2017 Bestiality story: Dogged in the Dirt – by adamlily1972. The husband from “Cleaning Time” (another story on this site) launches a new money-making venture.
2017 Bestiality story: Dogged in the Dirt
by adamlily1972
Fiction, Bestiality, Humiliation, Mind Control, Voyeurism
I’m hunched in the brush, miles into the forest, the brook quietly babbling behind me. I have a clear view of the packed-dirt pathway, the bright summer sun beating down on it. I’m wearing camouflage, which feels ridiculous. I’m no soldier, and I’m not a hunter—not of animals, anyway—so the camo feels like dress-up. But I can’t be seen. If I’m seen, the venture isn’t exactly over, but it won’t be as successful as it could otherwise be. And that would be a shame, because I’ve been working on this for about three months.
I consult my laptop. Ping, ping, ping. They’re getting closer, and my pulse kicks up a couple notches. I check my bionanite dish—the emitting signal is strong. I check the monitor to ensure all four digital video cameras—two in the brush, two in the trees—are working. Everything checks out, again. None of them have gone anywhere in the last hour since I set up.
She’s coming. I start recording, all four vids at once. It’s a beautiful scene. I’m excited in a way I haven’t been since I began videoing my wife and Gunther a few years back.
The market, the market. The market is merciless. They all want something new, even the kindest customers, and in truth, so do I. A new challenge, and this is a big one. Like I said, if it goes south, this is three months and a few thousand dollars mostly down the toilet. It’s not going to work if she knows what’s going on.
Ping, ping, ping. They’re almost here.
Laptop, broadcast dish, cameras and monitor. Check, check, check. If this works, I’ll have at least a couple of hours of footage to play with. I’m hoping at least two of the cameras get good angles.
First the birds go silent. Then the pounding of running feet, first hers, then the trot of her companion’s. Then the breathing—hers and his. Hers is faster than normal—she must be sprinting. Fantastic. She’ll be sweatier, ruddier, which I kind of like.
She rounds the corner to the straightaway, her long blonde hair in a tight, braided bun. An unobstructed view of her face—perfect. She pours it on. Her tight thighs, strong flanks, black sports bra hugging those big boobs, the running shorts . . . she’s proud of her body, and should be. She’s obviously very disciplined.
Because she’s sprinting, she’s ahead of her companion, but here he comes: A magnificent Great Dane, tongue flapping, happy as can be. He’s in good shape, too.
Have to time this just right. My hand moves to a switch on the emitting dish.
Three. Pulse in my head.
Two. Heart is skipping.
One. It’s like a jet engine in my skull.
I push the button. The dish sends out sequence of electromagnetic pulses. A billion bionanites in the blonde’s body flare to life.
The girl, she stumbles, falls to the ground, catches herself with her arms—it’s a perfect fall and catch. She isn’t injured. An injury wouldn’t have completely queered the deal, but I don’t want her hurt, and nobody else does, either. Well, most nobody else. Some of my market are into that, but I don’t cater to it. Hurting people without their consent . . . no, no, no.
I check the monitors and breathe easier. She’s fallen perfectly in the camera zones—all four of them! Someone up there clearly likes me. I’ll have more than enough footage to cut and splice and build on later, back home with my editing equipment.
I zoom in with the cameras, tailoring the shots. The camera at her rear captures her firm, high buttocks and curvy, muscled thighs. The cameras flanking her have a lovely view of her torso. And the one trained on her face—it’s perfect, capturing the blended expression of confusion and fear.
The Great Dane, her only friend right now, is concerned. He nuzzles and pushes her side, trying to prod her up.
I imagine what it’s like. I imagine what she’s thinking, while she can still think. What’s happening? Am I having a stroke? An aneurysm? But my head doesn’t hurt . . . Why . . . why did I fall? What’s . . . .
Now a new confusion plays across her face. She’s feeling something, something warm and wet down low. The camera at her rear shows what’s happening. Her crotch already had a damp line from the running. But now the damp is spreading. Her hand flies to it, to feel. I’ll wager she thinks she’s lost control of her bladder, that she’s peeing into her shorts. But as soon as her hand reaches that hot patch, she knows it’s something else.
It’s arousal. Pussy juice is swamping her shorts.
A new sensation registers on her face. There’s still confusion and fear, but now there’s also arousal. Stronger than arousal. Lust. Lust is eating her feelings, and it’s eating her thoughts.
The hand at her crotch goes from testing to confirming to rubbing. I can’t see it, but I know what’s happening: The hard side of her hand is pressing her clitoris and smooshing apart the lips of her labia. Her hindquarters are now a squooshy blotched mess of stained fabric. And in her face the fear fades, even though the confusion remains. And then confusion burns out, too. The camera captures it as the human in her winks out entirely. Eyes wide and empty-dumb, nostrils flaring. She reddens, sweats. Wauling and warbling, her hand plunges beneath under her waistband to frigging herself frantically, sloppily, and—oh, my God—audibly.
Heat. The body of this blonde, strong, sprinting, big-titted beauty is in heat.
This is working out better than I’d even hoped. I’d spent three months staking out this pathway, evaluating the women running by. Two months ago, I decided the blonde was the best candidate. A month ago, I managed to fire a functional chip into her shoulder—she hollered, probably thinking it a wasp sting. Two weeks ago, on a hot, still, and humid day, she ran through a floating cloud of nanites, inhaling deeply as she went. (She shook off the coughing fit pretty admirably.) Then, I spent two weeks monitoring the nanites from afar, making sure they were doing what they were made to do—priming her, changing her without her knowledge, for just this moment.
The market, the market. It’s going to reward us wonderfully for this, me and my wife. My wife and Gunther, they’ve stopped bringing in the good cash. Money’s been tight, and my wife has been worried. I don’t like it when she’s worried. My wife, I love her, and she doesn’t deserve that. She deserves a man who can provide. And so I’m providing. Me, the blonde, and the Great Dane.
The Great Dane, he’s getting wise. He prods the blonde’s crotch, firmly, with his snout. The blonde moans. The Dane, he’s knocking, he’s knocking, and he wants in—
The blonde. Suddenly her animal self knows: Clothing is wrong. Must come off. She’s not thinking, not in the way we think. It’s instinct, the same way a dog tries to remove a ridiculous sweater. Dogs shouldn’t wear clothes, and neither should she.
She scrabbles at her shorts. Not quick enough. She tears them apart and tosses them away. Now her rear is high and up and gleaming on a hot summer day. The Dane, his cold snout presses into her asshole, and he laps at it, the brown rosebud, and at her pink and gooey cunt.
She hollers, but not in pain. She brings her head to the dirt path, her face pointed toward mine, but she’s not seeing anything. The camera catches her perfectly, eyebrows knotted, eyes empty, panting. Her hands fly, now, to that tight bra. Off it comes, tossed away. Her huge breasts—no, really, they’re teats, now—hang heavy and free. I’m pleased to see they’re natural. Her nipples and areolae are mind-blastingly sensitive, so she smooshes them into the packed earth and rake up the friction. . . . oh, no, it’s not enough. She pushes herself up to her elbows and grips her aerole hard with all of her fingers and PULLS—the noise she makes, it’s nothing people make. Those glorious udders . . . .
Damn. Losing focus. And I have to focus to keep the quality high. I need to monitor and adjust four cameras simultaneously.
The Great Dane, he gets it now. His mistress, she’s in heat. She needs to breed. And he loves her, so he’s happy. Up he bounds, his long purple erection bouncing on her back, thrusting, trying to find entry, no, that’s one of her buttocks, that’s not right, whoops, that’s under her, rubbing against her pubic hair, okay, that’s closer, her clitoris, and she explodes with that—seriously, a squirt of cunt juice blarps out against her canine lover’s belly and slarps off onto the dirt.
And then he’s in. The Great Dane sinks himself up to his big doggie balls inside his mistress.
The star of my film, the human in her, momentarily bobs up from her oceanic lust to register what’s happening. Her beloved pet has just succeeded in mounting her, and now he’s furiously jackhammering her in a way only a dog can. Consciousness flickers, but then she’s swamped by animal sensation. My blonde, she smiles the biggest, dumbest animal smile you could see on a human face. She drools into the dirt.
The dog fucks her, hard and fast, his hips a blur. Her skin is tight and her flanks firm, but she ripples anyway. The deep cries of her heat pour out of her jouncing torso in an endless and uninterrupted outpouring of brutal ecstasy.
If she had enough brains right now to think a thought, she’d be thinking: Never end. Never end. Keep me like this forever. All, all, all, all the dogs. Bring me all the dogs. But she’s not thinking. All she can do is fuck.
But then the dog stumbles against her, flops fully onto her back, and his hindquarters jerk, jerk, jerk, jerk—and then he’s done. He’s cum. Dogs don’t last long. They’re not humans, they’re not vain. They don’t care how long they last. They mate quickly, because way back in the wild mating was dangerous, leaving animals vulnerable.
Still, he’s stuck inside her and not going anywhere soon. The knot. It makes evolutionary sense. The knot gives the sperm a little time to travel, and it keeps other dogs from getting their crack at the female. Lot of competition among dogs, after all. Still, no dog likes being trapped, so he’d rather the knot subside. It’ll be a few minutes.
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