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A dog's dick. It wasn't on my mind now, but it would be. And technically speaking, he wasn't no Fido you'd find sleeping at the foot of your bed or hunching a turd in the backyard. But close enough.

Forty-five minutes ago the grill was sizzling with buffalo burgers, all the grease pooling out like blood from someone who'd met their end on pavement. Disturbing image to have while cooking, but that's what you've got to do to get through a day's work: think of somebody else's death or think of your own. Sure, everyone ponders the usual oncoming events: what to eat for lunch, when to shit, whom to fuck. It's all temporary, though, and the answers come easy. But dying requires concentration.

Fingers snapped. Snapped again. "You zoning out, Warren?"

Michelle. Skinny girl. Antler-skinny. How she ever managed to survive birthing two kids whose father she'd worried would snap her in half every time the bedroom lights dimmed, I would never know. Told me his dick was like sitting on an oversized baton (the guy's a cop). Told her I was twice jealous.

"Nah," I said. "Just thinking of that big police-stick of your husband's."

"You're gross."

"Just honest."

The fan that sucked up all the smoke and heat from the grill roared overhead. We were used to speaking like we had headphones on, music blaring--that unnecessary compensation of the voice. Nevertheless, it was conversation and it made the day go just fast enough. You'd never know when folks would stop by to eat. Sometimes the tourists would wade in the water for hours, leaving our little indoor pavilion an empty tomb of cement, cobwebs, and uncooked food. Sometimes they'd all rush in like ants, devouring anything we'd offer. Right now a dozen or so were off in the distance past all the hot sand and swarms of brine flies, wading shin-deep in the water that was sure to make them think, That was it?

Michelle took a wet cloth, began wiping down the tables, removing an unwanted piece of lettuce off the benchseat. After a moment she chortled. "We got ourselves another one!"

Hustling over, we peered through the windows to the adjacent building where the restrooms were with its outdoor shower so visitors could wash off the salt and sand. Sometimes naked, as was the case now, an old geezer rubbing himself down in the water, his skin like a squished rug that needed straightening, his junk all hanging proudly in the afternoon light. Most likely a foreigner.

"Man, when's somebody hot gonna give us a free show?" I pouted, brushing cornmeal off the table that'd fallen off the buns. We managed to get all the tables clean in time to see the old guy clad in a pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt from the gift shop. Say au revoir to au naturel. Michelle took the chance to visit the sandbox to pee, the cool breath of the swamp cooler washing over me as I watched her leave, my butt taking its favorite spot on the bench. Before I could properly relax, the front door sighed open: some chick in a black two-piece sporting quite the crowded balcony. Hustling back behind the counter, I asked her breasts what I could get for her.

She glanced at the menu board, weighing her options, then glanced behind me where we kept the fountain drinks. No free refills here. "What is pink lemonade?" French accent. She wasn't anybody new; we got French people all the time.

I managed to look up. "Well, it's lemonade... that's pink."

She smirked. "Think you're a funny guy?"

I chuckled back with a shrug. Stupid questions get stupid answers.

The door sighed again as if unimpressed with my response. My eyes went wide as a stocky man-dog strolled in, taking his spot behind the French girl like a bodyguard. All he wore was a pair of swimming trunks, muscles bulging in clear sight. Guys like these were gorgeous to look at, yes, but self-awareness effloresced like an erection. As a husky guy it was a double-edged sword having to be reminded of my own body while admiring theirs.

Her eyes blinked at the mahogany-coated canine towering over her. "It's okay for him to be here? I said to stay."

_ Man-dog_ wasn't the technical term for them, although it fit perfectly. The politically correct term was Canidaen, but too many people confused that with the maple leaf-lovers up north. By law they were still considered "human-enough" to garner themselves almost equal protection as Homo sapiens (the man-dogs, not the Canadians); they walked on two feet, conversed like people, had hopes and dreams, opinions, vices and virtues they could recognize. Unfortunately, the doglike outerwear had stirred up the ever-boiling pot of debate for the last half-century.

"Laws prohibit any restaurant from denying service to Canidaens."

"We're from France."

See.

"No--the man-dogs. He can stay."

She gave an approving nod and a smile as I looked the dog over who looked back intently, not saying a word. The brachycephalic head reminded me of a childhood friend's pet--larger in proportion to the body, he could probably take a whole head in his mouth despite its smooshed appearance. His silence was unsettling.

"He's not feral, is he?" Not all Canidaens had the mind of a human. Unnerving witnessing a six-foot man-dog galloping after a stray cat, barking like a regular canine, but having the strength and dexterity of a bull. And none of the reasoning ability with which humankind is blessed, and sometimes cursed. Seeing an eyebrow raise in confusion, I added, "He's not gonna go berserk if someone brings a frou-frou kitty in, will he?"

"No, no..." she said, hands waving, head shaking in that universal gesture. "He has the voice of the dogs, but the soul of a person."

"And the body of a furry underwear model on steroids. Is he your bodyguard?"

"Sometimes. He's beaten up people, like when we are thirsty and orders are not taken."

They weren't hungry. Not yet, at least. Just needed a drink to stanch the heat before visiting the water that took ten minutes to reach. She ended up getting the lemonade with all its questionable pinkness and a big cup of well water for the dog, despite my warning her of its high iron content. The Grill was too out of the way from society for proper water filtration, so the water we got here had bite. Sure, we had bottles of purified water, but not everyone wanted to pay two bucks for just 16 ounces.

"Is he a French Mastiff?" I asked. That was the breed my friend had had, I was sure. Name was Pete. Handing the big dog his water, I felt odd not addressing him directly. His paw--or hand--touched mine and his eyes just looked at me, the long tongue lolling out. His muzzle twitched as he sniffed the air.

"Oh, Dogue de Bordeaux?" she said from behind. "Oui."

My finger aimed at the styrofoam bowls on the table behind the Canidaen. Like a well-trained dog following hand commands, he turned and retrieved himself a bowl, pouring in the water.

"Are they usually this well-built as man-dogs?" Pete had the build of a dump truck. Could ride him like a horse, he was so strong. Strangers and idiots would always comment about the safety of the dog around children, considering his imposing size, the muscular molossoid build, the broad head. I've only ever heard him bark once--well, more like a yelp. Kids are idiots too when it comes to investigating the wonders of a dog's testicles. Regardless, none of us ended up with a bite. "He must get all the ladies. Are you two--"

"No, no..." she said again, reflexively. "He's my brother-in-law. My husband is sick at the hotel. Mal d'estomac."

"Stomach-ache?"

"You know French?"

"A little. I'm part French myself."

"Then you must know 'à bientôt.' We'll be back to eat."

My eyes focused on the mastiff's tail swaying with his stride as they slipped into the afternoon heat with their drinks. Michelle strolled back in, her shirt matted with sweat and grease, apologizing for her lengthy disappearance. Told her number twos can take as long as marathons, so she was fine.

Business ended up being slow. Could see the people in the distance--ant-like movements on the beach or in the water. Tried making out the French mastiff, but they all looked the same from here: tiny silhouettes. Michelle was going on about her first kid and his bout with acute leukemia--and trust me, I loved listening to her stories--but I did what most guys did on first dates: nodded and mmhmmed. Thought about sex.

Let me admit, I had my reservations. Bad enough having cock on the mind when a discussion on cancer's underway. Worse when it involves the man-dogs even when human-Canidaen relationships were no longer taboo save from the point-of-view of prudes and religious extremists. But he was hot. Sure, human-Canidaen marriage had been legal for more than a decade in a couple dozen countries, but the oddness of a human and sorta-kinda-animal relationship still tickled the back of everyone's mind. But he was hot. And plenty of man-dogs had come and gone through here; we got three or four a week, many of them mild-mannered and well-spoken, but none looking like the French girl's brother-in-law: all buffed up. But I wondered, was he as big where it counted most? My imagination did its thing: his swimming trunks dissipated.

Fingers snapped. Snapped again. "I don't know why I even bother."

"Sorry. Just thinking of someone."

"Someone hot?"

I smirked and that was all the answer she needed.

"Have you ever been with anybody?"

Dusting off some more cornmeal, I said, "Not exactly."

"Oh, Warren," she beemed. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. But from the way I see it, you'll need to man up and just go for somebody."

"I wish it were that simple."

"It is. As long as it's not rape. Trust me." She flung a ribbon of hair behind her, something she did when she was feeling particularly good about herself. "My current husband had to ask me nine times before I agreed to go out with him. Don't know where he found the courage to keep asking through all the rejection--and believe me, I rejected him like a bison rejects a tourist wanting a close-up--but he did and we couldn't be happier. Just take a risk."

If only she knew I had my mind set on another man. Who was half dog. And French.

* * *

"Looks like we got ourselves another one!" Michelle gawked by the window again and, hurrying over, I began to wonder if she was more perverted than I; nine times out of ten she was the one announcing the beginning of the next peep show, providing director's commentary and all. "Ah, but it's just one of those man-dog things. Has quite the body, though."

Do I need to tell you the size of the fire that lit under my ass? I hadn't seen any other Canidaen all day, so it had to be Frenchie.

And there he was.

The French girl, whose name was Uldegonde, a name that didn't fit its keeper by far, had stopped by only moments ago asking for quarters for the indoor showers that were also available for those who valued privacy. Had to tell her about the coin machine at the side of our building next to the freezer of bagged ice; we couldn't give quarters to everyone who asked or we wouldn't have any change for our customers. Got her name, though, and the name of the dog: Taillefer. Couldn't help but wonder what French parents were thinking naming their kids these not-so-user-friendly names.

Taillefer had his broad back towards us, water dripping down his fur, over his tight, perfectly curved rump, his tail resting limply along his thick legs while his paws kept busy rubbing down his body. Please turn around, I thought.

"Was this the somebody hot you were looking for?"

Snickers were good, ambiguous responses, so that's what I offered; and as if on cue, the dog turned to shower his back. My face burned up. It was embarrassing liking what I saw in front of Michelle who started hooting and hollering like a school girl who'd taken a dare peeking into the boys' locker room before escaping to her group of giggling friends. She commented on his big balls--and they were big--and all the hard muscle that water seems to clarify, magnify. What surprised me was his cock, which was like a normal dog's: upright in its hairy sheath. Was expecting it to be like a human's and I couldn't help but wonder how they urinated as I've never seen them do it, or at least heard how. Perhaps that's why there was such a push to plant more trees: not because of global warming, but because of all the man-dogs humanity had engineered.

"Got to pee," I said, slipping off my grease-spattered apron. "Haven't gone all day."

"Don't get beaten up, you peeping tomcat!"

The sidewalk's snake-like curve led me towards the man-dog, then past him as it arched towards the men's restroom. I looked when he wasn't looking, excitement boiling up as I felt like a kid again and all the sneakiness childhood entails. Whispered "fucking hot" under my breath as the restroom crept closer, the sound of water splashing off his body, off the slotted wood foundation, becoming distant. And in I went like on a haunted house ride, heart pounding, recalling the brief instances of what I'd just seen.

There was that stink that inhabits every public restroom, flies buzzing around the single urinal, the two stalls, a spider hanging in the center of the window that was cracked open just a smudge. Cobweb-shaped cracks marred the corner of the mirror hovering above the sinks. My reflection grew to my size as I approached to splash some water on my face as they always do in the movies. Couldn't believe how worked up I was becoming. Sure, I've seen a few lookers, but no one that made me feel like this.

Uldegonde. Before taking off to shower, she mentioned Taillefer liking how I smelled. Senteur was the word she mentioned. Odd for someone liking a grill cook's smell, all the odors of the day amalgamating into one strange olfactory-fuck. Said his tail was wagging when they were returning from the water and only yards away from the restaurant. Pretty sure it was all the bison meat he was smelling and not me. Sure would be nice though, but I have a thing against false hope.

A sigh split my lips--and a thing against self-pity. Grin replacing sigh, I knew I'd be going home with a nice image to jerk off to. There was always something to be had out of any situation.

The restroom door creaked open behind me; it was time to go back and finish up work. Then I stopped. Lo-and-behold there stood the mastiff still in the buff, all two-hundred-something pounds of hard muscle and wet fur. Eyes trailing down the collection of well-defined abdominals, I took a quick peek at the goods just below before looking past him towards the door, Michelle's mock warning about getting beaten up replaying in my mind. The door closed and the man-dog placed one of his big paws on it, barring my exit, arms bulging. Having the mastiff less than a yard in front of me without the ordering counter in the way made me realize just how big he was; my height only reached to the top of his broad chest, and I wasn't no shortie to begin with. He brought a finger to a floppy ear as if to say he'd heard something, and I wondered if he meant my two-word comment when I'd walked by. Then I remembered how dogs could hear at four times the distance than a person, could hear your heartbeat from a couple yards away. He could definitely hear mine now.

"Excuse me," I said, as if nothing had happened, trying to play it cool. He stood, statue-like. His face had those wrinkles as was typical for a mastiff, reminding me of the old geezer from before. But I banished the thought, not wanting some grandpa spoiling this gorgeous sight, whether or not I would be killed. The mastiff didn't budge. "Got to get back to work. People need their burgers."

Caught myself staring at his crotch. Mine became uncomfortably tight. I looked up. He looked down. Had on one of those happy dog-grins like he'd been chasing thrown sticks. Began to wonder if he really was feral until he placed a finger to his snout as if to shush me. Then he took a step forward and I couldn't help but think that this was it, I was going to be torn to shreds in a restroom and end up on the news, my smiling headshot shown for the public to pity for a few seconds before continuing their supper, waiting for the next story.

My back met the corner of the first stall as his paw fell onto my shoulder. I nearly melted, noting the dark claws, but a bit of red poked from the furry skin that protected his dick and it was then I knew what he wanted, what he sensed that I'd been wanting. Detected my arousal.

Wheel-chair accessible stalls had their benefits for the unimpaired. There was plenty of room for the two of us as I slid the lock in, my pants slipping off, pooling around my feet. Before I had a chance to do anything else the mastiff had already eased me around, crouching down to investigate my ass, his cool nose prodding me. My dick was hard and all I could think about was Taillefer as he spread me open, his tongue lapping, a moan interrupting the quiet as the slick muscle slid in, all rough texture. How long he did this for, I couldn't measure. Everything felt like seconds. But then he stood, embraced me close: hardness of chest and stomach against my back. He lifted my head to his for a playful lick, making my knees go slack, his other paw rubbing along my arm, his warmth easing the stinging risk of becoming caught. His wet, spindly dick poked at my rear. Understanding what he wanted, I gripped the metal grab bar, bent into him. Holding my side, he gave a few testing thrusts, adjusted his alignment.

Then slid in.

My back arched in, my head lurched back as his dick probed my insides. Before I could adjust properly, he went at it full-force, and I remembered he was still part dog. Started humping, pulling me in tight, slaps of our bodies echoing through the restroom, his balls thumping against my ass. We were loud, my mouth producing different cries I never thought I'd make, a mix of pleasure and discomfort. Then his dick grew, his girth stretching me, his length tantalizing the deeper ends.

His thrusts became short, fast. Felt myself stretching as he eventually stopped, held me close, the knot, the bulbis glandis, ballooning hard as a fist, filling up my insides.

I breathed out. He panted. Hot breath on my neck, his abdomen against my back, I could feel the texture of his sleek fur through my shirt, now wet, could feel the smoothness of his paws as one reached around to clutch my leaking dick, the clear lubricant appearing only on rare occassions when particularly aroused.

Such as now.

With that large paw he stroked me off good and slow, the way I liked it--the way it should be done, like savoring gourmet cuisine. No need to rush. Any discomfort subsided and I ground my hips, his thickness throbbing, injecting me, I imagined, with jet after jet of cum, his furry balls glancing across my skin, pleasure firing in every direction. A curse escaped my lips.

The restroom door swung open, and I stilled myself, steps echoing through our silence, two children yammering about some Nintendo game, a man I assumed was the father telling them to wash their hands afterward. Perhaps rushing at a time like this wouldn't be so bad; and Michelle was going to kill me if she ended up getting a rush without her cook present.

Taillefer's dick pressed against a sensitive part as he shifted, and it took all my will to stifle a moan, swallowing it like too much food at once. His panting quieted, but he kept stroking me off. Our stall door jiggled and one of the kids complained about having to go, unable to hold it in any longer, the sound of urine humming from the stall next door and the only urinal next to that. The discomfort that grew in my legs and back required I shift around, the mastiff's dick pulsing as I moved, as it tugged against my tight asshole. He gave a heavy pant, muffled by the toilet flushing. Looking up at the big dog, I gave a smile as he licked me back. Naughty didn't even begin to describe how I was feeling with a family just outside our stall, a fat dick up my ass, my own dick ready to blow.

Sink water and the clack-clack of a soap dispenser resounded, the other kid finally pissing as the father grumbled under his breath. Tensing, toes curling in my shoes, I bit my lip as the pleasure became too great. Without reservation, Taillefer continued to stroke me off as the first ribbon of cum spattered the wall. Eyes shut tight, I groaned without care as my dick released everything my balls had, throbbing so hard I thought it might burst. My head felt woozy and I wanted to melt back, become one with all his fur and muscle. When my eyelids finally loosened, I was amazed at the mess I'd made.

Taillefer licked his paw clean, gave my rump a couple pats as the family finally left, faint, natural light pooling into our stall with the restroom door open. The mastiff placed a paw on my back, bending me as far as I could and, without warning, swung a leg over, his knot tugging almost too hard, too painfully as he switched positions--just like a dog does. Clutching his rear as I straightened up, it was comical the way we stood, ass to ass, his dick pulled between his legs, a tail thumping my back. It was a good thing he was taller, as I could tell there was some discomfort for Taillefer in this position, and I wasn't sure how much his anatomy differed from an actual canine, if this was natural for him. Maybe he was trying it for the first time?

Panting battered the air. From me, too, but mostly Taillefer, who was easing himself, enjoying the new sensations, his dick spurting, I could feel, stronger than before. Natural light still pervaded our stall and I wanted to shush the mastiff from panting so loudly, wondering if the father, perhaps, was eavesdropping, suspicious of this stall's occupant--its occupants. Then, as if aware of my own suspicions, the light dissipated, the door tapping shut.

"Fuck it," I said under my breath.

We stood for God knows how long. No one else had entered the restroom, pulling a rare silent prayer of thanks from my lips. All I could do was stand, listening to his panting, his whines of pleasure, enjoying the feeling of being filled until his dick finally softened, slipping out like a tentacle, semen leaking down both legs. Turning to face each other, I gazed at the beautiful, wet meat that hung imposingly between his thighs, deep-red and alive with veins. How the hell I was able to fit that whole thing when earlier it was harder, bigger, I had no idea.

All I could say was "thanks, big guy," giving him a pat on the arm like a greeting. Thinking this was too cheesy a way to end things, I braved pulling his head to mine, gave a kiss, his short whiskers tickling my skin. He licked me back, and gave me a pat on the arm as well, a playful bit of mockery, reminding me that there was a soul behind all that fur.

Cleaning up our mess with toilet paper, his dick had already shrunk back into its sheath by the time we left. Saw a Scoutmaster holding the door of The Grill for a group of cubs, probably all hungry after a day of identifying insects and birds, working for those badges. Told Taillefer I had to get back, that I was definitely in trouble. From the parking lot, a woman waved her arms about furiously, and seeing the mastiff's ears perk, I realized it was Uldegonde. If they'd been a couple, this canine would've been locked in the dog house for sure!

Waving bye to each other, I slipped inside and behind the counter to help the line that had formed (probably all the ants that'd visited the water earlier), too many diners seated at the tables, shoving burgers and fries into their mouths. Did my best to ignore the pain of being fucked for the first time where, as they say, the sun don't shine.

"Where the hell have you been?" Michelle gave me the death-look as I washed my hands, filling a cup with 7-up before handing it to the customer. "I've been slammed. Look at all those orders!"

"Sorry, sorry," I offered, slipping on a clean apron without drying off first, then checking the first of a half-dozen tickets. Three buffalo burgers. "Ran quite the marathon!"

She scoffed, then greeted the next customer with a smile, game-face on. She didn't speak to me as I blazed through the orders, not even to clarify some of the sloppiness of her handwriting upon request. As I cooked, all I could think about was how good it felt being fucked, by somebody so gorgeous, no less. But then came that emptiness, as that relationship was short-termed, as chances are I wouldn't see Taillefer again. Maybe this was nothing but a quick fuck for him and it was all meaningless? Head shaking, I realized it was better than nothing. Better to have loved and lost-type thing. As I threw on a few more burgers, the meat sizzling on the hot, greasy grill, the Scoutmaster approached and tossed a plate onto the counter, an order I had just called out.

"You forgot the cheese on this," he said, his voice familiar. He was in desperate need of a shave, but wore his tan uniform with pride, which was pockmarked with so many badges it was almost hard to take him seriously.

Apologizing, I took the plate and plopped the burger back on the grill.

"What kind of cheese?"

Mr. Scoutmaster sighed, too audibly to get the point of his frustration across. "If you weren't busy with your little friend earlier, it'd been done right the first time. We've been waiting!"

My face burned thinking about what Taillefer and I had been doing as hungry people sat, waiting. Then I looked at his group of scouts, one of them in a wheelchair, and understood why he was so frustrated.

"I saw you guys leave the restroom," he stated, without the decency of whispering. "No one else was there!"

I tried to stutter an explanation that wouldn't incriminate myself, and I ended up grabbing a slice of Cheddar, sticking it on his burger without another word.

"I wanted Provolone!" His shout made me shudder, not expecting a Scoutmaster to make such a big deal over cheese. "Can I speak with the manager?" Then under his breath, "Damn kid can't even cook."

"Sir," I said, "I apologize. But, please, watch your language in front of the kids." Damn didn't mean shit in my book, but still. This was a restaurant and boy scouts needed good role models.

Fist against counter, the whole restaurant looked up, as did I: And behind Mr. Wall O' Badges was Taillefer, dressed up in a tight wife-beater and a pair of shorts, looking like he owned the place. The Scoutmaster turned, nearly fell from the snarling visage, sharp, white teeth promising to paint the restaurant red with his blood if he didn't shut up. Which he did, apologizing, rejoining the kids.

"Your burger--with Provolone--will be out in just a sec," I called.

Uldegonde appeared from behind the mastiff, who had a puppy-face on as he looked at me, handing over a piece of paper, which looked miniscule as a flake of dandruff in his paw.

"Sorry," the French girl said. "We were going to leave, but he dragged me! I think he wants you to visit us before we leave next week. Don't know why, but he likes you. A lot." Then, pointing at the paper, "That's our hotel. Ciao!"

The girl and the dog left, both waving, especially his tail, which thrashed back and forth, smacking the door as they made for the parking lot. I was excited all over again, already making plans to stop by that night. Excited to know I wasn't some convenient quickie.

Michelle took a peek at the names and numbers on the paper, then said, with a forgiving smile, "Marathon, huh?"

"You told me to take a risk."

"With that muscle-headed dog-thing?" she whispered playfully. There were still customers about, all of them chattering amongst themselves over what had happened.

"Yeah," I said with a grin I couldn't frown out, tucking the paper into my pocket before tending to the burgers again. "At least I know how you feel. Has a dick bigger than your husband's, though."

"You're gross."

"Just honest."