This work is copyrighted to the author ©
2018. Please do not remove the author
information or make any changes to this story.
All rights reserved.
-----
WARNING: This is exclusively a Bestiality story. Some of the sex depicted is consensual, some
not. I don't condone it. I'm not advocating it. I may or may not even like it. It's simply a fantasy, a product of my
imagination, and thus, completely fictitious.
Before you read it, please note the following:
* If you are under eighteen, do not read
this story. It’s against the law!
* If you have a hard time separating fantasy
from reality, do not read this story!
* If it’s illegal in your jurisdiction to
read nonconsensual sex stories, don’t read this story!
* If acts involving urination and/or
defecation offend you, do not read this story!
Support
Nifty: If you can afford to cough up a few bucks, the good folks who make this
all happen would be much obliged.
=======================================================================================================================================
Dog Whisperer
By
Off the
Rail
“With
his face smashed up flat against the bars and his eyes blown open like he’d
swallowed a grenade, he hung there suspended, midair, tied to Bane’s cock with
a glazed-over, faraway look of a boy set
adrift in a sea of infinite bliss ….”
For Picture
(Cut & Paste)
www.asstr.org/files/Authors/HumblePie/Pics/DOG-WHISPERER.JPG
Chapter
1
“Bedtime, Mikey!”
”Okay
Mom,” Michael called back, putting aside the glue and the parts of the model
plane he was working on. Turning around
in his seat, he looked down at the foot of his chair where Fluffy, the family
poodle sat waiting for him to finish.
“Hey, boy, you ready for bed?”
Wagging
his tail, Fluffy looked wildly excited, hardly able to contain his
anticipation. “Oh yes you are, yes you are,” Michael teased, leaning down
nuzzling up again his snout. His giddy
smile was bursting with exuberance, while Fluffy’s
tail thumped wildly against the floor, showing his excitement for what he knew
would be coming next.
Standing
up he turned off the bedroom light to ready himself
for bed. Then under the soft, warm glow
of the night light beside his bed, he quickly stripped down, pulled back the
covers and jumped into bed followed by Fluffy.
A jump Fluffy made with a single bound from 5 feet back, landing square
atop the pillow upon which Mikey rest his head. Leaning up, he reached out to cradle Fluffy’s head in his hands and kissed him softly upon his
snout.
“That
a boy,” he cooed and ruffled his ears while looking down beneath him. His cock, already poking out several inches
from its sheath, glowed a molten red and was crowned
by a glistening droplet that had bubbled up from the pointed tip. The sight warmed Mikey’s
belly and brought his own cock to life.
Rising up as if from sleep, his cock stretched and yawned and yearned
for the moment he’d feel the thrill of his own release once Fluffy had managed
to cram all 7 plus inches up his ass.
Yes,
that’s right, 7 inches is a venerable package for any dog to carry much less a
poodle. But then again, Fluffy wasn’t
your typical poodle. A Poodle and Lab
mix, Fluffy was a 2 foot tall, plump 85 pound bundle of mongrelized poodle
hair. Colored a grungy brown with a pair
of inordinately large canines protruding up from his lower jaw, he was an
eyeful only Michael could love. But more
importantly, he was his buddy, his nighttime bed mate who among other things
had one hell of a huge libido. Like
insatiable, as hungry as a slot machine into which Michael would endlessly
dropping in the coins night after night.
Still
in all, Fluffy was first and foremost the family dog. And as such, it was only natural that his
mother would insist he be kept clean and well groomed. A duty Mickey gladly accepted, taking great
care to insure his coat was combed out weekly, his “privates” scrubbed clean bi-weekly, and fine tuned nightly after their nightly
fuck. ‘Fine tuned’, as in
cleaning up the post-coital mess that if left unattended would soil the sheets
and arouse his mother’s suspicions when she woke him up in the morning.
The
same held for Fluffy’s overall cleanliness. An issue of particular importance tonight
when taken outside to do his late night duty, Fluffy refused to go out into the
torrential downpour, choosing instead to nuke the porch. A matter that complicated Michael’s life
ten-fold, not to mention make this evenings post-coital bathing an even more
onerous task. A chore that was going to
pollute his taste buds and linger on his breath the night long, but a must-do
task nonetheless.
“Oh
well, what’s got to be done, has got to be done,” he huffed a sigh of resignation,
ruffling Fluffy’s ears in effort to reassure
him. “Else wise, mom’s going to be
mad as a hatter when she spots the smudgy sheets in the morning.”
“Understand
me buddy? Huh? Do you, do you, you big lug?” He said,
ruffling his ears, while Fluffy sat and studiously listed as if understanding
his every word. His eyes, his ears, the
expression on his face finely tuned in.
That is until he heard Michael’s mom, Marge, walking down the hall
toward her bedroom. Fluffy’s
nightly cue that it was now time to broaden the lines of communication with his
bitch. Only now in a far more basic,
primal way to satisfy his urge to fuck him.
“Night
Honey Bunny,” his mother called out as she turned off the hall light before
closing her bedroom door.
“Night,
mom,” he called back, then again looking down at Fluffy, “You ready big boy,
ready as me?” he whispered with a grin that added a few watts of brightness to
the night light.
“Come
on, Fluffy,” he followed as he turned around and flopped down on his pillow
head down, ass up. Fluffy hadn’t to see
more. In a flash, he jumped atop Mikey’s ass, wrapped his paws around his hips, and in less
time than it took Mikey to wipe the smile off his
face, Fluffy powered-up, took his paw off the clutch, and drove Mikey head-on into headboard. CLUNK!!
“Ahhh, shit! Easy
boy, easy,” he vented a muffled cry, suffering the trauma of Fluffy’s claws and the brutal, rapid fire assault on his
ass.
“Awk!
Ouch! Ow-ow-ow!”
he rasped gratingly as Fluffy punched out a plum-size hole down to his core
with blitzkrieg speed. Like a knife
through butter, he powered through the indefensible, while his claws, dug in,
hauled in his bitch and rode roughshod over him, using cock and the full weight
of his 85 pounds to bully and batter him into submission.
It
was a mugging, plain and simple. Every
fucking stroke up his ass felt akin to a punch in the gut, steeling away is
breath, leaving him gasping for air adrift a sea of pain for
“Aaaaaaah!" he blissfully sighed, basking in the sweet
aftermath. “That a boy,” he purred, once
Fluffy had turned around, his peach-sized knot tying them together butt to
butt. And that’s how they’d remain,
locked in their nightly bond savoring the pleasures that come after an
earth-shaking fuck.
But
that’s how it went. First the
insufferably painful assault on his ass, followed by the pleasures that would
be his once he’d given up, given in and surrender to the suffering. The pleasure and the pain! The two sides of the same
coin. The two contrary, yet
interconnected forces that pulled upon him with equal gravity. No matter the enormity of the anguish he
suffered, it all occupied the same place in his head. A place that both stoked his fear, and by
equal measure, it was also a place he wanted to be - needed to be - to make him
feel whole. Full stop!
------
We’ve met the boy, his dog, and now it’s time we meet
mom . . .
“Good
morning, Lamp Chop. You look like you
had a great nights sleep.”
“Yes
mom,” he replied, his breath smelling like shit. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, he dove
head-long into his morning bowl of flakes, intentionally avoiding his morning
kiss.
“What? No kissies and huggies this morning?” Marge, his mother, feigned a pout.
“Please
mom, I’m trying to eat,” he managed to cough up through a mouthful of soggy
flakes.
“Did
you clean up, all around, scrub your teeth too?
Use the water Pick to wash out the crud between your cheeks and gums?”
“No,
mom, after I eat,” he grudgingly replied, a tad agitated by the pestering and
prying.
“That’s
fine dear,” she managed to concoct a smile while her nostrils continued to
sniff the air, trying to discern the origins of that obnoxious smell.
“You
know, you could have at least taken the time to use the bidet before coming
down for breakfast. I mean,
a bath or shower I could understand. But the bidet? My
heavens, no matter how hurried, it takes but a moment.”
“Jeez
mom, will you quit it!” he huffed in exasperation. “I told you, those are for girls.”
“Oh,
its Mr. Mister this morning is it? Last
time I checked, a dirty butt is a dirty butt.”
“Besides,
it gets the job done, doesn’t it?” She
asked in earnest, yet sounding every bit the meddlesome mother who was
venturing into a territory she didn’t belong.
But that was Marge Dunwoody. Call
her a doting mother, or if you like, a brain-dead twit who hadn’t a clue. You can because she was all of those things
and more, and you never knew which one you were going to get until she opened
her mouth.
“. . . Besides,” she then thought to add, “that’s why I bought it.
For a quick fresh-up when in a hurry,” she said, now smiling dopily and
sounding more the brain dead twit than the misguided mother.
“Yeah,
well, I guess so, but . . . ,” he coughed up, wanting to argue but then thought
better. “Okay, I’ll think about it,” he
warily relented in hopes of quieting her up.
“And
what about Fluffy . . .?”
Mom! Please!
Dogs don’t use the bidet. Now,
shush, I’m trying to listen.” He said with his eyes fixed on the news program
playing on the TV across the way.
“Don’t
be fresh. I know dogs don’t use the
bidet. That wasn’t what I was asking
about and you know it,” she said, sounding a tad perturbed over his having
purposely evaded her question. Not the
sort of thing she’d normally let ride, and was about to pursue it further when
Fluffy nudged her, wanting to be fed.
“Good
morning pretty boy. You look so happy
and content this morning,” she ruffled his ears, sounding as bubbly as a girl
20 years her younger.
“You’re
my sweetie, oh yes you are . . ,” she
pampered and babied him before again turning her attentions back on her son
whose continued avoidance of her question was getting a bit under her skin.
“Well,
mister-I’m-not-talking, are you going to tell me or just sit there like an old
stick in the mud?” she continued to prod and pester as she rubbed Fluffy along
his rear flanks, prompting him to spin round and offered his raised tail for
her to scratch.
“Oh my!” She glowed as she eyeballed the
‘nuts-n-bolts’ beneath. “Well, I guess
that answers my question, huh, pretty boy.
Everything is rosy pink and spic-n-spanny as a
baby’s fanny,” she grinned with a mischievous glint in her eye, knowing as she
did all that went into keeping his fanny so spit shiny clean.
“My
Mikey takes such good care of you, oh yes he does . .
.” she cooed, she teased, “only you look pretty hungry. You must have spent a lot of energy last
night.”
“Honestly,”
she stressed, “with all the horseplay - the silly rough and tumble games you
boys play before bed - it’s a wonder you’ve yet to die of starvation.”
“Are
you going to feed him or should I?” she looked up to ask her son, only to find
his eyes still glued to the TV.
Looking
to see what was consuming all of his attention, she saw a man dressed like a
cowboy and holding the reins of a white spotted Appaloosa who called himself a
horse whisperer. According to the tall,
lean cowboy, he possessed the unique ability to talk to horses. A claim he was well prepared to defend when
asked by the reporter standing close by why folks shouldn’t think this all a
scam.
“Tell
me, Cowboy Jake,” asked the woman reporter holding a mic
up to his face. “What is it about the
way you talk to your horse that differs from how my unenlightened twelve year
old daughter speaks to hers?”
The
gentleman cowboy had a good laugh at that.
“Good question,” he replied, quickly taking on a more serious demeanor
as he spoke about where the differences lie.
Explaining that it was his in-depth understanding of those differences
on the physical level, and more importantly, on the subliminal level that he
alone was a tune to. The singular gift
belonging to him alone, and gave voice to the previously unheard.
“If
a horse prefers oats over barley, your daughter might not be able to discern
that, whereas I can. No trial and error,
no hit and miss. They tell me and I respond directly to their wants, needs and
desires.”
“It
works the other way around as well. If
I’m uncomfortable with his gait, I just tell him and he endeavors to meet my
wants, needs, and desires in a like manor.”
“You
use the word ‘tell’ as if horses can actually understand the mechanics of our
language,” the lady reported followed up, her question spurring the interest of
Michael’s mom who was quick to add an exclamation point to the reporters
pronounced skepticism.
“Gotcha!!”
she smirked like a cat with a mouthful of canary.
“Well
you see, Ma’am, it’s like this,” Cowboy Jake replied. “Plain and simple, they can and do talk. And if you know how to listen they will tell
you all you need to know. Not only that
but you’ll find them remarkably articulate as well. You’ll not see their lips forming the words,
‘I want oats’, but I can read their wants as clearly as if they had.
“Allow
me to demonstrate, he then said, turning toward the white spotted
Appaloosa. “This beautiful animal is
named Duke and belongs to Mrs. Jones who has secured my services to help settle
him. As she can verify, we’ve never met
before.”
“Yes,
that’s true,” a woman’s voice could be heard from behind the camera.
“Why
thank’ya mam,” he tipped
his cowboy hat toward the women standing off camera. “Now watch!
He then followed while combing his fingers through Duke’s mane. “Duke, tell the nice lady how old you are,”
he instructed, and the horse responded by striking the ground with his hoof
four times. “You’re four, is that right
big boy?” To which the horse nodded his
head and curled his lips as if speaking.
“You
like your oats don’t you boy?” He then asked, and amazingly, the horse nodded
to the affirmative.
“My,
he does sound convincing.” Marge was
quick to brush aside her initial skepticism.
“You know, in a way, that sounds a lot like you, Mikey. Only you don’t talk to horses, you talk to
dogs, like Fluffy. Which to me is pretty
much the same, and while the two of you communicate in ways I’ll never
understand, no one can deny it bonds the two of you together as tightly as
twins. I bet he makes good money selling
a service like that.”
“Think
so, mom?” Mikey asked through a mouthful of soggy
flakes.
“Oh
yeah, it kind of makes him a star too.
You knew, with pictures in the paper, talk show interviews, the whole
lot. He could name his price, I’m sure.”
“A star!”
Now that was a word that caught his attention. For a 17 year old about to graduate with a 2,0
GPA without a prospect in sight, the possibility he might be able to earn a
living doing what he loved to do, and become a “star” too, Well now.
That lit up his world like a flood-light lighting up night sky.
“Gee,
mom, imagine me, Michael Dunwoody, the dog whisperer! It sounds so cool! Do you think I should talk with the school
counselor about it? Maybe he can help me
find someone with an interest in hiring someone like me. You think?”
“Mikey the
dog whisperer!”
Marge lit up with a smile. “Oh my, that
does sound nice. But you needn’t ask
your counselor. Why not go see Mrs.
Olson, the owner-operator of ‘Safari Kingdom Pet Emporium’ on you way back from
school. She always has a sign in the
window needing some sort of help or another.”
“Gee-whiz,
Mom, thanks.
That’s a great idea. I’ll take
along the letter of recommendation from Mr. Green.”
“Absolutely,
and don’t forget to dress smartly. First
impressions are important you know. Oh,
and please! Your breath! Try the water-pick, or the plunger or
whatever it takes . . . Please!
------------------
Michael
stood outside the
Entering
the shop he found Edith Olson behind the counter having just sold a canary to a
lady customer. “Good afternoon, Mrs.
Olson. My name is Michael Dunwoody and I
would like to apply for a job.” He then
added a smile meant to win over her heart.
“Why
of course, young man. May I ask your
age?”
“Yes,
ma’am, I’m 17. But I have a work permit,
and as I graduate next week, I’m looking to set out on the right foot. I’ve also have a letter of recommendation
from Mr. Green,” he told her, handing her the letter.
“Well,
I’m certain this letter expresses nothing but the highest regards for your
achievements,” she said without bothering to read it. “But what I’m most interested in is why you
wish to work here?”
“Oh
golly, Ma’am, I want to work here because it’s perfect for me. I love pets, dogs the most. I love being around them. I love taking care of them. I like buddying-up
with them like the best of friends should.
But must importantly, I know how to talk to them.”
“Talk
to them? She asked, seemingly caught a bit off balance. “Yes, of course, everyone does. But I suspect you meant to say you know how
to get them to do what it is you want them to do.”
“Yes
ma’am, but to me it’s more in the way of a collaborative relationship in which
we both try to meet the needs of the other.
If he wants a lick of my ice cream cone, then we sit down and talk about
it until both our needs are met.”
“Well
that’s interesting. You actually hear
what they’re saying, do you?”
“Yes
ma’am. I’m a dog whisperer. I’m not a professional or anything like
that. But one day I will be, maybe even
one of the best, a star!”
“Oh
my heavens young man, such high expectations.
But a dog whisperer?” she again asked, looking rather puzzled.
On
the face of it, she thought his claim to owning such a unique ability was a nothing
less than naïve, immature, if not speaking directly to his lagging mental
acuity. But given his small,
diminutive, all skin-and-bones stature, she suspected it was probably due more
to his lacking physical maturity than his aptitude.
“Well,
I can’t confess to knowing much of anything about that young man, but if our
star-to-be doesn’t mind starting out small and mucking around in the trenches
with an old shopkeeper like me, then welcome aboard. I’m pleased to have you.”
“Wow! Holy smoke!
Good golly, thank you ma’am, you won’t regret it. You’re going to have the happiest, most
satisfied dogs in all the world, I promise.”
“Very well then.
Now, if you would go out around back you’ll find the shelter where we
house our pets for the night. That’s
where you’ll meet Mr. Gomer. Victor is
the gentleman who manages the shelter and cares for our pets. Like the eight scallywags you see in the
front window along with the other dozen scallywags we rotate in and out
daily. Those are the dogs you will be
helping Victor care for. That would
includes tending to their feeding, cleaning, exercising, picking up after them
and what have you.”
“Mind
you, they can be a raucous bunch. More
than enough for two workers, so if you don’t mind the hard work, Mr. Gomer will
get you started.
---------
Chapter
4
Work
Begins
The
dog shelter around the back was a white with red trim building built to look
like a small house. With a gabled roof,
skylights and windows, flower pots on the sill included, it looked quite the
charmer. Then when you add in the
fenced-in doggy playground that fronted the 20 by 20 shelter, the facility made
quite the idealized setting.
However,
quaint as this little house appeared on the outside, inside was an entirely
different matter. Not in a bad way, it
just looked so run of the mill, Kennel-like, with rows of cages lining the
walls, a grooming table and a cement basin embedded in the floor for bathing
the dogs. It also had a strong stench
when the dropping hadn’t been picked up, as well as a small office from which
Mr. Gomer emerge pulling up his suspenders and wiping the perspiration from his
brow when Michael called to see who was there.
“Hello? Mr. Gomer.
Is anyone home?”
“Yeah
boy, I hear you,” he grumbled, like the grumpy and withered old fart who had
already worked well beyond the years when politeness mattered. “You here to pick up
Blackie?”
“Blackie?”
“Yeah,
boy, that mean bastard over in the front cage.”
“No,
I’m your new helper. I’m here to work,”
he said while peeking in to see for himself the “mean bastard” inside. Only the bubbly, tail wagging black
“Work,
huh? Well I hope you can pull you weight
better than that lazy fart you’re replacing,”
“Yes,
sir, I don’t mind hard work, and I love working with dogs,” he said, beaming a
huge smile.
“Huh! Well we’ll see. Starting now I guess, since I’ve got to leave
you along for a bit because I got me a doctor’s appointment on account of my
hip. It’s been acting up pretty bad, so
you’re going to have to work through the schedule on you own till I get back.
“Here’s
the schedule,” he then said, handing him a clipboard. “And there’s the clock,” he then pointed to
the clock on the wall. “And over there
are the scrubbers, towels and the pail to clean up the droppings. So you better get to it.”
“Yes, sir.
What if the phone rings? Do you
want me to answer it?”
“The
phone doesn’t ring here. The calls come
through the shop and Mrs. Olson tells me.
Besides, I told her I’d be out on account of my appointment so she
hasn’t a whole lot to say. That, and the
fact she can’t leave the store unattended means you’re on your own.”
“No
problem, Mr. G, I’ll get it done,” he followed, perusing the schedule until a
matter of importance came to mind. “Mr.
Gomer, sir. The schedule says I’m to
clean the floor, bathe the dogs, manage the scheduled outside playtimes, and at
closing time, bring back the dogs from inside the shop. But it doesn’t say anything about Blackie”
“That’s
because he’s a special order. A dog we
got for a guy who wanted to buy a hunting dog.
Only the first day out the mean bastard took a chunk out of his ass the
size of a lamb chop. Now we’re waiting
for the pound to come pick him up, no doubt to put him to sleep.”
“Oh, how horrible.
I don’t see anything wrong with him.
I think he was just scared. You
know, new place, new faces, everyone tugging on him, no one listening to
him. I bet I could get him settled in.”
Yeah,
kid? What’cha
got that I ain’t got.
A magic wand stuck up your ass, or maybe it’s just your shit always
comes out smelling like roses?”
“No,”
Michael cracked a smile. “But I can have
a talk with him and try to work it out.”
“Talk
to him? Shit! Good luck with that, boy. But if you find you have the time, have at
it. Just don’t let him out. Got me?”
“Yes,
sir, I’ll be careful with him, promise.”
“Good! Now that you’ve been warned, I’ve got to get
going. I’ll be back before closing.”
“Talk
to him?” Mr. Gomer
grumbled under his breath as he hobbled his way out the door. “Just my luck,” he sighed, sounding a bit
peeved. “I need help, competent help,
and they send me another freaking dimwit who’s even dumber than these know-nothing
dogs.”
-------
Blackie:
The adventure Begins.
It
was approaching closing time when Michael completed the list of scheduled
tasks. With all the dogs clean, fed and
set for the night, he turned his attention to Blackie. The big black
Kneeling
down on all fours in front of the cage he reached in to ruffle his ears. “You okay, boy?” he asked him, resulting in
Blackie’s heightened excitement as evidenced by his increased hopping and
dancing about, as well the sudden emergence of the shiny red tip of his cock
from its sheath.
“Oh
yeah, you’ve a happy fella, I can see that,” he ran
his hand along his flanks.
“What’s
that, boy? You need a hug? He spoke to him as if expecting an answer,
and more surprising yet, the big Lab responded with an antsy whine as if he
had.
“What’s
that? You need to know that there’s
someone who cares about you?” he asked, now finding Blackie’s building
excitement spreading through him as well.
“Yeah,
well, I can’t let you out because Mr. Gomer told me not to. But if you want I can go in so we can
buddy-up for a bit and talk.”
“But
you’ve got behave. Promise me,
buddy?” He then asked as Blackie’s antsy
whining and dancing about reached a fevered pitch.
“Yeah?” He answered himself. “Okay, I’m coming, I coming, buddy,” he responded
excitedly as he hurriedly unlatch the cage door. A minute more and he was all set to crawl in
when he saw Blackie pee on the floor. In
his excitement he had let loose a small yellow puddle. Though the splash wasn’t so large as to
prohibit his entry, it was enough for him to worry about what his mother would
have to say when she got a whiff of his smelly shorts.
At
first he thought to bring a towel along with him to clean it up, but as all the
clean towels were already used up and sitting in the bucket soaked with piss,
there wasn’t much more for him to do but to remove his shorts instead.
“And,
why not?” he
thought, “I’ve still got my underpants on, and even Fluffy knows my butt
isn’t on the menu when it’s covered up.”
So
he did, and after discarding his smart khaki shorts he quickly scurried in to
give Blackie the hugging embrace he so desperately needed. Only as his butt passed threw the door, the
gate lock lever snagged the waist band of his underpants, pulling them down and
over his rump. But worse yet, it pulled
the door shut behind him, the lever locked in position.
It
had all happened so fast, so quickly, he hardly had to time to consider his
circumstance before Blackie hopped over top of him to face his rear. Then just as quickly, Blackie jumped atop his
ass, and with claws dug in deep, he pulled his bitch in. All of it happening before he could react or
do anything to deter the beast who, now in position, arched his back, powered
up those massive thighs and struck like a lightening bolt, driving all 8 +
inches of that bloated monster down to his core.
“Ugh!”
he huffed, expelling the last of the air still trapped in his lungs. Breathless, windless, his mouth frozen open
in awe, there was nothing to be done but hold on for the ride. And oh, what a painful, gut retching ride it
was too. Starting on
the first powerful stroke that, like a sledgehammer, drove that spike through
the fluted rim of his anus with reckless disregard to all but his want to
satisfy his primal urge. Each violent
thrust executed with all the precision of a great machine, only this particular
machine exhorted its exhaust from out his snout.
He
was immersed in a fog of pain, his only lifeline, the electrifying feeling of
that pummeling cock stroking that sweet spot, that special spot that caused him
to struggle just to catch his breath. A
feeling that was growing all the more intense as that rutting dog built up
steam, pummeling faster and faster for 3-5-7 minutes and until, at last, those
deep guttural rumbling turned to snorts and grunts as he shot a torrent up his
ass - A shot that came with ferocious kick and the crossover spark that
triggered a blast of cum of his own.
It
took over 30 minutes for that peach-sized knot to finally pop free. And when it had, it was accompanied by a
gushing geyser of cum that landed squarely in that puddle of piss, increasing
the volume of that smelly swamp by a factor of two. It was a white and yellow putrid dump of
disgust, but worst yet, he knew it was a matter that couldn’t be left to
stand. Like never,
and especially not now, when locked in the cage with the dog bare ass
naked. Worse yet, without a towel or
bucket in hand, how could he possibly explain it away?
He
was at a loss as to what to do. All he
knew was that he dare not be found locked in a cage
with the evidence of his misdeed lying in a puddle on the floor. The consequences of leaving things as they
were, for Mr. Gomer to see, would be the end of
him. So, with nothing left to do, he
heaved a sigh and fell back on his usual refrain . . . “Oh well, there’s
nothing much to be done about it now.
“What’s got be done has gotta be done!”
Later,
they lay at rest on the floor. With
Blackie half sprawled out over top Michael’s back in post-coital bliss, he
looked to be dreaming about his two-legged bitch. Whereas Michael, very much awake, was
thinking about what was going to say when Mr. Gomer returned. Thus far, the “what” had escaped him, but as
it turned out he really didn’t need an answer as Mr. Gomer, as old men tend to
do, filled in the blanks for himself.
“Damn,
boy what in the hell are you doing in there?’ Mr. Gomer asked. With his face smashed flat to the floor by
the weight of the dog, Michael rolled his eyes up to see a visible mystified
Mr. Gomer standing before him with his hands on his hips.
“Cleaning!”
he replied as Blackie again stood upright, freeing up Michael from he
post-coital bondage.
“Cleaning? Without your pants?”
“No
sir, I’ve got them,” he replied, holding up his underpants.
“I’ll
be damned if you don’t!” He sighed with
relief, and as if dumb to the fact that he’d found him buried naked beneath he
dog.
“Shoot! Sorry about that boy, I was beginning to
suspect the worst. Well, come on, let me
get you outer there sonny boy. Don’t wantcha catching cold,” he said, freeing up the latch then
locked Blackie in for the night.
While
waiting for Michael to put on his khaki shorts, he wanted to ask him how he had
managed to do any cleaning without a towel or bucket. But Mr. Gomer - a practical man but a bit on
the short side of brilliant - quickly lost sight of all that when he saw
Blackie licking his chops, looking for all the world like a dog who’d just
helped himself to a 5 lb. rump roast.
“Damn
boy, I don’t know how you done it,” he said in amazement, “but that mutt looks
fit to nursemaid a toddler.”
-------
Reaping
the Rewards
The
next day Michael arrived at work early.
He looked bright and chipper, if not a bit bowlegged thanks to Blackie
and Fluffy, but eager and raring to go nonetheless. As he entered the yard
behind the shop he saw Mr. Gomer outside the shelter talking to Mrs. Olson and
another gentleman he’d not met as yet.
“Good
morning, Michael, “Mrs. Olson greeted him.
“I’d like you to meet Mr. Davies, the gentleman who had purchased
Blackie. He’s come to take him back
home.”
“Really?”
he screeched out jubilantly. “How wonderful!
You’re doing the right thing, Mr. Davies. Blackie isn’t a mean dog, not at all. He was just scared and felt like no one was
listening to him.”
“Well,
apparently you listened,” the very appreciative Mr. Davies pat him upon the
shoulder. “From all I can see he looks
an entirely different dog. And from what
Mr. Gomer has told me, I have you to thank for that.”
“Oh,
you needn’t thank me. All he needed was
someone to talk to. You know, to listen
to him and work things out.”
“Well
kudos to you young man. You did a
splendid job and ought to be proud.”
“No
problem, sir. It really was all my
pleasure,” he beamed as the two of them shook hands, looking quite proud of
himself, if not feeling a bit martyred by the pain still radiating up from his
ass.
After
Mr. Davies and Blackie departed, Mrs. Olson smothered him in her bosom. “Good job young man. I’m proud of you. I won’t ask how you managed to work the
miracle, but it certainly merits giving that dog whispering business a second
look. In fact, if you’re up for it, I’m
thinking about doing just that, starting with my neighbor, Mrs. Abernathy. The unfortunate woman recently inherited her daughter’s
dog when her granddaughter developed an allergic reaction to his fur. He’s a big dog but quite friendly with those
he knows, while on the other hand, he’s quite aggressive toward those he
doesn’t. And as we live on a busy
street, he’s continuingly barking and threatening to snap at folks walking past
the daylong.
“Obviously
that poses quite a problem for her, and she’s willing to pay handsomely for the
help. I’m hoping that might be you. Given your talents I think you’re the perfect
person to ask to help her. Plus, in
never hurts to lend a helping hand to a woman of standing in the community,
especially one who is the editor of the Middletown Gazette.”
“I’d
love to, Mrs. Olson. It sounds like a
great opportunity, and my type of dog. A
dog in a new place surrounded by new faces who feels put upon and hasn’t a soul
to talk to.”
“Very
well, then I shall ask her if she can bring him in this afternoon.”
-----
The
Plot Thickens
By
“Are
you Michael Dunwoody? She asked, taking his hand. “Yes, ma’am, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“My,
what a polite young man, and quite photogenic too,” she smile, then leaned back
and framed a squire with her fingers as a photographer might in framing a
picture. “Oh yes, quite photogenic. Mrs. Olson should start thinking about adding
your lovely smiling face to the ad.”
“Although
I’m beginning to wonder if dear Mrs. Olson might have underestimated the size
of my problem. Bucky
must out weigh you by the better part of 30 pounds.”
“It’s
not the size that matters, Mrs. Abernathy.”
“Oh
my, where have I heard that one before?” she giggled. “But no matter, Mrs. Olson says you up for
it, so you must be up for it. Just
promise me you won’t let the brute push you around, okay young man?”
After
her departure he placed Bucky in the empty cage once
occupied by Blackie. He responded well
to his lead, and while he didn’t push, pull or bully him around, he could tell
there was something about the dog that was different than any he’d met
before. He could see it in his steely,
unflinching eyes, and when Michael got down on all fours to “talk” with him, he
could see it in his stance that was unnervingly motionless, showing not a lick
of emotion. That is, until Michael
looked down and saw the gnarly, spider-veined length swaying to-and-fro between
his knees like a foot long Bratwurst.
“Oh
gawd,” he gulped, now knowing what that ‘talk’ with Bucky was going to mean to his ass. But that’s what he was here to do. What he’d already done countless times
before with Fluffy, then Blackie, and as he would do now with Bucky to open up a dialogue with him, the first step in
establishing a “collaborative relationship.”
Of course it was going to be hellishly painful, and yes, he’d
suffer. But he also knew that the pain
was something he had to endure if he wanted anything positive to come from
their dialogue.
That’s
just the way it worked, and in his mind’s eye it all made perfectly good
sense. But when he unlatched the cage
door to crawl in, this time sans underpants, the ‘good sense’ part of the
equation somehow didn’t add up.
Especially when he found himself nose to cock, that throbbing foot-long
monster already dribbling pre-cum on the floor beneath his chin.
His
mind wondered and his eyes moistened when he thought about his beloved Fluffy,
and what it would mean when he got a whiff of the remnants of Bucky’s sperm that would surely still be dripping from
gaping puss when he got home.
“Would
it piss him off? Or would it excite
him?” he wondered,
like it had last night when it was the remnants of he Blackie’s cum filled his
nostrils? An odor, a taste, that so inflamed
his passions that he fucked Michael three times over the course of the night,
the third time resulting in their almost getting caught. The time when ravaged by thirst, Fluffy ran
off to the kitchen to drink from his bowl, towing him along behind by his
knotted cock. All the way there, and all
the way back he scurried quickly behind like a back-peddling spider crab to
lessen the pull on his rectum, finding cover back in his room just as his
mother stepped out of the bathroom.
Yes,
it had been a long and pain-ridden night for him, as it probably would be again
tonight once Fluffy got a whiff of Bucky’s
tailings. Just the remembrance of it all
pained him as much now as it did then, but when Buck’s dripping, drooling,
throbbing cock jumped up and slapped him across the face with a wet sounding
thud, all those painful thoughts quickly gave way to the horrific reality of
the moment. A reality forced upon him
when Bucky jumped around him, fired up the powertrain and then, faster than a heartbeat, that rutting
dog struck him dead center, a hole-in-one.
And then, with his ‘hot rod’ fired up and ready, he revved her up,
popped the clutch and pushed the pedal to the metal – Vroom!
That
first stroke drove his ass and knees up off the floor, driving him forward
until his face slammed up against the metal bars. “Poof!” The impact plunged the air out of his lungs,
and 3/5ths of a second later, he was pounding him like a blackjack wielding
thug, his baton plunging down to the depths on every fucking stroke for 3, 5, 8
minutes nonstop and until, busting a nut, the brute howled like a coyote baying
at the moon.
“Talking
to him, huh, boy?” Mr. Gomer chuckled, finding him face to the floor and his
ass hung up midair, still tied to Bucky’s knot. “Now I know what you got up your ass boy, and
it don’t come out smelling like roses!”
Michael
looked up but hadn’t the words to speak.
However, the tears were now gone, and in their place was the glassy-eyed
look of contentment. Like a boy basking
in the sweet aftermath after an excruciating ordeal, savoring the pleasures
that followed once he’d given up, given in and surrender to the suffering.
-----
The
Rewards
That
night his beloved Fluffy did indeed lock on to Becky’s smell the moment Michael
waddled through the door. He hadn’t
gotten a lot of sleep, but Fluffy did manage to give him the previous night’s
allotment of cock, plus another back-peddling tow around his bedroom. His bloated peach-size knot tied-in so
tightly, it stretched out his protruding rectum to its insufferable limit.
How
he managed to survive the assault on his ass he didn’t even know. It was but a blur. What he ate, what he did, what he’d said, or
what it was about his underpants that troubled his mother. Complaining as she was about his messy undies, and if he didn’t take better care she’d haul out
the rubber pants again.
When
he arrived at work the next morning he was again taken aback by the visiting
party that awaited him. Mrs. Olson was
there, of course. As was Mr. Gomer, but
unlike Edith, he chose to stand back in the shadows quietly keeping to himself,
privately holding close to his vest all he’d seen, all that he knew.
Standing
next to Edith was Debra Abernathy with Bucky at her
side. To say she was astounded by the
transformation she saw in the dog would have putting it lightly. And when the somewhat bowlegged and slightly
hobbled Michael approached, she was giddy as a merrymaker singing his praises.
He
earned 500 bucks for that fuck which pleased Mrs. Olson all to hell, but not so
much him. The whole affair left him with
a nasty taste in his mouth and feeling a little like a cheap whore. That is, until Abernathy boldly proclaimed
she was going to do all she could to inform the world about the “
Debra
Abernathy was just the woman who could do it to. A titan in heels, she not only had the
influence and power, but had the wherewithal to push he agenda through. So no one was the least bit surprised when
later that day a reporter and photographer turned up to get the featured story
that would appear in the morning edition of the Middletown Gazette.
“A dog whisperer!
My, but that does have an intriguing, if not mysterious ring to it,
young man.” The reported, Alice McDuffy, said to Michael while scribbling down Michael’s
every word.
“Just
the sort of thing that attracts the public’s interest don’t you think, John?”
she asked her accompanying photographer who was busily seeking to capture his
image from every angle.
“You
can say that against,” the photographer laughed while flashing a picture. “This one leaves Mr. McConaughey’s
alien abduction story in the dust.”
-----
Once
Michael’s story hit the front page of the Morning paper it didn’t take long for
the deluge of inquiry to pour in. By
In
short, business was smoking! It couldn’t
have been better, and what of Michael?
Well, his good fortune continued to rain down upon him like diamonds
from the heavens. The biggest, bluest
diamond offered up to him the next morning when Mrs. Olson called him into her
office.
In
her hand she held up a can of Beefy-Boy Chunks & Gravy dog food bearing a
stylish new label. A prototype, the can
of dog food had a picture of him hugging a very contented looking Collie on the
label. The whole of it designed to go
with a new marketing campaign that featured him as the spokesman for the
product, the slogan, “I Love it!” encapsulated in the speech bubble gushing out
from his lip-licking smile.
Now
all he need do is sign the contact and 10 grand a month would be his for the
duration of the marketing campaign. Mrs.
Olson was darn right giddy over the offered, as Michael would have been if not
for that idiotic slogan that looked as if it was he who was declaring his love
for the taste of Beefy-Boy and not the Collie.
“But
Sweet Pea,” his mother tried to reassure him.
“Aren’t you always telling me how much Fluffy loves it? And didn’t you once tell me you thought it
would make a great hash to go with your potatoes?”
“Mommm!” he gasped. “Dang! It was a joke,
I was kidding!” he dismissed her remark as just another air-headed comment, a
spin-off from her bimbofied, vacuous brain. Still, she was right about one thing. It was an unparalleled opportunity he
couldn’t let pass. So with his mother
standing at his side, he signed on the dotted line.
At
home everything was turning up roses for him at well. His mother was treating him like the star he
had always dreamed of becoming. The fact
is, she pampered him silly, and nightly at dinner, she’d endlessly play the
News segment that had been broadcast on local TV, featuring him as the “Remarkable
Dog Whisperer, and his wondrous talents.”
At
work, Mrs. Olson was no less exuberant, praising him ad nauseam and catered to
his every whim. Not so with Mr. Gomer
however. He remained as adamant as ever
that Michael avail himself to every opportunity to “talk” to the dogs. All done to establish a ‘collaborative relationship’
you understand. A
relationship in which each strived to meet the needs of the other, and when
necessary, broaden the lines of communication to address those special needs
between a dog and his bitch. A
need for his service that seemed to be expanding exponentially each day, thanks
to Mr. Gomer’s keen observations and astute analysis
of the dog’s problem.
“Poor
fella, just have a look at him,” Mr. Gomer would sum
up his observations. “New place, new
faces, everyone tugging on him, no one listening to him, the poor guy really
could use a hug and a good ‘talking to’ to set him out on the right
foot.”
All
of which made sense to Michael. The dog
did look a bit unsettled and in need of a little TLC. So as far as Michael was concerned, Mr. Gomer’s observations and follow up analysis seemed pretty
solid. Where they differed was in his
prescribed remedy for the problem. A
solution that had Michael shaking in fright, wishing he’d never dreamt up all this dog whispering business. But with so much invested, and with nothing
less than his reputation at stake, there was nothing for him to do but follow
through on his commitment. Like now, as
Mr. Gomer brazenly asked him to hand over his underpants so he could give
Thunder a “good talking to.”
“Come
on, boy, crawl in and talk to the poor bastard before he explodes. See there, boy . . .,” he said, pointing at
the howling, hyper-excited caged goliath inside, his unsheathed cock already
hanging down half-way to his knees. “. . . The fuse on that bomb he’s carrying
is already lit!”
“Let’s
get to it, time's a-wasting sunny boy,” he huffed, unrelentingly persistent,
holding out his hand to take possession of his underpants. Or, as Mr. Gomer dubbed them, his “panties,’ which
he’d quickly snatch up wearing a most enigmatic grin, and then just as quickly,
handed him a jar of petroleum jelly in
exchange. A
particularly odorous jar of jelly that had been laced with bitch scent. “Here you go boy, slick ‘her’ up
good. A big glob, else wise the bout ain’t gonna be lasting the whole
nine rounds.”
“The whole nine rounds!”
The scorn cut through him like a blade.
But that was just the opening bell that came before the pounding he was
about to take. With Round 1 came the
posturing and the positioning. With
Rounds 2 thru 5 came the brutal rutting onslaught. A furious, rapid fire blitzkrieg so
overwhelming it rendered him defenseless.
Leaving him to hang on as best he could with his ass driven up midair by
his opponent’s dick, his face on the floor scrunched up against the bars in a
pool of piss.
All
bad enough, but it was the insufferable humiliation of having to endure the
slobber that rained down upon his face that truly put him in his place. A reminder of how lowly he’d fallen in Mr. Gomer’s eyes. From
Mrs. Olson’s star attraction, to a rag, a sop, for a slobbering dog.
Then
came rounds 6 thru 8 - the knotting. The rounds in which Mr. Olson let the dog out
of his cage so the dog could proudly strut back and forth down the aisle to
showcase his human bitch back peddling behind.
From one dog to the next, Michael was paraded like a plundered wench
taken as the spoils of war, and on a particularly warm and sunny day, Mr. Gomer
would even open the back door for a few rumps around the poop yard until, at
last, the bell struck announcing round 9.
The
knock out round! The round the knot
finally managed to pop free. The round
where Michael the sop, the rag, would crawl under and diligently bathe his
opponent’s nether-region until, clean of the smudge all round, his victorious
opponent would lift his rear leg to mark his territory, and then for good
measure, he’d squat . . .
“Let’s
go, boy. You can gargle and clean up the stink before you have your talk with
Gunner.”
“G-G-Gunner?”
he stammered and sputtered like an old tractor engine spewing out its foul
emissions.
“Yes
boy. New dog, new place, new faces,
everyone tugging on him, no one listening to him,” Well, you know the
story. The same as Dozer, poor devil,
the wait has just gotta be killing him. First Clash, then Thunder, now Gunner. All I can say is,
that dog in going to be in a world of hurt by the time you get around to
talking to him. That is, unless you
wouldn’t mind holding another one of those group talks for the fellas again. You
know to speed things up so Dozer doesn’t have to wait so long for his talking
to.”
“Well,
what do you say boy, huh? Up for it?
Hell, I could even throw Bane into the mix which ought to be a quadruple
shit load of fun.”
---
A
Mother’s Never-ending Wisdom
It
had been a long, hard, and brutal 8 hours of talking to the animals that
day. While he did manage to talk his way
out the tag-team cage match with Bane topping the billing, he did do Dozer and
Max by days end, making his walk home a particularly agonizing one. His ass had not been altogether turned inside
out, but as inflamed as it was, the gaping, fluted rim of his protruding anus
felt a raging bonfire gone out of control.
All the way home all he could think about was a hot bath with added
salts to help relieve the swelling, and hopefully, rid him of the bitch scent
that stuck to him like an indelible stain.
A stain that had even infiltrated his clothes, and
drew frequent comments from his mother about the curious smell that permeated
the air about him.
The
thought of that hot bath is what kept him slogging forward, with shoulders
arched back, his hands clutching his super-heated buns until reaching home
where he found his mother waiting for him with an unexpected surprise - a
surprise that was tantamount to his worse dream come true.
“Look,
Baby Cakes, it’s Bolt!” she said, bubbling with glee,
standing as she was on the porch with both Fluffy and the neighbors dog at her
side. “The Johnson’s asked us to look
after him while they’re away on vacation.”
Michael
knew Bolt, of course. He wasn’t so much
a family dog as he was a “pay for hire gunslinger,” or so he was dubbed by Mr.
Johnson, a man whose work necessitated the need for a
“bite-first-ask-questions-later” patrol dog around.
Still
in all, he was a smart, well trained dog and quick as a whip when it came to
learning new tricks too. But he was also
a dog with some serious impulse control issues as well. Like going after anyone that came never the yard,
or whenever he spotted a bitch in heat.
Just a whiff would send his unmanageability quotient rocketing skyward
maddeningly off the charts. A big
problem for a boy whose bottom was still reeking the
smell of dog cum and the bitch scent that saturated the air about him.
“Mom,
please, for goodness sakes, keep him away from me!” He
stood his distance, though regrettably, downwind of the trio, two of whom were
already sniffing the air.
“My
goodness, Lamb Chop, what in the world is your problem?” she asked, wrinkling
her nose, again getting a whiff of that most peculiar smell. “You sound like you’ve had a particularly
hard day.”
“Just
keep him away. It’s not fair to Fluffy,”
he thought to use his fuck-buddy as an excuse.
“Do you think he likes having another dog around to gobble up all the
goodies?”
“Well,
Sugar Plum, for your information the two have been getting along like the best
of pals so far. But if you foresee a
problem that I don’t, you can take them to your room to have a nice long talk
with them. Take all the time you need,
Sweetie. You know, to assure them no one
is going to favor one over the other, and that everyone has equal access to the
goodies.”
“Mom,
I could talk to that mean old dog until I was blue in the face and he wouldn’t
hear a darn word of it,” He said in a huff.
“He
isn’t mean, Cupcake, just rambunctious.
But either way, it’s for you three boys to work it out,” she followed as
she unclipped his leash setting him free.
In a single leap and a bound, Bolt had Michael’s leg wrapped up in his
front paws and began humping his leg like a sex starved chimp.
“Oh my!” Marge Dunwoody gasped though her
hand covered mouth as she watched her mortified son shuffle off toward the
house, dragging his leg behind with the humping dog still attached. And bringing up the rear was Fluffy, with his tail and his cock each wagging equally
enthusiastically.
“Well,
I guess Mr. Gomer was right,”
Marge though to remind herself of what Mr. Gomer told her on the phone. “A dog whisperer’s job is never done,
ma’am. But rest assured, your boy has got the skills, the talent and the tools to
get the job done. Just point the way and
in a minute, 2 tops, he’ll have them rambunctious horndogs
locked onto him and tied in to the conversation like chat-starved mates.”
Mr.
Gomer was certainly the knowledgeable professional, that much she felt
certain. And though much of what he had
to say was scurrilously cryptic, Marge, the ditzy blonde, saw it all as high
praise for her son’s work.
But
then again, she really didn’t need anyone to remind her of how proud she was of
him. He was a great kid who couldn’t
give enough of himself to those who needn’t him the most. Whether they had 4 legs or 2, no matter their
needs he was willing to get down in the muck and do what he must to engage in a
dialogue to help anyway he could.
Something
that was foremost on her mind as she entered the house a few moments behind the
tussling trio, catching a glimpse of the boys just as they passed through his
bedroom door. She would have liked to
follow, but thinking it best to keep out of the way, she remained where she
stood at the end of the hall with an ear to the goings on. “Just to see if everyone was playing
nicely,” she told herself, knowing as she did how ‘rambunctious’ a hound
Bolt could be.
For
what it was worth she didn’t hear much of anything other than Michael must have
been speaking in tongues. Just a mix of
incoherent babblings and a whole lot of “Ooh’s,” “Ahh’s,” and “Eeee’s,”
between. None of which made much sense
to her at all.
The
boys seemed quite tuned into it though, responding to his incoherent rumblings
with yaps and howls as if understanding every damn word of it.
Still
she stood and listened to see when the real communicating would start. And she hadn’t long to wait. A minute more and the scuffing sounds of a
playful romp between pals broke out.
Again, she couldn’t discern all that much, but from the sounds of
huffing and snorting dogs, Mikey’s squealing and the
“knocking” sounds of bodies colliding into furnishing, she hadn’t a doubt they
were having a bucket load of fun.
In
an odd sort of way it reminded her of a time when he was much younger
celebrating a birthday. When he and a
group of friends played the game Twist-n-Shout* on the living room floor, their
tangled bodies tied up in knots, squawking, squealing, groaning and grunting as
they struggled in agony to maintain their contorted positions after each spin
and turn.
“What
fun,” she muttered
dopily, and not unlike a brain-dead twit.
Still, she felt a comfort knowing the talk session was getting on so
very well. “Something good would
come of it,” she felt certain, and now feeling assured, she thought it time
to continue on to the Living Room to enjoy the comforts of that glass of wine
and the evening sitcoms.
By
the time “Tahitian Sunset” came on, that glass of wine had suddenly grown to
half a bottle. But no matter how many
glasses she had, nothing could drown out the squealing and barking and smacking
sounds of body parts that roared with a rumble throughout out the house. And by the gathering of neighborhood dogs
milling about outside the patio window, it was clear those boisterous sounds
were being heard outside the house as well.
Some were yapping, some were trying to hump a
neighborhood chum, while still others had their snouts pressed to the glass as
if sniffing out a scent.
“Sheesh!
Quiet you silly dogs,” she called out, sounding every bit the dimwit on
par with those know-nothing dogs.
Of
course the scolding did little to deter that horde of rabid dogs, but as the
hours grew late and they grow weary they vanished into the night on their
own. In fact, she was about to leave for
bed herself when at last Michael hobbled in.
Still walking bow-back with his hands latched on to his super-heated
buns, he hobbled over to the sofa and very gingerly sat down beside his mother.
“Ooo-ah,” he winched as he slowed lowered his rump atop the
sofa pillow.
“Oh,
poor baby, is your bottom hurting you?” She asked, again sounding earnest and
genuine, though still looking on dopily, and all too much like a moron who
hadn’t a clue.
“Yes
mom, a little I suppose,” he managed to croak out.”
“Oh
my, it sounds like you’re about to lose your voice,” she expressed her
concern. “All that talking has worn you
down, hum?” She asked as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders to give him a
hug. And it was only then that she
spotted a dried snails-trail of flakey film pasted to his chin.
The
crusted, opaque film of who knows what he’d eaten had seeped out from the
corner of his mouth, and because of fatigue or neglect he’d as yet wiped it
away. A problem she immediately sought
to remedy as she reached out to pick at the film to rid him of the mess. As she did, she thought to ask him about it,
but thought better when he pulled back and away, the sudden reshuffling causing
the pain ridden ass to throb.
“Mom,
please,” he said with a wince.
“Oh
dear, but you do look stiff and sore.
You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you, Pumpkin?”
“Yes
mom, its like no matter how many dogs there are for me to talk to, Mr.
Gomer always has 10 more lined up waiting their turn. It’s like never-ending, and all that work
isn’t at all easy on my knees or my back and ah, other things,” he ended
abruptly, a bit red-faced, looking away.
“Oh, my goodness.
I had no idea Mr. Gomer was such a taskmaster. Well, let’s see if I can help relieve what
ails you. Are you hungry? I can see you’ve been snacking on something,”
she said while fastidious picking at yet another one of those suspect crusted
trails that ran from the corner of his mouth down to his chin.
“I
bought you your favorite onion soup and sour dough croutons at the store
today. I know how much you love them.”
“Yes
mama, that might help,” he said with a wince while shuffling his bottom in
effort to easy the pain.
“Good,”
she beamed wide-eyed and bright, and then bounced up and went to the kitchen to
fix him a bite. For a short while she
busied herself with the preparations and when done, she set the soup along with
a card upon a tray and brought it in.
“Oh
yeah, almost forgot,” she said as she sat down beside him, placing the tray
upon his lap. “I bought you something
else today. I saw this while standing in
the checkout line and thought it was so cute I simply had to buy it to show
you.”
“Here
you go, have a look,” she said, holding out the card with a picture of a mama
chipmunk with her young one hanging on to her leg. As fat around as she was tall, she had a pair
of blue button eyes and fury brown splotches about her snout that looked like
freckles. But most striking of all was
her smile, fronted by a pair of huge buck teeth that glistened like diamonds.
She
was a funny looking roly-poly with a goofy face that had him beaming, but when
it came to that vicious little Tasmanian Devil
gangling down off her leg, well now, that was another matter entirely. The little fur ball that was one part fur and
9 parts teeth, and had all 20 of those gleaming white choppers embedded in her
leg, all but severing it in two!
“I
don’t get it, mom.” He managed to cough up, saying as much as he was asking,
seemingly a bit perplexed by the odd juxtaposition.
“Don’t
get it?” She asked,
pointing at the words captured within the speech bubble.
“Yeah,
I read it. ‘Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em’. So? What’s that
suppose to mean?”
“Well,
actually it’s kinda hard to explain,” she said in
earnest, now sounding more the meddlesome mother. “It’s one of those ‘good and the bad’ sorta things. You know, the yin and the yang, the pleasure and the pain. I mean, it’s like her baby means everything
to her. He’s more important to her than
the air she breathes, and nothing in the world gives her greater pleasure than
to tuck him in each night. But in order
to enjoy that wondrous pleasure, she had first to endure the pain he puts her
through the day long. Thus she can’t
live with him, and she can’t live without him.”
Feeling
reasonably comfortable with her answer, she sat there beaming and waiting for
the bulb in his head to light up in kind.
But it didn’t, and it wasn’t until she saw his brows crease down still
further that she thought to give up on the wait. “Well, I thought it was funny. But a young man like you, what do you know
about the pain, the suffering, the sacrifices we moms
make just to share a moment of pleasure with the one you love.
“Oh,
I see,” he finally brightened up. “She’s
saying that she might not like being dumped on, but she’s willing to endure the
shit he heaps on her because of all that he gives to her.”
“Yeah,
well, I guess that’s one way of putting it.
Another way might be the way you choose to deal with all the aches and
pains and misery that are a by-product of your work. Rather than tell Mr. Gomer to ease up on your
butt, you say nothing and endure the torment regardless, simply because you
‘get off on’ working with those dogs.”
“Get
off on!” A
troubling phrase to be sure, and the fact that she chose to use it caused him
to worry. He looked questioningly at
her, but he couldn’t get himself to meet her eyes. So worried over what she might know, nowhere
was the courage to face her. It would
have been tantamount to looking his own demons in the
eye. Something he couldn’t do. Something he dare not do without in the
bargain, losing the one thing he wanted most.
The thing he both feared and by equal measure, longed for - That sweet
aftermath that followed the suffering he endured.
Or,
as his mother’s card expressed so elegantly:
“The thing he couldn’t live with, the thing he couldn’t live without !!!”
“Well,
you might not want to speak up and tell Mr. Gomer he’d better lighten up, but I
can and will.”
“No
mama, please don’t!” he cried out, all but shedding the tears.
“Why not, Baby Cakes?
Is all that hard, butt-busting work you do talking some sense into those
know-nothing dogs worth the all the agony?”
“Mom,
I, ah, I ah . . . , “ he stammered and fretted and
wrestled with his feeling, trying to find a way to explain it all away. “Mom, I’m really not all that sure. I’m thinking maybe it’s sort of like that
card.” He said, pointing at the mama chipmunk.
“That pleasure and pain thing you were talking about. Where the mama chipmunk can’t live with it,
can‘t live without it. Well, I guess
there’s a little of that in me too.
Sometimes it hurts so bad I feel like I’m being ground down to dust. But afterward . . ., Oh mama, where the dog
and I find a way to communicate to the other our wants, needs, and desires,
there’s nothing I would trade for it in all the
world. “It just ties it all together for
me in a way that makes me feel whole.”
“Oh
my,” she gasped, “I wouldn’t have thought.
But then what do I know about such things. Alright I’ll leave it for you and Mr. Gomer
to settle on your own. In the mean time,
I think it’s time I haul out the rubbers again.
Having to replace your ruined undies is
putting a strain on my pocketbook. Plus,
they’re light and aerate enough to keep protected when rolling around in the
muck talking with those dogs.”
“Thanks,
mama,” he again said with a wince while lifting his bottom to easy the pain -
the some total of his day’s work with Thunder, Clash, Gunner, Dozer and Max at
work, and Bolt and Fluffy at home.
“You’re
welcome Honey Bunny,” she offered a motherly smile. Then as Michael again dove back in to his
soup, she quickly turned away to smell the remnants of that crusty film still
lingering on her finger tips.
“Oh
my!” she gasped, her eyes near watering.
“What’s
the matter, mom?” Michael asked while shoveling in the soup.
“Oh
nothing, Pumpkin,” she beamed, once turned back around. “I was just wondering where you find the room
in you belly for all that soup,” she followed, sounding every bit the dim-wit
who hadn’t a clue.
------
Undone
and Redone
For
all the hurt he felt, his short walk to work the following day might well have
been journey of a thousand miles. And
when at last he arrived, he was greeted by Mr. Gomer wearing a snide look on
his craggy face. Standing out front, he
stood as unstirred as a vulture with his grim determination to do his worse
written across his brow. All of it going
to make Michael feel as used as the rag Mr. Gomer always kept handy hanging
from his belt. The cleaning rag that if not for him, the old kennel keeper would be
using to sop up the urine and wipe off the smudges.
“Mornin’
boy! It looks like you got a little hitch to your giddy-up
this morning,” he said, wearing the smirk of a man now licensed to do his
worse. “Must have been that last minute
tag team match up with Dozer and Max that gotcha, huh boy? Mean bastards to be sure, but like I told
you, there’s no picking and choosing in this dog whispering business. No rest for the weary either. Especially today, cuz
we got us a full house, and your day ain’t done until
you’ve done talking with all them know-nothing bastards. So, come on, boy, get naked, time's a’
wasting!”
“Right
here, right now?” he woefully whined, wearing the most direful look.
“Yes
boy, its best that you do. That is if
you hope to get around to ‘talking’ to all those ornery, know-nothing horndogs.”
“So get with it, pants first, boy!”
To
be asked to strip naked out in the open where anyone and everyone could see,
shamed him to a painful degree. But as
this was Mr. Gomer’s world not his, he began to shed
his clothes, “Pants first,’ something that coaxed out a gut level laugh from a
visibly charmed Mr. Gomer.
“Damn,
boy. Where in the hell did you get
those?” With his pants in hand Michael
looked down at his new underpants, his rubbers, the rubber pants his mother had
given him to wear.
“My mom!”
“Your mom?
She done give you those?”
“Yeah.
What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Boy, these rubbers ain’t
even boys. That can only mean on thing,
boy. She knows.”
“Knows
what?”
“You
know, what it is you do when you get down on your knees to talk sense into
those know nothing dogs.”
“No, no, honest.
She was just concerned that’s all.
She just said they’ll by better cuz of all the
dirty work I do.”
Mr.
Gomer’s gut-level laugh turned a roar that echoed
through the yard. Damn boy, you’re one
dumb shit. Of course she knows you’ve
been bitching yourself out to the dogs.
She might be as dumb and ditzy as they come, but it don’t take no
Einstein to figure out you’ve been fucking that mutt of yours for years. It’s just her dimwitted way of telling you
it’s okay with her, them girlie rubbers her seal of approval. So, let’s get with it boy. Your mama is expecting to be nursing a well
fucked bitch when you get home, and it won’t do to disappoint. Got me, boy?”
Michael
stood with mouth open, his breath attracting the dung flies, his mind lost in a
fog trying to comprehend the implications of what he’d just been told. Of course he’d always wanted to believe his
mother didn’t know about what went on between him and Fluffy, but in his heart
of hearts he knew there was no way she couldn’t have known. And if she did know, wasn’t that the same as
giving her unspoken approval?
Still
he couldn’t be certain, and the unknowing stuck in his craw. So, yeah, it bothered him, but as the dogs
were going to have their way with his regardless, it really didn’t matter
anyway. All he knew was that while the
demands put upon him by the dogs were hard and insufferable, he longed to
surrender to them regardless, simply because that overwhelming sensation of a
warm, throbbing cock cozily nestled up his ass wasn’t a bargain he was prepared
to make.
So
instead of walking away and telling Mr. Gomer to fuck off, he simply lowered
his head and mumbled. Mr. Gomer couldn’t
tell if he was whining or praising heaven, but as he continued to add the rest
of his clothed to the pile, Mr. Gomer knew with a certainty his wouldn’t be
disappointing his mother tonight. And
then, when bare ass naked, he ushered Michael inside and paraded him down the
aisle like a stripper, minus the pasties, strutting the catwalk. His waddling ass causing such a chaotic
frenzy that every dog they passed looked to be on the cusp of busting a nut.
The
frenzied outbreak left him shaking and dizzy with fear of the coming onslaught
that would soon be coming his way. The ruckus being such that he hadn’t ever noticed Mr. Gomer’s departure until he reappeared from out his office
carrying a folding chair. Setting
it immediately in front of Gunner’s cage, he sat down and pat
his knee.
“Come
here, boy,” he said, pulling him over by the wrist and then bent him over his
knee, leaving his face to fall flat to the floor. Like a boxer after a knockout blow.
Michael’s
eyes rolled up and back straining the limits of his peripheral vision only to
see Mr. Gomer smiling back down at him from beyond his vaulted rump.
“No
bloody nose, huh,” he grinned like a droll, “Well that’s good for
starters. Now I’m going to lube you up
real good before you say hello to the fellas. You know how much they love a primed puss
oozing with that rank dog bitch smell.”
Michael’s
face paled upon hearing Mr. Gomer equate his butt to that of dog bitch in
heat. But with his face mashed flat to
the floor surrounded by a roomful of rabid dogs lusting after him that’s
exactly how he felt. But all that paled
in comparison to the indignity he felt when the craggy faced old kennel keeper
spread his cheeks to get a good look at his angry-red, puffed up asshole. His bitch hole as Mr. Gomer cheerfully
christened it.
“Shit,
boy, whatcha bitch’in
about? This pretty little lady is
looking just fine. Blushing pink cheeks,
enflamed red lips and the prettiest damn smile; no wonder the boys love
her. She’s a pretty little package. Maybe not quite the catcher-catch-all deep
pocket mitt that can swallow up the hard balls, Nitro and Bane can throw at
her, but as pretty as she is, I’m sure those big hitters aren’t going to stop
working on her until she can.”
“It’ll
going to take some time though. And
it’s going to be bloody murder until you learn how to free yourself up, become
an empty vessel, your every moment spent contemplating
your navel and not the rolling pin stuffed up your ass.”
“But
to reach that vacuous, Buda-like state of body and mind, you’re going to need
some help. Something
that’s not quite as traumatic as cutting of your balls, but no less affective. And that’s what I got for you here,” he said,
gloating like boy, proudly holding up the cock-cage like he would his favorite
toy.
“It’s
a Viper Ultra-Constrictor,” he followed, dangling one of the most restrictive
devices imaginable in front of his spellbound face. Half the length of his 4 inch cock and a
third the thickness, the clear plastic tube looked to strangle the life out of
an index finger. And worst yet, the plastic
pouch meant to encase his balls, looked better fit to
encase a walnut.
“Now
don’t you go worrying none. It’s going to fit. The compression mechanism is going to see to
that. Then once your junk is locked in,
and you’re finally free of all sensation outside the throb of your own
heartbeat radiating up from your scrunched up balls, will you enter the realm
of a vacuous, empty vessel you need be to service the whole lot of these horndogs – the big, bigger and humongous alike. The perfect unselfish bitch, tuned-in to
their needs alone, and not your own need to cum. A need that by then will
have become nothing more than an aimless distant memory.”
“But,
but,” Mikey stammered. “No, Mr. Gomer, Please, I don’t need
that. Honest, they all like me as I am.”
“Nonsense,
boy, all these dumb dogs care about is getting off, and there ain’t nothing they like better than an unobstructed hole to
impregnate your ass. Now, let’s get on
this on. The sooner we turn this hole of
yours into an unimpeded, unobstructed sump hole the better for them, the better
for you.”
“No,
please, Mr. Gomer,” he pleaded, he begged, while the single-minded old
kennel-keep squeezing down hard to get Michael’s wiener to somehow fit within
the throttling confines of his new home.
“Ough, eee,” he
squealed, until . . .
“Damn
boy, if you don’t stop squirming I’ll never get around to pressing the
compression mechanism.”
But
Michael didn’t stop squirming, so maddeningly out of frustration, he stopped
the wangling and the mashing to get the boy’s wiener to fit and pointed toward
Gunner in way of distraction. Standing
up upon his hind legs with his near foot long cock bolt uptight and
ostentatiously wagging about. The dog,
consumed by his lust, was using his cock like a lure to draw his bitch over to
his cage.
“See
there boy, he’s waving at you. He’s
calling you over to join him, just like a horned-up guy waving to a hooker
standing on the corner to come join him. But since he’s got no arms, he’s using
that big fat dick of his, which is as good as any arm. Maybe even better given its
multi-functionality. He can shove
that arm up your ass and make you cry, then put a smile on your face when he
pulls out and waves good-bye.”
“How
good is that, boy.
Not only does he have a world class dick, size-wise, but it offers all
the versatile of a Swiss Army Pocketknife.” He chuckled, still wrestling with
his dick, trying to get it to squeeze into the contraption. A task that was turning out to be far more
difficult than he’d anticipated. And all
the squirming, and bellyaching wasn’t helping much either. So again, in way of distraction . . .
“Oh,
looky there, boy,” Mr. Gomer again sought to divert
his attention, pointing toward Rosco housed in the
cage just to his right. “Now there’s a
damn horndog with a heart. He’s dying to blast your ass to smithereens,
but not so heartless as to let you go hungry before he does.”
And
true enough, once Michael had managed to roll his eyes that way, he saw Rosco likewise standing upon his hind legs, only his cock
was sticking through the bars with cum dripping down into a dog bowl placed
outside the cage door. Colored pink with
“Mikey” written on the side, the bowl was filled to
the brim with Beefy-Boy dog food, the empty can adorned with smiling face
standing along side.
“Your lunch bowl, sunny boy.
Now you can leave the sack lunches at home in favor of Chucks and Gravy
frosted with heaping portion of dog cum.
Think of it as a supplement to your daily intake of dog nut soup,” Mr.
Gomer chuckled, while Michael agonized, his heart filled with dread, feeling a
bit like the guest of honor at a cannibal soirée.
From
the horde of rutting dogs to the dog food and all the indignities therein, the
whole of it felt a nightmare come true.
And should he needed any further confirmation on how true that was, all
he had to do was roll his eyes any which way he could. Spike, Ratchet, Boomer, Turbo, Tank, Nitro,
Tomahawk . . . and well, the whole fucking lot of that Dirty
Dozen stoked his fears to nightmare proportions, only returning back to the
nightmare at hand when he heard the ‘snap’, and heard Mr. Gomer’s self-congratulating pat on the back.
“Damn,
if I ain’t got this fucking contraption closed
up. Now all I need do is pull the
ratcheting lever fore to aft to lock it place.
But first I’ve got to somehow figure out a way to squeeze these
ping-pong balls of yours into a nut shell.
“Oh
no, please,” he eked out a rasping yelp as panic set in.
“Sorry,
but I gotta, boy.
Otherwise these humping hounds are going to be smashing into your loose
hanging nuts, and we can’t have that.
All the banging around is just gonna tighten
up your ass more than it already is.”
“No
it won’t, I promise it won’t.” Then
looking for some excuse, any excuse to get the old
kennel-keep from reducing his testicles down to mush, he shouted frantically,
“Gunner, look at Gunner. He says he
needs to talk with me! He needs me now.”
“Oh,
is that so?” Mr. Gomer cajoled, while mashing down on his ball-sac in effort to
squeeze them in.”
“Ouch! Ouch!
Stop, stop, please,” he wailed like a siren. “Gunner likes me and wants to talk now!”
“I
think he’d like you better with a loose chute as opposed to one cramped by your
aching nuts.”
“Oh-ah-eee!
Gunner says it’s important, urgent, and can’t wait,” he ranted on, his
plea now reaching a feared pitch. “He
told me, he told me!”
“Huh! You say Gunner told you that? You’re tuned-in to him are you? He’s telling you the score?” Mr. Gomer
queried, looking on questioningly.
Though thankfully, his thumbs stopped squashing down on his nuts to get
them to fit in.”
“Yes,
yes,” Mikey panted, laboring for breath. “He’s
talking to me. He says he needs to talk
right now.”
“Huh! You being square with me
boy? You aren’t pulling my leg none, are you?”
“No,
honest, me and him are whispering,” he cried out in desperation. “He says he can’t wait a minute more to talk
to me.”
“Hum,
well maybe tighter opposed to looser works good for him, but what about the
other hounds. You can't tell me Nitro
likes having to labor like a plow horse to get that rolling pin of his up your
tight ass.”
“Yes-yes, Nitro too.
He says he wants to talk with me.
That I’m just fine the way I am.”
“Humm, well then, what about Turbo? You can't tell me he likes having to work
harder than a trench digger just to bury that blood engorged grapefruit of his
up your bitch-pit.”
“Yes-yes, Turbo too!
He says I’m a good listener, that I know how to settle him. Like you say, ‘Ease his
unease’.”
“Huh! Damn, I wouldn’t have guessed. Well then, what about Titan, or bigger yet,
Bane? You’d be hard pressed to squeeze
that Horse-size package of his into a in a golf bag, let alone up your ass.
“Oh
gawd!“ He gulped.
“Yes sir, I mean, no sir, I mean. . . Bane! You said he was too big and mean, and it
wouldn’t be right to ask me to do him.
You said so yourself and didn’t make me do it. But I will, I mean, I’ll try, and if he’s too
big to fit, I’ll reach back and spread my cheeks wide as I can to make it
fit. I’ll do anything and everything to
make it work if you would please, please stop squeezing my testicles to death.”
“Did
I hear you right? You’re gonna open up your bitch-pit to fit Bane’s monster fire
hose? That it ain’t
no problem?”
“Oh,
I ah, I ah . . . ,” he stammered and sputtered before his voice tailed off to a
desolate “Yes!!”
“And
when he’s is done dumping his ball juice up your ass, you gonna turn around and
swallow his shank down your throat so he don’t got to
lift his leg to mark his territory?”
“Yesssss, oh gawd . . , somehow,”
he moaned sorrowfully.
“And
when he squats . . .?”
“Ooooh!” was all he could manage, now feeling so thoroughly
beaten down he had no choice but to give up, give in, and surrender to the
suffering.
“To hell with the bucket and the
rags, huh, boy? No need, no more. Whatever it takes to please
the dogs.”
“Yessss,” he groaned in a scarcely audible tone, now fearing
his demise as the noose continued to tighten around his neck.
“Good
boy,” he then said, looking rather smug.
Then after helping him stand upright again, “You know, kid, I think you
learned something today. Maybe we don’t
need this contraption after all.”
“Oh
yes, yes sir, thank you, thank you,” he exhaled a sigh of relieved as Mr. Gomer
began to free up his package.
“No
need to thank me, boy. I weren’t going
to do it no ways!”
“You
weren’t?” his eyes burst open in surprise, stunned as he was by the bomb Mr.
Gomer had just tossed his way.
“Fuck
no, boy! What do you take me for. I’m an old fart
whose been known to act a bit loony when I’ve drunk a bit too much, but I ain’t crazy. I just
wanted to set you right with the truth.”
“The truth?” He squinted thought his one-eyed
squashed face.
“Damn,
you still don’t get it, do ya? It ain’t about the
damn dogs, it’s about you!”
“Look
here boy, I just threatened to bust up your package faster than the Death Star
can bust up a planet, and what did you do?
Nothing! Yeah, sure you squirmed
n’ begged n’ ran through every excuse you could think of, but in the end you did
what you always do. You gave up, caved in to the hurt I was threatening to put on you.”
“It’s
the same with the dogs. You can’t say no
to them just like you can say no to me.
You can’t because beyond the pain there’s something in it for you too. A reward, sort of speak.”
“With
me, your reward was the promise of owning a one size fits all bitch-ditch to
better please the dogs, the big hitters and small alike.”
“With
the dogs it was the pleasures you’d be feeling once you’ve got one of them big dicked bastards cozily nestled up your ass as nicely as a
silk glove fits a woman’s hand.
“In
short, it’s that ol’ pleasure and the pain
thing. The thing you can’t live with,
but can’t live without!”
“Now
do you understand me boy?”
“Can’t
live with, can’t live without!” Right from the mouth of that roly-poly mama
chipmunk on the card his mother had used to explain why so many were so willing
to endure so much. The
good and the bad, and the pain that precedes the pleasure.
“Now,
for the first time, Michael felt his stars all come align, and to a one, they
all pointed in his direction. His mom,
Mr. Gomer and all the hopes and dreams of a ‘Dog Whisperer’ who simply wanted
to find a way to weave together all the pieces to make himself
whole. And now, thanks to Mr. Gomer, he
felt as though he’d finally arrived where he belonged.
“Yes,
sir, I mean Victor! I understand. Thank you,” he replied, his face tinted a
share of red, only now coming to grips with it all.
“No
problem kid.” Maybe I ain’t no whisperer or nothing, but
I got my ways, and sometimes even two-legged critters can learn a thing or two
from me.”
“Well,
now that we got us an understanding, I think it’s past time we get this show on
the road. Where do you want to start?”
“Bane!”
he answered, without a hint of reflection, and beaming an emphatic smile.
“Whooo!
Talk about jumping from the frying pan and into the fire. You sure kid?
You wanna?
I mean, it ain’t like I’m making you do
nothing. You know that, right?”
“Yes,
sir, I mean, no sir you’re not making me do it.
I wanna!”
“Damn,
talk about a vacuous, empty vessel. I
think you’ve finally reached it - The perfect unselfish bitch!”
“You
want me to add his name to your Dirty Dozen, make it a baker’s dozen?”
“Yes
sir. Put his name on top of the roster, so
I’ll start my day good and limber.”
“Good
boy. Well then, come along bitch boy,
it’s time Bane gets his chance to smash your ass to hell.” And with that, he stood up and followed
behind as Michael led the way over to Bane’s cage. Then as the two of them
stopped to study that 160 lbs worth of massive, and one ear short of a fighter
with an unblemished record, Mr. Gomer thought to say. “Damn boy, I hope 13 don’t turn out to be
your unlucky number.”
“Don’t
worry, Mr. Gomer. I can talk some sense
into him.”
“Yeah,
okay kid, I just hope it ain’t in tongues.”
“Well
boy, whatcha say, you ready get on with it? Time's a wasting’!”
And
Michael did, and when the door was closed behind and that barrel-chested
thuggish brute latch on to his ass and drove that shank so far up it looked to
reconfigure his internals, only then could Mr. Gomer see in his eyes the
closest thing to euphoria he’d ever seen. . .
With his face smashed up flat against the bars and his eyes blown
open like he’d swallowed a grenade, he hung there, midair, tied to Bane’s cock
with that glazed-over, faraway look of a boy set adrift in a sea of infinite
bliss.
”Good,
boy,” Gomer purred, while Michael, seemingly lost to this world, continued to
babble an incoherent, if not animalized, progression of
utterances. “You’re speaking his
language now, boy,” the old kennel-keep chuckled. “. . .
and he’s hearing yah just fine!”
The
End, or . . .
------
I
got a part 2. It may get posted, it may
not. It all depends on whether the story
remains posted or gets bumped due to my having inadvertently offended the
sensibilities of one bloke or another.
If I did then I apologize, cuz that wasn’t my
intent. I only sought to provide an
intelligible read, one that explores the pleasure and pain that come with sex
with animals, and how such acts can quickly become more an affliction than a
joy. It I got that point across then the
story works. If not, well, least you’ve
been warned.
*Twist-n-Shout. Not a product affiliated with any Milton
Bradley, Parker Brothers or any other toy or game company who publishes a
product that might be construed as have a similar purpose, name or activity in
which the objective is to inflict agony on the participants.
x=======================================================================================================x