Black Bull 08: First Date - Sex Stories

Black Bull 08: First Date

... groups of couples sitting, al fresco, braving the gusts, a large throng of Chinese tourists blocking everyone's path as they pointed and excitedly snapped pictures of the Towers (of London *and* Bridge), the guide with the umbrella held up apologising profusely to angry locals as they tried to get by.

We'd agreed to have the first 'date' with Samuel tonight, meeting at his place at half five. 'Bulling' clearly paid the bills, the man's address a swanky upper floor penthouse on the south bank of the Thames.

We'd stopped for a drink along the way at one of the generic bars along the riverfront, to calm both our nerves. Claire, in particular, was on edge.

I'd tried to reassure my wife - "You look *amazing*!", I'd said, completely honestly. She was wearing her favourite little black dress, deciding to pair it with the white lingerie, though she'd ditched the stockings.

We weaved our way down through a narrow side street, dipping away from the main throroughfare, away from the tourists coming down from the bridge. We reached the front entrance of the building, the smartly dressed young doorman doffing his stovepipe hat as he held the door for us.

The lobby was a large, bright rectangle, a touch sterile, like a posh opticians, a reception sat against the back wall, a bank of elevators to the left of it. There were no buttons, two-way phones or the like anywhere to be seen.

"I guess we just have to ask the concierge?"

We walked to the front desk, a perfectly ...

... turned out young woman sat behind it, typing at a ferocious pace, staring intently at a screen and occasionally pushing her thick black glasses back up her thin nose. She didn't look up even as we stood directly in front of her.

"Excuse me!" said Claire, curtly.

The redhead looked up from her screen, still hammering away at the keys.

"Hello!" she said, a fixed smile on her pretty freckled face, "How can I help you today?"

I have to admit, I'm a complete sucker for that soft, lilting southern Irish accent.

"We're here to see Mr Akinyemi," replied Claire, her tone forceful, businesslike.

The receptionist's expression changed, the robotic smile replaced by something more knowing, an eyebrow arching up. She stopped typing, finally giving up on her magnum opus.

"I'll let him know you're here. Please, take a seat."

She gestured over to a table in the corner, four large seventies-looking chairs surrounding it, all weird colours and horrible angles. We went over and sat, awkwardly.

I picked up a massively out of date issue of 'Men's Health', aimlessly flicking through the pages promising '6-pack abs with no crunches!' and how to 'Effortlessly pick up any woman you want - a guide for introverts'. My wife fidgeted with her phone.

A sudden 'ding' announced the opening of one set of elevator doors, both of us immediately looking up, like meerkats, from our minor distractions to see Samuel purposefully striding across the lobby to meet us.

He was dressed ...