I admire my star. The sensation of hot dog sperm splashing against her vaginal walls has quaked her into a succession of bone-deep orgasms. The blue undersides of her well-worn running shoes—she just couldn’t get them off—poke out between her sated pet’s back paws.
The only drawback to this whole encounter—the only thing the market and my viewers might not like— is that I won’t be able to get a closeup of his knot in her hypersensitive cunt. But I don’t know this dog, and I don’t know how he’ll react to me. And I won’t take the chance that the lady-beast he just fucked won’t rouse just enough to catch a glimpse of me. It’s a disappointment, but the audience will just have to accept that they won’t get the knot-shot.
Then something amazing happens. I’ve seen it on a couple of other videos, but I’ve not seen it in real life. The Great Dane, he swivels atop his blonde conquest, lifts his legs over her, and lands facing away from her, his ass pressed against her buttocks . . . with his cock still inside of her!
I’m gobsmacked. They look like a pair of lewd bookend, heads pointed in opposite directions. Not even Gunther did this with my wife. Not any of the dozens of times they’ve mated.
Then the Dane tries to pull out. But he’s still fully knotted in her, and as he pulls, I can clearly see a bridge of dog cockflesh binding them together, her pussy lips pulling around his shaft. I don’t need to show a knot-shot. It’s clear as bright day that he’s inside of her and dragging her backwards with him.
And her? I didn’t know someone in a coma could cry out in pleasure, but there you have it.
The dog tugs, rests, drags her a bit more. It’s kind of hilarious. She gets dirtier. And then with a pop and a yip, he pulls free, and she collapses. I zoom in with the cameras at her face and rear. She’s sleeping it off, dog sperm leaking out into a vile puddle. The Dane sniffs at it, nuzzles her rear, laps at her sex, and she moans. He comes around to her face, licks it tenderly, his mistress. He loves her, is devoted to her. And now they’re closer than ever.
I flick off the electromagnetic pulses. The nanites in her go dormant. This part of the show is over. But I’m keeping the cameras rolling. I’m curious for the denouement, as I’m sure my customers will be.
It takes about 10 minutes for her to stir. She pushes herself up, wobbly and coughing. She’s a muddy mess, the dirt sticking to her body. She sits—her face, tits, belly, and knees are filthy. She’s been playing in the dirt.
She looks hungover—bleary and disoriented and disturbed. I imagine what’s she’s thinking: What happened. What on earth happened. Then a sudden horror: she’s butt-fucking-naked on an isolated dirty path under the high summer sun. She fumbles for her bra, frantically yanks it on, then finds her running shorts—they’re worthless, rent into scraps. Oh, God. Raped, I was attacked and raped, that must be it, God, my dog, my dog, why didn’t you protect me—.
And the camera nails the moment. She brings her hands to her mouth and stares at her faithful, beloved enormous Great Dane. She remembers, remembers all of it. Her dog just fucked her. And she just fucked her dog. Without hesitation or fear or remorse. And she never wanted it to end. All the dogs, all the dogs.
Her face fractures. Screaming and red and broken, she backs away from her pet.
The Dane is disturbed. His mistress is acting strangely. He comes toward her. She shrieks, tells him to go away, go away, go go get away from me, what did you do, what did you make me do.
Blaming the dog. Blaming the guy. Such a stereotype. But I guess that’s not unexpected, here. I’ll let it pass.
The dog comes closer. She picks up a large rock and chucks it at him, hard. It goes wide because she’s too freaked out to aim. He walks closer and she grabs another rock. She’s lucky this time—it hits his flank, and the Dane yelps and backs away to watch his mistress from a safer vantage.
Go away, go away, go away, fuck you, fuck you, GOGOGO. She’s hardly coherent. I’ll need to do a little sound editing so the viewers get what she’s saying.
She turns and sprints. She’s so fit that her thighs and buttocks barely wobble. The dog gallops after her, but she hears him, grabs for another rock, stumbles and faceplants. The dog comes to her, is on top of her. And she kicks him, once, hard, squarely in the head. He yelps and runs the other way.
Oh, come on. This is cruel. I understand why she’s doing it—her whole life has just blown up around her—but even so, she should know better. The dog, he didn’t do anything wrong. He thought he was helping.
The dog sits maybe 20 meters from his mistress. She gets up and tries to wipe sweat and tears away, but all that gets her is a fresh layer of mud around her eyes. Then she sprints away. The dog doesn’t follow. Now she’s gone, running for safety and sanity. But she’s wearing only a bra and running shoes, her well-worn labia tickled by the cool race of air. I hope she can make it back to her car before anyone sees her. She’s been embarrassed enough.
The dog, he’s just sitting there, confused, his mistress having betrayed him. I turn off all the cameras and think about what to do.
A few minutes later I emerge from the brush. The dog barks at me—no surprise—but there’s nobody around for him to defend, so the barks aren’t too earnest. I walk out slowly and present my hand. He smells it, then smells my neck and face. He nuzzles my crotch—yes, of course I’ve been leaking, I’m not a fucking saint—and I push him away. That’s a little embarrassing. For a moment I think I understand how the blonde feels.
I check out the dog’s tags. His name is Arthur. Good boy, Arthur. Maybe we’ll name that thing of yours Excalibur.
Eh, maybe not. Too obvious.
For about 15 minutes I hang out with Arthur, building trust. I gather up the cameras and pack up my equipment. I take one last look around. The knee—, face—, and boobprints of that fantastic blonde are still visible, but the hot sun has dried out the sweaty mud. The snaky yellow puddle of dog cum is still obvious, though. That’ll take longer to go away.
This whole thing went perfectly. I’m so excited I can barely think about what to do next. Buzzing thoughts of an acreage and a milking barn and dozens of tanned, naked, very fit women herded along bubble through my brain. No way. A ranch like that is impossible. Right?
As I head for my van, poor Arthur at my side, I mull over the immediate problem. My wife won’t want another dog. We don’t have room, and I wouldn’t do that to Gunther, anyway. And I’m sure as hell not going to give Arthur to the pound. He’s sweet as hell. So I decide to bring him back to the blonde, in real life, at her home. I chipped her, after all, so I can find her no matter where she lives. And she doesn’t know me, anyway. She’s never seen me. All she’ll know is that some Good Samaritan is bringing her dog back to her.
I imagine myself at her door, ringing the bell, and her opening it, seeing me and Arthur. I wonder what her face will look like. I wonder if I’ll learn her name.
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