This  work is copyrighted to the author © 2018.  Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story.  All rights reserved.

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WARNING:  This is exclusively a Bestiality story.  Some of the sex depicted is consensual, some not.  I don't condone it.  I'm not advocating it.  I may or may not even like it.  It's simply a fantasy, a product of my imagination, and thus, completely fictitious.  Before you read it, please note the following:

   * If you are under eighteen, do not read this story.  It’s against the law!

   * If you have a hard time separating fantasy from reality, do not read this story!

   * If it’s illegal in your jurisdiction to read nonconsensual sex stories, don’t read this story!

   * If acts involving urination and/or defecation offend you, do not read this story!

 

Support Nifty: If you can afford to cough up a few bucks, the good folks who make this all happen would be much obliged.

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                                                                                                            Dog Whisperer

                                                                                                                      By

                                                                                                               Off the Rail

                                                                                                                                                                                                Picture [cut/paste link]:

                                                                                        www.asstr.org/files/Authors/HumblePie/Pics/Dog%20Whisperer.jpg

   

“With his face smashed up flat against the bars and his eyes blown open like he’d swallowed a grenade, he hung there suspended, midair, tied to Bane’s cock with a glazed-over,  faraway look of a boy set adrift in a sea of infinite bliss ….”

 

 

Chapter 1

 

“Bedtime, Mikey!”

 

”Okay Mom,“ Michael called back, putting aside the glue and the parts of the model plane he was working on.   Turning around in his seat, he looked down at the foot of his chair where Fluffy, the family poodle sat waiting for him to finish.    “Hey, boy, you ready for bed?”

 

Wagging his tail, Fluffy looked wildly excited, hardly able to contain his anticipation. “Oh yes you are, yes you are,” Michael teased, leaning down nuzzling up again his snout.   His giddy smile was bursting with exuberance, while Fluffy’s tail thumped wildly against the floor, showing his excitement for what he knew would be coming next.

 

Standing up he turned off the bedroom light to ready himself for bed.  Then under the soft, warm glow of the night light beside his bed, he quickly striped down, pulled back the covers and jumped into bed followed by Fluffy.  A jump Fluffy made with a single bound from 5 feet back, landing square atop the pillow upon which Mikey rest his head.  Leaning up, he reached out to cradle Fluffy’s head in his hands and kissed him softly upon his nose.

 

“That a boy,” he cooed and ruffled his ears while looking down beneath him.  His cock, already poking out several inches from its sheath, glowed a molten red and was crowned by a glistening droplet that had bubbled up from the pointed tip.  The sight warmed Mikey’s belly and brought his own cock to life.  Rising up like a hatchling from its sleep, his cock stretched and yawned and yearned for the moment he’d feel the thrill of his own release once Fluffy had managed to cram all 7 plus inches up his ass.

 

Yes, that’s right, 7 inches is a venerable package for any dog to carry much less a poodle.  But then again, Fluffy wasn’t your typical poodle.  A Poodle and Lab mix, Fluffy was a 2 foot tall, plump 85 pound bundle of mongrelized poodle hair.  Colored a grungy brown with a pair of large canines protruding up from his lower jaw, he was an eyeful only Michael could love.  But more importantly, he was his buddy, his nighttime bed mate who among other things had one hell of a huge libido.  Like insatiable, as hungry as a slot machine into which Michael would endlessly dropping in the coins night after night.

 

Still in all, Fluffy was first and foremost the family dog.   And as such, it was only natural that his mother would insist he be kept clean and well groomed.  A duty Mickey gladly accepted, taking great care to insure his coat was combed out weekly, his “privates” scrubbed clean bi-weekly, and fine tuned nightly after their nightly fuck.  Fine tuned, as in cleaning up the post-coital mess that if left unattended would soil the sheets and arouse his mother’s suspicions when she woke him up in the morning.

 

The same held for to his overall cleanliness.  An issue of particular importance tonight when taken outside to do his late night duty, Fluffy refused to go out into the torrential downpour, choosing instead to nuke the porch.  A matter that complicated Michael’s life ten-fold, not to mention make this evenings post-coital bathing an even more onerous task.  A chore that was going to pollute his taste buds and linger on his breath the night long, but a must-do task nonetheless.

 

“Oh well, there’s nothing much to be done about it now.” he huffed an impatient sigh, ruffling Fluffy’s ears in effort to reassure him.  “What’s got to be done has got be done.  Else wise, mom’s going to be mad as a hatter when she spots the smudgy sheets in the morning.” He followed, speaking directly to Fluffy who was studiously studying him as if understanding his every word.  His eyes, his ears, the expression on his face finely tuned in.  That is until he heard Michael’s mom, Marge, walking down the hall toward her bedroom.  Fluffy’s nightly cue that it was now time to broaden the lines of communication with his bitch.  Only now in a far more basic, primal way to satisfy his urge to fuck him.

 

“Night Honey Bunny,“ his mother called out as she turned off hall light before closing her bedroom door.

 

“Night, mom, he called back, then looked again at Fluffy.  “You ready big boy, ready as me?” he whispered with a grin that added a few watts of brightness to the night light.

 

“Come on, Fluffy,” he followed as he turned around and flopped down on his pillow head down, ass up.  Fluffy hadn’t to see more.  In a flash, he jumped atop Mikey’s ass, wrapped his paws around his hips, and in less time than it took for Mikey to wipe the smile off his face, Fluffy curled his back and thrust his hips forward so hard Mikey’s ass was driven up and forward, propelling him into the headboard.  CLUNK!!

 

Ahhh, shit!  Easy boy, easy,” he vented a muffled cry, suffering the trauma of Fluffy’s claws and the brutally, rapid fire assault on his ass.

 

Awk!  Ouch!  Ow-ow-ow!” he rasped gratingly through his clenched fist as Fluffy punched out a plum-size hole down to his core with jackhammer speed.  Punching and driving and clawing his way up his ass.

 

Each resounding – “thump,” “Oomph!” -  “smack,” “Ugh!” that sounded off in 3/8 time was akin to a punch in the gut, steeling away is breath, leaving him gasping for air adrift a sea of intolerable pain for 3-5-7 minutes nonstop, until at last, the fat underbelly of his bloated cock rolled over that spot - that sweet spot inside his ass that when triggered, sent an explosion of cum halfway across the bedding.

 

Aaaaaaah!" he blissfully sighed, basking in the sweet aftermath.  “That a boy,” he purred, once Fluffy had turned around, his peach-sized knot tying them together butt to butt.  And that’s how they’d remain, locked in their nightly bond savoring the pleasures that come after an earth-shaking fuck.

 

But that’s how it went.  First the insufferably painful assault on his ass, followed by the pleasures that would be his once he’d given up, given in and surrender to the suffering.  The pleasure and the pain!  The two sides of the same coin.  The two contrary, yet interconnected forces that pulled upon him with equal gravity.  No matter the enormity of the anguish he suffered, it all occupied the same place in his head.  A place that both stoked his fear, and by equal measure, it was also a place he wanted to be - needed to be - to make him feel whole.  Full stop!

 

------

 

 

“Good morning, Lamp Chop.  You look like you had a great nights slept.”

 

“Yes mom,” he replied, his breath smelling like shit.  Taking a seat at the kitchen table, he dove head-long into his morning bowl of flakes, intentionally avoiding his morning kiss.

 

“What?  No kissies and huggies this morning?” Marge, his mother, feigned a pout.

 

“Please mom, I’m trying to eat,” he managed to cough up through a mouthful of soggy flakes.

 

“Did you clean up, scrub your teeth?  Use the water Pick to wash out the crud between you cheeks and gums too?”

 

“No, mom, after I eat,” he grudgingly replied, a tad agitated by the pestering and prying.

 

“That’s fine dear,” she managed to concoct a smile while her nostrils continued to sniff the air, trying to discern the origins of that obnoxious smell.

 

“You'll be sure to clean thoroughly, won't you?  You know, all around?" she asked, pointing toward his rump. “You might consider using the bidet again as well."

 

“Jeez mom, will you quit it!” he huffed in exasperation.  “I told you, those are for girls.”

 

“So, it gets the job done, doesn’t it?”  She asked in earnest, yet sounding every bit the meddlesome mother who was venturing into a territory she didn’t belong.  But that was Marge Dunwoody.  Call her a doting mother, or if you like, a brain-dead twit who hadn’t a clue.  You can because she was all of those things and more, and you never knew which one you were gonna get until she opened her mouth.

 

“.  . . Besides,” she then thought to add, “it’s not like you haven’t used it before,” she said, now smiling dopily and sounding more the twit than the misguided mother.

 

“Yeah, well, I guess so, but . . . ,” he wanted to argue then thought better.  “Okay, I’ll think about it,” he warily relented in hopes of quieting her up.

 

“And what about Fluffy . . .?”

 

Mom!  Please!  Dogs don’t use the bidet.  Now, shush, I’m trying to listen.” He said with his eyes fixed on the news program playing on the TV across the way.

 

“Don’t be fresh.  I know dogs don’t use the bidet.  That wasn’t what I was asking about and you know it,” she said, sounding a tad perturbed over his having purposely evaded her question.  Not the sort of thing she’d normally let ride, and she as about to pursue it further when Fluffy nudged her, wanting to be fed.

 

“Good morning my pretty boy.  You look so happy and content this morning,” she ruffled his ears, sounding as bubbly as a girl 20 years her younger.

 

“You’re my sweetie, oh yes you are . . ,”  she pampered and babied him before again turning her attentions back on her son whose continued avoidance of her question was getting a bit under her skin.

 

“Well, mister-I’m-not-talking, are you going to tell me or just sit there like an old stick in the mud?” she continued to prod and pester as she rubbed Fluffy along his rear flanks, prompting him to spin round and offered his raised tail for her to scratch.

 

“Oh my! “ She glowed as she eyeballed the ‘nuts-n-bolts’ beneath.  “Well, I guess that answers my question, huh, pretty boy.  Everything is rosy pink and spic-n-spanny as a baby’s fanny,” she grinned with a mischievous glint in her eye, knowing as she did all that went into keeping his fanny so spit-shiny clean.

 

“My Mikey takes such good care of you, oh yes he does . . .  she cooed and teased.  “After such a busy night, I’ll bet you’ve worked up quite the appetite too.”

 

“Are you going to feed him or should I?” she looked up to ask her son, only to find his eyes still glued to the TV.

 

Looking to see what was consuming all of his attention, she saw a man dressed like a cowboy and holding the reins of a white spotted Appaloosa who called himself a horse whisperer.  According to the tall, lean cowboy, he possessed the unique ability to talk to horses.  A claim he was well prepared to defend when asked by the reporter standing close by why folks shouldn’t think this all a scam.

 

“Tell me, Cowboy Jakes,” asked the woman report holding a mic up to his face.  “What is it about the way you talk to your horse that differs from how my unenlightened twelve year old daughter speaks to hers?”

 

“The gentleman cowboy had a good laugh at that.  “Good question,” he replied, quickly taking on a more serious demeanor as he spoke about how it was his in-depth understanding of their language that made the difference.  “If a horse prefers oats over barley, your daughter might not be able to discern that, whereas I can.  No trial and error, no hit and miss. They tell me and I respond directly to their wants, needs and desires.”

 

“It works the other way around as well.  If I’m uncomfortable with his gait, I just tell him and he endeavors to meet my wants, needs, and desires in a like manor.”

 

“You use the word ‘tell’ as if horses can actually understand the mechanics of our language,” the lady reported followed up, her question spurring the interest of Michael’s mom who was quick to add an exclamation point to her skepticism.

 

“Gotcha!!” she smirked like a cat with a mouthful of canary.

 

“Well you see, Ma’am, it’s like this.  Plain and simple, they can and do talk.  And if you know how to listen they will tell you all you need to know.   Not only that but you’ll find them remarkably articulate as well.   You’ll not see their lips forming the words, ‘I want oats’, but I can read their wants as clearly as if they had.

 

“Allow me to demonstrate, he then said, turning toward the white spotted Appaloosa.  “This beautiful animal is named Duke and belongs to Mrs. Jones who has secured my services to help settle him.  As she can verify, we’ve never met before.”

 

“Yes, that’s true,” a women’s voice could be heard from behind the camera.

 

“Why thank’ya mam,” he tipped his cowboy hat toward the women standing off camera.  “Now watch!  He then followed while combing his fingers through Duke’s mane.  “Duke, tell the nice lady how old you are,” he instructed, and the horse responded by striking the ground with his hoof four times.  “You’re four, is that right big boy?”  To which the horse nodded his head and curled his lips as it speaking.

 

“You like your oaks don’t you boy?” He then asked, and amazingly, the horse nodded to the affirmative.

 

“My, he does sound convincing.”  Marge was quick to brush aside her initial skepticism.  “You know, in a way, that sounds a lot like you, Mikey.  Only you don’t talk to horses, you talk to dogs, like Fluffy.  Which to me is pretty much the same, and while the two of you communicate in ways I’ll never understand, no one can deny it bonds the two of you together as tightly as twins.  I bet he makes good money selling a service like that.”

 

“Think so, mom?”

 

“Oh yeah, it kind of makes him a star too.  You knew, with pictures in the paper, talk show interviews, the whole lot.  He could name his price, I’m sure.”

 

“A star!”  Now that was a word that caught his attention.  For a 17 year old about to graduation with a 2,0 GPA without a prospect in sight, the possibility he might be able to earn a living doing what he loved to do, and become a “star” too,  well now.  That lit up his world like a light from Heaven.

 

“Gee, mom, imagine me, Michael Dunwoody, the dog whisperer!   It sounds so cool!  Do you think I should talk with the school counselor about it?  Maybe he can help me find someone with an interest in hiring someone like me.  You think?”

 

Mikey the dog whisperer!” Marge lit up with a smile.  “Oh my, that does sound nice.  But you needn’t ask your counselor.  Why not go see Mrs. Olson, the owner-operation of ‘Safari Kingdom Pet Emporium’ on you way back from school.  She always has a sign in the window needing some sort of help or another.”

 

“Gee-whiz, Mom, thanks.  That’s a great idea.  I’ll take along the letter of recommendation from Mr. Green.”

 

“Absolutely, and don’t forget to dress smartly.  First impressions are important you know.  Oh, and please!  Your breath!  Try the water-pick, or the plunger or whatever it takes . . . Please!

 

------------------

 

 

Safari Kingdom Pet Emporium

 

Michael stood outside the Safari Kingdom petshop window watching the dogs on the other side of the glass excitedly jumping about in response to his madcap antics.  Dressed in his brown khaki shorts with a pith helmet to add just the right touch, he felt as ready and prepared to win over Mrs. Olson’s heart as he would ever be.

 

Entering the shop he found Edith Olson behind the counter having just sold a canary to a lady customer.  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Olson.  My name is Michael Dunwoody and I would like to apply for a job.”  He then added a smile meant to win over her heart.

 

“Why of course, young man.  May I ask your age?”

 

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be 18 next month.  But I have a work permit, and as I graduate next week, I’m looking to set out on the right foot.  I’ve also have a letter of recommendation from Mr. Green,” he told her, handing her the letter.

 

“Well, I’m certain this letter expresses nothing but the highest regards for your achievements,” she said without bothering to read it.  “But what I’m most interested in is why you wish to work here?”

 

“Oh golly, Ma’am, I want to work here because it’s perfect for me.  I love pets, dogs the most.  I love being around them.  I love taking care of them.  I like buddying-up with them like the best of friends should.  But must importantly, I know how to talk to them.”

 

“Talk to them?  Now there’s a sales pitch.  Unusual to be sure, but forever sweet.  But I’m sure you mean to say you know how to get them to do what it is you want them to do.”

 

“Yes ma’am, but to me it’s more in the way of a collaborative relationship in which we both try to meet the needs of the other.  If he doesn’t want to come in out the rain, then we sit down and talk about it until both our needs are met.”

 

“Well that’s interesting.  You actually talk to dogs, do you?”

 

“Yes ma’am.  I’m a dog whisperer.  I’m not a professional or anything like that.  But one day I will be, maybe even one of the best, a star!”

 

“Oh my heavens young man, such high expectations.  But a dog whisperer?” she said with brows raised in puzzlement.  “Well, I can’t confess to knowing much of anything about that, but if our star-to-be doesn’t mind starting out small and mucking around in the trenches with an old shopkeeper like me, then welcome aboard.  I’m pleased to have you.”

 

“Wow!  Holy smoke!  Good golly, thank you ma’am, you won’t regret it.  You’re going to have the happiest, most satisfied dogs in all the world, I promise.”

 

“Very well then.  Now, if you would go out around back you’ll find the shelter where we house our pets for the night.  That’s where you’ll meet Mr. Gomer.   Victor is the gentleman who manages the shelter and cares for our pets.  Like the eight scallywags you see in the front window along with the other dozen scallywags we rotate in and out daily.  Those are the dogs you will be helping Victor care for.  That would includes minding to their feeding, cleaning, exercising, picking up after them and what have you.”

 

“Mind you, they can be a raucous bunch.  More than enough for two workers, so if you don’t mind the hard work, Mr. Gomer will get you started.

 

---------

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Work Begins

 

The dog shelter around the back was a white with red trim building built to look like a small house.  With a gabled roof, skylights and windows, flower pots on the sill included, it looked quite the charmer.  Then when you add in the fenced-in doggy playground that fronted the 20 by 20 shelter, the facility made quite the idealized setting.

 

However, quaint as this little house appeared on the outside, inside was an entirely different matter.  Not in a bad way, it just looked so run of the mill, Kennel-like, with rows of cages lining the walls, a grooming table and a cement basin embedded in the floor for bathing the dogs.  It also had a strong stench when the dropping hadn’t been picked up, as well as a small office from which Mr. Gomer emerge pulling up his suspenders and wiping the perspiration from his brow when Michael called to see who was there.

 

“Hello?  Mr. Gomer.  Is anyone home?”

 

“Yeah boy, I hear you,” he grumbled, like the grumpy and withered old fart who had already worked well beyond the years when politeness mattered.  “You here to pick up Blackie?”

 

“Blackie?”

 

“Yeah, boy, that mean bastard over in the front cage.”

 

“No, I’m your new helper.  I’m here to work,” he said while peeking in to see for himself the “mean bastard” inside.  Only the bubbly, tail wagging Shepherd he saw inside didn’t look so mean to him at all.

 

“Work, huh?  Well I hope you can pull you weight better than that lazy fart you’re replacing,”

 

“Yes, sir, I don’t mind hard work, and I love working with dogs,”

 

“Huh!  Well we’ll see.  Starting now I guess, since I’ve got to leave you along for a bit because I got me a doctor’s appointment on account of my hip.  It’s been acting up pretty bad, so you’re going to have to work through the schedule on you own till I get back.

 

“Here’s the schedule,” he then said, handing him a clipboard.  “And there’s the clock,” he then pointed to the clock on the wall.  “And over there are the scrubbers, towels and the pail to clean up the droppings.  Get to it.”

 

“Yes, sir.  What if the phone rings?  Do you want me to answer it?”

 

“The phone doesn’t ring here.  The calls come through the shop and Mrs. Olson tells me.  Besides, I told her I’d be out on account of my appointment so she hasn’t a whole lot to say.  That, and the fact she can’t leave the store unattended means you’re on your own.”

 

“No problem, Mr. G, I’ll get it done,” he followed, perusing the schedule until a matter of importance came to mind.  “Mr. Gomer, sir.  The schedule says I’m to clean the floor, bathe the dogs, manage the scheduled outside playtimes, and at closing time, bring back the dogs from inside the shop.  But it does say anything about Blackie”

 

“That’s because he’s a special order.  A dog we got for a guy who wanted to buy a hunting dog.  Only the first day out the mean bastard took a chunk out of his ass the size of a lamb chop.  Now we’re waiting for the pound to come pick him up, no doubt to put him to sleep.”

 

“Oh, how horrible.  I don’t see anything wrong with him.  I think he was just scared.  You know, new place, new faces, everyone tugging on him, no one listening to him.  I bet I could get him settled in.”

 

Yeah, kid?  What’cha got that I ain’t got.  A magic wand or maybe your shit always comes out smelling like roses?”

 

“No,” Michael cracked a smile.  “But I can have a talk with him and try to work it out.”

 

“Talk to him?  Sheeeet!  Good luck with that, boy.  But if you find you have the time, have at it.   Just don’t let him out.  Got me?”

 

“Yes, sir, I’ll be careful with him, promise.”

 

“Good!  Now that I’ve warned ya, I’ve got to get going.  If I’m not back by closing I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Talk to him?” Mr. Gomer grumbled under his breath as he hobbled his way out the door.  “Just my luck.  They send me another freaking dimwitted who’s even dumber than these know-nothing dogs.”

 

-------

 

 

Blackie: The adventure Begins.

 

It was approaching closing time when Michael completed the list of scheduled tasks.  With all the dogs clean, fed and set for the night, he turned his attention to Blackie.  The big brown spotted Shepherd looked the paragon of submissiveness, with his eyes shinning bright and his tail thumping out a rhythm against the bars with excitement.  All harmless enough, reinforcing all the goodness he saw in him.

 

Kneeling down on all fours before the cage he reached in to ruffle his ears.  “You okay, boy?” he asked him, resulting in Blackie’s heightened excitement as evidenced by his increased hopping and dancing about, as well the sudden emergence of the shinny red tip of his cock from its sheath.

 

“Oh yeah, you’ve a happy fella, I can see that,” he ran his hand along his flanks.

 

“What’s that, boy?  You need a hug?  He spoke to him as if expecting an answer, and more surprising yet, the big Shepherd responded with an antsy whine as if he had.

 

“What’s that?  You need to know that there’s someone who cares about you?” he asked, now finding Blackie’s building excitement spreading through him as well.

 

“Yeah, well, I can’t let you out because Mr. Gomer told me not to.  But if you want I can go in so we can buddy-up for a bit and talk.”

 

“But you’ve got behave.  Promise me, buddy?” he then asked as Blackie’s antsy whining and dancing about reached a fevered pitch.

 

“Yeah?” He answered himself.  “Okay, I’m coming, I coming, buddy,” he responded excitedly as he hurriedly unlatch the cage door.   A minute more and he was all set to crawl in when he saw Blackie pee on the floor.  In his excitement he had let loose a small yellow puddle.  Though the splash wasn’t so large as to prohibit his entry, it was enough for him to worry about soiling his shorts.

 

At first he thought to bring a towel along with him to clean it up, but as all the clean towels were already used up and sitting in the bucket soaked with piss, he decided it would easier to remove his shorts instead.

 

“Why not,” he thought, “I’ve still got my underpants and even Fluffy doesn’t bother me when I’m covered up.”

 

So he did, and after discarding his smart khaki shorts he quickly scurried in to give Blackie the hugging embrace he so desperately needed.  Only as his butt passed threw the door, the gate lock lever snagged the waist band of his underpants, pulling them down and over his rump.  But worse yet, it pulled the door shut behind him, the lever locked in position.

 

It had all happened so fast, so quickly, he hardly had to time to consider his circumstance before Blackie hopped over top of him to face his rear.  Then just as quickly, Blackie jumped atop his ass, and with claws dug in deep, he pulled his bitch in.  All of it happening before he could react or do anything to deter the beast who now in position, arched his back, powered up those massive thighs and struck like a thunderbolt, driving all 8 + inches of that bloated monster down to his core.

 

“Ugh!” he huffed, expelling the last of the air still trapped in his lungs.   Breathless, windless, his mouth frozen open in awe, there was nothing to be done but hold on for the ride.  And oh, what a painful, gut retching ride it was too.  Starting on the first powerful stroke, that like a sledgehammer, drove that spike through the fluted rim of his anus with reckless disregard to all but his pleasure.  Each violent thrust executed with all the precision of a great machine, only this particular machine exhorted its exhaust from out his snout.

 

He was immersed in a fog of pain, his only lifeline, the electrifying feeling of that pummeling cock stroking that sweet spot, that special spot that caused him to struggle just to catch his breath.  A feeling that was growing all the more intense as that rutting dog built up steam, pummeling faster and faster for 3-5-7 minutes and until, at last, those deep guttural rumbling turned to snorts and grunts as he shot a torrent up his ass - A shot that came with ferocious kick and the crossover spark that triggered a blast of cum of his own.

 

It took over 30 minutes for that peach-sized knot to finally pop free.  And when it had, it was accompanied by a gushing geyser of cum that landed squarely in that puddle of piss, increasing the volume of that smelly swamp by a factor of two.  It was a white and yellow putrid dump of disgust, but worst yet, he knew it was a matter that couldn’t be left to stand.  Like never and especially not now when locked in the cage with the dog bare ass naked.  Worse yet, without a towel or bucket in hand, how could he possible explain it away?

 

He was at a loss, and without a rationale in sight, he was left to fall back on his usual refrain . . . “Oh well, there’s nothing much to be done about it now.” he sighted.  “What’s got be done has gotta be done!”

 

Later, they lay at rest on the floor.  With Blackie half sprawled out over top Michael’s back in post-coital bliss, he looked to be dreaming about his two-legged bitch.   Whereas Michael, very much awake, was thinking about what was going to say when Mr. Gomer returned.  Thus far, the “what” had escaped him, but as it turned out he really didn’t need an answer as Mr. Gomer, as old men tend to do, filling the blanks himself.

 

“Damn, boy what in the hell are you doing in there?’ Mr. Gomer asked.  With his face smashed flat to the floor by the weight of the dog, Michael rolled his eyes up to see a visible mystified Mr. Gomer standing before him with his hands on his hips.

 

“Cleaning,” he replied as Blackie again stood upright, freeing up Michael from he post-coital bondage.

 

“Cleaning?  Without your pants?”

 

“No sir, I’ve got them,” he replied, holding up his underpants.

 

“I’ll be damned if you don’t!   Shoot!  Sorry about that boy, I was beginning to suspect the worst.  Well, come on, let me get you outer there sonny boy.  Don’t want’cha catching cold,” he said, freeing up the latch then locked Blackie in for the night.

 

While waiting for Michael to put on his khaki shorts, he wanted to ask him how he had managed to clean up the floor without a towel or bucket.  But Mr. Gomer - a practical man but a bit on the short side of brilliant - quickly lost sight of all that when he saw Blackie licking his chops, looking for all the world like a dog who’d just helped himself to a 5 lb. rump roast.

 

“Damn boy, I don’t know how you done it,” he said in amazement, “but that mutt looks fit to nursemaid a toddler.”

 

-------

 

 

Reaping the Rewards

 

The next day Michael arrived at work early.  He looked bright and chipper, if not a bit bowlegged thanks to Blackie and Fluffy, but eager and raring to go nonetheless. As he entered the yard behind the shop he saw Mr. Gomer outside the shelter talking to Mrs. Olson and another gentleman he’d not met as yet.

 

“Good morning, Michael, “Mrs. Olson greeted him.   “I’d like you to meet Mr. Davies, the gentleman who had purchased Blackie.  He’s come to take him back home.”

 

“Really?” he screeched out jubilantly.  “How wonderful!  You’re doing the right thing, Mr. Davies.  Blackie isn’t a mean dog, not at all.  He was just scared and felt like no one was listening to him.”

 

“Well, apparently you listened,” the very appreciative Mr. Davies pat him upon the shoulder.  “From all I can see he looks an entirely different dog.  And from what Mr. Gomer has told me, I have you to thank for that.”

 

“Oh, you needn’t thank me.  All he needed was someone to talk to.  You know, to listen and work things out.”

 

“Well kudos to you young man.  You did a splendid job and ought to be proud.”

 

“No problem, sir.  It really was all my pleasure,” he beamed as the two of them shook hands, looking quite proud of himself, if not feeling a bit martyred by the pain still radiating up from his ass.

 

After Mr. Davies and Blackie departed, Mrs. Olson pulled him in and smothered him in her bosom.  “Good job young man.  I’m proud of you.  I won’t ask how you managed to work the miracle, but it certainly merits giving that dog whispering business a second look.  In fact, if you’re up for it, I’m thinking about doing just that.   Starting with my neighbor, Mrs. Abernathy.  The unfortunate woman recently inherited her daughter’s dog when her granddaughter developed an allergic reaction to his fur.   He’s a big dog and quiet friendly with those he knows, but very aggressive toward those he doesn’t.  And as we live on a busy street, he’s continuingly barking and threatening to snap at folks walking past the daylong.

 

“Obviously that poses quite a problem for her, and she’s willing to pay handsomely for the help.  I’m hoping that might be you.  Given your talents I think you’re the perfect person to ask to help her.  Plus, in never hurts to lend a helping hand to a woman of standing in the community, especially one who is the editor of the Middletown Gazette.”

 

“I’d love to, Mrs. Olson.  It sounds like a great opportunity, and my type of dog.  A dog in a new place surrounded by new faces who feels put upon and hasn’t a soul to talk to.”

 

“Very well, then I shall ask her if she can bring him in this afternoon.”

 

-----

 

 

The Plot Thickens

 

By noon, Mr. Gomer was already on his way to his follow-up appointment with the doctor.  Limping rather badly, he didn’t look well.   Unlike Debra Abernathy who swept across the yard in a pair of cut-throat heels with Bucky, the dog she had inherited in tow.    And yes, Bucky was very big dog.  A jet black Doberman, he stood a smidgen above Michael’s hips and undoubtedly bettered his 130 lbs.  Just the thought of taking him on left him quaking in his sneakers, especially after taking note of the size of his balls.  Like tennis balls ricocheting off the wall, his low hanging balls ricocheted back and forth off his knee caps (patella) with an audible “thwack!”

 

“Are you Michael Dunwoody? She asked, taking his hand.  “Yes, ma’am, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

“My, what a polite young man, and quite photogenic too,” she smile, then leaned back and framed a squire with her fingers as a photographer might in framing a picture.  “Oh yes, quite photogenic.  Mrs. Olson should start thinking about adding your lovely smiling face to the ad.”

 

“Although I’m beginning to wonder if dear Mrs. Olson might have underestimated the size of my problem.  Bucky is darn near as big as you.”

 

“It’s not the size that matters, Mrs. Abernathy.”

 

“Oh where have I heard that one before?” she giggled.  “But no matter, Mrs. Olson says you up for it, so you must be up for it.    Just promise me you won’t let the brute push you around, okay young man?”

 

After her departure he placed Bucky in the empty cage once occupied by Blackie.  He responded well to his lead, and while he didn’t push, pull or bully him around, he could tell there was something about the dog that was different than any he’d met before.  He could see it in his steely, unflinching eyes, and when he got down on all fours to “talk” with him, he could see it in his stance that was unnervingly motionless, showing not a lick of emotion.  That is, until Michael looked down and saw the gnarly, spider-veined length swaying to-and-fro between his knees like a foot long Bratwurst.

 

“Oh gawd,” he gulped, now knowing what that “talk” with Bucky was going to mean to his ass.  But that’s what he was here to do.   What he’d already done countless times before with Fluffy, then Blackie, and as he would do now with Bucky to open up a dialogue with him, the first step in establishing a “collaborative relationship.”  Of course it was going to be hellishly painful, and yes, he’d suffer.  But he also knew that the pain was something he had to endure if he wanted anything positive to come from their dialogue.

 

That’s just the way it work, and in his mind’s eye it all made perfectly good sense, but when he unlatched the cage door to crawl in, this time sans underpants, the “good sense” part of the equation somehow didn’t add up.  Especially when he found himself nose to cock, that throbbing foot-long monster already dribbling pre-cum on the floor beneath his chin.

 

His mind wondered and his eyes moistened when he thought about his beloved Fluffy, and what it would mean when he got a whiff of the remnants of Bucky’s sperm that would surely still be dripping from gaping puss when he got home.

 

“Would it piss him off?  Or would it excite him?” he wondered,  like it had last night when it was the remnants of he Blackie’s cum that filled his nostrils?  An odor, a taste, that so inflamed his passions that he fucked Mikey three times over the course of the night, the third time resulting in their almost getting caught.  The time when ravaged by thirst, Fluffy ran off to the kitchen to drink from his bowl, towing him along behind by his knotted cock.  All the way there, and all the way back he scurried quickly behind like a back-peddling spider crab to lessen the pull on his rectum, finding cover back in his room just as his mother stepped out of the bathroom.

 

Yes, it had been a long and pain-ridden night for him, as it probably would be again tonight once Fluffy got a whiff of Bucky’s tailings.  Just the remembrance of it all pained him as much now as it did then, but when Buck’s dripping, drooling, throbbing cock jumped up and slapped him across the face with a wet sounding thud, all those painful thoughts quickly gave way to the horrific reality of the moment.  A reality forced upon him when Bucky jumped around him, fired up the powertrain and then, faster than a heartbeat, that rutting dog struck him dead center, slamming his ‘hot rod’ into gear.  And now with his engine revved-up and ready, he popped the clutch and pushed the pedal to the metal – Vroom!

 

That first stroke drove his ass and knees up off the floor, driving him forward until his face slammed up against the metal bars.  Pooof!” the impact plunged the air out of his lungs, and 3/5ths of a second later, he was pounding him like a blackjack wheeling thug at 120 RMP a minute, his baton plunging down to the depths on every fucking stroke for 3, 5, 8 minutes nonstop and until, busting a nut, the brute howled like a coyote baying at the moon.

 

“Talking to him, huh, boy?” Mr. Gomer chuckled, finding him face to the floor and his ass hung up midair, still tied to Bucky’s knot.  “Now I know what you got up your ass, boy, and it ain’t roses!”

 

Michael looked up but hadn’t the words to speak.  However, the tears were now gone, and in their place was the glassy-eyed look of contentment.  Like a boy basking in the sweet aftermath after an excruciating ordeal, savoring the pleasures that followed once he’d given up, given in and surrender to the suffering.

 

-----

 

The Rewards

 

That night his beloved Fluffy did indeed lock on to Becky’s smell the moment Michael waddled through the door.  He hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep, but Fluffy did manage to give him the previous night’s allotment of cock, plus another back-peddling tow around his bedroom that stretched out his protruding rectum to its insufferable limit.

 

How he managed to survive the assault on his ass he didn’t even know.  It was but a blur.  What he ate, what he did, what he’d said, or what it was about his underpants that troubled his mother.  Insisting as she did that if he didn’t take better care of his soggy, smelly, ruined undies he could start going to work without them.

 

When he arrived at work the next morning he was again taken aback by the visiting party that awaited him.   Mrs. Olson was there, of course.  As was Mr. Gomer, but unlike Edith, he chose to stand back in the shadows quietly keeping to himself, privately holding close to his vest all he’d seen, all that he knew.

 

Standing next to Edith was Debra Abernathy with Bucky at her side.  To say she was astounded by the transformation she saw in the dog would have putting it lightly.  And when the somewhat bowlegged and slightly hobbled Michael approached, she was giddy as a merrymaker singing his praises.

 

He earned 500 bucks for that fuck which pleased Mrs. Olson all to hell, but not so much him.  The whole affair left him with a nasty taste in his mouth and feeling a little like a cheap whore.   That is, until Abernathy boldly proclaimed she was going to do all she could to inform the world about the “Safari Kingdom’s brilliant young dog whisperer.”

 

Debra Abernathy was just the woman who could do it to.  A titan in heels, she not only had the influence and power, but had the wherewithal to push he agenda through.  So no one was the least bit surprised when later that day a reporter and photographer turned up to get the featured story that would appear in the morning edition of the Middletown Gazette.

 

“A dog whisperer!   My, but that does have an intriguing, if not mysterious ring to it, young man.”  The reported, Alice McDuffy, said to Michael while scribbling down Michael’s every word.

 

“Just the sort of thing that attracts the public’s interest don’t you think, John?” she asked her accompanying photographer who was busily seeking to capture his image from every angle.

 

“You can say that against,” the photographer followed as he flashed a picture.  “This one leaves Mr. McConaughey’s alien abduction story in the dust.”

 

-----

 

 

Once Michael’s story hit the front page of the Morning paper it didn’t take long for the deluge of inquiry to pour in.  By midday next day, her phone was literally ringing off the hook and the store was swarming with the inquisitive.   There were plenty of buyers to.  Buying everything from Parakeets to Guinea Pigs and yes, plenty of dogs too.   In fact, within 2 days all 15 dogs she had available were gone, plus 12 more she had purchased to replenish her stock.

 

In short, business was smoking!  It couldn’t have been better, and what of Michael?   Well, his good fortune continued to rain down upon him like diamonds from the heavens.  The biggest, bluest diamond offered up to him the next morning when Mrs. Olson called him into her office.

 

In her hand she held up a can of Beefy-Boy Chunks & Gravy dog food bearing a stylish new label.  A prototype, the can had a picture of him hugging a very contented looking Collie on the label.  The whole of it designed to go with a new marketing campaign that featured him as the spokesman for the product, the slogan, “I Love it!” encapsulated in the speech bubble gushing out from his smiling lips.

 

Now all he need do is sign the contact and 10 grand a month would be his for the duration of the marketing campaign.  Mrs. Olson was darn right giddy over the offered, as Michael would have been if not for that idiotic slogan that looked as if it was he who was declaring his love for the taste of Beefy-Boy and not the Collie.

 

“But Sweet Pea,” his mother tried to reassure him.  “Aren’t you always telling me how much Fluffy loves it?  And didn’t you once tell me you thought it would make a great hash to go with your potatoes?”

 

Mommm!” he gasped.  “Dang!  It was a joke, I was kidding!” he dismissed her remark as just another air-headed comment, a spin-off from her bimbofied, vacuous head.   Still, she was right about one thing.  It was an unparalleled opportunity he couldn’t let pass.  So with his mother standing at his side, he signed on the dotted line.

 

At home everything was turning up roses for him at well.  His mother was treating him like the star he had always dreamed of becoming.  The fact is, she pampered him silly, and nightly at dinner, she’d endlessly play the News segment that had been broadcast on local TV, featuring him as the “Remarkable Dog Whisperer, and his wondrous talents.”

 

At work, Mrs. Olson was no less exuberant, praising him ad nauseam and catered to his every whim.  Not so with Mr. Gomer however.   He remained as adamant as ever that Michael avail himself to every opportunity to “talks” to the dogs.  All done to establish a ‘collaborative relationship’ you understand.  A relationship in which each strived to meet the needs of the other, and when necessary, broaden the lines of communication to address those special needs between a dog and his bitch.   A need for his service that seemed to be expanding exponentially each day, thanks to Mr. Gomer’s keen observations and astute analysis of the dog’s problem.

 

“Poor fella, just have a look at him,” Mr. Gomer would sum up his observations.  “New place, new faces, everyone tugging on him, no one listening to him, the poor guy really could use a hug and a good ‘talking to’ to set him out on the right foot.”

 

All of which made sense to Michael.   The dog did look a bit unsettled and in need of a little TLC.   So as far as Michael was concerned, Mr. Gomer’s observations and follow up analysis seemed pretty solid.  Where they differed was in his prescribed remedy for the problem.  A solution that had Michael shaking in fright, wishing he’d never dreamt up all of this dog whispering business.   But he had, and now, with so much invested there was nothing for him to do but follow through on his commitment.  Like now, as Mr. Gomer brazenly asked him to hand over his underpants so he could give Thunder a “good talking to.”

 

“Come on, boy, crawl in and talk to the poor bastard before he explodes.  See there, boy . . .,” he said, pointing at the howling, hyper-excited caged goliath inside, his unsheathed cock already hanging down half-way to his knees. “. . . The fuse on that bomb he’s carrying is already lit!”

 

“Let’s get to it, time's a wasting’, sunny boy,” he huffed, unrelentingly persistent, holding out his hand to take possession of his underpants.  Or, as Mr. Gomer dubbed them, his “panties,’ which he’d quickly snatch up wearing a most enigmatic grin, and then just as quickly, handed him a jar of  petroleum jelly in exchange.  A particularly odorous jar of jelly that had been laced with bitch scent.  “Here you go boy, slick ‘her’ up good.  A big glob, else wise the bout ain’t gonna be lasting the whole nine rounds.”

 

“The whole nine rounds!”  The scorn cut through him like a blade.  But that was just the opening bell that came before the pounding he was about to take.  With Round 1 came the posturing and the positioning.  With Rounds 2 thru 5 came the brutal rutting onslaught.  A furious, rapid fire blitzkrieg so overwhelming it rendered him defenseless.  Leaving him to hang on as best he could with his ass driven up midair by his opponent’s dick, his face on the floor scrunched up against the bars in a pool of piss.  All bad enough, but it was the insufferable humiliation of having to endure the slobber that rained down upon his face that truly put him in his place.  A reminder of how lowly he’d fallen in Mr. Gomer’s eyes.  From Mrs. Olson’s star attraction, to a rag, a sop, for a slobbering dog.

 

Then came rounds 6 thru 8 - the knotting.  The rounds in which Mr. Olson let the dog out of his cage so he could proudly strut back and forth down the aisle to showcase his human bitch back peddling behind.  From one dog to the next, Michael was paraded like a plundered wench taken as the spoils of war, and on a particularly warm and sunny day, Mr. Gomer would even open the back door for a few rumps around the poop yard until, at last, the bell struck announcing round 9.

 

The knock out round!  The round the knot finally managed to pop free.  The round where Michael the sop, the rag, would crawl under and diligently bath his opponent’s nether-region until, clean of the smudge all round, his victorious opponent would lift his rear leg to mark his territory, and then for good measure, he’d squat . . .

 

“Let’s go, boy. You can gargle and clean up the stink before you have your talk with Gunner.”

 

“G-G-Gunner?” he stammered and sputtered like an old tractor engine spewing out its foul emissions.

 

“Yes, boy.  New dog, new place, new faces, everyone tugging on him, no one listening to him,” Well, you know the story.  The same as Dozer, poor devil, the wait has just gotta be killing him.  First Clash, then Thunder, now Gunner.  All I can say is, that dog in going to be in a world of hurt by the time you get around to talking to him.   That is, unless you wouldn’t mind holding another one of those group talks for the fellas again.  You know to speed things up so Dozer doesn’t have to wait so long for his talking to.”

 

“Well, what do you say boy, huh? Up for it?  Hell, I could even throw Bane into the mix which ought to be a quadruple shit load of fun.”

 

---

 

A Mother’s Never-ending Wisdom

 

It had been a long, hard, and brutal 8 hours of talking to the animals that day.  While he did manage to talk his way out the tag-team cage match with Bane topping the billing, he did do Dozer and Max by days end, making his walk home a particularly agonizing one.  His ass had not been altogether turned inside out, but as inflamed as it was, the gaping, fluted rim of his protruding anus felt a raging bonfire gone out of control.   All the way home all he could think about was a hot bath with added salts to help relieve the swelling, and hopefully, rid him of the bitch scent that stuck to him like an indelible stain.  A stain that had even infiltrated his clothes, and drew frequent comments from his mother about the curious smell that permeated the air about him.

 

That’s what kept him slogging forward, with shoulders arched back, his hands clutching his super-heated buns until reaching home, he found his mother waiting for him with an unexpected surprise - a surprise that was tantamount to his worse dream come true.

 

“Look, Baby Cakes, it’s Bolt!” she said, bubbling with glee, standing as she was on the porch with both Fluffy and the neighbors dog at her side.  “The Johnson’s asked us to look after him while they’re away on vacation.”

 

Michael knew Bolt, of course.  He wasn’t so much a family dog as he was a “pay for hire gunslinger,” or so he was dubbed by Mr. Johnson, a man whose work necessitated the need for a “bite-first-ask-questions-later” patrol dog around.

 

Still in all, he was a smart, well trained dog and quick as a whip when it came to learning new tricks too.  But he was also a dog with some serious impulse control issues as well.  As in whenever he spotted a bitch in heat.  Just a whiff would send his unmanageability quotient rocketing skyward maddeningly off the charts.  A big problem for a boy whose bottom was still reeking the smell of dog cum and the bitch scent that saturated the air about him.

 

“Mom, please, for goodness sakes, keep him away from me!” He stood his distance, though regrettable, downwind of the trio, two of whom were already sniffing the air.

 

“My goodness, Lamb Chop, what in the world is your problem?” she asked, wrinkling her nose, again getting a whiff of that most peculiar smell.  “You sound like you’ve had a particularly hard day.”

 

“Just keep him away.  It’s not fair to Fluffy,” he thought to use his fuck-buddy as an excuse.  “Do you think he likes having another dog around to gobble up all the goodies?”

 

“Well, Sugar Plum, for your information the two have been getting along like the best of pals so far.  But if you foresee a problem that I don’t, you can take them to your room to have a nice long talk with them.   Take all the time you or they need, Sweetie.  You know, to assure them no one is going to favor one over the other, and that everyone has equal access to the goodies.”

 

“Mom, I could talk to that mean old dog until I was blue in the face and he wouldn’t hear a darn word of it,” He said in a huff.

 

“He isn’t mean, Cupcake, just rambunctious.  But either way, it’s for you three boys to work it out,” she followed as she unclipped his leash setting him free.  In a single leap and a bound, Bolt had Michael’s leg wrapped up in his front paws and began humping his leg like a sex starved chimp.

 

“Oh my!” Marge Dunwoody gasped though her hand covered mouth as she watched her mortified son shuffle off toward the house, dragging his leg behind with the humping dog still attached.   And bringing up the rear was Fluffy, with his tail and his cock each wagging equally enthusiastically.

 

“Well, I guess Mr. Gomer was right,” Marge though to remind herself of what Mr. Gomer told her on the phone.  “A dog whisperer’s job is never done, ma’am.  But rest assured, your boy has got the skills, the talent and the tools to get the job done.  Just point the way and in a minute, 2 tops, he’ll have them rambunctious horndogs locked onto him and tied in to the conversation like chat-starved mates.”

 

Mr. Gomer was certainly the knowledgeable professional that much she felt certain.  And though much of what he had to say was scurrilously cryptic at best and downright profane at worse, Marge, the ditz blonde, saw it all as high praise for her son’s work.

 

But then again, she really didn’t need anyone to remind her of how proud she was of him.  He was a great kid who couldn’t give enough of himself to those who needn’t him the most.  Whether they had 4 legs or 2, no matter their needs he was willing to get down in the muck and do what he must to engage in a dialogue to help anyway he could.

 

Something that was foremost on her mind as she entered the house a few moments behind the tussling trio, catching a glimpse of the boys just as they passed through his bedroom door.   She would have liked to follow, but thinking it best to keep out of the way, she remained where she stood at the end of the hall with an ear to the goings on.  “Just to see if everyone was playing nicely,” she told herself, knowing as she did how ‘rambunctious’ a hound Bolt could be.

 

For what the effort was worth she didn’t learn much of anything other than Michael must have been speaking in tongues.  Just a whole lot of “Ooh’s,” “Ahh’s,” and “Eeee’s,” that didn’t make sense to her at all.  The boys seemed quite tuned into it though, responding to his incoherent rumblings with yaps and howls as if understanding every damn word of it.

 

Still she stood and listened to see when the real communicating would start.  And she hadn’t long to wait.  A minute more and the scuffing sounds of a playful romp between pals broke out.  Again, she couldn’t discern all that much, but from the sounds of huffing and snorting dogs, Mikey’s squealing and the “knocking” sounds of bodies colliding into furnishing, she hadn’t a doubt they were having a bucket load of fun.

 

In an odd sort of way it reminded her of a time when he was much younger celebrating a birthday.  When he and a group of friends played the game Twist-n-Shout* on the living room floor, their tangled bodies tied up in knots, squawking, squealing, groaning and grunting as they struggled in agony to maintain their contorted positions after each spin and turn.

 

“What fun,” she muttered dopily, and not unlike a brain-dead twit.  Still, she felt a comfort knowing the talk session was getting on so very well.   “Something good would come of it,” she felt certain, and now feeling assured, she thought it time to continue on to the Living Room to enjoy the comforts of that glass of wine and the evening sitcoms.

 

By the time “Tahitian Sunset” came on, that glass of wine had suddenly grown to half a bottle.   But no matter how many glasses she had, nothing could drown out the squealing and barking and smacking sounds of body parts that roared with a rumble throughout out the house.  And by the gathering of neighborhood dogs milling about outside the patio window, it was clear those boisterous sounds were being heard outside the house as well.  Some were yapping, some were trying to hump a neighborhood chum, while still others had their snouts pressed to the glass as if snuffing out a scent.

 

Sheesh!  Quiet you silly dogs,” she called out, sounding every bit the dimwit on par with those know-nothing dogs.

 

Of course the scolding did little to deter that horde of rabid dogs, but as the hours grew late and they grow weary they vanished into the night on their own.  In fact, she was about to leave for bed herself when at last Michael hobbled in.  Still walking bow-back with his hands latched on to his super-heated buns, he hobbled over to the sofa and very gingerly sat down beside his mother.

 

Ooo-ah,” he winched as he slowed lowered his rump atop the sofa pillow.

 

“Oh, poor baby, is your bottom hurting you?” She asked, again sounding earnest and genuine, though still looking on dopily, and all too much like a moron who hadn’t a clue.

 

“Yes mom, a little I suppose,” he managed to croak out.”

 

“Oh my, it sounds like you’re about to lose your voice,” she expressed her concern.  “All that talking has worn you down, hum?” She asked as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders to give him a hug, enduring his breath as she did.  Only once close-in, she spotted a dried snails-trail of flakey film pasted to his chin.

 

The crusted, opaque film of who knows what he’d eaten had seeped out from the corner of his mouth, and because of fatigue or neglect he’d as yet wiped it away.  A problem she immediately sought to remedy as she reached out to pick at the film to rid him of the mess.  As she did, she thought to ask him about it, but thought better when he pulled back and away, the sudden reshuffling causing the pain ridden ass to throb.

 

“Mom, please,” he said with a wince.

 

“Oh dear, but you do look stiff and sore.  You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you, Pumpkin?”

 

“Yes mom, its like no matter how many dogs there are for me to talk to, Mr. Gomer always has 10 more lined up waiting their turn.  It’s like never-ending, and all that work isn’t at all easy on my knees or my back or my, ummm . . . other things,” he ended quietly, a bit red-faced, looking away.

 

“Oh, my goodness.  I had no idea Mr. Gomer was such a taskmaster.  Well, let’s see if I can help relieve what ails you.  Are you hungry?  I can see you’ve been snacking on something,” she said while fastidious picking at yet another one of those suspect crusted trails that ran from the corner of his mouth down to his chin.

 

“No doubt candy,” she said softly and caringly, One of those sticky lollipops you like to suck on in lieu of a proper meal.  Well young man, how does a nice warm and delicious bowl of soup sound to you, hum?  I bought you your favorite onion soup and sour dough croutons at the store today.  I know how much you love them.”

 

“Yes mama, that might help,” he said with a wince while shuffling his bottom in effort to easy the pain.

 

“Good,” she beamed wide-eyed and bight, and then bounced up and went to the kitchen to fix him a bite.  For a short while she busied herself with the preparations and when done, she set the soup along with a card upon a tray and brought it in.

 

“Oh yeah, almost forgot,” she said as she sat down beside him, placing the tray upon his lap.  “I bought you something else today.  I saw this while standing in the checkout line and thought it was so cute I simply had to buy it to show you.”

 

“Here you go, have a look,” she said, holding out the card with a picture of a mama chipmunk with her young one hanging on to her leg.  As fat around as she was tall, she had a pair of blue button eyes and fury brown splotches about her snout that looked like freckles.  But most striking of all was her smile, fronted by a pair of huge buck teeth that glistened like diamonds.

 

She was a funny looking roly-poly with a goofy face that had him beaming, but when it came to that vicious little Tasmanian Devil gangling down off her leg, well now, that was another matter entirely.  The little fur ball that was one part fur and 9 parts teeth, and had all 20 of those gleaming white choppers embedded in her leg, all but severing it in two!

 

“I don’t get it, mom.” He managed to cough up, saying as much as he was asking, seemingly a bit perplexed by the odd juxtaposition.

 

“Don’t get it?”  She asked, pointing at the words captured within the speech bubble.

 

“Yeah, I read it.  ‘Can’t live with em, can’t live without ‘em’.  So?  What’s that suppose to mean?”

 

“Well, actually it’s kinda hard to explain,” she said in earnest, now sounding more the meddlesome mother.  “It’s one of those ‘good and the bad’ sorta things.  You know, the yin and the yang, the pleasure and the pain.  I mean, it’s like her baby means everything to her.  He’s more important to her than the air she breathes, and nothing in the world gives her greater pleasure than to tuck him in each night.  But in order to enjoy that wondrous pleasure, she had first to endure the pain he puts her through the day long.   Thus she can’t live with him, and she can’t live without him.”

 

Feeling reasonably comfortable with her answer, she sat there beaming and waiting for the bulb in his head to light up in kind.  But it didn’t, and it wasn’t until she saw his brows crease down still further that she thought to give up on the wait.  “Well, I thought it was funny.  But a young man like you, what do you know about the pain, the suffering, the sacrifices we moms make just to share a moment of pleasure with the one you love.

 

“Oh, I see,” he finally brightened up.  “She’s saying that she might not like being dumped on, but she’s willing to endure the shit he heaps on her because of all that he gives to her.”

 

“Yeah, well, I guess that’s one way of putting it.  Another way might be the way you choose to deal with all the aches and pains and misery that are a by-product of your work.  Rather than tell Mr. Gomer to ease up on you butt, you say nothing and endure the torment regardless, simply because you ‘get off on’ working with those dogs.”

 

“Get off on!” A troubling phrase to be sure, and the fact that she chose to use it caused him to worry.  He looked questioningly at her, but he couldn’t get himself to meet her eyes.  So worried over what she might know, nowhere was the courage to face her.  It would have been tantamount to looking his own demons in the eye.  Something he couldn’t do.  Something he dare not do without in the bargain, losing the one thing he wanted most.  The thing he both feared and by equal measure, longer for - That sweet aftermath that followed the suffering he endured.

 

Or, as his mother’s card expressed so elegantly:  “The thing he couldn’t live with, the thing he couldn’t live without !!!”

 

“Well, you might not want to speak up and tell Mr. Gomer he’d better lighten up, but I can and will.”

 

“No mama, please don’t!” he cried out, all but shedding the tears.

 

“Why not, Baby Cakes?  Is all that hard, butt-busting work you do talking some sense into those know-nothing dogs worth the all the agony?”

 

“Mom, I, ah, I ah . . . , “ he stammered and fretted and wrestled with his feeling, trying to find a way to explain it all away.  “Mom, I’m really not all that sure.  I’m thinking maybe it’s sort of like that card.” He said, pointing at the mama chipmunk.  “That pleasure and pain thing you were talking about.  Where the mama chipmunk can’t live with it, can‘t live without it.   Well, I guess there’s a little of that in me too.  Sometimes it hurts so bad I feel like I’m being ground down to dust.  But afterward . . ., Oh mama, where the dog and I find a way to communicate to the other our wants, needs, and desires, there’s nothing I would trade for it in all the world.  “It just ties it all together for me in a way that makes me feel whole.”

 

“Oh my,” she gasped, “I wouldn’t have thought.  But then what do I know about such things.  Alright I’ll leave it for you and Mr. Gomer to settle on your own.  In the mean time, I think I need buy you something to wear to work that’s better suited for working with all those demanding hounds.  Something that’s lightweight and airy that’ll help keep you cool from top to bottom.”

 

“Thanks, mama.  It does get a bit hot in there.  By the end of the day my undies are sticking to my bums like glue.”

 

“Yes, I know.  I’m the one who has to wash those stinky, smelly things remember.  Lord knows you’ve already ruined more than enough, so there’s definitely a need for you to wear something that’ll help keep you cooler.”

 

“Thanks mom,” he again said with a wince while lifting his bottom to easy the pain - the some total of his day’s work with Thunder, Clash, Gunner, Dozer and Max at work, and Bolt and Fluffy at home.

 

“You’re welcome Honey Bunny,” she offered a motherly smile.  Then as Michael again dove back in to his soup, she quickly turned away to smell the remnants of that crusty film still lingering on her finger tips.

 

“Oh my!” she gasped, her eyes near watering.

 

“What’s the matter, mom?” Michael asked while shoveling in the soup.

 

“Oh nothing, Pumpkin,” she beamed, once turned back around.  “I was wondering where you find the room in you belly for all that soup,” she followed with smirk tilted a degree to the right of lopsided.

 

------

 

 

Undone and Redone

 

For all the hurt he felt, his short walk to work the following day might well have been journey of a thousand miles.  And when at last he arrived, he was greeted by Mr. Gomer wearing a snide look in his craggy face.  Standing out front, he stood as unstirred as a vulture with his grim determination to do his worse written across his brow.  All of it going to make Michael feel as used as the rag Mr. Gomer always kept handy hanging from his belt.  The cleaning rag that if not for him, the old kennel keeper would be using to sop up the urine and wipe off the smudges.

 

Mornin’ boy!  It looks like you got a little hitch to your giddy-up this morning,” he said, wearing the smirk of a man now licensed to do his worse.  “Must have been that last minute tag team match up with Dozer and Max that gotcha, huh boy?  Mean bastards to be sure, but like I told you, there’s no picking and choosing in this dog whispering business.  No rest for the weary either.  Especially today, cuz we got us a full house, and your day ain’t done until you’ve done talking with all them know-nothing bastards.  So, come on, boy, get naked, time's a’ wasting!”

 

“Right here, right now?” he woefully whined, wearing the most direful look.

 

“Yes boy, its best that you do.  That is if you hope to get around to ‘talking’ to all those ornery, know-nothing horndogs.” 

 

“So get with it, pants first, boy!”

 

To be asked to strip naked out in the open where anyone and everyone could see, shamed him to a painful degree.  But as this was Mr. Gomer’s world not his, he began to shed his clothes, “Pants first,’ something that coaxed out a gut level laugh from a visibly charmed Mr. Gomer.

 

“Damn, boy.  Where in the hell did you get those?”  With his pants in hand Michael looked down at his new underpants.  And then with his face lit up as pink as the ‘panties’, he dolefully whispered. “My mom.”

 

“Your mom?  She done give you those?  Then she knows, huh, boy?  You told her.”

 

“No, no, I didn’t, honest.  She was just concerned that’s all.  She saw me hobbling and when I told her my butt felt like it was on fire, she gave me these to help cool me off.”

 

Mr. Gomer’s gut-level laugh turned a roar that echoed through the yard.  Damn boy, you’re one dumb shit.  Of course she knows you’ve been bitching yourself out to the dogs.  She might be as dumb and ditzy as they come, but it don’t take no Einstein to figure out you’ve been fucking that mutt of yours for years.  It’s just her dimwitted way of telling you it’s okay with her, them panties her seal of approval.  So, get with it boy.  Your mama is expecting to be nursing a well fucked bitch when you get home, and it won’t do to disappoint.  Got me, boy?”

 

Michael stood with mouth open, his breath attracting the dung flies, his mind lost in a fog trying to comprehend the implications of what he’d just been told.  Of course he’d always wanted to believe his mother didn’t know about what went on between him and Fluffy, but in his heart of hearts he knew there was no way she couldn’t have known.  And if she did know, wasn’t that the same as giving her unspoken approval?

 

Still he couldn’t be certain, and the unknowing stuck in his craw like the pungent taste of dog dick.  So, yeah, it bothered him, but as the dogs were going to have their way with his throat and his ass regardless, it really didn’t matter anyway.  All he knew was that while the demands put upon him by the dogs were hard and insufferable, he longed to surrender to them regardless, simply because that overwhelming sensation of a warm, throbbing cock cozily nestled up his ass wasn’t a bargain he was prepared to make.

 

So instead of walking away and telling Mr. Gomer to fuck off, he simply lowered his head and mumbled.  Mr. Gomer couldn’t tell if he was whining or praising heaven, but as he continued to add the rest of his clothed to the pile, Mr. Gomer knew with a certainty his wouldn’t be disappointing his mother tonight.   And then, when bare ass naked, he ushered Michael inside and paraded him down the aisle like a stripper, minus the pasties, strutting the catwalk.  His waddling ass causing such a stir that every dog they passed looked to be on the cusp of busting a nut.

 

The frenzied outbreak left him shaking and dizzy with fear of the coming onslaught that would soon be coming his way.  The ruckus being such that he hadn’t ever noticed Mr. Gomer’s departure until he reappeared from out his office carrying a folding chair.  Setting it immediately in front of Gunner’s cage, he sat down and pat his knee.

 

“Come here, boy,” he said, pulling him over by the wrist and then bent him like a bow over his knee, leaving his face to fall flat to the mat (floor) like a boxer after a knockout blow.

 

Michael’s eyes rolled up and back straining the limits of his peripheral vision only to see Mr. Gomer smiling back down at him from beyond his vaulted rump.

 

“No bloody nose, huh,” he grinned like a droll, “Well that’s good for starters.  Now I’m going to lube you up real good before you say hello to the fellas.  You know how much they love a primed puss oozing with that rank dog bitch smell.”

 

Michael’s face paled upon hearing Mr. Gomer equate his butt to that of dog bitch in heat.  But with his face mashed flat to the floor surrounded by a roomful of rabid dogs lusting after him that’s exactly how he felt.  But all that paled in comparison to the indignity he felt when the craggy faced old kennel keeper spread his cheeks to get a good look at his angry-red and horrifically swollen asshole.  His bitch hole as Mr. Gomer cheerfully christened it.

 

“Shit, boy, what’cha bitch’in about?  This pretty little lady is looking just fine.  Blushing pink cheeks, enflamed red lips and the prettiest damn smile; no wonder the boys love her.  She a pretty little package, a perfect fit for the little guys, but not so much the big hitters like Turbo, Nitro and Bane.  What we’ve got to do is open her up some, both girth and depth-wise so her one size fits all.  Big, small or titanic, no matter the size of the package your fuck buddy is carrying, he’s gonna find your bitch hole a comfortable fit.”

 

“It’ll be a sorta win-win,” he chuckled while his brazen fingers continued to prod, knead, and toy with fluted rim of his anus, pressed as it was between his cheeks and looking for all the world like two plump, slices of a peach.  A shame that grew by the multiples when Mr. Gomer spread his cheeks further yet to peer inside his ‘bitch hole’.

 

“Huh!  I can see she’s already started to ooze a bit of lubricant of her own.  But it’s no where near enough for today’s outing,” he said with just enough edge to his voice to worry Michael.  A worry that grew to near panic when saw Mr. Gomer reached down to grab hold of that tub of petroleum jells laced with bitch scent and began to lube up his hand while neglecting his puss.

 

“Look there , boy,” he said, as a way of distraction, pointing at Gunner standing up upon his hind leg, his near foot long cock bolt uptight and waving to and fro.

 

“See there boy, he’s waving to you.  He’s calling you over to join him, just like a horned-up guy waving to a hooker standing on the corner to come join him. But since he’s got no arms, he’s using that big fat dick of his, which is as good as any arm.  Maybe even better given its multi-functionality.  He can shove that arm up your ass and make you cry, then put a smile on your face when he pulls out and waves good-bye.”

 

“How good is that, boy.  Not only does he have a world class dick size-wise, but it offers all the versatile of a Swiss Army Pocketknife.” He chuckled, again with a tinge of the diabolical while he busied himself lathering up his hand with that bitch scent laden Petroleum Jelly.

 

“What are you doing, Mr. Gomer?”  Michael felt the need ask.  With all that talk about arms being shoved up somebody’s ass, he was getting a bit worry.

 

“Nothing, boy, just doing what I gotta do, spreading the jelly on the bread, that’s all.  Just spreading the jelly in case someone gets hungry.”

 

“Hungry?”

 

“Yeah, hungry.  Why you asking, you hungry?” he eyed him with a leer cuttingly sharp.

 

Michael could do nothing but cough up the tongue he felt as if he’d just swallowed.  And now with his voice now lost to him, there was nothing more he could but look on anxiously.  His angst growing by the multiples when he saw Mr. Gomer begin spreading that “jelly” down his hand to his wrist.

 

“Oh, lookie there, boy,” Mr. Gomer again sought to divert his attention, pointing toward Rosco housed in the cage just to his right.  “Now there’s a damn horndog with a heart.  He’s dying to blast your ass to smithereens, but not so heartless as to let you go hungry before he does.”

 

And true enough, once Michael had managed to roll his eyes that way, he saw Rosco likewise standing upon his hind legs, only his cock was sticking through the bars with cum dripping down into a dog bowl placed outside the cage door.  Colored pink with “Mikey” written on the side, the bowl was filled to the brim with Beefy-Boy dog food, the empty can adorned with smiling face standing along side.

 

“Your lunch bowl, sunny boy.  Now you can leave the sack lunches at home in favor of Chucks and Gravy frosted with heaping portion of dog cum.  Think of it as a supplement to your daily intake of dog nut soup,” Gomer chuckled, while Michael agonized, his heart filled with dread, feeling a bit like the guest of honor at a cannibal soirée.

 

From the horde of rutting dogs to the dog food and all the indignities therein, the whole of it felt a nightmare come true.  And should he needed any further conformation on how true that was, all he had to do was roll his eyes any which way he could.  Spike, Ratchet, Boomer, Turbo, Tank, Nitro, Tomahawk  . . .  and well, the whole fucking lot of that Dirty Dozen stoked his fears to nightmare proportions, only returning to the nightmare at hand when he looked up and saw Mr. Gomer removing his wristwatch.

 

“We don’t want that getting in the way, now do we boy?” he said as he put his watch aside then began spreading the grease down his forearm.  And when at last he had finished lubing every square millimeter down to the elbow, he held his arms up like a surgeon raising his scrubbed hands to be gloved.

 

“Here ya go, boy,” he said, positively giddy and smiling like the proverbial cat with a mouthful of canary.  “Just a little snack to stave off the hunger.”  It’ll fill you up good, and prep you proper for the fellas,” he chuckled as he again stuck his thumbs inside his ‘bitch hole’ and spread it full wide so he could whittle first one, then two, then all four fat fingers up his ass to the knuckles.

 

“Ouch, ouch, ahhh- EEEEEEEEEEEE!T” He screamed through grit teeth. “Please, please, don’t,” he pleaded as Mr. Gomer balled up his thumb in effort to get the whole hand in.  “I’m not hungry, I’m not hungry . . . “he babbled near incoherently, now well passed the point of panic, feeling his knuckles forcibly pushing against the gateway.

 

Ooough, Ahh, SHeeeeT!”  He shrieked like a lunatic.  “No-no, please, no!  Gunner says he wants me!

“Ouch, ouch, stop, stop, please, Gunner wants me.  He likes my bitch hole the way it is!” He wailed like a siren.

“Oh, oh, AAUGH!  Stop-stop, Gunner say’s he wants to fuck me now!  He told me, he told me.  Take it out!  Take it out!”  He rattled off whatever he could think of to forestall what was coming.

 

“Huh!  You say Gunner told you that?” Mr. Gomer queried, looking on questioningly.  Though thankfully, his hand stopped pressing.”

 

“Yes, yes,” he panted, laboring for breath. “He’s talking to me.  He says he wants you to take your hand out so he can fuck me now, sir.”

 

“You being squire with me boy?  You ain’t pulling my leg none, are you?”

 

“No, no, honest, he and me are whispering,” he cried out in desperation.  “He says he doesn’t what you to fuck me with your fist.”

 

“Hum, well maybe tighter opposed to looser works good for him, but what about the other hounds.  You can't tell me Nitro likes having to labor like a plow horse to get that rolling pin of his up your tight ass.”

 

“Yes, yes, Nitro too.  He says it feels good.  He say’s my tight bitch hole is the best.  He wants me tight!  Please, please, don’t loosen me up!”” he cried out, only now tinged with a bit of optimism.

 

Humm, well then, what about Turbo?  You can't tell me he likes have to work harder than a trench digger just to bury that blood engorged grapefruit of his up your bitch-pit.”

 

“Oh yes, yes, yes, Turbo too!  He says he likes forcing his knot up me.  He likes it, he likes it,” he continued to plead, beg, pray, hoping against hope he’d managed to convince him to put out his hand.

 

“Huh!  Damn, I wouldn’t have guessed.  Well then, what about Titan, or bigger yet, Bane?  You’d be hard pressed to squeeze that Horse-size package of his into a in a golf bag, let alone up your ass.

 

“Oh gawd!“  He gulped.  “Yes sir, I mean, no sir, I mean. . . Turbo, Nitro, Bane, you said it wouldn’t be right to ask me to do them.  You said so yourself and didn’t make me do it.  But I will, I mean, I’ll try, and if they’re to big to fit, I’ll reach back and spread  my bitch hole myself to make it bigger.  I’ll do anything and everything to please them if you would please, please don’t put your arm up me.”

 

“You’re gonna open up her up to fit Bane’s monster fire hose too, right?”

 

“Oh, I ah, I ah . . . , “ he stammered and sputtered, then finally managed to utter a “Yes!!” his voice tailing off into a mournful whimper.

 

“And when he’s is done dumping his ball juice up you ass, you gonna turn around and swallow his shank down your throat so he don’t gotta lift his leg to mark his territory?”

 

Yesssss, oh gawd . . , somehow,” he moaned sorrowfully.

 

“And when he squats . . .?”

 

Ooooh,” was all he could manage, now feeling so thoroughly beaten down he had no choice but to give up, give in, and surrender to the suffering.

 

“To hell with the bucket and the rags, huh, boy?  Whatever it takes to please the dogs.”

 

Yessss!” he groaned in a scarcely audible tone, now fearing his demise as the noose continued to tighten around his neck.

 

“Good boy,” he pulled out his hand with a pop, then found himself struggling to stifle a smile when the thunderous fart that followed spat out a watery spray of mucosa and jelly.

 

“I thing you learned something today, boy.” He said with a smug, self-congratulatory smile while wiping his hand clean.

 

“Oh yes, yes sir, thank you, thank you,” he exhaled a sigh, relieved as he was that the threat was now gone.”

 

“No need to thank me, boy.  I weren’t goin’ to do it no ways!”

 

“You weren’t?” his eyes burst open in surprise, stunned as he was by the bomb Mr. Gomer had just tossed his way.

 

“Fuck no, boy!  What’cha take me for.  I’m an old fart whose been known to act a bit loony when I’ve drunk a bit too much, but I ain’t crazy.  I just wanted to set you right with the truth.”

 

“The truth?” He squinted thought his one-eyed squashed face.

 

“Damn, you still don’t get it, do ya?  It ain’t about the damn dogs, it’s about you!”

 

“Look here boy, I just threatened to bust up your ass faster than the Death Star can bust up a planet, and what did you do?  Nothing!  Yeah, sure you squirmed n’ begged n’ ran through every excuse you could think of, but in the end you did what you always do.  You gave up, caved in to the hurt I was threatening to put on you.”

 

“It’s the same with the dogs.  You can’t say no to them just like you can say no to me.  You can’t because beyond the pain there’s something in it for you too.  A reward, sort of speak.”

 

“With me, your reward was the promise of owning a one size fits all bitch-ditch to better please the dogs, the big hitters and small alike.  With the dogs it was the pleasures you’d be feeling once you’ve got one of them big dicked bastards cozily nestled up your ass as nicely a silk glove fits a woman’s hand.

 

“In short, it’s that ol’ pleasure and the pain thing.  The thing you can’t live with, but can’t live without!”

 

“Now do you understand me boy?”

 

“Can’t live with, can’t live without!”  For the first time in his life Michael felt all the stars in his life had finally aligned, and to a one, they all pointed in his direction.  His mom, Mr. Gomer and all the hopes and dreams of a ‘Dog Whisperer’ who simply wanted to find a way to weave together all the pieces to make himself whole.   And now, thanks to Mr. Gomer, he felt as though he’d finally arrived where he belonged.

 

“Yes, sir, I mean Victor!  Thank you!!” he replied, facing down and tinted a share of red, only now coming to grips with it all.

 

“No problem, boy.”  Maybe I ain’t no whisperer or nothing, but I got my ways, and sometimes even two-legged critters can learn a thing or two from me too.”

 

“Well, now that we got us an understanding, I think it’s past time we get this show on the road.  Where do you want to start, boy?”

 

“Bane!” he answered, without a hint of reflection, and beaming an emphatic smile.

 

“Damn boy, talk about jumping from the frying pan and into the fire.  You want me to add his name to your Dirty Dozen, make it a baker’s dozen?”

 

“No sir, I want you to make it a baker’s dozen + 3 more,” he replied with a nod toward Nitro, Titan and Turbo.

 

“Good boy.  Well then, come along bitch boy, it’s time Bane gets his chance to smash your ass to hell.”  And with that, he stood up and followed behind as Michael led the way over to Bane’s cage. Then as the two of them stopped to study that 180 lbs worth of massive, and one ear short of a fighter with an unblemished record, Mr. Gomer thought to say.  “Damn boy, I hope 13 don’t turn out to be your unlucky number.”

 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Gomer.  I can talk some sense into him.”

 

“Yeah, okay kid, I just hope it ain’t in tongues.”

 

“Well boy, what’cha say, you ready get on with it?  Time's a wasting’!”

 

And Michael did, and when the door was closed behind and that barrel-chested thuggish brute latch on to his ass and drove that shank so far up it looked to reconfigure his internals, only then could Mr. Gomer see in his eyes the closest thing to euphoria he’d ever seen. . .  With his face smashed up flat against the bars and his eyes blown open like he’d swallowed a grenade, he hung there, midair, tied to Bane’s cock with that glazed-over, faraway look of a boy set adrift in a sea of infinite bliss.

 

”Good, boy,” Gomer purred, while Michael, seemingly lost to this world, continued to babble an incoherent, if not animalized, progression of utterances.  “You’re speaking his language now, boy,” the old kennel-keep chuckled.  “. . .  and he’s hearing yah just fine!”

 

The End, or . . .

 

------

 

I got a part 2.  It may get posted, it may not.  It all depends on whether the story remains posted or gets bumped due to my having inadvertently offended the sensibilities of one bloke or another.   If I did then I apologize, cuz that wasn’t my intent.  I only sought to provide an intelligible read, one that explores the pleasure and pain that come with sex with animals, and how such acts can quickly become more an affliction than a joy.  It I got that point across then the story works.  If not, well, least you’ve been warned.

 

 

 

*Twist-n-Shout.  Not a product affiliated with any Milton Bradley, Parker Brothers or any other toy or game company who publishes a product that might be construed as have a similar purpose, name or activity in which the objective is to inflict agony on the participants.

 

 

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