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

Chapter 7 "Animal Circus"

February, 1973

Dear Diary: It seems like a million years have gone by since I last picked you up… but it's only been six months. The most marvelous six months of my life.

First of all, the Gourmet Pooch commercials got a fantastic reception.

After some trial runs in Baltimore and Portland, Philo Phoods decided to give them to all the networks for prime time viewing. And then the magic started happening. Variety raved over Chef Fido and me, saying: 'Beauty and the Beast… Boffo!' Advertising Weekly called the commercials 'masterpieces of advertising art… mouth-watering on all levels…'

And the plaudits weren't just from the trade papers, either. Mr. and Mrs. America had taken us into their dog food gobbling hearts. Philo Phoods had to hire five clerks just to sort the fan mail. My face and body were suddenly plastered over the glossy front pages of the movie magazines and the decidedly un-glossy front pages of the cheap, exploitation tabloids. I had offers up the ass… offers of marriage, of co-habitation, of one-nighters, of movie contracts, of other commercials. The S.P.C.A. wanted me to host a show on dog abuse. The New York Times asked me to do a nationally syndicated pet advice column. I found myself, at age 19, standing at the end of the rainbow… I was a hot property.

I moved out of Langousta in September and bought a little fifteen room, split level house in the Valley. Unfortunately. Harold decided to pull up stakes and come along too. God, what an insect he is! He rationalised his tagging along on my bikini strings by saying he thought he stood a better chance of closing the Ram deal if he lived down here. I told him he was full of crap. That if the bozos wanted him, they'd sign him. What the hell difference did it make where he lived off season? I told him I thought they were just stringing him along, waiting to see what the next crop of college prospects looked like. Maybe I shouldn't have said it.

He took it real hard… mostly because he knew it was the truth. Jesus!

He was in no shape to play any kind of football… all he did was lay around the house and mope. He was fifty pounds overweight and looked like hell. It made me want to puke to look at him.

I already had an attorney draw up plans for a divorce, but I was waiting until the right time, career-wise, to spring them. According to Wally, an ill-timed divorce has been the downfall of many an aspiring star.

Mom, too, was a real pain in the ass. She was living with us at the Valley house, spending her days on the telephone, bothering agents and producers, fucking with the minds of writers and costume designers. Her nights were the time when she really "took care of business," cornering executives in posh restaurants, directors in hotel lobbies, always "for her baby," always push, push, push. I guess Hollywood is full of cruddy hangers-on like Mom. The people Wally and I do business with just laugh her off, so, so far, she hasn't hurt me. So far.

I just have to write down something about the bash Major Scampi threw last weekend to celebrate the completion of another series of one minute spots for Philo. Even by Babylon standards, it was a humdinger. I swear Scampi must've gone down Sunset Strip with a dust pan to get his guests.

Transvestites, hookers, speed-freaks, transvestite-hookers, speed-freak-transvestite-hookers, not to mention the business riff-raff … the swish execs, dominant dactylos, paedophile producers, the gamut of Tinseltown dementia. And to top it all off, he invited Harold and Mom.

I nearly haemorrhaged when I heard they were coming, but Scampi gave me that phony grin of his and said, "Heh-heh-heh, ree-lax, honey-buns. I got something for everybody."

That's what bothered me.

Scampi's pad was up in the Hollywood Hills, in a very exclusive, very secluded section. It was perched on the top of a super-steep hill, and the ascent was made via private elevator. As Chef Fido and I rode up in the glass box, the wonderful, twinkling carpet of lights that is Tinseltown spread out before us, lights only slightly dulled by the encroaching ocean fog.

"That's all ours, darling," I said to the big dog. He gave my bare knee a sloppy, hot lick. Scampi's butler, a six-foot-six-inch black Jamaican, answered the gigantic double front doors in sequined, day-glo orange leotards and a black, gum rubber tu-tu. I could see it was going to be Mom's kind of party.

The Chef and I waded into the melee in progress in Scampi's living room.

Two Western Avenue hookers were having a fight to the death with La Cross enema bottles, while the mob thronged and circled, placing bets, shouting encouragement.

More rushed up to me towing an Emmy award winning writer along by his spiked choke collar. Chef Fido growled at the canine impersonator. "God!

Isn't this just bizarre?" she gushed at me, yanking the writer's chain, causing the chrome spikes to gouge deeply into his throat and his face from the neck up to turn a purplish grey.

"I mean, have you ever seen anything so… so bizarre?" she repeated, gesturing about with super-exaggerated shock.

Obviously, the word "bizarre" was going to be her word for the entire evening. She probably picked it up from some of the servants. I wondered how many times I was going to have to hear it? At one party a few weeks back, she picked up the word "outstanding" from an Air Force first lieutenant, a fighter pilot loaded on fresh plasma. She repeated the moronic word over 1,300 times in a four hour period.

"No, Mother," I said, trying to get her nails out of my shoulders.

"This is the famous Mr. Weakwill, dear. You know, last year's Emmy for writing 'Thunder in My Guts'?"

"… uh, that's Wheatfield," the nude, runtish and bespeckled man corrected meekly.

Mom jerked his chain so hard that her puka shell necklace broke. Mr.

Wheatfield dropped to his knees and made a gargling sound, his tongue swelling alarmingly.

"That's a good boy. Do find every one of them, won't you?" Mom said to the groveling man. "And don't drool on them so…"

Then she smiled at me and batted her oversized false eye lashes. "Mr.

Weakwill says he might be able to cook something real special up for you, sweetheart. Emmy material…"

I excused myself quickly, before she could work the magic word into the conversation. I had to say hello to my host.

"Hey, sugar tits," Scampi shouted. "Glad you could make it!" He was dressed in a satyr costume that would not quit. I couldn't figure out what they did with his feet to make them end in the dainty cloven hooves. Or with his legs either, for that matter. From the waist down, including dick and balls, Major Scampi was a he-goat. And he was naked except for the shaggy coat of wool on his thighs and impossibly slender legs. "You like it! I can tell." he said, pirouetting, making lewd pelvic thrusts at his guests.

"Hey, everybody!" he shouted over the din. "Beauty and the Beast are here!!" Then to the blindfolded servant standing by the projection booth: "Asshole!! Get in there and kill the lights! It's show time, kiddies! For the first time anywhere! You low life scum are going to see Beauty and the Beast in their latest effort for good old Philo Phoods."

The far wall, made of oak panels, hexagons within hexagons, split right down the middle: the two sections rolling back on teflon bearings to reveal a glittering white movie screen.

About this time, Weird Harold made his presence known.

"Hey, Pol!" he said, waddling over to me. He was wearing a huge, tent-like Hawaiian shirt-fuchsia palm trees against turquoise sky-and bermuda shorts. He seemed very excited.

"Do I ever have some great news!" he cried, manifesting his latest form of nervous tick… the rubbing of the side of his index finger back and forth over the ball of his thumb… with both hands.

"Really?" I said, giving the tub of guts ninety-eight cents worth of my million dollar smile.

"Yeah. I talked to my dad," he said, "and he thinks the bowling alley idea is great…"

The bowling alley idea was Harold's alternative No. 57 to professional football.

"… He said he'd front me the capital I need to get things started.

"We're in business, baby!" he said, opening his bloated arms, actually expecting me to rush to him, to congratulate him.

I just stood there and stared. I couldn't believe the asshole. "We're in business…" What kind of crap was that? The swollen turd thought he was going to take me away from all this? That my career was some female whim, some interim income while he got his bowling alley together? Male chauvinist insect! He said that to me… a woman making almost a million dollars a year.

I looked at his fatness and his puffy arms and remembered what a holy terror he'd been… the delight he'd taken in mayhem and physical violence… somewhere under all that flab 'Monster Man' still lurked.

The idea seemed very funny to me and I began laughing at him. He was shocked at first, stood there frozen with arms still outstretched, then, very slowly he let them drop to his sides. Something hard and metallic glinted in his pig eyes and then the lights went out.

A square of light cut through the gloom, illuminating the screen, and then the show began.

All the street trash, the trade folk, the hangers-on groaned in unison as the first few feet of film rolled by. Even I had to admit it, the opening was a real barn burner. Somewhere in the dark Scampi was grinning like a friend… probably already had his cock up somebody's … anybody's something.

The opening shot was an overhead view of me in a sunken tile bath tub.

It was one of those vaseline on the lens, romantic shots. The colour of the tiles was chosen to match the colour of my nipples, rosy pink. I was laying on my back in the tub, my head tilted up into the camera, eyes closed rapturously. The water effect was really dynamite. It looked like steamy hot water and bubble bath but actually it'd been some kind of special glycerine solution. It made my legs and arms and hips and tits look so slick, so fantastically firm yet malleable. And the little icebergs of bubble suds drifted about my slippery contours, now hiding, now revealing the faintest hint of rose pink at my tits, rose pink under white froth, a suggestion enhanced by the hue of the surrounding tile. A long, tanned thigh slid in and out of the water, bubble continents shift. Oh, something dark there between glistening forks. Something tangled and mysterious; something slicker and hotter than the steamy fluid engulfing it.

"Ooooh," the audience sighed as one person, all barriers of social class, degrees of dementia, perversion, inversion forgotten as my co-star entered from screen right.

He was stunning in his dense black fur against the pink tiles. He wasn't wearing the chef's hat.

I still had my eyes closed. The heat of the fluid had brought the rose to my cheeks as well. My right hand dipped into the water, disappearing under bubble bergs, to where? The studs refused to tell, but suddenly my right breast, slick and shining, flattened, pushed up so lazily, so sexily. My mouth parted ever so slightly. Did a sigh escape? Suddenly I was aware of the lush, romantic background music, violins and violas. My bubbly, slippery hand crept from the water to the tub rim, to rest palm down fingers splayed.

As Chef Fido's muzzle moved towards my hand, the overhead camera, in a series of mind-rattling jump cuts, closed in on us, framing the glistening fingers and the wet dog nose.

Again the audience groaned en masse. Music crescendoed. Extreme close up shot from the front floor camera giving almost clinical detail ol'

Fido's tongue, huge slab of juicy pink meat studded with ropy blue veins and taste bud gooseflesh, surging from drooling black dog-lips, bright whiskers, curly furred muzzle, sliding between my index and middle fingers to lick the bubbly miniature crotch.

My exclamation of surprise, and uninhibited delight, my husky "Ohhhhh!" was underscored by two dozen violins playing the same staccato note an octave lower. The sound leapt from the screen, my open, moist mouth, and sent shivers up every spine in the room.

Again, Chef Fido caressed my fingers. The overhead camera had panned back to give a view of the delirious dog's face as he lapped. Black eyes glimmered, shimmered beneath long black lashes and a mop of silky curls.

God! It looked like there were tears welling up in them, tears of joy!!

Then I spoke my first lines… breathy and tender: "Ooooh, is my big strong boy hungry?" I turned my palm face up. Jump cut zoom to juicy pink fan lashing over the soft hollow.

"Ummmm, yes you are," I said, rising to sit up in the tub.

The front camera moving in for a discreet medium close up, showing all of my tits but the nipples, showing black dog face, huge in my small hands, showing dog tongue flipping out to lick up the front of my long, slender throat.

"Oooh," I moaned. "Just a second, boy."

The camera framed Chef Fido's face as I rose from the water, droplets tinkling. Did his shining eyes move up and down? Were they travelling over my slick and naked flesh? What kind of hunger did they really reveal? The implication of the single, almost subliminal sequence was heart-stopping.

Then the camera cut to dog's eye level following his curly head and my bare legs into the kitchen. The only sound was the noise of wet feet and doggy toenails on linoleum.

Cut to shot from behind of me reaching for a cupboard door above the counter. Again discreet, showing bare, supple back down to the crack in my ass, a back whose only adornment was a tuft of frothy studs nestled on one slim shoulder.

Cut to my rosy checked face. "Only the very best for my strong boy," I said, beaming down into the lens.

Extreme close up of can label: 'Chef Fido's Gourmet Pooch Coquilles St.

Jacques meridionale'.

Cut to Fido's mouth, black lips dewy with drool, long tongue lolling, while the sound of an electric can opener is heard.

Then, hair streaming about my face, the screen shows me leaning down to pour the food into the dog's dish. My arms and hair are the only things covering my nude body.

Cut to Fido gobbling the shell-fish like a maniac, wolfing the food down and slavering all over the empty bowl.

Cut to shot of me from the nipples up. The label faces the audience. I look into the nearly empty can. My mouth moves. The tip of my tongue visible between my white teeth. Again the crazy, jump cut zoom to fill the screen with green and yellow can and my long nailed fingertip delving inside, coming up with a great gob of Gourmet Pooch. The extreme close up follows my fingertip and its golden burden to my pursed lips.

Maroon painted fingernail slides into puckered lips. My tongue tip is visible lashing around and around between finger and lips, as the digit slips into my mouth to the third joint. Music comes up as I withdraw my finger slowly to reveal vanished dog food and a finger shiny slick with my slobber.

"OH!" I exclaimed, my startled face filling the screen, mouth agape, tongue pillowing my fingertip. My eyes suddenly have gone all soft and dreamy. To erase any doubt as to what has just transpired, my husky murmur fills the room: "Ooooooh, darling!" The words cutting through the thick air like a machete through mozzarella, cleaving it in twain, mirror halves of waxy white sphere falling away from the partition of cold steel with a hiss, the hiss of a hundred and fifty near-orgasmic Los Angelinos sucking air through clenched teeth.

While the audience is still whimpering, the camera cuts to the final shot, the denouement. Chef Fido is in his white hat and I am hugging him. We are framed from the neck up, our heads ear to ear. "Chef Fido's Gourmet Pooch is what he wants," I coo to the camera.

Fido turns his head and gives me a long, wet lick from chin to temple, radiating insane joy.

"Ooooh!" I cry, shuddering as the shot fades out.

When the lights in the room came up, they showed that the commercial's effect had been too much for some of the guests. About half of the overpowered ones were diving into the huge buffet hand over fist, gorging themselves on chunks of pheasant, double handfuls of broccoli in Hollandaise sauce, their mouths shining with grease and studded with capers. The other half were overcome by another hunger. Cocks and cunts were thrusting all across the room, cocks into cunts, cunts into cunts, cocks into anything. One Public Relations man, torn between conflicting desires, was busy screwing a roast duckling.

"Something for everybody," Scampi said right in my ear, his mouth full of spinach and bacon salad. He pointed towards the buffet table and my blimp of a husband.

Harold was leading the glutton brigade, shoving and pushing his way past the riff-raff to get at whatever exotic dish caught his fancy. He mowed down the opposition and waded into a huge bowl of tabouli, an Afghanistani cracked wheat salad made of bulgur wheat, chopped parsley and green pepper, minced green onion and fresh mint with a dressing of olive oil, lemon juice and salt. When a Sunset Strip fringe freak tried to elbow his way between tabouli bowl and Harold, my husband hit him in the face with a fist full of salad. The kernels of cracked wheat sprayed all over the room, along with the unfortunate fellow's front teeth.

Scampi's finger pointed at the other side of the room, where my Mom was in seventh heaven. She'd found and cornered one of Tinseltown's biggest producers, a bondage nut. The poor man had gotten himself hog-tied early in the evening and his Mistress had split, leaving him gagged and bound in a corner like the dirty laundry. Even for a stone masochist, Mom was a bit much. I could see him wince and struggle frantically with his bonds every time her mouth formed the word "bizarre."

"What I got for you, honey-buns," Scampi said, "is something extra special. Come on."

I followed the short, hunch-backed satyr through the munching, fornicating throng. He led me to a long hallway, past door after locked door. Finally, he stopped and turned to me, reaching into the wool on his hip. From a hidden pocket he produced a single key which he handed to me.

"This is the only key to the door," he promised. "Once you lock that door behind you, you won't be disturbed." He gave my ass a very un-fatherly squeeze. "Have fun, sugar tits," he said.

I watched him canter down the hallway, waiting until he disappeared around the corner before fitting key to lock. I wondered what he had planned for me. He knew all too well of my fatal attraction for man's best friend. My hands were shaking so I could hardly get the damn door open.

I forced myself to calm down and, holding my breath, turned the knob. I slipped in and locked the door behind me without turning on the lights.

Then I inhaled. Ooof! The smell of something sharp and sulphuric filled the room. It was a stench, under-pinned by an animal odour, also unfamiliar, but definitely male.

I leaned against the door, trying to make my eyes adjust to the dark. A sound came from my left. A rustling sound and the sharp click of cloven hooves. Jesus!

There in the dark, with the stink of sulphur burning my nostrils, with the grating hoof sound echoing in my skull, I could think of only one thing. It filled my mind like a geyser of lava, roasting my brain, turning grey matter to the consistency of melted cheese. The Devil! My fingers clawed at the door knob… I cursed Scampi and his demented jokes… and then I froze. A pair of golden eyes glared at me from the dark, caught in the narrow beam of light shining through the keyhole.

God forgive all my sins! The pupils were black rectangles!!! The inhuman … no, UNEARTHLY shape of those baleful pupils made me weak with terror. My teeth chattered. My mouth went dry.

Something hard, rough and dismayingly hornlike brushed my inner thigh, sending shudders rippling over my body.

I thought, No, don't be stupid. How could Scampi do a thing like this?

Even Scampi wouldn't be able to summon the Devil as a party guest.

Then the brimstone stench wafted up stronger and something hot, raspy and very real touched my knee. The yellow eyes were on a level with my cunt. Either the Devil was kneeling, or he was mighty short. I had bedded down with enough lower creatures to recognise the feel of an animal head burrowing between my thighs. And that's exactly what was happening.

Hot, slobbering, bristling lips, flat front teeth, and wet nose nudged at my cunt, the horns pushing my mini-skirt all out of shape.

I slapped at the wall, trying to desperately for the light switch.

The griding front teeth found my panties, and began to my astonishment and delight, to nibble the hot crotch. I could feel the horns grazing my inner thighs and the gnashing teeth were actually tearing my panties, actually shredding them, and I could hear the sound of masticating jaws.

He was eating the panties right off me. The feeling was insane, and very, very exciting. Whatever stinking beast was attacking me, Devil or not, he was getting my juices going.

When my crotch hung in long tatters, plastered against my thighs by his copious drool, he stopped eating fabric and turned his attention to the source of the musky flow. His tongue so scratchy and un-doglike, rasped up between the lips of cunt, making ecstatic contact with my erect clit.

I cried out and parted my thighs for him. The strange, flat fronted teeth, teeth of a herbivore, nibbled at the puffy lips of my twat, tip searching for and finding the pulsing hole.

I leaned over the hot, rank-smelling body and felt coarse fur, bony backbone, deep ribcage, long straining neck, protuberant shoulder-blades and hipbones.

The scratchy tongue bored up into my tube and I screamed as the crazy tool waggled inside me, scraping slick folds and tight convolutions, making me fall into an orgasmic fit.

I pressed my face into the gritty hair moaning and running my lips over his backbone. He was so hungry! His tongue uncoiled inside me like one of those New Year's party favours, the whistle, that when blown, makes a long paper tube unwind, shooting out with a green feather on the end, announcing with sound and colour, "WHOOPEE!"

He "whoopeed" up me so many times that I slobbered all over his knobby spine, chewing on his hairs.

Then, my groping hand hit the switch and the small room was filled with light. I blinked down at the furry creature eagerly tonguing my snatch; its horned head buried under my skirt.

God! A real goat! His grey back was all matted from my drool. His party favour tongue driving my cunt to the brink of madness time and again.

"Ooh, baby!" I crooned to the sexy animal, letting myself slip, back against the door, to the floor. He tried to maintain his penetration, but couldn't. I looked at my snatch, absolutely ravaged, panties shredded, cunt rasped tender and raw from his long cat's tongue. Then I looked under his shaggy belly. God, everything I had heard about goats was true… and then some!

Mr. Billy had the largest, hardest piece of cock for his size that I'd ever seen. It was deep red, needle-snouted, and up-curving from his gross, matted pod. And the balls! Sweet Lord! They hung down a foot from his body in a super smooth black sack, great bloated orbs the size of baseballs.

I slid a hand under his belly, whispering words of love and took hold of his juicy cock. Automatically his narrow hips began to flip, thrusting the slippery pud through my fist. It widened out at the base like a cone and as I let the blazing head pass through my palm I felt the evil barb at the helmet brim, the hook of sinew and gristle that would hold his spurting dick deep in even the most recalcitrant she-goat.

I was no recalcitrant she-goat. I wanted to feel his slimy joint deep in my cunt. I rolled to my stomach, kneeling, and stuck my ass up in the air, waggling it, spreading my legs, pleading with the horned creature to mount me, to take my fuck-ready twat.

I looked around my ass just as he sniffed my butt-hole, snorting deeply.

Then his tongue uncoiled and rasped over the wrinkled skin of my sphincter, sending waves of excitement over my mound.

"Yes! Yes!" I whimpered, reaching back and spreading my tight buns for him, making my ass-hole open with a smack.

Goat tongue bored up my ass seesawing over the tender opening, making my thighs tremble and my cunt rumble in anticipation. I wept from the intense pressure, from the friction of sandpaper tongue on smooth bunghole, from my need for his cock. After a wonderful, agonising, nerve-rattling eternity, I felt sharp hooves on my back, coarse goat hair rasping over my buns.

He was mounting me! I thrust my hand under my cunt, groping for and finding the needle nozzle of his cock-head. His hips began pumping once, driving slimy shaft through my clenched fist. All I had to do was move my fist until it covered my swollen, drooping cunt. Hot goat pecker made contact with my tube, plunging past the sloppy fuck-mouth, and I let go, jerking my hand away as the feel of hot twat about his cock sent Mr.

Billy into a veritable fucking rage.

One second he just had his dick tip in me, the hot nose-cone was searing my opening; the next, he was pod deep in me, his blazing prick head battering my diaphragm, the thick base stretching my cunt-lips to the splitting point.

God! Could that little grey goat ever screw! His ass moved so fast and so hard that before I knew it I was humped right into the door. My head bumped into the solid wood every time his cock flipped. My cunt was blubbering and gushing about his speed-ball cock and then, I was coming again.

My pussy clamped down on the flying dick and milked it hard. And even as the wings of Joy lifted me, hot goat spurt gushed into my quivering box.

And then did he ever go berserk! I thought he was going to drive me right through the door with his terrific lunges.

The flurry stopped as suddenly as it began and the he-goat was panting, leaning heavily on my back. I tried to shift his weight and got a delicious and terrifying surprise. His cock, thanks to the barb at the head was buried root deep in my cunt and wouldn't budge an inch. My tube squirmed about the still stone-hard shaft and goat-boy got the impression that I wanted to escape. An impression that stimulated his already inflamed libido.

Before I knew it, hot and horny goat cock was pumping away again, churning up my juice. It was wonderful the way his ass snapped, sending every inch of his choad flying into me and jerking out, over and over and over. And then I squealed and my cunt started tugging at his dick-head and his big balls flexed and goat come gushed into my box, flooding it, overflowing it, joining the gummy, coagulating stream that hung between my thighs.

Over and over again we enacted the ritual… wheezing goat and whimpering woman, both fucking up a storm as orgasm lashed their senses … lust fading slightly as come-joy ended, woman shifting gooey buttocks, making fear noises, trying to shake the barbed prick loose from the folds of her cunt… goat feeling squirming meat about his cock, instantly in the mood… wheezing goat and whimpering woman grinding out a wild two-step on the floor.

I lost count of his squirtings, of my own convulsive climaxes. They all blended into a long fuck frenzy that lasted until dawn. Before the night was over, I got his cock so tired that it went limp enough for me to get the barb out of my folds. I rolled on my back, and after sucking him hard, took his rank, sheep-dip, body between my thighs, his dick into my floppy loose cunt, Missionary style, locking my legs about his back, riding his tube-steak into the sunrise.

I've heard stories about how tough goat meat is. Let me tell you, by the time I got done fucking that horny little bastard, he was so tender even his goddamn hooves would melt in your mouth.