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Chapter One

Monday, March 15, 2021

1:41am

He could feel his whole self splitting in two—coldness, terrifying, seeping through the cracks—his body, twisting, curling, convulsing, sliding deeper and deeper into darkness, the muscles of his face and muzzle tensing, throat undulating with sobs, rumbling with fright. None of them to come back and ease the pain. None of them. Not ever. He was torn further apart, trembling, seizing with violence. He moaned from the bondage which sought to cohere him, and his eyes gazed hopelessly out at the forms around him, pleading with them for release. Eventually, he would fall limp again.

9:00am

The shepherd drooped from a chair set at the threshold of a small, white-walled room, his head dripping from his neck to puddle upon the room's shining floor. His paws dangled limp at the end of melting arms. Fatigue draped over him—a dull, dry, unsatisfying dreariment. His gaze countered his capsized muzzle.

“Another rough night?"

The voice wore a sterile shade of concern. The muzzle was a sturdy structure with short dark fur, capped by a round, black nose. The eyes were orange, leapt from a black mask. The ears were peach-fleshed, burst through blonde highlights. The figure diminished to a thread waist, jacketed in black.

She sat opposite him.

“You don't want to talk about it?"

The shepherd rolled the back of his head against his chair. As he did, a rope of saliva spilt down the side of his muzzle and splashed on the floor.

“I figured," said the voice, small, clinically bemused.

Beneath the shepherd's fatigue was the old familiar beat—pitch-black and lustful.

“I'm glad nobody was hurt."

How terribly he yearned to seize the slender throat, to grate the strong muzzle against the pane which divided them. The sounds which would become—of her suffering.

“—n."

Into what that tinny, soprano yap would transform when he pulverized her.

“—son."

What she would do when he encircled her throat within his grasp again.

* * *

“Tyson."

The German shepherd started to a quaking sob which was his own and dove into paws which were again his own, and he used them to scour his dampened cheeks until, eventually, he reappeared, sitting back in his seat, staring through the window with weary inexpression.

The canine through the looking glass was aged beyond his thirty-two years, luster bled from his tan-and-black coat, posture worn, frail, yet his muzzle was of good pedigree—a face even a mother could love.

Jocelyn York bothered not biting back her contemptuous smile, needlessly shuffled the paperwork she had brought with her, then leaned towards the glass.

“Hey, Ty," she said, her voice quiet, fluttering.

She wore a plain white button-up underneath her black blazer, and as she stared straight into the German shepherd's still-glistening eyes, Jocelyn pried at the shirt's uppermost button with her thumbs, slipping it through its little buttonhole, letting the shirt open a little further down her brindled chest.

She watched the German shepherd's pupils drop and contract.

Her paws fell to the next button.

“Let's not think about the past for now—"

Little waves of black lace peeked out.

Another swig of slobber poured out the side of the German shepherd's mouth, wetting the belly of his shirt. His paws went to the waist of his dark sweatpants.

“That's right," said Jocelyn, wanting, begging. “Let me see it again—that nice, big doggy dick. I wanna see it pour out of that fucking sheath. I wanna see it grow. I wanna see that big fucking knot swell up, Ty."

A third button escaped its restraint.

The German shepherd fumbled his genitals into view, and Jocelyn made a show of licking the end of her muzzle while she studied the shepherd's wonderfully full sack—those large balls, darkly fleshed, faintly veiled in blond down—and sheath.

She clawed the placket of her undershirt apart, baring her brassiere for the German shepherd who tugged at his sheath and drooled uncontrollably, painting splashes and strings of saliva upon himself.

“Come on," she whined, keeping her voice within their sequestered span of hall, and she pawed at her small breasts through their airy, intimate wear. “Where's that doggy dick? Where is it, Ty?"

The German shepherd went into frenzy—pulling, squeezing, shaking at his stubborn sheath as though he feared it empty.

Jocelyn observed the efforts in earnest for several minutes, had about decided the other canine would fail to achieve erection, when a tip the shade a tasty, red Bordeaux appeared from the light-furred sheath, distended slowly, bringing with it a long glans which first flared thickly then tapered back towards the sheath before slowly erupting into the magnificent bulbus glandis.

“Mm," Jocelyn quietly moaned at the canine arousing.

She slid the claws of her thumbs underneath the lace of her brassiere—paused to sniff and listen and think just what would happen were some orderly to round the corner on them, although she knew it unlikely—then slid her pretty piece of lingerie upwards, grazing tender, susceptible flesh.

She huffed and groped herself.

“Oh, Ty."

The shepherd trapped in the window opposite her cradled his balls in one paw, went violently at his member with the other.

“Harder," urged Jocelyn. “Harder, Ty."

The German shepherd's eyes were fully peeled, glossed with trance, and at Jocelyn's urging, the dry paw which abraded his length went with further abandon.

“How's that fucking feel?" asked Jocelyn. “Come on. I wanna see you fucking cum—fucking cum all over this glass. If you do, I'll come inside and lick it all off. You wanna see that, Ty? Wanna watch me lick all your cum off that glass?"

Jocelyn folded her neck so that her muzzle lay against her left breast, and she lapped the nipple, groaned, pivoted to suck her other nipple into her thirsting muzzle—her eyes upon Tyson all the while she licked and suckled and sung her lust, her lust for him to cum, to cum, to—

“Cum you worthless fuck!" she whispered harshly, leaning forward in her seat, slipping the cups of her brassiere back over herself and jamming the buttons of her undershirt back into their slits. Her eyes, ears and muzzle had twisted into a scornful sneer. “Cum, you little worthless piece of shit!"

The German shepherd had been pounding at his groin with feverish intensity for minutes—his cock probably near to combustion—but couldn't cum.

He wouldn't be able to for a while, if at all, Jocelyn figured.

She watched the German shepherd's ears roll back, his dark lips curl, threateningly revealing the weaponry kept within the attractive muzzle, but his shelled eyes whirled with a childish humiliation.

She leaned closer towards the glass which separated them and wrenched her sneer wider for the German shepherd.

“What's the matter, little mama's boy—little fucking bitch? Can't you even cum?"

A cloud of fog swelled where her excited nostrils almost came against the window.

“You're fucking—"

She mouthed her words clear and slow as she glared through the glass.

“—pathetic."

The German shepherd slammed into the other side of the looking-glass—glass glazed with a half-inch polycarbonate layer to withstand impacts of two thousand foot-pounds or more—not with an alarming crash or other great sound, but with the driest, dullest thud one could imagine. A pathetic exclamation, Jocelyn might have described it. Not enough to make her wince the slightest. And she observed with glee as the shepherd hit the psychiatric-window, first with his sopping snout, spraying flecks of spittle all over it, then with his clawless paws forged into fists, uselessly pummeling.

Jocelyn drew her pen from her jacket, recorded in the meeting notes—

“_ Unwanted sexual gestures—began masturb. halfway through session. Unresponsive to rqsts to stop. Became frustrated at inability to ejaculate. Flung himself into window to attack. Unsuccessful. Refused cooperation. Session terminated at 9:21am." _

She stood and put the end of her grin almost to the glass.

“See you next week, fucker."

And she laughed at the rampaging shepherd before turning with a teasing little flick of the tail.

Doctor Jocelyn York slumped back in her office chair, panting.

Getting to be a bit much, warned a flat voice of her own imagination.

She shooed the voice with a scoff and allowed herself a minute's relaxation before making herself proper.

She knew what she was risking. She had been escalating it for weeks—now certainly to a point of career suicide. Were she caught, the state would surely have her license revoked—possibly invoke the legal system upon her.

But if the subject was justice, well, she was only enacting a bit of her own—and the slimedrop of a German shepherd, her client, had only begun to receive the treatment he deserved.

Jocelyn's claws nipped at the heels of her thumbs as both paws drew tense.

Most of East View's clients were cornered, misguided, abused, adrift, but she had also stared into the eyes of violent abusers, sexual predators, genuine psychopaths. At some, she had felt disgust and sorrow, and she had hated a few, but whether to give the client a hope for joy or to prevent their further infliction upon society, she had served her caseload in good faith. So she had when Tyson Marshall Spriggs had entered her professional life.

She had followed his story like everyone else and had been fascinated by the tragic monstrosity in which the local media had painted the young German shepherd, but his arrival had been a pleasant surprise—at first. The interviews had come easily if not awkwardly. He had been open and honest. He had even had a shimmer of charm, a sweet little spark shining through the despair which cloaked his handsome figure.

Then, long after his arrival, the German shepherd's demeanor had eroded from gloomy, morose, distant and lethargic to bitter, cold and threatening. He began to show a new cruelness towards patients and became crude towards staff. He had been pulled from group activities. Still, Jocelyn had done her best and her fairest for the worsening shepherd, no matter the misogynistic insults and delirious accusations he began to hail at her.

Then had come the eighteenth of the previous January, a day when dawning Jocelyn had considered no more than most. She had been looking much forward to her morning visit with Tyson when the rest of East View had come to fear him—she had never feared any of their meetings—and she had welcomed the patient into her office and thought nothing of ordering the shepherd's escort to step into the hallway for a quick drink, leaving her alone, sat behind her desk with the German shepherd between herself and her only escape from the room. So they had carried out dozens of sessions before, and why should this one have been any different.

Ten minutes into their conference, she had smiled. That was all. She had smiled. Not meanly, not menacingly, not patronizingly.

She had merely smiled.

The German shepherd's eyes snapped wide in a way Jocelyn had not before seen. Within a flash of motion, he lunged over the desk. Jocelyn felt her chair upending, falling back, but before she felt the punch of hitting the ground, the German shepherd was already upon her, those arms always limp at his sides now pythons surging with destructive force. He was throttling her—squeezing the life out of her. She fought his grasp, but she was smaller, and she was weaker, and her position was horribly compromised, her legs dangling over the upturned seat of the chair. He was mounted atop her, his eyes screaming-huge and lifeless as they drove into her watering gaze. She was going to die. Please, no, she was going to—!

Jocelyn started in her office seat—a new, high-backed executive chair with brown leather sat soundly upon its casters—with her head in her paws, the scents of incense and herself thick in the room.

“Damn you," she whimpered, and she slumped over her desk, grinding knuckles into her eyes. “Goddamn you."

Since that January morning, nothing had been the same.

9:57pm

Their motions waned to obligatory gestures.

“You okay?"

The Rottweiler looking up at her furrowed the russet spots over his bright-brown eyes and clutched her hips in his burly fingers.

Jocelyn withheld the want to sigh, panted flatly and eventually shrugged.

“Fine," she said.

She felt their throbbing flesh—distantly entwined and uninspired.

“Something on your mind?" asked the Rottweiler, but Jocelyn shook her head.

“No, just—"

She surveyed her partner, taking in the stout muzzle welded to the thick, brawny neck, the bright eyes sunken within thousands of fine, whirling dashes of black fur which glowed silver underneath the bedroom light, the ears pendant and triangular and strewn along his big skull, the chest broad, bound in muscle, the belly padded with a bit of fat but strong underneath, the part of him inside of her, well enough in size—

“Just, what?" he pressed, frowning up at her, and then, so casually, he threw out the word, “Work?"

There it was—her problem with the Rottweiler. It was in his eyes as he looked up at her, like he had her all figured out. Like he could comprehend her. It was in the way he spoke. Always. Like he, a fucking physical therapist assistant, thought himself her equal.

What a laugh.

Congratulations, like no one had ever survived a fucking sprained ankle.

She couldn't stand to look at the Rottweiler, or hear him, or smell him, or feel him for another second. She told him so while she sat there, desiccating upon him.

When the door out of her condominium slammed shut, Jocelyn loosed the sigh which had been swelling within her the past month or two and fell to her side upon her bed, hers alone.

“Work?" he had asked.

Incredible. What a fucking sleuth.

Of course work never left her mind, not anymore.

The Rottweiler had often been concerned with her preoccupated states and had pledged himself a dozen times over her shoulder for crying, her ear to lament. But even ordinarily she was a zealot of HIPAA, and the private war she was waging demanded a most extreme confidentiality—although she would have loved to see his face had he learned what she was doing and why he himself could never dream of satisfying her.

While she lay in bed alone, the thought of how frantically Tyson had beaten at himself that morning won a snicker from Jocelyn. She rose to lock up the condominium and turn off the lights and wondered had the German shepherd given up or gotten off after she had left. She hoped he had kept at it a while, and she hoped it had been painful for him—so she fantasized before exhaustion claimed her mind.

Friday, March 19, 2021

9:29pm

“What!"

The end of her muzzle to a mediocre martini, Jocelyn shrugged, but her smile was guilty as charged when she set her glass to the table.

The raccoon across from her shook her head.

“What happened, though?"

“Nothing happened. Things just—"

Jocelyn shrugged again.

“—fizzled out."

“Was it a mutual thing?"

“Not entirely, but it was—"

“You do nothing for me."

“The hell is that supposed to mean?"

“It means I'm over this. I'm over you. I'm bored. You're turning me into a fucking desert. I'm sick of your fucking voice. I'M NOT FUCKING AROUND! GRAB YOUR SHIT, GET THE FUCK OUT, AND NEVER COME HERE OR CALL ME AGAIN!"

“—amicable."

The raccoon raised a brow over her drink, and as she lowered both, she spoke in a haunted mutter.

“Why do I have the feeling you just ripped another guy's heart out?"

Jocelyn jerked with a snort while she stirred her martini.

“But, seriously," said the raccoon, changing tones, “are you doing alright—with the breakup, and everything? Is work—"

“Absolutely," Jocelyn nodded curtly, “and what about you and what's-his-name? You two still putting off kits?"

“Well, with the house going up now, we're trying."

“Yet here you are, on your precious free time, alone in beautiful Hollins, Indiana."

“Awww, what? Alone_?_ Gonna break my heart next?"

Jocelyn smirked.

She was spared the construction of some mind-numbing retort by the arrival of their food which engaged her senses as little as the martini or the raccoon, and Jocelyn wondered while she chewed how the raccoon would react if she remarked how their time together was nothing but a waste, and how she wanted nothing but for the ninth hour of Monday to arrive.