'Don't forget, Gabriel is spending the night, I expect you to make him feel very welcome', said Annette.
I need to explain something. i have never actually met Gabriel before. There has been distance glances, when he has picked my wife up in his black BMW 7 series. There was another distant glimpse after I took Annette to the airport, on a trip to spend a week with him in Malta. But that was like a fashion shoot. My wife in a pair of designer sage green leather hot pants and matching high heeled strappy sandals, a cream silk blouse and a designer watch almost dripping off her wrist. He was in black, immaculately cut pants and a open necked shirt. I watched him kiss her, she slipping her arms up around his bull neck, convinced I imagine that i'd already vacated the scene. i had never seen her look more beautiful. Never before seen her as if she was a starlet at a film premiere. The truth was, that Gabriel made her beautiful. He made her believe in herself to such an extent that her vanity looked entirely instinctive. Because he knew how to handle her in bed, because he knew how to obsess her mind with his black cock, he had made a woman out of my wife. She adored him and it was as if the thrill of first date would never finally abate. It was as if the rapture was inseminated into her DNA from that moment forth.
I don't want to get locked into stereotypes. Yes the man was black, yes he had an imposing figure, taller, broader and protective looking when she sunk in against his chest. But he was one man, not a representative of thousands with the same coloured skin. He wasn't simply a representation of the well hung lothario. What was it about this particular man, this guardian angel, that so obsessed my wife, that she was about to try and change our living in ways unimaginable?
'Gabriel says that you can stay in the house provided that you are humble and accommodating. He won't put you out of the house, because he expects you to lick me out once we are done.'
I have never, ever heard my wife talk like that before. She said it so casually, as though going down on her and licking out his sticky mess from her pubes was just so polite. Well, it wasn't unnusual. Several times, after going out with him for the evening she had returned, put her booted foot up on the bed, and I had knelt, waiting for her to hitch up a tiny skirt, to then toilet her. But now, the frank and shockingly casual reference to 'lick me out once we are done' made it sound as natural, inevitable, as the sun rising each morning.
We had talked. Gabriel started as a man friend, become a boyfriend, and then her lover. She appreciated my modern mind on the matter, the fact that I didn't resist this. She appreciated it that I understood that she needed to be with someone infinitely more masculine than me. There was no need for divorce. I was being so nice, so very practical, it was a new way to live, with your bull, and your husband reassigned as something else.
'I don't know how to handle this, how to relate to the guy!' I said finally, watching her roll a stocking up her leg and hook it casually to her suspender belt.
"I've told you Peter, you address him as 'sir' and you don't play any of those silly territorial games, trying to match his gaze. If you pretend that you're masculine and territorial, he will put you out of the house and you and I will have to chat about whether our marriage is over, ' she warned.
Well our marriage was over, wasn't it? When I recited my vows there was nothing about honouring madam's preferred beau ultimatum and licking out her sex as my chief contribution to that deemed intimate.
