Chapter 11: Best in Show (Best in Blow)
The diesel roar and grinding gears dissolved into a new, sterile scent. Lemons. Overwhelmingly artificial lemon cleaner, underpinned by something animal and musky.
Bob’s knees were on a cold, tile floor. He was in a hallway. The walls were a glossy, impossible white, lit by harsh overhead LEDs that reflected off the polished surface. A faint, constant hum vibrated in his teeth.
From around a corner, he heard a frantic, scraping sound. Then a high-pitched whine.
A woman crawled into view.
She was naked save for a pair of silicone dog ears, a matted pink wig in pigtails, and a thick, fake-fur tail plug that protruded from her rear, swaying with her movement. A leather collar with a large, heart-shaped tag reading "BINKY" hung around her neck. A leash was attached to it, trailing behind her. Her face was painted with exaggerated black whiskers and a nose.
She didn’t look at Bob with human recognition. Her eyes were wide, vacant, and eager. She panted, her tongue lolling out, a thick line of drool connecting her glowing pink lips to the floor.
“Binky! Bad girl!” A voice, shrill and grating, called from an unseen room. “You know you’re not allowed on the clean floor after your outside time!” The owner of the voice did not appear.
Binky the bimbo-dog whined, a pathetic, needy sound in her throat. She crawled towards Bob, her movements an exaggerated parody of a canine, back arched, ass high, the tail plug wiggling. She reached his knees and shoved her face into his groin, snuffling and whining through her nose, her hot breath immediately fogging the fabric of his pants.
Bob’s body moved. His hand, seemingly of its own volition, reached down and grabbed the leash where it connected to her collar. He gave a short, firm tug.
Binky yelped, a happy, giddy sound. She looked up at him, panting faster, her tongue dragging wetly across his zipper.
“Outside,” Bob heard himself say, his voice flat, a command.
He stood, his legs carrying him automatically down the hall towards a sliding glass door. Binky scrambled on all fours beside him, her breasts swinging heavily, nipples scraping the cold tile. She bumped into his leg, a clumsy, affectionate nudge.
The door slid open with a hiss. Outside was not a yard, but a small, astroturfed patio surrounded by high, white walls. A single fake hydrangea bush stood in a corner. A chrome food bowl, empty, sat by the door.
Binky immediately lurched towards the hydrangea, lifted a leg with ridiculous, unsteady balance, and assumed a squatting position. A sharp, acrid stream of urine splashed against the plastic leaves, the sound incongruously loud in the sterile space.
Bob’s body walked up behind her. He was already hard, his pants undone. As she pissed, her stream trickling to a drip, he positioned himself. He didn’t guide himself with his hand; he just let his hips thrust forward, the head of his cock catching against her slick, waiting entrance from behind.
She gasped, a broken, happy little “Yip!” and her stream stuttered, a final few drops pattering down as he pushed fully inside her in one smooth, commanding stroke.
He fucked her there, against the fake bush. His pace was mechanical, deep, and rhythmic. Doggy style. Each thrust slammed her forward, making the tail plug jiggle and her leather leash slap against her thigh. Binky drooled freely, a new chew toy—a bright blue rubber bone—now clenched between her teeth. She gnawed on it absently, her eyes rolling back in blissful vacancy, muffled moans escaping around the toy.
Thump. Thump. Thump. His pelvis met the firm hemispheres of her ass with a wet, meaty cadence. The tail wagged frantically, a signal of pure, mindless joy.
After a time—seconds? minutes?—his body withdrew. He turned her by the shoulder, pushed her down onto the astroturf. She looked up at him, panting, the chew toy falling from her mouth. Her lips were slick with saliva.
Bob’s hand fisted in her pink wig, guiding himself not to her mouth, but past it. He facefucked her with the same impersonal rhythm, each thrust making her gag softly, her throat fluttering around him. She didn’t choke like the rappers; she just accepted it, a dumb, willing receptacle, her tongue lolling to the side as he pistoned over it.
A change struck him. That familiar, tightening surge. He pulled out just as the first pulse rocked through him. Strings of white come streaked across her whiskered cheeks, her nose, dripped onto her lolling tongue. She blinked, cross-eyed for a moment, then eagerly lapped at the air, catching what she could.
Bob’s body stepped back, tucking himself away. He pointed to the empty chrome bowl by the door.
Binky crawled to it, her tail wagging again. She lowered her face, and Bob’s last few spurts, aimed with cold precision, landed in the bowl with a soft, liquid plink-plink-plink. She didn’t wait. She began to lap at it, noisily, messily, like a animal at a water dish, come smearing across her chin and the polished chrome.
She looked up at him, come on her nose, a look of pure, simple gratitude in her empty eyes. She panted, her tongue hanging out.
Then she crawled forward and slurped a wet, slobbering, cum-filled kiss directly onto his slack mouth. The taste was salty, synthetic, and profoundly wrong.
The lemon-scented air began to waver. The pristine white walls of the patio bled into a darker, richer hue. The astroturf under his feet became thick, plush carpet. The harsh LED light melted into the warm, pulsing glow of red glass lanterns.
Binky’s panting faded, replaced by the slow, rhythmic strumming of a sitar. The collar around her neck seemed to loosen, transform, become the beaded fringe of a silken veil. Bob stood, trapped in the transition, the taste of fake lemon and salt still on his tongue as a new, opulent heat pressed in from all sides.