cleaning time 2

I mulled over the comments coming in. Some in the audience just wanted to get to the main event—no surprise. I liked watching it, myself. But a lot of them were just happy to see a naked, horny, stupid, collared wife clean a home. That suggested most of our audience consisted of older married guys-guys with a little money and a long marriage who thirsted for the fantasy wife instead of the one they had. And chances were pretty good, actually, that the wife they had was all right, just like mine was all right. Some of them probably even loved their wives. But they also wanted the fantasy wife—the dog-collared, pink-shoed, sexually insane slut who would eagerly do whatever she was told.

Who the hell wouldn’t want that? At least for one hour a week?

Forty-five minutes went by quickly. 

   And just as it was up, I heard familiar sounds at our back-porch door. Nails scraping on glass, light whimpers punctuated by occasional barks. Gunther, our black lab. Good timing, boy.

“Hey, babe,” I called. She was in the bathroom, scrubbing the bathtub. “I think the place is clean enough. Don’t you?”

My wife replied with an uh-huh that was partly words, partly a moan. She’d started our session horny, remember? And her arousal had only built as the audience watched her flesh wobble with all the bending over and scrubbing.

“Cool. I think Gunther wants in, now. Can you let him in?”

“Oh, YES. ” And she scampered from the bathroom to the porch door. Gunther bounded into the living room happily, my wife following behind him wearing a huge grin. Both knew what was coming next. 

   As did the audience: text-cheers flooded in.

Time was wasting. “Baby, we need to finish cleaning, right? You’ve cleaned the house. Now it’s time to clean Gunther. ”

She nodded. “Gotta clean Gunther. ” She was sitting on the floor as the dog nuzzled and licked her boobs.

“What’s the dirtiest part of a dog, baby?”

We’d been through this routine a few times before, so she knew what to say. “His balls. ”

“Yup. Inside or outside?”

“Inside,” she said. “Doggie balls ’r dirty on the inside. ”

“Good girl,” I said, and she shivered with delight. “So. Gunther’s balls need cleaning from the inside. 

   Can you show these nice people how you clean Gunther’s balls from the inside?”

That’s all it took. My wife got on all fours, planted her forehead on the floor, and thrust her ass up. Gunther’s tail slapped happily as he ambled around my wife. He sniffed her sides, her armpits, the bottoms of her shoes—but, of course, he mostly poked his cold nose up into her asshole and her pussy. And then he started lapping at them both.

Muuuhhhh, said my wife. She was pretty much out of words, so I had to hurry.

On my laptop, I switched to the camera in front of her face. Just so I could see. “Look at the camera, babe. Tell your fans what you want. ”

Her eyes were wide and empty, and sweat was running down her temples. She was in heat. “Fu-fuck,” she gasped. “Wanna fuck my doggie. 

   Be my doggie’s bitch. ”

“You want to be Gunther’s bitch?”

...My wife made a throaty sound that clearly meant “Yes,” but there wasn’t any language to it. Just animal need. She was ready....

^^^Which was great, because so was Gunther. A few last laps at her cunt, and Gunther pulled himself up onto her backside. My wife had enough where within to reach back and guide Gunther’s prick into her cunt. Once it was in, it was over for her. My wife was a brainless, quivering, sweaty mess, an empty vessel for our black lab’s lust.^^^

...Gunther pummeled her backside with jackhammer thrusts, forcing guttural sounds out of his bitch. Dog fucking was fascinating. The back of the animal was hydraulically determined, pump-pump-pumping away. But the front of the dog seemed almost bored, looking this way and that, tongue lolling here and there....

^^^I wondered if this seeming split between loins and brains was an evolutionary advantage. The crotch does its business, and the head stands guard to keep both cur and bitch safe.^^^

Of course, my wife wasn’t a dog. She was a person-of a sort-and her upper half was as into it as much as her lower one. I studied her on the camera: Eyes happy half-moons gazing at nothing, mouth a toothless grin and lolling tongue, face flushed the color of strawberries. She was in ecstasy, wearing a pink dog collar and getting fucked to heaven by a black lab in front of an audience of paying strangers. Practically a religious experience.

The message feed approved of what they saw and heard. FUCK YES! and Load that cunt up with doggie sperm and Fill her with your pups, Gunther and Make her big with a litter.

I snorted inwardly at the comments about Gunther impregnating my wife. Did any of the audience believe it could really happen? I hoped it was just fantasy. Nobody could be that uninformed.

Hell, even I couldn’t make my wife pregnant. Nobody could, now. Although she wanted kids, I didn’t. They’d get in the way of our life together—especially times like these. So, one time, while she was under, we went to the doctor, and I got her fixed. 

   The only trace of the operation was a tiny scar near her belly button.

I’m sure she’d thank me if she knew.

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