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“God, I am leaking everywhere” Pat mumbled. She was too. She struggled to her feet and headed to the bathroom. There was a little puddle on the carpet. Doggy cum.Pat had a shower while I cleaned up the best I could. Rusty was lying in the corner and I swear he was smiling. Pat came back to the lounge in a robe and sat on the couch. I sat beside her. “You must think I am a slut” she said. “Why would I think that?” I said, not knowing what else to say. “I am so mixed up” she said “so confused. I should be disgusted with myself because I let a dog have sex with me”. “Well you didn’t let him” I replied “he sort of raped you didn’t he”. I thought that would make her feel at least not responsible. “Can I tell you something?” she went on “I think I enjoyed it”. I didn’t think it was wise, at that moment, to tell her I knew she did.The storm passed and we talked some more. The power came back on and so we decided to find out about sex with dogs. It took a while as we didn’t know how to find. Of course, poker it was. Our host kept refilling the pitcher of Margs that kept circling the table. The mood was boisterous and loud, laughter became contagious and uncontrollable as the group downed pitcher after pitcher.“One too many” was low on chips and it was her to turn to bet so she offered her shirt to call. The room froze. If accepted, this single bet would change our group forever. I scanned each husband’s face for a tell; I was certain there would be lively drunken debate, but that in the end, the consensus opinion would defer to decency and she would be asked to keep her shirt on. Abruptly she stood up, ending the debate. In one continuous movement, she peeled off her t-shirt; then bending at the waist, she dangled her ante from her index finger and slowly lowering her t-shirt onto the pot; she squeezed her breasts together with her biceps as she grinded her hips downward to her chair; she sat there smugly wearing her bra. The men went crazy howling cat-calls, slapping.
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