**** Tuesday afternoon
Jesus, I just could not stop my hand from shaking. It hovered, quivering slightly over the mobile as I tried to pluck up the courage to make the call.
No, fuck it. I knew I should leave it well alone; I went back to the laptop.
I started typing, replying to one of the myriad e-mails asking for assistance setting up a gateway, a coding problem or some such. I was trying to explain to one client why what they were asking for was literally impossible. Just about to click send, I re-read the missive and froze - I'd spelt the man's name 'Bull', not 'Bill'. Freud plus icy paths, right?
Claire and I had had a great time with my(her?) new birthday present the previous night, my wife seemingly deeply fond of her new friend even at this earlier stage in their 'relationship'. I couldn't help but smile at the thought, the thought that I was edging her closer to fulfilling my desire, hell, need to see her being bulled. The sight of that huge, black dildo stuffed deep inside her, the contrast of its dark sheen against her pink little pussy... Just the thought of it being a real cock kept me continually on the edge.
We'd managed to make her have more orgasms in one night than in the last few weeks combined. My wife seemed particularly happy when she was lying on her back, me over her, sixty-nine style, licking her clit whilst she fucked herself with 'Mr Marcus'; Christ, she'd almost bitten my dick, her orgasm was so strong!
Afterwards, we'd just laid there, me whispering my dirty fantasies in her ear as she gently rubbed herself. Technically, I guess we'd not agreed to commit to getting her a bull, but I figured I had tacit sign-off. Better to ask for forgiveness later than permission now; isn't that the expression?
It hadn't helped my productivity, that was for sure. I was already behind on my work, and was spending far too much of what time I couldn't afford to lose on Reddit, Imagefap and other sites, Googling about 'bulls' and 'hot wives'.
There was certainly plenty of information out there - as well as a hell of a lot of porn - but nothing I could actually get started with. Most of the stuff seemed to emanate from the US, where, judging from the sheer volume of posts, there was clearly a large problem of unsatisfied white wives and large black men helpfully able to 'lend a hand' (along with other body parts). But nothing for your average suburban Surrey IT man. A real gap in the market.
That was why I was hovering, indecisively, over my mobile. I knew a bull. Granted, I figured Claire - whatever attraction she might have felt toward the man - would not be on board with getting Deejay into the mix, given that they worked at the same company and she was much more senior than him. Nonetheless, I figured at least he might be able to offer me some pointers.
It was a risk, I knew that, getting him involved, if only for advice. But my brain had long since ignored the flashing warning signs saying 'this is a bad idea!'. I simply had to talk to someone about this, and Deejay was the only person I knew I thought could help.
I finally plucked up the gumption, entering the number for the company's main public phone line, putting the mobile up to my ear.
As per everything nowadays, I had to first navigate a maze of options, muzak and automated recordings about 'Diversity and Inclusion'. Mildly ironic, I mused, thinking back to the conversation in the pub about Deejay and the accountant; I wondered if they could put that in their ESG statement? - 'Black staff member banging white wife'.
"Welcome to AHD Fund Management," came the ludicrously smooth female voice, the accent your standard clipped RP of someone who'd grown up in Essex, but now sounded more like they worked for the Royal household. "To whom can I connect you?"
Shit. I suddenly realised that, whilst I knew Deejay's department and first name, I had no idea what his surname was. I guessed that 'The big tall black bull' would probably not get me very far.
"Hello? Is there anyone there?"
"Ah, yes, sorry," I flustered, clearing my throat, "I'd like to be put through to...'Deejay'? I'm sorry, I don't know his last name. I know he works in-"
"Mister Lavigne? Of course, I'll put you through right away. Whom should I say is calling?"
"Tell him it's Neil Saunders."
The line clicked, then rang a few times in a different tone, before being answered.
"Neil! Nice to talk to you again. How can I help?" Deejay sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me.
"Hi Deejay, er, look, sorry to bother you at work, it's just I wondered if I could buy you lunch or something? I had a few things I wanted to talk to you about."
I could almost hear the smile on the other end of the line.
"You know what Neil, I had a feeling you might want to talk. I can't do lunch, but I can grab a coffee. I assume you know the area around here quite well?"
"Sure, Claire and I have been to a few places nearby."
"Good, good. Do you know the Pret near the office?"
"That I do, yes."
"Ok, how's 3 work for you?"
"I'll see you then."
The line went dead. I went back to mistyping emails and generally not doing any real work.
****
Prompt the man was not. I checked my watch: 3:15.
At least, as I shuffled forward in the line, it gave me a chance to figure out the bewildering options - to this day, I still don't know what an extra-hot mocha-chai-latte is.
