Chapter 17: Initiation Rites
The walk back to Barnaby’s apartment was a procession of the absurd. Sunny skipped beside him, her hand clutching his with a possessive, sticky grip, humming a tuneless song. Ram and Greta flanked them, a pair of bristling, smirking sentinels, their tails held high. The scent of Sunny’s heat and their collective musk trailed behind them like a banner.
Barnaby fumbled with his keys, his hands trembling. The familiar, safe scent of old paper and dust that usually welcomed him home was immediately overwhelmed.
“Home sweet shithole,” Ram announced, shoving past him. She kicked off her heavy boots, which thudded against the wall, and made a beeline for the fridge. The door opened with a suck of air. “He’s got beer. Good boy.”
Greta claimed the worn couch, sprawling across it with a sigh that displaced a cloud of dust from the cushions. “I’m still sore from that bench. You’ve got a bony ass, twig.”
But Sunny stood in the center of the small living room, her amber eyes wide with vacant wonder. She spun in a slow circle, her sundress flaring. “It’s so cozy! So many books! Do they taste good?”
“They’re not for eating,” Barnaby said automatically, the librarian in him surfacing through the numbness.
“Everything’s for eating if you’re hungry enough,” Ram corrected, cracking open a beer. She took a long swig, then let out a massive, rattling belch. The sound echoed in the confined space. “Ah. That’s the stuff. Okay, new girl. Listen up.”
Sunny snapped to attention, her posture eager, tail wagging.
“You’re bottom bitch,” Ram stated, pointing the beer bottle at her. “Greta’s middle. I’m top. You do what we say. You clean what we tell you to clean. You understand?”
Sunny nodded so vigorously her blond hair bounced. “Yes! I’m a good cleaner! I love to lick things!”
A cold dread trickled down Barnaby’s spine. He saw the look that passed between Ram and Greta—a silent, predatory agreement.
“Prove it,” Greta said, her voice a low purr. She rolled onto her stomach on the couch, presenting the formidable, furry expanse of her backside. Her shorts were still damp from the park. “Start here. Get me clean.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Sunny dropped to her knees. She pushed Greta’s tail aside and nuzzled into the short, dense fur. Then her long, pink tongue emerged, lapping with broad, devoted strokes.
Slup. Slup. Slup.
The sound was wet, deliberate. Barnaby stood frozen by the door, his bag still slung over his shoulder. He couldn’t look away. Sunny worked with a cheerful, meticulous diligence, her face buried, her shoulders moving rhythmically. She cleaned the sweat and park grit from Greta’s fur, then, with a happy murmur, pressed deeper.
“Mmm, you taste like outside and girl,” Sunny mumbled, her voice muffled.
Greta groaned, pushing her hips back into the retriever’s face. “Yeah. Get it all, dumbass. Don’t miss a spot.”
Ram watched, a proud, vulgar smile on her muzzle. She finished her beer, crushed the can in one fist, and tossed it into the corner. Then she stood, looming over the scene. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her own shorts and pushed them down, along with her stained underwear. She turned, presenting Barnaby with a view that blocked out the lamplight.
Her ass was a monumental landscape of dense, black-brown fur and powerful muscle, each cheek easily the size of his head. The scent that bloomed from her was pungent, feral, deeply animal—a mix of sweat, musk, and the lingering ghost of her park-breaking fart.
“My turn, blondie,” Ram grunted. “And I worked a full shift before the park. Make it shine.”
Sunny, her mouth and chin glistening, didn’t hesitate. She shuffled on her knees from the couch to where Ram stood. She nosed in with a reverent whimper, her tongue beginning its work anew on an even more daunting canvas.
Schlllllk. Shlap. Slurp.
Barnaby’s breath caught. His horror was absolute, a cold stone in his gut. Yet, beneath his trousers, a traitorous, insistent throb began. His cock stirred, thickening against his will as he watched the vacantly beautiful golden retriever worship the most vulgar, base parts of these feral women. It was a raw display of hierarchy, of submission, of a cleanliness that had nothing to do with hygiene and everything to do with place.
Sunny serviced Ram with the same earnest dedication, lost in the task, her tail wagging a steady beat against the floorboards. Ram let out a contented sigh, planting her hands on her knees. “Good girl. Right there. Yeah. Use that stupid tongue.”
Then, with a seismic shift, Ram’s body tensed. A deep, internal rumble vibrated through the room. Sunny paused, looking up, confused.
“Back up a sec, pup,” Ram muttered.
Sunny scrambled backward on her knees. Ram shifted her weight, her powerful haunches flexing.
BRAAAAAAAAP-P-P-P-PLOOOOOOSH.
It wasn’t just sound. It was an event. A thick, solid cascade of waste erupted from her, hitting the wooden floor with a heavy, wet impact. The smell was instant and overwhelming, a gut-punch of decay and digestion that swallowed the room’s other scents whole. The mass was enormous, steaming, a testament to her size and her diet.
Barnaby gagged, clapping a hand over his mouth and nose.
Ram sighed, a sound of profound relief. “Fuck, yeah. Been holding that in since lunch.” She glanced at the horrified human, then at Sunny, who was staring at the deposit with curious, blank eyes. “Well? That’s part of me too, isn’t it? Clean it up. Prove you’re pack.”
For the first time, Sunny’s perpetual smile faltered. A flicker of something like confusion passed over her features. But the desire to please, to belong, was too strong. She whimpered, a high, needy sound in her throat, and crawled forward.
Barnaby squeezed his eyes shut. He heard the wet, sickening smoosh, the choked gag followed by determined, slurping licks. He heard Ram’s low chuckle. He heard Greta’s amused snort from the couch.
When he opened his eyes, Sunny was finishing, her face a mess, her beautiful blond fur matted. She looked up at Ram, her amber eyes watering but bright. “All clean, top bitch!”
“Good enough,” Ram said, pulling her clothes back up. She turned, her green eyes now laser-focused on Barnaby. “Now. The boss needs to get properly dirty.”
It happened too fast. Greta launched herself from the couch. Ram lunged. Sunny, eager to help, grabbed his legs.
His bag was torn away. His glasses flew across the room. His shirt ripped at the seams with a sound like tearing parchment.
“No, please—!” His protest was choked off as Ram’s large, calloused hand covered his mouth. Her other hand yanked his belt open, then his trousers and briefs, stripping them down to his ankles in one brutal pull.
The cool air of the apartment hit his skin. Then the heat of them surrounded him.
Greta pinned his arms above his head on the floor, her weight settling on his chest, her breasts smothering his face. He couldn’t see, could only breathe in her dense, musky scent. Ram knelt between his legs, her rough hands spreading his thighs.
“Look at that,” she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “All hard and twitchy from watchin’ the show. You liked it, you sick little bookworm.”
He tried to shake his head, a muffled denial lost against Greta’s fur.
Sunny’s face, still streaked, appeared next to Ram’s. “Can I help? Can I lick him too?”
“Get his balls, blondie,” Ram instructed. “Make ‘em shiny.”
Sunny’s warm, wet, fouled tongue immediately lapped at his scrotum. Slup. Slurp. The contrast of the depraved act and the tender, skillful strokes sent a violent shiver through him.
Ram spat into her palm, slicked herself, and positioned her thick, blunt tip against him. She didn’t wait, didn’t prepare him. She just sank down, her immense weight sheathing him in a single, crushing descent.
UUUUNNHHHHHFF.
The groan was torn from both of them. For Ram, it was satisfaction. For Barnaby, it was a white-hot spike of stretching, unbearable fullness. She was too big, too tight, a velvet vise of muscle that stole his breath.
“Fuck, he’s tiny,” Ram grunted, beginning to move. Her hips pistoned, slamming his pelvis into the floorboards with each drive. Thud. Thud. Thud. “Like fuckin’ a toothpick. But it’s cute. He’s ours.”
Greta ground herself against his face. “You hear that, twig? You’re our little toothpick. Now eat your supper.” Barnaby, struggling to breathe, found his mouth forced open, and Greta lowered herself onto it.
The world narrowed to sensation and smell. The pounding, splitting rhythm from below. The suffocating, salty wetness smothering his face. The relentless, cleaning licks on his perineum. The apartment filled with the symphony of their use of him: grunts, slaps, wet sucks, the creak of the old floor, gagging breaths.
He was a tool. A receptacle. A focal point for their chaotic, hierarchical energy. His own climax, when it was ripped from him, felt like an invasion—a sharp, helpless pulsing deep inside Ram that earned a approving growl from above.
She rode him through it, then kept going. “Greta’s turn,” Ram panted, lifting off him with a slick pop.
They swapped places without letting him up. Greta’s entrance was different—tighter, hotter, a seizing grip that milked his oversensitive flesh. Ram sat on his face now, her taste overwhelming, her weight threatening to crack his neck.
Sunny, ever eager, wormed her way underneath, licking the leaking join of Greta and Barnaby, lapping up the mixed fluids with happy gulps.
It went on and on. Until he was empty, raw, his body a boneless map of aches and bites and bruises. Until the wooden floor was slick and streaked. Until his precious books looked down from their shelves like silent, shocked witnesses.
Finally, they collapsed around him in a heap of fur, sweat, and contented sighs. Ram’s arm, heavy as a sandbag, thrown across his chest. Greta’s leg hooked over his. Sunny curled at their feet, nuzzling his ankle, her tongue still giving apologetic little licks to a bruise on his shin.
The last of the daylight bled from the room. Barnaby stared up at the water-stained ceiling, the smell of sex and shit and canine pack filling his lungs. The thrumming in his ears wasn’t his heartbeat; it was theirs, a slow, powerful triad of satisfaction.
He was no longer a man in his own apartment. He was the owned, the central tether point of a wild, filthy constellation. The thought should have filled him with terror. But as the dark settled in, a strange, horrifying peace crept through the cracks in his shattered propriety. This was his life now. This warm, breathing, reeking weight.
It was, he realized with a final, silent shudder, home.