Dogged in the Dirt
I consult my laptop. Ping, ping, ping. They’re getting closer, and my pulse kicks up a couple of notches. I checked my bio-nanite dish—the emitting signal is strong. I checked the monitor to ensure all four digital video cameras—two in the brush and two in the trees—were working. Everything checks out again. None of them have gone anywhere in the last hour since I set up.
She’s coming. I started recording all four videos at once. It’s a beautiful scene. I’m excited in a way I haven’t been since I began videoing my wife and Gunther a few years back.
The market, the market. The market is ruthless. They all want something new, even the kindest customers, and in truth, so do I. A new challenge and this is a big one. As I said, if it goes south, this is three months and a few thousand dollars, mostly down the toilet. It’s not going to work if she knows what’s going on.
Ping, ping, ping. They’re almost here.
Laptop, broadcast dish, cameras, and monitor. Check, check, check. If this works, I’ll have at least a few hours of footage to play with. I’m hoping at least two of the cameras get good angles.
First, the birds go silent. Then the pounding of running feet, first hers, then the trot of her companion’s. Then the breathing—hers and his. Hers is faster than normal—she must be sprinting. Fantastic. She’ll be sweatier and ruddier, which I kind of like.
She rounds the corner to the straightaway, her long blonde hair in a tight, braided bun. An unobstructed view of her face—perfect. She pours it on. Her tight thighs, strong flanks, black sports bra hugging those big boobs, the running shorts . . . she’s proud of her body and should be. She’s very disciplined.
Because she’s sprinting, she’s ahead of her companion, but here he comes. A magnificent Great Dane, tongue flapping, happy as can be. He’s in good shape, too.
Have to time this just right. My hand moves to a switch on the emitting dish.
Three. Pulse in my head.
Two. Heart skipping.
One. It’s like a jet engine in my skull.
I push the button. The dish sends out a sequence of electromagnetic pulses and a billion bio nanites in the blonde’s body flare to life.
The girl stumbles, falls to the ground, and catches herself with her arms—it’s a perfect fall and catch. She isn’t injured. An injury wouldn’t have completely queered the deal, but I don’t want her hurt, and nobody else does, either. Well, almost nobody else. Some markets are into that, but I don’t cater to it. Hurting people without their consent . . . no, no, no.
I check the monitors and breathe easier. She’s fallen perfectly in the camera zones—all four of them! Someone up there likes me. I’ll have more than enough footage to cut, splice, and build on later, back home with my editing equipment.
I zoom in with the cameras, tailoring the shots. The camera at her rear captures her firm, high buttocks, and curvy, muscled thighs. The cameras flanking her have a lovely view of her torso. And the one trained on her face—it’s perfect, capturing the blended expression of confusion and fear.
The Great Dane, her only friend right now, is concerned. He nuzzles and pushes her side, trying to prod her up.
I imagine what it’s like. I imagine what she’s thinking while she can still think. What’s happening? Am I having a stroke? An aneurysm? But my head doesn’t hurt . . . Why . . . why did I fall? What’s . . . .
Now, a new confusion plays across her face. She’s feeling something, something warm and wet down low. The camera at her rear shows what’s happening. Her crotch already had a damp line from the running. But now the dampness is spreading. Her hand flies to it, to feel. I’ll wager she thinks she’s lost control of her bladder, that she’s peeing into her shorts. But as soon as her hand reaches that hot patch, she knows it’s something else.
It’s arousal. Pussy juice is swamping her shorts.
A new sensation registers on her face. There’s still confusion and fear, but now there’s also arousal. Stronger than arousal. Lust. Lust is eating her feelings, and it’s eating her thoughts.
The hand at her crotch goes from testing to confirming to rubbing. I can’t see it, but I know what’s happening: The hard side of her hand is pressing her clitoris and smooshing apart the lips of her labia. Her hindquarters are now a squooshy, blotched mess of stained fabric. And in her face, the fear fades, even though the confusion remains. And then confusion burns out, too. The camera captures it as the human in her winks out entirely. Eyes wide and empty-dumb, nostrils flaring. She reddens and sweats. Wauling and warbling, her hand plunges beneath under her waistband to frigging herself frantically, sloppily, and—oh, my God—audibly.
Heat. The body of this blonde, strong, sprinting, big-titted beauty is in heat.
This is working out better than I’d even hoped. I’d spent three months staking out this pathway, evaluating the women running by. Two months ago, I decided the blonde was the best candidate. A month ago, I managed to fire a functional chip into her shoulder—she hollered, probably thinking it was a wasp sting. Two weeks ago, on a hot, still, and humid day, she ran through a floating cloud of nanites, inhaling deeply as she went. (She shook off the coughing fit pretty admirably.) Then, I spent two weeks monitoring the nanites from afar, ensuring they were doing what they were made to do—priming her, changing her without her knowledge, for just this moment.
The market, the market. It will reward us wonderfully for this, my wife and me. My wife and Gunther have stopped bringing in the good cash. Money’s been tight, and my wife has been worried. I don’t like it when she’s worried. My wife, I love her, and she doesn’t deserve that. She deserves a man who can provide. And so I’m providing. Me, the blonde, and the Great Dane.
The Great Dane, he’s getting wise. He prods the blonde’s crotch firmly with his snout. The blonde moans. The Dane, he’s knocking, he’s knocking, and he wants in—
The blonde. Suddenly, her animal self knows that clothing is wrong. It must come off. She’s not thinking, not in the way we think. It’s instinct, the same way a dog tries to remove a ridiculous sweater. Dogs shouldn’t wear clothes, and neither should she.
She scrabbles at her shorts. Not quick enough. She tears them apart and tosses them away. Her rear is high and up and gleaming on a hot summer day. The Dane, his cold snout, presses into her asshole, and he laps at it, the brown rosebud, and at her pink and gooey cunt.
She hollers, but not in pain. She brings her head to the dirt path, her face pointed toward mine, but she sees nothing. The camera catches her perfectly, eyebrows knotted, eyes empty, panting. Her hands fly, now, to that tight bra. Off it comes, tossed away. Her huge breasts—no, really, they’re teats, now—hang heavy and free. I’m pleased to see they’re natural. Her nipples and areolae are mind-blasting sensitive, so she smooshes them into the packed earth and rakes up the friction. . . . oh, no, it’s not enough. She pushes herself up to her elbows and grips her areole hard with all her fingers and PULLS—the noise she makes is nothing people make. Those glorious udders . . . .
Damn. Losing focus. And I have to focus on keeping the quality high. I need to monitor and adjust four cameras simultaneously.
The Great Dane, he gets it now. His mistress, she’s in heat. She needs to breed. And he loves her, so he’s happy. Up he bounds, his long purple erection bouncing on her back, thrusting, trying to find the entry, no, that’s one of her buttocks, that’s not right, whoops, that’s under her, rubbing against her pubic hair, okay, that’s closer, her clitoris, and she explodes with that—seriously, a squirt of cunt juice explodes against her canine lover’s belly and dribbles onto the dirt.
And then he’s in. The Great Dane sinks himself up to his big doggie balls inside his mistress.
The star of my film, the human in her, momentarily bobs up from her oceanic lust to register what’s happening. Her beloved pet has just succeeded in mounting her, and now he’s furiously jackhammering her in a way only a dog can. Consciousness flickers, but then she’s swamped by animal sensation. My blonde smile was the biggest, dumbest animal smile on a human face. She drools into the dirt.
The dog fucks her hard and fast, his hips a blur. Her skin is tight and flanks firm, but she ripples anyway. The deep cries of her heat pour out of her jouncing torso in an endless and uninterrupted outpouring of brutal ecstasy.
If she had enough brains right now, she’d think: Never end. Never end. Keep me like this forever. All, all, all, all the dogs. Bring me all the dogs. But she’s not thinking. All she can do is fuck.
But then the dog stumbles against her, flops fully onto her back, and his hindquarters jerk, jerk, jerk, jerk—and then he’s done. He’s cum. Dogs don’t last long. They’re not humans; they’re not vain. They don’t care how long they last. They mate quickly because mating is dangerous in the wild, leaving animals vulnerable.
Still, he’s stuck inside her and not going anywhere soon. The knot. It makes evolutionary sense. The knot gives the sperm a little time to travel, and it keeps other dogs from getting their crack at the female. A lot of competition among dogs, after all. Still, no dog likes being trapped, so he’d rather the knot subside. It’ll be a few minutes.
I admire my star. The sensation of hot dog sperm splashing against her vaginal walls has quaked her into a succession of bone-deep orgasms. The blue undersides of her well-worn running shoes—she just couldn’t get them off—poke out between her sated pet’s back paws.
The only drawback to this whole encounter—the only thing the market and my viewers might not like— is that I won’t be able to get a close-up of his knot in her hypersensitive cunt. But I don’t know this dog, and I don’t know how he’ll react to me. And I won’t take the chance that the lady-beast he just fucked won’t rouse just enough to catch a glimpse of me. It’s disappointing, but the audience must accept that they won’t get the knot shot.
Then something amazing happens. I’ve seen it on a couple of other videos, but I’ve not seen it in real life. The Great Dane swivels atop his blonde conquest, lifts his legs over her, and lands facing away from her, his ass pressed against her buttocks . . . with his cock still inside of her!
I’m gobsmacked. They look like a pair of lewd bookends, heads pointed in opposite directions. Not even Gunther did this with my wife. Not any of the dozens of times they’ve mated.
Then the Dane tries to pull out. But he’s still fully knotted in her, and as he pulls, I can see a bridge of dog cock flesh binding them together, her pussy lips pulling around his shaft. I don’t need to show a knot-shot. It’s clear as a bright day that he’s inside her and dragging her backward.
And her? I didn’t know someone in a coma could cry out in pleasure, but there you have it.
The dog tugs and rests and then drags her a bit more. It’s kind of hilarious. She gets dirtier. And then, with a pop and a yip, he pulls free, and she collapses. I zoom in with the cameras on her face and rear. She’s sleeping it off, dog sperm leaking out into a vile puddle. The Dane sniffs at it, nuzzles her rear, laps at her sex, and she moans. He comes around to her face and licks it tenderly, his mistress. He loves her and is devoted to her. And now they’re closer than ever.
I flick off the electromagnetic pulses, and the nanites in her go dormant. This part of the show is over, but I’m keeping the cameras rolling. I’m curious about the denouement, as my customers will be.
It takes about 10 minutes for her to stir. She pushes herself up, wobbly and coughing. She’s a muddy mess, the dirt sticking to her body. She sits—her face, tits, belly, and knees are filthy. She’s been playing in the dirt.
She looks hungover—tired, disoriented, and disturbed. I imagine what she’s thinking: What happened? What on earth happened? Then, a sudden horror: she’s butt-fucking-naked on an isolated dirt path under the high summer sun. She fumbles for her bra, frantically yanks it on, then finds her running shorts—they’re worthless, rent into scraps. Oh, God. Raped, I was attacked and raped, that must be it, God, my dog, my dog, why didn’t you protect me—.
And the camera nails the moment. She brings her hands to her mouth and stares at her faithful, beloved, enormous Great Dane. She remembers, remembers all of it. Her dog just fucked her. And she just fucked her dog. Without hesitation or fear, or remorse. And she never wanted it to end. All the dogs, all the dogs.
Her face fractures. Screaming and red and broken, she backs away from her pet.
The Dane is disturbed. His mistress is acting strangely. He comes toward her. She shrieks and tells him to go away and get away from me. What did you do? Could you let me know what you made me do?
Blaming the dog. Blaming the guy. Such a stereotype. But I guess that’s not unexpected here. I’ll let it pass.
The dog comes closer. She picks up a large rock and chucks it at him hard. It goes wide because she’s too freaked out to aim. He walks closer, and she grabs another rock. She’s lucky this time—it hits his flank, and the Dane yelps and backs away to watch his mistress from a safer vantage.
Go away, go away, go away, fuck you, fuck you, GOGOGO. She’s hardly coherent. I’ll need to edit the sound so the viewers get what she says.
She turns and sprints. She’s so fit that her thighs and buttocks barely wobble. The dog gallops after her, but she hears him, grabs for another rock, stumbles, and faceplants. The dog comes to her and is on top of her. And she kicks him, once, hard, squarely in the head. He yelps and runs the other way.
Oh, come on. This is cruel. I understand why she’s doing it—her whole life has just blown up around her—but even so, she should know better. The dog didn’t do anything wrong. He thought he was helping.
The dog sits maybe 20 meters from his mistress. She gets up and tries to wipe sweat and tears away, but all that gets her is a fresh layer of mud around her eyes. Then she sprints away. The dog doesn’t follow. Now she’s gone, running for safety and sanity. But she’s wearing only a bra and running shoes, her well-worn labia tickled by the cool air race. I hope she can return to her car before anyone sees her. She’s been embarrassed enough.
The dog he’s just sitting there, confused, his mistress having betrayed him. I turn off all the cameras and think about what to do.
A few minutes later, I emerge from the brush. The dog barks at me—no surprise—but there’s nobody around for him to defend, so the barks aren’t too earnest. I walk out slowly and present my hand. He smells it, then smells my neck and face. He nuzzles my crotch—yes, of course, I’ve been leaking, I’m not a fucking saint—and I push him away. That’s a little embarrassing. For a moment, I think I understand how the blonde feels.
I check out the dog’s tags. His name is Arthur. Good boy, Arthur. Maybe we’ll name that thing of yours Excalibur.
Eh, maybe not. Too obvious.
For about 15 minutes I hang out with Arthur, building trust. I gather up the cameras and pack up my equipment. I take one last look around. The knee—, face—, and boob prints of that fantastic blonde are still visible, but the hot sun has dried out the sweaty mud. The snaky yellow puddle of dog cum is still obvious, though. That’ll take longer to go away.
This whole thing went perfectly. I’m so excited I can barely think about what to do next. Buzzing thoughts of acreage and a milking barn and dozens of tanned, naked, very fit women herded along bubble through my brain. No way. A ranch like that is impossible. Right?
As I head for my van, poor Arthur at my side, I mull over the immediate problem. My wife won’t want another dog. We don’t have room, and I wouldn’t do that to Gunther. And I’m sure not going to give Arthur to the pound. He’s sweet as hell. So I decided to bring him back to the blonde, in real life, at her home. After all, I chipped her to find her no matter where she lived. And she doesn’t know me, anyway. She’s never seen me. All she’ll know is that some Good Samaritan is bringing her dog back to her.
I imagine myself at her door, ringing the bell, and her opening it, seeing Arthur and me. I wonder what her face will look like. I wonder if I’ll learn her name.
The End.
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