Once a Slut...?

He looked at his glass. He drained it. He got up.

"That's kind of you. Thank you," he said.

People assume that bulls are big and hefty and strong minded, and some no doubt are, but really bulls are just spare cocks, as I had been, single guys looking for excitement, no more than that. I had been lucky. He could have been unhappy. Argued. Played nasty. Instead he took his disappointment like a man.

I watched him leave. Checked the time. Five minutes before the hour. That had cut things close. My assumption had been that the bull would be there early, ready to impress. The couple would arrive on time, or late, as they had done for me. Getting the bull to leave before they came had been the first step, now achieved, minutes to go before it might have been too late.

I sat on the bar stool he had just vacated, my back to the door, and waited. Wood and mirror panelling around the bar. Useful for observing. I watched reflections. A few minutes past the hour, they arrived. Same black dress. Same black bob. Same scarlet lip gloss. Ready to do as her husband wanted. Fuck another bull, or rather, let the bull they were expecting, ease his cock into her neat, tight but welcomingly wet and willing cunt, and fuck the living daylights out of her.

They knew who they were looking out for. They would have seen his photo on the site. Head and shoulders. Maybe down there as well, establishing the nature of his manhood, but that would not be how they would recognise him in the bar. Not that he was there. But one person was definitely not the one they were expecting, and that was not me.

By now, I would be a distant memory for the guy. Not for her. We had been way too close for that three nights before. She would know my face. We had locked eyes and mouths and other parts for far too long for her to not remember what I looked like. But my back was to them, and it was he, not she, who was scanning for their latest guy.

She sat down, two sofas facing each other across a coffee table, both empty, for the moment. I had sat right there one week before, talking with them, small talk, pre-fuck talk. Now I watched them in the mirror panelled wall the far side of the bar. He left her at the sofas, and came over to the bar a little down from me.

I reckoned I had three minutes. Maybe four. He had to order, wait while drinks were poured, then walk back to her. I left my stool, my back still to him, went to her, saw her eyes widen as she realised who I was, and by the time her brain had registered the fact, I had sat down. Not on the sofa opposite. Beside her. Close beside.

"You can leave him," I said to her.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, instead of answering.

"You shouldn't be here," I told her, making a different point. "It's not who you want to be. Not who you really are."

"Who am I?" she asked me.

"Someone lost," I said. "Someone I've found. Someone I want."

"You don't know that. You can't. Not after,..."

"After the way we kissed?" I said. "I remember how that was. I know I want that kiss again, this time to last for ever."

"Oh God!"

"You know it too."

"What do you want?"

"Leave him," I said. "It's that simple. Walk out with me. Everything else we can work out as we go along. All you have to do is walk out of this hotel with me."

She did not get a chance to answer. Time was up. Three minutes can last a lifetime. The same three minutes can be frighteningly short. Her husband hesitated, two glasses in his hands, taking in that I was sitting there beside his wife, the place he would have occupied himself, unsure how to play it, finally realising that standing there indecisively made him look out a little ridiculous, and sitting opposite, the far side of the coffee table, facing us.

'Us' had suddenly become a word in my vocabulary. A beautiful word, so full of understated meaning.

"You're with my wife," he said.

One of the facets of being British is that you deal with situations where others might throw

punches in a much more civilised way, starting by saying the obvious. I was sitting with his wife.

"You noticed," I said.

"I'm not sure why you think you're here, but after walking out last week, you really shouldn't think anything is going happen."

"It already has," I said. "And what happens on Thursdays here is over. So is your marriage. You've been abusing it, and ends here, tonight, right now."

He laughed, but there was a nervousness, an uncertainty, to the laugh.

"You think you can just walk in like that, and,..." he started.

"Ask her," I said.

This was the moment. My head had told me not to risk this. She might say no to leaving him, stay in their sham marriage, opt for what she knew, for security, over risk with someone she had only met seven short days before, spent no more than five or six hours with, however intimate those hours had been.

"You're not really,...?" he said to her, still trying to laugh off what was or was not happening.

She looked at him for an eternity. Then looked at me. Sky blue eyes. Wide and wondering what to do. Which life to choose.

Her breasts rose and fell as she breathed the way you breathe to fight off panic. Controlled, steady, breaths, that oxygenate the brain, just at the right level, to think and debate and throw the dice of life, and watch them come to rest, three sixes or three ones. Beautiful breasts, nipple stubs pushing out the fabric of her fuck-me dress. The undercurve of one breast visible in that deep and narrow vee.

"Did you ever really love me?" she asked him.

His face changed, fake laughter disappearing, the question flooring him.

"I,... I,..." was all he said.

"It doesn't matter," she told him then. "Whatever it was we had, it's gone. I know that now. You killed long ago."

All this time our thighs were touching, but I had kept my hands to myself, not presuming. Her knees were tight together, natural modesty, ladylike, but also, I knew, because parted even fractionally her cunt would be on view. To him, this time, not to a stranger. But it was no longer his to view. Her hands were clasped and resting on her lap, neat, slender fingers interlocked, varnished nails matching the colour of the lips that I had kissed, and that had kissed me. Rings there too, diamond and gold, mineral and metal whose worth had no meaning, not now.

I reached for her hands, resting mine on hers. She unclasped them, turned one hand over, palm to my palm, and curled her fingers round to hold mine tight. I turned my head to look into those eyes.

"I think that we should go," I said.

She followed my example as I stood. We left the guy, walked from the bar, and stopped at the hotel cloakroom for her coat.

He should not have followed. He should have stayed just where he was, safely on the sofa in the bar. Instead, once the attendant had given us her coat, we turned and saw him. He walked to us, wanting to intervene, searching for words to persuade her that she should stay with him. I could see the cogs in his brain working, trying to catch up with what was happening in real time, still uncertain what it was that he could say.

I also saw the tattoo on her butt, the image branded in my head. Pure white flesh marked for ever with a word that did not reflect the woman that she was. He had done that. He had put her on the market, married cunt available to fuck, and loaned that delightful cunt to however many men before me, and he had stamped her as a slut, the woman he had vowed to love.

British guys are civilised. They talk out their differences. Tempers might get frayed, things might be said in haste or anger, but we keep it cultured and controlled. I kept it controlled. My aim was precise. My fist hit exactly where I wanted it to go. The side of his jaw. With force. Controlled, deliberate force. Measured, disciplined, but hard and potent.

I saw it in slow motion. My closed hand swinging. Meeting his face. His cheek made concave. His jaw pushed to the side. His head following. Tilted. One leg giving way. The guy falling. On his trousered knees on the tiled floor. Hand to his jaw, now bloody. Spitting. One tooth at least. His eyes on me, fearful of receiving more. People turned, aghast, mouths opening and closing like fish in a goldfish bowl.

It had hurt, that blow. My hand, that is. It hurt, but it was worth it. I shook it to free it of the shock and pain. At least, if that single blow was hurting me that much, it would have hurt him all the more.

I used my other hand to take hold of hers. We almost skipped and ran our way across the reception foyer, out of the hotel door, onto London's pavements, and in between pedestrians outside until we were out of breath, and then we walked, still hand in hand, and laughed at the memory of her husband clutching damaged jaw.

In Trafalgar Square we kissed. Right by the water and the fountain, watched by stone lions. One hand around her back, holding her so close to me, I cupped the curve of her delightful butt with the other hand, the one that still ached from contact with the substructure of her husband's face. That dress was far too short to be worn outside without a coat. The tips of my fingers felt bare flesh.

She broke off the kiss, still smiling.

"You can't,..." she said. "You aren't going to,..."

My fingers were walking the hem of her dress higher as she spoke.

"No!" she protested, squirming against the arm that was holding her close to me. But she was laughing now.

I walked the hem higher still. There will be tourists who will have told their families and their friends about the naked buttock that they saw in London's famous square. Some will have the photo on their phone to show. Bare butt, tattooed in ink, slut shamed, or if not shamed, then slut exposed.

"I can't believe you did that!" she laughed as we walked on, back to holding hands together.

"Which?" I asked. "Baring your butt?"

"Coming to the hotel!" she said. "Coming for me! Taking me away like that! Then,... hitting him! What made you do all that??"

I grinned at her.

"Love??" I suggested.

**********

Same hotel, same bar, same black bob, the style unchanged, same scarlet lip gloss, clearly the same sky blue eyes, same slender fingers, same matching varnish on the nails, different rings, the previous diamond and gold rings sold to a jeweller, new diamonds on that special finger, triple, one large, two smaller on each side, and a bright untarnished wedding band, wider than her previous, matching mine, engraved with my initials, as mine is with hers, both our surnames now the same, those wedding bands just six months old.

Our anniversary. Not of our wedding. Too soon. That would come, in time. This day was the anniversary of the day we met. Life can move on, but you can never put your past so far behind you that it is no longer there. We were both secure enough, mature enough, to look that background to our love directly in the eye.

We had talked about it, often. She had already told me, that first time that we had truly made love, that with some of those men, she had enjoyed it. That her body had responded to their fucking. That she had come. Not just once, but often. That it had been someone new had made it more intense. Afterwards she had been ashamed, but at the time, it had been orgasmic, in the literal meaning of the word.

I had pictured it. I had seen her on her knees beside the bed, had been inside her, before I felt it to be wrong and left. I had pictured other men, fucking her to completion. Spewing semen. Hosing her inside.

Talking about it first time around was while we held each other, post-coital in our bed, naked, close and loving. Honesty prevailed. Together, we could handle any truth. My hand was on her breast, the stub gorged with arousal. Hers held my shaft. Feeling flesh that had become flaccid, begin to grow.

"It turns you on, doesn't it," she said, stating a fact, not judging.

Cocks do not lie.

"I don't mind," she said. "I'd rather it turned you on, than that it disgusted you. I can't go back in time and change what happened."

"I do wonder what it would have been like if we had met before you married him," I said.

"So do I," she told me. "I'd have liked that. No tattoo, for starters."

"I'm used to it," I said. "It's kind of cute, in its way."

"You don't mind it being there?"

"You know I always watch your butt when you're walking around the bedroom," I said. "I kind of like it. And it reminds me of how we met. Besides, it's pretty accurate. You can be a real slut in bed."

"Which you don't complain about," she said.

"Because you're my slut now."

"Would you want me to be a real slut for you?"

Right then, I wanted to disown my cock. It jumped. In her hand. It came to life, just hearing her say that.

"That wasn't me," I said. "It was my cock!"

"So what's it saying?" she laughed, her blue eyes mocking me.

"It's saying it's ready to fuck you again," I said.

I did not wait for an answer. I moved over her, and got my legs between hers. Then I thought again. Taking my weight on my knees, I balanced on one arm, using the other to draw a perfect white leg up and underneath my shoulder. Then the other.

My new wife's body nicely folded beneath my own, her cunt now beautifully positioned, I angled my cock to get the head inside. She looked up at me, her blue eyes smiling. I went deeper. Her mouth opened. I went deeper still.

"My cunt loves your cock," she said. "Does that make me a slut?"

Her thighs were now pressing against her breasts, deforming them, my shoulders bearing down on her calves. Luckily, she occasionally went to yoga.

"And I love the way you fuck me!" she teased me. "Nobody has ever done it better!"

Two years. Thursdays. Fifty-two Thursdays in a year. One every fucking week. Yes, she had been a slut. For that fucking waste of space whose jaw had fewer teeth remaining in penance for his sins. Now she was mine. My slut. The slut I love, in spite of all those Thursday fucks and however many men.

Anyhow, however many, I fucked her hard, like she deserved. Tease me, and I will fuck your cunt until you beg for mercy, which is why she teased me. Asked me that question. Would I want her now to be a slut for me. The way that she had been. Which question made me hammer at her cunt. That was the kind of fucking that, this time, she wanted from me. The kind the other bulls had done. Pure animal. Not loving, though unlike them I loved her, but pure cunt-fucking bull force ecstasy.

Which made her gasp, and groan, and moan, and cry and scream, and all of those repeated time and time again, and this time I really did not care, because my own focus was the exquisite sensations emanating from my cock head and travelling along neural pathways right through every muscle and fibre of my being. I fucked that deliciously tight cunt the way that it deserved to be fucked, pounding, pummelling, hammering thrusts that slammed my groin against her upturned cunt again and again, until she screamed with orgasm and I sprayed inside her womb with semen so copious it could have filled a lake.

Back to lying close, her head on my shoulder, black hair brushed from her eyes, blue pools gazing into my own, body warm and close, legs around mine, slender fingers back holding my again flaccid cock.

"If you ever want me to,..."

That was the first time it was said, which I remembered in full detail was we walked into that hotel bar to celebrate the first anniversary of our meeting there. Each amazingly wonderful year since then, on that same day of the same month, we enter that same bar, and the essentials are the same, hair, lip gloss, nail varnish, the dress, kept wardrobed in between those anniversary days, the only difference being her two rings, now always those that I gave to her, the 'I love you' diamonds and the 'we commit for ever' gold.

That first anniversary came and went, and we loved it as it happened. Since then, we have returned to celebrate eight more. Our tenth is soon. Always at the same hotel. The fourteenth floor. Just once a year, not weekly.

Your guess. You get to choose the ending, because we will never tell. Two choices. Perhaps we simply spend our anniversary night together, fucking each other's brains out, as we each remember what once took place there, how we came together, and just how good it is to be in love, still, after all that time.

Or it just might be that we share each anniversary with our chosen bull and re-enact the circumstances of our meeting in restricted viewing, explicit, x-rated detail, allowing him the privilege of celebrating her life as it was then, her cunt fucked by yet another bull, in lasting tribute to a time gone by, anticipated keenly, celebrated once the guy has come and gone, our love so strong no other man could come between us.

Perhaps the anniversary shortly to arrive will have a tenth bull coming in between her open legs, in her slut cunt, but never coming between us in our heads, our minds, our hearts, or anywhere that truly speaks of love.

Perhaps all that is fantasy, enjoyed between ourselves, bulls existing solely in our thoughts, erotic day-dreams, dark yet arousing shared imaginings. Perhaps, although each year we celebrate our meeting, the past remains the past, and my wife is no one's slut, but pure, loving, and faithful to her core.

You choose, how we are living out our love. We will not say.

**********

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