The client's hand was on the back of her neck, pressing her face down into the cool tile, and the chlorine smell was so thick she could taste it, sharp and chemical on her tongue. She heard him move away, heard the click of his shoes on the floor, and then the sound of a door opening, and then the dog's nails, clicking and scrabbling as it came in.

"Stay," the client said, and the dog stopped.

Nisha turned her head, cheek scraping the tile, and saw it. A great dane, huge, its brindle coat sleek and dark, its head level with her own as it stood there, tongue lolling, tail wagging slow and heavy. The client stood beside it, one hand on its collar, and he was looking at her with that calm, satisfied expression, like he'd already gotten what he paid for.

"He's a good boy," the client said. "He knows what to do."

She didn't answer. Her wrists were still tied to the bed frame, but the client had pulled her off the bed, dragged her down to the floor on her hands and knees, her bare knees grinding into the tile, her ass still slick and smeared with the peanut butter the dog had licked clean. She could feel the dog's eyes on her, the weight of its gaze, and she heard herself make a small sound, a whimper she couldn't stop.

"Shh," the client said. "You wanted this. You took the money."

She had. She had taken the ten thousand rupees, folded them into her waistband, and now they were pressed against her belly, a hard little rectangle of paper against her skin. She had taken the money, and she had let him tie her, and she had let him smear peanut butter in her ass, and she had let his dog lick it out, and now she was on the floor, on her hands and knees, and the dog was being brought to her.

"Please," she heard herself say. "Please, I—"

"You'll take him," the client said, and his voice was calm, almost kind. "You'll take him, and you'll be good, and I'll untie you when he's done."

She didn't know what that meant. She didn't know how long a dog took, or what it would feel like, or if she would survive it. She only knew she was tied, and she was on the floor, and the dog was coming closer, its huge head lowering, its nose pressing against her, sniffing at the place where the peanut butter had been, at the heat of her, and she felt its breath, hot and wet, against her skin.

"Good," the client said. "He likes you."

She felt the dog's nose push against her, felt its tongue come out, a long, rough drag across her ass, and she jerked, a sob tearing out of her throat. The dog made a low sound, a rumble in its chest, and the client laughed, soft and pleased.

"He's ready," the client said. "You feel that? He's ready for you."

She did feel it. She felt the dog move behind her, felt its weight shift, felt its front legs come up, its chest pressing against her back, its paws on her hips, and she felt something else, something thick and hot and hard, pressing against her, seeking the place she'd been opened, the place the dog had already licked clean.

"No," she whispered. "No, please, I—"

"Hold still," the client said. "You'll take him. You'll take all of him."

She felt the dog's cock against her, thick and hot and impossibly large, and she felt it press, felt the pressure of it against her hole, and she heard herself cry out, a raw, broken sound, as the client's hand came down on her back, pressing her flat, holding her still.

"That's it," the client said. "Let him in. Let him mount you."

She felt the dog's weight settle on her, felt its hips press against her ass, and she felt the cock push, felt the head of it against her, and then she felt it enter, felt the hard, thick length of it split her open, and the pain ripped through her, a white-hot tearing that made her scream.

The dog didn't stop. It didn't know her pain. It only knew the heat and the tightness, and it drove forward, its hips pumping, its cock sliding deeper, and she felt it fill her, felt the impossible stretch of it, felt her body open around it, felt the tears streaming down her face as the dog hummed against her, fast and hard and relentless.

"Good," the client said, and his voice was distant now, like it was coming from far away. "Good girl. Take it. Take all of it."

She couldn't breathe. The dog was so heavy, its chest pressing her into the tile, its weight crushing her, and its cock was so thick, so impossibly thick, and it was moving inside her, sliding in and out, fast and hard, and she felt her body shaking, felt the tears and the snot and the spit all running down her face, and she heard herself making sounds she didn't recognize, sounds that were half scream and half sob, sounds that were just the noise of a body being taken apart.

The dog hummed. It made a low, rhythmic sound, a sound that vibrated through its chest and into her back, and it drove into her, its hips slapping against her ass, its cock sliding in and out of her, and she felt the pain blur, felt it shift, felt something else rising up beneath it, something hot and dark and shameful, something that made her body clench around the dog's cock, made her push back against it, made her whimper in a way that wasn't just pain.

She felt her own cunt get wet. She felt the slickness between her legs, felt it run down her thighs, and she hated herself for it, hated the way her body was responding, the way the pain was turning into something else, the way she was starting to feel the fullness, the stretch, the impossible heat of the dog inside her.

"You like it," the client said, and there was wonder in his voice. "You fucking like it."

She shook her head, but she couldn't speak, couldn't form words, could only feel the dog's cock driving into her, feel the rhythm of it, feel the way her body was opening, was taking it, was starting to want it.

"Please," she heard herself beg. "Please, help me. Please, it's too much. Please—"

But the dog didn't stop. It drove on, faster now, harder, its breath coming in hot, wet pants against her neck, and she felt something building, something swelling at the base of its cock, something thick and hot and impossible, and she felt it press against her, felt it start to enter her, and she screamed.

"That's the knot," the client said, and his voice was almost reverent. "That's his knot. You're going to take it. You're going to take all of it."

The knot pressed at her rim like a fist trying to force a door, and the scream died in her throat because there was no air left to carry it. She felt the swell of it, thick and hot and impossibly wide, pushing past the ring of muscle that had already been stretched beyond anything she'd known, and the pain was no longer a tearing but a pressure, a fullness so absolute it felt like her body was being remade around it. The dog's hips worked in short, urgent thrusts, each one driving the knot deeper, and she felt her own flesh give, felt the knot seat itself inside her with a wet, obscene sound that she heard more than felt.

"There," the client said, and the reverence in his voice had become something else, something hungry. "There it is. He's locked in you now. He can't pull out if he wanted to."

She felt it. She felt the knot swelling inside her, felt it expand past the point she'd thought was the limit, felt her body stretch around it until she was certain she would split, and then it stopped, seated deep, and the dog's hips stilled. The dog made a low, satisfied sound, a grumble that vibrated through its chest and into her back, and it stood there, locked inside her, its weight heavy and unmoving, its cock twitching in rhythm with its heartbeat.

"Three hours," the client said. "That's how long he'll stay tied to you. Maybe more, if he likes you as much as he seems to."

She tried to speak, tried to beg again, but the words wouldn't come. She could feel the knot pressing against something inside her, some deep place she'd never known existed, and the fullness was so complete, so absolute, that her mind had gone blank with it, white and empty and full of nothing but the sensation of being held open, being held full, being held.

"You feel how full you are?" the client asked, and she heard him move, felt his hand come down on her ass, a light slap that made her jerk, made the dog grumble again. "That's his knot. Six inches of it, maybe more, all the way inside you. You're so full you can't think, can't you?"

She couldn't. That was the terrible truth of it. She couldn't think, couldn't form a single coherent thought beyond the sensation of being filled, of the thick, pulsing weight inside her, of the way her body had stopped fighting, had started to accept, had started to clench around the knot in a rhythm she didn't control.

"Please," she whispered, and her voice was small and broken, a sound she barely recognized. "Please, I can't—I can't take this, please, untie me, please—"

"You're taking it," the client said. "You're taking all of it. And you're going to keep taking it, for as long as he's locked in you."

She felt the dog shift its weight, felt its chest press harder against her back, felt its front legs wrap around her, its paws on her hips, and she felt the knot pulse inside her, thick and hot, and she heard herself make a sound that was half sob and half moan, a sound that came from somewhere deep in her chest, somewhere she hadn't known existed.

"That's it," the client said, and his voice was soft now, almost gentle. "Let it in. Let it fill you. Let yourself feel it."

She didn't want to. She wanted to fight, to push back, to tear herself free, but her body wouldn't obey her. Her body had stopped listening to her. Her body was clenching around the knot, was rocking back against the dog's hips, was making small, hungry sounds that she couldn't stop, and she felt the shame of it, the hot, burning shame of it, but she couldn't stop it, couldn't stop any of it.

"You like it," the client said, and there was no question in his voice now. "You like being full. You like being his."

She shook her head, but the motion made the dog grumble, made the knot shift inside her, and she gasped, a sharp, broken sound, and she felt herself clench around it, felt the slickness run down her thighs, felt her own body betray her in a way she couldn't deny.

"No," she whispered. "No, I don't—I don't—"

"You do," the client said. "Look at you. Look at how wet you are. Look at how your body is taking him, how it's holding him, how it's clenching around his knot like it never wants to let go."

She couldn't look. She couldn't move. She was on the floor, on her hands and knees, her wrists still tied to the bed frame, the dog locked inside her, and she could feel the knot pulsing, could feel the dog's heartbeat through the thick, hot length of it, could feel the weight of the client's gaze on her, and she heard herself make a sound, a small, broken sound that was almost a word.

"What was that?" the client asked, and he was closer now, crouching beside her, his hand on her hair, stroking it back from her face. "What did you say?"

"Help," she whispered. "Please help me. Please, I can't—I can't—"

"You can," the client said. "You're doing it. You're taking him. You're being so good for him."

She felt the dog shift again, felt its hips begin to move, slow and shallow at first, then faster, and she felt the knot shift inside her, felt it press against that deep place again, and she cried out, a sound that was half pain and half something else, something she didn't want to name.

"He's not done with you," the client said. "He's going to keep going, and you're going to keep taking him, until he's finished."

She felt the dog's hips pick up speed, felt the thick, hot length of it slide in and out of her, the knot catching on her rim with each thrust, pulling at her, stretching her, and she felt the pleasure rising beneath the pain, felt it building, felt her body start to move with the rhythm, start to push back against it, and she hated herself for it, hated the way her body was responding, hated the way she was starting to want it.

"That's it," the client said. "Let it happen. Let yourself feel it."

She couldn't stop it. She felt the pleasure build, felt it crest, felt it crash over her, and she heard herself cry out, a raw, broken sound that was almost a scream, as her body clenched around the dog's cock, as she came, as she felt the knot swell inside her, felt the dog's own release, felt it flood into her, hot and thick and impossible.

"Good girl," the client said, and his voice was soft, almost kind. "Good girl. You took him. You took all of him."

She lay there, panting, the dog still locked inside her, its weight heavy on her back, its cock still twitching, and she felt the tears running down her face, felt the shame and the pleasure and the fullness all tangled together in her chest, and she heard herself whisper, small and broken, into the chlorine air.

"Help me."