Best in Show

It was raining hard in Newport. Otherwise Sandy wouldn't have come to his club to do his running that morning. Sandy taught sailing at the nearby U.S. Naval War College, and at his age—he was pushing forty-eight hard—he had to work extra hours to keep in shape. So far, running ten miles a day had helped keep him hard, but Rhode Island wasn't the best place to assume dry days. So, he'd joined a club that had its own indoor track, and that's why he was here this day. It was raining hard outside and it was time for him to run.

But the track was covered with little furry things on leashes. He had turned back to the men's dressing room in disgust, thinking hard on where he was going to go for exercise now. He wondered if going back to the war college campus and fucking that young naval captain's brains out for two hours would off-set a ten-mile run. It was at least worth a try.

While he was changing back into his street clothes and feeling mad at the world and sorry for himself, he overheard the conversation of two of the guys who were just returning from swimming laps in the club's indoor pool.

"So, what's going down on the indoor track?" asked one.

"Dog show," answered the other.

"Oh, that sissy stuff," responded the one. "Owners besotted with their dogs and looking just like them. Total waste."

"Not completely so," answered the other. "Clive Bailey owns last year's champion—probably this year's champion too. And he's no dog face; he's a real looker, and I understand he's the most delicious bottom in Rhode Island. He's got one of those fluffy little things that win so many dog shows—his dog, I mean, not his ass. I think it's a Japanese . . . no, it's a Chinese Crested. A very oriental name his has: Da Mei Yang. It was in this morning's paper. But that Clive, now he's got the most talented ass on the East coast."

The two laughed as they went off to the showers. Nicest ass on the East Coast was what translated to Sandy. Sandy collected nice asses. And he couldn't resist the challenge of having one that others said was the nicest to be had. Speaking of nice asses, though, there was that young naval captain very ripe and just ready for plucking over at the naval college. Sandy dug out his cell phone and started dialing.

He'd had the naval captain meet him down at the boathouse, where he kept a full range of small sailing boats that he used to train these guys in the basics—these guys who'd forgotten all they knew about the basics of sailing because for the last ten years they'd been driving big ships that did everything but wipe their butts for them on automatic pilot.

Sandy had taken the young captain into a lifeboat hanging off the back end of one of the larger sailing boats, and the nice, young, firm piece of tail was bent over the center wooden seat on his belly and was grabbing the gunwales with white-knuckled fists and was throwing his head back and screaming his satisfied lust as a crouching and covering Sandy split him from behind with the biggest cock in New England.

With each thrust Sandy first thought just how nice and tight this young sailor's ass was and, second, wondered how it compared with the one those guys in the locker room were declaring was the nicest ass to be had in this region. Long after the naval captain had whimpered his surrender and Sandy's digging cock had delivered the coup de grace, Sandy was resolving he was going to get to the bottom of this Clive Bailey guy—to the bottom and then into the bottom and a good ten and half thick inches farther than that.

He turned the young naval captain on his back on the centerboard and held his ankles up and out and fucked him again. The guy would be begging for another private sailing lesson again the next day. They all did.

Sandy returned to his Brenton Cove cottage after having stopped at a convenience store and bought the morning paper. His cottage wasn't the most luxurious house on the cove—not by a long shot—in fact its low profile and small size, nestled up to his own private dock but hidden from the road by heavy foliage, rendered it almost invisible. But he liked it that way. And in its own way it was more distinctive than any of the hulking wooden waterfront mansions around it. Sandy was quite certain that more future admirals had lost their male cherries and been fucked three ways from Thursday in his bedroom than any of the other houses on the cove could boast.

He settled down in his favorite overstuffed chair, with its wide view of the Newport harbor beyond a bank of sun porch windows, and leafed slowly through the newspaper. There was the report on the dog show and a picture of the champion, Da Mei Yang, but that was the only picture. Not a bad-looking mutt. Sandy read the article very closely; it revealed that Da Mei Yang was being used as a stud for the Bailey Kennels.

A week later, after the submission of voluminous forms and the writing of a hefty check, Sandy answered his door. The man standing on the threshold looked very young—much too young to have already acquired a reputation as a champion bottom—but Sandy had to admit that he was gorgeous and compelling. He could feel that his cock thought that too. He hoped he wasn't being too obvious. All he had on were a pair of running shorts and shoes.

The young man gave him a wondrous smile. He looked like a young Greek god. Dark and heavy tanned and muscled and all white teeth and tumbling black, curly locks of hair. The little ball of fluff he held under his arm that was the celebrated Da Mei Yang was all smiles too. He'd been told why he was here. Sandy was happy to see that his groomer was smiling even though he didn't yet realize he was here for a similar experience.

"Admiral Thompson?" the young Greek god asked with a luminous smile.

"Yes," Sandy answered with a warm, inviting smile of his own. "Here, come through here to the backyard. The bitch is back here. I have her penned and ready for you already."

The Chinese Crested perked up his ears and began to pant in anticipation. Sandy was more than pleased himself with this Greek god Clive, and he was fairly panting himself as he led the groomer and stud through the bungalow and to the backyard.

There was a small, newly improvised dog pen just beyond the lattice-covered and grape-vine bedecked patio off the sun porch, on a short grassy area between the house and the start of the pier out into Newport Harbor.

A dog looking somewhat like a Chinese Crested was bounding around the pen and yapping its silly little head off.

With little fanfare, the young man lifted Da Mei Yang over the lip of the pen, and the champion stud bounded out of his arms and into the enclosure. There was little doubt that the immaculately groomed Chinese Crested knew exactly why he was there.

As Da Mei Yang stood solidly in the middle of the pen and stared down Sandy's pooch, Sandy saddled up close behind the dog groomer. The sounds from Sandy's dog turned from ridiculous but noisy yapping to uncertain yipping to whining, and its head descended lower and lower as Da Mei Yang stood there, majestically, staring the other dog down.

Similarly, Sandy had come in very close to the back of the dog groomer as he stood at the edge of the covered pation, but well in the shadows. The young dog groomer felt Sandy's hand on his arm and the older man's hot breath on his neck. He had been attracted to the retired admiral's handsome, square-cut looks and hard, well-taken-care of body from his first look at the jib of the man. He was graying, but only at the temples, and on him it looked good. He had the torso of a mature man, but one who was still solid muscle and who took pride in and much effort on his form. And the dog groomer hadn't missed the bulge in the admiral's basket and the curly salt and pepper hair that cascade up out of the front hem of his low-rise running shorts when he had opened the door.

The young man felt paralyzed as a hand came around and fiddled with his belt buckle. He didn't move, although he was trembling from the feel of those strong fingers on his arm and the hot breath on his neck, as his belt gave why and he heard and felt the unzipping of his jeans.

He had come here to witness the breeding of the admiral's dog by Da Mei Yang. Visual witnessing of the breeding was necessary for the contract to be valid and a fee paid whether or not the admiral's bitch littered. He couldn't miss this. It meant the better part of a k note, which the kennel wouldn't see if the bitch didn't have puppies and no one was there to attest the breeding.

The dog groomer was nonplused with what the bitch's owner was doing to him. He certainly hadn't expected the attention he was getting, but he was being played so expertly and the admiral was so good looking and arousing that the dog groomer was confused—and he was paralyzed. Did he even want this to stop? He had no idea. He was just so surprised and the admiral was such a dominating force. But . . . But . . .

"Uh, Sir. What—?"

"Shush, shush," The older man was whispering. "Just watch the dogs. You must attest. The contract says—"

"Yes, but—"

The man had pulled down the back of the dog groomer's jeans and briefs, and he had the most gigantic of cocks rubbing up and down between the young man's butt cheeks.

"Ah . . . Ah . . . ," the young man was murmuring. The cock was huge and it was tantalizing. The young man felt his legs trembling and his knees going weak at the movement of the underside of the cock up and down on his hole.

"Watch the dogs," Sandy whispered. "Attest to the fucking—"

Sandy's dog was hugging the ground on its belly. It was looking up with it muzzle and it had its teeth bared and was giving a weak growl. But Da Mei Yang wasn't fooled. Da Mei Yang's muzzle was above that of Sandy's dog and the Chinese Crested stud was still staring the other dog down. And his teeth were more strongly bared, and his growl was much more authoritative than that of the other dog. Da Mei Yang was slowly, one step at a time, moving around the side of the other dog. Sandy's dog had to move its head to maintain eye contact, but it did so. It was being mesmerized. Its growls were turning to whimpering.

Sandy had one palm on the young man's belly now and the other one on his throat, pulling his head back. Sandy was kissing the young man on the neck, and the young man was just standing there, his arms drooping at his side, paralyzed by the admiral's power. And he was whimpering too. Just like Sandy's dog, the young man was whimpering softly, lost in the dance of domination—losing the dance of domination.

Da Mei Yang was behind Sandy's dog now, and Sandy's dog was lifting its hind quarters. It was still whimpering, but the instinctive response of its body was totally out of its control. The palm of Sandy's hand had left the young man's belly, and the dog groomer felt wet fingers at his asshole. His ass was being prepared. He whimpered and he involuntarily, instinctively lifted his butt toward the invading fingers.

Da Mei Yang was moving over the hindquarters of Sandy's dog, covering the back half of its body with his chest and belly. Sandy's dog was whining, beaten, bested. The head of Sandy's cock was now at the rear door of the young dog groomer, who was sighing quietly to himself, beaten, bested.

Sandy's dog yelped and writhed under the encasing champion Chinese Crested as it was invaded by a champion cock, while at the same time, the young dog groomer, still standing, but held in the embrace of the older man, felt his ass being entered and conquered and invaded by a master cock. He too yelped and writhed within the embrace of the stronger, dominating breeder. Being split and plowed by a hard, thick, long cock.

The yelps of Sandy's dog turned to whimpers, and its tongue lolled out of its mouth, and its eyes blazed wildly, and Da Mei Yang thrust and thrust and thrust.

"I speak Mandarin," Sandy whispered in the young dog groomer's ear as he thrust and thrust and thrust. "Do you?"

"No," the young man answered through clinched teeth. "Ohhhh, ahhhh, oh my GAWD. Why—? What—?"

"It's your dog," Sandy whispered and then laughed. "Do you even know what Da Mei Yang means in Mandarin?" Thrust, thrust, thrust.

"Ohhhhahhhhhh. Oh, Noooo. Yes! No, no, I don't know what it means." The young man was panting. His knees gave way, and Sandy turned him to a picnic table and laid him down on his back, spread his legs, and thrust inside him again.

Da Mei Yang was having his way with Sandy's dog too. The dog just huddled there, trembling, its eyes begging both for mercy and for more, swimming already in the champion Chinese Crested's millionaire-dollar cum.

"Da Mei Yang means 'big beautiful cock.' Whoever bred your dog knew its worth. And do I have a big beautiful cock too, Clive? Am I the best in show too?"

"Oh Gawd yes, oh gawd yes." But then he continued. "My dog? Clive? It's not my dog. I'm not Clive Bailey. I'm just his groomer. He sent me because he was busy today."

Sandy laughed a deep, lustful laugh. Not at all put off. The young guy was luscious. Worth every bit of what he'd had to pay for a stud fee. He dove deep again, throbbing cock plowing undulating ass walls, deep, down, down, down. And the young man yelped and cried for more.

"That's OK," Sandy said, and then laughed again at the totality of the joke. "This isn't my dog, either. I got it at the pound. I even think it's a male. But it's enjoying itself anyway."

And both the dogs and the men fucked on, with Sandy already scheming how he was going to track down and breed the elusive and legendary Mr. Clive Bailey.