My husband is such a slut.
He's pretending not to know this, though. It's been a week or so since my husband, John, was spitroasted in the park across the street from our home, bent over a picnic table slobbering on my cock while our straight neighbor, Jason, creampied John's hot, hairy bubble butt.
John and I are a hot couple and we have great sex together. But due to some internalized homophobia I blame on his Catholic upbringing, he could be getting gangbanged in a sling and still call himself a strict top. I know he has fantasies that make his dick rock hard, but his brain gets in the way, telling him to be ashamed of these desires.
So I lied to my husband. I gave him a plain gummy bear and told him it was a special edible that would essentially hypnotize him. It was an innocent, white lie, that let him fully embrace his true self.
But then he lied to me, too. He claimed not to remember any of it, which I know to be impossible. But he doesn't know that I lied to him. And he doesn't know I know he lied to me.
Not that I'm complaining. He's been far more relaxed with sex since then, even though he's gone back to playing the top. But he's been much more enthusiastic with fucking my face, eating my ass, and railing my hole with his beautiful dick.
Oh, but there is one way I've punished him for lying to me about remembering what happened in the park. I haven't ever told him what happened. At least not everything. I had pressed him on this the following morning a bit and he doubled-down on not remembering anything.
"It must be that gummy you gave me," he said, blushing slightly, as we drank coffee the next Saturday morning.
"I guess. Did you have any dreams this week, like your subconscious remembering what happened?" I asked.
"No. I slept really well that night, though. And you must have fucked me harder than you ever have before because my hole still felt a bit loose and used for several days."
So this is how he's going to play it? I had to work hard to stifle a grin.
"Yeah. I got a bit carried away. Your ass is just so hot and you don't let me fuck you that often."
"Maybe we should change that," he said. "I kind of like the way I feel this morning. That gummy must have awakened my inner bottom, and I think it's good for me to let go a bit. And as long as you don't take one at the same time, I feel safe putting myself in your hands."
"So, you want me to give you a special gummy bear anytime I want you to bottom for me?" I asked.
"Well, not anytime you want, necessarily," he replied, his eyes glancing downward, "but if I'm in the mood to bottom and I have one of those gummies..." and he trailed off. He does this all the time. But if he wanted to keep this ruse going to get his slutty kicks, he was going to have to say it out loud.
"What? You have a gummy and what?"
He looked me straight in the eyes. "If I have one of those gummies, I'm placing my trust in you to do with my body as you see fit."
John just giggled in his coffee as my eyebrows -- and dick -- sprang sky-high.
That very evening started our next adventure. John asked for a gummy and that we shower together. We have the perfect shower for sex and we took our time making out, sucking each other off, and eating each other's asses. It was getting pretty late by the time we finished. I had almost forgotten about the gummy, but as I was doing a bit of post-shower primping, John came strolling back into the bathroom in a black Nasty Pig jockstrap.
"What now, Sir?" he asked. I guess this Sir business was part of his gummy fantasy. I honestly couldn't tell whether this was all a joke or he was still pretending this was real. The line was getting blurry.
"It's time for some fun," I said, and led him into the bedroom. I kissed him while pushing him back toward our bed until he laid down and scooted backward. Since he was wearing the jockstrap to go with it, I decided it was time to make him a true nasty pig. I went and got the bin I keep in our closet, with all of the gear I've amassed with a lifetime of gay sex.
First, I found the hood. Neither one of us had seen it in a while -- it was pretty hardcore for our usual escapades. It was basically a tight cap that went over John's entire head except for his nostrils and mouth, with extra padding in the eye and ear area. Like a cheap sensory depravation cap. Who knows if it works all that well -- we'd used it once a decade earlier -- but if John was going to pretend this gummy is what made him a slut, then he can pretend not to see or hear anything, too.
All I could really see of him at this point was a sort of smirk in the opening at the bottom of the hood. Oh, and his beautiful, rock hard cock straining the pouch of that jockstrap.
Then I got out the cuffs, put one on each of John's wrists, clipped the cuffs to the straps, and then secured those on the corners of our headboard. Then I placed the other two cuffs on each of John's ankles and secured those straps to the feet under the end of our bed. He was tied spread eagle on our bed.
He looked like such a slut.
I spent the next half hour or so just exploring his body. Sucking and biting his nipples, making out with him, rubbing his cock through the pouch of the jockstrap, but not enough to give him any kind of relief. He was writhing in ecstasy.
My own dick was pulsing with excitement, so I crawled up John's hot body, straddled his face, and slid my cock in his mouth. He moaned loudly, just like he had that night bent over the picnic table taking our neighbor's dick. It only egged me on.
"Take my dick, slut," I sneered as I fucked his face, the gurgling and gagging echoing through our bedroom.
I was getting too close and didn't want this to end. I pulled out, both of our breath heavy, with spit running down the corners of his puffy, red lips.
"Let's work on that ass now," I said, and climbed down off the bed. I unclipped his ankle cuffs and proceeded to re-clip his cuffed ankles to his respective wrists, taking advantage of the extreme flexibility John had developed as a result of his beloved hot yoga classes.
