**** 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.
