The Big Dic

'I fucked your wife'

The speaker was a big guy, thin face, weaselly eyes when he glanced across at me from a few feet away along the bar, and swaying slightly. He'd been drinking obviously, but hadn't we all. Anyway, it's not how strangers usually introduce themselves, so it got my attention right away.

'Really?'

What do you say? What can you say. So many people had that I stopped bothering to keep track of them all.

But how did he know I was the husband of the woman he'd had up against the wall outside a club, or bent over a car bonnet in Soho Square, or wherever else he'd taken advantage of her slutty generosity?

Unless he was one of the restaurant ones. She sometimes used to slip into the Ladies with a man in tow, and get a quickie from him while I and the rest of the group were complimenting the chef and helping ourselves to a touch more gravy, don't mind if I do.

He'd been helping himself to my wife, and giving her a large helping in the process. If he was one of the restaurant ones. He'd have seen where she sat, anyway and noticed which of the stupid guys at the table was her even dumber husband.

I waited for him to explain, but he just looked at me. I couldn't decide if he wanted to sympathise, shake my hand or punch me out.

'And how do you know that', I asked finally, because you have to know even when you don't want to know. Like cancer, it's a diagnosis you have to hear even when you're dreading it.

'She was flat on her back with her legs wide apart and I had my cock in her pussy. I'd call that pretty conclusive.'

He grinned, evil but not dangerous. So no punches then, Just a bit of gloating.

'Just the once then, was it? Forgive me for not recognising you. There were bloody hundreds of you.'

Gloat over that. Ponce.

There were thousands, actually, if I'm being literal, but I didn't need to make her sound more of a slut than I had to. I don't care about her reputation, but it makes me look stupid. But I was. She was doing it every day of our married life: ten years of infidelity, a new guy every weekday, a star in her diary for the first -timers and the occasional tick for repeat performances on a different day. No names, times or places, but I knew what the hand-written asterisks meant. Sometimes there were two, or three, or even five Nine once, on a weekend away. That wasn't one guy doing her several times, by the way. That was her getting spitroasted and gangbanged. To say she'd been fucked by two thousand other guys while she was married to this one -- me -- is a conservative estimate. It still amazed me that she could be that busy, fucking all those men, and it was what, just short of ten years before I began to suspect.

She wasn't a sex addict or any of that nonsense. She just liked cheating. Really, really liked cheating. And the closer I was when she did it, the better she liked it. So restaurant quickies, like grinning bloke next to me now, but also in dark corners in clubs when I was drunk, dancing or distracted by her friends. They used to keep me busy talking so I wouldn't see her slope off with some guy. Usually outside, but often up against the wall in the corner, especially if it was raining. I was bound to notice wet clothes and frizzy hair when she came back inside. Wet knickers and thighs, and a dribbly pussy -- not so much.

'Only the once, yes.'

I'd forgotten I was waiting for his answer.

'But I think she'll remember me.' His gloaty grin was back again.

He was one of the underlined ones then.

Asterisk for a fuck, a tick for a second encounter, or a third or fourth or whatever, and an underscore for the guys with big knobs. She liked big knobs. She always joked that she could see them coming as the walked down the street, and later she'd see them cumming. All girls cock-watch. Most don't do much more than admire the package, no matter how big and tempting it may seem. She always followed up. Or just plain followed them sometimes, waited till they were in a bar, and then dazzled them with her smile. They never stood a chance.

'She doesn't usually.'

Cool, that's what I was. Play it down. 'What can I tell her to prompt her memory?'

Fool. It's like asking the surgeon how long you've got left if the op doesn't work. But you just can't stop yourself, can you? I can't anyway.

He considered his response, like he was trying to work out how to tell me it was just a few weeks but make it sound better, soften the blow.

'Tell her the biggest is still the best.'

He leaned back from me, trying to gauge the impact of his words.

'And that's you is it? The biggest and the best?'

'That's what she said.'

His smile was wolfish now, as if telling me all this was as good as fucking my wife all over again. Maybe it was. But I could soon put a stop to that.

'How long ago did she say that? Recent was it?'

'He frowned, recalling a place and moment in time.

'Couple of years.'

'Well you may need to think of a better reminder then. She's had hundreds of cocks since then. Dozens of big ones. You may not be the biggest or the best any more.'

Boff! Gloat over that, big boy.

'Nah,' he slurred, 'there aren't any bigger ones than mine.' For a dreadful moment I thought he was going to prove it, whip his knob out in a hotel bar. But his deep breath was just the preface to another pronouncement. 'Biggest is always best, that's what she said. An' I'm the biggest. So I'm the best.'

He nodded confirmation in case I was tempted to doubt him yet again.

'Biggest and the best.' I nodded back. 'I'll be sure to pass that on.'

'She was the best fuck I ever had too, if I'm honest' He seemed to think this was some kind of compliment for which I should be grateful. But I'd heard it too many times before to find it anything of the sort. She did love to be fucked, that was the thing, gave it her all. She was like a nun let loose after 10 years in the convent every time she dropped her knickers. Or pulled them aside, if she happened to be standing up at the time. If she was wearing any in the first place. So she was a lot of people's best fuck. Mine included.

'Never been in a pussy like it.' He was obviously going to carry on telling me about the time he had the best fuck of his life giving my wife the best fuck of her life whether I wanted to hear it or not.

'A lot of people have said that,' I told him.

Me included. Tighter than a clenched fist, hotter than a hot bath, wetter than anything you've experienced, and yet sticky, gloopy and syrupy. Like putting your knob in a jar of warm honey. And then she started moving. And gasping, squealing and shouting. Loved a fuck, my wife. I hoped he wasn't going to tell me, but of course he did.

'I could tell right away she loved cock. Especially mine.'

He looked down again and I was afraid he was going to get it out, but that would have been impossible. Talking about her had made him hard and the bloody thing was poking down his trouser-leg like a policeman's truncheon.

He saw me staring and smirked.

'She's made me hard just remembering.'

'She has that effect on most people,' I told him, and it was the honest truth. Me included. Of course.

'Eleven inches.'

I hadn't realised I was still staring and started slightly, even though I hadn't been thinking about the size of his cock. Just the simmering hotness between her legs.

'It's okay. Men always ask. Women never do. They just want it in them. I tell them anyway, of course, so they can tell their friends they've had eleven inches of hard cock in their pussy. Some even boast to their husbands...'

His quizzical glance was almost funny, but only almost.

'She never mentioned you. Or it,' I said.

But I knew who he was. The big red asterisk. Underlined several times. I'd only read her diary once, but I remembered the page as if it was burnt on my eyeballs. April 17th. Under the asterisk she'd written 11, 6, 2 m & p with the same felt tip, so the page was an explosion of colour in an otherwise blue and black diary.

Now I knew what the 11 stood for the rest was easy. She'd cum 6 times with his cock in her, and he'd cum twice. Once in her mouth and once in her pussy. Probably not in that order. I didn't want the mental images, her writhing about with eleven inches of hard cock impaling her wide-legged to the bed, him grunting as she sucked and swallowed, and I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that would make them go away. It didn't.

Unlike most women, my wife used to cum quick and easy, just from being fucked. A couple of times was normal when we were in bed, three was a good night. Six was therefore spectacular, gold stars and red asterisks all round. But even three was a bit of a surprise to most men. No wonder he was the biggest and the best.

'And you recognised me from my picture, of course.'

I'm not in the papers, or on TV or anything like that. But there is a picture of me on the dressing-table in our bedroom. Logically, that's the only place he might have seen it and the only way he could have known who I was. But he must have stared long and hard. Odd thing to do, when you're fucking a chap's wife, gazing into his eyes while you're balls-deep in her pussy. Lying on his back in our bed with her riding away like Doris Day on horseback, all whip crack away and giddy-up, he would have had eye-to-eye contact with the man he was cuckolding.

Most cheating wives hide the photos of their hubby, or turn him face down at least. Mine liked me to watch her in action, even if it was only by proxy.

He nodded, and shifted his weight, dropping his gaze for the first time since he made the outrageous confession that started this conversation. If I didn't know any better I'd have thought he was more embarrassed about being in my house and my bedroom than he was about being in my wife.

No, that is absolutely what it was. He was proud he'd fucked her, but embarrassed by where he did it.

And so he should be.

'You're the detective,' I ventured.

He inclined his head, admitting the fact. I'd never met the man, just hired his services online, paid the bill by card and told him where to send his packet of proof. My office, obviously.

' I hired you to uncover evidence, not create it.'

'I gave you the diary.'

'You didn't have to shag her as well, just to prove the point.'

'Actually, I did. She insisted. Wouldn't take no for an answer. It would have been suspicious if I'd turned her down. Lovely girl like that. I bet she doesn't get many refusals.'

He had a point. Sort of. But it was years ago now. Water under the bridge and all that. One more didn't really make much difference among the hundreds. Her life was a never-ending parade of cocks, and I was still angry that I'd been oblivious to most of it.

'Anyway, I saw you here and just thought I'd stop off and say hi, and thanks.'

'What for? Arranging for you to have the best fuck of your life? With my wife?'

'That too. But mostly for giving me the best employee I've ever had.'

'What?'

'Well, she has a gift for undercover work. Brilliant at playing a part, keeping secrets and so on. That's why it took you ten years to notice what she was up to. Very clever girl. And gorgeous with it. If a man has a tendency to stray, she's the girl to put it to the test. Only a saint would turn her down.'

He had the good grace to look embarrassed.

'She works for you now? Putting fiancés to the test?'

I'd read about that online, so I knew it was a thing these days.

'And husbands. Divorce lawyers always want proper evidence, movies, DNA and whatnot. Stained sheets just aren't enough these days. And your ex-wife has no problem extracting the evidence.'

'The what?'

'We have a Harley Street firm on call. She lets them take a swab right after the, erm, encounter, and that's it. Matey's DNA is in the bag. Well, in her pussy first, but that's no problem. All nicely mixed up like that it's much better than scraping it out of her knickers like we used to do in the old days.'

I did goldfish impersonations.

'Anyway, got to go. She's working tonight, big hotel down Park Lane.' He checked his watch.' The evidence should be done to a turn by now, Rather like her.'