Once a Slut...?

It is not supposed to happen. You are not supposed to have feelings for each other. Sexual attraction, fine, but not the kind of emotional attachment that we found together. That is not in the script. But some things happen, and that is just the way it is.

The first time that we met, a Thursday evening, she had dressed for the event. A hotel bar, in central London, stylish, all wood and mirrors, the other guests in suits and cocktail dresses. I wore a suit. So did the guy. His wife had on a cute black number, the neckline cut so low it was not just cleavage showing. The narrow vee went right down to her navel. No bra. That would have spoiled the look. The fabric cut loose enough to risk her nipples coming into view. The skirt of the dress cut short. Exquisite legs that she kept tight together on the leather sofa while we talked, black nylon so sheer the whiteness of the flesh beneath showed through. Some of that flesh showed bare, above the nylon, too.

Not my first time as a bull, but my last. I had played the role for the best part of a year. Post divorce. The divorce itself had been my own initiative. My no longer wife had stepped out just the once, and ended everything. All feelings shot to pieces. Trust demolished. Thank you, and goodbye. Leaving me still fragile, and not yet ready for anything that might develop into something serious. So I had browsed instead, online, seeking sexual release, but no commitment, no strings, no ties.

There were women on their laptops seeking something similar. Fuck buddy. Meet up for mutual satisfaction, but no more. I tried that. Some nice encounters, but not all what they said. Some wanting more. Not just a fuck, but needy emotional involvement too. Not ready yet, I browsed around some more.

Maybe I am niave, but I had not realised that there were guys out there who like to share their wives. Not until I saw them advertise. A different kind of site. Intriguing. Some of those women were good lookers. Not the kind of women I would want to share, if they belonged to me, but these guys were offering. Looking for bulls. Single guys who would perform the role, and I was single still.

By the time I met these two, I had met half a dozen other couples. Good sex, too. The first time with a husband watching, I felt nervous, but my cock lived up to all our expectations. It stayed hard. It ploughed her nicely. It lasted for a good amount of time. Long enough to make her come. Before I came myself. They had wanted me to fuck her bare, and not pull out, which all felt good. Semen deposited, I left the two of them. Good sex. No strings. No ties. No nothing. Perfect. Exactly as I had planned. So I stayed with playing the bull, and met with several other couples. It worked for me.

Until her.

Metro types. Both immaculately presented. Hair perfect, manicured, not just her, the guy as well. But it was her that I paid attention to. Flawless white complexion, jet black hair, stylish bob-cut, the kind that would grace the cover of a fashion magazine, Cosmopolitan or Elle, and would work within the business world, professional, reliable, to be depended on. Bright, sparkling eyes, that should have been dark to match her hair but were instead sky blue. Captivating. Scarlet lip gloss, nails glossed to match, the shade exact. Not the claws some women wear. Her own nails, shaped to perfection, perfect ovals completing slender hands. Two rings, both on the same finger. A diamond solitaire, and a narrow band of yellow gold.

The formalities of introductory conversation over, we went upstairs, a smooth elevation ride up fourteen floors. My gut, while riding up, said that there was something off about the husband, but something resonating well with her. Nice room. Great view from the window. The Thames, the lit up London Eye, Houses of Parliament, the glass and steel of office blocks, the Gerkin, Shard, and more.

I turned from the window. They were in a close embrace. Kissing. His arms around her back. Her head angled up to his. He was average height, no more. She was petite. Not that I am all that tall myself. Some bulls are built, hefty, made of brick. Not me. Which perhaps makes me less threatening to the husbands. Taller than this couple, but not towering over either of them.

His fingers riffed at the fabric of her dress, lifting it. With petite, when they wear stockings, the tops sit higher on the leg, close to the buttock curve. He was showing me. Stocking tops and pure white flesh above, smooth butt flesh, beautifully curved, now exposed to view. The tops of her stockings pulled out of shape by the straps of her suspender belt, higher at the clip. Her butt bare. Nothing beneath the cocktail dress. No wonder she had kept her legs so close downstairs.

Except her butt was not quite perfect white. Not when he riffed her hem all the way to her lower back. Not the right globe. Not where, had she been on the beach in a bikini, the triangle of the bottom would have curved around the flesh. That normally unseen flesh was not uninterrupted white. The right globe bore some work, black ink, beneath the epidermis, a tattoo that I could read even from the twelve feet distance of the window where I stood to the centre of the room where they had paused for their embrace.

One word. A clear black line around it. The line would have been a rectangle, but each corner curved inwards with a neat quarter circle. It was the kind of stylish line that will emblazon an office title on a brass door plate in a London bank, to emphasise the status of the office holder. Or the kind of line that might be used around the writing of an office ink stamp, used for franking legal papers. Three inches wide. One inch high. One word inside. Times font, all upper case. It stood out all the more that way. 'Slut'.

"You okay to fuck her from behind?" he asked.

"That's good with me," I said.

Their gig. Their shout. Their room, paid for. I was happy to oblige. Or so I thought right then. She turned her head and looked around, her blue eyes meeting mine. Acquiescent. Ready to comply.

He gripped the dress now, fingers reaching beneath the bundle that was around her lower back, and raised it upwards, all the way. She raised her arms. His raised his higher. The dress slipped up over her back, shoulders, head and elevated arms, and she was free. Only the thin black suspender belt now crossed the whiteness of her slender back. Not fabric. Leather, gleaming rich and smooth. It, and the stocking tops, framed her butt, emphasising its nudity, vulnerable and exposed, and stamped with 'slut'.

"Over the bed," he told her.

She did as he had said. It meant turning towards me as she walked to the end of the bed. Very nice breasts. Full, in contrast with her slender frame. Brown nipple stubs, not pink. No areolas. The stubs were round, as if two olives had been touched to the white breast flesh, and now would stay forever, to be gently teased, tongued, and sucked, or bitten, tortured, twisted. Something about her made me think of that more painful form of play.

No jet black hair below. Nothing to match the bob cut hair she wore so well. Not shaved. There would have been shadow had it been removed by razor. Instead, her flesh was pure as snow, with two reveals of pink. Cute cunt. She would be tight. I wondered how many other bulls had stretched those twin pouting labia already, had sunk their hard flesh deep within, done as I was now about to, and taken their enjoyment of her from behind.

Just as he had asked her to, or told her, she knelt on the hard wood of the hotel room floor, and bent over the low bed. It needed to be low, for her. Arms stretched out wide. Legs just slightly parted. Enough space between them for my knees. Head turned towards me. Blue eyes, now moist. Willing, but perhaps not what she would have chosen for herself.

Opposite the bed there was a chair and desk, hotel stationery set out, an armchair one side, a drinks chiller on the other. Her husband went to the chiller first, took out a miniature, unscrewed, poured, than sat down, crossed his legs and waited.

Something made me feel I did not want to undress. Not in front of him, like that. I slipped off my jacket. That was all. I knelt behind her, trousered legs between her nyloned knees. Caressed her. Right hand only. Starting with her back, the ribs and spine defined, down to her soft butt. No gym bunny, her. Just perfect genes. The caressing was instinctive, my arm on autopilot, my eyes not following the movement of my hand but gazing only at her 'slut', tattooed into the pure white flesh. It needled me, that she would bear that word for evermore. Too permanent. Too condemnatory, for someone only doing as their husband asked her to.

I caressed the word. The flesh felt no different for the letters tattooed there. Smooth, soft, warm, vulnerable, giving, surrendered. My thumb traced the groove between her cheeks, parted the globes, touching the pink star that nestled there. It opened, all too easily, millimetres of darkness, an invitation, the flesh reacting from acquired instinct, obliging, accommodating, or perhaps resigned, long suffering, but all too forgiving. There would be no resistance there.

I bypassed the dark star, thumbing below, tracing her groin, then down her stockinged leg. The texture of smooth nylon can feel rough in contrast with soft skin. She shuddered. Her head was still turned to the side, but those blue eyes were no longer visible from where I was now kneeling right behind her. I wondered about the water I had seen forming there, if there was more, if it was now dampening her cheek. Quietly, I spoke to her.

"Are you okay with this?" I asked.

Silence, but her head moved in what would have been a nod, had she been upright. She was okay. Or so she said.

I moved my hand back between her legs, touching her slit, the twin protruding petals of her labia, parting them, my thumb finding its way between, where she was slick and wet and it could slide in deeper. I played a little, thumb fucking her, then eased it from the wetness and teased her clit instead.

She made a noise, soft, gentle, hardly a gasp, but audible. She shuddered too. Compliant, selfless, giving, of all that was intimate, private, normally reserved for her and for her true love only, not for a stranger like myself.

The dark star between her butt cheeks seemed a little lonely. I touched it again, my thumb now wet with her secretions. The muscles round it tightened, closing, then relaxed again. They almost seemed to suck my thumb within. I eased my way into that tightness, no resistance, just as I had known. This aperture would open wider. Thicker flesh than just a thumb had used her there. 'Slut' might or might not be fair to her, but it seemed that those who used her took it to be true.

My cock was hard, and ready. The deal, agreed online, all three of us consenting adults, partly to its terms, was that as their bull it was for me to fuck her, not just caress and probe. I opened up my fly. Left hand. Not wet with her secretions as was my right. Eased out my cock. I did not look behind me. He would have seen the movement, but that was all. Neither cunt nor cock were in his line of view. Still, he would know what would be happening, and what would happen next. He might just sit watching. Or maybe he would play with his own member, solitaire. That would be his private moment. This was mine.

"Still sure?" I asked.

The same movement of her head. A nod.

I used my thumb again, probed her slit. Still slick. Succulent. Deliciously ripe and ready to be fucked. I slid out my thumb and used that hand to angle my cock. Too high. Wrong angle. Her petite frame did not raise that luscious butt enough to match my longer legs, not even kneeling.

I used geometry. Moved each of my legs outside of hers. A wider triangle of limbs and floor. It brought my crotch down lower, my cock resting against the groove between her bare buttock cheeks. I backed from her enough to bring my cock head down, to tip touch her labia. Then eased forwards. Slid the head inside her. She was tight, just like I had conjectured. She even tightened more, squeezing herself around my flange, gripping it, a handshake between new friends.

"One more thing," he said. "She likes it when she's spanked. Hard as you like. It's punishment, for being what she is."

A slut.

I did not take his word for it. I asked.

"Are you okay with that?"

Another nod.

Their gig. Their shout. Their room, paid for. I perform for free, for pure enjoyment, but it is only fair to fulfil the expectations put to me. The sound resounded round the room. Flesh reverberating beneath a cupped palm. Slut flesh. At least that was the word beneath my palm. She did not seem a slut to me. More a willing subject of her husband's warped erotic needs. Love him, marry him for as long as ye both shall live, and do what you need to, to keep him pleased.

No cry, from that thwack of palm on butt flesh. No whimper. No gasp. No moan. All her muscles in her body tensed, but not a sound. Her back arched, her butt tautened, hands clenched, legs tightened, all of her absorbing the stinging pain of hand smacked against bare rump. Just one set of muscles relaxed instead of tensing to that single smack. Her cunt. The tightness round my cock melted to nothing. I slid so easily right inside her, all of my shaft, the head now nudging inner substance, her womb, pressing against it. My stomach wall hard against her butt. One spanking thwack was all that it had taken, and now I was too deep, too close to her, to abuse that vulnerable 'slut' flesh any more.

Two hands on the soft curves of buttock flesh, I eased back, my cock retreating, her cunt now feeling tight, slick but wrapped around my shaft delightfully. Not withdrawing fully. Not all the way. Not out of there entirely. The head remained within, keeping her stretched wide. Then eased back inside her all the way. Back to full depth. Groin pressed to butt once more. Cock head touching womb. Withdraw again. Slide back in deep. Unhurried fucking. Fucking in slow motion. Gentle, relaxed, protracted, measured lengthy strokes, too drawn out to be thrusts, while she lay, her torso shivering not with cold, so it had to be emotion.

Finally, a sound. A whimper. Crying. Not screaming. The kind of crying that comes with tears, her body trembling. Her right arm bending, hand to her face, wiping away the sin she was committing, and with it, moisture from her eyes.

In front of me lay tragic beauty, all in tears. No slut, a woman being someone other than herself. Permitting her own martyrdom at the altar of her husband's carnal gratification. I felt for her, felt sadness mixed with my desire. I could have fucked her, thrust so hard. That cunt was sweetness and delight. The womb could have received my semen, would have, had I chosen it. Instead, I eased out one more time, shaft, head, and all. Tucked it away, back where it belonged.

I left her there, unfucked. I left him with his drink. The elevator ride back down to earth gave me time to reflect, on coupledom and marriage, and the rights and wrongs of things that couples chose to do. And single guys as well. Judge not, that you be not judged, but still I judged. Him, not her. And myself as well.

Not the ending to that Thursday night that I had hoped for, but as I walked out of the hotel lobby, I knew my days of playing bull should be ended then and forever, and that this should be the start of something new.

**********

Monday morning.

I do not take calls at work. Nor do I take calls from unknown numbers. This was both. Ringing. Rejected. Yet having the nerve to call again. The second time it rang something made me relent. Some instinct. A premonition.

"Hello?"

No name. I do not give cold callers any information that they do not have already.

"Hello," she said. "Is that you?"

No name. I never give my name. Not to the couples that I meet. Not ever. A fake name on the site, of course, but not for use. The number is for contact if arrangements made for some reason cannot be fulfilled. Emergencies. To be deleted later. Except instead of having deleted it, she called me on it. I knew the voice, though the last time I had heard her, the sound was of her whimpers, not any words of any kind.

I thought before I answered. Another instinct told me just to confirm. Another premonition. No harm would come of telling her that she called the person she had meant to.

"Yes, it's me."

I waited, hearing silence. Then she spoke again.

"I just,... I wanted to,...say thank you," she said.

"There's no need," I said.

"There is," she answered. "You were kind."

"I'm not sure that's how I would describe it," I said. "But I didn't like,..."

I paused, uncertain how to say what I had felt to her. How to say I had not liked her husband. Or had not liked the way things had panned out. Had not liked to see her, feel her, cry.

"You were,..." she said, not waiting for me to find more words. "Although, it was the first time I cried like that,... the first time it would have felt,... wrong,... for us to be like that,... in that way,... I mean."

I was still trying to work out the reason for the call, what it was that she was trying to say.

"It's fine," I said, to fill the space, only to find her saying something no wife should ever say without her husband knowing.

"Can we meet?"

You do not meet outside of the couple, bull relationship. It is a breach of etiquette. Not breach of contract, because nothing is signed by anyone, but still not the thing you do. So I hesitated. I should decline. Except something told me etiquette was not the most important factor here. But I still asked the question.

"Are you sure you want to?"

"I'd like us to," she said. "If you would like that too."

Her voice said everything. The words were full of meaning too, but it was her voice that went right to my soul, soft, gentle, tremulous, almost imploring.

"I think I'd like that too," I heard my own voice saying, even before I had decided.

Another part of me rejoiced. Between my legs, I felt distinctive signs of life.

**********

Same hotel, same bar, same jet black hair, same bright and gentle eyes, same sky blue irises, luring me within, same scarlet lip gloss, same slender fingers, matching varnished nails, but this time there was no diamond ring, no gold band, and she was on her own, no husband anywhere. Corner table, close together, hers a martini, mine a gin.

Not a fuck-me dress. Not the black number from before. A light grey business suit, knee length skirt, white blouse, neat jacket, stockings again, I hoped, heels, but office heels not vamp. She worked near here.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," she said.

"I'm here," I answered, although I had not been sure myself, uncertain that this breach of rules was wise, until I had found myself tin the hotel bar again, scanning for the woman I had left unfucked that other night.

First rule. You never meet the wife alone. Broken, for some reason that I could not get a handle on.

"I wanted to thank you properly, for not,.." she offered, "and to ask you why you left?"

"I don't like to see a woman cry," I said. "It didn't seem right to,..."

"I shouldn't have cried," she said. "I don't, usually. There was just something different. I felt it in the bar, when we were talking. You seemed somehow different. Not like the others."

I wondered what the others had been like. How many others there had been. In what way she saw me to be different. Yet she had been different too. Not like the other wives that I had fucked before that night. I told her that, or tried to.

"I felt the same," I said. "You didn't seem,..."

Then I wondered what it was about her, what it was that she had not seemed to be, and hesitated.

"I mean,..." I tried again. "You seemed different too. Not into what was happening. You were nice, and friendly, but seemed somehow,... disengaged."