Crossing the Line: A Forbidden Encounter

Crossing the Line: A Forbidden Encounter

It was a quiet Saturday morning, and I was restless. I’d just returned from my usual run—five miles today—and felt that familiar mix of exhaustion and pride. At 41, I worked hard to stay in shape. My legs were long and toned, my ass firm from years of pounding the pavement, and my stomach flat despite having two kids. The only thing that stood out, literally and figuratively, were my breasts. They’d grown to a 36D when I was pregnant with my daughter and never went back. They didn’t sag, but their weight was undeniable. Running with them wasn’t always easy, but I liked having them.

I stepped into the bathroom, shed my robe, and caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked good—strong, curvy, alive. The shower was next, and I let the warm water cascade over me, soaping up and savoring the smooth glide of my hands across my skin. My breasts always drew attention, and I wasn’t shy about it—I’d wear low-cut tops or skip the bra sometimes, catching eyes young and old. Teasing? Sure, a little. I brushed my hands over them now, circling the brown tips until my nipples stiffened under the touch.

One hand stayed there, tugging lightly, while the other slid lower, past my flat stomach to the smooth, hairless skin between my legs. I was meticulous about keeping it bare—shaving or waxing, whatever it took. My fingers found my swollen labia, already slick, and I couldn’t quite pinpoint why I was so turned on. Two fingers slipped inside, and it was hot, tight, wet—not just from the soap, but from something deeper, stickier. Then it clicked: the date. I was ovulating, right in that window where my body went into overdrive—horny, fertile, and dripping with anticipation.

My clit was swollen too, begging for attention. I rubbed it hard, pulling on a nipple at the same time, and the tension built fast. The orgasm hit me in waves, and I braced myself against the shower wall as my knees trembled. After catching my breath, I finished washing my hair, stepped out, and dried off. No plans today, so I threw on one of my son’s oversized t-shirts—nothing underneath—and padded to the kitchen for a bite. The shirt hit mid-thigh, loose and comfortable.

Eventually, I wandered into my home office and fired up the computer. I logged into a photo-sharing site where I’d posted pictures of myself—some tame, some not. The comments and messages from admirers always gave me a thrill. I scrolled through a group about fantasies, where someone had asked about our deepest, darkest desires. A young married woman’s response caught my eye: she wanted to have sex with a dog. Her words were raw, earnest, almost palpable in their longing. I’d heard of that kind of thing—fantasy for some, reality for others—but it wasn’t something I’d ever lingered on.

Curious, I hopped over to an erotic story site and scanned the top-rated list. One title jumped out: a woman and her dog. That fantasy post had planted a seed, so I clicked. For the next half hour, I was lost in it—reading, rereading, absorbing every detail. She described how canine sex differed from human, how it consumed her until she swore off men entirely. I shook my head. It must be something else, I thought, to make someone choose that.

Somewhere along the way, my hand had slipped under the t-shirt, rubbing my pussy without me fully noticing. I was soaked, and when I hit the story’s best parts again, I came—hard—shuddering in my chair. Afterward, I sat there, dazed. Was it just ovulation fueling this, or had the idea of a dog sparked something? The house was empty—my son at school, my daughter at a friend’s for the weekend. Well, almost empty. My dog was here—a two-year-old Blue Heeler, intact, sprawled on his bed in the next room.

I’d had my share of wild sex over the years, but bestiality? Never crossed my mind. I’d seen my dog’s cock before—licking himself, or the occasional glimpse of dogs mating—but it hadn’t registered as anything personal. Until now. That woman’s fantasy, the story—they’d stirred something. My fingers, still slick from my pussy, glistened in the light. Then I heard myself call his name, soft and unthinking.

He trotted in, tail wagging, probably expecting a treat or a walk. I told him to sit, and he did, watching me. My heart raced. I hadn’t planned anything, but… maybe I could test the waters. If he licked my fingers and lost interest, that’d be that. I dipped them back into my wetness and held them out, voice shaky as I said, “It’s okay, come see.” He tilted his head, then leaned in, sniffing. A pause, then his tongue flicked out, tasting me. He went back for more—once, twice, three times. He liked it.

I kept feeding him my scent, and he kept licking. It was thrilling, harmless enough. But the next step loomed: would he go straight to the source? I checked the locks—paranoia creeping in—then settled back into my chair, pulling the t-shirt up to bare everything below the waist. I scooted to the edge, legs spread, and called him over. Another taste from my fingers to reel him in, then I leaned back, pussy open and close to his face.

My breath caught as he sniffed around, hesitating. Then his tongue lashed out, a long, rough stroke from my asshole to my clit. I gasped—nothing human had ever felt like that. Eyes closed, I willed him to keep going, and he did, lapping at me with relentless hunger. Another orgasm ripped through me, then another, my clit almost too sensitive to bear. I needed a breather but didn’t want him to stop entirely. I called him again, patting my stomach to bring him closer.

He jumped up, front paws on the chair, chest brushing my belly, his face level with my breasts. I wondered if he’d lick them too. I guided a nipple toward his mouth; he gave it a quick lick but seemed unsure. Inspiration struck—I smeared some of my pussy juice on it. That did it. He lapped at it eagerly, the roughness sending jolts through me. I coated both nipples, holding them out as he worked them over.

Then I felt it—something hard, hot, poking at my thigh, brushing my pussy lips. I shifted, trying to get my nipple closer to his mouth, and that’s when it happened. His cock hit my entrance, and with one quick hunch, he was inside me—five inches, maybe more. He started thrusting, fast and desperate. I froze. This wasn’t planned. Was I okay with it? Before I could decide, I panicked, pushing myself up and out of the chair. He slid out, hopping down, unbothered.

I reassured him—“Good boy, it’s okay”—pacing the room. His cock had been in me. I’d crossed a line, even if just for a moment. My mind spun, but he just lay there, licking himself, carefree. Maybe it was simpler than I was making it. Just sex—fun, primal, no rules. I decided to try again.

I stripped off the t-shirt, tossing it aside, wanting to match his nakedness. Doggie style seemed right, so I dropped to my hands and knees, breasts swaying beneath me. I called him over, offering a nipple, and he sniffed around me, circling. When he reached my backside, he dove in, licking my pussy again. It was good, but I wanted more. I patted my lower back, urging him to mount me. He didn’t quite get it, so I grabbed his front legs, pulling him up.

His chest hit my back, forelegs gripping my waist, and he started humping. I peeked underneath—his cock was out, hard, halfway unsheathed. I adjusted my hips, guiding him until the tip nudged my entrance. He thrust again, and this time, he was in. The difference was immediate. No slow buildup like with a man—just raw, relentless pounding. His cock was thick, long, hotter than anything human, and my tight pussy gripped it as he drove deeper.

My breasts bounced wildly under me, and I pushed back into him, lost in the rhythm. Then I felt something new—a hard bulge at my entrance. His knot. I reached back; it was big, lemon-sized, pressing against me. He wanted it in, and I let him try. When it finally popped inside, stretching me further, he stopped thrusting, holding still. I felt a warmth spread deep inside—his cum, pulsing into me, filling me up.

He stayed locked in place, and I felt the knot swell, sealing us together. He swung a leg over, and we ended up butt-to-butt, stuck. I didn’t move, unsure how long it’d last. After about 15 minutes, he tugged, and with a few pulls, it slipped free, his cock following. I collapsed onto the carpet, sore and spent. His cum was everywhere—inside me, on the floor. I’d have to clean up later.

In the bathroom, I ran a bath and sank into the suds, replaying it all. I hadn’t cum during the act—too caught up in the moment—but the experience lingered. My hand rested on my lower belly. His sperm was in there, swimming around, maybe meeting my egg. Nature probably wouldn’t let it take, but the thought was there. I knew I’d do it again. Next time, I’d make sure I finished too.

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