Based Upon the Short Stories:
Accidental Introduction to Animal Sex
Parts 1 & 2
by Susan N.
Hi. My name is Hailey and I live in Connecticut. This story took place over the most recent holidays. Rock is my brother in law's dog. I had sex with him. My God, I just said that, didn't I?
My brother in law's name is Henry. My husband's name is Mike. Mike is two years younger than Henry, the oldest of the four Whitfield children. I'm 38, two years younger than my husband. Rock is six or seven, I don't know which.
"What?" I asked, carrying the laundry basket into the mudroom.
"It's Henry. He wants to know if we'll watch Rock over the holidays."
I made a face. "What kind of dog is Rock? Is he housebroken? Doesn't your brother have a kennel?"
Mike asked these questions over the phone while I stood in the mudroom doorway with the basket of laundry weighing me down.
"He's a Black Lab; yes, he's housebroken; yes he can put Rock in a kennel, but he'd rather leave him with family. Rock likes to be around people. He loves kids. He's a good guard dog."
"We don't need a guard dog," I pointed out. Mike was a policeman. I was a policeman's wife. I knew how to fire a gun. "But he's your brother, so it's your decision. I'm okay with it either way." And that's how Rock came to stay with us for a month over the holidays. And put his cock in me. And tried his doggy best to make me pregnant.
A week later, Henry drove up from Chelsea and dropped off Rock. I stood at the back door watching through the screen while Henry got Rock out the rear door of his Suburban and put him on a leash. I insisted on a leash, at least until Rock got acclimated to his surroundings. Just as I feared, he wanted to run free and get into everything. I love Henry, but I don't like dogs. I scowled whenever Henry wasn't looking my way. I closed the door and went upstairs to see about Kaylee.
Things were okay the first four days. We let Rock in the house and put a fence across the bottom of the stairs, which Rock respected. He didn't go near Kaylee or Christa without permission. Kaylee is six months old; Christa is six. Our two older children, Mark and Stephie, the twins, live on campus. My biggest complaint was that Rock tended to bark at night for no reason and wake up the kids.
"I'm going to strangle that dog," I muttered the morning of the fifth day. Rock had awoken the kids not once, but three times. The object of my displeasure sat in the doorway of the mudroom, happily thumping his tail and panting. "You come near me and I'll kick you in the balls," I threatened.
Mike came into the kitchen. "You be good while I'm gone," he said.
"You be good while you're gone," I countered, giving him the evil eye. These yearly law enforcement seminars were bad enough without having them be in Atlantic City. Better than Las Vegas, I supposed, trying not to fume. Mike grinned at me, gave me a pat on my rear end and lugged his bags out the back door to his Explorer. How many clothes did you need for a three-day stay-over, anyway? This would leave me grumbling all day long. I always sulked when Mike went away, especially to someplace nice, like Atlantic City.
Mike left, and I got Kaylee up for breakfast and Christa dressed for school. The bus came, and I walked Christa down to the end of the driveway with Kaylee propped on my hip. I waved to the driver, nice old Mr. Strickland, and at all the kids waving out the windows. I threw a kiss to Christa, then carried Kaylee back to the house and put her in her high chair and fed her breakfast. Then I did laundry and cleaned the house, letting Rock follow me around. At eleven-thirty I put Kaylee down for her nap and put Rock outside on his 50' chain. I planned to take a bath, and I didn't want Rock moseying the house while Kaylee was asleep and I relaxed in the bathtub. I didn't trust Rock that much. I went upstairs to draw my bath.
I have a bad habit. Our house sits well back from the road and is surrounded by woods on all sides but the front. The closest house is five hundred some feet away; even during the winter I can't see it through the trees. At night, yes, when light from the windows makes its way across the intervening distance, but not during the day. The isolation gives me a false sense of privacy. I tend to not care about walking around in my underwear, sometimes topless, sometimes completely nude. I do this entirely too often; once or twice I've found myself being spotted by someone walking down the road or looking out their car window. Then I'm embarrassed. Then I won't do it again for a few weeks, until complacency sets in and I stop being cautious again. So it was, that I happened to be downstairs in the mudroom with no clothes on that noon.
What I was after was a towel. I'd done the wash and forgotten to take the towels upstairs. I had already folded half a dozen towels, was bending over to pull out another armful when a cold wet snout pressed between my thighs and buried itself in my defenseless crotch. I shrieked, leapt forward and slammed my head and right shoulder against the dryer and brained myself. I was conscious of, without actually recognizing it, that I had been licked with a harsh wet tongue, as well as being jabbed.
"What are you doing?" I screamed at the dog. I whirled around and jumped back against the washer, one foot atop the open door, the other pushing me up on my tiptoes. I slid my butt onto the top of the dryer and sat, looking down at him.
"I can't believe you just did that, dog!"
Despite my shock and horror, a somewhat hysterical giggle erupted from my mouth: a dog had just accosted me. I could feel the aftereffects of the long, raspy tongue on my labia. Rock sat there on his haunches, tongue lolling out, head cocked to the side, as though thinking: "That was nice. Can I do it again?"
"No!" I told him hotly. "You can not do it again!" I kicked at him with my foot, but was too far away. "Fucking pervert," I grumbled at him.
Daring him to move, I got down off the dryer, snatched up the already-folded towels and left the rest behind in the dryer drum. Those, I'd fold after my bath. When I had some clothes on. I was most of the way to the kitchen door when I stopped dead in my tracks.
I had put Rock out. I had put him on the 50' chain. He was back in the house and I hadn't let him in. Frightened, almost panicked, I backed against the kitchen wall just inside the door and held my breath, listening. Was somebody in my house? Was someone playing a joke? Had I left the back door unlocked? Of course it was unlocked. I always left it unlocked. During the summer, I left it standing wide open.
"H-hello?" I quietly called out. "Is anybody there?" Rock came to sit in the mudroom doorway, eyeing me as he had in the mudroom. "Did somebody let you in?" I asked him. He didn't answer, only kept eyeing me with his big black eyes.
Selecting the biggest towel and dropping the others on the floor, I bundled myself as I would just out of the shower and silently crossed to the kitchen counter. From the knife rack I quietly slid out the butcher knife and the knife next biggest in size and brandished one in each hand. If there was an intruder, God help him. Moving silently again, I reentered the mudroom and checked the back door: it was ajar, open half an inch. Looking out the window, I traced the 50' chain to the end and saw the thick brown collar, still attached, the buckle still fastened. I looked down at Rock. No collar.
"You stupid dog," I muttered. "You frightened me half to death. What are you doing shimmying out of your collar?"
What are you doing snuffling my crotch, and licking me like that; I thought was a better question. I knew dogs did that, invaded people's crotches, but it was the first time Rock had ever done it to me. And he had to wait until I was naked and defenseless. Stupid dog.
Stupid housewife, wandering around naked.
I looked at the door, calling myself stupid again. I had left it open, and Rock had wormed his way past the half-sprung screen door I kept nagging Mike to fix.
Grabbing Rock by the ruff of the neck, I forced him outside, and made sure the door was closed this time. For good measure, I locked it. Then I returned to the kitchen, bent over and grabbed the stack of folded towels off the floor, popping mine loose in the process. I went upstairs naked and seething, to take my bath.
The bath was nice. I lay in the dark with a single candle lighting the room. The water was almost too hot to endure. I felt like a broiled lobster. A washcloth covered my face and I lay with my arms suspended in the water beside me. Water encircled my breasts, leaving the nipples tiny islands above the soap. It felt erotic, like it always did. That's why I like baths.
I fucked Henry, ten years ago. It happed right after my 28th birthday. Mike had the kids at his mom's house for the weekend; I was babysitting the house while the construction guys put on the rear addition, Mark and Stephie's new rooms. I didn't worry about the guys, because Henry owned the company doing the work. He was there every day, and basically dared any of his guys to make a move on me. Instead, he made the move himself.
The kids were ten and Mike and I were a sedately married couple, eleven years into our marriage. The sex was good; there just wasn't enough of it. That certainly wasn't Mike's fault. But neither was it mine. I didn't ask for it to happen. But when it did, I didn't fight it very hard, either.
.... There is more of this story ...