Wydawca: Darque Taboo Press Kategoria: Obyczajowe i romanse Język: angielski Rok wydania: 2017

The Doggie and the Widow (Bestiality Erotica) ebook

Dog Murphy  

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Opis ebooka The Doggie and the Widow (Bestiality Erotica) - Dog Murphy

Bruno bent his head and began to sniff Phyllis' cunt. Then, after a moment, he began to lick at it assiduously. Phyllis' head began to move from side to side, her eyes staring wide, the muscles along her beautiful loins standing out under her tawny skin. Bruno was making her pussy curls all wet and sticking together, atop the petals of her quim. Jeannette was envious."Here, Bruno! You come here to me this time, you darling dog! My pussy is just as nice as hers, Bruno honey."*************************Warning: This ebook contains explicit and forbidden descriptions of taboo sexual activity. It may include themes or elements of taboo, forbidden, and adult topics. It is intended for open minded mature readers who will not be offended by graphic depictions of sex acts between consenting adults.XXX Adults Only 18+ Graphic Content

Opinie o ebooku The Doggie and the Widow (Bestiality Erotica) - Dog Murphy

Fragment ebooka The Doggie and the Widow (Bestiality Erotica) - Dog Murphy

The Doggie And The Widow

Dog Murphy

––––––––

Copyright © 2016 Dog Murphy

Darque Taboo Press

DarqueTabooPress@Gmail.com

Search For “Darque Taboo Press” to find more forbidden and taboo erotica.

All Rights Reserved: No part of this publication may be reproduced or retransmitted, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher; with the exception of brief quotes used in connection with reviews written for inclusion in a magazine or newspaper.

Disclaimer: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic, adult language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable which might include: multiple sexual practices, heavy and strong BDSM themes and elements, erotic elements and fetish play. This e-book is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/Fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither the publisher nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles. All characters depicted at  least eighteen years of age or older.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental. Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

Phyllis Trask was brown haired, twenty-two, breathtakingly desirable, but thus far-to the despair of the young men of Manhattan-a virginal career girl who seemed more interested in her possible advancement in the advertising firm of Begelow, Meredith and Kelly on Madison Avenue than in sweet nothings whispered into her ear-or even a male hand slipping under her skirt en route to her gossamer nylon panties.

She had been an only child, daughter of a linen importer and his Italian wife-from whom she had inherited her magnificent warm olive-sheened complexion and gloriously expressive widely space brown eyes and a full, ripe, slightly pouting mouth. The curves of that mouth had as much effect on her would be male suitors as those of her bottom or breasts; that mouth suggested the most fervent fucking-ability, with a cunt between those beautifully curved thighs to match: succulent, plump, ripe, emotionally quivering and ah! how sweet to touch and probe!

Her parents had died while she was still in a private girls' school in Maine, leaving her the ward of an elderly banker whose offices were on Wall Street. He, though sixty, had more than a being eye for her luscious charms, even though she was only eighteen. Shortly after their very first meeting-at which time he had taken over her affairs before the court, seen to the trust of her sizable inheritance of over hundred thousand dollars in cash and negotiable securities, and arranged for her to live with his equally elderly spinster cousin who would be her foster aunt,-he made a very genteel pass at her, an arm around her waist, the other hand slyly brushing one of those big beautiful already solid young breasts.

Phyllis had promptly slapped his face and burst into tears, and he had apologized profusely very red in the face (and his prick was red and inflamed too, which he scarcely managed to hide from her by putting a newspaper over his crotch.)

One of the tangible benefits of her inheritance that she enjoyed to the fullest was the old browns-tone house on West 85th Street in a quiet neighborhood not far from Central Park. She managed to live alone quite nicely, thank you, but lately she had seemed to be lonely. Not that her advertising job wasn't exactly what the doctor ordered, so far as keeping her mind alert was concerned, but there were times when she was tired of the glittering eyes of men who wanted to undress her and see if the hair on her pussy was the same color as that on her lovely head. She didn't especially feel like marriage, at least not yet. A lot of the men who might want to marry her were fortune hunters; if she got hard up, she could always find a handsome young gigolo and stud who could fuck her. She was a wise virgin, in other words, and she intended to stay that way until she set the time for the loss of her cherry. Not that Phyllis Trask had never tasted the delicious delights of flesh-lust; quite the contrary.

As a child, at the age of eleven, she had learned the pleasure of putting a forefinger between her thighs and frigging herself delightfully until a soft viscous cream emitted from the pouting delicate pink flower of her cunny. As the years went on, whenever she felt emotional stress, she continued this solitary practice. There were really no mental fantasies connected with her jacking off this way; she didn't see a handsome young man crouching over her, ready to put his big, hot, plum-headed prick into her soft snatch when she had her finger there.

But the time had come to think about companionship. She thought of placing and ad in the New York Times to take any roomer who would be congenial a female, needless to say. She might still do that. But now, on this particular Saturday in New York, she was doing some shopping along Fifth Avenue and her eye fell on a chic little pet shop which she hadn't noticed before for a very good reason-it had just opened.

* * *

Phyllis Trask had always loved dogs. Her parents had never let her have one when she was small, because they traveled so much and she was too young to look after it properly. A dog was like a child, they had said when she had pleaded to have a pet. You cared for it and gave it the same consideration you gave a child-or you didn't have it. It wasn't fair to it to keep it in for long hours without an opportunity to relieve itself. How would you like to have the bathroom door locked when you had to go? they asked her. So she had had no pet.

But now, stopping before the attractive display window of the new shop on Fifth Avenue, the old eagerness suddenly rose again. There in the center of the window, in a magnificent cage, stood a German shepherd, with an alert head, ears cocked, a clean black muzzle and fine black markings. It was a young dog, perhaps eighteen months, she guessed. It stared at her, and then it seemed to whine. Then, to her delight, it put up a front paw against the cage and stared right at her.

It was too much. Without knowing what she was going to do it, she found herself opening the door and marching in.

"To paraphrase an old song," she quipped, "how much is that doggie in the window?"

The proprietor was a handsome young man of about twenty-eight, with curly brown hair, and a professorial air. He chuckled, "I haven't heard that one for a little while. That song went out years ago. But it's very apt, isn't it, Miss? That dog is Bruno, and he goes for two-hundred-fifty dollars. His pedigree is the finest, and I have all the papers."

"I see. A male, of course. Do you think it's necessary to-well, alter him?"

"Oh, no," he gave her a jovial smile. "First of all, if you're living in Manhattan-"

"I am. I'm in an advertising agency. But I do have a house and a small yard, so I won't have any problem walking a dog. If it were downtown, you can bet I wouldn't even consider it."

"I don't blame you," he grinned. "Well, what I was getting at was that you won't find too many dogs running around loose, so you won't have any trouble with mating. Oh, might get the smell of a bitch in heat once in a while, but that's no real problem here. And I wouldn't change him, honestly, Miss, because he's a super animal."

How prophetic the young shopkeeper's words were we shall see all too soon!

Phyllis walked over to the cage and reached down to pet Bruno. He whined, turned and snuffed at her hand, then licked it. It won her over completely.

"I wonder if you could arrange for delivery?"

"Of course, ma'am. I could bring him over in my truck myself sometime this evening, if it's all right with you."

"Perfect." Phyllis opened her purse, took out her checkbook and quickly scribbled a check. "It's got my address on it, as you can see. I'll probably have a quick bite down town and be home about seven-thirty, if that's not too late for you."

"Not at all. It'll be a pleasure. And I'm sure Bruno is going to love his new owner," the handsome young storekeeper smiled.

* * *

Phyllis Trask was in her black satin negligee and furry blue mules. It was ten o'clock that same evening. She had just finished showing Bruno his new home, and he had taken to it like a duck to water. He had snuffed around the little yard with its high brick wall which not only fenced him in but, being you gave a child-or you didn't have it. It wasn't fair to it to keep it in for long hours without an opportunity to relieve itself. How would you like to have the bathroom door locked when you had to go? they asked her. So she had had no pet.

But now, stopping before the attractive display window of the new shop on Fifth Avenue, the old eagerness suddenly rose again. There in the center of the window, in a magnificent cage, stood a German shepherd, with an alert head, ears cocked, a clean black muzzle and fine black markings. It was a young dog, perhaps eighteen months, she guessed. It stared at her, and then it seemed to whine. Then, to her delight, it put up a front paw against the cage and stared right at her.

It was too much. Without knowing what she was going to do it, she found herself opening the door and marching in.

"To paraphrase an old song," she quipped, "how much is that doggie in the window?"

The proprietor was a handsome young man of about twenty-eight, with curly brown hair, and a professorial air. He chuckled, "I haven't heard that one for a little while. That song went out years ago. But it's very apt, isn't it, Miss? That dog is Bruno, and he goes for two-hundred-fifty dollars. His pedigree is the finest, and I have all the papers."

"I see. A male, of course. Do you think it's necessary to-well, alter him?"

"Oh, no," he gave her a jovial smile. "First of all, if you're living in Manhattan-"

"I am. I'm in an advertising agency. But I do have a house and a small yard, so I won't have any problem walking a dog. If it were downtown, you can bet I wouldn't even consider it."

"I don't blame you," he grinned. "Well, what I was getting at was that you won't find too many dogs running around loose, so you won't have any trouble with mating. Oh, might get the smell of a bitch in heat once in a while, but that's no real problem here. And I wouldn't change him, honestly, Miss, because he's a super animal."

How prophetic the young shopkeeper's words were we shall see all too soon!

Phyllis walked over to the cage and reached down to pet Bruno. He whined, turned and snuffed at her hand, then licked it. It won her over completely.

"I wonder if you could arrange for delivery?"

"Of course, ma'am. I could bring him over in my truck myself sometime this evening, if it's all right with you."

"Perfect." Phyllis opened her purse, took out her checkbook and quickly scribbled a check. "It's got my address on it, as you can see. I'll probably have a quick bite down town and be home about seven-thirty, if that's not too late for you."

"Not at all. It'll be a pleasure. And I'm sure Bruno is going to love his new owner," the handsome young storekeeper smiled.

* * *

Phyllis Trask was in her black satin negligee and furry blue mules. It was ten o'clock that same evening. She had just finished showing Bruno his new home, and he had taken to it like a duck to water. He had snuffed around the little yard with its high brick wall which not only fenced him in but, being eight feet high, enabled Phyllis to sunbathe in the briefest of bikinis during summer in Gotham. Then she had made a bed for him in the kitchen under a table, using the bottom af a television set packing case and some old towels, and he had curled up contentedly.

He seemed to be a very gentle dog, and also one who craved affection. Several times, during her guided tour of the house, he had rubbed up against her legs, looked up at her and whined plaintively until she had reached down and scratched his head.

Now for a bubble bath, she told herself delightedly. The bathroom was done in gleaning black and gold decor, with a luxurious sunken tub. One of her sensual pleasures, especially after a hard day at the office, was to lounge in it and let the warm water and perfumed soap caress her quivering breasts and titillate the thick brown fleece between her long, svelte thighs. Sometimes she would take a highball and racy book in along with her, and bask contentedly for hours at a time, glorying in the silence and the sheer feel of warm water on her naked flesh. But there times, too, when these interludes would make her pussy hole with forbidden longings, and she would slide her finger down her olive-sheened thighs and graze the plump pink lips of her lonely quim lingeringly until she felt like shrieking out to be fucked.

Then, closing her eyes and pretending that an imaginary lover was mounted upon her and submerging her into the warm perfumed water, she would thrust her finger like a cock in and out of her quaking quim until at last she writhed and groaned in tumultuous climax.

Slowly, she let the negligee fall about ankles and was naked. There was a full length mirror on the wall opposite the door, and she turned to contemplate herself. She tried to see herself as a man might, an impudent smile on her sultry face, and she put her hands to her magnificent bubbies and cupped them and squeezed them slowly. They were round as cantaloupes, widely spaced, and set high on her smooth bare chest; the aureoles were brownish-coral and very wide, while her nipples were dark coral in hue, and lasciviously ripe. As she brushed them with her palms, they prickled and stirred and grew turgid and darker. She slid her hands down her sleek, flat belly with its wide, shallow niche, stroking that lovely goblet on which many a man would love to cushion himself while thrusting his cock deep into her quivering cleft.

Her eyes fixed on the mirror, which showed that the thick, triangular dark-brown fleece completely hid the lips of her pussy and gusseted her between her thighs almost to the daintier and also virginal orifice of Sodom.

To the left and below her navel was an oval-shaped faint brown birthmark, an exquisite place for a lover's kisses. Her thighs were long and beautifully curved, nervously quivering, with a sleekness to them that suggested a feline, animal ardor.

Saucily, looking round her shoulder, she turned her bottom to the mirror and studied herself in reverse. The cheeks of her behind were classically rounded and gradually swelling from the base, narrowly spaced with a furrow that broadened lewdly at the very end. Were she to bend over to offer herself to this same imaginary lover, both her virgin clefts would be exquisitely and accessibly available.

She turned around to face the mirror again and studied her coiffure. As part of her dominant personality at the office-for it was a constant challenge between herself and the males who secretly and longingly wanted to fuck her and yet found themselves able only to compete mentally and creatively with her-she had generally adopted an upsweep which left her forehead bare and which gathered high at the back of her head in an oval bun. Perhaps a coronet braid would be even more striking, she thought. Well, that could go till next weekend. Right now, she wanted her bath.

Phyllis Trask took the bubble-bath container and shook it vigorously into the slowly rising water of the sunken tub. She hadn't closed the door of the bathroom, and it was slightly ajar. She stepped onto the first step leading into the tub, extended a lovely leg, and gingerly tested the water with her wriggling toes. The temperature was perfect. With a sigh of expectancy, she descended the steps till she was submerged to her waist. She shivered and closed her eyes, cupping her breasts and thumbing down her stiff, dark nipples back into the aureoles, then letting them spring up because of the lascivious twinge it accorded her.

Then slowly she let herself sink down on her back into the long, wide tub, letting the soapy water plash over her naked body. Like a child, she lifted herself and then sank again, watching how the scented tide of the bath surged up in little waves to her heavy nipples and caressed them as with invisible fingers.

She hadn't brought a drink or a book with her, and it wouldn't be a bad idea to go to bed early tonight. Next week there would be that presentation on the Denham account. The firm was a new manufacturer of dog food, with Brooklyn headquarters, big plans, and a lot of money to spend for advertising. She was going to have lunch with Max Denham, the thirty-five year old bachelor sales manager of the firm and the only heir of old Ludwig Denham, who had founded the company forty years ago. She hadn't met him yet, but they had talked on the phone and he's sounded rather brisk and pompous. Still, for a two-million-dollar account, she would almost be ready to go to bed with him. The agency would get eighteen percent of that two million, and she ought to get a substantial bonus as well as maybe even the title of assistant vice president in charge of new business.

She laughed softly to herself, as a random thought leaped into her mind. Maybe subconsciously she had succumbed to Bruno's appeal in the pet shop window because she had been thinking of the connection between the dog and pet food. It would be a natural. So many advertising accounts were pitched by people who knew nothing of the sponsor's product; she could have lunch with Max Denham and hold her own when it came to talking about dog feeding and the necessity for nutritious diet in a can.

Smugly satisfied with her own reasoning, she slowly clambered out of the bath, her olive-sheened body glistening and sweet-smelling. She took a huge white Turkish towel from the rack and began to towel herself around the middle. Then she lifted the towel to her bubbies and frictioned them energetically, shivering and closing her eyes with voluptuousness as the thick roughness of the towel rasped her already sensitized nipples.

She had her back to the bathroom door, and her eyes were closed, so she didn't expect suddenly to feel a cold, moist nose against her bare thigh. She uttered a startled little gasp, and whirled.

It was Bruno. Wagging his long tail, his eyes sparkling, he looked up at her with almost human admiration.

Her hand stroked Bruno's head thoughtfully, while her other still clutched the towel at her middle. Bruno whined and rubbed his black muzzle against her inner thigh. She bit her lip and stared at the dog, fascinated, unable to move or to speak.

Then deliberately she draped the towel around her shoulders and spread her thighs slightly, staring down at him intently. Again he whined and nuzzled her thigh, rubbing bag and forth and prodding her tender olive-satiny flesh as if he wanted something.

"What is it, Bruno? Do you want to go out?" she murmured huskily. It seemed to her that the blood in her body was heavy and hot and thick. The vein in her throat hollow began to beat clamorously. Again Bruno wagged his tail and whined.

He moved back a few steps, then lay down, wagging his tail, his keen intent eyes fixed on her.

She felt as if she were being hypnotized by that mute look. She dropped the towel on the floor and knelt upon it, slowly sinking her bottom to her heels, her thighs yawning, till the thick curls of her cunt fleece were stirred to reveal glimpses of the pink plump love lips they so vigilantly shielded.

"Here, Bruno, here, good dog!" she crooned.

With both her pals she stroked her naked thighs down to the knees and back again, gliding her hands lightly, slowly. The dog whined and wagged its tail again, then rose and came towards her. It's muzzle prodded one of her breasts, and she groaned aloud at the lascivious feel of that cold wet nose on her tender skin. She kept the dog's head in her hands and brushed it's muzzle with her lips.

The German shepherd whined again, then bobbed it's muzzle down to her body, snuffling at it. Phyllis Trask sucked in her breath, her eyes widening. Very carefully, so as not to frighten the dog with sudden movement, she grasped the backs of her thighs and. while drawing them still further apart, arched her loins provocatively out at the magnificent young animal.

To her indescribable rapture and satisfaction, she felt Bruno's cold, wet nose brush against her lower abdomen and then press against her very matrix.. .  her virgin cunthole.

"Yes, yes, go on. Bruno. Good dog. . .  good dog!" she breathed.

Then she uttered a raucous groan of tormented delight: the German shepherd had suddenly thrust out it's long raspy pink tongue, penetrating the matted wet curls of her cunny, and was nosing just inside the outer lips of her quivering cunt.

Never in all her life had she experienced such a thrilling sensation. A wave of shuddering lust surged through her entire body, and she dug her fingertips into her trembling thighs, almost tottering with the overpowering sweep of her emotions.

"Go on, Bruno," she whispered excitedly. The dog's eyes rolled up at her, as if understanding. Then his head bowed again, and once more she felt the stab of Bruno's tongue, deeper this time, to the barrier of her virgin cherry!

Phyllis Trask found herself trembling and a little scared. It was happening much too quickly. She'd been by a pet shop, seen a handsome shepherd in the window and bought it on an impulse. But never in the world had she guessed that it could be an object of sexual pleasure for her.

She stood, almost afraid to breathe, certainly afraid to move; she'd heard that dogs-any animal-distrusted sudden movements and might bite. She was bare-naked, and the sight of Bruno's gleaming white fangs made her flesh crawl with apprehension.

"Th-that's enough, Bruno.. .  good d-dog-stop now. . .  there.. . " she said weakly, as the dog whined, looked up at her, with almost human intelligence in his brown eyes, and then sat quietly, posing his front paws forward, his muzzle still only inches from her furry cunt.

Her skin twitched; her thighs, her pussy too, and her nipples were strangely hard and aching. 'My God' she asked herself, 'what's happening to me? This is unheard-of, impossible. To let a dog sniff and nuzzle me-and to get a thrill out of it! But I don't want a man, I just don't. I want my freedom, not to be a slave to a guy who means nothing to me except an inanimate penis to poke into my slit when I get itchy for it. I might as well use my finger-or one of those French things made of rubber a girl can put into her pussy and pretend it's a male's tool, yet not get pregnant.

They even, I've heard, have buttons you push that squirt warm water into you, so it feels like real intercourse with the man ejaculating in your vagina.'

"Let's go to bed, Bruno," she said, forcing her tone to be gay and casual, lest she frighten the big animal. Slowly she drew on her bathrobe and walked to the door of the bathroom. Bruno whined and followed.

"Now, here's your bed in the kitchen, and I'm going to close the door, Bruno, "she said aloud, carefully, as if explaining to a child. "You know where everything is, and I'm going to sleep. So you be a good dog and go to sleep too. All right?"

The animal again looked up at her, and whined. She patted Bruno's head, then closed the kitchen door. Beads sweat oozed from her forehead and she had to lean against the kitchen door because she felt weak, inexplicably weak and helpless.

What was the matter?

She heard Bruno whining inside, and her heart began to beat faster. "No, Bruno, be good," she called. "Go to sleep. Mama's going to sleep and she doesn't want to hear you whine. You've had a hard day and you need your rest. So does your Mama. Be a good boy. Goodnight, Bruno."

There was a short yipe, and then silence-as if the animal were actually human and could understand her. She waited a moment, but there was no further sound.

Phyllis Trask walked to her bedroom and closed the door. She let her robe fall to the floor and stood naked, her hands gliding down her hips and thighs, admiring the vivid symmetry of her nakedness.

Yes, a man would love to get in here, get in bed with her like this, stick his horrid big red thing between her thighs and give it to her. But no man would get the chance.