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Chapter Three

Friday, March 26, 2021

7:53pm

Her chest and shoulders burned and trembled. She bit down and snarled and pushed through her toes and shoved with her chest and arms, fighting a lethal weight off her before she welcomed its crushing weight back, and she tightened her muzzle harder and snarled harder and forced with all her strength and hatred and desperation, screaming that rage into her triceps and deltoids and chest which burned harder and trembled harder, trying to convince her that she was incapable of more, that she wasn't strong enough, that she should let gravity take it from there. Just rest.

“Fuck off," snarled Jocelyn, pushing through the painfully heavy exhaustion. “Fuck you!"

The barbell crashed back into its rack, and Jocelyn panted through a proud sneer.

When she rose to unload her weight plates from the barbell, she caught sight of a Malinois in the silvering of a mirror the length of the wall. The Malinois grinned, flexed her arms and abdomen, looking nothing like a thirty-seven-year-old doctor pulling forty- to sixty-hour weeks. The canine was a catch, a premium bitch in her prime, looking better than she had at twenty-seven or seventeen. She looked fucking incredible—quietly framed in sexy, lean muscle which carved through her leggings and exhibited exciting shadows all around her crop-top. The Malinois in the mirror was proof how diligence and intelligent efforts paid off.

After resting her eyes a bit, Jocelyn bid the Malinois a parting smile and finished re-racking her weight plates.

The gymnasium was indecorous, boorish and rank with musk. All around were the intermittent clanks of iron and steel, the occasional, machismo growl in consortium with the stink. Words like _ “ determination" _ and _ “ grit" _ and _ “ __ sacrifice" _ shone upon the black steel siding. The membership tended towards adult, square-shouldered jocks who amounted to nothing more than flipping tires and pushing their max. Most of them probably couldn't read the words painted on the gym walls. But their swaggering and bulldog posturing provided Jocelyn much amusement.

She went to fetch some dumbbells for her bent-over rows, scanning the typically small Friday-night crowd. There was a big ram on the dipping bars, a fat buffalo cow lazily strolling the rarely used treadmills and two linebacker types she often saw together who were taking turns on a pulley machine.

The flashes of fur and steel had started to blur in her eyes when, in the furthest corner of the gym, she spotted a familiar, tan-and-black ensemble.

He was an inch or two too tall, trunk too laden with muscle, but his head was thoughtfully constructed—eyes, ears, muzzle all placed and proportioned to the ideal German shepherd.

Jocelyn watched the purebred power through a squatting sequence, his bushy, black-tipped tail brushing the floor on every rep, his jaw held with such—Jocelyn couldn't help but laugh—uncharacteristic determination. When the canine toed forward and racked his impressive load and ducked underneath the bar, his eyes reflected into Jocelyn's unabashed stare.

Their mirrored gaze held for a second before the dog's attentions turned to his lifting belt. Soon, he was absorbed in his next set, but as Jocelyn proceeded with her own routine, she kept the German shepherd who kept her in the corner of his eye in the corner of her eye.

They went on like that a while, she doing her bent-over rows and lying leg curls and he doing his dead lifts and endurance holds, each aware of the other.

They engaged in nothing but glances until they were both stretching down for the night, when the German shepherd sauntered up with a thick arm cradled across his chest and grumbled, "What's up?" and Jocelyn, proned on a foam mat, wondered if that was the dog's testosterone-riddled brain maxing out.

Well, he was at least good-looking, and she was in an easy mood.

And she had an idea.

* * *

Antonio Harding—his gal always called him “Nio"—was an appreciator of sexiness and the many forms in which it came, his favorite being the kind with hips and butt 'bout to burst through denim jeans and fat tits dropped in some nice lace—a short female with some curves to let his paws roll over, just like his gal had. His gal was one real nice kitten but her assets came with drama, and the last couple weeks had been more fighting than fucking, and THAT his healthy libido didn't much appreciate, so he had gone out to exercise the excess testosterone from his system this Friday night which he figured his Saturday AM self would regret when getting ready for work, but if he didn't do something he might not get much rest anyways, and so he had made the run for the gym.

He'd fallen right into the groove.

Nothing put stress aside like some movement and muscle-burn.

He'd been all caught up in his lift until he had noticed this night-shift chick staring at him from across the gym, and every next glance he had made he had found her glancing back at him. Ten or fifteen minutes of that had him too damn curious.

He had gone up to chat the chick up, get a read on her, and she had jerked his expectations around like a dog on some damn chain—all cool and indifferent, then with a blink she'd be flirtily skirting his comments and making fuck-me-eyes, then she'd slip this sweetly condescending tone under her vocabulary, and the whole time she writhed around on the floor and flexed underneath him, knowing exactly what she was doing.

The bitch was another kind of sexy Nio could appreciate. She was all tightened up in short fur and muscle and her canine muzzle was strong and damn pretty too. He didn't like the way she manipulated her whole demeanor—he especially didn't like when she used that condescending voice on him—but the perk of her tits, the delineation of her arms and abs, and the silhouette of those leggings made him game for a little abuse. Maybe if the last couple weeks had been different he wouldn't have felt so damn horny for the bitch. Maybe he wouldn't have left the gym with her. Maybe he wouldn't have been left the most bizarre encounter in his life.

They got in the bitch's car, some real nice Audi which looked and smelled like it just came off the factory floor in Germany, and drove to Walmart where the bitch made him go inside and pick out some condoms. He wouldn't have been surprised had she left him there to walk the mile back to the gym, but she had waited where she'd dropped him, and after climbing back into the Audi, he'd been brought to some vacant parking lot behind a damn dollar store. Well, where they parked hadn't much mattered to him when he had awkwardly climbed into the backseat after the bitch, which was when it started really getting weird.

“Here," she said, handing him her phone. “I want some video of this. Pictures too. Take lots."

His box of condoms in one paw and the bitch's phone in the other, Antonio had watched the bitch peel her little crop-top from her small, sexy tits and wiggle a strong but still damn juicy rump out of those dark leggings.

“Video for what?" he asked.

The bitch turned on her knees on the seat and crossed her toned arms behind her head, posing with a simper for him.

“For me."

Maybe if his gal hadn't left him so damn horny the past few weeks he would have told the bitch he didn't feel comfortable with the whole thing. He probably wouldn't have gotten in her damn car to start with. But damn if the bitch didn't look good, and if she wanted some souvenirs of their little time together, why not.

He snapped a shot or two of the bitch, then stripped himself from his workout attire and thought when the bitch grabbed straight for his cock that maybe he would start lifting on Friday nights regularly.

He was about to try and kiss the bitch when she said all slyly, "I want some video of this," and ducked her head.

Well, he wasn't going to argue, so he slid her phone's camera into video mode and hit record and watched as the bitch's sexy, orange eyes flicked up at him through the screen of the phone and her big, pink tongue flopped out of her mouth and made the damn most wet, wonderful feeling as it pressed against him. He had almost forgotten how a thick, smooth canine tongue felt, and he sighed as the bitch licked him from the base of his swollen knot to the dimple of his urethra.

“Damn that's good," he grunted.

* * *

He was too big.

Not that she couldn't handle it—she'd tried a stallion or two—but he was an inch-and-a-half overlong and by a shade or two a brighter pink.

She closed her eyes and inhaled the German shepherd's thick musk and thought for the moment and her idea, this would do.

Jocelyn was twirling the end of her tongue around the end of the thick glans, pushing it in a circling little dance when the fuckhead spoke, snapping her concentration, and she released his cock and leered up.

“Stop the video," she told him.

The shepherd frowned down at her.

“What?"

“Only one of us needs their mouth open for this," Jocelyn said with a huge smile masked behind an icy glare, a great, giddy laugh withheld. “So if you want your cock sucked, hush."

That shut the tough-looking snout up quick.

At least he was smart enough to know his own luck.

Jocelyn told him to start another recording and worked her tongue all against the pounding-hard shepherd again.

She made a few long licks and sucked the impressive canine cock into her muzzle and wondered as she let it slide up and down her tongue how he'd scream if she just decided to bite the fuck down and rip him apart right there in the back of her car. The thought tempted her jaws, made them plea for force, and she imagined the taste of blood drenching her tongue as she applied her sharp, white fangs with a few hundred psi.

The German shepherd spit a sweet spritz of pre-cum upon her tongue, and Jocelyn drank it down, and she spared the cock from her muzzle to grin up at the camera, then nuzzled her nose down the tasty spit coating the dog's flesh. She licked and nuzzled at the shepherd's big, round nuts which were slung in a blond-furred sack, and as she drank a breath full of manly canine musk, she moaned at the camera.

* * *

“Ohhh," the bitch moaned in ecstasy, and that sound plus that feel of her tonguing his balls while she stared up at him through the phone had Antonio pounding so damn hard he was sure his cock would burst a vessel.

To hell with his gal.

Not like she couldn't suck a dick, but damn—nothing like this bitch.

The bitch opened her muzzle and swallowed up his balls, polishing them all nice and neat with her tongue, and Antonio dropped the box of condoms and grabbed his cock and stroked himself over her.

“Mmmmmmm! Ahhhh!" she moaned with her mouth full of his balls, and then she drew back and licked his cock and looked up with some crazy eyes and moaned, “Oh, Tyson!" and he would have stopped her right there to demand who the fuck was Tyson had she not implanted his length damn near through her throat and delivered him the most awesome, gagging, slobbering, crying blowjob ever known.

A little later, the bitch pounded his orgasm the way a man put away a liter at the pub, and once she'd sucked him dry, his cock magically reappeared as the bitch gasped for air.

Her orange eyes were aglow as she panted, “Your cum tastes so good, Ty."

Then the bitch snatched her phone from his paws, snapped a selfie with her muzzle held wide.

Antonio's head hit the Audi's headrest.

Let the bitch call him anything she wanted.

* * *

Sunday, March 28, 2021

7:06pm

“Joss?" a brittle voice dared.

“She's not listening," was Teagan Collier's annoyed response, and the Malinois leaned back in her sofa with her arms crossed.

The monitor of her laptop displayed three video feeds. The largest feed showed two graying shepherds lovingly smudged together in a nice, bright living room. In the medium-sized feed was Jocelyn's distracted profile. The smallest feed was a reflection of Teagan's own camera as she shook her head.

With more impatience than their mother would ever show, Teagan forged the name “Joss" from a thick scowl.

For a moment, not a Malinois spoke.

Jocelyn's microphone was picking up clicking and whirring noises.

Teagan shook her head again.

"What are you even doing?"

“Printing off some things for work," said Jocelyn after a pause.

“Why don't you stop working and talk with your family for a few minutes?"

“Teagan," said their mother smiling placatingly on the laptop, "let your sister work if she has work to do."

Jocelyn York may have been an excellent psychiatrist, but she had always been a terrible sister. Teagan had years and years of memories to cite. Her earliest memory of all was of chasing a faster, four-year-older Malinois in a public park—being ditched, crying and wandering and screaming for her sister to come back until some sympathetic stranger had called the police. Hours after Teagan had been brought home, Jocelyn had come home, screamed at her in front of their parents, went on a tirade how she had been all over the park and the town looking for her and why would she run off like that and make her so scared? And, of course, their parents had eaten the story up, so after her sister had finished her screaming, Teagan had been punished. A few nights later, when the sting had left her rump but she had still been grounded, she had been slapped awake as sometimes happened and had been muzzled by older, stronger paws, and her sister had told in a sadistic little laugh how the other day she had ran from the park and hidden and played at a friend's and that Teagan would be really, really, really sorry if she told anyone about it. Jocelyn would burden her with many such secrets and had always been there to remind Teagan which of them had the better grades, the bigger, cooler friend-group, the more boyfriends, the prettier voice, the better body and the less-faulted face. At thirty-three—the wife to a very sweet fox and the mother to four beautiful pups—Teagan was still trying to deprogram the inferiority complex.

“Thank you, Mom" said Jocelyn, also smiling. "Things are hectic right now."

“Don't stress yourself out too much, Dear," said their mother, and she looked to her side. "Else you'll turn out like your father."

“Happy and handsome?" the dog sat with her said, saccharinely slinging an arm about his wife's shoulders.

Teagan's eyes rolled at her parents, and she glared when she noticed her sister was smiling down and away from her webcam.

Teagan took a breath and, dressing herself in a more bubbly mood, asked, “Have you all decided when you're coming out for the Fourth?"

“We'll be flying out the Saturday before," said her father. “We actually meant to book today. We'll order our tickets after our call and give you a text message."

Her father hadn't learned to use the word text as a verb yet. Both her parents had won early retirement and lived in Indiana where they always had—a few hours from Jocelyn, half the country from Teagan.

“Are you flying with them, Joss?"

“I don't know," said Jocelyn who was bent over and shuffling something unrelated to the conversation in her paws and sounding so disinterested it was hard to tell if she even knew the question she was answering.

Teagan felt her frustration swelling in her muzzle and, before she could stop herself, she untoothed her tongue.

"Are you actually so busy you can't talk to us for thirty freaking minutes once a month?"

“Tea," her sister—not even raising a glance from her paws—sighed in the patronizing tone which made Jocelyn want to reach through the internet and shake her, “you just don't get it. You just don't."

“Is everything going okay?" their father asked.

“Perfectly," said Jocelyn, and her eyes dropped from the camera again.

Teagan guessed her sister was looking at her phone and looking to excuse herself from their call.

“Just busy—tomorrow's a big day."

“Would it be best if we let you go?" their mother asked.

Teagan scowled while Jocelyn made a thoughtful pause and voiced with regret, “It might be."

“If you're not too busy, maybe we'll see you in a few months," Teagan grumbled.

“We'll see, won't we?" Jocelyn said coldly before turning her muzzle back into a smile and saying, “Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Dad. Love you both."

“Joss—" Teagan began, sighing, but Jocelyn had already disappeared from the call.

* * *

Her little sister was cut off by the closing of the connection, and Jocelyn let out a laugh into the spacious, fastidiously tidied living room of her condominium. The floors were an almost black hardwood. Ceiling white. Lazy flames fluttering yellow and orange in a fireplace were outshone by the crystalline glow of a grid of recessed ceiling lights. Palms, ferns, spider plants and other potted species occupied a ledge underlining large windows which looked out from her penthouse suite over Hollins. The corner of the windowed walls was the largest piece of a matryoshka sequence with glass dwindling to a leather sectional dwindling to a heavy coffee table upon which a printer spat a photograph into Jocelyn's fingers.

The canine settled to one end of her sectional sofa with a smile.

Was Teagan—a high school counselor—supposed to understand that some professions dealt with actual problems?

Of course not.

Her sister knew nothing near the demands of being a physician—nor had she the drive to succeed. To excel.

Her sister knew ambition only for steady pay and procreation. The latter was unfortunate considering her co-conspirator; of her four standing products, only one had been spared the father's vulpinity. The rest were stained red. The unluckiest had been deprived of a shepherd's keen gaze. Thankfully, none of the noisy little abominations had been in attendance of that night's videoconference. Seeing them made Jocelyn want to gag, and she fucking abhorred being called “Auntie."

The Malinois dropped a glance to the clock on her laptop, then the three pictures in her paws.