Blac Bull 05: Coffee 1

**** 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.

My phone rang.

"Hi Neil. Sorry, I'm held up here, but I'll be down in five minutes. Can you get me a 'Deejay special' please? They'll know what I mean."

"Sure," I answered, before thinking to ask what a 'Deejay special' was. Too late; he'd hung up.

The tourist in front of me had finally figured out how to make a contactless payment, so I stepped forward to the counter, looking up at the board, deciding to settle for a plain flat white.

"Hi, er, can I have..."

My mind just went blank as I looked down to see the gorgeous young barrista stood in front of me. She couldn't have been more than twenty, all thick, dark curly black hair, creamy light brown skin, and huge eyes - Lebanese, perhaps?

"Yes?" she said, smiling gently at me, cocking her head slightly to the side.

My brain kicked back into gear. "Sorry, I'll have a flat white and a... 'Deejay special'?"

The girl broke into a huge, wide grin. "Oh, is Deejay joining you?" She practically squeaked the man's name.

"Er, yeah, he'll be here in a few minutes."

I reached into my pocket, pulling out my card, holding it up so she knew I'd be contactless-paying.

"Oh, no," she smiled, "these are on the house."

What the fuck?

I shuffled to the side, waiting for the drinks as an angry city worker, clearly not in need of any more caffeine, barged his way to the front of the line.

I glanced up at the clock above the counter - 3:25. This was taking the piss.

"Neil and Deejay!"

The young chap almost made me jump out of my skin, shouting unnecessarily, as he'd seen me ordering.

"Yes, thanks," I said, scowling at the staff member, the boy seemingly immune to such visual put-downs as he wandered away. I picked up the drinks and wandered over to one of the high-stool tables scattered around the place.

I looked at the cups, checking to make sure I had the right one, the one with "Neil" written on it. The other, I noted, quizzically, simply had a large heart drawn on it, an arrow shot through the centre.

I took a sip of my coffee and stared out of the window, people watching. It was oddly diverting, seeing the purposeful city workers weave their way around the completely unawares tourists, all phone looks and points. It helped me get my mind off the somewhat awkward encounter I envisaged this being...

"Neil!"

I almost spat my coffee as my back was slapped, overly hard. I turned, trying not to look peeved.

"Ah, great, you got my drink," said Deejay, taking his from the table.

"Yeah, I didn't have to pay anything. And there's this heart on it - I take it she's a fan of yours?"

"Ha!" laughed the man, taking the lid off the drink and sipping, "I guess you could say that."

He looked over his shoulder at the counter; the girl was completely ignoring the increasingly irate suit, instead simply beaming at Deejay. He gave her a wave. The customer asked to see the manager.

"Indeed," continued Deejay, blowing on the foamy whatever-it-was, "if I might be so bold Neil, I think her situation, vis-a-vis me, might be what you came here to talk to me about?"

He gave me a smug little wink.

"I, erm, I'm not quite sure I follow."

I was starting to think this might not have been such a good idea after all. But hell, I'd come this far...

"Let me show you."

He lifted his drink up, above his head, pointing at the bottom. I looked up, seeing, written on the bottom of the cup, the words 'I love you Black Daddy'.

Christ.

I swallowed. "You mean, you're, erm, you're her... bull?"

I whispered the last word, as if anyone in the busy place could overhear us.

"But I thought that was married women? I mean, she looks a bit young..."

"It doesn't matter about being married or not," said Deejay, matter-of-factly, pulling a large foldable phone from his blazer pocket, "as long as there's a boyfriend or something in the picture. Here, let me show you."

He opened up the images on his phone. I was amazed at the shear breadth of things on there as Deejay quickly thumbed his way through. There were parties, what looked like holidays, but mainly just a succession of beautiful women and girls.

He clearly found what he was looking for. It was a slightly grainy image, maybe of a bedroom? A hotel room? It wasn't quite clear. But what it did clearly show was Deejay, standing in the middle of the frame, sideways on, naked.

Fuck, I couldn't help myself - my hand shot up to my mouth when I saw the man's giant cock on display. It was fully erect, standing proud, pointing up and away from Deejay, the thing at least 8 inches, possibly longer.

Granted, it was impressive; still: "Jesus Christ Deejay, I didn't come here to look at fucking dick pics!"

He just tutted, then clicked the play button.

The first four seconds or so were just Deejay, standing, looking straight at the camera with a smirk on his face. Then, from the right-hand side of the screen, a young woman came into view. She was naked and on all fours. She crawled forward a little, still a few feet from Deejay, then looked to her left, at the camera, and smiled.

I gasped, looking back over my shoulder, to confirm the girl behind the counter really was the naked, crawling beauty. Sure enough...

Deejay hit pause; I groaned like a kid who's been told their favourite TV programme has to be turned off.

"Well," he said, "I think you get the idea."

I have to admit, I didn't quite follow. Sure, he was banging the girl, but that's not quite what I was here to talk about.

"No, I'm not sure I do."

"Think who was holding the camera man!"

"Ah! You mean, that was her boyfriend doing the filming?"

Deejay smiled at me, wearing a nauseatingly proud expression, as though he'd just seen a pupil of his master a tricky topic.

"Now you're getting it. He works round here, I think. Insurance, investment banking, no, wait-"

"I'm not sure I really care what he does Deejay," I remarked, trying to subtly adjust my trousers.

"No, sorry, you're right, it doesn't matter. But, look, before you ask me-"

"No, Deejay," - I cut him off mid-sentence, noting with satisfaction the irritated frown, as if it were something he was not used to and certainly didn't like - "Look, you can't be involved with Claire-"

It was Deejay's turn to interrupt.

"Neil, don't worry, Claire and I can never happen, I know that. That accountant, we work in different departments, we don't really have much to do with each other, day-to-day. Claire, on the other hand, is my boss's boss. Hell, she sets my pay awards! I mean - not that I care about any potential conflict of interests - but we'd both be finished if it got out."

He looked ever so slightly forlorn; good.

"Don't get me wrong," he continued, going back to gazing out of the window, a gaggle of teenage tourists gawping at a pigeon of all things, "I'd love to fuck your wife," he turned again, looking me directly in the eyes, "I'd love to have you film it as I dominate your woman, fucking her to heaven and back, her screaming my name as I resized her little pussy."

He was grinning broadly now, clearly getting off on telling me what he'd do to my wife, obviously enjoying the power dynamic. "But it can't be."

I swallowed, reaching down to shift my erection.

"I know Deejay, I know it can't be you. But that's why I came to talk to you. I was hoping you could, er, you could maybe provide me some recommendations?"

The big man smiled again. "I might know a guy." His face suddenly became serious again, "But look," he put a large hand on my shoulder, as if about to impart some career guidance, "you do have to be sure. 100% sure. Both of you. I've been in the middle when it's gone wrong. Trust me, you do not want that."

"No, I understand, we're both all in," I said, lying.

"Ok, well, if you're both sure... So look, I do this on the side, right? I mean, I have a full time job. But I do know someone who does this as a living. Hell, no, he does it as a calling!" He laughed, his deep tone booming even in the busy coffee shop, "This guy, he's a professional bull. Here," he said, picking his phone up again, opening a browser and typing something. "One mo... ah! Yes, here we go."

He put the fold-out onto the small table in front of them, shaking it to force the browser to switch to landscape. There was a slick, pro looking website with a big banner across the top, a picture of a very buff man, his face obscured by a mask, his top uncovered, wearing leather pants, in the middle of the screen.

"What's your e-mail Neil? I'll send you a link."