Chapter 10: Other Bitches Want in
The idea had been hers, announced over a breakfast of cold pizza and warm beer. “We’re going shopping,” she’d said, her claw tapping the list she’d scrawled on the back of an envelope. “My toys are for pups. Need the good stuff for you.”
Now, standing under the flickering neon of ‘The Velvet Cave,’ Barnaby felt the sidewalk might swallow him. The window display was a lurid symphony of silicone and leather. Ram, however, vibrated with excitement, her tail a metronome of anticipation against his leg.
“Quit dragging your feet,” she chuckled, the sound low and rich. She pushed the door open, a bell jingling with absurd cheerfulness.
The air inside was thick and chemically sweet, tinged with the scent of fake strawberries and latex. Muted electronica thumped from hidden speakers. A bored-looking human clerk glanced up from a magazine, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Ram, then flicking to Barnaby with a smirk.
Ram paid no mind. She moved through the narrow aisles like a general surveying her armory. Her massive form brushed against racks of lingerie, her claws delicately tracing the spines of paddles and floggers. She was utterly unabashed, picking up a monstrous, veined silicone phallus, hefting it in her hand like a carpenter judging the weight of a hammer.
“Think you could take this, owner?” she asked, her voice carrying. A pair of feline anthros at the lubricant display snickered.
Barnaby’s face burned. “Ram, please…”
“Please what?” she grinned, replacing the toy and leaning down, her muzzle close to his ear. Her breath was hot. “You’re gonna need training. Gotta work up to it.” She straightened, her gaze catching on a display of heavy-duty leather harnesses. “Ah. Now we’re talking.”
As she examined the harnesses, barking questions at the clerk about tensile strength and buckle ratings, Barnaby became acutely aware of the other patrons. A sleek, fox-like anthro woman in a business suit was watching him from the bondage gear aisle, her gaze a slow, appraising sweep. She licked her lips, a flash of pink. Another, a muscular shepherd type stacking cans of powdered supplement, gave him a blunt, approving nod.
He was being assessed. And Ram, noticing it all, preened.
She finished her transaction, slapping a wad of cash on the counter, the contents of the hefty bag clinking ominously. She looped the bag over his wrist. “Carry that,” she said, possessively grabbing his backside as she steered him towards the door. Her grip was firm, claiming. The bell jingled again, and they were back in the fading afternoon light.
The walk home took them through the park. The normalcy of it—children playing, joggers panting, old men on benches—clashed violently with the bag in his hand and the creature at his side. Ram walked with a rolling, confident gait, her arm slung around his shoulders, pulling him into the heat and scent of her. Every few steps, she’d nuzzle the top of his head, a loud, sniffing inhalation.
“Mine,” she’d rumble, for anyone to hear.
The catcalls started near the duck pond. A trio of collie anthros, lean and athletic in running shorts, slowed their jog. “Whoa, Howler! Where’d you dig up that skinny sapling?” one called, her tongue lolling.
Ram squeezed him tighter. “Found him! Trained him up real good!”
“Looks like a strong breeze’d break him!” another laughed.
“Nah,” Ram shot back, her voice booming with pride. “He’s tougher than he looks. Got a real deep root, this one.” The innuendo was as subtle as a brick. The collies howled with laughter and ran on, throwing appreciative glances back at Barnaby.
He was mortified. He was also, to his own shock, stirring in his trousers. The raw display of ownership, the sheer animal pride she took in him, was short-circuiting every polite circuit in his brain.
Then, halfway down a secluded path lined with thick rhododendrons, Ram stopped. Her ears pivoted forward. Her nostrils flared. A deep, internal gurgle echoed from her stomach, a sound like stones shifting in a cavern.
“Uh oh,” she said, matter-of-fact.
“What?” Barnaby asked.
“Gotta drop the kids off at the pool. Now.” She was already scanning the area, her gaze landing on a dense, shadowy thicket away from the path. “C’mon.”
“W-wait, here?” he stammered, pulled along by her irresistible momentum.
“You hold my cheeks open,” she stated, as if instructing him to carry groceries.
“I… Ram, no, we can’t…”
She turned on him, her green eyes sharp. “You’re my owner. This is part of it. You think I’m some delicate bitch who hides her shit? You gonna clean me up after, too.” It wasn’t a question. It was doctrine.
She pushed into the thicket, the branches snapping behind her. The space inside was a small, green-walled chamber. She immediately kicked aside some leaves, positioned herself in a low, wide squat, and looked back at him over the magnificent, fur-covered swell of her shoulder. “Hands. Now.”
Trembling, Barnaby set the bag down. He moved behind her, the view both terrifying and mesmerizing. The scale of her was impossible. Each ass cheek was indeed wider than his head, a planet of dense muscle and soft fur. The air was already growing thick with a more primal, earthy smell.
He placed his hands on the hot, tight fur. She was straining.
“Spread ‘em,” she grunted.
He applied pressure, his fingers sinking into the incredible, resilient softness. He felt the powerful muscles beneath tense, then relax. A low, steady hiss filled the quiet thicket, followed immediately by a thick, wet, plopping sound. Then another. The smell bloomed, rich, organic, and profoundly intimate. It was the smell of her digestion, her body, her absolute lack of artifice. She let out a long, relieved sigh, her tail lifting slightly.
The process was loud, messy, and utterly unselfconscious. He watched, his mind blank, holding her open as her body performed its most basic function. When she was done, she reached back, swatting his hands away.
“Good,” she panted. “Now the wipes. In the bag.”
He fumbled with the bag, retrieving the package of thick, scented wipes she’d purchased. He handed her one. She cleaned herself with brisk, efficient strokes, then dropped the used wipe onto the pile. “Okay,” she said, standing and pulling up his boxer shorts she wore. She turned to face him.
His expression must have been a portrait of shell-shocked awe. She cupped his face in her large, warm paws. Her gaze was softer now, the green of her eyes like deep, still pools in a forest.
“See?” she said, her voice a rough whisper. “No secrets. All of it. The cooking, the fucking, the shitting. It’s all for you. You own all of it. You own me.”
She leaned down and licked a slow, wet stripe from his chin to his forehead, the gesture possessive and oddly tender. The taste of her, the smell of her, the overwhelming reality of her, cemented something inside him. The embarrassment didn't vanish, but it was dwarfed by a staggering sense of connection.
He didn't just have a girlfriend. He had a force of nature. And she had chosen his lap as the place to lay her head, and his hands as the ones to hold her most vulnerable self.
“Now,” she said, taking the bag and his hand, leading him back onto the path. “Let’s go home. I wanna try that new harness.”