Inside Joke

Content warnings in the tags.

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The tailgate dropped, and Dave pulled me out of the tarp-covered darkness. My bare thighs slid easily across the truck bed's corrugated plastic lining, but I still arched my back as best I could because I knew there was a gap between the tailgate and the bed. Since I was tied up--hands behind my back, and frog-legged--my mobility was quite limited, and the bump was still jarring. But I managed to keep my nipples unpinched, which was the important thing.

My husband stopped me at the end of the tailgate, my bent legs sticking out into the crisp evening air. He made an annoyed noise and tugged at some part of my complicated rope harness. It was a thorough tie that night, and I found it hard to believe it had loosened during our short drive, yet Dave's adjustments cinched me tighter still. I wiggled my fingers and felt the corresponding tickle on the soles of my feet. Another tug. This one pulled my knees apart too--a clever trick, I couldn't quite picture how he'd managed it.

I groaned my embarrassment around the ball gag. Tucker's driveway, where we'd parked, was in the middle of nowhere. But there's something primal about the wind tickling at your pussy, how could I not feel exposed? I was also confused. Dave wouldn't usually stop at the bottom of the drive.

That question was soon answered, though. Dave's big hands kneaded my butt cheeks. He spread them. More cool air--both my holes, this time. Plus, I knew Dave was treating himself to quite the view. That, I did feel silly for blushing over. My husband had seen it all, time and time again. But, somehow, it still made me shiver. Which made my asshole clench. Which I knew he could see.

It was a relief to feel his hands explore lower. Thick fingers teased at my opening to see if I was wet. I was. And with familiar motions, they dipped and rolled themselves in my arousal until Dave deemed I was ready, and entered me.

He always liked to enter me hard. Whether with his cock, or with his fingers, like now, the first penetration was fast, sometimes rough. When we first started fucking I'd thought it was boyish fumbling. But he'd soon corrected me. He did it on purpose. He liked to hear me squeak.

I wondered if the muffling of the ball gag ruined that for him. Or maybe it added something. Who knew? I'd given up trying to understand why Dave liked tying me up around the same time I'd accepted how much I liked it.

Dave's cock head, sliding along my channel, giving my clit a teasing kiss, broke my chain of thought. Out with the finger. I readied for the next hard plunge. Dave's finger had slicked me. But now I was about to be opened. I knew I had to relax, let the shock of it flow through me, and just yelp it out.

It hurt, but only a little. And the delicious filling warmth was worth it. Still, I cried out. Since I knew Dave liked it, I'd never learned not to. The ball gag seemed to catch it though, keeping the tension trapped inside me.

"Damn Izzy, you're tight like this," Dave groaned. I think he was attributing it to his ropes, and not my complicated relationship with red rubber stoppers, but that was fine. I liked the way he fucked me when he was worked up like this. He slowed down a little. I could feel him savoring it. Enjoying me, like a dessert he didn't want to end.

Eventually I felt Dave's control break and his pace speed up, along with his breathing. That was okay with me. For all its impressiveness, my hogtie wasn't made for sex in this position. Dave's hips spread mine even further than the ropes did, and that translated to a growing strain on my ankles.

All that to say, I was surprised, but not altogether disappointed, when my husband grunted and started pulsing within me.

My shock only increased when he unceremoniously zipped up his pants and shoved me back into the trunk! The tailgate closed with a reverberating thunk, and accompanying darkness.

----------

The final stretch of Tucker's driveway was a steep quarter-mile to his house. The incline slid me to bounce off the tailgate. So I was distracted from wondering what my husband was playing at by the irrational fear that the latch hadn't closed correctly and I was about to take a gravel-filled roll down the hill.

But we arrived safe, of course.

"Hey, Tuck!" I heard Dave say.

"You know mail won't deliver up that hill? And here's my best bud hauling fragile cargo like it ain't nothing."

Dave laughed. "Nothing a 'this side up' sticker won't fix."

There was a pause in the conversation. It wasn't awkward. Dave and Tucker had been best friends since school, and this wasn't the first time I'd been 'delivered' like this. But I do think Tucker found it hard to turn the conversation to the topic of handing me over, and Dave liked to make him sweat.

"So, same as usual?" Tucker asked.

A boot scraped on gravel. The tailgate popped open. Having just been smashed up against it, I had to arch not to tumble right out.

Hands reached in. They were Dave's. He found a makeshift handle where the hogtie came together, above the small of my back, and hoisted me out.

"Mostly usual," Dave said. "But she's being punished. She's got to keep the gag in. Oh, and I wrapped her up nice for you."

I hung in the air, Dave holding me like a duffel bag. His jean-covered thigh fit nicely into the gap at my side. My field of view swayed gently like I was rocking on a boat.

"Hi Tucker," I tried to say. But it was no use through the gag. At best, it sounded a rude homophone. A part of me wished Dave hadn't picked such a deep gag. But at the same time, it was kind of fun not being able to communicate. The sore jaw and drool down my chin though, that I could have lived without.

"Izzy!" Tucker said. "I am just-- you're really making my day."

Dave handed me over. Tucker was the smaller of the two and my world spun dizzyingly while he tried to situate me one-handed like my husband had. I whined my displeasure until he settled for two hands on the handle, in front of him. I tried to imagine what he'd be seeing from that angle. Was my booty spread enough to give him a view? That was embarrassing, far more than with Dave.

I was pretty sure that my pussy was hidden. Which was conflicting. Dave's creampie had survived the truck ride, and as long as Tucker didn't dip me too far, it'd stay put. But I wasn't sure how obvious any, uh, external evidence would be to Tucker, and I didn't need the humiliation of hearing him point it out to Dave. At the same time though, what was Dave even playing at? He couldn't have forgotten about it, could he?

The two men managed a surprisingly normal conversation, despite the fact that I was hanging naked between them. They discussed when Tucker should drive me back--two hours--and that I should stay tied up and gaged the whole time--ugh!

Then Dave was gone, and I was alone with Tucker, listening to the fading sound of my husband's truck down the drive.

"Well," said Tucker, "let's get you inside. And don't you worry, I just changed the sheets."

I should probably explain, this was not the first time Dave had loaned me to Tucker. It had started slow, just a husband encouraging his wife to give his friend a cheeky flash, or a smack on the ass that I didn't correct. One day, after we'd all had too many drinks, I found myself blowing the guy. Things progressed from there much as you probably expect, with Dave's interest in tying me up, slowly creeping in.

Tucker was a nice guy. But a little stuck in life. He'd worked construction alongside Dave after they'd graduated high school. From what I understood, they both lived together like hermits for five long years, saving up to build two backwoods homesteads not five miles of dirt road apart. It was a cute story. Only, it seemed like that's where Tucker's story had ended. As if to demonstrate, my head knocked a couple beer cans off the coffee table as he tried to maneuver me to the bedroom. They were empty, at least.

That's what the 'changed the sheets' comment was about, by the way. The first time Dave had dropped me off at Tucker's, it had been fun, but I'd confessed to Dave that Tucker's place had reminded me more of old college hookups than I'd have liked. I should have known he'd share my 'feedback', and also that it would be only half understood. So now Tucker washed his bedsheets. Which I appreciated. But there were still piles of clothes on the floor.

I was plunked down on the bed. Tucker knelt so he was eye level with me. "Weird, you not talking, huh?" he said.

I said nothing, of course.

"I could take it out. Put it back in later. Dave wouldn't know."

"Mmmhmm!"

Tucker stood up, reached over me, and smacked my ass. "Yeah, right! I won't go against the big man like that. From what I hear, you're being punished."

"NuuuUhmNu," I said. Which was supposed to translate to, "No I'm not!" Because I wasn't. Or if I was, I didn't know what for. Dave had just pulled that out of the air. Maybe to keep Tucker in line with the gag thing?

My eyeline was right at Tucker's crotch level. So I got an up close and personal showing of him undoing his belt. "Hey, I'm disappointed too." His zipper came down. Then his pants. He had to stretch the elastic of his boxers over his cock, and once free it jutted out, straight and eager, almost poking me in the nose. "You know I love your mouth."

Tucker got on the bed with me. The mattress sagged with his weight, helping me track him as he positioned behind me. His hands roamed. Starting at my back, they moved down. There was a tension in them. I got the sense it took Tucker some effort not to go right for my pussy--or maybe my booty. He did linger when he got there, kneading me like bread before finally spreading me apart exactly how Dave had done.

I held my breath, sure Tucker was about to find the surprise Dave had left for him. But it must have stayed more internal, because Tucker didn't react, and though his fingers roamed pleasantly down my pussy they didn't dive inside me. Instead, he found my clit.

"Seems to me if you're not allowed to talk, you'd not be allowed to cum either," Tucker mused. "But Dave didn't say nothing like that."

"Mmmh," I agreed, luxuriating. Tucker had a working man's hands, even more so than Dave, and sometimes they could be a little scratchy. But he was either doing a good job using my clit's hood as a shield, or I was just too horny to care.

I half expected Tucker to stop when I started to get excited. That would have been Dave's move. But even after he'd coaxed a hot spot of pleasure into me, and I was grinding back against his fingers and making shameless whimpering sounds, Tucker kept rolling my clit between his fingers. "God you're something, Izzy," he muttered. Which would normally make me slightly uncomfortable, but in that moment just encouraged me to whine louder.

He kept going, "I can't wait to fuck you. Cum on my fingers. Then it's my turn. I'm gonna use you."

Yep. That was my love language. The throbbing heat inside me tightened, it promised to soon explode out and wash me in warm, delicious, waves. My whole body squeezed in anticipation, so hard that something slippery got pushed out of me. It slid down my labia.

"Damn, you are wet," Tucker said in a deep husky voice.

I clenched my abs, trying to compress the ball of pleasure inside me and force my orgasm to start before Tucker--

"Hey now. What in the--" His fingers stopped their wonderful dancing. Then they were gone, and with them, my orgasm. "Oh that's sick!" cried Tucker.

----------

I usually felt quite sexy when tied up. Like I was a piece of art--or maybe just porn, if Dave had picked a particularly revealing setup--but almost always desirable. Tucker wiping my backside with toilet paper, turned out to be an exception.

"I think you got it all," I said, lifting my hips with the wipe to keep him from rubbing me raw. I was still hogtied, but he'd un-gagged me after realizing why Dave had done it in the first place.

"I'll decide that," Tucker grumbled. "And don't think I buy your little-miss-innocent act."

"I tried to tell you," I protested for the umpteenth time.

The scouring did stop, though. Trevor spread me, inspecting his work. "Does give me an excuse, I suppose," he said.

"For what?" I had a bad feeling I knew the answer. Well, maybe not a bad feeling. Nervous--like wondering if you're about to be called on stage.

Trevor's answer came in the form of a faint plopping sound, and the wet splatter of spit on my bootyhole. His aim was good.

"Uh, rude!"

"Shuddup, you like it."

"Can I cum first? That helps."

Tucker thumbed at my bootyhole. There was an electric zing as he tugged the skin around it, stretching me. "No way. Maybe you weren't really being punished. You are now, though."

Usually around this time Tucker would get me ready by burying his face between my cheeks. But I guess he was still feeling squeamish because he went right for the lube in his nightstand.

"Be gentle," I whined. Tucker hadn't hurt me, but the slippery digit rubbing at my hole was his thumb. Which wasn't a good sign.

While I'd shame-facedly choose a tongue bath as my preferred warm-up, it was stimulating to know that Tucker was watching as I gave it up. And I did give it up. Sensing there was enough lube, I let my booty relax, and felt the slow goosebump-inducing drive of his thumb into me--first as a stretch, then as something I was almost grasping onto.

"Now that's a pretty sight."

"Don't be gross," I said. But my heart wasn't in it. Actually, it felt like my heart had migrated down to beat a thumpy rhythm in the space between my opened hole and my recently-denied clit. It wasn't like I was going to cum from this--but still. Around Tucker's thumb, I pushed, then squeezed. The resulting sensation was bright and raw, like his digit was conducting electricity--too intense in my butt, but softer once it reached my clit. Yeah, that was worth it. I suckled Tucker's thumb with my butt again, this time with a little hip action.

Tucker groaned as if it was his cock inside me already. "Damn Izzy, what's gotten into you?" He paused, then snickered. "Poor choice of words."

His thumb was fucking me now, stroking the edges of my bootyhole as it went, tugging at me on the out-stroke so that a cool pop of air would hit me right before he went in again. I found myself thrusting back against him as best I could in my hogtie.

"Wishing for the real thing, yeah?" Tucker taunted, or maybe promised.

I had enough pride left not to beg. But only because he wasn't touching my clit.

With one last stretching extraction, Tucker's thumb withdrew. My bootyhole, still caught up in the rhythm, opened for it anyway, squeezed down on nothing, and did a little confused flutter that felt nice but must have looked to Tucker like my slicked hole was begging for him.

The bed shifted. Tucker's knees worked their way between mine, spreading me even wider. His stomach pressed down on my tied-back shins, hairs tickling. And something far thicker than his thumb pushed my cheeks the last little bit out of its way.

I tilted my hips to give Tucker the best angle; tried to think open and accepting thoughts; prepared to breathe out when he pressed in. I was ready. I didn't think I'd even been so ready to have my booty fucked. Maybe there was something in Dave's seed. Some aphrodisiac still slowly dissolving through the membrane of my--

Tucker grunted. Not with pleasure, but mild annoyance. His belly wriggled on my calves, trying to get between them. But my ankles were tied together, I could only go so wide. Then his hands were there, 'helping'.

"Ow!" I yelped. "I've got bones you know."

"Sorry." Tucker held still. His weight was heavy, but the way it propped on me was unsatisfying. I wanted it to smother me, to smell his sweat. Right now, all I could smell was my own arousal, with faint semen undertones.

"Untie my legs," I suggested.

"That's some nice work Dave did. Seems a shame--and rude."

"You can't do it back?"

Tucker laughed. "Maybe with duct tape."

"Tuuucker," I whined my need, well aware the effect it would have, but too horny to feel guilty about it.

"Right." Tucker refocused like I'd charged him with a knightly quest. "Dave's already playing dirty"--another unfortunate choice of words--"so I can ruin his art."

So I was art again. Yum. "Seems fair," I agreed.

"Those knots, I'll need a knife," he grumbled. "I'll be right back Izzy, Don't--"

"Go anywhere?"

"Wasn't gonna say that." A shiver-inducing finger stroked my bootyhole. "Should I uh, put something in you? You know, to keep you ready?"

"You have a plug?" I asked.

"Well, no."

"Guess you'd better hurry then."

----------

Maybe it was my current state, but it felt like Tucker took forever to come back. I'd just started trying to inchworm my way to one of his pillows when the bedroom door opened.

There he was. Burly, hairy, naked, carrying a pocket knife... and three beers.

The beers, he held in one hand. He did have big hands.

"Um, Tucker?"

"Yeah?"

"Those aren't going to fit."

It took him a second to get the joke. I was pretty sure it was a joke. But also, a lady has to look out for herself.

"Oh," Tucker said. Then he paused, a far-away look in his eyes. He had to literally shake himself back to the present. "No, see I was thinking, I want to last for you--I mean, in you. A beer or two helps with that."

"That's more than two beers," I observed.

"That's right! So I was thinking that, and then I got an even better idea. On account of Dave pulling that prank and all."

I did not think I liked the excited grin Tucker was suddenly sporting. While I was trying to decide if it was better to ask more, or just find out, Tucker went over to his rickety bedside table and dragged it nearer to me. The beers got plunked down on it. So did the knife, along with something I hadn't noticed pinched between the cans, a straw.

Faint vertigo hit me as Tucker half-lifted me by my harness, positioning my head right at the edge of the bed, over the bedside table. The three beer cans were all sealed, but I caught a whiff anyway. Tucker must have pounded one while I waited for him.

"Is your plan to send me back to Dave covered in puke?" I asked. "Because that's what will happen if I try to drink that."

Tucker puffed air dismissively and groped my butt cheek with a casualness that made me reevaluate how many beers he was already deep. "I've seen you drink beer," he observed.

"Not that stuff." I winced. Tucker could be sensitive about money. Would that offend him?

"Hey, this is good shit," he said. He didn't sound offended. I relaxed, but only until he climbed up onto the bed behind me. Reaching over me, he grabbed a beer, and the pocket knife.

"Tucker, be careful."

A dismissive snort, a slight tug on my harness, and my legs were free. My calves flopped down on the bed before I even realized I was back in control of them. The familiar lactic ache of a good stretch tingled its way up to my thighs, and then further.

Tucker positioned himself between my legs. This time his knees spread me without resistance. He pressed his groin into me, his cock laying itself along the seem of my cheeks. With a wiggle of Tucker's hips it parted them, nestling in their slippery valley.

The underside of Tucker's cock slid along my bootyhole. It was softer than his calloused fingers had been. A lot larger, too. Its head was even more bulbous still, but oily smooth as it rotated against my ring, testing for the right angle.

Tucker pushed, and the moment of no return came quick. His antics had tamped my readiness somewhat. Instead of a gradual and pleasant stretch, my bootyhole resisted. The head of Tucker's cock pushed into me until a twang announced that the sensation was about to stop being interesting, and start to hurt.

I breathed in to tell Tucker to stop, that I wasn't ready. But before I could, the pressure increased, and my insides kissed at the domed curve of his cockhead. It did hurt, a little. But not like we needed more lube. More like a stretch before you're warmed up. A warning, but encouraging.

Out, I breathed. Somewhere between my throat and my lips, it turned to a whimper. I imagined I was touching my toes, bobbing against the tightness in my tendons, sinking a little deeper each time. Starting to enjoy the burn.

"Slow," I coaxed with the last of my breath, knowing from the flair of Tucker's crown that I was about to give over control.

He wasn't slow. But he did rock his way into me, adding more lube as he went. I focused on my breathing, and surrendering--which having my hands tied helped with, since there really wasn't another option.

It was almost a surprise to feel the tickle of his pubes on my butt. Another rock after that, a grown from both of us, and he was grinding his hips on my cheeks. There was an impatience there I wasn't used to from Tucker. "Ready?" he asked, soon enough.

"Wait. Not yet." The stillness was nice. I wanted to enjoy it for a minute before he got carried away. "Touch me when you start, okay?"

A cracking, popping, sound caught me off guard. Not noises I ever wanted to hear coming from behind me, especially in my current situation. Reflexively, I squeezed down on Tucker's cock--Ouch.

"What was that?" I asked. But, I knew.

Tucker slurped his beer. "Always wanted to do this," he said.

I sighed, aghast. Though often enjoyable, my evenings on loan to Tucker were rarely dignified. Still, this had to be a new low.

"Don't pout. I got you one too." Tucker reached over me, announced by his looming presence, and also the shift and stir of him inside. With one hand he popped the tab on a nightstand beer. I winced against the flecks of chill, sour-smelling, foam. Tucker put the straw in the beer, and carefully positioned it for me. "Drink up."

I had zero intention of doing that. "You're insane," I told him.

Tucker took another gulp of beer. The slurping had to be for show, he didn't normally drink like that, did he?

His hips went back. His cock followed. My insides, unable to come along, buzzed and tingled at the sudden absence. Then he was back in. Not fast. Slow. A shiver--though not a cold one--danced its way up my spine.

The surrender took me quickly this time. A few plunges later my head lolled, then slumped. Narrowly, I avoided getting a straw in my eye.

As his pace quickened, Tucker's knees spread mine wider. That was alright with me, because the sheets were bunching up under us and if I twisted just a smidge, they tickled at my clit. It wasn't going to make me cum, but it set up a sort of needy itch inside me, right where Tucker's cock could massage it.

"Touch me?" I asked.

"Drink your beer," Tucker said.

I opened one eye, the straw was concerningly close. I shut it again.

"Then you'll touch me?"

Tucker laughed. There was an edge to it. It made me think of our earlier years, Dave bringing him home drunk, a shiner on his cheek.

"No, Izzy. Then I'll cum," he said.

"But I don't want you to cum. I like how you fuck me."

Tucker's weight settled on me. I suddenly felt very small under him. One arm appeared by my head. Then the other arm.

Tucker's breath was hot on my ear and tainted by cheap hops. "I told you, I can go a long time after drinks."

----------

Tucker wasn't lying. He'd never lasted this long with me. Didn't usually last much to speak of, if I was being honest. But now he was breathing heavy overtop me, my bound fingers were slick from his belly sweat, and there was no sign of stopping.

I'd tried a few times to encourage him along, pulled out my best tricks, cooed his name every shameless pornstar way I could think of, even grit my teeth and squeezed him with my hole. He was, for tonight, a machine. And all he would tell me is that I ought to drink his disgusting beer.

For the millionth time, the straw prodded my cheek. Was it even possible to drink while getting your booty plundered? Only one way to find out. I turned my head, eyes still closed, and tongued blindly for the straw.

"There's the Izzy I know," Tucker said. I wasn't sure what to make of that. So I ignored it. I focused instead on not knocking the beer over, because he sure wasn't letting up on the humping.

I sucked. Beer through a straw--cheap or not--was simply not meant to be, I decided.

"Yeeach," I wretched.

The only sympathy I got was a scoff, and Tucker doing something swirly with his hips on the out-stroke. It made me feel like I was being stirred from the inside. Probably would have felt better somewhere else.

The sour taste that stuck thick in the back of my throat wasn't going away anytime soon. So I figured I might as well carry on. Tucker slid his way back into me, smooth and familiar now, the way plucking errant hairs became after you'd done it a few times. When he went back out, I drank some more beer, feeling it was best to do on an empty colon.

----------

"Done," I gasped. It was equal parts triumph, humiliation, and a desperate urge to either burp or vomit the entire thing up--I wasn't sure which, and so was afraid to let it out.

For the first time in what felt like hours, the piston rammed in my booty went still. Tucker reached over me and shook the can. Only the straw rattled against the bottom.

"You didn't believe me?"

Tucker ignored my question. "I'm not ready yet," he said instead.

"What?"

The big hand, reaching over my head like a crane, grabbed the last beer on the table, and deftly popped the top. I was spared the spray this time--small miracles.

"Tucker, no way. I can't."

"Come on Izzy, I'm getting close."

"Well then just hurry up and cum. We don't have to play this stupid game," I said. Only game sounded more like GAME, on account of that overdue belch finally seizing its moment.

Tucker thought that was hilarious. "Found some more room, did ya?"

I groaned. Defeated.

To finally make himself cum, Tucker employed shallow strokes that made me wince but didn't have quite the lung-emptying impact of his full length. That helped me get through the second beer in record time, which he kept making clear was still a condition of my release--and his.

"Fuck, Izzy," he sighed. His orgasm, when we got to it, was surprisingly gentle. He twitched quite a few times, each one expanding my poor hole with an ouch like poking a bruise. But the warm mote he left behind was nice.

"No cuddling," I reminded him, after a while. There was plausible deniability--he must have been at least as exhausted as I was--but still, rules.

How stupid was it that Tucker's softening cock slipping out left me feeling empty? I'd just had enough anal for a month--maybe more.

"Right. Let's get you back to Dave," Tucker said, rummaging through his drawers for whatever he thought passed for clean clothes.

I flopped onto my side, glad to stretch my legs, but dreading having to stand. The beer sloshed in my belly and when I looked down my sweaty front I could swear there was a protrusion. "I look pregnant. He's gonna be pissed."

Tucker guffawed.

"What was up with that anyway? You develop a burping fetish or something?" I asked.

Tucker pulled on an oversized blue tee. It wasn't stained, but the hem had come loose on the left side. He knelt down in front of me. I'd known him for so long, but it always felt weird meeting his eyes after one of these loans.

He took my chin in one hand. In the other, he dangled the red ball gag. "Oh, that wasn't for me. It's my gift to the big man."

----------

Walking to Tucker's truck, naked, hands still tied behind my back, and trying to decide if I should be worried about his blood alcohol content, I didn't have much brainpower left to ponder what he'd meant.

Tucker remembered to buckle me into the passenger seat, so I decided he was probably good to make the short dirt road trip back to Dave's and my place. I relaxed. Until we hit the first bump.

The potholes in the road were nothing new. But the jolt of warning from my bladder caught me off guard. All that beer, having somehow not exited through my mouth was starting its journey the other way. Tucker noticed my grimace. "Don't you piss in my truck," he said.

The beer sloshed its way through my digestive system about as fast as I'd drank it. By the time Tucker helped me down from the truck at Dave and my place, I was walking knobby-kneed.

"What'd I tell you kids about staying out past curfew?" called my husband, coming down from the porch to collect me.

He took my chicken-tied elbow in his arm. I was happy to lean on him. Taking some weight off my legs helped with my bladder.

"You two look like you've been dancing in the rain," Dave observed. "Don't tell me your shower broke again Tuck."

"I didn't want to ruin your rope work."

Dave looked down at me. Down at my bare legs. "Except for the half you sliced clean off."

"Yeah that part was shit," Tucker said.

"No other reason?"

Dave and Tucker eyed each other. They had matching expressions I knew to be barely restrained smiles, but which a bystander would probably interpret as constipation.

"Welp," Tucker said, ending the standoff. "Thanks, as always."

Inside, Dave stopped to unlace his boots. It was a bit of a ritual for him. I tried to dash off to the bathroom while he did--figuring that even if I couldn't wipe, it was still better than peeing on the carpet--but Dave caught me by one chicken wing.

"Where do you think you're going? When my wife comes home after fucking another man, I want to see her for a hot second. Also, your feet are dirty."

Boots set away, he scooped me up by the hips. I wrapped my legs around his waist out of long habit, but tonight the bouncy ride into our house was uncomfortable in a number of places.

He sat us on the loveseat. It was a fabric upholstery that was not going to air-dry if Dave didn't hurry things up.

I tried to say, "Let me go pee, first," but Tucker had adjusted the gag at least as deep as Dave's original settings. Even echoing in my own head the words were unintelligible.

"Have a good time?" Dave asked me like he always did, all earnest eye contact.

I nodded. A subtle tension in him relaxed, settling us a little deeper into the cushions.

Dave's hand slid down my back, slipping along the sweaty line of my spine. He dipped it between my cheeks, squeezing my bum on his way to flutter at my pussy. Something I'd set aside perked back up at his touch. It wasn't my arousal, that had been there the whole time. It was my need--I got to cum now, right?

Only if you want to pee the furniture--and your husband, observed a practical voice inside me.

Dave, who couldn't hear it, asked, "So, did he notice?" His fingers flickered at the petals of my sticky opening, in case I could have somehow misunderstood him.

With a bit of a blush, I nodded.

Dave's fingers traced our combined slipperiness a little ways back. I winced at their touch on my bootyhole. "I see," Dave said, "let's leave that alone then."

I wasn't sure how to say, let me go I need to pee, with my eyes, but, thank you, I managed.

"I'm a little disappointed," Dave confided. "Thought he'd come up with something better."

"He did," I hummed, letting the air buzz out my nose. It was almost intelligible.

Dave seemed to understand. He looked positively delighted. "Really? What then..." His fingers roamed like I was a cleverly wrapped present.

"You know what? Maybe I shouldn't ruin the surprise." Dave reached between us. After a little shifting on both our parts, his fly was splayed and his cock was out. It was hard and ready and absolutely heaven laid along my spread pussy. My husband reached down and maneuvered it. It was even nicer sliding along, and exciting positioned right at my entrance, even if my clit was feeling a little forgotten.

"So this is just mine in here?" Dave asked, teasing at my opening.

I nodded. He pulled my hips to his. Cum, and my wetness, and probably some lube, they all conspired to slip him inside me.

It was just the homecoming a woman could ask for. At least, it was, until the head of his cock tried to pop my bladder like a balloon.

I crumpled forward, just barely aware enough not to bonk foreheads with Dave. He must have read ecstasy in my flailing, because he rocked me again. I would have peed if I could. But the sharp jabbing from behind where I felt the pressure was throwing me out of whack, everything tightened up defensively. I couldn't seem to let it loose, and a third pummeling was coming--

"Uh-uh-uh!" I cried behind the gag.

Dave stopped right away. He understood that one.

Gingerly, I leaned back so we could look at each other. Dave's hand slid up my back to support me behind the shoulders. His other one touched where our bodies met. "He didn't hurt you here, did he?" Dave asked.

I shook my head.

Dave went for my gag. It bit harder for a moment, the strap had to pull tighter to slip the pin out. I felt the catch of the latch through my teeth, sucked in air through my nose so I could announce, 'I have to pee!' the second I was free.

"Wait--" Dave said. The latch didn't open. I tried to scream at him anyway, but he didn't seem to hear.

Fingers trailed up from my pussy, over my mons, became a curious and pressing palm. Dave found my bladder--which must have felt to him like a smuggled rock--he looked at me questioningly, and pushed.

I almost passed out. My husband grinned. Now he unclipped my gag.

"Can you hold it?" he asked.

I shook my head. Then remembered I had the power of speech back. "I really have to go."

"Try to hold it. I'm close. You're so wet, Izzy."

My desire to be good for my husband was strong, as was my overwhelming need to be used, and this was ticking those boxes. The mechanics though-- His cock massaging my poor bladder was agony, and not just that, I began to worry what was happening inside me. A terrible image of a balloon popping in slow motion fixed itself in my mind. The moment of its splitting spiderwebbing outward--

"Don't go all the way in," I suggested.

"Like this?"

"Yeah, does that work?"

Dave didn't answer. He was focused on guiding my hips, which was clear enough.

"I have to cum deep," Dave said soon enough, his breathing shallow.

"You have to?"

His fingers tightened around my hips, biting. Don't tease me right now, they warned.

"I'll pee," I warned.

"No you won't." Dave pulled me in, thrusting up to meet me. We cried out for very different reasons.

----------

"See?" said my husband, in the immediate aftermath of his orgasm.

"Dave, please."

"Alright. You have been good." Dave linked his hands behind my butt and stood up, still inside me. The master bathroom was up the stairs. Each one was a new stomach-turning jolt--but I was too close to surrender now.

Dave dumped me in the tub. I gave the toilet a longing look over the porcelain rim, but I knew enough not to argue. "You're going to watch, aren't you?" I said grudgingly. Dave smirked, and nodded.

I'd never peed in front of my husband before. Though I figured I'd done far more embarrassing things. Still, my bladder was shy enough that I had to coax it to let go, even with all the pressure it was holding back.

Just as the hot burn of my internal plumbing announced my success, Dave said, "Wait!" with an urgency that shut the whole thing right down. A single, solitary, spurt of pee plipped from between my legs to splash loudly on the tub base. Somehow, that was even more humiliating.

"What?!" I demanded. Glaring up at Dave to find he had his phone pointed at me.

"I want to send Tucker a picture."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Now pose."

There was a time and a place to reign in a man like Dave. And for me, it had sailed quietly by years ago. At least my sigh echoed satisfyingly, amplified by the tub.

Dave's phone made a clicking noise. He inspected the photo. "You could spread your legs a little more."

"Just send it."

He narrated his texting for my benefit. "Nice try buddy."

"Can I go now?" I whined, not sure why I even bothered to ask. The balloon in my groin wasn't going to ask permission before it burst.

Dave knelt at the edge of the tub. He smiled at me, the same loving way he does when we wake up together. Reaching in, he traced his way up my inner thigh. I let him spread me, even looked down to watch his fingers advance--something I'd been avoiding, I didn't need to know what a mess I looked down there. But it wasn't that bad. Certainly not enough to distract me from the rising thrill of Dave's fingers inching closer. I opened wider so he could play at the crease of my thigh, where sensation crossed over from loving to lurid. He didn't stay there long. He went right for my clit.

An evening's worth of need was coiled up in my little button. Dave's practiced touch was like the flicking of that spring. I buzzed, ready to pop, if only I wasn't so knotted up by the other primed mechanism inside me.

I whimpered, words jumbled inside it. "You want me to go? Like this?"

"Go right ahead," said Dave. "If you want me to stop."

"I didn't think that'd bother you," I gasped, teetering on the verge of--I wasn't sure what.

The way Dave looked at me, it made me feel beautiful. You'd never have guessed from those eyes that I was a sweaty, leaking, mess. "I'm not squeamish," he said. "But I do want to watch you squirm."