Written by Julian

28 Mar 2009

I made sure I was at the tube station a little earlier that night. I needed a chance to talk to the black guys. There was a tall broad young one in a Rasta hat who seemed to be one of their leaders. If I could attract his attention then I would get the whole lot of them in on the act. To be honest I was terrified and excited at the same time. My hands were shaking as I left the house. I was still wearing a suit because I had been to see an estate agent about getting a better flat in Hampstead. I just hadn’t got around to changing because I couldn’t concentrate and had to keep going to the bathroom. I wanked several times and after each time, I felt shame and humiliation and wanted to call Helen up at the hospital.

There were no mobile phones then and it would probably have been awkward. I knew that even if I didn’t speak to the gang of black guys, the way my young blonde wife was going to look tonight was going to push their lust to the limit. She had even put more depilating cream on her pussy to make sure there was no sign of hair. She had fine hair and cream was all she needed to make sure her entire body was smooth as silk. I watched her pull fully-fashioned black silk seamed stockings over her long slim legs and fasten them to the satin ribboned buttons of her suspender belt.

She looked stunning. Her body was doused generously with Chanel Number Five perfume. Her lingerie was so exquisite, lacy and of such heavy satin, she rustled when she walked.

She took much trouble over her make up and said she would touch it up before she left the hospital. She took an extra bright red lipstick in her handbag to replace the more modest shade she was wearing. Her make up made her skin look quite pale, but with a hint of blusher. She put kohl around her eyes and black mascara accentuated her lovely long eyelashes.

With her silky long blonde hair all done up in a French Pleat, five inch black patent leather high heels, gold costume jewellery earrings, tampons and pantie pads packed in her shoulder bag, she looked very demure in her well fitting staff nurses dress and mac. I studied the buttons that went all the way down the front and my little prick bulged at the thought of what the nasty black men were going to see when they undid those buttons, with her backed up helplessly against a wall. I looked at the little white puffy cuffs at the end of the dress’s short sleeves. Helen’s arms looked helplessly thin, just like her long slender legs.

She realised I was appraising her and smiled nervously. As I held and kissed her goodbye, both of our bodies were trembling. We were under the influence of a force that we could not control. I feared that we would both regret it. But it was going to happen. I was sure of that.

On my way down the hill to the tube station, I took extra time to check out the path that led left off the hill, past railings and toward a little council owned red bricked hut. There was a scruffy yard with lots of rubbish and old tools lying around. Local yobs and hobos obviously used it for drinking. There were empty bottles everywhere. They were probably the ones who had broken the handles of some shovels and pick axes. There was also an axe lying by the burnt out embers of a campfire. I guessed the homeless and drug users met here sometimes and chopped the old tool handles to make a fire.

Anyway, all was quiet here and it was getting late. I hurried on down the hill to talk to the black guys. My heart was racing. There were about twenty of them milling about on the pavement, seemingly oblivious to my approach. The old guy with the broom was lounging by the station wall, smoking a cigarette and talking to an old white man who looked like a tramp and stank of alcohol.

I wondered what on earth I was going to say to the black guys. I was going to humiliate myself. I tried to plan my words, but knew that if I did, then nothing would come out. While I was thinking this, the tall broad young black saw me coming. ‘Hey man looks at the newt in a suit! Hey honky how you doin, where that pretty woman of yours. You givin’ her good luvvin man, good fuckin yeah, she look like she need it.’ The other guys, most of them taller than me and brightly clothed, all looked and laughed at me.

‘Wassup man, what you want, you want us fuck your bitch for you, split her pussy?’ He looked down at me, sneering, along with his friends. I couldn’t speak. The word yes was struggling to come out, but the word why was getting in its way. They were fighting it out in my brain. If I could understand why, it would have been easier to say yes. But I decided I would never know why, but I had to say yes. ‘Yes’ I whispered, avoiding their big brown mocking eyes and hoping that their loud laughter and lewd remarks would not attract attention from people straggling in and out of the station forecourt.

‘You serious man?’ The leader asked. The others were now listening to us talking intently. The old black guy and old white man were also moving closer and listening.

The old black guy was leaning on his broom. It wasn’t clear why he had the broom. He looked too scruffy for the underground staff, but he was often sweeping the road out front. Maybe he had an obsession or something to do.

‘We split her pussy real bad, maybe we hurt her a lot. You still wanus to fuck it?’ ‘Yes’ I whispered again. The old men stared at each other in disbelief. I still couldn’t look at the black guys I was talking to. I knew I should have been ashamed of myself I wondered what the old men thought of this, I got the answer when I noticed they were rubbing themselves through their grubby trousers. ‘We do what we like man, yeah?’ ‘Yes’, I whispered again. ‘An’ you ain’t gonna call no cops or anyfing, or try an stop us?’ Now my brain chose the word ‘No’. ‘There’s twenty of us man, you know we will all have her pussy and her titties, maybe her butte.’ I heard the old black man mumble ‘twenty two’.

I felt fear and disgust and wanted to run into the station and tell her not to come out. I turned to look at the people who were coming up the escalator. There were a lot, a train had come in. It would be her train. My heart was beating against my rib cage. The crowd emptied out of the station. There was no Elizabeth yet. Maybe she had missed it, but then I realised she would be taking a few moments in the tunnels after the crowd had cleared. She would be putting on her nurses prim little cap, her five inch heels and her touching up her make up and perfume. A few minutes later, I realised that I was right. There she was click clacking across the station forecourt, the red ribbons of her navy blue red lined nurses cape crossed over her chest, her prim little white cap crowning her strikingly blonde French Pleat, her long black silk seamed stocking covered legs and little feet taking very short lady like steps in her very high heels, smart leather shoulder bag over her right fragile looking shoulder, wedding and engagement rings on view and gold earrings twinkling.

The gang of blacks and two old men had stopped talking as my very pretty little young wife walked elegantly towards us. As she walked, her dress clung to and marked out the desirable valley between her slim thighs. Her jutting breasts were accentuated by the tension of the capes cross over ribbons. As she got closer, we could smell her very expensive perfume and hear the rustle of her very expensive lingerie and silk stockings under her staff nurse’s prim and proper dress. The glare of station lighting showed off the sheen of her black silk stockings, hinting at the vulnerability of what was between them at the top.

At least she had a coil fitted. Her pretty aristocratic high cheek boned pale powdered face wore a little more blusher than this morning. But then I realised that she was actually blushing when, head bowed, she came to me, then said hello in her soft girlie posh voice and the men closed in around us. The leader immediately gripping her neat little bottom with a big black hand and squeezing very hard, making her gasp...