All right. Sex She was at the cusp of her orgasm, panting frantically with a huh huh huh huh huh huh huh and occasionally keening moans. And then I returned. At least for one hour a week? “Whhhaaaoooohhh,” she said. My little side project. She shuddered, exhaled, and her eyes glazed over. My wife was a brainless, quivering, sweaty mess, an empty vessel for our black lab’s lust. I’m sure she’d thank me if she knew. We’re ready for you. I monitored the comment feed. But they also wanted the fantasy wife—the dog-collared, pink-shoed, sexually insane slut who would eagerly do whatever she was told. Lifting Gunther’s tail—the scent of their mutual arousal was almost appalling—I focused on his swollen knot up in my quivering wife. I’d need to make an arrangement with some rancher. I mulled over the comments coming in. “I am so goddamned sore,” she said, smiling. Dog fucking was fascinating. No, her whole expression glazed over. Forty-five minutes went by quickly. Get to work.”
“Okey-dokey,” she said, blowing a sloppy kiss at the camera. Maybe while I’m at the gym?”
That’d be about two hours.
