Chapter 12: Double Domination
The air in Greta’s apartment was a cocktail of new smells: fresh paint, old leather, and the underlying, musky scent of canine that was different from Ram’s—darker, with a hint of pine. Barnaby stood awkwardly just inside the door, a six-pack of beer sweating in his hand. Ram, wearing only a tight tank top and cut-off jeans, shoved past him with a grunt of approval.
“Place smells like bitch,” Ram announced, dropping onto the worn corduroy couch. It groaned in protest.
Greta emerged from the kitchenette, a dish towel slung over her shoulder. She wore low-slung sweatpants and nothing else, her heavy breasts swaying freely. “That’s ‘cause a bitch lives here,” she shot back, but she was smiling, her eyes immediately finding Barnaby. “Hey, owner. Beer’s in the fridge. I got the cheap stuff.”
The meal was a tense, bizarre pantomime of domesticity. Greta served a monstrous lasagna, half of it spilling over the edges of the plates. She and Ram dug in with a voraciousness that was frightening, leaning over their plates, barely using their forks. They ate like they were fueling for a fight, large bites, loud chewing, occasional low growls of pleasure.
Barnaby picked at his food, his appetite gone, replaced by a nervous, fluttering arousal. He was the still point in a storm of noise and motion.
“He’s not eating,” Greta observed around a mouthful of pasta and meat.
Ram reached over, scooped a hefty portion from Barnaby’s plate with her fingers, and shoved it into her mouth. “He’s thinking,” she said, sauce on her chin. “Ain’t you, owner? Thinking about which one of us gets the first pet?”
“I, well—” Barnaby began.
Greta intercepted, her long arm snaking out. She didn’t take from his plate. She took his hand, guiding his fork, still loaded with his own food, to her mouth. She closed her lips around the tines, her dark eyes locked on his, and sucked the food clean. Schllrp. “Tastes better from you,” she murmured, releasing his hand.
A possessive rumble started in Ram’s chest. She didn’t like that. In response, she lifted her own beer, took a long swig, and then, with a wet pop, let out a loud, unfiltered fart that vibrated the couch cushion. She didn’t even flinch. “Oops. Needed that.”
Greta barked a laugh, a short, sharp sound. “Lightweight.” She shifted on her chair, focused, and produced her own deep, resonant blast that seemed to shake her entire frame. The smell, earthy and potent, hit Barnaby a second later. “See? Proper.”
They both looked at him, waiting.
Barnaby felt a dizzying shift in the room’s power. These two towering, powerful creatures, competitive and brash, were seeking his approval for their crudeness. He was the arbiter of their filth.
“Greta’s was… longer,” he managed, his face burning.
Ram scowled, then grinned. “Fuck. Yeah, it was.” She kicked her feet up onto Greta’s coffee table. “Told you she was a good fit.”
The beer flowed. The pretense of dinner vanished. They moved to the couch, squeezing Barnaby between them. Their heat was immense, their fur soft and prickly through his clothes. They were talking over him, around him, their thighs pressing against his.
“So he just lets you do that? Anywhere?” Greta asked, her hand, heavy and warm, landing on Barnaby’s knee.
“Wherever I damn well please,” Ram said, nuzzling the top of Barnaby’s head. “He’s my owner. Cleans up my messes. Don’t you?”
He nodded, mesmerized by the weight of Greta’s hand inching up his thigh.
“I want that,” Greta stated, her voice gone low and thick. Her muzzle dipped close to his ear. “I been a good girl. Helped you move in. Made dinner. I want pets.”
“Me first,” Ram growled, though there was no real fight in it. This was the game. She grabbed Barnaby’s left hand and planted it firmly on the vast curve of her breast spilling from her tank top. The fur was dense, the heat beneath volcanic. “Right here. Hard.”
Barnaby’s right hand was claimed by Greta, who guided it under her own arm, pressing his palm against the heavy, pendulous weight of her breast. It was larger than Ram’s, a staggering handful of softness and firm muscle. Her nipple, a dark pebble, hardened instantly against his palm.
He sat pinned, kneading them both, his fingers sinking into unimaginable softness. They both sighed, leaning into his touch, their competitive barks softening into contented rumbles. Their heads rested on his shoulders, their beer-scented breath hot on his neck.
“Yeah… just like that,” Greta purred, her hips shifting. “Fingers, though. I want fingers.”
In a clumsy, synchronized motion, they both shifted, pushing him back into the couch cushions. Ram swung a thick thigh over his lap, settling her immense weight onto him, facing Greta. Greta mirrored her, straddling his other thigh. They were a wall of fur and flesh, trapping him, their faces now close together, their bodies presenting themselves to his hands.
He didn’t need guidance now. His left hand slid down Ram’s stomach, under the waistband of her cut-offs. His right did the same for Greta’s sweatpants. He found them both soaking wet, their heat scalding his fingers.
Squelsh. Schlick.
The sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet apartment, underscored by their immediate, shuddering gasps. Ram buried her face in Greta’s neck. Greta’s head fell back, a string of drool escaping her muzzle.
“Fuck, his fingers are so… clever,” Ram grunted, grinding down against his hand.
“Told you,” Greta panted, her own hips beginning a slow, rolling rhythm. “Gentle but… oh, right there… firm.”
They moved against his hands, their bodies beginning to sweat, their scents—Ram’s wild, Greta’s deep pine—mingling into something utterly intoxicating. They were no longer just competing for his attention; they were bonding through the pleasure he administered.
“You feel that?” Ram whispered to Greta, her voice ragged. “How he knows just where?”
“Yeah,” Greta moaned. “He’s a fuckin’ natural. Born to handle bitches like us.”
Their movements became less coordinated, more frantic. Their barks and whimpers filled the room. They clutched at each other’s shoulders, fur rippling under muscle, their competition melting into a shared, desperate climb.
Barnaby was just a conduit, a nerve center connecting them. He watched, spellbound, as these two powerful, chaotic forces came apart under his touch. Ram came first with a sharp, piercing howl, her body clamping around his fingers. The convulsion of her pleasure pushed Greta over the edge seconds later, a deep, groaning bark torn from her chest as she shuddered violently.
They collapsed forward, a heavy, breathing heap atop him, both licking lazily at his neck and jaw, mingling their scents on his skin.
For a long time, the only sounds were their panting and the creak of the overburdened couch. Finally, Greta shifted, lifting her head. She looked at Ram, then down at Barnaby, his hands still buried inside them.
“We’re a pair, ain’t we?” Greta said, her voice soft with satiation.
Ram chuckled, a low, dirty sound. “A pair of classless, smelly bitches.”
“The best kind,” Greta agreed. She leaned down and licked a stripe up the side of Barnaby’s face. “And we’re his.”
They stayed like that as the evening light died, a tangled, sweaty, contented pile. The leash Greta had bought, a simple black leather one, lay coiled on the floor next to Ram’s more elaborate harness. They weren’t trophies. They were promises. The game had changed. The pack was forming.