Chapter 1: The Plan
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Heterosexual, Slut Wife, Wife Watching, Gang Bang, Interracial, White Couple, Black Male, White Male, White Female, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Size, .
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Plan - When Dave Cartwright sees an ad in the local newspaper offering twenty-seven inches of Prime British Beef, it plants the seed of an idea which leads to a unique celebration his wife's upcoming fortieth birthday and a night that neither one of them will ever forget. "The Big Four Ohhh!" is the first new short story by novelist Marc Nobbs since 2007 and is his twist on a classic erotic fiction set-up.
It was Sunday afternoon. There was football on the telly and once again Arsenal was showing signs of a trophy-less season, which was annoying. I only half-watched the bore-draw as I flipped through the local free newspaper that had dropped through the letterbox earlier in the day. You know the ones—ten per cent is of it uninteresting local 'news', there's a massive property section in the middle as estate agents try desperately to kick-start the housing market, and the rest is adverts for second-hand car dealers, jobs and, usually most interestingly, the small ads.
I always find the personals very amusing myself. I guess I shouldn't admit this, but as a happily married man and father of two, I find reading the pleas of the sad and lonely to be ... how can I put this? They just make me feel better about my life, okay. Is that such a crime?
Anyway, as I flipped through the small ads, looking for bargains the old fashioned way instead of eBay, I came across this in the 'Personal Services' Section.
Bored in the bedroom? Need a little spice? Indulge the ultimate fantasy.
Three BBCs. 27" of Prime British Beef
"Hmmm," I thought as I chuckled to myself, "Big Black Cocks. I bet Ruth would love that."
Sure, she'd love it, but did anyone seriously do things like that? No, they couldn't. Could they?
Ruth and I had been married for seven years and had two toddlers running around annoying us. Okay, so they didn't annoy us that much, but you ask any parent, life was quieter before the kids arrived on the scene. They'll also tell you that they had a lot more sex before the kids arrived too. Mostly, that's because you're too tired from running around after the little devils, but lack of opportunity plays a part and then there's the simple fact that when you've been fucking the same person for any length of time, it gets a bit ... boring. There's a reason they talk about the seven year itch, you know.
That's why fantasies are so important. They spice things up. Ruth and I had been sharing our fantasies for a few years—ever since she 'recovered' (if you know what I mean) from the birth of our second sprog. They started off pretty mild, but recently she admitted two things to me that should perhaps have shocked me, but for some reason didn't.
First up, she fantasises about getting fucked by more than one bloke at the same time. We're not talking about 'making love' here. Her fantasy is to get fucked. To be taken. I have a feeling that stems from the fact that one of my fantasies was to watch porn with Ruth as a ... stimulant. I thought she might be appalled at the idea, but she embraced it with gusto. And she did seem to get even more frisky than usual the first time I showed her a gangbang movie.
The second fantasy involved doing it with a black guy. Although, to be honest, I think her fantasy was less to do with skin colour and more to cock size. After all, you know what they say about black men in that department. I think Ruth just wanted to find out if it was true.
And from that ad in the paper, it certainly sounded like it could be true. Twenty-seven inches? Between three men? That's nine inches each! Of course, it could also be two guys with six inches and one with fifteen, but I didn't think that was likely.
"Hey, Ruth!" I called. She was in the kitchen, baking. She baked. It was her way of unwinding at the end of the working week. She baked and I sat on my arse watching the footy for as long as the kids would let me, then ate what she baked. "Come look at this."
She entered the lounge, drying her hands on a towel. "What?"
"This." I held up the paper.
"The small ads? What have you found this time? I've told you before, it's all tat. Name me one thing you've bought out of the paper that was any good."
"No." I tapped the ad. "This."
Her face went on an interesting journey of expressions as she read it.
"What's a BB—Oh, right. I get it. That's disgusting." The look on her face said it was anything but. The look on her face was one of interest hiding behind feigned indifference. Trust me, I could read her like a book. Most of the time. Well, some of the time. Okay, sometimes I could read her like a book and this was definitely one of those times. She was interested, but didn't want to show it.
"Disgusting? Really? This is both your big fantasies rolled into one, isn't it?"
"Dave! Shh!" She slapped my arm and looked around.
"What? Like someone's going to hear." The kids were at the Ruth's parents for the weekend, something they did about once a month. They spent one weekend a month at my parents too. I guess we were lucky to have so much time to ourselves.
"I know, but..." She trailed off and I noticed she was surreptitiously rubbing her thighs together.
"Ruth! You little minx! You're thinking about it right now, aren't you?"
She gave me a sly, embarrassed look.
"You're thinking about fucking three black dudes with nine inch cocks, aren't you?"
"You are, aren't you? You're thinking about one of those big-dicked bastards bending you over and taking you doggie style while another feeds you his cock from the other end. What's the third one doing? Standing to the side watching? Or have you got his cock in your hand?"
A highly aroused moan escaped her lips as she continued to rub her thighs together, much more obviously now.
"You want me to give them a call?"
She closed her eyes and shook her head. It was the least convincing 'no' in the history of everything, ever. "Oh, Dave."
"What time are the kids due back?"
She shrugged. "Three or four hours?"
Our eyes met and the flame of desire inside Ruth's ignited my own simmering lust. I threw the paper onto the sofa next to me and jumped up as she turned to race out of the room. I caught her just as she got to the bed and tackled her onto it.
She might be pushing forty and me just the wrong side of it, but we were a couple of teenagers at heart.
"Fuck me," she whispered in my ear, her voice barely more than a breath lost on the spring breeze coming in through the open window. "Fuck me."
The thing about having sex in a house with kids was that you learn to do it quietly. We lived in a big, modern house with paper thin walls and even though the kids were on the other side of the large landing they'd still be able to hear if either of us got too vocal. Sure, they wouldn't understand what the noises were (probably), but we still didn't want them wandering in to the room to ask.
"Fuck me." Her voice was just a little louder now, but still nothing more than a whisper. "Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh..." And then she went silent. Yes, even our orgasms have to be quiet.
I sped up and thrust through her climax to reach mine on the other side, filling her pussy to overflowing when I got there.
She hugged me tightly to her, rubbing my back and mewing contentedly. "Hmm, that was a good one."
"Yeah," I said, breathlessly. "It was."
"Not bad for a couple of old fogies."
"You're not old."
She huffed. "I will be next month. Forty! Forty! It's all downhill from there you know."
I pushed myself up so I could look down on her. "Maybe. Maybe not. But even when you're twice that age, I'll still love you."
She smiled and craned her neck to peck my lips. "Love you too."
Even though my erection was rapidly waning following my ejaculation, I could feel her squeezing her pussy around me, trying to keep me from going down.
Her smile turned into a playful grin. "Think you can go again?"
"You're joking right? I'm not as young as I used to be."
She giggled. "See, this is why I need more than one man."
"More than one? Or twenty-seven inches of Prime British Beef?" It had been nearly three months since I'd first shown her the advert in the paper but I reminded her about it every so often.
She blushed. Which was all the answer I needed.
On impulse, I'd actually cut out the advert and hidden it away, but I never really thought I'd use it. Now however...
Nah, I'd never use it.
"So, Dave, what you getting the missus for her birthday? It's a big one this year ain't it?"
"How do you know Ruth's birthday is coming up?"
"'Cause it's the first of July. And every July for the past ten years you've whined like a bitch about not knowing what to get her. Plus, well, Sue mentioned it. It is a big one this year, right?"
I nodded. "Forty."
Jack sucked in air through his teeth, a technique I'd never mastered. But then, he fixed the cars and I only sold them. We were best friends—as were our wives— and ours was a joint business venture that had worked well over the years.
"Forty's a tough one. I remember last year when Sue turned forty. You've got to be careful. Can't be something that makes her feel old, but also not something that insults her by treating her like she's still in her twenties or something. I don't envy you this year mate, I really don't."
"Thanks. That's ... that's helpful."
"That's me. Helpful 'til the end." He smirked and walked off to check on one of the cars in the workshop.
The thing was, Jack was right. It was going to be incredibly hard to buy the right gift for Ruth's fortieth birthday. It had to be something special to mark the milestone, but she'd also made it very clear that she wasn't looking forward to hitting said milestone. I got the distinct impression that she felt like her life would suddenly be over when the clock stuck midnight and the date ticked over to Saturday July 27th 2013.
I didn't understand it. I hadn't made this much of a fuss last October.
She had this crazy idea that women in their forties ceased to be attractive. Which is obviously nonsense. Just look at the long, long list of pop stars and actresses who still looked great at that age. Not to mention some of the women we got in the garage looking to get their car fixed or replaced. But Ruth wouldn't have it. Forty was over the hill. Period.
Case in point. This coming weekend we had been invited to a barbeque at her boss' house and last night she'd been looking through her wardrobe for something to wear.
"This is crazy, there's nothing. Nothing at all. I'll have to go shopping one night this week."
"Your wardrobe is already stuffed full."
"Yes, but half of this will have to go to the charity shop. Look at it. I don't know why I bought most of it. It's either for work, which would make me look old and frumpy if I wore it on Saturday, or for someone half my age and everyone would think I was mutton dressed as lamb! Look at it!" She pulled one of the offending garments out and held it up for my inspection. A pale yellow, knee-length summer dress.
"I love that dress on you. It's sexy, but not too sexy."
"Exactly! It's sexy. It's for young sexy women, not old hags like me."
I got up off the bed, where I'd been lying reading a book on my iPad. "Listen, Sweetheart, you're not old and you're not a hag. You're beautiful and smart and sexy as hell. And that dress looks fabulous on you."
"It used to! When I was younger!"
"It still does," I said, as calmly as I could. "It still looks fabulous, because you look fabulous."
She smiled. "Liar," she said softly.
"I'm not lying."
"I know. But just because you believe what you say doesn't make you right. Just because you think I'm sexy, doesn't mean I am. You're supposed to think that way. It's your job as a husband."
"And it's an easy job because you are beautiful and sexy. And if you wear that dress right there then every man at the barbeque will be jealous because you're with me not them."
She looked down at the floor. "I'm too old to be sexy. I'm going to be forty. Forty!"
So there was my problem, how to celebrate the milestone of turning forty in a way that told her she was still sexy and desirable (and not just to me) but didn't patronise her by treating her like someone ten or twenty years younger.
For a split second, my mind went to that advert I'd cut from the newspaper. But only for a split second.
"Ohhh, it's so big! So big. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck. Fuck." She was a little louder than usual, but still not exactly what you'd call loud. The kids were staying with their grandparents for the weekend again and we'd taken the opportunity to get a little more adventurous than usual in the bedroom. Presently I was hammering her from behind with my big cock. My big black cock.
Yep, we were in fantasy mode and I was playing the role of her black stud. I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all. I actually loved fucking her doggie-style, it was one of my favourite positions. I loved to see my cock disappearing into her moist snatch. But we did it that way so rarely these days because it's one thing to tell the kids Mommy and Daddy were just having a cuddle when I'm lying on top of her under the covers (and so they can't see the ins and outs of what's going on), but it would be a bit harder to explain why I'm banging away at her like a bitch and slapping her arse.
Of course, another reason I enjoyed this particular role-play was—
"Are you going to stick your big dick in my arse, you bastard? My husband always wants to fuck me in the arse, but I never let him. Only you. Only you, you big black stud."
Yep, I enjoyed this role-play a lot.
Twenty minutes later, sweaty and exhausted, we lay on the bed in post-coital afterglow. I was on my back and she was on her side next to me with one arm and one leg draped over me as spunk dribbled out of her abused anus.
"You know," she said, "we need to make the most of the next couple of weeks."
"Well, we can't keep doing this after my birthday, can we?"
"Why the hell not?"
"I'll be forty!" she said with a tone that told me I was stupid for not knowing that.
"Oh, come off it," I said. "Turning forty doesn't mean you can't have sex."
"No. But you can't have wild sex the way we just did—even when the kids are out of the house."
"Why not? Don't they say that women truly reach their sexual peak at around the age of forty? You telling me you can't have wild sex when you're at your sexual peak?"
"That's rubbish. That whole sexual peak thing. It's made up by middle-aged women desperate to hold on to their youth instead of growing old gracefully."
"Even though all the studies that say that were done by men?"
"Then it's just middle-aged men trying to get their wives to give it up a bit more and be a bit more adventurous in the bedroom."
We went quiet for a while. She traced her fingernail around one of my nipples and I gently ran a finger up and down her spine.
"You really get off on this whole black-cock fantasy, don't you?"
She shrugged. "You never complain."
"No, I'm not complaining. Just ... I mean ... Would you ever consider it? For real I mean?"
"Because of the race thing?"
"No! Because I'm with you."
"But if you weren't with me. Or ... I don't know ... If I gave you permission or something? No comebacks. No recriminations."
It was a few very long seconds before she answered. "I don't know. Probably. Maybe. No. No, I couldn't do that to you."
"What about the other big fantasy of yours? The more-than-one thing?"
She shrugged again. "Would you be there? Would you be one of them?"
"If you wanted me to."
Her eyes said yes but her mouth said, "No. No I couldn't."
We went quiet again. It was just after nine and had only just gotten dark outside. We'd been at the barbeque until almost eight and yes, Ruth had worn the yellow summer dress that she'd been adamant she couldn't wear and yes, she had got a lot of admiring glances from the men there. Men of all ages. Including a couple of thickly built black guys that were serving the drinks and canapés. That was probably the reason we'd raced home as soon as it was polite to reasonably do so and spent the rest of the evening acting out Ruth's black-cock fantasy.
"If I tell you something, will you promise not to say anything to anyone?"
She nodded. Then a few seconds later said, "Sue's done it with a black guy."
"What? Sue? Jack's Sue? Jesus? Does he know? Is that why you made me promise—"
"Shh. Dave, shush." She held a finger to my lips. "Jack knows. In fact, Sue said that Jack set it up for her."
"What? Why... ? How come he never told me that?"
"Have you ever told him about any of the things we do?"
"Fair point. But ... I mean ... How come she told you? Is this a 'girls tell each other everything' thing?"
"No, nothing like that. She only told me the other week and she did it ages ago. We were talking about birthdays. My birthday. And she admitted that for her fortieth Jack arranged for the two of them to meet up with this black guy through some website or other and they spent the afternoon and evening fucking the living daylights out of her."
"She even showed me pictures. I hope her phone never gets stolen because if it does there'll be photos of her sucking and getting fucked by a big black cock all over the internet. And I do mean big. The damn thing was huge. I surprised it was able to fit. In her mouth or in her—"
She shrugged again. "Just telling you what I saw. Anyway, it's one thing for me to say I would go ahead and fuck someone else, but what about you? Do you think you could cope with me fucking another man? A black man? A black man with a huge cock? How would you feel seeing me split in two by nine inches of fuck-stick?"
She smiled coyly, snaked a hand down my body and wrapped her fingers around my fuck-stick which, remarkably given our earlier activities, had begun to re-harden.
"Hmm, feels like someone's excited. You know, I don't think I'm the only one who likes the idea of me getting fucked by a big black cock." She lifted her head from my chest and moved lower, ready to take me in her mouth. "Think you've got another one in you? For me? You big black stud, you."
"Jack, what did you end up getting Sue for her fortieth?" It was lunchtime on Monday, still three weeks out from Ruth's birthday.
"Oh, you know. The usual?"
"What? Flowers? Chocolates? Jewellery?"
"Yeah, you know. The usual."
"Really?" I couldn't hide the disbelief in my voice. Why wasn't he being honest with me? But then, would I have told him what I was planning if I didn't already know he'd done the same? Well, kind of the same.
Yes, you heard that right. I was planning to get Ruth the Ultimate Fantasy. At least, I was veering strongly in that direction. I just needed Jack to confirm something for me before I took the plunge.
Thing is, Ruth was right in what she'd said, even the idea of watching her getting it on with some big black dude was ... arousing. And three big black dudes? Oh, hell yeah! I know, I know. She's my wife, right? I should cherish and adore her. And I do. Honestly, I do. She's the most precious thing in the world to me. Her and the kids.
So how can the idea of watching her fuck three big-cocked black guys be arousing? Shouldn't I be protecting her from that? Shouldn't I be fiercely defending my claim over her?
Look, it's like this. Bottom line, I'm a bloke. And like any bloke, I find watching a hot chick getting fucked to be ... well ... hot. Right? And Ruth is one hot chick, despite what she might say about her age. So, yeah, the idea of watching her fuck is hot as hell to me. As for protecting her or defending my claim over her, I'd be the one setting this up, wouldn't I? I'd be the one making the rules. They could fuck her, but under my terms. And those terms would be that they don't hurt her but instead give her the absolute maximum pleasure possible. They would make her feel desirable again. And that could only benefit me in the end, right? Well, her too, obviously.
"Really, Jack? Flowers, chocolate and Jewellery? 'Cause, that's not what Sue told Ruth."
"What?" The look on his face was priceless. "Whatever she said—"
"Relax, Jack. I'm not going to judge. Hell, I'm the last person who should judge with what I've got in mind; just tell me the truth, okay? Did you arrange a threesome with you, Sue and some black dude?"
He nodded, looking terribly embarrassed.
"And how was it?"
"I know Sue enjoyed it 'cause she raved about it to Ruth, but how did you feel? Were you okay with it?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I guess."
"You guess? Did it feel weird at all?"
"Well, yeah. It did. A bit. At first. But once we got into the swing of things, so to speak..." He chuckled. "Swing of things. Good one. But seriously, you thinking of doing the same for Ruth?"
"Yeah. Kind of."
"Okay. Cool. But listen, be careful okay. Make sure you check out the guy first. Make sure he knows the boundaries and won't cross them. And make sure you're really okay with it in your own mind first. And as long as you are ... Man, there'll be no looking back. I swear, it'll change your life. And for the better."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"What do you mean, what do I mean? She's a middle-aged woman, man. In her sexual prime. You light this fire under her it ain't going to go out any time soon. And you better be prepared, 'cause an old geezer like you, you'll never keep up with her. I know I can't. Still, I don't need to, do I?"
"So you two still... ?" I raised my eyebrows.
He grinned. "Yeah. Once or twice a month. At least. Depends on if we can pack the kids off to the grandparents more often or not. But yeah, man. Sue loves the attention and I reap the benefits for the rest of the time. It's win/win."
The next day, I dug out the advert from its hiding place before I left for work and when the showroom was free of customers I took my mid-morning break, telling the two salesmen that worked for me I was off to the bank to run an errand, and then I made the call.
"Hello, PBB Catering."
"Catering? Oh, sorry, I think I might have the wrong number."
"That depends. You looking for some Prime British Beef?" The voice was rich with bass.
"Er ... yeah. About twenty-seven inches of it."
"All twenty-seven, right? Okay. Cool. You married?"
"So ... you're looking to have your wife catered for?"
"Er ... Wife. Catered for? Er ... yeah. That's it."
"Special occasion? Birthday? Anniversary?"
"B ... Birthday. Fortieth."
"Yeah. That's a popular one. It's the age thing. Over the hill. I guess we help ... er ... boost her self-confidence. Know what I mean?"
"Yes. Yes, exactly."
"Okay. Cool. Now, you understand the nature of the service we offer, right? The kind of catering we are able to supply?"
"Yes. Yes, I think so."
"You think so? Hmm. Look, Mister ... er?"
"Mr Cartwright. We don't take on a client until we are happy that they fully understand what they are getting themselves into. It can be ... awkward ... if they don't. Tell you what, how about you and I meet and discuss this face to face?"
"Okay. I can do that. When were you thinking?"
"As soon as is convenient for you."
"How about this lunchtime? Say, one o'clock?"
"I can do that. You know The Mariner on the sea front?"
"Yeah. Student pub, isn't it? Won't we look a little out of place?"
"You never hear of mature students? Trust me, it's just the kind of place to discuss this sort of thing. They have some booths in one corner where on-one will overhear."
"Okay. Sounds good."
"Excellent. I'll meet you there. And, er, you're buying lunch, right?"
"Yes, yes of course."
"Good. See you at one."
I didn't head into the centre of Westmouth very often. I didn't really need to. Ruth went with Sue a couple of times a month to go shopping, but, frankly, I'd rather spend my time playing golf. I guess when I did go it was for a meal or to go to the theatre—which wasn't very often at all.
Still, I remembered The Mariner from my student days. It sold cheap watered down beer, cheap tasteless food and played cheap, loud music—at least, it did on Friday and Saturday nights, which were the only times I'd been there as a student.
My contact, whose name I'd never asked, had mentioned booths in one corner. I didn't remember any booths from my time as a student, but I'm sure the place had been refitted once or twice in the intervening twenty years or so. Fortunately, it was obvious what he was talking about as soon as I walked in. I guess it helped that in one of the three booths in the far corner of the room was a large black man. The same large black man that had been serving at the barbeque on Saturday.
I strode over to the booth as confidently as I could muster and said to the guy, "Er ... PBB Catering?"
He grinned. "Cartwright?"
"Excellent. The name's Parker." He held out a hand for me to shake. It dwarfed mine. "Take a seat. I took the liberty of ordering us a couple of steaks for lunch. You cool with that?"
"Prime British Beef, I assume."
"From this place? I doubt it. Probably some cheap foreign shit. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if it's horse meat."
"You know the place well."
"Doesn't everyone around here? It's famous."
"You mean infamous."
"Yeah, that too." He slapped his hand on the table. "So, thanks for coming to meet me. We, er ... We used to do this, you know, make arrangements, over the phone, but not anymore."
"Oh, really? Why not."
"Like I said earlier, I like to make sure that our clients understand what's the deal, you know. Plus, well, we get a lot of hoax calls. Or guys who want to make arrangements then back out at the last minute, you know? That's one reason we ask for a deposit. You're cool with a deposit, right."
"Sure. I'd expect the same from someone buying a car from me."
"You're a car salesman? Cool. I might be in the market soon. My old Ford is on its last legs. So, cards on the table Mr Cartwright—"
"Dave. You're cool with that?"
"Hey, if this turns out the way I plan, I'll be paying you to fuck my wife, I should think that puts us on first name terms."
He grinned. "Well, that answers the first question."
"Just how far do you want us to go in ... er... catering for you wife."
I raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Look, like I said, we get guys who like the idea of what we offer but can't handle the reality. And the closer that reality gets, the more they tone down their ... er ... requirements? Know what I mean?"
"Basically, guys think they want to see us pound the fuck out of their sweetheart, but fantasy is one thing and, honestly, they shit themselves when they find out we weren't kidding about the twenty-seven inches."
"Are you trying to shock me?"
He grinned. "Is it working?"
"Cool. So, you're sure you want to go through with it?"
I bit my lip. Then nodded. "Yes. I do."
"Good. So, how exactly do you want to play this? I mean, we can just turn up and fuck her or we can do something more elaborate."
"Well, you said it's her birthday, right? Fortieth?"
"Well, how about one of our special romantic dinners."
"Romantic dinner? I want you give her a good seeing to not take her out on a date."
"No, man. The romantic dinner is for you and your wife. Look, the whole PBB Catering thing, it's not just a front for answering the phone. We really are caterers. My brother, Brad, is a qualified chef. In fact, he's the day chef right here. Hey, here he comes now."
A guy who was equally as big and equally as black as Parker came towards us carrying two plates of steak and chips.
"Hey, Brad, this here is Dave. He's looking into hiring PBB."
"Really? Cool. Nice to meet you." He held out his huge hand for me to shake. "Are you looking for a simple buffet, or something... else?" He raised his eyebrows.
I looked at Parker. "You guys really do ordinary catering as well?"
Both Parker and Brad nodded.
"So, that's what you were doing at the Evans' barbeque on Saturday? Normal catering?"
"I thought I recognised you." Parker smiled. "Yeah, we were there catering. The PBB stands for Parker, Brad and Bobby—our cousin and the other nine inches—as well as Prime British Beef. Mr and Mrs Evans are regular customers and Brad does do excellent food."
I raised my eyebrow. "And that's all. Just catering? Nothing ... Extra?" I couldn't imagine Linda Evans getting serviced by three black guys, but I guess you never can tell.
Parker's grin widened just a touch. "Look, you wouldn't want me talking about anything we do with your wife, now would you? So you'll forgive me for showing a little ... er ... Professional discretion in regard to our other clients—whoever they may or may not be. But I will say that this is a lot more popular than you'd imagine and business is good. Know what I mean? So, your wife? She that hot piece in the yellow dress you were with?"
I nodded. Brad snapped his fingers together and grinned. "Man, that's hot. What did I tell you, Bro? I told you she looked like a bird who'd go for some BBC."
Parker smiled, then continued, "So, here's the deal, Brad cooks you a full-on, romantic meal and then the three of us—that's me, Brad and Bobby, serve it up in your home. We're talking champagne, candles, the whole kit and caboodle, right? And afterwards, everyone gets naked and your wife gets fucked. You'll be getting naked too right? I mean, a lot of guys want to join in, but some just want to watch. We're cool, though, whatever, man."
"I ... I haven't made my mind up yet," I admitted.
"That's cool. That's cool. Now, let's talk money. Usually, I'd ask to see a photo or two of the girl in question, but in this case, I really don't need to. Look, I don't usually admit this, but I typically charge based on the attractiveness of the subject. I mean, in this line of work you can be asked to get it up for some ... shall we say, women of dubious femininity. And let me tell you, that ain't easy. But, dude, I'd fuck you're wife for free. She's smoking."
"If only she felt the same way about herself."
"Which is where we come in, right? Trust me, after this she'll be in no doubt. So, given you're serving up a hottie, how about I charge you for the dinner but throw in the extras for free?"
"Sounds like a bargain."
"For you and me both."
"Damn straight!" said Brad.
"Now, let's check we're not booked up, shall we. What date have you got in mind?"
He took an iPad out of the bag on the chair next to him and checked his calendar. He and his brother and cousin were free on the twenty-seventh, and with butterflies in my stomach, I booked the date and wrote him a cheque for one hundred pounds as a deposit.
This was it. All set. My present to my wife for her fortieth birthday? I was going to fulfil her fantasies.