Rachel Roberts tells her husband how the next-door neighbor woman was beaten, robbed, and raped in her bedroom a few nights ago. It had been on the news and is the street gossip.
“And don’t suggest a gun,” Rachel said, waving her hand. “You know I’m against them.”
Mike shrugs. “Maybe we can ask the police to keep an eye on things?”
“The police can’t watch every house every night, and I won’t feel safe until they catch that prowler.”
“So, what do you want me to do?”
“I ought to have some protection when you’re not here. What do you think of a watchdog?”
He nods. “Good idea, honey.”
That afternoon he takes her and Dylan, his nineteen-year-old son from a previous marriage, shopping for a watchdog.
“I’ve got just what you’re looking for,” the dog breeder said, leading them to the rear of his kennels. He shows them a full-grown male Mastiff.
“He looks more like a pony than a dog,” Rachel said wide-eyed.
“It probably eats like a horse, too,” Mike mumbles, thinking of the food and vet costs of such a massive dog.
The dog breeder explains that the Mastiff was an ancient breed, a ferocious fighting dog used by the Roman legions and later in Europe to kill wolves that ventured near small villages at night. But for all its ferocity, he assured them, the Mastiff was always very affectionate and devoted to its owners and made not only a good family pet but a watchdog perfect in every way, not just a barker but a natural protector of the home.
What the breeder doesn’t tell them is that he sold this particular Mastiff as a puppy three years ago to a young couple, and now he’s reselling it because the irate husband caught his wife receiving a thorough fucking from the animal.
Mike Roberts had no way of knowing that he was buying his lonely wife a four-legged lover and a watchdog. Of course, Rachel doesn’t either. They take the dog home, and nothing out of the ordinary happens for several days.
Tyson is the dog’s name, named after Mike Tyson, the boxer, and it certainly looked the part despite the dog’s friendliness to Rachel and her stepson Dylan. A Mastiff is built similarly to a Saint Bernard, although its hair is short and sleek, silver-fawn. Tyson is tall as a Great Dane but stockier and more powerfully built at one-hundred-eighty-five pounds.
Rachel keeps the dog in the fenced backyard, where Dylan romps with the playful animal every day after college. When she goes out to feed and water her new watchdog, Tyson never fails to nuzzle her from behind, trying to sniff her butt. At first, Rachel hurriedly puts down the dog’s food and water and then scolds Tyson on the run as the woman dashes back into the house. But she soon overcame her fear of the animal and started slapping the dog for its inappropriate overtures and scolding it on the spot.
No matter how hard she slaps the animal, Tyson hardly blinked an eye. The dog never so much as growled at her, which made Rachel ashamed for hitting the dog so much. The woman reasons this is the way of all dogs, and Tyson is only trying to get acquainted with her. Rachel finally decides the most sensible thing would be to let the dog smell her once, figuring it would fulfill its instinctual urge and end the embarrassing incidents.
Too modest to do it out in the open where her neighbors might see and surely misunderstand her reasons, Rachel opens the kitchen door one morning while her stepson is at college and calls Tyson to the house. The Mastiff came galloping across the yard. She holds open the door, and it trots into the house for the first time since her husband had brought the animal for her. Tyson’s head is as high as her waist, so she doesn’t need to stoop when she pets the animal.
“All right, boy,” she said when it nuzzled her abdomen. “I feel silly about this, but I know you’ll keep after me until you get a good smell of my behind, so let’s get it over and done with.”
Rachel goes over to the kitchen table. She pulled up her housedress and skins off her panties, then leaned over the table and braced herself on her elbows with her dress up around her waist, presenting Tyson with her bare, outthrust rear end. Rachel is five-foot-four. At forty-five, she’s about twenty pounds overweight. The excess fat had thickened her thighs, hips, and buttocks and caused a slight midriff bulge around her waist.
The horny dog’s floppy ears perk up at the sight of her exposed, womanly rump. Tyson’s ex-mistress had often bared herself to the animal this way, though in the bedroom, not the kitchen, so the dog’s subhuman mentality perceived this as a sexual invitation. Tyson’s glands began to react, and the Mastiff started to respond as the previous owner trained it.
“Don’t just stand there licking your chops,” Rachel said, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “You’ve been trying to smell my butt since we brought you home. Well, now I’m gonna let you do it so you’ll quit embarrassing me out in the yard. Go on, smell it.”
Tyson lumbers up behind her, sniffing the air. The Mastiff nudges its cold snout into the crevice of her warm buttocks.
“Oh God,” Rachel squeals. She jumps reflexively. “Your nose is like an ice cube.”
Forcing herself to relax as best she can, Rachel steels herself for the necessary but unpleasant task, and she spreads her legs slightly to increase the space between her cringing ass cheeks. She feels ridiculous bending over the table this way. All she wants is to give the animal a smell so it will leave her alone from now on, and she hopes the Mastiff will hurry now that she’s made her anus more accessible to it.
There’s no rushing the big dog, however. The Mastiff can sense its new mistress’s mood of nervous unsureness, and the scent she’s giving off tells the animal that, for some reason, her fear of it has suddenly returned. The Mastiff works the broad front of its short, dark muzzle into her butt crack and begins sniffing in earnest.
“Oh, hurry,” Rachel pleads. “Haven’t you smelled me enough by now?”
The dog hadn’t, for it kept sniffing away, apparently enjoying the odor. Rachel is keenly aware of the dog’s cold nose, which seems all the colder when the dog’s warm breath begins bathing over the inner slopes of her rear end. She sets her teeth and makes her hands into fists. She’ll have to make the animal quit if it doesn’t stop soon.
Rachel is beginning to have doubts about this idea. It seemed like a good idea to her logic-oriented mind at the time, but now that she’s allowing Tyson to smell her most secret of all spots, it’s affecting her strangely. Not only is it making her nervous, but she can feel a faint tingling in her loins that’s upsettingly like the beginning fermentations of sexual arousal. Without warning, the Mastiff sticks out its tongue and starts lapping at her forbidden area.
“What the fuck?” Rachel groans, shivering involuntarily as the warm, wet tongue washes the crevice of her tremulous rump. “I didn’t think you’d want to do anything like that.”
The animal keeps licking the trough of her butt crack.
“Stop it. Stop it,” Rachel shouts, squirming with a blast of unbidden sensual discomfort that makes her weak in the knees.
She tries to pull away from the vulgarly behaving beast, but every time she moves her behind, the dog follows insistently, working its snout deeper and deeper into the cleavage of her soft white butt cheeks. Rachel scoots hopingly halfway around the table before she leans limply forward with her head in her arms and gives in to the irresistible pleasure of the dog’s lust-inciting tongue.
It feels good. There is no denying it. Rachel knows it’s shameful to let an animal lick her back there. ‘I’ve tried to stop the dog, haven’t I? Oh, what can it hurt?’ she rationalized. ‘Tyson’s only spit-bathing my rear end, and it feels so nice.’ Rachel tells herself it’s no different from letting a pet lick a hand or face.
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