My name is Chris, and my wife is Michele. We're both twenty-six and have been married for four years. It was one of those sweltering, humid Southern summer nights, the air thick with heat and unspoken desires. Through the viewfinder of my video camera, Michele looked hotter than the night itself--her legs flailing in the air as my former Marine buddy, Ron C. Gardner, nicknamed Bull, drove his massive cock into her with relentless force. His thrusts were like a jackhammer, pounding her slick, eager pussy without mercy. Michele didn't beg for any; her moans begged for more.
But I'm jumping ahead. Let me take you back to where it all began--nearly a week earlier.
The Reunion
Bull and I enlisted in the Marines together, hailing from the same small town but strangers until that first day. Bull, a towering black man, had earned his nickname not just from his football days but from the monstrous endowment swinging between his legs. We bonded during basic training, but after that, the Corps split us up--different schools, different stations. I last saw him four years ago in Brisbane, Australia, where we tore through gin mills and whorehouses during a wild liberty stint. There, I glimpsed the beast he unleashed on a willing girl, her cries of pleasure echoing as his thick, brown shaft worked her over. After that, Bull couldn't pay for a fuck Down Under--word spread too fast.
I got out, came home, married Michele--my high school sweetheart--and started a video business. Weddings, reunions, commercials--whatever paid the bills. It was lean at first, but Michele and I scraped by. She didn't want kids, and neither did I. Our sex life was decent, though I sensed she craved something more, something she wouldn't name.
Last week, I was tinkering in my shop's back room when the front door chimed. Out front stood Bull, grinning wide, a little bulkier, his head shaved smooth. "Son of a bitch," I laughed. "Should've locked the door--look what walked in!" We hugged, and I asked, "Where'd you blow in from?"
"Visiting my folks," he said. "Saw your ad in the paper, figured it might be you. Drove over in my new Lincoln Town Car."
"Put that Marine training to use," I said. "You still in?"
"Nah, got out two years back. Disagreement with the brass. You holding up?"
"Doing alright now. What about you?"
"This and that," he said evasively. "Ran a stable in Florida 'til some john roughed up one of my girls. Too much heat, so I bolted."
"Horses?" I asked, confused.
He chuckled. "No, dumbass--whores. Still slow as ever, Chrisy-boy. Married? Kids?"
"Married, no kids. Come back, I'll wrap up, and we'll grab a beer."
"Or two," he added, laughing.
An hour later, we were at Murphy's Bar, three beers deep, catching up. I called Michele at work, telling her I was bringing an old buddy home for dinner. She grumbled, but when she met Bull, his charm flipped her mood like a switch.
"Damn, girl," Bull said as she walked in, "you're a sight. How'd Chrisy-boy snag a babe like you?"
Michele blushed, her eyes dancing, and excused herself to change. "Man," Bull whispered, "no way a little white guy like you satisfies that."
"Down, boy," I teased. "Private property."
"Sure," he said, sipping his beer. "If you need help tending the grounds, holler."
Michele returned in tight short shorts and a pink halter top, her braless 38D breasts swaying freely. Bull's gaze devoured her. We ordered pizza, cracked open a case of beer, and Bull spun tales--some true, some bullshit.
"Chris never told me about those Australian whorehouses," Michele teased.
"Not much to tell," I said. "Just watched Bull's back."
"Yeah, right," she snorted. "Stayed true to me, huh?"
"Of course," I deadpanned, drunk but serious. "Knew you were true to me too." Her smile faltered. I'd stumbled into murky waters--rumors of her infidelity while I was away had reached me years ago. Bull smirked, sensing the tension.
"Why do they call you Bull?" Michele asked, steering us clear.
"All the men in my family are big," he said. "Started in high school."
"Mean?"
"Nope. Cock like a Brahma bull." His tone was flat, factual.
Michele's face flamed red. "Oh," she managed, then laughed. "That explains it."
We polished off the beer, and Bull left around eleven. I was half-asleep when Michele pounced, naked and ravenous. "I need my man," she purred, straddling me. As I thrust into her wet heat, images flickered--her with Scott Dexter, Lenoard Rhodes, then Bull. She rode me hard, insatiable, climaxing twice before I collapsed, wondering how much truth lay in those old rumors.
Confessions Ignite
Next day, Bull swung by as I locked up shop. We hit Murphy's again, and I called Michele to join us. She agreed fast, saying she'd change first. Bull and I got a head start on the beers.
"Those whorehouse stories get you in trouble?" he asked.
"Nope," I said. "We fucked like rabbits. She wore me out."
"Probably picturing my black bull dick," he grinned.
"Did you know Lenoard Rhodes?" I asked, sidestepping.
"Yeah, played for your shitty team. Works for Marcus Williams now. Why?"
"Name came up once."
Michele arrived in a slinky black dress, neckline plunging, thighs teasing the hem. She looked edible. Ordering a margarita, she caught up quick--three drinks in, we were buzzing. Bull regaled us with pimp tales.
"You were a pimp?" Michele's eyes widened.
"Client services manager," he said with mock dignity.
"Meaning?"
"Pimp," he laughed. "Funny you mentioned Lenoard, Chris. Saw him recently."
Michele stiffened, staring at me--shock? Fear? "Works for Marcus Williams," Bull went on. "Runs girls, loans, dope. Lenoard's his muscle."
"Why'd you bring up Lenoard?" she asked, voice small.
"You know Ted, right?" I said. "Scott Dexter's pal. You knew Scott too."
Bull's next story saved her from replying. Later, drunk and fumbling with my pants, she cornered me. "Why Lenoard Rhodes?"
