Lady and The Tramp II: Scamp's Adventure: Arnie & Christine Take Angel Home
To be continued . . .
Main Street in Westfield became Court Street, and Court Street became Rivers Lane once Arnie Cunningham turned right around a hilly bend inside a blood-smeared Christine, Angel still awake, but now feeling a few aches and bruises where her head had been pounded earlier by Buster's front paws. They passed some Dutch Colonials, farmland, some trees, a nice park, and then a beautiful country home, in which a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel named Lady, and a mutt named Tramp, both walked around the open front door shaking in a nervous manner, while their smaller pups yawned, but were also scared. What had happened to Angel? Scamp, of course, was in front of his father, very, very nervous, and angry. Where was Buster? Where was Angel? Something had gone on between the two, he just knew it, he thought to himself as the long car passed into the left handed side of the driveway. Upon entry of Christine, both Jim Dear and Darling hurried out, perturbed by the arrival of such a loud stranger, belting out Bob Seger all over the preen, garden lawn.
Arnie's ride bellowed exhaust fumes from the tailpipe as he slowed down in front of the two-story, sloped roof bungalow. The exterior of the house was impeccable, the sun-yellow paint chipless, the white mailbox outside the right driveway entrance dotting a perfect silver and white with a little black bird and a WELCOME sign. Elegant peach window curtains with off-white exterior window frames. Two baby boys: Andrew, one and a half, and Michael, six months. Everything was perfect in this little New England abode . . . except for now, this, this intruder.
Angel leaped out of Arnie's open door, and ran for her father. "Daddy!"
"Angel! What happened? And who . . .?"
Arnie Cunningham, dressed in Desert Driver boots, now dirty with dried mud and dead insects, a very tight, sticky pair of blue jeans, a weary, white tee-shirt, old, Coke-bottle glasses, and messy, greasy black hair that hung down past his neck and over his shoulders that covered his pectorals, had turned off a very loud Christine. He was now stepping forward towards the house that Angel had told him where she and her family lived. It was apparent from the beginning that he was not wanted there.
"Who are you, young man? And what are you doing with Angel?" demanded Jim Dear with a furious coil of seeming steam rising from his gray hair. "What have you done with our Angel?"
Tramp growled, and Lady cocked her head, her mouth in a little snarl. The other puppies stood crouching behind all of them, while Darling went back inside the quaint home, not wanting to be bothered by this mess of an irresponsible human being . . . or whatever he, or it, was.
"For your information, I just saved this dog just now, from a raping Doberman. And now, that my business is done, I think I'll go. Have a good night." Arnie said this with indifference, knowing full well the type of uppity motherfuckers that lived in this area. He knew their type: Sunday best dinners with the family, perfect church members, outings in the park, babies that go "ga ga" and "goo goo". Arnie had seen enough of it growing up in his own hometown in Pennsylvania, near Pittsburgh. He did not need it now. Redemption came with a bitter fee; it only stretched so far, and transformation was not part of the bargain.
"Good, and be gone," started Jim Dear, and headed for the open door, where a bright hall light lit the way to safety, warmth, to family. "C'mon, Tramp, Lady, pups. C'mon, now. Now, I say."
Arnie slipped back behind his large pizza-shaped steering wheel and shut the driver's door gentle. He petted the top of the dashboard with his hands and whispered to Christine's spirit. "It's okay, baby, everything's alright. We did what we had to do, and now we can go home . . . home away."
From outside the open window, Tramp's medium-sized gray triangular head popped into the front of the Fury. "Hound Dog" came soft through the radio speakers, soothing the tortured soul of Arnie. Redemption of any kind or not, he could never forget or forgive who he had been or what he had done . . . yet.
"Was it Buster?" asked Tramp with an ounce of hesitance, for fear that Arnie might pull him in and try to rape him.
Arnie's thin, white fingers tapped to the beat. "Yes," he said. "He's dog meat now. You'll be having no more problems with him."
"But I'm afraid that Angel is pregnant with his puppies, eh . . ." began Tramp.
" . . . Arnie. Arnold Cunningham. Listen, there is nothing I can do about that right now. We'll see each other again. I have to go."
"Thank you," whispered Tramp. "We all thank you. I'm sorry. You don't . . . you don't seem like our kind."
"No shit."
"Hey, do you know what we have been through with Angel and Buster? And Scamp, and how Buster almost killed Angel and Scamp by throwing them into a bonfire after impregnating Angel in front of Scamp? He would have done so if I hadn't been there. At first sight, you look on the exterior like a people version of Buster, all rough and dirty, and calloused. You look like hell."
Lady stepped up beside her husband, and whispered her opinion. "Tramp, we have to go inside. Jim Dear and Darling, they . . . "
"Yeah, I know, I know. Lady, Arnie here, he killed Buster."
"You killed him?"
"Lady, he has to go."
"That's right." Arnie began to roll his window up, the glass creaking against the rubber siding. "Well, like I said . . ."
" . . . you have to go," said Tramp. "Thank you again."
Arnie responded back by leaping Christine down the left exit of the half-moon driveway, tearing right, causing high pine trees on the opposite side to flinch back and tore back down Rivers Avenue toward Court Street.
"Who was that, Tramp? Or, rather, what was that?"
"I'm not sure, my darling. I'm really not sure. But, all I know is that he is some kind of maniac hero, and that machine is his . . . well, his 'girl'.
*
Once safe inside the home, all of the family started to get ready for bed. Jim Dear and Darling made sure that their canine family was warm and safe at the end of the master queen-sized bed, which lay golden fur quilts and blankets, quite comfortable for dogs to lie and rest.
Scamp and Angel were the last two to stay awake, laying on the edge of a quilt. "What happened, Angel? What really happened?"
Angel shook her head in wonder, her eyes still a-glitter from the night's strange "black magic". "Buster was about ready to kill me, Scamp. I could swear he was going to push my little bundle of joy right through my womb and out my mouth. He was cussing at me horrible, threatening my life. I thought I'd never see any of you again." She let loose a little whimper, and a few tears sprinkled her muzzle. Tramp shifted a little, and Lady sniffed at something in her dream. "And then, there was lights, and screaming, and being lifted up quick, and blood, and then before I knew it, music, and home. Home, Scamp!"
"Ssshh, we don't want to wake up Mom and Dad," urged Scamp. "But, what, Buster was king around here. A nice quiet, little charming New England town, and Buster always owned us. Who could dare to overthrow Buster?"
"Does it matter?" whispered Angel. "I'm alive."
"And pregnant," Scamp said, this time his gray eyes beginning to water, for his sadness grew great at the thought that his girl had been violated by such a prick, and was soon to give birth to a newborn puppy for a dead father.
"Pregnant, yes, but alive, Scamp. But alive." Angel spoke this with the light of golden angels dancing in her violet eyes. "Alive.
"Alive."
"Angel, what's wrong?
"Angel?
"His name's Arnie, isn't it? He's the father."
"What? What are you saying? How can he . . . ?"
Angel stared at her once-previous lover, Scamp, and beckoned him to follow her towards the cracked-open bedroom door. "Come on, Scamp. Follow me, loverboy," she breathed all over his face, as Scamp's cock became very hard, and a gluey pre-cum began to leak onto the golden fur.
"Angel, wh . . .?"
"Shut up. Follow me."
Angel led the way out of the master bedroom, her cute little tail and ass twitching, forcing Scamp to give up any will of resistance. The two very horny middle-aged pups slipped into the upstairs bathroom, and that was when Angel bent her tiny, thick-furred creamy head towards Scamp's bulging beet-red cock and gave it a very eager and lustful lick. "Mmmm, Buster. I really need you in me tonight. Will you fill me with your cum? Please?" She allowed her soft, lava-hot lips and mouth to suck the first three inches of Scamp's member, making Scamp feel as if he had just buried his bone in a very sweet and fresh apple pie with gooey yumminess caressing his love stick.
"Ohhh, fuck, Angel. Jesus Christ!"
Very soon, the perfect Pomeranian had really gone to town on his piping hot pastrami, of which all of the spiciest musk in the world consumed all of her senses, and she decided that to drink his delicious puppy seed would be good for tonight. Scamp's hind legs began to wobble as his partner's satisfying cavern made delicious dessert out of his dog hood.
"Fuck, yeah, Angel, do it, yeah!" growled Scamp, as he had begun to fuck his Angel's mouth with furious, long beats, forcing his tight balls and part of his bony hips and hip fur into her mouth. "I'M GONNA FUCKING CUM SOON!!"
Angel's mouth and throat was now all full tight with a burning, pulsing cock, filled more with puppy seed than any other canine cock had ever been. Her long bright pink tongue continued to swirl at dizzying speeds, running butterfly laps up and down, right, left, across, over and down the balls, across the hips, back over the tip, tasting that bit of "cheese" that sometimes formed over the crease of the tip, falling in love, falling in lust with Scamp again, all the while knowing Arnie was the father, Arnie was the father, and that was what was spurring this all on. Scamp was Arnie, and Angel loved Arnie and Christine, and it was the time of the season. Soon, soon . . .
"GODDAMN, ANGEL, HERE I . . . "
With a mammoth rocket explosion, the first shot of cum felt like Niagara Falls to Angel, a huge, gushing wall of pure, delicious puppy cream that whetted her appetite, and swallowed the first load complete.
"Oh, AN-gel, FUCK!"
With a sick POP! Scamp pulled out and the great flooding charges of whipped cream-like semen coated Angel's tan face, muzzle, ears, chest, everything. Even the floors and toilet behind them were covered in puppy slime, but this went unnoticed, as Angel continued to lick at the still-gushing tip, her heart, soul and body now all a-fire.
After a few minutes, Scamp's breathing returned to normal, after Angel had already left the bathroom back to her part of the quilt, still covered in Scamp's musky, sweet divine essence. He pattered through the opened door, through the crack into the bedroom, and flopped worn-out next to his soaked Angel.
"Angel?"
But the diminutive, creamed Pomeranian was no longer awake. Her snores now combined with the rest of the sleeping world, and Scamp was left feeling an empty ache that no sexual satisfaction had been able to fill. He had had his release; now where was his "refill"? Where was his cuddle?
It took a long time for Scamp to fall asleep that night.
*
Arnie parked Christine outside the Westfield Shops' Big Y, lowered his seat and allowed himself to be cradled by the soft and wild will of his 'girl'. Yet, he did not realize that the one event he had created tonight would lead to a greater chapter of events and shakings of a far larger universe than the purchase of an ancient '58 Plymouth Fury from a rotten old coot named Roland D. LeBay had ever started.
But, for the time being, Arnie Cunningham found, for the first time, a restful sleep, his mind finding happy calisthenics to Skeeter Davis' "End of the World".