The Dog Groomer

Right off the top, I'll make quite clear that I'm not a dog person. I'm a cat person. You don't have to walk them and they can be on their own for a weekend without chewing up the new sofa. But my wife thought we needed a dog—because we lived in a "ripe for ripping the rich folk off" golf club community, she said. But I know it was really because Libby next door got an Irish Setter, so naturally we had to have a Wolfhound.

Well, Wolfhounds are high maintenance, and I made quite clear to my wife from the get go that this was her dog. In retaliation, she decided that the dog would substitute for me everywhere except in her vagina. She still made quite clear that my cock was top dog in that kennel.

And when Angie gets involved in a project, she goes the whole distance.

This is just a preamble to bringing the dog groomer on the scene. Which is what Angie did two sessions into taking Grrr (her name for the dog, not mine) to an expensive dog obedience and grooming "college." After listening to all of the introductions on how to acclimate our high-strung purebred to his home environment (presumably so he doesn't start gifting us with pungent symbols of dissatisfaction and disdain on the floor of the front foyer), Angie decided that our home had to be evaluated as to its suitability to Grrr's needs and for advice on how to bring our 4,000-square foot, $2 million hovel up to dog code. So, she paid the extra fee for the dog groomer to make a home visit and inspection.

On the appointed day, I retired to poolside in disgust, separating myself entirely from anything to do with Grrr—or my wife concerning her current project. I heard them in the house and I hit the pool and did enough laps that I thought I'd toned up so well on the spot that I'd just slide out of my Speedo. Then I pulled myself across the pool tiles and collapsed on the lounger and promptly went to sleep.

I woke to voices under the patio table umbrella nearby. Angie and the dog groomer had come out to the pool area to discuss the grim details of our home's deficiencies as a dog safe haven.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that he was staring at me—talking to Angie, but having as much attention as he could muster plastered to me as I lay there in my skimpy Speedo. I knew that look. He was interested.

I slipped my dark sunglasses on and gave him a look back. Very presentable he was. Not a pretty boy or a muscle stud by any means. But very presentable. And he had a shy look about him, which probably went over as well with the dog owners as it did with the pooches. He wasn't a limp wrister either, despite anything I would have assumed or because I had caught him checking my assets out, which, if I don't mind saying, were a whole bank vault full.

I watched him as he talked to Angie and I liked his look and his manner. I could see how he'd be good at handling dogs. He showed every evidence of being good at handling people too. And the longer I watched him the more I became interested in being handled by him and handling him in turn.

Who knows who we are attracted to, what alignment of the stars and circumstance makes us want someone. I don't know and I don't care. I just know that, from that brief look at Cliff Marsden, the dog groomer, I wanted him.

And I soon could see that he felt the same way about me. He took a sudden interest in Grrr that went way beyond even Angie's interest and almost bordered on the unhealthy, I thought.

For three weeks Cliff found every form of excuse he could to drop by the house to give us this or that little thing that Grrr needed before their next grooming session or to consult with Angie on Grrr's progress (which was almost nonexistent as far as I could determine). And each time, as I saw him walking up the driveway, I found an excuse to be minimally dressed and just walking through the house wherever they were consulting. I made more trips to the front foyer in those weeks than I ever had before—and not just to clean of the inevitable present from Grrr that I usually found there. Angie, I'm sure, thought Cliff was interested in her, and she was mildly flattered. But I knew those looks he had given me. I knew when a man was interested in me.

This couldn't go on forever I thought, and Cliff was certainly playing out as the shy kind. There was nothing shy about me, though. So, I took the dog by the collar, so to speak, and made the first move myself. I set up an end-of-the-day appointment for a grooming of Grrr with Cliff. He was grooming the dogs at his home, in a downstairs room that obviously served as mud room, winter storage of the outside furniture, and laundry room—in addition to his dog work room. It was white tiled, floor, wall, and ceiling, and it looked somewhat like an operating room, with a sloping floor and drain in the center and everything. I'm sure it was ideal for whatever he had to do with the dogs, none of which I really had any interest in hearing about. I was a cat person.

"Oh, hi, Mr. Blade," he said when I arrived. "I'm surprised you came instead of Mrs. Blade. And where's Grrr?"

I just bet he was surprised to see me instead of Angie, I thought. He probably had been able to tell right off the bat, as I stretched out in feline fashion on my pool lounger that first day, that I was a cat person.

"I made the appointment, Cliff," I said as I moved into the room, making him retreat before me toward the alcove with the washer and dryer. "And Grrr won't be joining us either," I said.

"I don't understand. What . . .?"

"I think you'd agree that Grrr is the nervous type," I said, and then I added, a bit more maliciously than I intended, "And I think that Angie might be a bit too high strung to watch us fucking too."

"Excuse me, Mr. . . ." He was too shocked for words. But I was the very direct variety.

"You need no excuse, Cliff. You look just fine. And that basket of yours looks nice and bulgy too. I've seen how you look at me. Don't you think it time for you to stop making house calls and for us just to do it?"

I had him backed up against the washing machine now, and with one hand I was working the buttons on his shirt and with the other I was unbuttoning the fly to his shorts. He was stammering and yammering. But he wasn't stopping me.

I went into a lip lock while my hands ran across his body, exposing more flesh and rubbing it and gliding from one sensitive spot to another. I had him pushed into the washing machine. He was rigid at first in his confusion and not believing that this was happening so fast; not believing it was happening to him at all. But he warmed up fast enough and soon his hands were opening up and peeling away my clothing and gliding along my body as searchingly as I what I was doing to him. He thawed completely to me and was devouring my mouth now and making loud, animal-like sounds.

His yammering served to summon forth a small collection of pooches, who trotted out to the grooming room from all parts of his house and politely formed a semicircle around us, making up an attentive, appreciative audience. I don't know if Cliff minded the audience, but I thought it was kind of cute. I almost wished they'd brought their wallets so I could charge admission.

We were both naked as the dogs now, if not as furry—although Cliff did have that nice chest pelt playing ring-around-a-rosy with his pert nipples, one with a silver ring in it, and trailing down his torso into his bush. I lifted him up and slammed his nicely rounded butt cheeks down on top of the washing machine and started my lips on a journey down that trail.

"Mind the machine," Cliff managed with a gasp. "It's about broke as it is."

"Oh?" I asked, suddenly quite interested. "In what way?"

"It bucks and rumbles. Practically moves across the floor."

That was good to know.

Then I continued on my tonguing journey down into the bush. Cliff gasped again when I possessed him fully with my mouth, and he made little urping sounds that had the dogs perking their ears up as I worked his cock with my lips and tongue.

All shyness was gone and he was fully into the experience now, so I pushed his back against the machine's control panel and came up on top of the machine with my knees on either side of his thighs, grasped a pipe running along the ceiling above the machine with my fists, and pushed my pelvis toward his face. Cliff got the drift of where I was going with this and worked my cock big and moist with a very soft and inviting mouth. The dogs wagged their tails and had their hinies thumping against the white tiles of the floor and were licking their chops in empathy with the work we were doing on the washing machine. I remembered to be ever so thankful that none of them were attack dogs—Dobermans or Rottweilers—with a protective instinct for their daddy, because I was surely worrying his mouth with my poker.

When I'd worked up a good stroking rhythm of my own, I took one of my hands off the pipe and punched the washing machine button, turning it on. As Cliff had promised, it began to rumble and buck—and it added a good bounce to my fucking of his face.

He was gasping and screaming between swallows and gagging for me to fuck him for real, so I went back on my haunches a bit, pulled his legs around my hips, and drew his pelvis in toward mine. I glided inside him easily enough, which told me that this all wasn't exactly new to him and more or less assured me that he really had been signaling his want of me and was just too shy to be more direct about it. Shyness wasn't one of my problems, however.

The machine reached a particularly rumbling cycle as I bottomed out inside him, and we both had quite a long and wild ride before our own little show for the canines was over, with me spilling my seed deep inside him and him flicking his all across my belly and the top of the washing machine. I had his head flapping back and forth and his eyes wildly revolving around the grooming room and his howling setting off a chorus from our audience. All very satisfying for performers and onlookers alike.

After that I hauled him upstairs to his bedroom and laid him out on his bed on his belly and then laid him extra specially well and hard and deep and long. The dogs joined us on the bed, and, although they didn't exactly participate in my debauching of Cliff for a second time, they certainly sat around panting as much as he did and looked very sympathetically on, probably thinking that he was in some sort of painful fix as much yelping as he was doing.

I went away with a lip-smacking appreciating for the charms of Cliff and an agreement on a time for a repeat breeding session. I made but one request—that he not get his washing machine fixed for a while. I wanted to take both it and him for a ride again soon. The dogs were a good audience. But, as nice and polite and attentive as they were, I think I'm still a cat person.