There it was: that familiar scratching at the back door of the kitchen. It happened most weekdays around this time of the morning, just an hour or two after her daughter had left for school, when the house was quiet.

And there it was in her, as much as she tried not to admit it: that familiar lifting of nipples under her top, the stirring of clitoris, the twitch of anal pucker, the quick steeping of vaginal need. It was as if her body took control of her intentions, as soon as the signal sounded. A mental bell ringing, with the promise not of food, but a more sensual, raw sustenance. “Dog fucker,” the voice in the bell taunted. And as much as she might have wanted to pretend it wasn’t true, in her heart she wanted it even more to be true. She could not deny that she craved the feral, rumbling heat the words incited in her belly and cunt. Her cunt said it was true. What her cunt said is what mattered, when the rest was said and done, and what happened here and now was just between her, a dog, and the eyes of God. And God, if there was one, wasn’t talking either.

So she let him in. She let him nuzzle and drool on the crotch of her jeans, while she greeted him with coddling strokes of his ruff, and touched him nose to nose. Then, while he fed from a bowl of Alpo fresh from the can, she stripped. She knew well how it was with dogs, what kept them happy. Food first, then fucking. The food greased the fucking. Stand by your man, and all that shit. She had had a hard time at first explaining to her daughter why all that canned dog food was suddenly taking up shelf space in the pantry closet, when they didn’t have a dog. It didn’t take her daughter long to figure out the reason. That little bitch was too smart for her own good, as usual. Smart enough to be cool with it, which was a big relief for a dog-fucking mother.

The dog was looking up at her now, eyeing her naked body and licking his chops. She knew he’d go for toilet bowl next if she didn’t hurry to set down a pan of water for him, so she did. Toilet breath wouldn’t stop her from kissing a dog, but it did put a little edge on the yuck factor. Sex with dogs was always a matter of balancing the yuck factor with the fuck factor.

When he was done lapping out the bowl, he looked hard at her again, drool and water trailing from his jowls, copulation in his eyes. She knew the next course was her. He knew what he could get. The dog moved in between her legs, focused, nuzzling, snuffling cunt. Then his tongue flashed out, taking a long flat stroke up the length of her damp slit and up over her clit, through the closely trimmed little vee of silky red hair above. She groaned, her thighs spreading wider, a reflexive response that happened before she could decide to do it. Gradually she lowered into a wide squat, then slid to the floor, cunt open, inviting his tongue, needing and expecting the lapping out. He lapped her cunt out just like he’d lapped the water dish she’d just given him.

It wasn’t long after that the two were fucking, panting and knotted. He was over her, she was on hands and knees, his dew claws clasping her sides leaving faintly scraped trails in her skin. His drool pooled on the small of her back as he humped and then dumped his load up inside her tied-up, hungry cunt. Every time he tensed up and launched another volley of sperm shots, she bucked into orgasm again, each climax building from a higher floor of heat than the last. Hell yes, this is what she needed. Dog cock. How could she deny it?

She thought about not answering the phone, but it was probably her father. He liked to call this time of day, if he wasn’t able to stop by in person. She had been lying back on the floor, propped on her elbows, naked, her legs wide and the dog idly nosing and lapping at the slick of cum seeping from her cunt, then taking a few licks at her still-swollen nipples, then back to her cunt. Her clit twitched, and even in the ease of the moment they both knew another fuck was in the offing before the dog left for wherever he went on the rest of his daily rounds. Permeating the room was that certain sort of sweaty satisfaction that doesn’t quite quench the flames of sexual desire, but rather keeps them smoldering.

When she got up and answered the handset, it was him, and he had a pretty good idea what might be going on. Not just because it was that time of day, but because of that certain nervous, breathy strain he detected in is daughter’s voice.

“Do you have a dog there, Keryl?”

“Ummm, yes, Daddy.”

“Has he been licking your cunt Keryl?”