounding room made the contrast with his dark skin the more intense.

We stood to greet him. He seemed, I thought, somehow even larger than when we'd met previously.

"Welcome!" he boomed, his voice a lovely rich baritone. He held his arms straight out in front of him in a welcoming gesture. I had been in the closer seat, so Samuel greeted me first.

"Lovely to see you again Neil," he beamed, vigorously shaking my hand. He really did look delighted; looking at my wife beside me, I couldn't blame him.

"And you too Samuel," I smiled back.

I think he must have picked up on the slight hint of trepidation audible in my voice; the man's smile only got broader.

Still holding me by the hand, Samuel turned to look at my wife, stood now to his right. His broad grin broke into a beaming, toothy smile.

"Claire!" he shouted, disengaging from me, turning his body fully to face her.

My wife walked forward herself, to within an inch of Samuel. She stopped right in front of him, looking up into his big dark face. He smiled some more.

She took hold of his hands, gently, still staring up into his eyes. Samuel's smile melted away, a look of something else crossing his face. I knew exactly what that expression was; lust.

They stood there for what, to me, stood directly behind Samuel, felt like an age, she staring up at him, him down at her. I shuffled, uncomfortably, my erection already making its presence felt, and lightly coughed.

"Yes!" said Samuel, suddenly brought back to the same world as I, breaking eye contact with Claire. He gestured towards the lifts, walking towards them.

We followed behind, wordlessly, me holding my wife by the hand.

I turned to say something to her, then stopped. Her eyes were fixed on the large man's impressive rear, an expression of animal desire written as clear as day across her face. She was biting her bottom lip.

****

The lift pinged, the door opening - Samuel held his arm out to his side, inviting us to exit first.

We stepped out onto the top floor. It was simply a small room, a large glass pane to the left offering panoramic views across the south side of the river, over towards City Hall. Directly in front of the elevator was a single white door, a keypad on the right hand side at about shoulder height.

Samuel entered a code, a clicking sound issuing from the internals of the frame. He pushed the door wide then stepped back slightly, standing aside. He bowed, his arm again offering us forward.

"Please, do come in."

My wife entered first, immediately gasping.

I followed directly behind, wondering what had elicited the astonished noise; then I saw for myself.

The top floor really *was* a penthouse. The vast main room was all the same off-white colour, one entire half of the place - two sides of it - given over entirely to floor-to-ceiling glass panels, offering breathtaking vistas out over the city. Claire walked over to get a better view, seeing a small patio wrapped around the outside of the glass, a few tables and chairs for outdoor seating. She gazed out, looking over Tower Bridge, lit up, over the Tower of London itself, off over the City of London, all twinkling lights and late-night city workers.

"Samuel," I said, doing a full 360 degree turn in place, trying to take it all in, "this really is an *amazing* place!"

The man had walked in behind us, closing the door. He strode over to the large white table, slightly off to the side, surrounded by thin, Bauhaus-like chairs, placing a wallet in an empty fruit bowl in the middle of it.

"Thank you Neil, you're very kind."

Claire turned her attention back to the room, looking over at the vast open plan kitchen, the thing divided off from the rest of the living space by virtue of a long bar, sticking most of the way across the area, nearly delineating the two sections. Up against the back of it, facing in towards the main living space, was a giant 'L' light blue sofa, two smaller, black recliners seated either side of it. A large glass table was sat in front of this set, all of it sat atop an enormous Afghan-style rug, the thing looking like an antique lifted from the V&A.

There was a small fireplace recessed into the wall the sofa faced, a large TV seemingly floating out from the wall, above and slightly to the right of the fireplace, nearer the glass panelling.

"Please," smiled Samuel, walking towards us, "let me take your coats."

I took mine off, handing the large overcoat to the man, who draped it over a big arm. Claire took hers off too, revealing her little black dress, the thing cut down to a touch above mid-thigh. She held the coat out for Samuel. He took it, eyes wide, and took a step back, drinking in my beautiful blonde wife in front of him.

"Wow!" he exclaimed, his eyebrows raised as he looked her up and down, "You look absolutely *stunning* Claire," - he suddenly looked over at me, an expression of mild contrition on his face - "if you don't mind my saying Neil?"

I think we were past that point... We'd come to have my wife bulled.

"No, no! She does look gorgeous, doesn't she?"

Claire seemed to almost bathe in both our gazes, dipping her head coquettishly, doing a quick spin, a sultry smile lighting up her face.

Samuel nodded, as if in approval, then turned, hanging our coats on a rack by the door. He turned back to face us, walking towards the sofa.

"Please," he said, patting one of the soft throw cushions, "take a seat. Let me fetch you both a drink."

He walked around the bar, into the kitchen, opening an overhead cupboard to retrieve some glasses.

We sat, looking at each other, our excited, impressed expressions mirroring one another, my eyebrows rising as if to say "not bad, eh?"

Samuel walked back around from behind, placing the tall flutes in front of us, putting a metal cooler down on the table. He pulled out an expensive vintage, already decorked.

"Sancerre?"

He sat to the side of us, on the 'L' of the sofa, as we were seated next to each other in the middle. The big man leaned back, stretching, putting his large arms up on the top of the settee, his shirt struggling to contain his arms. He looked, I thought, for all the world like a big cat, luxuriating before his prey.

He smiled, "So, tell me, have either of you ever visited Nigeria before?"

****

We talked for an hour or so. Samuel was bright, engaging, funny and disarmingly honest. I'd almost forgotten the *actual* reason we were there, so wrapped up in the man's conversation had we become.

"Fish and chips. I never could understand the attraction," he said, laughing again in his big, booming way. "Who wants food wrapped up in two day old news?!"

Claire was clearly enjoying herself. She was relaxing into it, much less on guard, going from perched on the edge of the sofa to sitting back, then leaning across, towards Samuel.

"You probably just haven't had the *right* fish and chips," I offered, secretly agreeing with him.

"That's right," added my wife, finishing off another glass of wine, "A rainy day on the seafront - that's when they're really good!"

"Oh no, this is terrible news," said Samuel, his big grin somewhat giving the game away, "but I am afraid you cannot stay - I cannot make love to a woman who loves fish and chips!"

That changed the mood. I think Claire and I both felt it, the reality of what we were doing coming back to the forefront of our minds.

I felt myself squirming slightly in my seat, the sudden awkwardness an unpleasant sensation. I could see the relaxation drain away from my wife. I thought I'd change the subject, looking over at Samuel, "Sorry, could you show me where the bathroom is?"

"Of course!" - he stood up - "Please, I have not shown you around the rest of the place. Come!"

He led us through a door, in the wall to the left of the front door, and into the hallway. It was a long corridor, a large skylight mounted on the ceiling, two doors set in the right of the wall, one at the very end. Samuel led us down it, to the first door.