Wanda saw it through the screen door, her glass of lemonade dripping condensation onto her fingers. First, the fence exploding. Then her husband, Ray, going down under that mountain of gray muscle. She should have screamed. Run. Called for help. But her feet were rooted. She watched, breath held, as Brutus tore at Ray's jeans, the fabric giving way like tissue. Ray's face was turned toward the house, his expression not pure terror, but something stunned and slack. Wanda's own breath hitched. A slow, liquid warmth pooled low in her belly, her nipples tightening against her sundress. She didn't move. She just watched.
The lemonade slipped from her fingers. The glass hit the porch boards and shattered, ice and sugar water spraying across her bare feet, but she barely felt it. Her eyes were fixed on the yard, on the massive dog hunched over her husband, on the way Brutus's hips drove forward with a rhythm that was unmistakable. Animal. Primal. Her husband's legs kicked once, then stilled.
Wanda's hand found the screen door handle. The metal was warm from the afternoon sun. She pushed it open, the hinges whining, and stepped onto the porch. The boards were rough under her soles. She walked to the edge of the steps and stopped, her fingers curling around the wooden rail.
Brutus was beautiful. That was the thought that rose through the shock, clear and sharp and terrible. He was a brute of a dog, all muscle and bone, his coat a thick gray that rippled with every movement. His shoulders bunched and released as he held Ray down, his jaws clamped onto the torn denim at Ray's nape. Not attacking. Holding. The way a male holds a female when he mounts her.
Wanda's throat tightened. She watched Brutus's hips drive forward again, watched her husband's body jerk with the force of it. Ray made a sound — not a scream, not a plea. A grunt, punched out of him with each thrust. His hands were planted in the grass, fingers digging into the earth, and his face was buried against the ground.
She should stop this. She knew she should stop this. The neighbor's dog had gone mad, had attacked her husband, was — was —
But the word wouldn't form. Raping. That was the word. Brutus was raping her husband in their backyard, and Wanda stood on the porch with her thighs pressed together and her nipples hard as stones, and she did not move.
Brutus's head lifted. His ears swiveled forward. He had heard her, sensed her, smelled her — she didn't know which — but his dark eyes found her across the yard. His tongue lolled out, pink and wet, and his tail gave a single, heavy thump against the air. He did not stop thrusting. He held her gaze while he fucked her husband.
Wanda's breath caught. Her hand tightened on the rail until the wood bit into her palm.
Ray's fingers scratched at the grass. "Wanda," he gasped. His voice was wrecked, raw. "Wanda, call — call someone — "
She heard him. The words reached her ears. But her body did not move toward the phone. Her body leaned forward, weight shifting to the balls of her feet, sundress hem brushing her knees as she took a step down. One step. Then another. Her toes touched the warm grass.
"Wanda!" Ray's head lifted. His face was red, streaked with dirt and sweat. His eyes were wild. "What are you — get inside!"
She kept walking.
Brutus's tail wagged faster. His hips never slowed. The sound of it reached her now — the wet slap of skin against skin, the heavy breathing, the small, choked sounds Ray made with each impact. The grass was cool under her feet. The sun was warm on her shoulders. She stopped six feet from them and watched.
Up close, Brutus was enormous. His shoulders came to her hip even while he was hunched over Ray. His coat was coarse, thick, matted in places. She could see the muscles in his flanks bunch and release with every thrust, see the drool stringing from his jaws, see the way his testicles swung heavy and full with each drive of his hips.
Her sundress was damp between her breasts. She could feel the heat rising off her skin, feel the pulse fluttering in her throat, feel the ache between her legs that had nothing to do with the lemonade or the sun or the shock.
Ray's hand shot out and grabbed her ankle. His fingers were trembling, desperate. "Wanda, please — "
She looked down at him. His eyes were wet. His nose was running. His jeans were shredded around his thighs, and she could see the pink gleam of his skin where Brutus had torn the fabric away. His cock was half-hard, smeared with dirt and precum, and she watched it throb as Brutus drove into him again.
She didn't pull away from Ray's grip. She didn't kneel. She just stood there, looking down at her husband of thirty-four years, and felt a wall rising inside her. A door closing. A lock turning.
"Wanda." His voice cracked. "Help me."
She looked past him. She looked at Brutus. The dog's tongue lolled, his breath coming in hot, fast pants, and his eyes — dark, intelligent, patient — watched her with a focus that made her stomach clench.
She took a breath. The air smelled like cut grass and sweat and something musky, animal, intimate.
Her hand moved before she decided it. She reached out and touched Brutus's shoulder. The fur was coarse, warm, damp with exertion. The muscle beneath it was iron-hard, flexing with every movement. Brutus did not startle. He leaned into her hand, his tail wagging once, heavy and slow, and he kept fucking Ray.
Ray's grip on her ankle tightened. "Wanda, what are you doing?"
She didn't answer. Her fingers curled into Brutus's coat, feeling the power in him, the heat, the relentless rhythm. Her sundress clung to her thighs. Her breath came shallow and fast. She could feel herself getting wetter, could feel the slick heat gathering between her legs, and she didn't care. She wanted to touch herself. She wanted to climb onto that grass and press herself against Brutus's flank and feel that power turn toward her.
Ray's hand fell away from her ankle. His arm dropped to the grass. He lay there, panting, his face pressed to the earth, and let Brutus take him.
Wanda watched. Her hand stayed on Brutus's shoulder. Her thumb traced a slow circle through his fur. The dog's hips never faltered. The rhythm was steady, deep, endless. He could go for hours, she thought. For hours or days. He would not tire. He would not stop until he was finished, until he had emptied himself into her husband, and then he would lift his head and look for more.
She wanted that look to find her.
The thought rose from somewhere dark and deep, and she let it. She did not push it away. She stood in her backyard with her hand on the neighbor's dog while he fucked her husband into the grass, and she let the thought bloom.
Brutus's hips slowed. His breathing deepened. He gave one last, long thrust and held it, his whole body going rigid, and Wanda felt the vibration of his growl through her palm. He pulsed inside Ray, once, twice, and then he pulled out, his cock slick and red and still half-hard, and stepped back.
Ray didn't move. He lay in the grass, his jeans in tatters, his ass bare and glistening, cum leaking down his thigh. His breathing was ragged. His hands were still dug into the earth.
Brutus turned. His cock bobbed between his legs, thick and wet, and he walked toward Wanda. He stopped in front of her, his head level with her chest, and he looked up at her. His tongue lolled. His tail wagged once.
She didn't step back. She looked down at him, at the cum drying on his fur, at his cock still heavy and eager, and she felt a smile spread across her face. Slow. Hungry. Knowing.
Brutus pressed his snout against the front of her sundress, right between her thighs, and breathed in. His whole body seemed to shiver. He made a low sound in his chest, a rumble that vibrated through her.
Wanda's knees went weak. She steadied herself with a hand on his head, her fingers sinking into his thick fur. "That's right," she whispered. "You know, don't you?"
Brutus's tail wagged faster. He pushed his nose harder against her, and she felt it through the thin cotton — the pressure, the heat of his breath, the promise in that low, rumbling sound.
Behind her, Ray made a sound. A sob, maybe. A cough. She didn't turn to look.
Her sundress was wet between her legs. She could feel it soaking through, could feel the fabric clinging to her slick flesh. Brutus could smell it. She knew he could smell it. His nostrils flared, and his tongue came out, a long pink strip, and he licked the damp cotton where it pressed against her.
Wanda gasped. Her hips bucked forward, pressing into his tongue, and she heard herself make a sound. Small. Needy. She bit her lip and looked down at him, and he looked back, and in his dark eyes she saw recognition.
She wanted this.
She wanted him.
And she was going to have him.