He thinks I'm PLAYING?! I'm FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE and he thinks this is a GAME?!
"Stop—stop—STOP—hah—ahh—"
The sounds kept leaking out of her. Every upstroke of that thick, feverish shaft between her breasts sent another wave of weird, unwanted warmth blooming through her chest and pooling somewhere low in her stomach. Her nipples were pressing painfully against the inside of her sports bra, stiffened to the point of aching, and every time the shaft dragged past them she could feel the friction through the fabric like a jolt of static.
His teeth found the shell of her ear again. A light, teasing nip that sent a sharp jolt straight down her spine and made her toes curl inside her boots.
"Nngh—ah—NO! Bad! BAD!"
He released her ear, and his wet nose dragged across her cheek, leaving a cool, slimy trail.
His tongue lapped at the corner of her mouth, prodding at her sealed lips with sloppy, persistent strokes.
"Don't you DARE—" She clamped her lips shut and turned her head sharply. "—put that thing in my mouth a-again! I WILL bite it! I will bite your tongue! I will bite your—nn—your EVERYTHING!"
Ghosty let out a low, rumbling chuckle against her throat.
Did he just LAUGH at me?! That wasn't a dog sound! This creature is MOCKING me!
The grinding continued. Each roll of his hips pressed the thick, feverish heat more firmly between her breasts, the shaft dragging through the slick valley with obscene ease. And with every single thrust, that weird, traitorous warmth kept building. Spreading. Her thighs were pressing together underneath him, her legs shifting restlessly against the cold concrete. There was a dampness forming between her legs that had absolutely nothing to do with the fluid currently soaking through her shirt.
That's—that's just sweat. Because he's heavy. And warm. It's SWEAT.
And the scent.
God, the scent.
It was everywhere. Flooding her lungs with every breath, coating the back of her tongue, making her head swim with a heavy, dizzy warmth. With his chest pressed against her face like this, she was basically mainlining it. It was like someone had shoved her face into a field of wet earth and expensive cologne and something sweet she couldn't name.
Why does he smell so GOOD?! He's a ZOMBIE! He should smell like death and sadness! Not like—I can't even—
His hips thrust forward harder. The thick head bumped against her chin again, and this time, a thick string of clear fluid stretched from the tip to her lower lip before snapping with a tiny plip.
"EW! There is—you just—on my FACE—ah—"
Her protests were getting increasingly incoherent. The constant pressure between her breasts, the rhythmic friction against her oversensitive skin, the building heat in her belly—all of it was turning her brain into lukewarm soup.
His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just below her ear. Another light bite.
"Mmn—hah—"
"Don't—don't make me make—stop making me make those—nn—noises!"
Her thighs squeezed together harder. Something warm and slick was pooling between her legs now, undeniable and mortifying, and every pump of his hips seemed to tighten something deep inside her abdomen like a coil being wound.
I need him to stop. I need this to be over. Not because it feels—no. Because it DOESN'T feel anything. I need it to STOP because it's WRONG and GROSS and I definitely do NOT feel anything building in my—
Ghosty shifted his weight, and his massive front legs spread wider, caging her head between his armored forearms. His chest pressed more firmly against her face, the chitin plates warm and smooth against her flushed cheeks. She could feel the vibration of his purr thrumming through his entire ribcage, rumbling through her body in a way that made her breath hitch.
Her hands.
Which were currently pressed flat against the slick, pulsing shaft between her breasts.
I could—if I just—made him finish—this would be OVER. He'd calm down. He'd go back to being the dumb, lovable guard dog. I just need to—get this done. Quickly. Before whatever is happening in my body gets any—
Before it gets worse.
Her right hand wrapped around the shaft.
It throbbed against her palm, thick and impossibly hot, and the pressure of her grip sent another ripple of that maddening friction radiating through her breast tissue. She could feel the warmth of it bleeding into her ribs, her stomach, everywhere.
Ghosty's entire body shuddered. A deep, guttural groan rumbled through his chest directly into her skull.
She squeezed harder. His hips stuttered. His claws scraped against the concrete. A broken, desperate whimper escaped his throat.
Good. Suffer.
A petty spark of satisfaction flickered through the haze clouding her brain.
I made him do that. I made a two-hundred-pound apex predator WHIMPER. He can kill a twenty-foot centipede but he can't handle ME.
She adjusted her grip, trying to angle the shaft downward, away from her face. But the slick fluid coating it made her fingers slide right back into position on the upstroke. The head popped right back up between her breasts like a horrible, purple jack-in-the-box.
"Oh COME ON—nn—"
She tightened her grip and began to pump.
Slowly. Mechanically. Like priming a stubborn water pump.
The sooner he finishes, the sooner this ends. The sooner whatever is building in my—lower—area—stops building. That's all. That's the ONLY reason.
Ghosty let out a sound that was half-whimper, half-moan, his hips stuttering forward to meet her strokes. His massive head dropped onto her shoulder, his jaw going completely slack.
She sped up her strokes.
Wet, slick fap fap fap sounds filled the pen as her fist pumped the thick shaft through her cleavage. Pre-cum was flowing freely now, warm and slippery, soaking her hands and dripping down her stomach. Every single pump sent the shaft dragging between her breasts, and every drag sent another wave of shivery, building pressure radiating through the soft tissue into her nipples, into her ribs, down into her belly.
"Just—hah—just finish already—nn—come on—"
Her thighs were writhing against each other. The wet heat between her legs was soaked through her underwear now, undeniable, mortifying, and every stroke of her hand seemed to tighten that coil in her abdomen another turn.
I'm not—this isn't because of—
It's friction. Just friction. Skin on skin. It doesn't mean—
It doesn't mean anything.
His teeth nipped at her earlobe.
"Ahh—hah—"
Her lips fell open. The moan came out breathy and trembling and sounding nothing like distress and everything like something she'd heard in one of those two videos she'd watched with the volume at 2% and her hand hovering over the power button.
And the moment her lips parted, Ghosty's tongue found the gap.
The thick, wet muscle slid past her teeth before she could react, filling her mouth with that familiar, overwhelming heat. It curled around her tongue, dragging the rough texture across the roof of her mouth, and the combination of sensations—the tongue claiming her mouth, the hot shaft pumping between her breasts, her own hand stroking the slick meat—converged into something her nervous system was absolutely not equipped to handle.
No—wait—he's—and I'm—and it—
Oh god.
Oh god oh god oh god—
Her hand moved faster. Her back arched off the concrete. Her thighs clamped together so hard her knees ached. The coil in her belly was wound so tight it was vibrating, and every thrust of his tongue into her mouth was synchronized with every pump of the shaft through her grip and every drag of that hot, slick skin between her breasts, and all of it was feeding into that tightening spiral that she absolutely refused to name.
I'm not—this is NOT—I am NOT about to—
Not from THIS—
Not because of a DOG—
Ghosty's entire frame locked up. His claws gouged into the concrete. His back arched. Every single chitin plate on his body flared outward simultaneously, making him look like a giant, armored pinecone having a religious experience.
The shaft swelled enormously in her grip.
His tongue plunged deep, curling against the back of her mouth in one final, devastating stroke.
And everything detonated at the same time.
The first pulse erupted from the tip with the force of a broken fire hydrant. A massive, scalding rope of thick white fluid blasted across her collarbone, flooding down into the hollow of her throat.
Rebecca's entire body seized.
No—wait—I'm not—I can't be—
Her spine bowed off the concrete, her mouth still full of his tongue, her hand still clenched around the pulsing shaft. The coil that had been building inside her—the one she'd been desperately pretending didn't exist—snapped with a violence that whited out her vision.
"Mmmnn—nn—NNNGH—!"
The sounds kept escaping. She tried to swallow them, tried to bite them back, but his tongue was filling her mouth and every single nerve ending in her body was screaming and her hips were bucking upward involuntarily and she couldn't stop it.
Not like this—not from THIS—please god not from a DOG—
The second pulse flooded her sternum, warm and thick, pooling in the valley between her breasts and trickling down her sides. The heat of it seeped into her oversensitized skin and sent another devastating wave crashing through her abdomen.
Her thighs clamped together violently. The pressure building between her legs crested into something that felt like her entire nervous system catching fire and exploding outward in rippling, uncontrollable spasms.
"Hahh—ahh—nn—MMPH—!"
Stop stop stop STOP—
But her body wasn't listening. Her back kept arching. Her hips kept grinding upward into empty air. Her hand kept pumping the thick, pulsing shaft even as it painted her chest with rope after rope of scalding fluid.
The third pulse caught her neck, flooding across her throat and dripping down into her shirt. Ghosty's shaft twitched violently in her grip, and he began to pull back slightly, his hips withdrawing as the violent spurts continued.
The movement dragged the flared head back down through her cleavage, and every single pulse after that painted the inside of the valley between her breasts. Thick, viscous fluid flooded the gap, pooling in the fabric of her sports bra, soaking through to her bare skin.
And Rebecca was still coming.
Wave after wave of shuddering, full-body convulsions ripped through her from the inside out. Her vision was white. Her ears were ringing. Every single muscle in her body was clenched so tight she thought her bones might snap.
I can't—it won't—why won't it STOP—
Her free hand scrabbled uselessly against his armored chest, her fingers clawing at the chitin plates as if she could physically push the sensations away. But they just kept building, kept cresting, kept dragging her under another wave before she could catch her breath.
Ghosty's shaft slipped free from between her breasts entirely, the thick meat coming to rest heavily across her stomach. The final spurts leaked out in lazy, dripping pulses, each one adding to the mess pooling in the waistband of her tactical pants.
His tongue withdrew slowly, pulling free with a wet, obscene slllrrrp that left her lips swollen and trembling. A thick string of saliva stretched between their mouths before snapping and dripping onto her chin.
"Hah... hah... oh god... oh god..."
Her entire body went limp.
She couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except lie there and feel the aftershocks rippling through her in slow, devastating pulses that made her thighs twitch and her stomach clench.
Ghosty let out a massive, deeply satisfied groan. His entire two-hundred-pound frame sagged against her like a bag of heated sand. His head dropped heavily onto her shoulder, his jaw resting against her collarbone, his breath coming in slow, contented huffs against her neck.
The weight of him was suffocating.
And warm.
So, so warm.
Rebecca's chest heaved with ragged, uneven breaths. Her lungs felt too small. Her ribs felt too tight. Every single inch of her skin was buzzing with oversensitive, raw nerve endings that made even the brush of his fur feel like sandpaper.
I just—
Did I just—
Oh god.
Oh god oh god oh god I just came.
I came.
From a dog.
A zombie dog.
A zombie dog rubbing his—his THING—between my—
Her brain tried to form a coherent thought and immediately blue-screened.
She should be disgusted. She should be scrambling away, shoving him off, screaming, crying, having a complete mental breakdown.
But she couldn't.
She didn't have the energy.
Her limbs felt like they'd been filled with wet cement. Her bones felt like they'd been replaced with warm jelly. Even the thought of lifting her arm made her want to pass out.
And the warmth.
The suffocating, overwhelming, deeply comforting warmth radiating from his body was wrapping around her like a weighted blanket made of shame and pheromones and post-orgasm brain fog.
I should... I need to... move. Get up. Clean this. There's—there's so much of it. It's everywhere. My chest. My stomach. My—
Oh god, it's in my BRA.
A thick, wet glob of fluid shifted inside her sports bra, sliding across her bare breast and settling against her nipple.
I'm going to die. I'm going to die down here covered in mutant dog semen and nobody will ever know what happened to me. They'll find my body and run tests and discover trace amounts of canine DNA in places canine DNA should NEVER BE and I will be a footnote in some CDC report about biohazard contamination protocols.
Ghosty's mechanical purr rumbled through his chest, vibrating directly into her sternum. The low, steady thrum was doing something to her nervous system that she absolutely did not have the capacity to analyze right now.
Her hand—still resting on his shaft—twitched.
The thick meat was softening slightly, but it was still impossibly warm against her palm. Still pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.
I'm... I'm still holding it.
Why am I still holding it.
Let go. Just let go.
Her fingers didn't move.
Rebecca. Rebecca Chambers. You are currently lying on the floor of a corporate murder-mansion covered in biohazard fluids with your hand wrapped around a zombie dog's penis.
This is your life now.
This is what you've become.
A soft, broken sound escaped her throat. It might have been a laugh. It might have been a sob. She genuinely couldn't tell anymore.
Ghosty shifted slightly, his heavy head nuzzling into the crook of her neck. His wet nose pressed against her pulse point, and he let out a soft, contented sigh that fogged against her skin.
He's... cuddling.
He just—he just violated me in ways I didn't even know were possible—and now he's CUDDLING.
Her free hand moved on autopilot, her fingers finding the gaps between his neck plates and tangling weakly into the fur beneath.
I'm petting him.
I'm PETTING him.
What is wrong with me.
But she didn't stop.
The rhythmic motion of her fingers scratching through his fur was grounding. Familiar. Almost normal, if she ignored literally everything else about the situation.
Her breathing was finally starting to even out. The white-hot intensity of the climax was fading into a warm, heavy fog that made her eyelids droop.
I can't... I can't think about this right now.
I'll think about it later.
After I sleep.
Just... five minutes.
Five minutes and then I'll get up and clean this mess and pretend none of this ever happened.
Five minutes.
Ghosty's purr rumbled on, steady and relentless, dragging her down into the warm, heavy darkness like an anchor wrapped in fur and shame.
Her eyes slipped closed.
Five minutes...
[End of Chapter]
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