cleaning time End

Gunther didn’t last long. He never did. His thrusts came to a sudden, jerking halt, and his back legs gave out a bit, and hot dog cum flooded my wife’s pussy. And, of course, he was now knotted up inside my wife, so he’d be there for a little while.

Gunther had cum, but my wife hadn’t. That wasn’t how this game worked. She was at the cusp of her orgasm, panting frantically with a huh huh huh huh huh huh huh and occasionally keening moans. Very much like a dog. But only when Gunther’s knot shrank and he pulled out would she tip over the edge into an actual orgasm. Just a little touch I’d included in her programming to keep things interesting until the very end.

I set aside my laptop and got a plate from the kitchen. I set the plate beneath the junction of my wife’s and Gunther’s loins. Then I took a handheld camera, one linked to the audience feed, and turned it on. 

   Lifting Gunther’s tail—the scent of their mutual arousal was almost appalling. I focused on his swollen knot up in my quivering wife. For whatever reason, the audience wanted proof: Yes indeed, this crazy human woman had happily let herself be mounted, fucked, and filled with dog cum. It was all real.

Once I guessed the audience was satisfied, I set the camera on the floor and focused it on the plate. Gunther soon pulled out of my wife and nosed at her crotch, checking that he’d properly deposited his sperm. My wife, for her part, shouted and moaned into the floor, feet and hands clenching and unclenching, all her flesh rippling and shaking as waves of orgasm bounded and rebounded around in her body. She’d be sore after that—a soreness she’d interpret as having worked out hard at the gym.

“C’mon, Gunther,” I said. I gripped his collar and led my wife’s sated co-star to the backyard. And then I returned. “Nearly done, folks. Time for the finish. ”

I pulled my wife up into kneeling position, her head lolling. Gunther’s sperm oozed out onto the plate. Once she’d stopped dripping, I set it the plate in front of her, gripped her hair, and carefully lowered her face over it. 

   Her lips touched the oily warm puddle of Gunther sperm.

I whispered in her ear, “Gotta finish cleaning Gunther’s balls, babe. ” And that was enough. Her tongue darted out, and with a moan she sloppily and completely lapped up Gunther’s cum.

Once the plate was clean, I let go of my wife. She collapsed, dead to everything except her own fading ecstasy. I returned to the laptop, scrolled through the comments. Most were like this: Totally worth the money; Hottest thing I’ve ever seen; Thank you for such a great show; Can you train my wife like that, and so on.

“Goodbye, all,” I said. “Thanks for coming. As it were. ” Ugh. Dumb sign-off. But it was true. I’m sure most viewers blew their loads toward the end, if not before. 

   Sick bastards.

So the show was over. I told her to shower and then, without toweling off, put her workout clothes back on. That’d persuade her brain that she’d gone to the gym and worked up a tremendous sweat. Her mind would make up the story it needed to account for the last couple of hours of time. While she showered, I sprayed the living room with a scent to mask the odor of canine-and-human coupling.

My still-brain-fucked wife emerged from the bathroom in her soaked workout clothes. I took off her dog collar, pocketed it, and kissed her forehead. She smiled dreamily, picked up her workout bag, and shuffled out the side door. I heard a car door open and shut. I used my laptop to restore my wife’s main personality. Shortly, the car door opened and shut again, and she walked back into the house, fully returned to herself, to find me just starting the dishwasher.

“Good workout?” I asked.

“I am so goddamned sore,” she said, smiling. “And totally wiped out. 

   But I feel great. ” She walked into the living room, and then the bathroom. “And the place looks great!”

“I worked like a dog,” I said. .

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