For the Love of a Pit - Chapter 1
#1 of For the Love of a Pit
I didn't really pay attention in history class much, so I don't remember all the details. It's not like any of those details matter; what's done is done, what's happening is happening--now. Like the revolution of the earth and its orbit around the burning wheel of the sun, the present is the only fluctuation of energy worth stressing over. The past is frozen, much like the polar caps were.
But in all fairness and to alleviate any ambiguity, all I remember is some scientist--Dr. Warrengetti, I think--and his small team discovering how to fuse animal DNA with human DNA sometime in the early 21st century. Several decades later and we perfected the science for a handful of different species of mammals, although there are still complications for egg-laying species, like birds and reptiles. Regardless, we are now able to birth half-breeds, part human and animal, much like werewolves from distant fairytales, with a survival rate that rivals natural, human births. (Finding willing, human mothers that were healthy and sane was the hard part.) All that is real now--you can go down to the local bar and share a pint with a wolf regaling the entire place with the perverted version of Red Riding Hood, equipped with opposable thumbs, an upright posture, and a trashy get up, then take some bitch (quite literally) home afterward, fuck her pussy or the dank gopher hole of the ass good--it's all quite legal now, after the deliberation of '73. Conservatives, of course, thought it was all an abomination, yet failed to jettison laws allowing the unfair laboring of the half-breeds. "They're still animals," was the overall consensus of the right wing. Half-breeds were nothing but cheaply paid workhorses to them. Fuckers.
I leaned over to the warm body next to me, the bed giving an audible yawn in the dim sunlight. Brake laid there peacefully, his broad chest rising like a breathing mountain, his arms stretched back as his head rested on his paws, his whiskers twitching as my breath washed over him. "Brake" was just his nickname, due to his ability to stop traffic every time he stepped outside without his shirt on. It's true--I did the first day I met him. I was heading to the factory and saw him strolling down the street like a brick wall with legs, clad in nothing but loose-fitting shorts. He had a body that'd put an Olympic gymnast to shame, gorgeously muscled, his fur completely tan save for the bat-wing of white on his chest. I didn't care if I was late to work--I'd never been tardy for the life of me!--and pulled over.
His consanguinity: American pit bull terrier. I knew he'd act like every other pit I've seen in the presence of a human: like fangirls at an Anna Alabama concert. Sure, you'd see pit bulls on the news every other week committing some sort of violent crime, which was fuel for the conservatives to discontinue half-breeding, but I didn't buy all that. Every pit I've seen were all down-to-earth, friendly folks. So it came as a total shock when he didn't seem excited when I fell on him "accidentally." Whispering something about me being like "everybody else," he marched forth to whatever destination that apparently needed him there. Lucky me, I'm a stubbornly persistent bastard. Or persistently stubborn. Or maybe just a bastard.
Brake yawned, interrupting my reminiscing, his teeth taking a massive chunk out of the air. My hand snaked over his chest, past a nickel-sized nipple, and down his firm belly.
"Good morning, Sunshine," I mused as he sat up and blinked a few times, adjusting to the light.
"Hey," he yawned, his tongue arching out. I bit at it with my lips, licking at the wetness he left as his tongue retracted. Our mouths then interlocked in a kiss, my hand reaching toward his crotch. It was always joyfully odd: his whiskers tickling my skin like this, the warmth of his fur. It was nothing like being with another human being.
It was large. Hard as concrete.
"Morning wood?" I grinned. He smiled. The only thing limp on him were his ears he didn't crop like most other pits did. Didn't like the style, he'd told me.
Blankets serve two purposes: keeping you warm and getting your imagination running wild. Slipping the thin material off him was like unwrapping a present as a kid, fantasizing about what was in store. A trite comparison, but it's too true. Fully exposed, his large balls pooled on the bed, his dog-meat jutting upward handsomely. I'd measured it once after asking him exactly how big he was. He didn't know, never giving it much thought. Strings also serve two purposes: for tying stuff and for accurately measuring a penis. It was old kite string I used, found in a box of childhood things. Erect, he ended up being nine and three quarter inches exactly--the biggest dick I'd ever seen in person.
"You know, we never did measure the girth of this thing that day," I said, encircling my hand around it, estimating the size.
"No, you got excited and"--he snickered--"you know the rest." The tail between his legs tapped its happy Morse code upon the bed.
"I believe it was something like this." Mouth opened wide, I engulfed the thick flare of his glans, trailing its curves with my tongue, my hand stroking the rest of the shaft. A huge paw guiding me from the back of my head, I worked him deeper. His body squirmed, sucking sounds glancing off the bedroom walls like breaths as my saliva coated him. He panted softly, my own erection hardening.
After nursing him for a few moments I released him, a string of saliva bridging the space between my mouth and his glistening cock.
I breathed.
His musk was indescribable, but identifiably him: overwhelming and savorous. It filled me with the warm feeling of satisfaction, in a sense like the smell of fresh-baked bread without even taking a bite.
My hand fisted around his fat cockhead, twisting, stimulating the sensitive flesh.
Brake bit his lip and groaned, tugging at his balls with one paw as he reached over and stroked my own dick with the other. It felt good when he touched me, his paw thick and wide.
The look of his body gave me the strongest hard-ons: a broad chest, six-pack, and arms that could crush you yards away with a quick flex. He didn't do the gym thing. He hated the attention and would stay active around the last bits of nature yet untouched by the spreading virus of technology: mountain hiking, kayaking on the lake up north protected by state mandates, or just trekking the enormous city park embellished with sycamores and winding paths. Whatever it was he did, it worked, and I had the sexiest thing alive right next to me.
"God, I'm gonna cum," he whispered, a long moan escaping his muzzle. His muscles tensed, but I slowed myself, delaying his release.
"Who's a good boy?" I grinned. He was part dog, after all.
He winced as if in pain, a whimper trembling out of his throat like a shy pup from his crate.
A tense moment passed. His cock pulsed. He grunted. A thick white streamed across his chest. I jerked him off faster, another rope of cum hitting his muzzle like venom. Another across his face. Another over his chest again.
There was a pause as he panted heavily, moaning in pleasure. He was a heavy ejaculator--there was more to come. I chuckled at the pun, but he continued to wince, relishing his orgasm.
Like lotion from a burst bottle, he spurted over his chest several more times, his semen coating his short fur in streaks. The last few ounces shot out with less force, pooling in the crevices of his abdominal muscles, then onto the bed of thick fur around his pubic region, the final snake of cum sliding down his dick, mirroring the sizable vein that helped engorge it.
His tongue lolled out, his face pulled into a satisfied grin.
"Eighteen times," I said. That was a new record. This was the most I'd ever seen him cum.
"That's what happens when we don't play for awhile." He glanced himself over, wiping his face partially clean with a paw. "Damn."
His dick went soft, curling over onto his stomach, spent. Flaccid, he was still bigger than most guys. Even me.
I hopped off the bed, my own dick flopping about, softening as well.
Brake's ears perked up. "What about you?"
I pointed at the clock. "Work. I'm never late--even on that day." The day I met him when he totally blew me off (and not in the good way), I still managed to get to the factory on time with a few minutes to spare.
"Perhaps tonight, then?" His grin was sexy.
Of course.
I didn't say this audibly, my smile being enough. I needed to get some coffee ready, take a quick shower, check the morning traffic on the news panel
"I'm just going to rinse off real quick before you hop in," Brake called from the bedroom as I rinsed off my hands of his spunk, his scent.
I called back in acknowledgment, scooping in some Arabica coffee for brewing before activating the news panel embedded in the wall by the refrigeration unit. Words darted across the panel informing me of traffic for the streets I programmed it to register. I couldn't focus on the words, though, my mind busy thinking about the dog in the bathroom. The shower hummed against the bathtub floor before the sound shifted as Brake stepped in. Showers are lucky things, sometimes. A witness to his naked body, if I was born something inanimate, it would have to be that particular household luxury. I've seen his body wet, his fur clinging like Spandex, every sinewy curve, every sculpted muscle perfectly defined. I still can't believe it's been more than two years we've been living in this apartment together. We could barely afford any of the nice things, not even a television unit, although we planned on getting one this Christmas. Heck, even the coffee machine was an antique. The middle class had that voice-activated shit. We only had the news panel because it was included with the apartment. A rarity.
My mind snapped back to reality as the coffee finished up, images of my commute flashing on the news panel. My eye caught a tinge of yellow on the floor by the door, a piece of paper that'd been slid through, probably earlier this morning. My breath caught in my lungs like an animal in a conibear trap as I read it.
"Eviction?"
My hunches tingled and I tapped the panel to the news section I rarely visited. In bold letters: PROPOSITION 80 PASSED.
I mouthed a curse, completely forgetting about this controversy that had been stirring for months.
Brake stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, the rest of his body damp.
"Hey, love. What's that?"
The paper fell from my grip, floating to the ground back, forth, then back again before landing without a sound.