Rick Jennings: Pet shop pussy

She let her passions take control and as she maneuvered a third finger into place, she was gasping and shaking on the bed, her limbs shivering involuntarily and her orgasm erupting with all the fire and delight no man had ever gotten her to feel.

"More, lick me, love me, love me!" she cried out as if the burly young man in her dream was actually there, standing by the foot of her bed with a lewd and lascivious grin etched across his lips.

But when she stared wildly around, even as hot rivulets of fresh cunt juice streamed down the burning walls of her stimulated twat, she could see that she was alone with Bix, that no one else had entered her room, either from the window which led out onto the fire escape, or through the locked front door of her three-room apartment.

And a look of anger mingled with the rage of her erotic release as Pam kept writhing back and forth. Bix continued to lash his tongue around her anus, licking and nipping at her bottom-hole while her three fingers plunged and darted deeper and deeper into her burning snatch.

She was milking herself of every last drop of cunt juice, every last burning charge of sexual pleasure. Her orgasm was like a spring suddenly uncoiling inside of her and by the time she had drained herself dry and Bix had finally pulled his tongue back to sit up and stare at her flushed and reddened face, Pam was too exhausted to say or do another thing.

She just lay there on her bed, the rosy-red glow which had suffused her skin now fading as the blush of fiery pleasure began to expire like smoldering glowing coals in a dying fire. "Where are you, you prick! Where the fuck are you hiding?" she screamed out, her face contorted with anger that grew more intense and vituperative as she stared wildly around the room.

Had her life been a fairy tale, she would have awakened from her reveries to discover that they had come true. But today, as in the past, fantasy had not been transformed into the stuff of life. A cool breeze fanned the lace curtains and through the opened window, which led out onto the fire escape, she could hear the murmur of voices, of children playing out on the street, of a neighbor arguing with her husband.

But no one, no burly blue-jeaned cowboy-booted young man, was crouched down on the fire escape, about to lift the window wide and slide one foot and then the other into her room, entering her apartment and thus, entering her life.

No tears, not today, Pam said to herself. She patted Bix and got up out of bed, knowing it was time to face the dull gray languor of reality… her reality, her boring and dispassionate life.

Living as she did in what had formerly been a rent-controlled apartment, quite a plum as far as the vast majority of Manhattanites were concerned, Pam had the added luxury of space, space which included a kitchen that not only had a window, but that was also big enough to easily hold a round oak dining table and four cane-backed chairs.

Nearly all of her friends bemoaned their fate, the exorbitant rentals they paid in modern luxury buildings. And almost every one of them were forced to eat in dining alcoves and living rooms, substituting ventilator grates for kitchen windows.

The late morning sun streamed brilliantly into the kitchen and the hanging plants, which decorated the window, were lush and full. There's absolutely no reason to be depressed, Pam told herself as she sipped her third cup of coffee and idly flicked the pages of the Sunday Times she had picked up at a newsstand the night before.

Bix lay stretched out on the yellow tile floor, sunning himself after having consumed his light morning snack. She looked down at his furry black body and smiled to herself, pleased with his loyalty and doubly pleased with the way he never failed to excite her, knowing almost instinctively what to do to arouse her passions.

It wasn't so much her training as it was the dog's temperament and seemingly natural inclination to lick and tongue her body, her cunt and her asshole in particular. But that, she knew, was not all that she had taught him, nor was it the only trick Bix knew how to perform for his mistress.

But this morning she didn't want to think of that, having caught sight of the terrier's bony penis when Bix had sat up on the bed, moments after she had felt the last searing convulsions which marked her orgasm.

She wondered if he was capable of disappointment, then dismissed the notion as anthropomorphic, not wanting to give a dog human feelings, to endow an animal – even one as obviously bright and clever as Bix – with emotions best left for people to experience and deal with.

But in her eyes, at least, he hadn't looked all that happy, sitting up on the bed so that she had been able to see the pencil-thin and triangulated tip of his penis sticking out from its black hairy sheath.

The glistening flesh of his dog-cock was wet with canine genital secretions, a thin slippery fluid that she had tasted on numerous occasions in the past, carnal episodes of bestiality, she had told absolutely no one about.

Shame was one emotion she had learned to cope with quite early on in her life, for before Bix there had been her first dog, a honey colored cocker spaniel who made up for his unremarkable behavior and intelligence in other and far more intriguing ways.

She remembered that first incident with the spaniel, when she had just turned fifteen. It stood before her mind's eye as if it was happening, right there in the kitchen. But then she blinked and the image disappeared.

No, she decided, I've done enough fantasizing for one day. It's time to get out and shake off my depression before I really end up in the loony bin. She did not think she was headed for a breakdown, but as she got up to wash the breakfast dishes she sensed that unless things changed, the pattern of her life that is, no good would come of her burgeoning anxieties and dissatisfaction with the tenor of her existence.

"Want to romp in the park today, Bixie?" she asked her dog when the last of the breakfast dishes had been washed and set in the drainer to dry.

Bix yawned and stretched his legs, his carrot-shaped black tail rising up jauntily, wagging this way and that as he trotted obediently behind her, back into the bedroom where she picked out the clothes she would wear that afternoon.

Less than an hour later found her standing at the top of what New Yorkers had dubbed "Dog Hill", a denuded though still fairly grassy rounded hill which overlooked Fifth Avenue and the 79th Street entrance to Central Park.

Sunday, she knew, was the worst day of all, when the park was crowded with families and Dog Hill was a sea of barking running canine bodies. The good weather, the first taste of summer in what had been an unusually rainy spring, had brought the people out in droves and as she stood and looked around her, surveying the view while she kept a diligent eye on Bix, she suddenly stiffened and refused to believe her eyes.

I'm dreaming, she thought to herself, ignoring Bix so that she was able to train both eyes on the tall athletically built figure who stood some distance away from her, halfway down the rise of the gently sloping hill.

She could see his profile, the straight aquiline line of his nose, the thick and in her eyes sensual lips, now set in a slight and almost dazed bemused little grin. Dark piercing eyes stared out, open and devoid of deceit, from under a pair of thick bushy eyebrows.

Even the same hair, Pam thought to herself, for the young man who now was causing her to stare almost blatantly and rudely, had a thick mop of shaggy and curly dark-brown hair, hair which almost seemed to be the identical shade of brown as his eyes.

She shook her head and held herself more stiffly, aware of the way she had been trembling. Her fingers clutched Bix's leash and the yapping and scurrying all around her did not serve to break her mood of silent and watchful amazement.