The Dog Groomer

I had him backed up against the washing machine now, and with one hand I was working the buttons on his shirt and with the other I was unbuttoning the fly to his shorts. He was stammering and yammering. But he wasn’t stopping me.

I went into a lip lock while my hands ran across his body, exposing more flesh and rubbing it and gliding from one sensitive spot to another. I had him pushed into the washing machine. He was rigid at first in his confusion and not believing that this was happening so fast; not believing it was happening to him at all. But he warmed up fast enough and soon his hands were opening up and peeling away my clothing and gliding along my body as searchingly as I what I was doing to him. He thawed completely to me and was devouring my mouth now and making loud, animal-like sounds.

His yammering served to summon forth a small collection of pooches, who trotted out to the grooming room from all parts of his house and politely formed a semicircle around us, making up an attentive, appreciative audience. I don’t know if Cliff minded the audience, but I thought it was kind of cute. I almost wished they’d brought their wallets so I could charge admission.

We were both naked as the dogs now, if not as furry—although Cliff did have that nice chest pelt playing ring-around-a-rosy with his pert nipples, one with a silver ring in it, and trailing down his torso into his bush. I lifted him up and slammed his nicely rounded butt cheeks down on top of the washing machine and started my lips on a journey down that trail.