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"You want this, don't you?" I whispered it to the dog who's been inside my fantasies for months. Now he's inside me. Wrong hole. Wrong everything. Pain tearing through my body. I hear the hallway light click on. My father's footsteps. I can't pull away. Neither can he. --- Chapter 1 The heat in the apartment was a living thing. It pressed down from the ceiling, thick and stagnant, smelling of stale beer and fried food. My father hadn’t paid the electricity bill again, so the AC unit was just a silent, dead eye in the wall. I was sixteen, and the city outside our fourth-floor walk-up felt a million miles away. Dad lost his construction job six months ago. Now he mostly lost himself in bottles of cheap whiskey. Mom was a faded photograph and a child support check that stopped coming last year. My world had shrunk to these three rooms and the heavy, sour presence of the man passed out on the couch. He wasn’t always passed out. Sometimes he was awake. Awake and angry. The walls were thin. I knew the sounds of his rage—the smash of a bottle, the low, venomous curses. My fault, always my fault. The rent money disappearing. The mold growing in the shower. My very existence. My only relief was Duke. He was a big, shaggy mutt we’d had since I was ten. Dad won him in a poker game. Now, Duke was my shadow. My confidant. When the shouting started, I’d bury my face in his fur, and his steady heartbeat would drown out the noise. Puberty hit me like a freight train in this cramped space. My body changed, curves appearing where there were none, new sensations humming under my skin. The boys at my new school were either intimidating or invisible. I was neither. I was the quiet girl from the bad building. My education came from the magazines Dad left lying around. Not sports or news. Slick, glossy pages filled with contorted bodies and exaggerated ecstasy. I’d find them stuffed under the couch, behind the toilet. At first, I was horrified. Then curious. Then, alone in my tiny bedroom, desperately aroused. I’d try with my fingers, fumbling and frustrated. It was never enough. The images from the magazines played behind my eyes—the penetration, the possession. I ached for it. For something to fill the hollow, lonely space inside me. One night, the heat was unbearable. I lay on my bed in just a tank top and panties. Duke lay beside me, panting. I was reading one of the magazines, my skin slick with sweat. Arousal was a tight, needy coil in my belly. Duke nuzzled my hand. I absently petted him. He licked my fingers, then my wrist. His nose, cool and wet, bumped against the inside of my thigh. I flinched. “Duke, no.” But he nuzzled again, lower this time. His nose pressed against the thin cotton of my panties. A shock went through me. I should push him away. I knew I should. But the heat, the loneliness, the image on the page… I didn’t. I let my legs fall open a little. Just a little. He sniffed, intrigued. Then his warm, rough tongue swiped over the fabric. A gasp tore from my throat. It was wrong. So wrong. It also felt like the first real touch I’d had in years. Chapter 2 I became a creature of secret rituals. After school, I’d hurry home, heart pounding. Dad was usually at the bar by then. I’d lock the door, the chain rattling. A pathetic barrier, but it felt like a promise. My room was my sanctuary. Duke would follow me in, his tail wagging. I’d sit on the edge of my bed, still in my school skirt. My heart would hammer against my ribs. This was my choice. My secret. I’d lift my skirt. No panties. I’d stopped wearing them weeks ago. Duke needed no encouragement now. He’d trot over, his nails clicking on the linoleum. He’d bury his snout between my thighs, his warm breath a shock against my bare skin. Then the licking would start. Long, slow, deliberate strokes. It was clumsy. Animalistic. But it was attention. It was sensation. It was a focus for all the tangled, restless energy inside me. I’d lean back on my elbows, my head falling back. I’d bite my lip to stay quiet. The sounds from the apartment below—a TV game show, a couple arguing—faded into a distant buzz. There was only the wet, rhythmic sound and the building pressure between my legs. I’d come with a shudder, a silent cry trapped in my throat. Waves of release, sharp and surprising. Followed immediately by a crushing wave of shame. I’d push Duke away, my face burning. He’d look at me, panting, his tongue lolling. Happy. Oblivious. “Good boy,” I’d whisper, my voice thick. I’d give him a treat from the stash I kept hidden. Rewarding the sin. The shame would linger, but it was quickly drowned out by the memory of the feeling. And the deepening need. The licking wasn’t enough anymore. I saw the way Duke’s pink, pointed flesh would sometimes emerge from its sheath when he got excited. A strange, fascinating sight. I started touching him there. Rubbing his belly until it emerged. It felt hard. Alive. A real thing. The idea took root. It was monstrous. Unthinkable. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The magazines showed me how it was supposed to work. The man. The woman. The joining. I had no man. I had Duke. One evening, after he’d licked me to a trembling, unsatisfied peak, I lay beside him. My hand stroked his belly, lower and lower. His prick emerged, thick and red. My breath caught. It was so much bigger than I’d imagined. Fear and a dark, pulsing curiosity warred inside me. Dad was home early. I could hear him stumbling in the living room, cursing at the broken TV. I looked at Duke. I looked at my closed bedroom door. The fear won. For now. But the thought was there. A dark seed, planted deep. Waiting for the right conditions to grow. Chapter 3 The right conditions arrived on a Friday night. A storm raged outside, hammering the windows with rain. The power was out. The apartment was a cave of shadows and noise. Dad had come home in a black mood, screaming about money before locking himself in his room with a bottle. The slam of his door was a period at the end of a sentence. Silence followed. The kind of silence that felt more dangerous than the shouting. In my room, lit by a single candle, the loneliness was a physical weight. Duke lay at the foot of my bed, a dark shape. The frantic energy inside me had reached a fever pitch. The images from the magazines, the memory of Duke’s tongue, the heavy, storm-charged air—it all coalesced into a single, desperate need. I couldn’t wait anymore. My hands were shaking as I spread an old blanket on the floor. My heart was a frantic bird in a cage. Duke watched me, head tilted. “Come here, boy,” I whispered. He obeyed, tail giving a tentative wag. I knelt before him, the rough blanket scratchy on my knees. I was naked. The candlelight danced over my skin. This was it. The point of no return. I rubbed his sides, his belly, my movements slower now, more purposeful. I felt the change in him. The tension. The familiar nudge of his erection against my hand. He began to pant, a low whine in his throat. He tried to hump my arm. I guided him gently, turning on the blanket, getting onto my hands and knees. I presented myself to him, my back arched, my face pressed to the musty fabric. He understood the posture. Instinct took over. He clambered onto my back, his front paws wrapping around my waist, claws pricking my skin. He was heavy. So heavy. I felt the hard, hot probe of him searching between my thighs. This was wrong. This was so wrong. I was crying now, silent tears soaking into the blanket. But I didn’t stop him. I needed this. I needed to be filled, to be claimed, even by this. He thrust clumsily. I felt a blunt pressure against my opening. Not my virgin opening. He was too low. He was pushing against the tight, forbidden pucker of my ass. Panic shot through me, cold and clear. No. Not there. That wasn’t part of the fantasy! I tried to squirm away, to adjust my position. “Duke, no, wait—” But he was committed. His thrusts became more insistent. The blunt head of him pressed, and pressed, and with a sickening, burning tear, it breached me. A white-hot lance of pain seared through my body. I screamed into the blanket, the sound muffled. He was inside me. In the wrong place. It was a violation worse than anything I had imagined. He began to fuck me in earnest, his hips pistoning. Each thrust was a new agony, a stretching, ripping feeling. I sobbed, clawing at the blanket, trapped under his weight and his instinct. The storm outside mirrored the one in my body. Thunder shook the building. And then, a new sound cut through the cacophony. The distinct click of a bedroom door unlocking. My blood froze. The frantic rhythm of Duke’s hips stuttered. He was close. I could feel him swelling inside me, growing impossibly larger, locking us together. The pain was eclipsed by a terror so profound it stole my breath. Light flooded the hallway, slicing under my door. Footsteps. Heavy, slow, deliberate. Coming down the hall.

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