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Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Romance
Description: Endi has lived in the same small town his whole life. He walks and grooms dogs for a living, tries to keep up with the sprawling old house his grandparents left him, manages a boyfriend, and tries like heck to hide his crush on the town's fire chief. Pretty ordinary, right? But Endi's always hoped for better than "ordinary." One day, he meets a mysterious new friend and his canine clients start sprouting wings and spewing fire. Can the motley collection of pooches really be dragons? Originally published in the Another Fine Mess Anthology.
eBook Publisher: Torquere Press/Single Shot Classic, 2010 www.torquerepress.com
eBookwise Release Date: November 2010

11 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [53 KB]
Words: 11115
Reading time: 31-44 min.

It all starts with a blowjob.

As it turns out, the blowjob itself isn't all that important. In fact, it doesn't even have all of my attention, or I wouldn't have noticed the wings.

I'm on my knees in Peter's kitchen. I'd come to walk his dog at lunchtime, like always, and he'd popped home from his office in the next town over because he'd "forgotten something." Yeah, to stick his dick in my mouth, that's what he forgot. Not that I'm not happy to oblige.

But there's happy and then there's happy, if you know what I mean.

He smoothes his hand over my hair as I suck him off. He isn't guiding me, or forcing me, no, he's tidying me up. That's Peter all over: his priority during fellatio isn't getting off, or holding off, or controlling my technique, it's subduing my unruly hair. How a guy like him can own a dog is beyond me. But the dog, not his dick, is why I'm there, and we both know it.

Without letting up on my patented bob and weave technique, I swivel my eyes around to see if Blackie's still in the room. Call me a freak, but I think it's kind of impolite of Peter to get sucked off in front of his dog, especially since he says his dog is neutered.

There's Blackie, sitting in a shaft of noontime sun from the kitchen window, watching us without blinking, his yellow ear fur all lit up. Oh, yeah, Blackie's not black; Black is Peter's last name, arrogant jerk.

In the light from the window, it looks like Blackie isn't a dog, either. He dances his paws a little on the floor, flexing his shoulders, and I swear I see a pair of wings extend behind and above him, flap once, and fold back into nothing.

It's a good thing Peter's just finished shooting down my throat because I spit out his floppy prick and sit back hard on the green linoleum.

"Did you see that?" I yell.

Peter chuckles and tucks himself away. "What, kiddo, did I make you see stars?"

I must have a pretty harsh look on my face or something because his face registers concern for the merest second. "Did I hurt you? Cut off your air?"

I look over at Blackie, who takes my sprawled position on the floor as an invitation to play. He ambles over and I watch him every second, waiting for those wings to appear again. He sniffs my face and licks at my mouth, which is kind of gross if you think about what was most recently in my mouth. I stroke over his shoulders and down his spine, scratching a little.

No wings.