/lit/ - Literature

>>11939638

Nick Land prowls the neighborhood at night, as he does every night, hoping someone nearby left their dog outside. He peers over a fence. Nothing, damn. He hears an engine and ducks behind a bush. He looks through his night-vision monocular-- just that beater truck again. Nick squats there for a few seconds. The sound recedes into the cool autumn night.

Nick slinks out from behind the bush and continues his trek. He walks parallel to the jogging trail that circumnavigates the neighborhood, his moccasins quietly patting against the dirt. A stray leaf crackles under his foot. A noise-- he freezes again-- jingling.

He can almost smell it. His erection is throbbing. Nick raises the monocular to his eye in a smooth motion: that's it. A golden retriever is scratching its neck with its hind leg. He looks both ways and, satisfied by the lack of pedestrians, creeps toward the waist-high fence. The dog has stopped scratching. It trots around the yard. Nick touches the fence, feels its rough, bare grain. He steps over it softly.

Nick is salivating. He pushes off the fence like a sprinter from his block, vaults a small raised garden bed, and makes straight for the dog. The dog hears him, but it's too late. Nick tackles the dog, grabs it around the muzzle, gropes around for a hairy leg. He works his way up the thigh and feels the retriever's dangling member. He squeezes. The dog whines.

His eyes wide like a wild man, Nick fumbles furiously, trying to pull his sweatpants down one-handed. He succeeds. The breeze chills his precum-primed erection as he feels for the dog's asshole. He finds it-- fumbles-- jams his cock in. The dog struggles, whines against Nick's visegrip on his snout. It is futile. All Nick perceives is the rich fur, the musky odor, the dry sphincter.