The truck's headlights cut through the last of the dark before the sun took the sky, two pale cones washing over the gravel and the dew-wet grass. Maya stood barefoot in the yard, the cold of the morning stone against her soles, and she felt Papa's hand settle warm on the small of her back before the engine even died.

The truck was old, rust-toothed along its bed, and the man who climbed out was thin and silent, a shadow in a stained kurta. He did not look at her. He walked to the back and dropped the tailgate, and the crate sat there like a coffin, metal and mesh, and Maya heard the sound inside it before she saw anything—the shift of weight, the scrape of claws, the low, restless whine that carried flat across the yard.

"Five," the man said. Not to her. To Papa.

Papa's thumb pressed once against her spine. "Good."

The man dragged the crate to the edge of the tailgate, and it hit the ground with a thud that shook the dew from the grass. He pulled a pin and the door ground up on its track, metal crying against metal, and the sound went through Maya's chest like a nail being drawn across glass.

She did not step back.

The first one stepped out into the gray light, and he was bigger than she had let herself imagine. A mastiff, low-chested and huge, his head a block of muscle, his shoulders rolling under a brindle hide that caught the dawn like oil on water. He stood in the yard and he did not look at her face. His nose came up first, nostrils flaring wide, and he smelled the air and then he smelled her, and his head swung toward her like a compass finding north.

Maya felt her breath catch. Felt the cool gravel under her feet. Felt the slick between her thighs that had been there since the horse, since the boar, since the hunger that lived in her now like a second heart.

The mastiff crossed the yard in four slow strides, and his nose found the junction of her thighs before his eyes ever reached her face. He snuffed there, wet and loud, and the heat of his breath rolled up her skin, and she heard Papa's voice quiet behind her.

"Breathe, good girl."

She breathed. The air came in cold and left warm. The mastiff's muzzle pressed against her, and she felt the weight of his head, the push of it, and then his tongue came out and dragged a wet line up her inner thigh, from the knee to the crease, and she made a sound she did not intend to make.

Behind him, the crate shifted. The other four were still inside, and she heard them move in the dark of it, heard the whine that was not hunger but impatience, heard claws scrape the metal floor. The man who had brought them stood by the truck and lit a beedi, and the smoke curled up into the gray air, and he watched her with eyes that gave nothing away.

Papa's hand moved from her back to her hip, steadying. "You're okay. He's just getting to know you."

The mastiff's tongue came again, higher this time, and she felt the wet drag of it against the soft skin where her thigh met her body, felt the heat of his mouth, and her knees went weak and then strong again. She gripped the fence rail behind her, the wood rough and splintered under her palm, and she spread her legs a little wider without being told.

The camera stood on its tripod by the rail, its red light blinking, and she looked at it, looked at the lens that had seen the boar and the horse and the butter, and she did not look away.

"That's it," Papa said. "Let him."

The mastiff's tongue found her, flat and broad, and dragged up through the slick that had gathered there, and she gasped and gripped the rail harder. He lapped at her like she was water, like she was the only thing in the yard, and the sound of it was wet and loud in the quiet dawn, and the other four whined in the crate like they could taste what he was tasting.

Maya's head fell back. The sky was going pale at the edges, the first real light bleeding through the trees, and she felt the mastiff's breath against her, felt his tongue curl and press, and she heard herself moan, low and long, a sound that belonged to the yard and the dawn and the blinking red light.

Papa's voice was quiet. "Good girl. Let him take his time."

She did not know how long it went on. The mastiff worked her with his tongue until she was trembling against the rail, until the slick ran down her thighs, until the hunger in her belly was a live thing with teeth. And then he pulled back, and she felt the shift in him, felt the weight of him move behind her, and she heard the sound of his cock sliding free of its sheath, thick and wet and heavy.

She did not turn to look. She heard it, and she felt the heat of him at her back, and she spread her legs wider and bent over the rail and held on.

His chest pressed against her spine. His weight came down on her, heavy and warm, and she felt the thick head of his cock push against her, blunt and seeking, and then it found her and it pushed inside.

Maya cried out. It was not pain, not exactly. It was the stretch, the full and sudden depth of it, the way he filled her like nothing else had, and she felt her body take him, felt the clench of her around him, felt the slick and the heat and the impossible weight of him seated inside her.

"Breathe," Papa said. "You've got him. You've got all of him."

She breathed. The mastiff's hips began to move, slow and heavy, and each thrust pushed a sound out of her, a moan that she could not hold back, and she felt the fence rail bite into her palms and felt the gravel cold under her feet and felt him thick inside her, moving in a rhythm older than anything she knew.

The other four had gone quiet in the crate. She could feel them watching. Could feel the weight of their eyes on her, the weight of what waited, and she did not let herself think about it. She thought about the cock inside her, the stretch and the slide of it, the way it reached something in her that nothing else had reached, and she pushed back against him and heard Papa's soft sound of approval.

"That's it. Take him. Take all of him."

The mastiff's rhythm quickened. His breath came hot and rough against her neck, and she felt his weight shift, felt him drive deeper, and she felt the pleasure cresting in her, rising like water, rising like the sun that was breaking over the trees, and she came around him with a sound that was almost a scream, her body clenching and shuddering, her hands white on the rail, and she felt him thrust once, twice, and then he pulled out of her, wet and sudden, and she heard the next one step out of the crate behind her.

She did not turn around. She stayed bent over the rail, her body still trembling, the slick running down her thighs, and she heard the mastiff's heavy breathing and the scrape of the next dog's claws on the gravel, and she felt the heat of him approach her from behind, felt his nose find her, wet and seeking, and she heard Papa's voice, quiet and warm.

"Good girl. You're doing so good."

Maya closed her eyes. The sun was up now, full and gold, and she felt the weight of the next dog's chest against her back, felt his cock thick and heavy against her, and she spread her legs wider and held on to the rail, and she did not look away from the blinking red light.

The second dog's nose pushed into her from behind, not gentle like the mastiff's first approach—this one was younger and hungrier, snuffing hard at the slick the first dog had left, his breath hot and quick against her skin. She felt his muzzle press between her thighs, felt his tongue stab out, lapping at the mess there, and she whimpered at the sensation, at the way her body answered him even before her mind caught up.

"He's tasting what the first one left," Papa said, and there was something in his voice she couldn't name—awe, maybe, or hunger of his own. "Let him. He needs to know you're ready."

The young dog's tongue worked her harder, faster, and she felt her knees buckle and then hold, felt the rail bite into her palms, felt the slick running down her inner thighs and the way his mouth chased it, lapping and sucking like he couldn't get enough. She heard herself moan, a sound that was almost a word, and she did not know what word it would have been.

His chest pressed against her back, and she felt the shift in him, felt his hips find their angle, and then his cock pushed against her—thick, not as heavy as the mastiff's but longer, and he drove it in with a single hard thrust that made her cry out and arch her spine. He seated himself to the hilt and held there, and she felt his breath hot on her neck, felt his chest heaving against her, and she felt the stretch of him inside her, the way he reached deeper than the first one had, and she gripped the rail and pushed back against him.

Papa's hand was on her hip now, steadying her, and she heard the camera's shutter click somewhere behind her, heard the soft sound of him adjusting the lens, and she knew without looking that the red light was still blinking, that the men watching were seeing all of this, that the balance was climbing with every thrust.

"That's it," Papa said. "Ride him. Take him deep."

She rode him. The young dog's rhythm was quick and eager, and each thrust drove a sound out of her, a moan that built and broke and built again, and she felt the pleasure cresting in her, felt the clench of her body around him, and she heard herself beg—"Please, please"—though she did not know what she was asking for, only that she needed it, needed him deeper, needed the fullness that was already inside her.

The young dog's hips slammed into her with a rhythm that had no mercy in it, each thrust punching the breath from her lungs, and she felt the fence rail splinter under her grip. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the yard—wet, percussive, relentless—and she heard the crate shift again, heard the scrape of claws against metal as the remaining three pressed against the mesh, their whines rising into something sharper, hungrier.

"He's close," Papa said, and his hand tightened on her hip. "I can feel it in him. Hold on, girl. Take it."

She did not know how she held on. Her arms shook, her thighs burned, and the young dog's breath came in hot, ragged bursts against her shoulder blades. He drove into her with a young animal's desperate need, and she felt the pleasure building in her again, rising from the place he had opened so deep inside her, and she pushed back against him and felt him shudder, felt his whole body lock against her back.

He came with a sound that was almost a howl, a high, keening cry that cut through the dawn, and she felt his cock pulse inside her, felt the hot flood of him filling her, and the sensation of it—the impossible fullness, the heat spreading through her—tore a scream from her throat that she could not stop. She came around him, her body clenching and gripping, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the rail, and she felt his weight press her down into the fence as he emptied himself into her.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The young dog's chest heaved against her back, his breath hot and slowing, and she felt his cock still twitching inside her, felt the slick mess of him leaking down her thighs. Then he pulled out, wet and sudden, and she felt the emptiness of it like a loss, felt the cool morning air against the heat of her skin, and she heard his claws on the gravel as he stepped back.

She did not turn around. She stayed bent over the rail, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and she heard the crate door grind open again, heard the heavy weight of the next one stepping out onto the gravel. Her legs shook, and she felt the slick running down her inner thighs, felt the ache in her that was not pain but something else, something that wanted more.

"Three left," Papa said, and his voice was soft, almost reverent. "You're doing so good, girl. So good."

The third dog approached her from behind, and she felt the difference in him before she saw him—heavier, slower, his breath deep and even against her skin. He snuffed at her, long and thorough, tasting the mess the young one had left, and she felt his tongue drag up through the slick, felt the broad, flat pressure of it against her, and she moaned despite herself, despite the ache and the fullness and the hunger that would not be satisfied.

Papa's hand moved from her hip to the small of her back, steadying her. "He's the big one. The one I told you about."

She felt the weight of him settle behind her, felt his chest press against her spine, and she knew without looking that he was bigger than the first two. She felt his cock slide free of its sheath, thick and heavy and impossibly long, and she gripped the rail and spread her legs wider and held on, and she heard herself whisper it, a prayer or a plea or both—"Please"—and she felt him push against her, blunt and seeking, and then he drove into her.

Maya's body bowed like a drawn bow, her spine arching against the impossible length of him, and the sound that left her was not a word but a raw, animal cry that startled the birds from the treeline. He was deeper than the first two, deeper than the horse, deeper than anything she had ever taken, and she felt her body stretch around him, felt the resistance and then the give, felt the slick heat of him splitting her open to a place she had not known she possessed. Her hands scrabbled at the rail, splinters biting into her palms, and she heard herself gasp—"Papa, he's too—"—but the word died in her throat because he was not too anything, he was exactly the size of the hunger that had been living in her since the boar, since the horse, since the first time she had watched a woman take an animal on a screen and felt her body clench with a wanting she could not name.

The big one moved inside her with a patience the young dog had not possessed. His hips rolled slow and deep, each thrust a long, grinding pressure that pushed the breath from her lungs and left her gasping against the rail. She felt the slick running down her thighs, felt the mess of the first two still leaking from her, felt the new cock stretching her around it, and she pushed back against him, meeting his rhythm, taking him deeper. The crate's mesh rattled as the remaining two pressed against it, their whines sharp and hungry, and the man by the truck had dropped his beedi and stood with his arms crossed, watching her with an expression she could not read.