Red Dragon

Hey all, thanks to my readers that entertained my recent vanilla stories. Here's a hot one. Hope you like butt stuff.

I sure as hell do.

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It wasn't supposed to be like this. I don't know what I was expecting, something else certainly. I thought I'd be okay. But gut punched, on the verge of throwing up and crying at the same time... and goddamnit my hips are cramping from being spread eagle for so long. And I can't do anything without ruining everything for her... I can only watch them. I'm a spectator. And I agreed to this.

Red Dragon, our safe word, hangs upon my tongue.

I should explain.

Trista and I have been together for about nine months. Well... we've been over the moon in love for years. Things we couldn't say hung in the air between us, meanwhile we communicated our deepest, most dangerous feelings through music.

I said I was fine when she fucked him, her ex (he wasn't her ex at the time). We were just friends after all, and her sexual activity was well beyond my scope of influence. I wanted to know everything, things I had no right to. I felt the intimacy between us grow when she shared. But at the same time, emotions crashed against my chest, threatened to drown me as I sat in my cage untouched for years and yearning to lay beside her, feel her heat, hear her breathe... all sensation he could enjoy next to her every night. Sensations he appreciated only for himself - not for her sake, never for her. But through all those stomach clenching moments, my cold keyboard and the hot sex energy lighting our screens was at least a link between us.

And then it finally happened: We escaped.

Nine months later, we had a small farmhouse together complete with a crafting barn, and our lives finally began.

I cannot explain the strange magic that pervaded our domestic existence. Both of us tiptoed around each other, cautious of the actions that would have once earned us scolding or ire or been perceived as an offense. It took us a while to unlearn, to process our traumas, to trust we were different together than the relationships that preceded "us", and we _were_ different. Better. We flowed around each other, through each other. If there were rocks, and swished around them until we were rippling together once more.

And the fucking. Oh my god, the fucking.

I have not had many partners before Trista. Only three, to be precise. I was shy, and selective. My selectivity was maybe a conservative lesbian catholic thing - oh yes, that's a real thing, and yes I spent my best years deeply ashamed of my sexuality.

If Trista wants something, though, she goes out and gets it. Sex was and is something she could have almost for the asking, and she didn't have the same emotional disabilities that I had. I would grow nauseated thinking about sex with a person I wasn't at least crushing on who I knew wanted me in return. Trista owned her sexuality. Preferences, yes, but few hang-ups. She was everything I wanted and nothing I could be. And if I'm being honest, her sexuality is only one dimension of a deeply fascinating, capable, and complex person. But this is a story about sex.

Did we _need_ to have sex outside our relationship? No. Probably not. And for a very long time, we had zero desire for anything else. But our post-coital lay-around conversations were sometimes around fantasies, and the theme of "trying a man together" was something I expressed more and more frequently. And then Trista suggested I try it for real.

My heart leapt at the idea before my stomach bottomed out. Did I want that? Was it really something I'd prefer just to talk about? Maybe I should leave it in the realm of fantasy. After all, there were plenty of twisted things I fantasized about that I'm not sure I would ever try. But Trista had not steered me wrong before. I had been strictly the dominant partner before Trista, but she taught me things about submission I could never have without complete, uncompromising trust. And she promised she would be there for me, ensuring that everything went smoothly, that together we were safer.

I waffled for weeks. Until she told me how much she wanted to witness my discovery of cock.

Okay. Yes. If she promised to run the show, and the guy in question promised to follow her orders to the letter... I would give anything she asked of me.

Months past. To the point that I had almost forgotten. HA! As if. But I was sure _she_ had forgotten. And I was nervous enough that I didn't bring it up during our post-fuck fantasy discussions.

It was a Thursday, yesterday in fact. I was walking out the door for the office where I worked three days a week. She was sitting at her workstation in the kitchen, already clocked-in, and I called, "Love you, babe!"

Without looking away from her screen, Trista said, "You need to take the day off tomorrow."

I paused, halfway out the door. "What's that?"

"You're going to be busy tomorrow."

"I am," I said. "I have meetings all day."

"You can cancel now, or you can call in sick," she said. "You're not going to work tomorrow, but you _will_ be a very, very busy girl."

My mouth went dry. "Busy..."

"We're going to have company."

"Who?"

"Don't worry about that."

My pulse quickened, my face flushed. "What... kind of company?"

"The kind with a cock. Now get out of here. I need you home on time tonight. We have some shopping to do."

All day, I don't think my panties had time to dry once. A meeting ended? My cunt was drooling again. But at the same time, this sick feeling distracted me. Did I want this? Was it okay? I didn't think I'd ever have sex with another person but Trista. I figured _she_ would. Trista seemed to need the occasional strange, a world of pussies to sample, and it was hard to demand she settle for just one. And I felt guilty even thinking of strange. But so far, it had just been us, and this thing she had arranged for us was different than a strange pussy. For starters, it wasn't a girl. I thought for sure it would be a girl. Would I get jealous if she was with a girl? Would I get jealous if she was with a guy? I didn't want to think about it.

Tomorrow, though, it wouldn't be her with a guy. It would be me. Or would it be her, too? Or just her...

I wanted to throw up in the trash can, and I couldn't eat all afternoon.

When I got home and walked in, Trista had her shoes on, her sunglasses at the ready. On the kitchen table... oh shit. On the kitchen was a bottle of lube and a jeweled butt plug.

"We're going shopping," she said. "We need supplies."

"You uh... bringing a reference?"

She smirked. Her laugh wasn't unkind, but it was treated with an authority of one that expected to be obeyed. "Are you wearing panties?" she asked.

"You know I'm not," I said, biting my lip.

"Good. Get over here. Hands on the table, bend over and spread those long legs."

"Are you... serious?"

"Until this time tomorrow, you're my puppet. I pull a string, your body obeys the pull. Bend over. I won't say it again."

I licked my lips and bent over, spread my legs. I could feel my skirt flipped up onto my lower back, the cool air hitting my cunt, my asshole. Wishing for her fingers to find my slit, check to see how wet I am, she's all business. Trista squirted lube into her hand and smeared it onto my asshole. Her fingers pushed some inside, lubricating my dark tunnel. I could feel the arousal I'm producing. I'd be dripping soon. Without panties, my arousal would soon ooze down my leg.

She worked my asshole for a minute or two, and I moaned. Normally that wouldn't feel so amazing, but I was extremely turned on from anticipation all day long, and I could feel my sphincter relaxing to admit her. My ass is fairly well-trained, and Trista and I are both keen on plenty of anal play, so either she was teasing me, or tomorrow was going to be really intense.

The metal of the butt plug was cold on my opening, but it slid into place with little more than a pinch. "Put your skirt down," she said.

I didn't raise a question. Simply obeyed. Sometimes when I was a good girl, she would reward me.

We pulled up to Condom World, and I killed the engine. The leather seat was wet from my pussy drool, and I could feel it dry out on my leg as I slipped from the car and adjusted my skirt. The butt plug was hard in my asshole, and it wiggled when I walked. Something told me if I so much as sneezed it would fall out on to the tile floor of the sex shop. My cheeks burned as I entered.

Trista took her time. Walked slowly. I knew she was torturing me on purpose. When Trista shops, she goes directly to the thing she wants, makes a decision in seconds, and continues on. But she was touching every piece of latex and crotchless panty label we passed. I think I was sweating.

Almost absently, she said, "How does it feel inside you?"

"Uncomfortable," I said. "Good uncomfortable."

She nodded and continued. We passed the vibrators and clit suckers, the glass dildo display, the men's toys. Trista seemed completely unaffected, as though she was studying fruit. But with every step, I could feel how slippery my lips had become, and I longed to reach down and smear the mucus onto my swollen clit. The plug in my anus felt loose, on the verge of falling out, and I clenched and walked as if... well, as if I had a giant piece of metal shoved up my ass.

We stopped at the restraints, and my heart skipped a beat. Pink satin restraints went into the basket. Basket? When did she get a basket? And how much shit were we buying? Tethers that ran under the mattress. Two collars. Though Trista already had a collar of her own... A blindfold. Garter belts with chain and labia clamps. A giant, and I do mean industrial-sized bottle of water-based lube. And of all the items that got me hot, the piece that took my breath away was a massive, translucent, double-sided dildo.

We paid at the counter. I stood behind Trista with my eyes on the floor while she dropped plastic and made chit-chat with the girl behind the counter. "Oh, I love your Sailor Moon tattoo!" When I looked up, the girl behind the counter was eying the collar, and then me, and then the collar. She seemed... impressed? Envious? Something. If I saw another girl with Trista, I'd be envious, too. That mouth that tied up in a bow, her sultry eyes, her generous curves, and her stance a posture that says, "Oh yeah? I fucking dare you."

We walked out to the car, the plug feeling as though it might be bruising, and it was difficult in such moments of submission to remember the wanton, filthy sub she could be when it was my turn to shove her face into my hot cunt, to drive a dildo into her anus while I demanded she shower my face with her squirt. But right now... I was hers, from the tips of my rosy, glittery toenails to the ends of my loose brown curls. If she leaned back on the hood and told me to eat her out right there in the parking lot, I wouldn't hesitate. She knew the risks, she was in charge, and I trusted my wife completely.

We got home, opened the toys. She told me to wash everything and set it aside to dry while she made us plates of veggies for dinner. After we'd cleaned up, and Trista swapped my plug unceremoniously for the larger silicone one (ouch), she pulled me upstairs by the wrist. "Kneel down," she said, motioning to the floor at the foot of the bed. "You're going watch."

So it was to be torture, was it? Trista had done this to me before, several times before, edged me psychologically for days. No one knew patient domination like my wife. The results were hard to argue. By the time she finally let me taste her cunt, gave my clit the slightest blow... I would do anything - ANYTHING - she asked. I wouldn't care. I would be maniacal for sex, a nymphomaniac gone berserk.

She knew exactly what she was doing. Whatever nerves I had going into tomorrow, they would pale in comparison to my need for orgasm.

Fuck, I loved this woman.

But getting there... I had to go through _this_. And _this_ involved her stripping fully, retrieving our magic wand from its place of honor on our bookshelf, and laying on her tummy. She scooted down the bed so that her shins hung off the edge. Trista's legs opened, and I could smell her soaking twat, see the gleam of wet arousal on her meaty inner labia. Her face may have been impassive all evening, but the state of her engorged cunt told me how badly she was fighting back a full on fuck-fest.

Godfuckingdammit, I wanted all of her in my mouth. Her pucker winked as the head of the wand appeared between her legs and settled upon her clit. I heard the vibration begin, and she moaned immediately, that low, dark, sensual moan that could melt chocolate at a hundred paces.

She was grinding her hips within seconds, driving her clit against the bulbous plastic head. Her voice was strained and tight when she said, "You can... get closer if you unnnnfff want to smell me. But... nnnggg... stay on your knees, and don't... don't you _dare_ fucking touch!"

Throaty moans battered my ears as I scooted closer, my chin resting on the comforter. I inhaled through my nose like a depraved pervert, this scent of musk, uniquely the scent of my soulmate, the only sexual satisfaction I would receive. As she ground harder against the wand, faster, her moans longer, louder, my asshole began to throb around the plug, trying to swallow it, those movements of the inserted head at once a minor relief and a miserable tease. I couldn't look away as her cunt open wider of its own accord, ready to admit fingers, tongue, cock, anything that could penetrate her oozing sex. Her back arched and she paused only for a moment before a moan climbed from her belly and turned into a scream into her pillow.

She got up, walked to the bathroom, closed the door. I heard the shower begin and stared at the wet spot, wondering if I'll cheat, if I'll climb onto the bed and shove my nose into it and draw her scent like a lonely fucking pervert. But I trust her method, trust her. My wife will keep me safe, always.

Trista climbed into bed naked and sent me to the bathroom with no further instruction. When I came out, she was asleep, and I climbed into bed next to her. I could smell my cunt whenever I shifted beneath the covers, and sleep did not descend quickly.

Thunder woke me. Though the clock on the nightstand read 8:03am, the room was dark. Trista's curves flashed in the doorframe as the lightning through the window bathed her milky skin. She was still naked, her hair wet. I could smell her shampoo in the humid air.

Stalking across the room, she pulled the covers aside. "Take your clothes off," she said. There on the bed, I did as she asked though I was only wearing a night shirt and panties. My puffy pink nipples kissed in the chill morning air went immediately erect, and I could feel the firmness of the plug in my ass. I was tired, but the cold air had a rousing affect. So did Trista's commands. "Lay down, arms at your sides."

Her heavy breasts dragged across my face as she leaned over me, her nipples as erect as my own, eraser tips on my skin as she moved down my body. I didn't move. I wanted to suck on those nipples. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to kiss her with morning breath and everything, that's how badly I wanted to kiss her. But her lips never touched me. I did become aware that she was sniffing me.

She stopped at my hairy thatch. Pressed her nose against my clit, I whimpering with need, as she inhaled deeply. She was truly as depraved as I, and I've always found that liberating. She inhaled again and then sat up.

"I think you might be horny, babe," she said, and then she climbed off me. "Your electrolyte water is on the counter. You can take the plug out to shower and clean, and then put in the new one. You'll know what to do with the rest."

Once in the bathroom, I spied things as she left them. The glass of electrolyte water... my very own collar... an enema bag, salt, measuring cups. Yeah, clean clean clean. Anal is a massive part of our playtime, and there is no corner cutting on clean. My makeup case was next to that, and she'd pulled a glittery white nail polish called Unicorn Spit, and there was a little jar of vanilla-flavored body dust. The latter would be for my neck, shoulders, and tits. On my fresh, folded towel, there were white thigh high stockings, my lavender silk robe, the garter belts we purchased yesterday, and a butt plug I'd never seen before. It was _huge_. What the hell! There was also a long hair trimmer. Which meant she wanted me to mow my bush, and I mean... fair. Seeing all of it together, my chest was already tight, and I could feel the tingly tickle of arousal crisscrossing my skin.

I was done in a little over two hours. There was a lot to do. Plus I diffused my hair and managed to get it to hang in perfect lavender-streaked ringlets down to my shoulder blades. White and gold eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara, no lipstick or foundation. Trista liked to keep me on the natural side, especially for sex. I was... definitely clean, outside and in. As I closed my robe and approached the bathroom door, I could feel the plug stretching me. It had been brutal to get it in, but I trusted my Trista.

"Babe?" I said, walking down the corridor from our room to the kitchen. "Trista?"

I stopped in my tracks when I saw her, sitting at the table, dressed in a navy suit. Fuck, she was fine. Her navy and yellow striped tie was loose at the neck but that was the only casual bit. The suit jacket was tailored to accommodate her massive rack, as was the vest beneath. Another thing I'd never seen before. Her raven hair was up in a tight bun, and she was wearing a pair of white-rimmed glasses - my blue light filter glasses - for aesthetic affect no less. And it was extremely effective.

Across from her was a man. A tall man. I'm going with lumberjack. The kind that pushes trees over. He wore a simple white teeshirt, clean. Jeans, fitted and worn. Though his arms looked corded and bulgy, he was wiry. His red hair was most certainly bedhead, and his gold nose ring set off a trimmed reddish beard. He definitely drove a jeep and hiked a lot.

It's like she climbed into my brain and picked this guy from a catalogue. I don't really find guys attractive except for one very specific type. And he was fucking sitting right there.

My knees went weak. I couldn't move.

"And this scantily clad creature is my wife, Elysia," says Trista, "You can call her E."

I smiled awkwardly and tried not to vomit.

"E," he said, he voice soft and airy. "I've heard a lot about you." He licked his lips. The sensuousness of that action nearly dropped me.

"You remember me talking about my friend, the mountain biker?" said Trista. "We used to fuck before he moved to Peru."

"I'm back now," he said. "Stateside that is. Though I'm only in town for a conference. Kinesiology, Trista. I'm a kinesiologist."

"Hon, you're only here today to function as a dick. In fact, we'll call you Richard. E, meet Richard."

"Got it," I said, my voice hollow and a little raspy. "Yeah, n-nice to meet you."

"You're wife," said Richard, looking at me with smoky eyes, "if you don't mind me saying, was probably the best fuck of my life. Definitely the best head." His eyes took on a faraway look, then he blinked. "So, when she mentioned this arrangement, I really couldn't decline. The conference is starting this morning, and I told my coworkers I had a stomach bug."

"Clever," said Trista. "Hard to trace."

"I've played hooky before."

Trista smiled at him. "I remember."

Something twisted in my gut watching them grin knowingly at each other. I just didn't understand it, how they could be so free about their sexual association. I was practically trembling. Strike that. I _was_ trembling, but I hoped no one would notice.

Patting the seat next to her, Trista invited me to sit. I tightened my robe and complied.