"Dog Lover_s Diary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kepple Horst)

Chapter 6 "Gourmet Pooch"

August 23, 1972

Dear Diary: Gosh, I don't know where to begin. Things have been jumping since I graduated in June. All my dreams are coming true! Whoa, slow down girl… calm yourself or the story will never get told. From the beginning, and cool…

Weird Harold was really freaked when I told him about Hollywood and the commercial try-out. He "put his foot down" and said no wife of his was going to get involved with all those L.A. faggots. I said that was fine with me and that he'd hear from my lawyer in the morning. Old Groveling Bear shit his pants when I started packing. He got really mealy mouthed, whining and whimpering about how he didn't mean it and not to leave him.

Asshole! To teach him a lesson he'd never forget, I told him when I got back from my screen test I wanted permanent separate bedrooms. That really got him good. Of course, we already had separate beds. I made sure they were installed in our new house before I set foot in the place. Anyway, Harold stopped sniveling and went into a sulk. I loved his sulks. They meant he'd keep out of sight and out of mind.

Not that he'd been around enough lately to cramp my style. The giant turkey himself was in L.A. more than he was in Langousta, what with his big negotiations with the Rams For some reason the talks had bogged down after he got out of high school. Something about his not being "vicious" enough on the field. I guess they expected him to cannibalise his victims or something.

Pop was in the hospital, undergoing exploratory surgery, but Mom insisted that she be allowed to accompany me to the screen test. I was so stunned by her callousness that I didn't tell her to go fuck herself, like I should've. All the way down on the plane I had to listen to her detailed instructions on the proper carriage, smile, and table manners of a successful model… things she knew absolutely nothing about. When I put on the stereo earphones to block her harping, nagging chatter, she assaulted every passenger in earshot, telling them about me, about how wonderful I was, about my big break in commercials. If her safety belt had been six inches longer, I would've strangled her with it.

Wally Baxter and Lenore were waiting for us at L.A. International. They totally ignored my Mom and rushed up to me giving me big sexy hugs.

Wally had lost some hair. He had deep widow's peaks but I kind of liked them. He was super tan as usual and when he squeezed me I could feel something hot and hard pulse under his Bermudas right against my mound.

Lenore hadn't cut her hair, I was glad to see that. And she'd gotten if anything a little bigger in the tit department. Later, she told me it was from the pill. She was wearing a loosely weaved knit top and I could see the large mocha-coloured nipples I'd loved to suck on as a kid. They brought a lump to my throat, let me tell you.

"This is how you dress for work?" I asked the beaming ad. man.

"Hey, Polly, things are casual down here," he said, stroking the wrinkles out of his Arnold Palmer style knit golf shirt.

"Especially when you're on unemployment," Lenore said shrewishly.

Wally gave her a look that was intended to kill. "Yeah, I got the sack," he confessed to me. "But that's got nothing to do with this deal I called you down about…"

On the way to the studio, Lenore was saddled with Mom in the back seat, while Wally explained things to me in the front. It seemed this nationally known, canned dog food company had commissioned Wally's agency to do a customer survey to find out who was buying their products and to direct a new ad campaign towards them. Wally got hold of the results before the dog food people, put two and two together and called me. I wasn't too clear on what the "two and two" were, or how he decided that I'd be what they'd want, but it was a little late to be suspicious … we were pulling up at the security gate of Sokolow Studios, a huge, block-long complex of beige stucco, aircraft hangar looking buildings somewhere east of Western Avenue.

Wally explained to the uniformed guard who we were and what we were there for. After a short phone call and a check of a list on a clipboard the sentry waved us past. After a bit of driving around, we found "Sound Studio D," which was where the tests were being held.

Once we were inside the monstrous cave of a building, Mom went nuts with her helpful hints and keen insights. Lenore, with keen insight of her own, dragged Mom off to the water cooler and stuffed a Thorazine down her throat.

Wally introduced me to Major Scampi, agent for the company and director of the screen tests. Major was his first name, not a military rank. He was sitting in a director's chair. He wore a pair of those funny riding pants with the over-sized thighs, knee high boots, a Venetian gondolier T-shirt… large red and white stripes… and a dark blue beret. When he stood up to kiss my hand, I saw how short he was. He had a hump on his back, too.

"Charmed, charmed, my dear," Scampi said, patting my hand. His brown bug eyes kind of rolled over me, starting at my cunt and stopping at the firm peaks of my tits. "Show her to wardrobe, won't you, Wally-baby? The other girls are already there."

Wally ushered me to the costume room. A dried-up old bag handed me a string bikini that looked like three knots in a piece of drapery sash.

It was opaque and white and the kind of thing that could get a girl arrested up in Langousta. What the hell, I thought. When in Babylon…

The dressing room was crowded with girls in their late teens, blondes, redheads, brunettes. Girls with one other thing in common, aside from their ages… They were SEX-Y! I'd never seen such oodles of smooth baby fat, high, round buns, downy, fragrant muffs… not even in my cheer-leading days back at old Langousta. Every one of these girls was a silky smooth, stone soul fox. I tell you, it brought out the dyke in me.

I must've been gawking pretty openly because the girl on my left, a tall, big-breasted blonde with a beauty parlour natural paused in rolling her tiny, white cunt cover, the string bikini bottom. over her abundant. black snatch.

"This is your first time, huh, baby?" she asked, putting a hand on her jutting hipbone. She had a pair of hips that would not quit, shaped like a lyre, sleek and curvy.

"Uh… yes," I managed to say, staring at her swaying, pink tipped jugs.

She stretched her arms up over he head-just for me-and the droppy tips of her soft tits lifted, arching magnificently. "You'll get used to all this, sister…" she said, indicating the plethora of pulchritude.

The word "sister" sent chills up my spine.

"… It's the out there you got to worry about," she continued. "Those goddamn mutts!" She turned her luscious back on me to display a double row of teeth marks in her plump right buttock. "I was here yesterday.

Got those beauties from the sponsor's registered trade mark, Chef Fido, right in the middle of the screen test. That black sonofabitch attacked me without warning… goddamn psychopath! I was bending down, reaching for his dish, saying my one big line, and the next thing I knew the script girl, key grip and cameraman were trying to get his jaws off my ass. My agent threw a shit fit, of course. and he bullied Scampi into re-shooting my test today with a different Chef Fido. It's a hell of a way to make a living, sister."

I made sympathetic noises while I got undressed.

"Hey, you got a nice little muff there," the blonde said, bending down to adjust her sandals and letting her nose just graze my fuzz.

That shook me up good. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing her by the ears and dragging her face into my box. "Are all the chicks here switch hitters?" I asked.

She looked at me aghast. "Switch? Christ, no. We're all straight… straight homos," she said with a laugh. "Come on, lets get this thing over with…"

Well, at least, I figured I had one thing up on most of the chicks… I wasn't scared of dogs. As we filed out of the dressing room, we were each given a slip of paper with our one big line on it. God! You should've heard all those half nude cuties mumbling the words, trying different versions, different inflections out on the insipid phrase.

The line was: "Chef Fido's Gourmet Pooch is doggy dee-lishus!"

A chick in glasses made us go single file through a door marked "Make Up," where a natty little twerp dusted our tits and asses with anti-shine powder and sent us on our way. Another line formed at the entrance to the actual filming area. Wally and Lenore waved at me and held up crossed fingers as they dragged my tranquillised Mom into the studio. Was Mom ever wasted!

I could hear this wild, nervous barking coming from the studio. Despite my non-fear of dogs, the crazy, in-bred savagery in the yapping made me jumpy. And Major Scampi's voice, a high pitched shriek, shouting instructions at the girls being tested didn't help at all. The distance between me and the door way dwindled and then, way too soon to suit me, Big Blondie said, "Well, here goes nothing, sister…" and undulated into the studio.

I peered around the doorway and saw giant, expensive looking cameras, a maze of overhanging lights, and a set made to look like the average kitchen in an average $75,000 house. Big Blondie was consulting with Scampi, taking her stage directions. Over in the corner, sitting on a purple velvet throw cushion was a black poodle. No ordinary poodle, either. For one thing he was a giant. Must've stood 30 inches tall at the shoulder. For another thing, he was wearing a huge, white chef's hat. He was trimmed in the usual poodle lion style, only on him it was really effective. I mean that dog had muscles and then some.

He took one look at Big Blondie and started in with the howling.

"Woo-woo-woo-woorahh!" he articulated most distinctly.

Major Scampi looked like he was about at his wits end, what with the dog's baleful outbursts and the unprofessional efforts of the assorted teeny-bobbers.

"No, goddamnit, you stupid cunt," he snarled, "you've got it ass-backwards! Bend over and then reach for the can…

When she'd gotten the little choreography bit together, the dog handler, who looked exactly like Mr. Clean, earring and all, brought Chef Fido over. The introductions were brief and to the point. Mr. Clean slipped the choke chain off the big dog, and the big dog went for Blondie's throat. End of screen test.

After the agent was dragged away, screaming lawsuit, it was my turn. I figured the vibes were so bad I didn't stand a chance so I just kind of relaxed and, as Tara would've said, "fluxed with the flux and flowed with the flow."

"Alright, honey-buns, get that keester over here "Scampi growled.

I'd watched Blondie go through the routine so many times I knew it by heart already. But Scampi felt he had to go over everything with me, step by step, so I humoured him. We did a quick run-through without Chef Fido and I amazed the director by being letter perfect.

"Alright!" he exclaimed, turning to the dog trainer. "Come on, you nelly … get that black turd over here… and keep the fucking choke chain on him this time!"

Scampi looked up at me and grinned this big, phony grin. "Heh-heh-heh," he said, "you aren't afraid of doggies, are you? Heh-heh."

"No," I answered matter-of-factly, watching Mr. Clean give commands to the huge poodle.

In psychology class, Mr. van Demis taught us about Pavlov and how he taught dogs to drool at the sound of a dinner bell. Mr. van Demis didn't say a word about girls teaching themselves to drool at the sight of a dog. Lordy. Did I ever have an urge to bend over and take a long, loving look at Chef Fido's monster parts! In his white hat, he was about the sexiest thing on four legs. I mean it. He had this glistening black nose and a pair of black eyes that sparkled underneath his curly bangs. God, it was his tongue, though, that made my pussy pucker up. It was long and creamy pink and covered with the tastiest bumps and ridges. I could imagine that thing drilling into my cunt, his sweet drool easing the way. Suddenly I got scared that my twat would give me away, you know, start gushing lubricant and stain the white bikini. It felt so wet down there!

"Miss… uhh?" Scampi said, faltering. "Oliver… "I prompted. "Polly Oliver."

"Yeah, meet Chef Fido… Let him sniff your hand, honey."

I was prepared to let him sniff more than that, for as long as he wanted. Mr. Clean gave the dog slack and, nails screeching on the linoleum, Chef Fido lunged at me.

"Hole-ee-shit!" Scampi cried. "Would you look at that!"

I held my hand right in front of my cunt and the sweet dog bathed it in his hot drool. Ooh. he was a darling. I could tell from the way his nostrils flared that it wasn't just my hand he was sniffing, either. His pom-pom of a tail was wagging and his eyes were twinkling.

"Ooh, what a good boy you are!" I cooed to him.

"Woo-woo-woo-woo-rahh!" he howled, raising his muzzle skyward.

"He just wants some love, that's all," I said to Scampi, kneeling down and pressing my thighs against his super-silky and super-dense curls. I rubbed his ears real good and he sat down, plopped right down on the linoleum and bathed in the attention I lavished on him.

"Goddamn! That's a happy dog!" Scampi said. "That's the way Chef Fido's supposed to look. Let's do a take before he changes his mind. Places!

Places everybody! This is a take. Camera!"

Everyone froze in their assigned positions.

"Action!" Scampi cried.

Let me tell you, I was walking on air as I strutted through the sliding glass doors at the back of the kitchen set. I let it all hang out. Not lewdly, mind you, but very young, demure, new-at-all-this-sex-stuff but loving every minute of it… the kind of tight, tender thing that would drive a paedophile into a deep coma.

One of the camera men groaned out loud, but Scampi made the "keep rolling" sign and strangled his megaphone, glaring daggers at the offender.

Chef Fido was supposed to be responding to the ultra-high frequency whistle commands of Mr. Clean. I couldn't tell if he really was or not.

Everything just seemed to come together. It was like the happy poodle could read my mind.

I walked over to the long, ceramic tile counter, stood on tiptoes to open a high cupboard-while an overhead camera leered down the front of my tiny bikini top-and selected a can of Gourmet Pooch. The label read:

"Canard a l'orange aux cerises."

Pausing to smile lovingly at the be-hatted poodle who was sitting calmly and wagging his tail, waiting patiently in front of his cut crystal food dish, I inserted the wide, flat can in the electric can opener and zip!

Off with its top! Then I picked up the sterling silver tablespoon from the counter and dipped it into the wonderfully aromatic contents of the tin. The smell actually made my mouth water.

Following the stage directions, I left the can on the counter top and leaned down towards the dish. I could feel the floor camera zoom in on my cleavage. God! I didn't realise the incredible strain that was put on the flimsy top when I reached up sideways and over my head for the can.

My nipples stuck out of the postage stamp cups like gumdrops under saran wrap.

I got hold of the can without having a tit burst free, and dumped the rich, golden brown sauce, crisp bits of duck skin, strips of boiled duck meat, and bright red cherries into Chef Fido's crystal dish.

The dog looked up at me with eyes full of something more than love or hunger for food. His nose was maybe six inches from my already aroused pussy. I wasn't worried, though. To the folks at home, the deliriously happy dog face caught in the overhead camera would seem full of adoration, not carnal desire.

His ears twitched ever so slightly as the whistled command to eat was repeated a third time. Then he dove into the food with a vigor that was truly amazing.

I held the can, with the gold and green label showing, just below my jutting tits. And, following the script with undisguised relish, I sniffed it deeply, then, as if I could not control myself, deny myself a little naughtiness. I dipped a long nailed fingertip in the can, picking up a dollop of orange sauce and using the moist tip of my tongue, licking it into my mouth.

"Chef Fido's Gourmet Pooch is doggy deelishus!" I exclaimed, giving my stiff finger a last wet lick.

"Cut!" Scampi shouted.

The overhead camera man was staring down at Chef Fido and me, mumbling,

"Oh Jesus, oh Jesus…"

I looked down at the smiling dog and nearly swooned. He had the biggest, most gorgeous erection I'd ever seen! His cock was about the size of a two hundred pound black man's, only glistening and juicy, and a deep pink like his tongue. The head on it was shaped just like a human pud, cap, nerve bundle, and all, except it had that fantastic 'skinned' look, that savage, raw meat style that I'd grown so accustomed to.

I reached out and rubbed his curly chest, my palm aching, temples throbbing, unable to resist the temptation to touch his hard cock. As my hand slid lower, Mr. Clean came up with the choke chain.

"Oh, crap!" he said upon seeing the engorged tool of his charge. He glared at me, his shaved head glowing red in embarrassment.

"Ha-ha-ha," Scampi laughed, pointing at the blushing man. "Jealous… jealous…" he chided the trainer.

Then the hunchback turned to the line of fidgeting girls still waiting for their big chance. "Send those prick teasers home. We've found our little dog lover," he said, grinning at him.

Wally and Lenore rushed up and congratulated me. Mom was passed out in her seat.

"What'd I tell you, Scampi?" Wally said, wringing his hand. "Great little actress, huh?"

Scampi winced at the pressure applied to his hand. "Yeah, I got to hand it to you, Baxter. This little muff's really got it." He gave my bottom a friendly squeeze. "Shall we talk turkey?"

I just looked blank, so Wally explained that it was time to negotiate a contract and offered to be my agent. Of course I took him up on it. I mean after all, I owed him a lot.

We signed a standard five commercial deal, with royalties and everything, and an option to renew if the campaign was a success. I left the studio a very happy, very wealthy girl.

"Wow, Wally," I said once we were back in his car. "That sure is some crazy dog food…"

Wally smiled at me. "You haven't seen anything yet. Wait 'til you taste their rack of lamb persillade or the pigeon farci bohemienne, and then talk to me about crazy…"

"Hey, I really don't get it," I told him. "I mean, I can understand the skimpy bikini… sex sells things… but haute cuisine dog food?"

"Look, Polly, it has to do with the survey my ex-employers did for Gourmet Pooch's parent company, Philo Phoods Ltd, but the real news flash has been in the papers for months. Who do you think actually eats all those tons of Puppy Nuggets, Dog Burgers, Bowser Banquet…?"

"Oh," I said, seeing the light. "You mean dog food is really for people.

I read those articles about the old folks on Social Security…"

"Sure you did. So did the directors of Philo Phoods. That's why they got us to do a consumer research project, to see if it was only old folks … to get a line on their market.

"We found out that just about everybody, age and race and location-wise, dips into the liver and kidney now and then. So, to put a collar on the market, Philo came out with the dog food to end all dog food… Gourmet Pooch."

"Gee, but how can they sell it so cheap?"

Wally chuckled. "There's more than one way to skin a cat. How the hell is a dog supposed to know if he's getting sliced breast of duck, or restructured vegetable protein? And even if some low life human could tell the difference, in order to complain to the authorities, he'd have to admit that he habitually ate dog food… not likely.

"Besides, Philo's chemists are damn good. They could make shit taste like pumpkin pie if they got the go-ahead. You tasted that sauce. It must be ninety percent alcohol. One can will really make things mellow, baby."

"It was real tasty, alright," I said. Then I asked, "But exactly how do I fit in?"

Wally looked at me strangely, kind of like he was looking into me. It was a look that brought back childhood memories of flashbulbs and doggy breath. He seemed to shiver, shaking off whatever lewd thoughts had flooded his mind. "You are a swell looking piece of ass, Polly," he said enthusiastically. "You look like the girl-next-door should've looked… all tits and ass and seething with hormones. Hot-to-trot, but sincere.

The kind of wholesome, decent kid who'd throw everything she's got into a fuck, a suck, a hand-job. The kind of kid nine-tenths of our market would mortgage their homes to get their paws, male and female, on. On top of that, you got this rapport with dogs, a closeness the audience can actually see… in your eyes, nose, the quiver of your lower lip.

You don't have to go down on Chef Fido in front of the camera for all the viewers… give their diseased little minds a subtle hint and let them do the rest. Same thing with the little taste of Gourmet Pooch you took. You do it in a naughty, provocative way, like it's sex… not only are you giving the paedophiles a great show of tongue, but you're showing them that you're one of them, that sleek, foxy young broads eat dog food, too. That it's sexy to eat dog food…"

"Wow, that's really something!" I exclaimed. My head was spinning.

When we got to the Baxters' house out in San Fernando Valley, the first thing I did was call home. Harold listened silently to my great news, interjecting an occasional "Uh-huh." When I finished, he said in a flat voice, "Your father's dead."

I went totally hysterical, dropped the phone, started screaming. Wally picked up the receiver and talked to Harold while Lenore tried to comfort me. Mom was coming up from the Thorazine, blinking her eyes.

"Pop is dead!" I shrieked at her.

"Oh, really?" she said smiling. "That's wonderful, dear. Now about your first day at the studio… if I were you, I'd wear that green velvet jumpsuit…"

I couldn't believe it. On and on and on the old bat jabbered. At first I thought it was the after effect of the drug, that she was still disoriented, but no… later, when I told her we had to fly up and make funeral arrangements, she said for me to go ahead, that someone had to stay down here and look out after my interests… that she didn't mind.

Wally and Lenore really were towers of strength. Wally stayed with Mom and Lenore flew up with me to help. It was a good thing, too, because Harold was still sulking and was no help at all.

We got Pop in the ground and then flew back to L.A. for my first filming date. Harold informed me at the airport that he, too, would be in L.A., closing his deal with the Rams. Lenore reluctantly gave him her phone number. On the plane, she turned to me and said, "Poor darling, he must have an awful lot of money…"

I explained the way our marriage was run, told her about the wedding night, the whole thing. I had her in stitches all the way to L.A.

The only words my Mom uttered concerning Pop's funeral were "How was it, darling?" She didn't wait for an answer, but started telling me about various producers and agencies she'd been contacting, all the important people she'd met, people who could further my career.

Wally sighed and shook his head exasperatedly. I couldn't wait to get in front of the cameras again. I was even more anxious to see my co-star, Chef Fido. The Baxters were between dogs… I forgot to mention that.

Dear Romeo had passed away and they were still recovering from the loss.

So, anyway, it'd been quite awhile since I'd had some dog stick, and I was determined to get my hands on that poodle's pud.

When we walked onto the sound stage, Chef Fido gave me his "Woo-woo-woo-woo-rahh!" greeting and dragged his cursing trainer over to us. The big bozo couldn't control the animal any more.

Chef Fido jumped up on me, put his paws on my shoulders and washed my face in hot, doggy drool. Something pendulous and furry brushed my knuckles. His pod! I scratched his shoulder blades vigorously, delighting in the soft feel of his coat.

"Do I have time to take him for a walk" I asked my grinning director.

"Sure, honey-buns," Scampi said, his eyes telling me that he understood, that he knew exactly what I craved so desperately. "Take your time… we still got scenery to set up."

I took the chain from the unhappy trainer and led the poodle off into the darkness of the sound stage. "Easy, lover," I cooed, trying to make my voice calm as he began licking the back of my calf. He was one horny doggy, alright. The touch of sizzling tongue on my thigh sent my cunt into a shuddering fit.

There just didn't seem to be any place private to take him and I was ready to go down on all fours in the parking lot when I saw the "Ladies" sign on a dingy door. Chef Fido kept nuzzling under my short skirt, rubbing his wet nose over my thighs and sniffing at my ass crack. It was driving me out of my mind. I pounded on the door and when there was no answer opened it.

Not exactly the Ritz. A single bowl, a gritty sink, one bare light bulb.

I made Chef Fido come in with me and closed the door, locking it with the little metal hook.

"Just a second, darling," I begged him, trying to struggle out of my coat and keep his flea-nibbling lips off the crotch of my panties I threw my coat on the floor and put a shoe up on the toilet seat. God, was he ever hungry for my pussy! Snuffling and whining, the big dog mashed his muzzle into my mound. The flurries of joy he gave me with his nose made a deluge of slick cunt-stuff seep from my slit.

The rush of fragrant moisture really sand-bagged him. He started whining and yowling and his tongue kept flipping in and out of his mouth in these frantic, darting lunges. He rained the brief tongue touches on the spreading stain of lubricant welling from my hole. Every touch fanned the flames licking up from my swollen, dewy fuck-mouth, licking over my belly and tits.

I struggled to roll down my sopping panties, got them only part way down before Chef Fido's snorting nose surged between cunt-strap and cunt, wet nylon and wetter flesh.

"Ooooh!" I cried to the grubby walls, to the bare, yellow bulb. His tongue lashed over my folds, sucking up the gushing juice and plastering my fuzz to pussy-lips and ass-cheeks with his doggy drool. My hips started grinding, powered by a need of their own.

The smell in the tiny room was dank and feral… of hot, musky cunt and the ripe compost heap of doggy desire. I let the big dog eat me, let him thrust his long, wonderful tongue into my hole. His soft curls brushed the inside of my thighs, tickling, teasing, even as his powerful tongue flew up my tube.

Then I started to slip off the seat. My knees were all rubbery and I knew I had to have his cock in me. I tore my panties from my thighs and sat on the toilet seat, spreading myself, slouching way down and holding my thighs apart for him.

Chef Fido was an old hand at the quickie in the Ladies Room. He gave my ass and cunt one last slurp and jumped up, putting his forepaws on my shoulders and his muscular body between my thighs.

I felt his red hot meat graze my folds and I came. Came! Blubbering and moaning into his curly dewlaps, while his hips shifted, while slimy dick-head rooted around in the top of my slot, searching, searching for the opening. With trembling fingers I took hold of his mammoth choad. It was so slick! So searing hot! I guided it lower and he growled at me as his cock strained to bend. He growled and showed me his fangs and I felt the wonderful terror, the marvelous cringing heebie-jeebies. God! What an animal! I raised my knees higher, whimpering in my supplication, in my heat.

"Grrrrrr-roww!" he snapped at my throat as his cock-head slid into the pocket.

His hips began jerking, began stuffing dog dick in and out, and his jaws closed about my neck, feet shifting to get the most advantageous angle.

Then, with bristly lips and needle fangs against my Adam's apple, he began to screw me. He pulled no punches, gave no quarter. My body was his to use to abuse and he sensed it, he reveled in it. His strong hips drove his cock deep in my cunt, driving back my folds, making me shudder with ecstasy. I could feel the white hot head of his cock pulsing, throbbing against the back wall of my cunt. I locked my thighs about his silky back and let him ride me. I must've come a half dozen times before I felt him stiffen.

Then he was roaring his fury at my throat, his hips pumping, thrusting cock turning my pussy juice into a fine lather.

I could feel his thick cock pulse against the tightly stretched tube of my cunt; I could feel the gobs and gobs of dog squirt flying up his dick. My cunt went into terminal spasm at the first feel of molten come splattering over its walls. I came and came, even as he did, my sweaty little buns flipping up from the seat to greet his insane lunges.

As his orgasm faded, so did his savagery. Chef Fido released my throat and gave me a wonderful face washing. We had to wait until his hard-on went down to get disengaged, so I just sat there and enjoyed hot tongue and doggy drool all over my face, and the feel of his ribcage between my thighs.

"All better?" Scampi asked with a feral grin as we returned to the set.

"All better," I said.

"Damn but he's a happy dog!" the director said.

Chef Fido wagged his pompom tail and said "Woo-woo-woo-woo-rahh!"