Date: Sat, 2 May 2009 16:35:14 -0700
From: nifty ntib <nifty.ntib@gmail.com>
Subject: Cassanova in January

NOTE: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION (MOSTLY).  IF YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO READ
IT, THEN DON'T.  IF YOU DON'T LIKE READING IT, THEN DON'T.

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FLAMES ARE SUMMARILY IGNORED.
***

CASSANOVA IN JANUARY

On a frigid Monday morning in January, one would think it a luxury to stay
in bed and have time to oneself: to read, watch television, or do other,
more pleasurable things well-suited to a single person under the covers.

Graduated from college, degree in hand, but not yet caught up in the
eight-to-five world of adulthood.  Working late nights at a local bar and
grill nets me a good chunk of change, but it makes waking up in the early
afternoon the norm.  Mondays are my days off, the dinner traffic not being
sufficient to justify the gas spent to get there and all.  Business people
don't spend their money right after the weekend.

I treasure my Mondays, for two reasons.  First and foremost is the fact
that my day isn't regulated by my 4:45pm in-time at work, giving me a rare
free evening to do as I please.  Second, Monday is the day I get to visit
my sweetheart puppy down at the local animal shelter.  My pastime, my
friend, and certainly much more, he is the shining star in my week...
practically the only time I can feel like myself because I'm happy with
someone else, just living in the moment.

Drifting out of a deep, uninterrupted sleep is truly an indulgence to be
taken once in a long while.  Undersleeping and oversleeping both can be
detrimental to the system, but this morning I wake up to a dark room almost
exactly eight hours after I went to bed.  As I lay there, staring up into
blackness, just breathing, I try to remember the dream I had been having
just prior to waking.  There are fleeting images, and even more fleeting
left-over emotions brought on by something I can't recall...it was vaguely
menacing, and the adrenaline I feel slowly drains from my system, having no
purpose at this moment of relaxation.

One last yawn forces my mouth wide, silently, and I lick the night-fuzz
from my mouth, rolling to the left to look at the time.  It's 1:48pm.  Just
over an hour until I get to play with My Puppy, My Cassanova.  It seems far
away still, and I entertain the thought of being a little early today.  He
won't be expecting that, as anal as I am about keeping a set schedule.
Will he know the difference?

Maybe.

I think about the last couple of months, and my previous encounters with
Cassanova.  I replay those afternoons in front of my open eyes, through the
artificial night in my room.  Two friends running together in a field of
long-dormant grass, one on two legs and the other on four, the long purple
leash flying out behind the latter like an insane kite tail...one of them
tackling the other into a black-and-white, furry ball, wrestling and
fighting for dominance, two bodies collecting bits of wheat, chaff and snow
from the cold-hardened ground...and then stopping, panting, and locking
eyes.  And then...and then...

But I mustn't get carried away so early in the day just thinking about the
past.  Should I take this fantasy too far--and it wouldn't take but a few
minutes to bring it to a messy conclusion--I would be denying Cassanova the
shared pleasure of watching the result of his seduction.  I throw the
comforter to the end of the bed, stretching and bringing my feet to my
groin.  Joints pop into place, relieved of their nighttime stiffness, but
one part of me remains very stiff regardless.  I can feel its weight
against my lower stomach, rustling against the treasure trail of hair
leading to my cock.  I haven't even touched myself yet.  This afternoon
suddenly seems forever and a day away.

Fighting the urge to urge my erection further, I sit up and swing my legs
over the edge of the bed.  My arousal has already started to fade.

My morning routine (that's what I call it no matter when I wake up) usually
consists of a short brushing away of bed head, then dressing and leaving.
But on my Mondays, I want to be especially presentable for my puppy, so I
take a shower to rinse off anything that might have accumulated during the
night.  So, after swinging out of bed and turning on the light ("Ow," I
mumble as my pupils struggle to adjust), I pad over to the bathroom and get
a nice cloud of steam going.  My landlord has an industrial furnace, so it
takes no time at all for the water in my shower to come up to scalding.

As soon as I enter, any thoughts about being early to see my puppy go out
the proverbial window; I've always been a sucker for nice long hot showers,
and as the knots in my back and neck loosen, I fall prey to the water's
siren song.  It lulls me into a half-slumber, the kind you can have and be
perfectly awake at the same time.  I think of nothing in particular, just
the wonderful hot pleasure soaking me to the bone and running into the
drain.  Shampooing is quick and easy, but I leave the conditioner in for a
few minutes to cut down on brush time.  It feels like I've spent hours in
there, but when I emerge with a towel around my shoulders I see only twenty
minutes has passed since I stepped in.  Oh, but it felt good!

I watch the weather as I dry off, happy to note that it will be a typical
January day in the upper plains: cold, breezy but not cloudy, with a high
of twenty-two degrees.  Hopefully I won't have to wear my heavy gloves.  By
the time I get to the shelter, the temperature will have topped
out...that's why I pick mid-afternoon for my meetings with Cassanova.  If
we're going to be out in the cold, we might as well be as warm as possible.
I wouldn't want him to get uncomfortable when we play.  Then again, I could
use my mouth this time...

There goes my erection again, five angry inces staring at me while I bend
to dry between my toes, as if to say, "Quit ignoring me."  I make a silent
promise to it, assuring its release, and it agreeably retreats into my
foreskin.  Never thought a dog could get me so worked up.

I turn to The History Channel and listen detachedly to an episode of Modern
Marvels while putting the finishing touches on.  A pair of loose-fitting
boxers, some ratty jeans and one long-sleeved T-shirt later, I'm ready to
head out.

One last check in the mirror before I go, just to make sure.  Everything
looks in place. My teeth are spotless and bright white, my breath freshly
minted...Cassanova likes to kiss, and I have taken him up on that multiple
times.

Jingling my keys in a pocket, I leave home without rushing.  I'm in such a
good mood thinking about my fun-filled afternoon to come that hurrying
along seems to be a waste of energy.  I drive just under the speed limit,
switching from preset to preset on my radio before finally turning it off
and enjoying the low whirr of wind around my vehicle.  My body and mind are
one, relaxed and clear and worry-free, because I'm about to do something
I've waited a week to do, the expectancy for which has been both tempered
and unbearable.  But now it's only a few minutes and a few miles away, and
for me the wait is over. Soon, Cassanova will share in my enthusiasm as
only a dog can.

Fifteen minutes gets me to the shelter, which sits on the edge of town, set
away on about ten acres of donated farmland through which the various
animals are free to roam while under supervision.  I pull into a space on
the side of the building designated for employees and volunteers and make
my way to the front door.  Someone is already out walking one of the other
dogs, a Jack Russell named Ozzy.  I've taken him out before too; he's a
nice dog, with as much energy as you can throw at him, but he's too small
and too yappy.  We got along, but certain breeds just don't click with me
as much as others.  Good dog, though; he'll make someone a happy owner one
day.

I wave to the girl who is watching Ozzy, and even though she waves back
politely I can tell she's freezing her ass off and bordering on
miserable. She looks at me like I'm insane to go out in this weather,
especially to walk a dog.  Little does she know.  I take pleasure in her
confoundedness, turn away and head toward the front door.

As I open the outer of two glass doors, I am met by a blur of golden,
whimpering, tugging fur at my legs, followed by its walker.  "Max, stoppit
before I take you right back in!" growls the older man who wears the
standard light blue garb of the local penitentiary.  It's good to see the
fuzz over on the hill putting my tax dollars to work by sending their less
serious offenders over here to help with the maintenance of the place.  The
facility, after all, is non-profit and volunteer-run.  That's why they need
people like me, and the inmates, to help out wherever we're needed.

The man nods to me curtly, silently apologizing for Max, the golden
retriever's, obvious zeal to get outside.  He's probably been itching to
piss since he woke up this morning, and I feel for him.  I step to the side
to let them both through, and Max takes a precious second to introduce his
snout to my crotch.  He bumps underneath my balls a couple of times before
finding the open door and fresh air more appealing, and the Rottweiler
tries to scold him but doesn't quite have the heart.  I'm half-hard again,
partly because of that and the man walking Max...I've always had a thing
for big, burly guys.  I bet he's hung.

I pass the inner door, and the receptionist (who seems not to have noticed
the altercation in the entryway at all) doesn't lift her head until I'm
almost past her.  The look of standard disinterest melts away into a bright
smile when she sees who has walked in to volunteer this afternoon.

"Hey you!" the studious girl almost shouts.  We've become fast friends the
past couple of months, despite the short time I spend once a week in her
company, and even then it's only walking in and out with various and
assorted dogs to be walked.  She's only nineteen, and I think she's sweet
on me.  I hope it never gets that serious, so I won't have to disappoint
her with my sexuality.  I'm surprised she can't tell already.  "Haven't
seen you in a while."

"It's only been a week," I reply, successfully faking a blush and
regretting the faux pas of it.  "You know I come in here the same time, the
same day, every week."

Now it's her turn to blush a little, for what reason I can't tell, but her
ears flush as she chews on the eraser end of a pencil.  "I know that.  It
just seems like a long time.  So anyways, who's the lucky dog today?"  I
try not to giggle at the double entendre.

"Well," leaning on the counter in a casual sort of way, "I thought I'd
start off with Cassanova and just go from there.  Maybe take some of the
newcomers out, since I haven't been around.  Hoping for about three hours
today."  Most volunteers take their dogs out for no more than fifteen
minutes at a stretch, barely time to eliminate and run a bit before being
dragged back to their cages, but I've made a name for myself by taking dogs
out for forty minutes or more, sometimes an hour at a time, and actually
playing with them instead of standing to the side and shivering like a
retard.  It's about caring.

The look on the receptionist's face sends my stomach swooning.  "I think
Cassanova's gone," she says, confirming the three-second-old dread I
already feel.  I can't help my own outward disappointment; on the inside I
feel about to break down in tears.  They promised me they would call me if
he were adopted, so I could say goodbye, I think with angry grief.  How
could they just fuck me over like that?  But the voice of reason overcomes
that sudden burst of fiery frustration and I control what would surely be
an emotional outburst.  A volunteer, visually bereft over the adoption of a
dog?  How suspicious...

"Really?  Are you sure it wasn't another husky?  Last week there were three
in the strays' room."

"Coulda been, I didn't get a good look at the one that got adopted but it
was a husky.  They all look the same to me; they're so cute!"

They don't look the same, you bitch, can't you see that?  I can tell this
bitch is not nearly as dedicated to her job as I am.  I bet she's never
even taken one dog out in the yard.  The smile on my face becomes almost
painful, and I struggle to end the conversation as quickly as possible.
"Well, I'm losing sunlight, so I better get back there and start up.  See
you later," as I start toward the cages.

"Don't get too cold," the girl at the desk shouts.  "I can't believe you're
going out without a jacket."  At least I know how to tell the difference
between one dog and the next, I shoot back mentally as I push through the
batwing doors and into the rear of the building, trying to quell the upset
deep in my gut.  I sure hope she was wrong about Cassanova.

As soon as I enter the rows of cages, a cacophony rises up through the
chain-link and cinderblocks at the recognition of my human scent.  It
starts with the black lab in the first cage (there are plenty of labs in
this part of the country) who sees me, smells me and barks out a loud
"Please walk me!"  At least, that's what it looks like he wants.  The rest
of the dogs don't even have to see me to know there is a biped in their
midst, and that means someone gets a few precious minutes of freedom.

Holding my ears to muffle the sharp sounds, I walk quickly past the first
row and around the corner to where Cassanova was last week.  Sometimes they
decide to move their tenants around some, so I take a passing glance in
each cage as I go by, just to make sure.  Nothing in this first row, which
is normal, as my puppy was located on the other side of the room.  My heart
races as I round the corner, mentally counting five cages down and keeping
my eyes fixed on that spot.  I even lean down as I approach, attempting to
see something before I can physically see it.

There is such a sudden lurch in my stomach when I see the shivering
Chihuahua in Cassanova's cage that my tongue does a moonwalk and bunches up
against the back of my throat, and I gag silently.  He's gone...my darling
Cassanova is gone; to a better home, of course, but gone without ever
having said goodbye.  I have neither the means nor the time to own a dog,
but we were brothers, dammit, we were...we were...but I can't say it.  Not
yet.  Not now.

"Bark!" comes from the end of the row, a single attention-grabbing shout
now that the other dogs have quieted.  My tongue slides back into a normal
position and I somehow find a way to clear the words from my throat.

"Hey, boy...is that you?"  Gulp.  Ordering my legs of rubber to move, the
last cage in the line comes into view.  This time I don't lean over,
because if my mind is playing tricks on me I'll just give up and go home.
I hear rustling, and all of a sudden a single paw latches on to a link,
claws extended from dirty black pads, with just a little spot of black amid
the white fur there.  I've studied that paw, held it in my hand, run it
over my face, and I know who it belongs to.  That bitch was wrong.

Cassanova knows me well...I mean, how could a dog not after all the time
alone we've spent together?  He dances around on his hind legs, blue eyes
wide and bright and always focused on me as I kneel on the stone floor,
relief momentarily sucking most of the energy from my body.  I say a short,
silent prayer and put my snout up against the links, allowing my husky to
get up close and personal with his energetic kisses.  Jumping, up and down
again, not barking up a storm but just panting happily, now that I'm here
to take him out.  "I'm glad to see you too," I mutter in a breaking voice,
and give his lips a swipe with my tongue.  Nothing more serious yet, not
while I'm still in the building.  Cassanova seems to read my mind and
settles down.  As he sits, I can see just how happy he is that I'm here.

Several other dogs announce their protest of my weekly preference for their
inmate (no doubt they can sense the building arousal) but they know they
may get their chance later on.  I make sure to take at least four out every
week, because the other volunteers tend to give up early on account of the
freezing cold of January.  Sissies.

Standing back up, I unlatch the cage door and open it slowly, filling the
gap with my body so Cassanova, in his excited state, won't take it upon
himself to escape and run around the room, getting all his furry friends
into a frenzy again.  But he remains where he is, always watching me with
what I know is barely concealed hyper energy, shifting his weight from paw
to paw, one always off the ground.  I reach into a pocket and bring out the
purple leash, pull Cassanova over by his collar and clip him up.  As soon
as he hears that sound, he starts up again with the dancing, letting out
little huffs and wuffs, urging me to go ever faster.

With little further jealousy-fueled complaining from the peanut gallery, us
two boys reverse the course I just plotted, back through the hallway,
around the receptionist desk ("Oh gosh, is that really Cassanova?  I guess
I was wrong," says the girl bemusedly, unaware of her own stupidity, and I
feign a smile and hurry along) and out one, then the other, door.

Harsh winter sunshine stings my eyes, and I have to fight against the
weight of Cassanova's pulling while fumbling through my pockets for my
sunglasses.  My puppy fairly drags me off with him; even though I weigh a
great deal more, we are almost an even match.  "Whoa, whoa!" I try to calm
him down, or at least try to make him understand I want him to curb a
little enthusiasm, but just like every time he won't listen.  Huskies are
notorious for their boundless energy and curiosity to explore everything
under the sun, and something as niggling as a leash won't stop them.

At least Cassanova knows to head toward the fenced-in exercise yard first
to blow off the majority of his steam.  He lets the lead out to its full
length and keeps pulling even when it snaps his head back, and I jog
forward some to put the slack back in.  By the time I reach the gate, he's
already pawing at it, prancing around on his hind legs like a circus
performer and giving me a good view of his enthusiasm...all two pink inches
of it.

Licking my dried-out and cold lips, I slide the latch away from the bar on
the fence and push it inward.  With a yelp of joy, Cassanova darts in and I
have just enough time to wrap my hand around the leash before it runs out
again, saving my puppy a sore neck.  "Give me a second, okay?" I scold him,
pulling him closer to look up at me with wanting eyes, ready to run but
frustrated at my holding him back.  I put two fingers underneath his collar
and pull it up, open the P-clip on the leash and slide it off.

Cassanova sees the empty clip and knows he is free to run around as he
pleases.  I make shooing motions at him, and he does a very cute canine
double-take to make sure I mean what I say.  Then he's off like a shot,
bounding over the flat cedar-strewn ground, making wide circles in the
forty-by-eighty foot pen.  There is one lonely chair in my corner, the
chair where the other volunteers sit, shivering, and look at their watches
in between half-hearted throws of a squeaky toy.  I sit down, adjust my
growing bits, and observe my wonderful happy dog running his heart out.  I
wonder how long it's been since his last excursion outdoors.

For the first ten minutes of our walk, there is little I need to do save
for watching Cassanova burn off energy and relieve himself.  Practically
the only way to have a nice, sane walk is to let him tire out by himself in
the pen, where he can be off-leash, and then take him outside for a much
slower walk into the long brown grasses on the property.  Every once in a
while, Cassanova comes up to me, snuffling into my hand or my crotch, which
I let him do as much as he pleases.

He walks a few feet away from me and sniffs the ground in a circle, and I
know what's coming next.  Grabbing a plastic baggie from a bin close by, I
watch as my husky gets comfortable, squats down, and lets go what must have
been long stored in his body.  Just like us people, he makes this
concentrated face every time he bears down and strains, but the best part
is watching his cock emerge while he's doing it.  With every push a few
inches come out, waggling and steaming in the cold air, and retreat when
he's done.  I mimic the action in my own pants, albeit for a different
reason.  It's all the more fun because Cassanova doesn't even know he's
seducing me.

Looking very much relieved, and glad to be rid of his burden, Cassanova
proceeds to run around me while I clean up what he left behind.  Sometimes
I think dogs harbor some secret satisfaction in the fact that us bipeds
have to clean up after them, what with our opposable thumbs and all.
Whether that is true or not, Cassanova continues his speedy orbit as I take
the plastic baggie to the trash bin and turn my attention back to him.

I look around, spot a bright orange squeaky bone (I remark internally that
the color doesn't much difference to a dog, and find that funny), rear back
and throw it hard.  The thing flies through the air, tumbling end over end
and bouncing off the rear perimeter fence, only to be picked up in capable
jaws.

"Come on!" I urge him, bending and patting my knees in a gesture any dog
that's been around humans will know by heart.  Cassanova comes bounding
like a bat out of hell, the orange bone giving a falsetto death knell from
his muzzle, breathing hard and happy.  He stops just short of my feet,
spits the toy out and immediately begs for another round in his prancy way.
I treasure every view I get of that black-tipped white sheath, now
sans-arousal, and his sac, shapely but not overly large.

Smiling to myself, the cold of the day forgotten for the moment, I pick up
the toy and hurl it in a different direction, again far enough to reach the
back fence but not quite pass it.  The sight of Cassanova's curly tail
ruddering over that perfect dark pucker sends a fresh supply of adrenaline
to my cock, and my pants are now past the uncomfortable stage.  Giving
myself a quick adjustment and gratuitous fondle, I figure it's about time
to take my puppy out into the grasses.  Maybe, if I get him comfortable
enough, I'll be able to convince him to give his virginity to me.  I would
be honored.

Cassanova is sniffling around the ground now, about twenty yards away,
evidently not able to find the orange bone.  I can't even see it; maybe it
bounced somewhere out of his range.  Oh well, it's not like I was going to
throw it a third time.  Instead I call him over, falling to my knees and
patting the ground in front of me with open palms.  My rear is the highest
part of me, my rear wagging back and forth in a traditional and
unmistakable play bow.  When Cassanova finally pays attention to me, his
face changes from mere happiness to ecstasy.  Someone wants to play with
him, and he knows how to show it without talking in some
impossible-to-understand voice pattern!  Needless to say, he runs full-tilt
toward me.

Wait for it...wait for it...until he's only a few feet from me, seeming as
if he could take off if he went any faster.  Then I sit up on my calves and
hold out my arms for him.  Cassanova doesn't falter in the least, seeing an
opportunity for a jump and taking it.  The full force of a grown sled dog
hits me squarely in the chest and knocks me into a backwards somersault.
Cedar chips dig into my back and neck as I roll with my puppy, clutching
him tightly to me as I go.  My legs leave the ground, but I have the
presence of mind to spring enough force into the roll to give Cassanova
room beneath me.  The tuck-and-roll idea may be successful, but my landing
leaves something to be desired.  I twist coming out of my gymnastic
maneuver and land hard on my side, spilling my husky alongside me.

Cassanova, being the agile four-legged canine he is, stands almost
immediately and begs for more.  "I'm not that fast, you silly dog," I
retort with a smile to his unsaid taunting, meeting his eyes before
launching myself at his neck.  He darts away about ten feet and bounces a
bit, never content to have all four paws on the ground.  "How about we take
this outside?" I ask him instead, knowing he doesn't understand my words.
He does, however, understand when I move toward the door in the fence,
leash in hand.  When Cassanova gets close enough I grab him by the collar,
quickly securing and leading him out to the far reaches of the property.

My erection, which has flagged little since arriving here, still pulses
dully behind the fly of my jeans.  I try to tell it to be patient, that
relief will come soon enough, but thoughts of my husky (not to mention that
sexy floofy rear end of his bouncing around in front of me at the end of
the leash) keeps the blood from draining.  I settle into a trot, which
Cassanova finds just fine.

The property consists of a few rolling hills, a frozen stream with fallen
logs, a stand of trees and a lot of tall, dead grass.  Trying to keep pace
with an energetic dog while skirting patches of ice and dirty snow is
tricky business, but I manage to make it over two hills and halfway down a
third before slipping and falling, quite ungraciously, onto my ass.  I
figure this is as good a place as any, and keep my rear planted, catching
my breath as Cassanova walks around exploring as far as the leash will
allow.

I could sit here and just watch him forever.  His body seems to have an
endless supply of fuel, rippling just beneath the surface of his skin,
feeding the sinews of his muscles that have somehow survived despite the
generic food they feed him here.  I envy his metabolism, and the fact it
will stay more or less like it is now for the rest of his life.  He sniffs
around everywhere, as if there is always a new scent to discover.  I have a
sensitive nose myself, but I can't smell a damn thing compared with what
Cassanova can detect.  He looks at me again with those frosty blue eyes,
panting slightly, and I nearly melt.  I need to have him soon.

He walks over to me and nuzzles the side of my face, and it's almost too
much to control myself.  "I know what you want," I say, nibbling his neck
lightly, and he responds with a lighthearted growl and a snap back at my
own neck.  "Not so fast!"  And then I tackle him, pushing his head into the
ground (like I know he hates, to be put into such a weak position) and
clamp my jaws over his throat.  Cassanova squirms underneath me, all four
paws flailing to get a swipe at me, and he succeeds in cuffing my ears a
couple of times before I let him go.

Immediately he's on me like an angered wrestler, not about to be upstaged
by a mere biped.  I am knocked onto my back by the force of his attack, and
there he sits, paws on my chest and thighs, daring me to move, daring me to
challenge his superiority.  I am not about to do any such thing.
But...from where I'm laying I have easy access to what I desire most of
Cassanova, and I decide it's time we got down to business.

It's not like I haven't touched him there before; I've taken him out at
least half a dozen times, and each time I've pushed the envelope just a
little further, taken just a little bit longer.  But the initial contact of
my fingers with the warm, tense flesh between his rear legs never gets old.
The excitement of the contact as I lightly stroke the loose skin on each
side of his sheath is all I need to become hard in my briefs, the response
so strong it can no longer be denied.  Cassanova stops moving as he takes
in the moment too.  I study his eyes, looking down at me with that familiar
mild surprise and realization that he's being given pleasure willingly and
lovingly.  His pupils dilate until the irises almost disappear; his tongue
a pink ribbon folded back neatly into his muzzle as he settles into my
groping hand.

There is always a moment of silence when playing around actually crosses
the line into intimacy.  I don't see the need to waste time talking when my
actions can just as well speak for me.  I watch my husky's face as he grows
familiar with my touch yet again, perhaps remembering other days spent
doing similar things in this selfsame field.

"Good boy," I murmur.  I know it's a clichˇd thing to say, but Cassanova
knows the timbre of my voice no matter the words.  He knows I no longer
wish to wrestle, and he's perfectly fine with that, because he lowers his
crotch into my hand and I increase my pressure until our bodies touch and I
can no longer move.  This is just fine and dandy, so I unceremoniously
shove him off to the side and he makes no effort to get up.  His slightly
lifted rear leg is an added indication that his need is just as great, if
not greater, than my own.  We both want the same thing, it's been
communicated clearly enough, and I can't wait to start.

"Wuff," he says, and I blush because of how goddamn cute it is.

"Hi," I reply, brushing quickly over his sheath and giving it a nice firm
squeeze.  Cassanova lays his head down in a previously crushed bed of grass
and lifts his leg higher in acquiescence, and now I finally feel free to
fall prey to my inner desires.  But I must relieve the growing pressure in
my pants; pausing from my ministrations, I quickly open up and pull out my
equipment.  The cold air causes me to flinch, but only for a moment,
because now my bits finally have room to breathe.  I look down at myself,
almost all the way emerged, and decide to just pull my foreskin down and
get it over with.  It's an exquisite pleasure, my moan uttered selfishly,
and then my own musk hits my nostrils and begins to mix with Cassanova's
more natural scent.  Testosterone and arousal tinges the air.

"Now, where were we?" I ask the perfect dog lying beside me in the grass.
He looks to me as if to tell me I'm a dumbass and should know the answer to
that question, but I don't need to be told twice to resume my attentions
between his legs.  Still as hard as when I left him, it takes but a few
strokes to get him to grow enough so that his penis bone disappears
underneath engorging flesh.

With my other hand, I begin to stroke Cassanova between the ears, grooming
his fur with, then against, the grain with my nails.  He bends and nuzzles
against me, struggling to increase the contact, and I try to get all over
his head and neck without leaving any hair unturned.  One hand on his
sheath, another on his head: what more could a dog ask for?

A kiss, maybe.  I've been teaching my husky to kiss for a few weeks now.
Most people don't know how to properly kiss a dog, even if they want to
show the littlest signs of affection for the animal.  Most people, when
confronted by a lick-happy dog, will make a big deal about shoving the
canine down, sometimes forcefully, and punishing them for merely wanting to
please.  There is nothing more exciting to watch than the way a dog reacts
when you reciprocate their unrequited love.  They lick your face, and you
push them away, but me--I open my lips and let their tongue in freely.
Once a dog discovers you like to kiss them back, watch out.

Cassanova leans forward, my hand guiding him gently closer to my lips.
Then he lashes out, the warm and slightly wet surface of his doggie-biscuit
breath slathering over the end of my nose, lifting my upper lip and sending
shivers to all parts of my body.  "Oh," I moan, and realize that it will
take no large effort of Cassanova's to make me lose control.  A low droning
sound perks up all four of our collective ears, and I look toward the road,
barely hidden by the crest of the hill on which we sit.  From there, we are
a blob of darkness in the grass, but paranoia suggests everyone down there
has a set of binoculars in their passenger seat.

Whimpering encouragingly at me, Cassanova gains my attention once more.
One look into his face, that broad nose pad, those intelligent blue eyes,
and all danger is forgotten once again, a danger in itself.  He spreads his
legs wider to give me better access, and I know he's feeling the pleasure I
want so badly for him to feel.  Warm under my caress and warm under my
nose, my husky lets out the most satisfied of grunts, and I close the
distance between our muzzles until they touch.

Just for a second, I can feel the wet rough texture of the black pad,
accompanied by soft warm puffs of air into my nostrils, then Cassanova
licks between my lips again.  I accept him.  I let his tongue slide around
over my front teeth, as if cleaning them, lifting the flaps of my lips and
getting all the way to the end of the gum line, struggling with me,
pressing ever harder at the entrance to my mouth.  It's best to just allow
him to do his thing, since there's no way I could tell him differently and
make him understand; I enjoy the attention no matter what it is.

My husky's ministrations are hardly interrupted when I switch from merely
squeezing to actually stroking him up and down, and I'm satisfied when his
pumping foot taps against my shoulder in helpless abandon.  He's already
starting to knot up, and I don't need to see it to know what it looks like.
Instead, my tongue lashes out against Cassanova's, persuading him to open
his lips against my efforts to return the favor so willingly done for me.

"Mmmmfph," I manage when his tongue slathers over my upper palate and
tickles my uvula, ridding it of saliva.

"Mmmrawrf," Cassanova replies, bracing himself so he can delve ever
further.  My patience, already worn thin by the company of one sexy dog, is
almost gone, and despite my previous intentions I find myself pulling his
sheath down, eager to get at that slick length, wanting to make its
exposure to the harsh winter elements as short as possible before my mouth
takes over.  It hardens exponentially, and I smile around Cassanova's
tongue at the thought he might be anticipating my next move.  He doesn't
even look like he minds the submissive posture I've put him in.

Alternating between my own needy member and my husky's, I eventually
succeed in maintaining a decent level of erection; Cassanova prods my hand
with short little jabs of his hips, and if he feels the cold air, he sure
doesn't seem all that uncomfortable about it.  I squeeze the base of his
knot, and get a lip-nibble in response; I know that sweet spot by heart and
my four-legged lover's lower belly is sticky with encouragement.

As much as I love the feel of muzzle action, there is just no more putting
off what I've already waited a week to do.  There is a point within sexual
excitement beyond which the mind considers anything is possible, that your
boner allows you powers of limitless libido and moral immunity.  That point
is upon me, making me almost drunk-feeling, and I have to remind myself not
to overstep my boundaries and do something my puppy doesn't like.  I
wouldn't be able to come back after that.  So, with one last lick and a
deep nuzzle (Cassanova must be making it slow on purpose; it's so gentle!)
I break away and scoot down for a snack.

Cassanova's foot scratches up between my ears as I go down, a pleasant
sensation I'm sure he didn't mean on purpose, but it feels good
nonetheless.  The sound of my weight crunching down snow is deafening in
the still air, made sharp by its temperature, but my husky makes no sound,
other than his amorous pants steaming up the space above him.  Even his
cock sends up a thin plume, evidencing its need for release.  It stares at
me almost angrily, and I decide to take action before my overactive mind
can conjure up more silly metaphors.

Even my much more less sensitive nose can pick up the heady musk of
Cassanova's huskyhood, rising up with the steam.  Maybe that's what's been
intoxicating me this entire time.  All I know is that I haven't felt this
way, this eager and downright sexual, in the time I've known this dog, and
I want it to last forever before I have to go home later.  I take a few
indulgent seconds to rub my nose over his tip, down his length and around
the edge of his sheath, breathless with something akin to wonderment that
two very different beings can share something so intimate and universal.

Cassanova paws at my head, whimpering frustratedly, and I know I have my
permission.

"Are you ready, boy?" I look at him with puppy eyes of my own, climbing up
his body again, and he licks his own essence off the end of my nose.  I
smile and go back to work.

Of course, there is nothing hard about fellating a dog like Cassanova.
Some other breeds tend to get nice and fat when they're aroused, but
huskies tend to stay more slender, more manageable no matter how much you
pay attention to them.  So parting my lips and sliding down my puppy's
length is no problem, all the way to the knot, where he wriggles and
spasms, already trying to tie with my muzzle.  I comb through his belly
fur, grooming the pre out of it before it hardens; Cassanova is free to
lubricate my mouth as much as he wants now.

Even though I know it's dangerous, I let the outside world cease to exist,
focusing only on the object of my desire.  Scooting around the other way
gives me a direct line to deep-throat, and I complete the move without
missing a beat or a swipe of the tongue.  I'm straddling Cassanova's front
leg now, on my side, and the pleasurable tickling from his fur on the
underside of my cock affirms my good decision.  So does my puppy's licking
of said cock, which is unexpected but not at all unwelcome.  Try as I
might, I can't quite get down far enough to try for his muzzle without
compromising my stronghold on his member, so I'm perfectly content with
what I have.

Propped up as I am on my left elbow, my left hand has ample room to cup
Cassanova's sac and tease underneath it, between his balls and tailhole.
The feel of that warm loose fuzzy skin, and the thought of what I'm trying
to coax out of its contents, drives me further into a mental frenzy, though
my actions remain gentle and tender.  I gauge my puppy's level of pleasure
by listening to his huffs and growls, in between licks of my bulging
length, and adjust my moves accordingly.  A few light licks of his tip
here, a long, slow travel down the shaft with a squeeze behind the knot
there, all bring a different sound from his muzzle.

"Good *lick* boy."  It's pretty much all I can say, or need to say, at the
moment.  I venture a finger down to his hole, which is infernally hot
against the chill air, and run a claw around its rim.  Cassanova jumps,
almost choking me, and even though a heavy splatter of precum coats my
throat he lets out a low growl that tells me he's not quite ready for that
kind of play.  I am undaunted, however, and if I can't have his hole today,
then he'll at least have mine.  It's a good thing I came prepared.  At this
rate, neither of us will last long.

I never want to let go of him, never want him to leave my muzzle because he
feels so good in there, like it was meant to be...but I'm a hopeless
romantic with rambling thoughts of what I would like compared with what I
can actually have.  The skin of his cock is smooth, and all this time he's
remained a respectable size, which is good because I haven't had much anal
practice.  Now that he's nice and hard and worked up (like me, and I've
hardly touched myself yet), I want to finish us both off most efficiently.
I don't know about Cassanova, but my balls feel just about to burst...maybe
I should have jacked off this morning.  Oh well, more cum all over my
puppy's chest.

Cassanova doesn't even protest when I pull away, making sure to lick as I
go to keep him clean.  One final squeeze to his scrotum ("Muff," he says to
that) and I roll backward to shuck my pants, underwear and shoes in one
quick motion.  Yes, I'm getting grass in my clothes, and yes, I'm going to
get awfully cold awfully fast half-naked out here, but it feels oddly
natural to look down and see five inches of pink meat jutting from my
crotch, matched by that of the dog laying less than two feet away,
patiently awaiting my next move.

I lean forward onto him, my cock sliding around and hooking under
Cassanova's, and I shudder against his body, immediately warmed again,
burying my nose in the crook of his floofy neck.  It smells of wet fur and
faintly of urine, but what can you expect from an animal shelter?  A few
more pecks to the end of my husky's nose and I just can't wait anymore.
I'm in just the right position, too, except that the tube of lube I brought
is in my discarded pants.

Opting for a little frottage to keep my puppy hard, I reach sideways and
dig through my pockets before finding the little clear bottle way down at
the bottom.  As much as I try to keep it clean, it still puts up a fight
before I can grasp its slick outer surface.  Once retrieved, I squeeze a
bit on my member first (I don't need near as much as Cassanova does) and
rub it all over both of us; a much more ample amount goes aroundl and into
my very tight hole.  Just how long has it been for me, anyway?  Well, it
ends now.

My husky watches from his position below me (I still can't believe he's
letting me straddle him like this; he must be a subby top at heart, and I
make a note to explore this possibility on future walks), panting slowly.
I lift up on my knees, reaching behind with a greasy hand and grasp him
firmly...still as hard as ever.  I watch his face for signs of discomfort,
placing his tip (Jesus, this dog is hot!) against my opening and settle
down.  Pressure gives way to a slight stinging, and I remember every other
time I've been mounted and felt the same thing.  I want to clamp down, but
I keep pushing and it's a moot point when my hips settle and his length
fills me.

The position is awkward, especially with a quadruped underneath me whose
legs bend up against my chest.  But I ignore the physics of our coupling
and concentrate on the fullness in my rump, its pulsing girth formerly wild
but now tamed by my accommodating hole.  I wriggle my hips back and forth,
and I slip further down onto his knot, gaining mutterings of approval from
my canine lover.  There is no doubt that he knows what's going on, and that
he's feeling pretty good right now, and if I were him I would just sit back
and enjoy the ride, which he seems to be doing, leaving the pace to me.

I pull myself into a prone position above him; squatting as I am, my knees
could give out after a short time, but even on the frozen ground it seems
they could go on forever as long as I have this dog buried in me.  I see
the moving shadows of cars along the road down the hill, know that even if
they could see me they wouldn't know a thing, and smile, bringing myself up
a few inches and down again.

"Muff," says Cassanova.

"I love you too," I reply, in the raspy sort of baritone my voice turns
into when I'm all up into a good fuck.  I want to pop that knot of his into
me so badly--it's among the many dreams and goals I have with
Cassanova--but when you're in an open space, and there's a chance another
dog walker could come romping over the top of the hill and see your bare
ass connected to one of the residents, you don't want to get hung up for
fifteen or twenty minutes.

I mean, I'm grinding myself over my husky's erection, he's laying back,
rolling his head around in the snow, his tongue flailing everywhere, hind
legs pumping the air as he tries to hump me from below, and people think
I'm taking advantage of him or being cruel?  Really...I don't think
Cassanova's whimpering in pain, not by the increasing slickness I feel.
He's well on his way to the finish line.

This could either turn out to be a mind-blowing affair in the grass or a
desperate search for climax, and I don't quite know the best way to make it
the former, so I'm just playing it as I go.  As much as I've played with my
husky, and gotten him off before, he remains a difficult card to read.  I
can tell he's enjoying himself, but as to when he gets close, I'm going to
have almost no idea.

Perhaps it would be best if I kept myself on the edge until I'm reasonably
certain he's going to blow.  That shouldn't be hard, being as every time I
move my hips my member plows through Cassanova's belly fur in a most
tactile, delightful, feathery way.  It's already gotten the white fur all
yellowed and sticky, but I'll be making it even more so soon enough, so I
don't worry.  I just keep thrusting.  My thighs burn at the position I'm
in, lending a pleasant warmth to my lower body.

From now on it's just a straight line (well, not quite; Cassanova's got a
little curve to him) until one of us decides to let go of his load.  In a
way it is a competition of sorts; I doubt my husky is aware of the
time-sensitive nature of our activities, but I'm sure he can tell I'm doing
all I can to make his peak quick in coming and long to leave.  As I look
into his blue eyes (when they turn my way, wild with animal passion), I
wonder if he feels the same attraction for me as I do for him.  Can dogs be
gay, or does it even matter?  Whether or not that's the case, Cassanova's
lips clamp down on mine all the same when I lean down to plant a kiss on
his muzzle.

I shouldn't have done that.  Until now, I had managed to keep my lust
relatively under control, but that little added stimulation (you know, that
long, hot tongue deep in my throat again) kind of acts as an aphrodisiac I
didn't need.  My hips move of their own accord, fueled by instinct instead
of my own deliberate actions.  The need to tie is still there, still
strong, but I must ignore it.  I'm getting close enough just feeling that
tapered shaft sliding freely inside me, unhindered now that my puppy's
opened me up good and wide.

Yipping as he bites my tongue, I lean back to see his face drawn up into an
odd little grimace, and I notice the lower half of his body has stopped
moving.  Pretty sure of what that means, I continue to raise and lower my
rump, albeit a little slower than before, and place a couple fingers behind
me.  They come back thick with the stuff; I smell its musky husky odor,
just like my own except for a meaty undertone, lick one finger clean and
give the other to Cassanova.  He likes his own taste too, I see.

"Such a good boy," I coo almost in baby-talk, not wanting to patronize my
very grown-up puppy after giving me such a wonderfully fulfilling gift.  I
place my hand back at the area of our coupling and get a fair amount of
husky seed, smearing it over my member in a slick gooey film that sends
sparks of pleasure through my spine.  Now that Cassanova has taken his
turn, it's up to me to finish our ordeal.  He has no objections to my
continued impalement, so I relish the assault upon my prostate and begin a
feverish stroking.

Sometimes it gets annoying being a hair trigger, but in this case it works
in my favor.  I can feel it churning in my balls the second I bring my hand
to my cock, and from then on it's just a matter of minutes until I give
way.  Holding my breath helps concentrate things into one area, namely my
nether regions, and I just watch my husky lay under me, deep in afterglow,
a satisfying sense of fulfillment radiating through my body when he tilts
his head and looks at me with glazed eyes.  It's like he's thanking me.

And then that pretty picture is spoiled by a low grunt from my throat and
suddenly Cassanova's chin is bathed in semen.  Hot, long-stored ropes of it
all over his snout and upper chest, then the rest of the way down his body
as I wind down.  My left hand rhythmically squeezes his side, and now I
regroom the bunched-up fur there back down into place.  I gradually stop
moving altogether, and finally the January wind decides to gust around the
area of my hole.  Cassanova shivers, and so do I.  Winter coats don't cover
exposed, erect flesh.

I take a moment to stroke the side of his face before we separate, trying
my damndest to communicate my thanks for this afternoon.  Looking into his
eyes, licking his nose pad, giving him little kisses on the tongue: I hope
he knows the depth of love I feel for him.  And I sure hope it's love; if
it's not then I'm a very confused person.  I carefully roll us over so now
I'm on the bottom, and Cassanova stands out of reflex, and suddenly I'm
empty all over again.  He starts to clean himself, obviously taking his
sweet time, and I wonder how many bipeds like myself have coveted that
particular feral skill.  Some of us can, but I'm not so lucky.

Sitting there for a moment, legs against my chest, I long to pull him down
into another mating, but my role has turned from lover to walker again.
Huskies are known for their short attention spans.  If I only had more time
with him, I bet I could calm him down some...

Before I freeze to death, my clothes come back on (thankfully Cassanova got
the brunt of our combined loads; I giggle as I wonder who gets to bathe him
next) and I'm up on my feet in time to see my puppy eliminating some other
fluids from his body in a copse of bushes not too far away.  I pick up the
end of the leash and call him over, to which he responds with his usual
vigor and energy.  Unfortunately, he's already resheathed.  Well, it has to
go back in sometime.

The return walk to the shelter is a delayed and meandering one.  Already,
as my watch tells me, I've spent most of my scheduled time out here with
Cassanova, and while no one will bat an eyelash at such commitment to one
dog, they really do like you to take out multiple pets when you volunteer.
I don't know; after all the energy I expended this afternoon, I think it's
a good idea to just go home and ruminate on this afternoon's events.  Today
should provide enough fuel for the coming week's jack-off sessions, until I
get to come back and renew next Monday.

Traffic has mostly tapered off, the snow on the ground turning a shade of
pale pink as the sun sinks toward an early sunset as Januaries are prone to
do. Cassanova leads the leash, stretching it to its limit, but I stand my
ground and hold him back without being pulled in every direction but
forward.  Eventually we reach the front door, and, sensing he's back close
to where he lives, my puppy noses his way back into the building.

"Well, hello dere!" squeals the bitch from across the counter.  I can't
believe she's still here, and wince inwardly, but fake a smile.  Cassanova,
not knowing my loathing of her and not caring, rears up and noses her cup
full of pens and pencils, cute as can be.  Now, who wouldn't want a dog
like that?  Why is he still here?  "Did you have fun?  Did you have fun?
Oooh, yes you did, yes...you...did!"  Her saccharin speech is nauseating,
and I thank God Cassanova is just a dog.  Just a sexy as hell dog who, in
his current position, is renewing my hardon with a great side view of his
sheath and a little meat.  I'm hopeless.

"We had a lot of fun.  Took him on a long walk; he needed the exercise," I
mention for her benefit, because I knew she was going to ask anyway.  I
also want to mention how good a fuck Cassanova is, but I hold my spiteful
tongue for good reason.  She has her fill of doggy pets, and eventually
sits back in her chair, taking pains to apply a liberal amount of
antibacterial gel to her hands.  Friendliness only goes so far for some of
us.  If she smells any signs of sex on either of us, she doesn't show it.
She's probably too young or stupid (or both) to even add it all up if given
the chance.

I lead Cassanova back to the kennels with a growing sense of leading an
inmate to death row.  The dogs are oddly quiet, and I know they can smell
the entire story of our lurid affair as we pass.  I bet they all wish they
were on the end of my purple leash.  My mood becomes darker and more
oppressed the closer we get to my puppy's cage, and I pause before the
door, afraid to open it.  It is a no-kill shelter, but I still feel like a
cad leaving him here.  Someone could come and adopt him, someone who could
never love him the way I do, and how could I live with myself if I deprived
him of that?  I get on my knees and sigh, already tearing up.  Love makes
you think crazy things.

"You *sniff* be a good boy, okay?  Eat all your food, and don't let anybody
push you around."  I know I sound silly, but dammit, I care about him!  The
door opens, my puppy walks back into his prison, and I unhook him and latch
the door behind.  Cassanova circles his pen a few times, and I can see some
confusion on his face.  He comes back to the door, and we touch noses to
the fence.  Somebody whimpers, I don't know who, but when my husky lashes
his tongue out he takes a tear back with it.  I don't want to leave him.

"Muff," he says, and I want to know what that means in dogspeak.

"I'll be back for you, okay?  Don't worry.  I'll do something, I promise."
The words are out of my mouth before I can take them back, but I have no
intention of taking them back.  Yeah, it complicates my life, but some
things are more important than being easy.  I stroke Cassanova's forehead,
and he looks at me one last time, and for once I think I know what that
look means: Thanks for making me feel good.  You bet.

One last wave and I make my way back to the front desk.  That awful nit of
a secretary is gone now, the lights off except for a side office where
someone is no doubt working some late paperwork.  The sky casts a dull
orange glow into the building, and it almost feels warmer when I push
through the doors and into life again.

There is a row of vending machines set off to the side of the building, and
I almost pass right by them before stopping.  Right between the USA Todays
and the classified ads, I snag an apartment guide from the top of a
snow-dusted pile.  It looks pretty comprehensive from the way it's laid
out, and I think as long as I have the evening free I might as well take a
look at the offerings within.  After all, I'm going to be needing something
with a pet policy sooner rather than later.