Based on the Story:

Abby's K9 Lust by Doggie2

To begin with, let me tell you something about myself. I'm a divorcee, recently out of yet another unsatisfactory relationship. Our last time together, "Ralph" tied me down to my bed, stuck all four of the pillows beneath my hips, gagged me with my own panties and bra, and then instructed his dog Rodney on how to make love to his girlfriend. I kicked the son of a bitch out of the house.

One afternoon a month or so after the assault, I was in the kitchen, making a pitcher of Lipton Iced Tea. I glanced out the back door, having seen something from the corner of my eye. It was Loopy, the next door neighbor's dog, a large Black Lab. He was chewing on a rawhide bone, his energetic tugging motion what I'd seen peripherally. I flinched, reminded of that night I'd been with another dog. My mouth pressed into a thin line as I walked to the back door and began to shut it. Loopy looked up.

"What do you want?" I mouthed at the foul beast. "To lick my pussy? To stick that disgusting piece of meat up my cunt? Well, dream on, asshole. It ain't gonna happen." I had just closed the door and turned away when I heard a scratching sound. It couldn't be, I thought. He wouldn't dare. Apparently, he would.

"You must be kidding me?" I accused.

The stupid dog sat on my back stoop, staring up at me. Of all the nerve.

"Get off of my property," I commanded. With my right hand, I shooed him away. He wouldn't go. He just sat there, staring up at me. I crossed to the kitchen phone, picked it up, and dialed the house next door. On the third ring, it picked up.

"Hi. This is the Dawsons. We're out right now, but if you'd leave a name and message, we'll get right back to you. Honest," Ron Dawson promised me.

Not knowing exactly what to say, I hung up. Then I called back and properly prepared, left a short message telling Ron that his dog was at my house, sitting on the back stoop. Only when I hung up the phone and turned around, Loopy was not sitting on the stoop, but standing inside the back door, panting happily.

"You must be kidding me," I said again. "Get out of here, Loopy. Shoo." But Loopy was going nowhere. He dropped onto his rear haunches and continued to look up at me and pant.

"This is bullshit," I grumbled. I returned to the phone, hit redial, and told Ron Dawson where his dog was now. "You really need to come and get him," I warned. "You know how I am about dogs. I hate them, Ron."

I feared them more, especially males who could threaten me with that thing between their legs. I put my hand to my mouth, momentarily reliving that night, flashing back to the horror. But I was not tied up. My behind was not elevated on pillows. I was not naked and spread with peanut butter in my genitals.

Angry, I sat down at the table and eyed the dog. I couldn't touch him. I wouldn't touch him. I hadn't touched a dog since that night, nor would I. I reminded myself that it was only a month ago, and that I'd not had the occasion to touch another dog. Only a month ago, I thought. Was that really possible? My labia itched, and I crossed my legs uncomfortably. Perhaps, I thought, I should get the dog some water.

I ran fresh water into a bowl, and then, in a act of compassion, cut up two Oscar Meyer all-beef franks and put them in a second bowl next to the first. Loopy wolfed them down with such dispatch that I took pity on him and cut up two more, and then two more after that. Disgusted with myself, I sacrificed the final two in the pack, which he wolfed down with equal dispatch. Then he looked up at me, expectantly. Shaking my head, my eyes happened to alight on the unopened bottle of peanut butter on the counter. I had meant to throw it away. I had no use for peanut butter. Then the most godawful idea I'd ever had in my life swam into my head. I stared at the bottle, as though mesmerized.

"Oh, please don't tell me you're thinking this," I whispered. Horror washed through me, head to toe. My hands were shaking and shivers like cubes of ice ran up and down my spine. I gulped, and followed my outstretched hand to the counter.

In the living room, I sat down on the couch, unzipped my slacks, and then zipped them up again. I was not doing this in slacks. Not when I had to remove them in order to prepare myself. No, this was a job for a dress.

Placing the unopened bottle on the end table, I turned and followed my breasts out of the living room. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, went over to the closet and opened the door. Undressing to my underwear, I picked out an appropriately baggy sundress, and slipped it on over me head. On second thought, I removed my brassiere from beneath the dress and let it drop on the floor atop my discarded slacks. I wondered if I should remove my panties as well, decided I darned well should, and slid them down my thighs to my ankles, stepping out of them. I looked at myself in the full length mirror.

I'm not a bad-looking woman. I am 33 years old, have light brown hair and Hazel eyes. I have a nice smile, and generously full lips. My face is egg-shaped, tapering from a wide forehead to a dainty, dimpled chin. My cheekbones are high, but not prominent. My breasts are just the right size, my waist is slim, and I have nice hips and legs. I get plenty of looks, especially in something like this sundress, which accents my figure.

Smoothing the sides of my dress, I took my gently swaying and bouncing breasts back downstairs. Loopy waited for me in the living room.

"I have a treat for you," I said. Before saying anything else, or doing anything foolish, I returned to the kitchen and the back door, looked outside to assure myself the Dawsons had not returned home. They had not.

Why, oh why had I left a message?

I closed the door, locked it as an afterthought, and returned to the living room where Loopy waited for me, patiently sitting on his rear haunches and panting. I sat down on the couch, raised my dress, and exposed my baby-bare genitals. Loopy trotted over.

"Do you like peanut butter?" I asked. Removing the lid, and peeling back the safety barrier, I held out the jar for Loopy to sniff, which he did, energetically. I stole the bottle back before he slobbered all over the contents. Carefully, placing the lid and barrier aside, I fingered out a blob of JIF and applied it cautiously to my labia, filling the space between the lips and carefully covering my delicate clitoris. Loopy barked his approval, bounced his head up and down half a dozen times, and unbidden, began to lick me clean.

"Oh, my God," I moaned. Shivers like electrical charges ran up an down my spine. My thigh muscles spasmed, jerking my legs closed, or trying to. More muscles jumped in my legs, making me flinch and start pitifully. I looked down, only to discover that Loopy had ingested most of the peanut butter already; his sandpapery tongue was now rasping directly across my excitable clitoris. I shuddered and fought to keep my thighs from snapping shut. It was a loosing battle.

Then I did a second, supremely stupid thing: I invited him to jump onto my lap. He compromised by straddling my hips with his front paws. This left him close enough, however, that I could reach between his rear legs and find what I was after. I touched his sheath, fingered it gently, began to rub up and down its length until I could feel a swelling begin. I switched my fingertips to the slick wetness of his penis as it protruded from the sheath, kept massaging and stroking and fingering until the erection was the size of a man's cock. Wrapping it with my hand, I urged him closer, even as I slid my behind off the edge of the couch, offering myself. Loopy accepted my offer gratefully. His thick penis touched the cleft between my widespread legs, bumped it gently, bumped it hard, and then, with my encouragement, he shuffled forward on his hind legs and pushed gently into my aching vagina. It enveloped him fully, the entire length of his cock buried, right up to the frightening, and oh-so dangerous knot.

Mustn't let that get in me, I admonished myself. The last one had got in, and Rodney very nearly ripped out the throat of my vagina trying to get out. Besides, I didn't want to be locked to this monster for twenty minutes after he'd finished up with me. Oh no, no, no. I didn't want that.

Loopy did what dogs do, and I leaned back into the cushions, grasping his forelegs and closing my eyes, smiling happily. I'm afraid and embarrassed to admit I did everything I could with my body to make Loopy's time with me as satisfying for us both as possible. I know for a fact that dogs are predisposed toward human females, but only with proper encouragement, direction and training. Loopy needed very little encouragement and training.

I began to orgasm, though it was a slow and steady climb to the top. My muscles began to twitch and my heart-rate quickened and my breathing became labored. My head fell to the side and I bit my lower lip blissfully. I felt none of the panic and fear and self-disgust that I had tied down to my bed. Well, a little of the self-disgust, but I was in charge this time, not bound hand and foot and offered like a sacrificial lamb. In some ways, this was so much more satisfying than spreading my legs for a man. There was no demand for the use of my mouth, no worry about anal sex; I would not have a cock ripped out of me at the last moment to decorate my face or invade my open mouth. When Loopy came, it would be between my legs, right where I wanted it.

As his thrusting became more frenzied, my own reactions became more frenetic. I was panting through my open mouth and making sexually explicit noises now: moans, sharp intakes of breaths, gasping occasionally, moving my head back and forth on the cushions, thrusting my own pelvis forward to meet his, though my position on the couch limited my effectiveness. I began to moan his name and plead for him to finish me quickly, release me from this misery, to drive me completely over the top. I raised my head and watched as our organs thrashed and ground and came together, every muscle like overstretched steel bands, every tendon like over-stretched steel cables. My vagina spasmed uncontrollably and I could feel a deep ache settling in that would be with me for days afterward. Each thrust forward hit my cervix and stretched my vagina mercilessly, compressing my uterus and making me groan in pain. I could feel the watery semen flowing out of me and down my behind, soaking the seat cushions and puddling below me on the floor. It would be quite a mess I'd be faced with when done. A mess I hadn't expected, but would deal with contentedly, a smile on my face.

Finally, his attentions drove me over the top and my back arched high, leaving me supported by the back of my head and my feet on the floor. The rest of me was airborne, strung tight as a suspension bridge, my toes curled under, my fists clenched so tightly I left four crescents in each palm. I imagined myself as an electrocution victim, a thousand volts frying my insides. My vagina was the socket, Loopy's penis the plug, our combined juices the super conducting agent. I heard the words "Nuh-nuh-nuh!" choking out of my chest and throat. I collapsed suddenly, totally spent.

It was fortunate that Ron Dawson didn't ring my doorbell for another forty-five minutes. The first twenty minutes I spent hardwired to his dog, my new lover, wonderful Loopy. His knot, unbeknownst to me in my cognitive failure, had invaded my vagina and bound us together as tightly as any hip or shoulder joint. I held him and ruffed his fur and rubbed his head and stroked his sides, whispered things designed to both relax and please him. Eventually his knot receded and freed my aching vagina. Semen gushed out of me onto the floor, soaking and ruining the Persian rug. I didn't care; I hadn't a care in the world. I was just happy. So happy.

I cleaned myself as well as possible, using the front of my sundress to wipe between my legs. I'd have to remember next time, to bring towels with me--many, many towels. Leaving Loopy to clean himself the way dogs do, I tiptoed up the stairs to the 2nd floor, sundress bunched between my legs to absorb his leakage. I went directly to the bathroom and pealed the dress off over my head, facing away from the effusion as it passed my face. I dropped the sundress into the tub for further dealing later on.

Not looking at myself in the mirror (I was, yes, beginning to experience self-loathing and embarrassment), I grabbed a washcloth from the closet and cleaned between my legs, cleansed my thighs, wiped the squishy mess from between my cheeks. I sat down and urinated quickly, grabbed a Summer's Eve douche from beneath the sink and cleansed myself. Then I ran into the bedroom and redressed myself in my previous outfit. I took the requisite time to check my makeup, straighten my hair (without meeting my eyes in the reflection), and then rushed back downstairs with a handful of towels. I had just dumped the soiled towels in the washer and sprayed the affected areas of the couch and rug with Fabreze, when the doorbell rang.

"Sorry about this, Megan." Ron Dawson rubbed Loopy's head affectionately. "He knows better than to jump that fence, don't you boy? I don't know what got into him today. You like Miss Megan, buddy boy?" He grinned. "Miss Megan doesn't particularly like dogs. I'm surprised she even let you in her kitchen. You must have charmed the pants off her, right?" He grinned again, blushing brightly. "Excuse my off-hand remark, Megan. I don't think anymore before opening my mouth. A consequence of growing old, I guess," he said, sighing.

Ron was in his late 70's. He was rail thin, stoop shouldered, balding gracefully with a hawk-like nose and barely perceptible lips. Grizzled fuzz covered his cheeks and his hands were gnarly with the beginnings of rheumatoid arthritis. He must have been a good-looking man in his youth; he was still darned sexy for a man 11 years older than my father.

I grinned back at him, showing I took no offense. "I'll watch Loopy anytime, Ron. He and I formed sort of an attachment today, didn't we boy?"

Loopy thumped his tail happily on the floor and nodded his head happily, as though he understood. I smiled and winked at him, keeping my head turned so that only Loopy could see.

Two days later, I went to the pound and browsed through the population of large breed dogs awaiting adoption ... or euthanasia. There were Rottweilers and Alsatians, German Shepards and Labs, Retrievers and Doberman Pinschers. They were black and brown and tan and white and mixed colors in between. I especially liked a large Rottweiler, six years old and suffering from a deformed front paw. He'd been dumped because of the paw, I guessed, picked up wandering the county dump three months ago. Jake and I fell in love, first sight.

What a pain in the ass it is adopting a dog from the pound. It was almost impossible. Bureaucratic red tape was nearly as annoying as the intrusive, personal questions they asked--some only this side of offensive--including inquirers about my own personal hygiene, what kind of house I kept, did I have a yard the dog could play in, were their other dogs in the neighborhood or children accused of animal cruelty, and did I understand the responsibilities of keeping a large canine in the house.

"I understand very well," I said coldly, after my third round of questioning. Why didn't I simply go out and buy a dog?

Eventually, Jake was allowed to come home with me. In preparation, I had traded my Toyota Avalon for a Toyota Highlander, an SUV. I had the people at PetsMart install a barrier between the backseat and the cargo area. I had collars and leashes, a bed and flea collars, rawhide chews and enough Purina Dog Chow to feed the entire population of the pound for a week. Picking Jake up, I walked him around the Highlander and let him sniff the tires, inspect the front seats, nose around the back seat, then coaxed him into the cargo area with the help of a pound employee, a pimply-faced, greasy-haired 16-year-old with the smug expression of someone who knew another person's intimate intentions. I wondered how many unmarried woman adopted large dogs from the pound.

Jake's bed went at the foot of my bed. I tried nothing for a week, paranoid that Jake would be reclaimed by the pound—Sorry, Ma'am. Jake is the lost pet of State Senator William F. Burroughs and the senator's limo is waiting outside for him. Or that Jake would prove to be defective in some way other than his lame paw; maybe he was a trained fighter that would attack at the slightest indication of weakness. Could offering peanut butter between the legs be considered a sign of weakness? Mostly, I was terrified that Jake wouldn't like me, would scoff at my offering, would blow me off with the doggie version of disdain. Worse, I was terrified he'd run away at the first opportunity. I spent the first week petting him, stuffing him with food, brushing his thick, black wiry coat, and letting him lay on the couch with me when I watched movies. I was the perfect owner, that first week. Finally, my moment of truth arrived.