1. Peanut Butter


    Date: 10/2/2015, Categories: First Time, Group Sex, Taboo, Author: stif266, Rating: 94, Source: xHamster

    pain in the ass it is adopting a dog from the pound. It was almost impossible. Bureaucratic red tape was nearly as annoying as the intrusive, personal questions they asked--some only this side of offensive--including inquirers about my own personal hygiene, what kind of house I kept, did I have a yard the dog could play in, were their other dogs in the neighborhood or c***dren accused of a****l cruelty, and did I understand the responsibilities of keeping a large canine in the house. &#034I understand very well,&#034 I said coldly, after my third round of questioning. Why didn't I simply go out and buy a dog? Eventually, Jake was allowed to come home with me. In preparation, I had traded my Toyota Avalon for a Toyota Highlander, an SUV. I had the people at PetsMart install a barrier between the backseat and the cargo area. I had collars and leashes, a bed and flea collars, rawhide chews and enough Purina Dog Chow to feed the entire population of the pound for a week. Picking Jake up, I walked him around the Highlander and let him sniff the tires, inspect the front seats, nose around the back seat, then coaxed him into the cargo area with the help of a pound employee, a pimply-faced, greasy-haired 16-year-old with the smug expression of someone who knew another person's intimate intentions. I wondered how many unmarried woman adopted large dogs from the pound. Jake's bed went at the foot of my bed. I tried nothing for a week, paranoid that Jake would be reclaimed by the ...
    pound—Sorry, Ma'am. Jake is the lost pet of State Senator William F. Burroughs and the senator's limo is waiting outside for him. Or that Jake would prove to be defective in some way other than his lame paw; maybe he was a trained fighter that would attack at the slightest indication of weakness. Could offering peanut butter between the legs be considered a sign of weakness? Mostly, I was terrified that Jake wouldn't like me, would scoff at my offering, would blow me off with the doggie version of disdain. Worse, I was terrified he'd run away at the first opportunity. I spent the first week petting him, stuffing him with food, brushing his thick, black wiry coat, and letting him lay on the couch with me when I watched movies. I was the perfect owner, that first week. Finally, my moment of truth arrived. I had brought Jake home on a Friday afternoon. Saturday evening following, around eight o'clock, I locked the doors and lowered the blinds and drew all the curtains. I was beyond antsy; my entire frame shook from excessive adrenalin. I looked in the hall mirror and the person reflected was scared to death. Why, I don't know, as I had copulated with a dog only the week before. Copulated, and had invited him in me. Why was this different? Because you went to a lot of trouble to make this a permanent arrangement, I reminded myself. This is no one-time mistake, no brain-glitch, no fluke. This took planning and forethought. A commitment. Commitment scares you. Commitment to insanity ...
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