Bruno was excited now. He could smell sex. As Bella rose to her full height, he saw his chance and grabbed hold of a leg. His forepaws were surprisingly muscular underneath that velvety pelt. He was no puppy now, Bella thought. He was bucking against his mistress’s leg. A spurt of warm, sticky liquid shot up the inside of Bella’s thigh. She wiped herself briskly and pulled up her shorts. She was just in time.
“I’ve spied a great spotted woodpecker,” Timothy cried. “You know, Dendrocopos major. It must have been a male with that scarlet nape-patch. I must make a note in my book.”
Bella held Timothy’s binoculars while he pencilled in the details of the bird’s undulating flight in the notebook he kept for such sightings. Bruno raised an eyebrow. Such an expressive face, marvelled Bella. Now it was betraying a quizzical air as he sat at her feet. He had paused from licking the mud from her boots to observe the self-absorption of his master.
Six weeks later and Bella was the proud mother of six Labradors crossed with Caucasian. She had left Timothy before the birth, giving no reason, and had taken a flat with a large garden for herself and her litter. But all was not well. You try raising four dogs and two bitches by yourself. Bimbo, Bimba, Baby, Bubber, Biba and Boyo needed their father. So Bella stole him one day while Timothy was at work.
Bruno loved his new home, and what’s more, he loved making love to the new mother. She had not been rent asunder by the birth. The little darlings had slithered out, wet and winsome.
She was ready for more sex with her beloved quadruped. All the more legs to wrap her thighs around, she reckoned. And this time it wouldn’t be a rush-job, a crude knee-trembler in the woods. It would be slow and languorous and stretched out on Bella’s king-size bed; the lighting low, the music moody. She wanted to feel the length of his big, rough tongue lapping the contours of her body. She wanted him to make her come with a few rapid strokes along her clit and vulva while she plunged her hands into his sinewy back. She grasped his shoulders and, as though it were a distant rumble of thunder, heard her blood coursing as she orgasmed. Now it was his turn so she took his sausage dick and guided it into her hole. Bruno howled with joy and relief.
The lovers enjoyed a post-coital dinner of steak tartare and pommes frites eaten from the same plate, their jaws mashing and munching side by side. Their bliss was complete.
The telephone interrupted their drowsy canoodling in the specially extended dog basket Bella had had made to order. It sat under the wooden table from whence Bella scattered spare scraps of meat to her doggy brood. A voice rang through the kitchen.
“Bella, I need to talk to you. Bruno’s gone. He’s missing. Someone’s stolen him.”
Bruno’s ear cocked at the sound of his master’s fretful voice. He emitted a small, sharp whine. Bella patted him and rolled over to sleep. When she awoke, her man was gone.
“Bella, it’s okay. He’s come back,” Timothy’s voice told the answer machine the following day. “He must have found his way home by himself. Good dog,” he exulted, and Bella heard a bark of compliance.
Bloody men, she thought.
She wasn’t a woman to take her troubles lying down. Her pups needed a father so she would supply one. The home check was a piece of cake; of course she met the requirements. All she had to do now was to choose her future partner.
A gallery of strays and waifs greeted her with sniffs and snufflings, yelps and eager tails. The white-coated attendant guided her down the aisle. She pointed out an angry-looking bull mastiff.
“Heathcliff came in as a stray two months ago. He is our grumpy old man,” she laughed coyly. “He loves going for walks and spending as much time as he can patrolling his kennel yard.”
Never mind that, what’s his cock size? Bella wanted to ask.
“Next up is Alfie. He is a Boston Terrier mix. Unfortunately he is epileptic and has cardiac and respiratory problems. He needs medication twice a day.”
Bella was beginning to despair when she spotted a young, blond Labrador smiling at her.
“Aah, Billy…” said the guide, following Bella’s ardent gaze. “He has had two homes but didn’t behave appropriately so he was returned. He is a very dominant boy who…”
“I’ll take him,” Bella barked.
“But he hasn’t been neutered yet.”
And indeed he hadn’t. Bella could see the pink tip of Billy’s member protruding above a mound of bristling hair. It was like a salmon leaping out of the water; untouched, virgin game, waiting to be plucked and plundered. Bella knew that Billy possessed the loving disposition and lust for life that only she could appreciate. She could tell it in a glance. His eyes met hers – they spoke of devotion. He was gagging for it – that wide, wide mouth promised licks and nibbles galore. She would let him bite her nipples and ferret in her undergrowth. They would go for walks and bring up her babies. They would eat from the same bowl. They were in love. She was sure he nodded and stamped a paw in approval of the short, thick chain she held in her hand. She couldn’t wait to slip the halter around his ruffled neck. Once again, Bella was captivated, but this time, he wouldn’t escape.
Six Before Nine by Michael Crawley
He – 6.
Her thighs were slender and pale. Even with the left laying on the right there was a triangular gap – well, not triangular, exactly. There were no straight lines. The two longer sides were subtly curved. The shorter one was bow-shaped, a cleft arc. All the lines were clean, no fuzz. She’d shaven, perhaps for me. I hoped it was special, for me.
I inhaled. There was a trace of talc, a hint of some perfume, Shalimar perhaps. Beneath the artificial odours I could just detect her own fragrance. Her musk was a blend of lemon and cognac, heady and slightly sharp.
My mouth was watering and she was likely growing impatient. I wanted her to be impatient. My lips pursed and puffed out a breath of air. It would have stirred fine hairs, if she’d left any, but she hadn’t. There was just porcelain skin, fine pored, infinitely tempting.
My right arm stretched down the bed, to her knees. My hand flattened on them to hold them in place and together. It wasn’t time to part them, yet. My left hand spread across the firm cushions of her buttocks and pulled. I wanted her taut but not parted. My pressure tightened the creases of her groin. There were tiny blue veins there, usually invisible, tucked into the creases between thighs and torso, but now exposed.
My head lifted. I extended my tongue. Its tip traced a vein. I think that perhaps she shivered. My tongue flattened and lapped, tasting her skin and the residue of her sweat. Tracing with tongue-tip is for her pleasure. Lapping is for mine. Tantalize, then taste.
I lowered my head and repeated the lick-lap in the other crease. She made a little muffled sound. The cheeks of her bottom twitched. I could feel that had I released her knees her upper thigh would have lifted in invitation.
Not yet, my love.
I increased my hands’ pressure, bending her at her hips. My mouth opened wide, a short inch from her pursed sex. I didn’t blow on it, but I breathed more heavily, warming her with my humid breath. Inhaling brought a taste of her to my mouth.
I pulled back to inspect her. The lips of her sex were still closed but they had thickened a little. My tongue crept out and touched, exactly between them but not penetrating. I held it there, letting her become aware of the immobile touch. Her hips tensed and tried to thrust but I was holding her too firmly to allow that.
My tongue retreated, made spit, and deposited a single droplet on the edge of one lip. When I puffed on it the drop trembled. Would she feel that? Likely not.
I released her knees. Her thighs sprang apart, the upper one at a sharp angle to her hips. When I took a sighting up along her leg it was stretched and perfectly straight, toes pointed at the ceiling. There was an angle of 90° between her thighs, giving me ample room to play in.