ISSN 1989-4163

NUMERO 81 - MARZO 2017

Doggy Style

Coos Palmboom

The Subterranean Traveller, enticed by a cold yet no longer harsh breeze running through the streets and an oddly beating white sun, was daydreaming of spring. Would after a chilling month of January the good times return early that year? Was this their reward for living through an unusually long spell of low temperatures? He could see how other people on the street had similar thoughts going through their minds. Strides were determined, heads held high, voices sounding shrill and loud, broad smiles showing on faces beaten raw by the Siberian winter which had been gripping most of Europe and even, to a lesser extent, as always, their benign peninsula. If optimism is shared, then there is true reason to be optimistic, the logic goes in these quarters.

Then, all of a sudden, there it was, the moment of outrageousness he and his fellow incidental pavement dwellers, without perhaps realising it, had been craving for. She was a healthy woman in her later forties, standing firm on well-shaped legs, buttocks round and muscular, hips wide enough to eagerly receive the better-endowed, a back as straight as a country road in La Mancha, shoulders broad enough to hint at equal strength in arms, long fingers on manly hands. She was oozing an undeniable lust for life, filling the hearts of all of them losers with hope of an undeserved free ride on the train to happiness. For an eternal few seconds on that promising wintry afternoon she took up the part of goddess of a new-found religion. Yes, we believe, we know springtime is coming soon and tonight we will build humble shrines and mumble our thanks to this embodiment of a new, shared future. When living in difficult times, the weather inevitably plays a large role in how one perceives reality. Hidden under a blanket since the criminally risen energy costs do not allow for appropriate heating during the coldest spells, life can seem of little use, but with the sun hitting the sidewalks hardships become almost unimportant.

She had her eyes set on a similarly healthy male, dressed in fatigues and a big woollen sweater, his receding curly hair dancing over straight shoulders, ragged mountain boots on his feet, the type enough women have fancied in their lifetime to make them incurably vain. Aging toy boy, he was walking the dog. She clearly fancied him and seemed to know him, the traveller now getting into the scene played out right before his stride, he on his way home with a bag full of groceries for the baby subterraneans. The woman had gone to acquainting the dog, always a sure tactic, a not fully bred shepherd, the subterranean traveller thought. She gave it a good hug, look how much I like your dog, a pretty long hug in fact, and then she kissed the dog on the mouth. She kissed the dog on the mouth again. The man wasn't quite sure what to think of it. Next moment, things got a lot weirder. She once more bent over and then the dog stuck out its tongue, a long, fleshy tongue, and she accepted the invitation. Is this where women become whores? the subterranean wondered.

The healthy not yet fifty years old woman, our goddess for a moment of spring inspired madness, was having it off with the dog of the man she wanted to have sex with, her feet apart and bent through the knees, fabric pressing tightly in soft flesh. The traveller, not usually in awe of his own adventures, felt slightly concocted. She meanwhile was having no problems. She seemed to by now seek an exit strategy, stroking the dog's neck hair backwards with certain vigour, yet showed no other signs of retraction. The dog was equally not easily having enough of it. It's not every day a shepherd gets to deep throat his bossy's new lady. Bossy himself was starting to want to vomit.

In the end, she slung herself free and licked her lips clean with her own impressive tongue, her whole trembling body bending to the man before her. See, how wild and willing I am, it expressed, can you imagine having me in your bed? The subterranean traveller gathered toy boy certainly could but that he wasn't quite sure whether he was in for the adventure. Anyways, he was much too busy trying to restrain the dog, which now felt ready for the next assault, its doghood prancing from awakened lust.

Things could only have gotten further out of hand at that stage, dog gone crazy and all, so it was perhaps for the better a certain calmness suddenly set in and nothing much more happened, as if the onlookers' confusion had taken hold of the principle actors in this peculiar drama. The animal would not immediately let go of its good fortune, of course, but a few painful yanks from the leash made it accept the inevitable return of normality, becrying its loss as only dogs can. The man so far had not uttered a sound. His stupor was now completely. He knew he had to accept this, that it would be worth his while, but he simply couldn't. Spring must have still been far away for the former toy boy.

Doggy Style

Doggy Style




@ 2017