Chapter 44: The Canine Encounters III

Rebecca’s consciousness crawled back to the surface like a half-drowned rat dragging itself out of a sewer grate.

Slow. Gross. Absolutely unwilling.

Her cheek was stuck to something cold and hard. The fluorescent emergency lights hummed overhead in that particular frequency designed to make sane people question their life choices. She blinked a few times, her eyelashes fighting through a crusty layer of... something. She didn’t want to think about what.

Her brain felt like someone had scooped it out, wrung it like a wet towel, and shoved it back in upside down.

What... where...

She tried to swallow. Her throat was raw. Her tongue tasted like salt and something faintly metallic.

Why does my face feel like it’s been laminated to this floor.

She shifted her left wrist just enough to squint at her S.T.A.R.S. watch. The digital display cheerfully informed her that three hours had elapsed since she’d last checked the time.

Three hours.

Three hours of what?

Her brain did that thing where it tried to load recent memories and got nothing but a spinning buffering icon. The last clear thing she could grasp was... the animal pen. The centipede. Ghosty growing a scorpion tail out of his ass like some kind of biological Swiss Army knife.

And then...

Nothing.

She tried to sit up.

Her body said absolutely the hell not.

Every muscle from her neck to her toes screamed in unified protest, like a labor union filing the world’s most aggressive grievance. Her arms trembled. Her legs felt like someone had replaced her bones with overcooked spaghetti. She managed to lift her head exactly two inches off the tile before gravity reasserted its authority and slapped her back down.

Her brain started loading memories in stuttering fragments. Like a corrupted video file trying to play through severe lag.

Oh.

Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god oh god—

I did that?

Of course she did! On PURPOSE!

Then the—

No. Don’t think about it.

The kissing. The way his tongue had—

STOP.

The grinding against her bare stomach. Her pants and panties melting off...The heat of his shaft sliding between her—

I SAID STOP, BRAIN.

But her memory had zero interest in taking orders. It cheerfully served up the next course with the enthusiasm of a five-star waiter who absolutely hated her.

Images kept coming to her mind of his cock between her breasts, the wet, rhythmic slapping, her hand wrapped around him while he—

I squeezed it. I squeezed it and he WHIMPERED. Like a puppy. A giant, terrifying puppy whose balls I was apparently—

Oh my god I called myself the alpha.

WHILE HOLDING HIS DICK.

Her face was burning so hard she could feel her pulse in her cheeks. The tile beneath her cheek was freezing cold by comparison, and she briefly considered just pressing her face into it until she suffocated and this whole nightmare ended.

Because the worst part—the absolute, rock-bottom, jump-off-a-cliff part—wasn’t the handjob. Or the titjob. Or any of the other wildly inappropriate things she’d apparently volunteered for while high on zombie flower perfume.

The worst part was what came after.

All the things before she could blame on the dog’s instincts and her being helpless to it. But the part where her face went down on this very floor with her bare ass in the air, and guiding his shaft back to her entrance with her own trembling hand like she was helping a blind man thread a needle.

Except the needle was a mutant dog’s penis.

And the thread was my virginity.

Her stomach lurched.

Who could she blame for that but herself.

Begging an dog to breed her, no, not just a dog, but a mutated zombie dog...Oh God, someone please just kill me. Burn me on stakes.

The memories kept rolling in, each one more mortifying than the last. And what was worst was that she couldn’t deny the most important thing.

I enjoyed it.

I enjoyed ALL of it.

I came TWICE. No—three times. The tit thing was one, and then—

She’d actually showed him her tits like a medieval wench, enticing it to suck and play with it...That was a thing that had happened. To her. Rebecca Chambers. S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team field medic. Daughter of a moderately conservative Catholic family from the Midwest.

Mom, Dad, I want you to know that your tax dollars funded the S.T.A.R.S. program that sent me to the Arklay Mountains where I got finger-banged by the concept of bestiality.

Please don’t check the church prayer list for my name.

A thick, warm drop of something slid down her bare chest and pooled against the tile beneath her breast.

She became suddenly, acutely aware that her tits were cold.

Oh yeah... her tits were still out.

She looked down. Or rather, she tried to look down. Her face was stuck at an angle that only gave her a peripheral view of her own collarbone, but she could feel the situation clearly enough.

Her entire upper body was completely bare, her breasts smashed flat against the cold tile by the combined weight of herself and the two-hundred-pound mutant currently draped over her back like the world’s worst weighted blanket.

She could feel the sticky, tacky residue coating her bare skin from collarbone to navel. A disgusting cocktail of dried sweat, dog drool, and—

Her brain stopped.

The last ingredient in that mixture registered like a record scratch.

Cum.

There’s was so much cum on me.

Why is there so much cum on me?

I mean—obviously I know WHY there’s cum on me. He—earlier, the first time, with the—when he—

But that was on my face and chest. That was BEFORE. That should have dried by now.

So why am I still sticky?

Why am I THIS sticky?

She became aware of a warm, heavy sensation in her lower abdomen. Not painful. Just... present. Like someone had filled a water balloon and lodged it behind her pelvic bone.

A warm, heavy, slightly swelling sensation that pulsed with a slow, organic rhythm.

What the fuck is that.

She tried to shift her hips to get a better read on the situation. The movement caused something thick and fleshy to drag against her inner walls, and—

The sound that came out of her mouth was not human.

"HHNNGGAAAAHH—"

It was loud. It was guttural. It was the kind of sound that would make a porn director say "okay, maybe dial it back a little." Her entire body seized, toes curling inside her combat boots so hard she heard stitching pop, and her hands slapped against the tile like she was trying to high-five the floor.

Pleasure. Searing, blinding, absolutely violent pleasure lanced through her pelvis and detonated behind her eyeballs. Every nerve ending between her legs was firing at maximum capacity, hypersensitive to the point where the mere act of existing was sending shockwaves up her spine.

WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK—

She went completely rigid. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes watered. She held her breath until her lungs burned, waiting for the aftershocks to fade, because if she moved even one more millimeter she was going to—

Don’t come. Do NOT come. You are NOT allowed to come from this.

The pleasure subsided slowly, retreating like a wave pulling back from the shore, leaving her panting and trembling against the tile.

Okay. Okay. Something is inside me. Something big. Something that just made my nervous system short-circuit because I shifted two inches to the left.

She already knew what it was.

She’d known since the memories came back.

But there was a vast, terrifying difference between remembering that a mutant dog’s penis had been inside her body and feeling it currently wedged in her pelvis like a biological doorstop.

She was still impaled.

She was still on his dick.

Three hours later.

He’s still inside me. His cock is still inside my body. We have been... connected... for three hours.

Like two action figures stuck together in a kid’s toybox.

Except the kid is a virus-infested corporate hellhound and the toybox is a break room in a bioweapon factory.

And the action figures are naked.

And one of them is me.

She tried to process this information without having a complete psychological breakdown. The effort lasted approximately half a second before she gave up and had the breakdown anyway.

Her face burned. Her eyes stung. A completely involuntary whimper escaped her throat, and she pressed her cheek harder into the tile, wishing it would swallow her whole.

A zombie dog is knotting me.

What even IS a knot? Why do dogs have those? Who designed canine anatomy and thought "yeah, you know what this needs? A biological locking mechanism that traps the female during mating." WHAT KIND OF INTELLIGENT DESIGN IS THAT?

And I’m currently LOCKED ONTO IT.

Like a goddamn traffic cone wedged in a storm drain.

Except the storm drain is my vagina and the traffic cone is—

Okay I need to stop making metaphors about my own genitals.

She could feel the knot clearly now that her brain was paying attention. A thick, swollen bulb of flesh pressed firmly against her inner walls, plugging her entrance with an airtight seal that would have impressed an Olympic-level plumber. Every tiny movement she made caused it to shift inside her, which sent fresh sparks of unwanted pleasure cascading through her oversensitive core.

There’s so much of his cum inside me.

Like... SO much.

An actual, medically concerning volume.

Her stomach felt physically heavy. Pressed against the tile the way she was, she could actually see the slight bulge of her lower abdomen, distended just enough to be visible.

I look pregnant.

I look like I’m three months pregnant with a litter of zombie puppies.

Because I got KNOTTED. By a DOG. In a BREAK ROOM.

She stared at the tile. A tiny ant was marching across the grout line with the kind of focused determination she desperately wished she could muster right now. The ant didn’t have a mutant canine’s reproductive organ lodged in its pelvis. The ant was winning at life.

I wonder if this is what a nervous breakdown feels like.

Actually no. I’m pretty sure this IS a nervous breakdown. This is the definition. This is the textbook example they’ll use in psychology classes for the next hundred years. "Patient was conscious and aware, but had recently been sexually dominated by a T-virus hybrid and was unable to separate herself from the biological consequences."

A thick, warm glob of fluid chose that exact moment to slide out of the microscopic gap between her stretched entrance and the base of his knot. It traced a slow, wet path down her inner thigh, pooling against the tile with a soft plip.

Rebecca watched the tiny puddle form with the hollow, thousand-yard stare of a woman who had seen too much.

His cum is leaking out of me.

Onto the floor.

Of a break room.

Where other Umbrella employees probably ate their lunch.

I am contaminating a corporate facility with mutant ejaculate.

This is probably some kind of health code violation.

Oh, who am I kidding. Fuck those bastards who created this sex monster.

She had decided in her mind, she wasn’t letting any single Umbrella employe alive. She was gonna dump a bullet in the head and ball of every darned researcher who ever worked to create this thing. Doesn’t matter if they were zombies or not.

She let out a long, shaky breath that fogged the tile in front of her face.

I need to get up.

I need to get up RIGHT NOW.

She planted her forearms against the floor and gave a firm, determined push forward. Her plan was simple: wiggle free, roll to the side, and deal with the cleanup situation with whatever dignity she had left, which was currently measuring in the negative numbers.

The moment she moved, the knot inside her shifted.

"NNNGHHHAAAAAH—"

The moan tore out of her like a siren. Loud. Echoing. Absolutely pornographic. Her elbows buckled and she faceplanted back into the tile, her teeth clacking together as her entire lower half lit up like a Christmas tree wired to a car battery.

STOP. STOP MOVING. MOVING IS THE ENEMY.

Her pussy clamped down on the knot involuntarily, and the resulting friction sent another bolt of electric pleasure straight to her clit. Her thighs trembled. Her toes curled. A broken, whimpery sound escaped her lips that she would deny making until the day she died.

My body is a traitor. My pussy has defected to the enemy. It’s actively working against me now.

She lay there gasping, waiting for the aftershocks to fade, and tried to formulate Plan B.

Plan B was: don’t move.

Plan C was: scream for help.

There was no Plan D.

Ghosty let out a long, rumbling snore against her back. His hot breath puffed against her bare spine in slow, contented waves. The massive weight of his body hovered just above hers, his front paws and knees supporting enough of his bulk to keep from crushing her, but not enough to let her escape.

He’s sleeping?!

He railed me so hard I passed out, and then he just... took a nap.

On top of me.

While still inside me.

Like I’m a goddamn body pillow.

The sheer casualness of it was somehow worse than everything else. He wasn’t even aware of the hostage situation he’d created. He’d just done what his mutated biology demanded, plugged the exit like a cork in a bottle, and drifted off to dreamland with the satisfied contentment of a golden retriever who’d just finished a really good bone.

She turned her head just enough to look at his face. His massive, skinless snout was nestled against the crook of her neck, jaw slack, milky eyes closed. A thin line of drool dripped from his exposed teeth onto her bare shoulder.

He looked peaceful. He looked happy.

I hate you so much.

But also you saved my life like four times in the last six hours.

So I guess we’re even.

Except we are absolutely NOT even because you currently have your cock locked inside my body and I can’t get up without experiencing what I can only describe as involuntary orgasmic whiplash.

So actually you owe me.

A LOT.

Another tiny dribble of cooling fluid leaked past the knot and slid down her thigh. She could feel the cum inside her shifting with her breathing, a warm, heavy weight that pulsed in time with his heartbeat transmitted directly through the shaft.

He’s still producing. Even in his sleep. His body is still pumping.

WHERE IS IT ALL GOING?! I should be BURSTING by now! The human body is not designed to hold this much fluid! This violates several laws of physics AND basic anatomy!

Is my uterus just... absorbing it?

Is my body drinking it?

Oh god, am I HYDRATING from zombie dog cum?

That’s it. That’s enough.

The fact that she might be getting nutritional value from this was the straw the camel back.

Focus, Rebecca. Problem solving. You’re a medic. Solve problems.

Problem one: I am currently attached to a sleeping zombie dog by his reproductive organ.

Problem two: Removing said reproductive organ causes involuntary orgasms that could potentially attract every infected creature within a half-mile radius.

Problem three: I have no pants.

Problem four: I’m still not entirely sure problem three matters because I’m not convinced I’ll ever walk again anyway.

She needed to get his knot out of her. That was the priority. Everything else—the existential crisis, the potential viral contamination, the complete destruction of her Catholic upbringing—could wait.

There was only so much of this her mind could take while physically tethered to the source of her trauma.

Okay. New approach. Don’t try to move yourself. Get HIM to move.

"Um... hey. Buddy," she whispered, her voice cracking like a fourteen-year-old boy at a school dance. "Good boy. Time to... deflate. Please."

Ghosty just grunted happily against her neck. His hips twitched slightly in his sleep, driving the knot just a fraction deeper against her battered cervix.

"OWW—okay, okay, staying still! Staying completely still!"

She went rigid, pressing her face into the tile and holding her breath until the sharp little spike of pain-pleasure faded. Her hands fisted against the cold floor, nails scraping uselessly against ceramic.

He’s not waking up.

He’s out like a light.

This is like being stuck in a bear trap while the hunter who set it goes to get lunch.

She lay there in the puddle of their combined fluids, staring at a faded Umbrella Corporation motivational poster on the far wall. It featured a stock photo of a mountain climber with the caption "BREAKTHROUGH INNOVATION STARTS WITH YOU" in corporate blue.

I’m going to find whoever hung that poster and I’m going to make them eat it.

The Umbrella Corporation had created monsters that defied the laws of nature, bioweapons capable of slaughtering entire cities, and viral strains that resurrected the dead.

But this right here—being held hostage by a mutant’s dick in a break room while corporate propaganda posters mocked her from the walls—this was their greatest crime against humanity.

I am going to shoot Oswell Spencer directly in the balls. If he’s still alive. If he’s not, I’ll find his grave and shoot the headstone.

Her mind started cycling through whatever tactical protocols she could remember from the academy. Hostage situations. Behind-enemy-lines survival. First aid for traumatic amputations. None—absolutely none—of the official training manuals covered being medically tethered to a sleeping canine via an absurdly oversized biological locking mechanism.

There was no Chapter in the S.T.A.R.S. field guide titled "What To Do When A Mutated Zombie Dog Knocks You Up With Eighteen Inches Of Canine Reproductive Hardware." She’d checked. Mentally. Just now.

Maybe if I wake him up gently, he’ll pull out on his own. Dogs respond to commands, right? He’s been listening to me all night. Sit, stay, heel, don’t eat the centipede.

All I have to do is wake him up and ask nicely.

"G-Ghosty," she tried, keeping her voice low and steady and absolutely not panicking. "Seriously, you need to wake up and pull out. My legs are falling asleep and my uterus feels like a goddamn waterbed."

He exhaled a long, rancid breath directly into her ear. The warm gust carried the faint scent of digested centipede and old meat. His tail gave a lazy, subconscious thump against the floor. One. Two. Three slow wags before going still again.

He’s dreaming about something. Probably chasing rabbits. Or eating zombies. Or—

Oh god, is he dreaming about ME?

Is a zombie dog having a sex dream about me while still inside me?

That is... that is somehow the most flattering and the most horrifying thing that has ever happened to me simultaneously.

He clearly wasn’t going anywhere. The beast had settled into the kind of deep, satisfied sleep that only came from an absolutely world-class orgasm followed by a meal, and he had apparently decided that Rebecca’s pelvis was his personal memory foam mattress.

She lay there for another few minutes, tracing the exact sequence of events that had led her to this spectacular low point. Somewhere between the helicopter crash and now, she had gone from "competent field medic on her first real mission" to "impregnated zombie dog body pillow lying in a pool of mixed fluids on a corporate break room floor."

And the worst part—the absolute, irredeemable, burn-it-all-down worst part—was that the entire experience had felt incredibly, mind-numbingly, obscenely good.

Like. Way too good.

No. Bad Rebecca. Bad. We are not revisiting that. We are not grading the experience. We are not giving it a five-star review.

Ptoeey.

She mentally spat the thought out like spoiled milk.

There is absolutely no excuse for this. Pheromones or not, I actively participated in my own destruction. I begged a dog to breed me harder. I wrapped my legs around him. I came three times.

Three.

Times.

She mentally swatted her own forehead against the tile. It made a dull thunk that echoed slightly in the quiet room. She promised herself, with the absolute solemnity of a S.T.A.R.S. officer taking an oath, that this would never, ever happen again.

Never. Not even if he smells really good. Not even if those pheromone things make me feel all warm and fuzzy. Not even if he looks at me with those stupid puppy eyes and tilts his giant, disgusting head.

NEVER.

...

...I mean it.

...

...Stop looking at me like that in my imagination, brain.

Since she couldn’t physically punch her own cerebellum, she decided to redirect all of her mounting resentment toward the lazy parasite currently using her spine as a mattress.

Look at him. Just LOOK at this freeloading, deadbeat mutt.

She had been beyond generous. She had literally let him use her as a personal cum receptacle. She had allowed him to do things to her body that would make a truck stop bathroom stall blush. She had opened herself up—literally—to the most degrading experience of her entire life, and how did he repay her?

He fell asleep on the job.

He was supposed to be a genetically engineered apex predator. A bioweapon. A two-hundred-pound killing machine wrapped in scorpion armor. Instead of keeping watch at the door to make sure a rogue leech mimic didn’t wander in and eat them both while she was unconscious, he had decided to take a three-hour power nap while still plugged into her pelvis.

What kind of professional bioweapon behaved with such a complete lack of workplace etiquette?

You’re a GUARD dog. Emphasis on GUARD. As in, guarding. Not sleeping. Not napping. Not using my reproductive tract as a stress ball while you catch some Zs.

One of his massive, mutated paws was resting right next to her face. It was a grotesque sight—dried zombie blood caked between the toes, peeling grey skin, exposed tendon and muscle visible where the chitin plates didn’t quite cover. But after having his tongue down her throat and his knot in her pelvis for three hours, her tolerance for biohazardous grossness had expanded to roughly the size of the Pacific Ocean.

She studied the paw for a long moment.

Then she bared her teeth, leaned over, and bit down on his thick, leathery toe pad with everything she had.

It wasn’t a playful nip. It was the kind of chomp that said "I have been sexually imprisoned for three hours and I am taking it out on the nearest available extremity." Her teeth sank into the tough, rubbery flesh, and she ground down with the kind of savage determination usually reserved for pit bulls and angry toddlers.

Ghosty let out a sharp, surprised yelp that echoed off the break room walls. His head snapped up, milky eyes going wide with confusion as he blinked down at the feral woman currently gnawing on his foot like a chew toy.

"Oh, you’re awake? Splendid," Rebecca snapped through a mouthful of dog toe, her voice dripping with enough sarcasm to corrode a steel beam. She released his paw and spat out a chunk of dead skin. "Good morning, sleeping beauty. I hope you had a lovely nap while my lower half slowly died of oxygen deprivation."

He whined softly. His massive head tilted to one side, and his non-existent ears flattened against his skull in a display of pure, unadulterated guilt. His tail tucked. His whole body language screamed "I know I did something wrong but I’m not entirely sure what."

He clearly recognized that his human was extremely angry with him, even if the concept of "you have been using my vagina as an anchor for the past three hours" was somewhat beyond his canine comprehension.

"Don’t you DARE give me those puppy eyes," she muttered, glaring up at him from her face-down position on the tile. "You are currently holding me hostage with your mutant junk. I have been stuck to this floor like a goddamn refrigerator magnet for three hours. You don’t get to look cute about it."

The whine intensified. His tail gave a single, hesitant wag. Testing the waters.

"No. Bad dog. Very bad dog. Get your mutated reproductive equipment OUT of me. Right now. That is a direct order."

Something in her tone must have registered. Maybe it was the authority. Maybe it was the way her eye was twitching. Either way, Ghosty seemed to understand the basic command.

He shifted his weight backward, planting his hind legs more firmly, and began to slowly—very slowly—drag himself out.

Sccccchhhhhh-lick.

The sound was wet. Visceral. Like someone pulling a boot out of deep mud.

And the sensation—

"Ah—WAIT! STOP! STOP MOVING!"

Rebecca’s hands clawed at the tile, leaving scratch marks in the old linoleum as her eyes rolled back in her skull. The friction of the still-swollen knot dragging against her hyper-sensitive, raw, thoroughly battered walls was like taking a belt sander to a fresh sunburn. Except the sunburn was on her G-spot and the belt sander felt incredible in the worst possible way.

Her pussy clamped down on the retreating shaft with a vice grip that would have impressed a hydraulic press. Every muscle south of her navel seized simultaneously, her body physically refusing to let go of the thing that had been inside it for three hours. Her own biology was sabotaging her escape attempt like a hostage developing Stockholm syndrome in real time.

I hate my body. I hate it SO much. It’s working for the ENEMY now.

Ghosty froze instantly, whining in panicked confusion. His front paws trembled against the tile as he tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. His tail was tucked so far between his legs it was practically touching his stomach.

"Don’t move," Rebecca gasped, pressing her forehead into the cold floor while she waited for the room to stop spinning. "Just... don’t move. You’re too big. If you just yank it out like that, you’re going to turn my insides into outsides."

Her breathing came in short, ragged bursts. She could feel her heartbeat in her clit, which was absolutely not where a person should be able to feel their heartbeat. Every nerve ending between her legs was so overstimulated that even the air in the room felt like a physical touch.

I need a different approach.

I can’t just have him rip it out. The knot is still too swollen, and I’m too sensitive. If he pulls out fast, I’ll either pass out from the pleasure or he’ll literally tear something.

I need to do this myself.

Rebecca reached back between her thighs, her hand trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. Her fingers brushed against her own skin first—hot, slick, coated in a disgusting mixture of fluids she refused to catalog. Then her fingertips found the base of his shaft where it met her entrance, and she wrapped her hand around the thick junction of flesh.

This was her second time touching it while it was inside her, and somehow it felt even more intimate than the first. She could feel everything from both sides now. The outer texture of the shaft—hot, veiny, pulsing—combined with the internal sensation of being stretched around it. Her fingers and her walls were reporting to her brain simultaneously, giving her a 360-degree sensory map of exactly how full she was.

Which is something I absolutely did not need to know.

She began to gently massage the area around her opening, trying to coax the tight, stretched ring of muscle to relax enough to slip over the swollen bulb of his knot.

Come on. Come on, just... open up. It’s like a Chinese finger trap. The more you panic, the tighter it holds. Just relax. Breathe. This is basic field medicine. Tissue manipulation. Just pretend this is a... a...

There is no medical analogy for what I am doing right now.

There is no textbook that covers manually extracting a dog’s penis from your own vagina while the dog in question watches with a confused head-tilt.

As she worked, her fingers trailed over the ridged surface of his shaft. The veins beneath the skin were like thick cables, pulsing with that slow, hypnotic rhythm that she had already learned synced up with his heartbeat. The skin itself was absurdly smooth for something belonging to a creature that didn’t actually have skin anywhere else on its body. Almost silky. And so hot it practically burned her fingertips.

Her scientific brain, despite every single alarm bell currently ringing inside her skull, couldn’t help but marvel at the biology.

The tissue structure is... remarkable. The engorgement mechanism is clearly mammalian but the scale is completely outside normal parameters. The vascular density alone suggests a cardiac output three to four times what you’d expect from—

Her thumb brushed over a particularly thick vein, and the shaft pulsed warmly against her palm.

I’m caressing it.

I’m STROKING a zombie dog’s cock while it’s inside me.

And I’m getting SCIENTIFIC about it.

Bad! BAD hands! Stop fondling the merchandise!

She yanked her hand back like she’d touched a hot stove, but the damage was already done. The prolonged, gentle contact had sent signals directly to whatever remained of Ghosty’s higher brain function, and those signals had been interpreted with exactly zero ambiguity.

Beneath her palm—still hovering inches from the shaft—she felt the first telltale throb.

No. No no no no no.

The knot, which had been very slowly, very gradually deflating over the past three hours, suddenly surged with a fresh wave of heat. She could feel it expanding against her inner walls in real time, the swollen bulb growing thicker, harder, more insistent as blood rushed back into the engorged tissue.

"No," Rebecca whimpered, whipping her head around to give the dog a terrifying death glare over her shoulder. "Don’t you DARE. Ghosty, I swear to GOD, if you swell up again, I will find a scalpel and I will—"

The dog whined. His hips made a small, involuntary twitch forward. The movement drove the expanding knot directly against her anterior wall, and the swollen head ground against a spot that made Rebecca’s vision white out for a full second.

"Oh—ohhh—ah—"

The sound was high-pitched. Pathetic. The kind of noise that a person made when their body completely overrode their brain’s executive function and started making decisions without consulting management.

Her hips arched upward against her will, tilting back to press against him, and the movement buried the knot just a fraction deeper. The pressure against her cervix sent a shockwave of pleasure radiating outward through her entire pelvis, and she felt her walls flutter around him in helpless, rhythmic contractions.

No. No, we are NOT doing round two. We are NOT. I refuse. My body does not get to make this decision—

But when she looked over her shoulder and saw the look on Ghosty’s face, her stomach dropped through the floor and kept going.

The confusion was gone. The guilt was gone. The dopey, head-tilting puppy routine had evaporated like morning dew.

In its place was the exact same expression he’d worn right before the first time. That focused, intense, laser-locked stare. Pupils blown wide. Jaw slightly slack. Every muscle in his massive frame coiling with predatory intent.

The look of a predator who had just been reminded that his mate was right there, warm and wet and available, and that round one had been merely an appetizer.

Oh no.

Here we go again....

[Events omitted]

[To Be Continued]

A/N: Thank gosh we are done. this sex sequence had become a bit too long for me too. writing in small segments makes you forget the overall length of scene, and on joining them together, you realize that you might have overdone it.

hope it was not boring to read atleast.

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