It was a warm Potchefstroom evening, the kind where the High-veld air hangs thick with promise, when my phone buzzed with a message from an unfamiliar profile from an old Swinging profile account— one I'd half-forgotten about, after six years of chasing thrills across profiles on the dusty North West roads. "Hello, Bull," it read in that lifting Afrikaans script, "Ek en my man soek 'n avontuur. Jy lyk... perfek." Her name was Linda, 39, with sun-kissed curves from life on the outskirts of town, and her husband, Paul, 58, a stoic engineer with salt-and-pepper hair and a quiet hunger in his eyes. They'd been dipping into the lifestyle for a year—soft swaps, light teasing—but this? Their first BBC bull. Me, Sean, from just down the road in Klerksdorp. The thought sent a familiar heat coiling low in my gut.

We chatted for weeks, her messages flirty and breathless: tales of Pauls gentle touches which never quite scratching her itch for something raw, something commanding. "Hy wil kyk," she'd confess, "wil sien hoe jy my neem." Paul chimed in once, his words clipped: "Sy verdien dit. Maak haar joune." I painted pictures in reply—my thick, veined length stretching her limits, my deep voice growling commands as he watched from the shadows. By the time we had set the date, two months in, the air between us crackled like thunder over the platinum mines.

Their Potchefstroom farmhouse glowed under the stars when I pulled up in my slick black Audi, a short drive from Klerksdorp. Dressed sharp in a fitted shirt that hugged my broad shoulders and dark skin. Linda answered the door in a sheer white sundress, no bra, her full breasts straining the fabric, nipples already pebbled. Her green eyes widened at the sight of me—6'2" of solid muscle, my bulge evident even through chinos. "Goeienaand, Sean," she whispered, voice husky with nerves and want. Paul hovered behind her, a tumbler of Klipdrift in hand, his face flushed but his gaze steady. "Kom in," he said, stepping aside like a gatekeeper yielding his kingdom.

We started slow in their lounge, jazz humming low from a speaker, a bottle of Chenin Blanc passed between us. Linda perched on the edge of the leather couch, her thigh brushing mine, while Paul settled in an armchair across the room—Close enough to see every detail, far enough to feel the burn. I traced a finger along her collarbone, feeling her shiver. "Tell me what you need, Liefie," I murmured, my accent a low rumble against her ear. She bit her lip, Afrikaans spilling out in a rush: "Ek wil jou voel... diep. Maak my vergeet alles." Paul nodded, his free hand adjusting himself discreetly.

I pulled her onto my lap, her dress hiking up to reveal lace panties already soaked. My hands roamed—cupping her heavy breasts, thumbs circling those tight peaks until she arched with a gasp. "Good girl," I praised, nipping her neck as I ground my hardness against her core. She moaned, grinding back, her fingers fumbling with my belt. Paul's breathing grew ragged; I caught his eye, smirking. "Watch how a real man claims her, ouens." With a swift motion, I lifted her, carrying her to their king-sized bed like she weighed nothing—Paul trailing, drink forgotten.

Naked now, her pale skin glowed against the sheets, freckles dusting her shoulders like stars. I stripped slow, letting them drink me in: the V of my hips, the tribal ink snaking down my abs, and finally, my cock—thick as her wrist, nine inches of dark, pulsing promise, already leaking for her. Linda's eyes went wide, a whimper escaping as she reached out. "So groot..." Paul sank into a chair by the bed, his pants tented, face a mask of awe and ache.

I started with my mouth, spreading her thighs wide—her Afrikaans curses turning to pleas as my tongue delved into her slick folds, lapping at her swollen clit like it was the sweetest rooibos. She bucked, fingers twisting in my locs, her first orgasm crashing fast and fierce, juices coating my chin. "Fuck, yes—neem my!" I rose then, positioning myself at her entrance, rubbing that fat head along her slit. "Beg for it," I commanded, glancing at Paul. He swallowed hard, voice breaking: "Gee dit vir haar... asseblief."

One thrust, and I sank halfway in—her walls clenching like a vice, hot and velvet around me. She cried out, nails raking my back, but her hips lifted greedily. "More," she gasped. I obliged, burying deep in a slow, deliberate plunge until my balls pressed against her ass. Full. Stretched. Owned. I set a rhythm—hard snaps of my hips that made the headboard thump, her tits bouncing wildly. "Look at your wife, Paul," I growled over her moans. "Taking every inch like she was made for BBC." He was stroking himself now, slow and mesmerized, pre-cum glistening on his knuckles.

Linda unraveled twice more—once riding me reverse, her ass cheeks rippling with each bounce, facing Paul so he could see my shaft disappear into her; then on all fours, me pounding from behind, one hand fisting her blonde waves, the other rubbing her clit. "Cum vir my, Bull—vul my!" she begged, her accent thickening with lust. I flipped her onto her back for the finish, hooking her legs over my shoulders, drilling deep and relentless. Her third climax milked me—walls fluttering, eyes rolling back—and I followed, roaring as I flooded her, thick ropes painting her insides white, spilling out around my girth.

We collapsed in a tangle, her head on my chest, Paul joining to kiss her sweat-slick brow. "Dankie, Paul," he murmured, hand gentle on her thigh—marked with my fingerprints. Linda smiled lazily, tracing my softening length. "Ons moet weer... gou." I chuckled, pulling them close. In the afterglow, with the Potchefstroom lights twinkling outside, I knew this was just the spark. Six years in, and nights like this? They never got old.