Red! Pineapple! Stop! (750 Words)

This story contains no extramarital sex.

This story was written for

the 2024 Literotica 750 Word Challenge

. Below this line are exactly 750 words.

I'd long dreamed of being my wife's chaste slave, and over the past few years we'd made my fantasy our reality. I wore a cage. I ate from a dog bowl. I was regularly bound, beaten, and ruined, onto her shoes if I had been good, onto the floor otherwise. Regardless, I lapped up every drop.

Tonight, we were taking my submission to its logical conclusion.

My hands trembled with excitement as I helped her into her lingerie, her crisp ivory blouse, her hip-hugging leather skirt, her glossy five-inch D'Orsays. The extreme heel forced her instep nearly vertical, a creamy bulge of flesh every bit as erotic as the swell of her breasts. I kissed them enthusiastically until she kicked me away.

"Enough!" Then her cruel facade slipped. "Honey, are you sure? Say the word and I'll send him away."

The word was "pineapple." It was the last thing I was going to say tonight. I kissed her passionately. "Enjoy yourself. Send pictures if you remember."

It'd be even hotter if she forgot. I made a note for next time.

"All right, in you go, then." She closed me into the stifling darkness of her closet.

The first picture arrived soon after. In our living room, his arm around her shoulders and her lips pressed to his cheek.

In the car, his hand on her thigh, under her skirt.

Then her leg thrown across his, framing his bulge.

I sent back a picture of my cage, a long strand of precum hanging down.

The pictures stopped after that. Maybe she did forget. What a thrill!

I squatted awkwardly amid her coats and shoes. The minutes crept by.

Finally, the door slammed. Heels clicked. Light flooded the closet. I flinched, my eyes unprepared for the glory of her entrance.

"Sorry!" She swung the door almost closed and asked through the crack, "How are you doing?"

I suppressed a twitch of irritation. She meant well, but her concern was ruining the mood. "Never better, honey."

"Okay." She hesitated, then reminded me, "Doesn't matter if he's balls-deep. You say the word and it ends."

"I know."

But she continued. "He was telling me about it. A lot of guys like the fantasy better than the reality. It happens all the time."

I shook my head. "That's not me."

"No, of course not. This is your dream." She paused, then repeated, gathering her conviction, "This is your dream, isn't it? And tonight it's going to come true."

She threw the door open. John was sitting on the bed, his burly frame backlit by the lamp on the nightstand. "We good?" he rumbled.

"Yeah, we're good." Eyes on me, Lynn started unbuttoning her blouse. We both watched in awe as those pert breasts emerged. That tight ass.

When she stood in her bustier, stockings, and sky-high stilettos, she favored me with a mocking smile. I couldn't help but notice her panties were already gone. My cock throbbed at the implications.

At last she looked at John. With short, swaying steps, she sashayed up to him and sank gracefully to her knees. She darted a look over her shoulder, angling her body so I could see her fingers plucking at his belt. His cock popped out. He was already rising in anticipation.

She stared at it. I leaned forward eagerly.

"Pineapple," she mumbled.

"Sorry?" John asked.

"Red light. Pineapple." Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry, I can't do this. I'm sorry."

I gaped, frozen in disbelief.

"Steve," she begged. "Say something."

I sprang into action. I wrapped her blouse around her shoulders. "Okay, honey, okay. We're done. Let's get you into bed. Let's get rid of these silly shoes."

I caught John's eye and jerked a thumb over my shoulder. "Sorry, buddy, I gotta kick you out."

With him gone, I tucked her in. "I'll start some tea. We'll cuddle and talk, okay? Or not talk, whatever you need."

We ended up not talking. The talking came later, over the following weeks. I apologized for pushing her into this. She apologized for never quite saying, "No." For the first time, I asked her to describe

her

ideal dynamic. And I listened.

Things are different now. She says she didn't get married to eat alone. Or to go without. So at dinner I sit at the table, and most weekends I give her a good "seeing-to." We use a little numbing cream and a lot of pain to keep me focused on her pleasure. Marriage is about compromise.

I don't see a lot of stories where anyone uses a safeword, and I've never so far seen a story where the top uses a safeword. If you know of any, tell me in the comments. Until then, here's my small effort to be the change I want to see.

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