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Hey everyone!

As you might know, the talented Linkin Monroe is holding a Dobie's March Madness Writing Contest. The rules are simple, and the challenge really sparked my creativity, so I put down on paper this story, even though it took me quite some time! I won't call it little, since it's almost 8000 words, but I hope you will like it, and if you do, leave a comment, a fave or a vote!

I want to thank my usual editor, Gritou, who always manage to spot the little mistake left out in a story, and who is my darling fiancé, the man I love! Special thanks to Grizzled Bear too, for being my special proof reader for this story!

_ Disclamer: _ Whatever mistake about the historical setting is my fault, and my lack of knowledge how things were back then in the Europe of the 1875.

Alsace, 1875

The sky looked like an endless sheet of iron clouds, the filtrated light of the sun casting little, flat shadows. The tree had gained the coloring of autumn, those shades of gold and red that announced the coming of the snows and the annual sleep of the earth, the period when all things slumbered and waited for the new dawn. The air was already chilling, moved by the swift winds that rolled from the north on hills and meadows, catching the fallen leaves and carrying them in new places, amassing them against the low walls delineating fields and vineyards.

The chilling breeze reached the tall Doberman walking along the road, tugging at his woolen dark blue uniform and threatening to take away the cap placed between his perked ears. It almost succeeded in its attempt, but it ultimately failed against the grip exercised by the big paw of the canine, which kept the cap in its rightful place.

"Damned winds!" Officer Berthold Braun cursed while holding his cap and enduring the gusts stoically. He was used to cold and to wind, but nonetheless they both bothered him immensely and made him wish he could have stayed inside for this afternoon. Unfortunately, duty was duty, and he had already postponed his first patrol too many times. You could say many things about Berthold Braun, but he always did what was right!

He hadn't imagined to be assigned to such small town back when he applied to the announcement. It just said that there was need of experienced police officers for the newly created Imperial Territory of Elsass-Lothringen, not specifying where exactly in the Territory!

The imposing dog snorted at such hateful lack of geographical clarification, and at his carelessness in asking that before it was too late. He had imagined ending up in Strasbourg, or in a big town, and now he was stuck in this backwater village! And surrounding countryside too, with its long and uncovered streets which would turn muddy with rain.

Not that it was that bad, of course. It was a nice village, with enough German-speaking folks, the wine there was good, though it couldn't surpass the beer of his native Munich, and the pay was good, really good. It had to be, the Empire needed trusty personnel overlooking the Territory, and that meant even small towns. There haven't been any problems with the locals, they were happy to be under the rule of the Kaiser and not being subject to the weak French Republic; still, it was best to not trust them too much, to give them too much independence, just to prevent even the idea of separating from the great German Empire.

The Doberman stalked the country road, being careful not to fall in the tracts embedded in it by generations of goods-bearing carts. It had been a lonely walk, no soul in sight, though he hadn't been walking for too long; he could see the tall belfry towering above the houses and trees, and surely he wasn't going to make this patrol last much longer, since his duty demanded to control only the fields near the town.

The imposing canine wished to have met someone, just for a talk and to spread the word that a new officer had arrived, not that it hadn't already spread. Those countrymen were more gossiping than a coven of old ladies and he was sure that an event as big as the arrival of a handsome young man was the most talked subject on the muzzles of everyone.

Maybe that would help him in finding some companionship, something that he missed dearly. Not that he hadn't already received many proposals from provocative maids and matrons, some subtle, some more forward; it was natural, and he was used to it.

Berthold chuckled at the memory of finding a very nude and in need feline maiden in his bedroom, begging to feel his doghood in her most secret parts. He had kindly and gently refused, as he had done with the others, explaining that he was a good Catholic and couldn't indulge in such a deadly sin. They believed him, and surely now most townsmen knew of how religious he was; that was good for his reputation, and for hiding the true reason of his refusals.

Officer Berthold Braun, member of the Police of the Imperial Territory of Elsass-Lothringen, paradigm of masculinity, preferred the bedroom antics involving firm muscles and bottoms belonging to men. He wasn't ashamed of his inclination, nor had he ever had any problems since he was a discreet gentleman. Back in Munich he knew all the secret gatherings and places for those who enjoyed hard rods and the pleasure of Sodom, and he had thought it wouldn't be difficult to find their homologous in Strasbourg, Metz or Kolmar, after all they were sizable towns. Here, the hunt had been more hard and fruitless so far.

The Doberman looked around in the empty fields, in hope of finding something to entertain him in this uneventful walk and, maybe, what his virility had been missing during these first days at his new post. He hadn't done any move with one of the locals, and so far no one had given him the right vibe; even his fellow officer, an Alsatian born in the region and fervent supporter of the Empire, didn't look like he would have enjoyed being impaled, like some of his companions in the Police of Munich had multiple times.

And so there it was, prowling the countryside in the venial hope of feeling that special sensation when you met a kindred spirit, all the while trying his best to fight back the cap-stealing winds and longing to be inside nursing a glass of beer.

He looked at his left through lines and lines of meticulously cared vineyards when he finally saw someone. He gave a start, stopping in mid-step by the great surprise of seeing a fur in these deserted fields, knelt over the base of a grapevine. He couldn't see clearly what the fur was doing, nor how he was like, but he was surely a man judging by his wide shoulders and work clothes, and a canine by the look of his long, fringed black tail and the two small perked ears trapping a brown beret.

Curious to look closer at the stranger, he searched for a gateway to the vineyard and, once found it not far from there, he crossed it and strolled toward the male, who was still oblivious of his approach. Each step gave him more details of the farmer, like how his woolen clothes might be for work but still of some quality, delineating the shape of a very nice bottom, just the type he liked. Silencing his raising excitement, and thanking his coat for hiding any bulge he might show, he approached the fur and cleared his throat.

The unknown canine jumped with flicking ears threatening to upturn the beret, taken by surprise by the sudden noise. He turned his head to look at the officer, a grimace showing on his long muzzle, then without a word began to rise, slowly, as if to not honor the Doberman.

That lack of manners made Berthold snort softly, but it also gave him the opportunity to observe the peasant's body and register it. The dog was slightly smaller than he was, although that would had been clear once he stood up completely, and with a lean yet muscled frame, the type of body formed by long hours of genuine work. He couldn't see much of his fur, but he could guess that he had similar fur patterns as his own, tanned ones against a field of black forming a mask and eyebrows. He noticed that the end of his paws were the same when the stranger wiped some sweat from his brow, although to be honest his coloring was much lighter than his own reddish one.

At first he thought the canine was a fellow Doberman, if with much longer fur and undocked tail, but his long muzzle and somewhat wolf-like features made him realize he was facing a Beauceron. He had seen one once, a tailor hailing from Paris and who made him a very nice suit, and instantly knew that this one was one of the few French-blooded living there.

"Guten tag Burger." The officer saluted, his words accompanied by touching his cap.

"Bon après-midi, Monsieur." The other answered defiantly in his language, his expression daring him to remark that. He just grimaced at those round words and said nothing, for now.

"I am Berthold Braun, the new Officer of your town and surroundings." He presented himself, not offering his paw to pay rudeness with rudeness, not uttering his words in French since he knew for certain this lad spoke a civilized language.

"Ah, the new Bavarian policeman everyone is talking about." The peasant dog rumbled, leaning with one shoulder on one of the poles making the vineyard and crossing his arms on his chest. As he had guessed this reply came in German, but it was much more acculturated than the one spoken by most townsmen. Of course, it had that French accent that ruined the perfection that his native language was.

"Indeed I am." The Doberman answered, then didn't add more. He stood there silent, staring at the dog in front of him, waiting for him to be the first to speak again while using these moments to further take the details of his interlocutor. Surely the crossed arms highlined some nice pectorals, more firm and shaped than a woman's bossom could ever hope to be; and judging from the folds of cloth in his pants, he also had a nice endowment.

The silence stretched, neither one breaking it and just staring the other in his caramel eyes. Minutes passed before the Beauceron gave with a sigh, perhaps because he couldn't stand this battle of stares any longer, or perhaps because he has to finish his work. It didn't matter to Berthold; the important thing was that he had won this round.

"Why are you prowling the countryside, Officer Berthold?" The smaller dog demanded with a small grimace, although his cocky attitude remained intact.

"It is part of my duties to patrol each part of the town's lands, which includes the fields around it too. Searching for villains trying to steal precious grapevines." He said, insinuating that the canine in front of him was thief just to punish him for not presenting himself. His interlocutor caught the hint, if his flicking small ears were a sign of it.

"As an owner, I have nothing against catching thieves." The beret-wearing male snuffed, still persisting in not speaking his name.

"So this vineyard is ours, Herr?" The Doberman asked, fed up with waiting to hear the name and giving him a last opportunity to do so. This man was irritating him to no end, acting so... impertinent with an agent of the Law.

" Frédéric Duchamp. Yes, this vineyard, like many others, is mine." The Beauceron boasted, clearly proud of his standing in the world.

"Don't wait to alert the Police if you witnessed something criminal, Herr Duchamp." He said, remembering of hearing about this dog, an eccentric land-owner who lived in a house near one of his possession as a peasant.

"I sure will warn you officer, but I doubt I will see anything like that. I live far from the crowd, after all." Duchamp uttered with an eyebrow raised, almost spitting the word crowd like a bad-tasting concoction. He didn't seem to like other furs, that much had been clear.

"Where do you live, exactly? In case I should need to find you." He rumbled, not showing to the degree this conversation was intrigued him.

"Just a bit up the road, in the first house you meet. But I doubt that you will ever come to my household." The French dog cockily smirked, his tail leisurely moving behind his back. Sometimes Berthold regretted his docked tail, but for sure he liked to pull one while possessing a man.

"Only God knows if such an occasion will arise. Auf widersehen, Herr Duchamp." He saluted the other male, already turning away from him.

"Au revoir, Monsieur l'Agent." The reply of the other reached him and made him flicker his tall ears to such disrespect, eliciting a soft chuckle that reddened his cheeks in anger. He didn't turn back but walked away, not caring to give that snob more satisfaction.

"But I'll get mine soon" he thought while getting back to the road. He had felt that special vibe, or thought he did, but in the end it didn't matter. He liked some competition in his tail hunting, and putting down to earth this insufferable Duchamp would be most satisfying.

He was already planning to visit that house in a few days, and couldn't stop at imagining the pleasure of taking such a male full of fight in his body, his manhood hard at the mere thought.

***** *****

Berthold had waited a few days before patrolling again, being patient as much as he could. But now he was back on the road, the mud formed by nightly rain trying to suck his boots in their shallow depths, each powerful stroll bringing him closer to the house owned by that cocky Beauceron.

The big wooden house appeared on the distance, one wall lining the road and sheltering the courtyard, smoke rising from its chimney. Not seeing an entrance from there, he rounded the building until he arrived to the only open side of the courtyard, as it was surrounded on two sides by the house and one by the stables. He had expected to have to knock the door, finding Duchamp still sleeping in his comfortable bed, so it was great his surprise to see him sitting on a stool, milking a placid brown cow with expert paws so that the white liquid could drop in the bucket below.

He couldn't stop thinking how good should those fingers feel around his big doghood, milking another type of liquid, but his thoughts were stopped immediately by a cry.

"Bonjour Monsieur l'Agent!" The dog at work gruffly said, not stopping what he was doing to greet properly the approaching Doberman. Berthold stifled a growl while rounding the cow, putting himself behind the man. He smirked at seeing the other dog shuffling on his stool, his small perked ears moving as if to find him.

"Guten tag Herr Duchamp, already up at this hour?" He asked, curious, while staring at the shifting muscles on the back of the smaller canine. He desired to see those muscles working closer, and without clothes, while hilting his pole in a warm, tight place.

"The cow won't milk herself, nor do all the other chores for me." The other snorted, not amused at the jab form the officer. "I'm more surprised that a city-dog like you is awake."

"Crime doesn't sleep." The Doberman declared solemnly.

"And is crime what brought you here? I'm sure our nice, little town doesn't know it much." The other replied, totally engrossed in his activity.

"As I said in our first meeting, one of my duties is to patrol the fields. I'm all too happy to oblige to such a duty." He answered frankly, not speaking his other, more pressing motive.

"Nothing happens out here, except foxes stealing chickens. Are you going to chase after them, officer?" The Beauceron made fun of him with a calm tone. He blushed at the remark, and more so when he saw a tail in front of him wagging. Its owner knew he had taken a point with that, but he wasn't going to reveal it with his words!

"I am sure you can hire a hunter for that, Herr Duchamp. Or do it yourself, as everything else." He jabbed back, waiting to see the reaction.

"Of course I do it myself, I can't trust anyone else." The other replied matter-of-factly, keeping his paws moving on the breasts in front of him. Was it his impression or such an endeavour should be quicker?

"I agree, most things are better done by yourself and yourself alone." He spoke then, after considering it quickly, added a veiled proposition. "But there are few things that must be done with someone."

"That's true, can't do the harvesting by myself. I need two or more people to squeeze my grapes too." The other replied absently, too engrossed in his chore to notice the musk of excitation rising from the Doberman, or so he hoped. Him be damned if that wasn't a tease!

"I guess it is. I never did that." He responded, his ears flicking at the idea of squeezing juices out of the dog in front of him.

"You should come here next time I do it." The Beauceron rumbled, stopping his work suddenly and standing up with bucket in hand. Berthold had only the time to back off to prevent the collision for how swift the country dog had been. "I'm sorry officer but I have a lot of work to do, and I'm sure you have to finish your patrol."

He almost growled at such an unceremonious dismissal, and surely some of his displeasure showed on his muzzle since Duchamp's smirk lengthened. "Indeed I do. Auf widersehen, Herr Duchamp."

"Au revoir, Monsieur l'Agent." The other soberly greeted back, already walking toward the door leading to his house. The Doberman waited until he was inside to finally leave, adjusting the massive erection in his pants and knowing that he would have to wash his coated smallclothes.

He regained the road, to continue the patrol and with his conviction strengthened: he had seen the landowning dog staring at his bulge, prominent despite the coat, and he had seen that familiar light of lust in his eyes. He could have been wrong, but all evidences pointed out to a conclusion, and he wouldn't be a good policeman if he didn't follow them until the truth was discovered. More so if that conclusion would involve passionate mating, as he suspected.

Rain began to fall, so he decided that his patrol would be done for today, his footpaws taking him toward the warmth of his small station.

***** *****

"It stopped raining. I am going to patrol now." Berthold announced to his fellow officer while taking his coat and the cap from the hanger. The rain had been inconsistent in its falling, it being a downpour for an hour than dying out as swiftly as it had begun; the locals said that soon there would be a great storm, but he didn't believe them.

"Again? This is the fourth time in ten days!" Officer Meissner exclaimed astonished from his desk, raising his head from the newspaper.

"I might have neglected doing it during the first weeks," he replied calmly, annoyed by the attitude of the Alsatian "but we shall not forget of the countryside, since it is-"

"Our duty. I know that, Officer Braun." The other cut him off, going back to his reading. "Did you do so many patrols in the countryside, back in Munich?"

"It wasn't our duty." He said, not adding more since he wanted to be already on the street.

"If you say so." The long-haired dog accepted the answer. "I'm sure it is a lass, let me know if you overcome your faithful resolve and do something with her."

The Doberman snorted at such inelegant remark, eliciting a lewd laugh from the other canine. He stormed out of the small brick-building, not even caring to salute his colleagues, his boots drumming over the cobble-stoned street.

What burned him more was that the wiry Alsatian had been right; his frequent patrols were efforts to win over someone, if not of feminine proportions. That Duchamp made his blood boil with anger and lust, being so stubbornly unwelcoming and, at the same time, teasing with words and actions.

He answered the greeting of the few townsmen he encountered, avoiding to been caught in conversations with his present humor. He was sure that the Beauceron was flirting with him, but that certainty didn't extend to him liking the Greek love, and that infuriated him. He couldn't act before that much was proved; he couldn't risk the scandal if he had been wrong.

He passed through the main square, today devoid of life since it wasn't market day, and before the wooden houses, with the solitary stone one belonging to a wealthy citizen. It didn't take long to reach the town limits, where the street morphed in a road and the paving stones in what with a drier weather was dirt, the houses giving out slowly to fields.

Berthold was half way to the Duchamp estate when he felt a raindrop hitting his shoulder. He kept walking, not caring for just a bit of water, and he didn't worry when the rare drops increased to a gentle drizzled. He was used to such atmospheric phenomena, after all he had endured much worse in his years of service in Munich; but then the clouds began to darken and the rain to gain more force, fat drops splashing against his body.

Cursing, the Doberman ran with one paw keeping his cap in place, barely managing not to slip because of the mud, hoping that the situation wouldn't become much worse than it was. Luckily he wasn't far from his destination, the vineyard part of Duchamp's land flashing to his side, and he sighed at seeing the now familiar house appearing, a safe haven for the wet dog. He rounded the house to get to the entrance, dismissing the idea of entering the stables, and started to pound the door as soon as he reached it, praying that the sound would be heard.

"Qui va là?" A voice came beyond the sturdy wooden surface, and even if muffled the annoyance in it was obvious.

"Officer Braun, open the door!" The tall dog shouted over the sound of rain, jumping when a thunder resonated from afar. He raised his paw to resume the knocking when the door was thrown open, warmth and light gushing out of it and framing Frédéric Duchamp.

"Come on in, you fool, before you froze yourself!" The dog ushered, waving his paw and letting some space through which he could pass. He didn't wait to do as said, all too happy for once to jab back at the rough words; the room was quite cozy, a simple dining room with a table and chairs in the middle and a big hearth at one side, full of fiery, dancing flames. Some candles gave more light to chase away the deep darkness caused by the clouds outside, which blocked the rays of the sun from entering the room through the windows. One of them was posed on the table, near an opened book and a plate with some bread and cheese; obviously, he had caught the Beauceron while having some light meal, maybe relaxing because of the on coming storm.

"Put your coat near the fire." The smaller male ordered him around. "Are your clothes wet too? Need some change?"

"No, don't worry. It is a military coat, it can withstand more than this without letting the water get through." The Doberman assured his companion, peeling his outer shell and posing it on a chair, moving it near the fire while posing his cap on the same chair. As he had thought, his clothes were dry.

"I wasn't worried at all, I'm used to dress my friends when they need it." The other shrugged. "What were you doing out with storm on the horizon?"

"I had my patrol to do." Berthold answered dryly, taking another chair without permission and sitting at the table.

"It was foolish of you." Duchamp grimaced, maybe at that propose, or of his host getting comfortable without him saying he could. "Didn't someone tell you what was coming?"

"No, they didn't. I would have remained at the station if I knew." He half-lied. They should have added how bad the storm it would have got; although, being closed with the country-loving landowner was a good way to endure the weather.

"Sure, they didn't. I'm going to get some wine; if we have to pass the day together I will need it." The black canine jabbed him, exiting the room to get the red liquor and missing the growl that escaped the German dog. He remained on his chair, exploring the room with his gaze, which even that dimly lightened gave him all its secret; the furniture was like its owner, simple looking at first sight but cured and of quality, and some portraits were hung on the walls, most of them painted. Only one in particular looked newer than the rest and it pictured a happy family with grapevines surrounding them; the cub seemed quite familiar, maybe because of the way he stood, straight but with a hint of arrogance.

His musings were interrupted by the return of his host, who was holding jug in one paw and two mugs in the other.

"Here it is, officer. This is the product of my grapes, enjoy." He declared, setting the objects on the table and filling both mugs almost to the brim.

"If it is half as good as you say, it should be passable." The Doberman poked before he took a big gulp of it. He smacked his lips, whiskers moving, as he only did when tasting something really good.

"You Bavarians aren't used to wine, you can't tell what is good and what is not." The other replied, once again fully conscious of what the other was hiding. Berthold was sure that his long tail was wagging behind him, for the sheer happiness of messing with him.

"Has your family done this for long?" He asked, ignoring the comment he had just heard. He was really interested to know that, he had dug some information in the passing days, but nothing very consistent, as if people didn't want a foreign to know.

"We have lived here for generations, since before the Revolution." The lean canine simply answered, gazing in his wine before taking another sip of it.

"I see. You get to grow attached to a place, if you live that long. Is that the reason why you didn't depart and kept being a citizen of France?" He idly mused between gulps of wine. He shouldn't have been that direct, but the liquor was doing his intoxicating job; plus, it baffled him to not all the Alsatians of French origins had left the Territory. Maybe they see the benefits of staying within the German Empire?

"This is my home, my land, why should I leave it?" The Beauceron reacted angrily, the true ire in his eyes baring his teeth and flicking his ears.

"You must know how better it is to be part of the great Germany." He tried to peace him.

"It's nothing about that stupid country!" The other said, standing up from his chair and raising your voice. "We are part of the land we work, leaving it it's betraying our very soul!"

"Are you daring insulting my nation?" Berthold rose from his seat, anger creeping in now with this turn of the conversation.

"I dare! France and Germany shouldn't trade us like a worthless piece of cloth, without our consent!" The smaller canine growled at the policeman, like he could take down such a big and imposing Doberman!

"You do? Great nation don't need the consent of little regions, they do what they want! You should be happy to be part of a much bigger Empire!" He counterattacked, rounding the table so he was directly in front of his adversary, there, before the hearth. How could such a small man say such things!

"Your so called great Empire is as new as young calf, don't go boasting about it!" Duchamp shouted, getting closer to him, so much that they could smell the wine in each other breath.

"I am fed up with your... your infuriating attitude!" The Doberman shouted back, willing his paws to stay at his sides.

"Are you? And what are you going to do, Monsieur l'Agent? Arrest me?" The other canine challenged him, his very posture defiant.

"That is it, I can't take it anymore!" Berthold yelled, moving his paws to trap the shoulder of the smaller male and attract him closer, sealing his muzzle in an angry kiss, lips smashing together. For a second he thought he had gone too far, kissing that impenitent, recalcitrant, marvelous man, but the moment passed when he felt strong and firm paws posing on his hips and smashing their bodies together, pressing the very hard and big bulges against one another, showing to both the effects of arguing with handsome dogs.

They moaned at the collision, not stopping their battle but even stirring it, letting their muzzles open so that the fleshy appendages could twist around each other, fighting for supremacy. At the same time, their paws began to move over their bodies, grabbing muscles and cloth in almost a painful way, the ones belonging to the Doberman descending quickly to couple the long lusted upon bottom. By the moan that escaped the smaller canine, and the way his efforts in the dance of tongues were renewed, he knew that he had done the right thing, so he kept knotting those hot buns; that gave him the advantage he needed, finally invading the other muzzle and beginning to explore it, all the while the defeated tongue twisted around his and sucked on it.

Berthold felt amazing, after so long without it being able to kiss again was more inebriating than the best wine, the feeling of holding a strong, muscled male against him more invigorating that bringing criminals to justice. All of that was made even better by the long chase he was lead in, full of teasing, hints, clues he had followed to get to this moment.

They would have kept doing that forever, exchanging saliva and worshiping their bodies with the paws, their ribbon of flesh twisting and battling, with the bigger one having taken the control of the dance, but they were still mortals, and they needed to breathe properly, so they separated their muzzle but not their embrace, Frédéric panting against the chest of the Doberman.

"You took too long for this, Berthold!" The panting dog uttered, punctuating his statement with a more forceful grab of what meat his paws were holding.

"You were not clear in your intention!" The other retorted back, glaring on his companion.

"Clearer than that would have been shouting you dumb Bavarian!" The Beauceron spoke his accusation, a smirk on his spit-coated lips.

"That is it, you are going on your knees!" The taller canine commanded, his paws going back to their initial position and pushing the other dog down, to where he belonged. He didn't find resistance, the canine obliging to the order, but a snort escaped once he pushed him against his crotch, forcing the muzzle to come in contact with the hard tower of flesh trapped in those pants. He kept the other dog pressed against his crotch and waited to see his reaction, then, seeing none, he released him.

"You are going to taste my rod now, Frenchman, and you will enjoy it." The Doberman taunted the kneeling man, his paws already busy on the buttons of his coat first, then his pants, taking care of on garment at a time but not discharging his coat yet.

"You are full of talk, but slow to action." The other smirked, reaching the bulge with one paw and giving it a stroke. Berthold didn't reply, just barked when he finally got rid of the last button and hastily pulled down his blue pants, not doing the same to his linen smallclothes. Rightly so, since the Beauceron eagerly did that for him, releasing the trapped manhood that almost slapped his long muzzle thanks to the momentum.

"I see that you have a long and big truncheon." Frédéric said, his muzzle floating in front of the red meat coated already with fluids, his nose inhaling its musk. And he just did that, infuriating the black half-naked canine who took the head of his companion in his big paws and pushed it toward his virility, the pointed tip smacking against dark lips.

"Open your damned mouth and suck on it, now!" His shout echoed in the room, morphing in a moan once he felt those sealed doors opening and engulfing the first part of his rod, watery warmth enveloping him in the most pleasuring way. He couldn't resist and buck his hips, forcing more of himself in that hole, the sensation of that muzzled extending past the tip and reaching a good half of his fleshy member. The dog he was abusing just growled at the warn-less move, but didn't lament, just sucked on the invading object, his tongue exploring it; it spoke of his abilities that he didn't choke, even if his muzzle was long the girth of the manhood was just impressive.

But the Doberman didn't care for that, only that he was finally tasting, so to speak, the haughty dog he chased for so long; deciding that he had savored the moment long enough, he retreated his rod to ram it back inside immediately, his paws making the head they clutched accompany the movement. His hips didn't stop after this first thrust, but kept moving, mimicking mating with the wanting muzzle of the Beauceron as the receiver; it felt amazing to do so, how he entered the mouth more with each thrust, and then the air impacting on his member and enhancing his pleasure before diving right in.

His companion hadn't been idle on his part, it wouldn't have been fit for such a male to be inactive, even if he didn't move his head, content with Berthold doing so. His tongue was ever licking and massaging, stimulating the piece of meat he was getting, and his paws had risen up, one grabbing the hefty knot the smaller canine could obviously feel pushing against his lips now, the other playing with the low hangers slapping his chin.

The oral rutting kept going for a while, both males moaning for it, the receiver as much as the giver, the vibrating throat of the Beauceron just adding to the pleasure. It might have been a long time since he had dipped in a muzzle, but Berthold was quite sure that this black and tanned one was among the best he had met. He wondered where he got the experience...

The thought inflaming his mind, the imposing policemen decided it was time to pass to something more tight; after one last thrust, which coated the topmost part of his knot with saliva, he took out his pole, slapping it on the muzzle it had just departed before speaking.

"Now, you are going to strip yourself of your clothes." He commanded, imperious.

"If you just take your paws of me, I would do that, Officer." The other harrumphed, springing up as soon as his desire was granted. He mad a scene of dusting his knees and stretching his abused mouth, defiant light in his eyes, but in the end he did just said, first with taking off his jacket. He launched an interrogative look at the Doberman once he saw he wasn't doing the same.

"First you, then me." The black canine spoke, wanting to enjoy the show of a stripping farmer. The Beauceron just shrugged and resumed his activity, no effort put to make it flirty, just doing it as if he was just going to sleep. But Berthold didn't care, he just stared as the clothes came off, revealing first a muscled chest, then his powerful legs, only beige smallclothes saving his honor; his examination made his discovered that the tan of the undressing canine was just in the same places as his, two big patches on the chest and then at his extremities. He could guess that the one on his hind paws crept up to cover the other male's balls and sheath, and that it enclosed the musky hole too.

He was so taken by his thoughts that he gasped with surprise when Frédéric pulled down the last vestige of his clothing, now fully nude for the prying eyes of the officer. And they did just that, fixing themselves on the red, veiny manhood towering in the midst of brown fur, maybe as big as the one he was sporting just below the hem of his shirt.

"You like the view, it seems. Want to have a taste too?" The smaller dog winked suggestively, grabbing his virility and advancing.

"No. I want something else." Berthold answered firmly, swiftly taking care of what little clothes was left on him, baring his developed chest. He had time to taste such a good-looking specimen of manliness, but now he had another, more pressing urge; he grabbed the other man and almost threw him on the table, air escaping the lungs of his companion.

"Now, bend over!" He ordered, chuckling when he saw the Beauceron doing that without complain, laying his torso on the wooden expense and gentling putting his head over his folded arms.

"Let me see what are you goin-" The farm dog began to taunt, but he was interrupted by his tail being pulled high, and a very wet and cold nose pressing against his innermost fold between his rear cheeks, a yelp rising from his muzzle. The Doberman moved his muzzle higher after sniffing the powerful odor, his nose resting now just where the held tail began, so that now his lips were pressed against the wrinkled muscle in a hot kiss.

His tongue got out to savor the inviting hole, the somewhat acrid taste dancing on his lengthy ribbon, but he liked that, always did. It was hot to prepare his companion in that way, coating him with his saliva, feeling the muscle flex and react to each stroke of his tongue, moaning and wanting to get more. And so the other dog was doing while he explored his hole, circling it or pressing against its center, sometimes slipping a bit of his tongue inside, massaging the insides.

"All Germans are enthusiastic ass-lickers, aren't you?" The jab came from above, making the Doberman growl and renewing his attacks, shushing any further remark. He didn't stop his kissing until his jaw grew tired, moving his tongue up and down, in and out of that hole, making it extremely slick. It took time, since he had the legendary endurance of Germans, and he enjoyed it, trying each time to get more of his tongue inside the tight tunnel, all the while groping those ass-cheeks with is paws, kneading them like the baker with loaves of dough.

He separated with a loud smack, not giving time for his companion to lament the lack by putting a meaty finger in the center of the tailstar; he needed only to add some force and it slipped inside until the first knuckle, the hole clenching around the invading object. With some more force he managed to push inside the whole digit, moving it in the hot crevice and eliciting moans and shivers from the Beauceron once it had contact with the secret pleasure button inside every man.

"No more taunts no, no? You French talk bold, but you are sissies inside." Berthold said while moving his finger in and out, arching it every time, taking advantage of the moment to take revenge from the earlier insult. He didn't get any answer, the other only panting and moaning in pleasure, enough of a reaction to make him add quickly another digit to the invasion of that sweet hole, doubling the pleasure and the noises.

He prided himself with being able to make a male squirm with only his fingers, and he was up to his reputation since Frédéric just did that, speechless for once, pushing back to the thrusting while with expert quirks of his wrist and finger he investigated the long anal tunnel, getting acquitted with those depths. He separated them inside it, rotated them, every move studied to bring pleasure to his partner in the way only the practitioners of the secret love know, freed by preconceptions and ill beliefs.

"Are you ready for more?" He asked with a stronger scissoring thrust; not content with the moan he received, he asked again. "Are you ready to be mated by this big, mean officer?"

"Y-yes, breed me." The proud land-owner finally uttered, giving satisfaction to the Doberman. Extracting his fingers with a snort, he rose from his knees and positioned himself, sliding his member between those plumps cheeks.

"Breed me, I said!" The other demanded, lust urging him to speak up his innermost desire. The German policemen just chuckled and, grabbing his member, angled his pointed tip and just moved his hips, the hole welcoming it and the first part without trouble. They both moaned, the Doberman grabbing the hips of the other male and just pushing himself inside; it was a steady invasion, continuous, uninterrupted by Frédéric who was much enjoying the treatment.

He stopped only when he felt his knot kissing the hole, but he didn't still himself to enjoy the tightness but already pulled off his rod, not completely since his tip remained there. He rammed it back again, a grunt being elicited by the smaller dog, and another when he repeated the entire sequence. His thrusts build up pace, and with them the pleasure, slaps marking each one of them when his crotch met those cheeks and their balls smacked together.

Berthold leaned forward with his paws giving him equilibrium, his body changing the angle of his rut and gaining more momentum. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, saliva raining on the hot body in front of him, while his virility slammed inside it with the joy of both participants. He felt the long tail curling against him, while he moved his hips in different patterns, attacking that hole in ways that brought pleasures to both of them. He didn't grab the member of the other canine, understanding that his companion was one of the rare furs who loved just to be bred when in that role, coming to their climax with just that.

"Oh yes breed me, make me your bitch!" The Beauceron shouted between moans, getting aroused by the dirty talk as much as by the rod spearing him.

"You like that? To be dominated by a bigger man?" He couldn't resist and asked, not stopping his thrusting.

"Yes, YES!" The other simply answered.

"Then a change of position is needed!" The Doberman put his words into action, pulling out of the black canine and grabbing him, turning him roughly on his back without complains. The unattained virility of the other bounced on his stomach, leaving a stain on the onyx fur; he was so inviting, so open, his ass revealing the abused hole, he just leaned over once again, his rod reaching its mark without trouble and sheathing itself in the welcoming fold. The French man accepted that, his legs posed on the chest and shoulder of the fierce man who was taking him and being folded by his lover.

As he did that, his muzzle met the one of the other, another appendage of his invading the body of the Beauceron while he renewed his powerful and deeper pushes. Moans where silenced by the battle of their tongues, hips moving with the accompanying music of balls smacking; the pleasure build once again, the hard bodies trapping the lonely member of the long-furred dog.

It was more pleasurable for both canines, one getting the thick object in the foremost reaches of his being, the other feeling his pole being stroked in a different way. His movement were deep and long, the table under them creaking for the force; his length got surrounded by the muscled walls before being kissed by the air, his sensible tip rubbing and sending sparks to his brain. He chuckled when he felt the other push down on his hips, meeting his body every time; it was just delightful when his partner was that eager to be mated, to feel his pole sliding in them as fast as it was possible.

All this factors, the kiss, the breeding, the virility stimulated by the movements of their bodies, was just too much for the farmer who, trembling, just let his orgasm to explode, rope after rope of seed covering them both and gluing their furs together. Even in the most heated moment of passion, he didn't forget of his companion, and continued pushing his hips down to get more of the thick doghood in his clenching bottom, trying even to add some conscious gripping to the one caused by the climax, something that the Doberman noticed.

That was just too much for the thrusting dog; with a forceful push he got his knot in, letting the shorter and quicker thrusts. He didn't need many of those, he had been on the edge of climax for long now, and those delightful clenches coaxing his seed out of his balls. And that Berthold did, shooting the white goo in the wanting ass, his instincts making him break the kiss to bit down on the vulnerable neck he was offered by the panting canine.

They stayed there, riding the pleasure and enjoying it, the Doberman just plastering himself on the Beauceron, finally releasing the neck to get gulps of needed air. They rested for a while, just to regain breath and rest, Frédéric shifting his body and moaning when that brought a jab of pleasure from his spent, trapped virility. It was the same for the bigger canine, who felt his pole spurt some more seed, and expecting it to do so for quite some time before its deflating knot would let them free from their carnal embrace.

"You-you play hard to get, but you are marvelous when in bed." Berthold uttered between pants.

"Actually table." The other corrected, chuckling. "You have a good invader, looking forward to do the same to your rump."

"As if I will let you." The policeman growled, his hole already clenching in anticipation.