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I realize it sounds borderline sacrilegious; Doctor Heros Sooniecher, the man with more taste than sense, the golden boy of Schwerin; he, out of all people, is seeking the company of the girls dwelling outside the Reeperbahn? One would expect someone like him to only frequent girls of similar status, prized arm candies, picked from the lavish box of crown jewels that is the social elite! Perhaps the wife of an ambassador or a quick escort smuggled into his chambers while on a business trip. The kind you can order on the room service menu, even if they don't put it on the card.\n\nAnd even when in Hamburg, or, perhaps especially when in Hamburg, one would expect those things. Plenty of brothels to serve the affluent customer who, drunk on Berliner Luft and Havanna Club, peruses the streets, mating calls sounding loudly from his hoarse throat as he swings about the glass he forgot to return, not a care in the world about the 6 Euro he'd see returned if he did. I mean, for Christ's sake, the whole inner city is but one continuous whorehouse! Even the brown coats, despite all their attempts – and there were many, I assure you – couldn't beat the filth out of this district.\n\nA paradise for all those interested in debauchery. Sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. In fact, miss the latter, just sex and drugs will do fine. So then, with all this established, what reason could one possibly have to venture outside of Eden's Garden and cast themselves out into the harsh, cold world full of concrete, rebar, and the stench of fish that the docs, which border the Southern end of the city, offer?\n\nWild dogs.\n\nYes, deer reader, wild dogs! The yipping, chattering spawn of the sub-Saharan womb! The humble African spade! The Afro-Germans of the peninsula named HafenCity that form a microcosm housed in cheap flats and perpetual construction zones. Amidst the buzzing ecosystem, comprised of the old generations of early immigrants, illegal Aliens and squatters, there is fun of a wholly different kind to be found!\n\nThe kinds of sluts that don't tell you off, should things get a little rough. The kind that won't rally their girls to toss drinks at you and pay their boys to key your Royce if you smack their cheeks and remind them of their place. Down here, you meet girls that stand on their own. The true working girl! Girls with sleek bodies and minds that understand where they came from. Fled from horrid conditions in their homelands, they come loaded with many interesting stories to tell you post-coitus. They'll invite you into their own dwellings and sleep in the same bed you fucked them raw on. Something you would never find in the inner city.\n\nOr anywhere else in the country for that matter. \n\nAnd I am by no means the only man to enjoy the specific wares the peninsula offers; dog boys of all kinds, who will swallow either their fear or bigotry, will flock to the wild dog to experience sharing the sheets with a species that still bears proper teeth and claw and the genetic incompatibility provides a lovely excuse for lack of wrapping.\n\nHafenCity provides its own little world for anyone adventurous enough to indulge in it: one run by its own rules, and one the city is tolerating of – provided it sticks to that little strip of land – like a sprinkling of sesame-segregation on Hamburg's cultural bun! It has been this way since I came to Germany, at the beginning of the century.\n\nBut I have no qualms about the stigma that arises from a European gent being fond of African wares. The Americans love their diversity hires; I prefer diversity fucks. Consequently, I am far from a stranger in HafenCity. \"Oberhafen,\" they call this part, which is nomenclature entirely based on geographics, baha! And despite the seedy nature, I don't concern myself with the dangers that usually come with strides through these parts of the city. And there are plenty, as one would expect. Thievery, muggings, and the occasional use of claw or blade are not at all uncommon but the gangs know better than to lay their paws on me; status may be of little value in their world but infamy transcends culture. \n\nMy person may trail a scent of Tom Ford and Hermès, but the trained nose can still smell the trouble. Still yet, I much prefer to take what I rent for a spin in more than one way; bringing a Wildie to the fancier places in the city is always a delight to me! Flummoxed stares are a guarantee when your arm candy wears a skirt in tribal colours and a top that barely manages to render the chest modest. But what good is it hiding that pretty coat which a painted dog sports? Arm hooked around the sleeve of my Bijang coat and her jawline cupped by my peccary gloves, when I demand her attention and speak sultry as though we were lovers, and her trained gaze grows to half-lids, acting as though she cares for nothing but hearing my spoken words. Most of the girls here are good actors too, it really leaves the average viewer guessing just what they are seeing when I show up with them in tow. And they aren't shy to show off either, much in contrast to their so-called affluent sisters in the city; ask one of those to flash in a restaurant and they'll tell you to pound sand. \n\n[i]I'll pound it with the shovel when you're four feet under it on the beach, you godforsaken,\nugly bitch.[/i]\n\n\nMy black Oxfords click across the broken asphalt as I stroll down the promenade of grey, and I can feel my paws growing slightly uncomfortable. I remember a time when Gucci used to make things worth sticking your feet into but those are long gone. It's discomfort of my own fault, really, but I cannot bring myself to wear the Ferragamo to this place; the stench of marijuana is ever-present and nigh-impossible to remove from leather goods once it has settled in. My nose is most perturbed by it, the nostrils flaring involuntarily, making ignoring it much more difficult. To my left, I see rows of the aforementioned construction zones. Pylons of concrete and steel beams, some of them rusted to a point that further construction efforts would see their replacement before it could continue. Skeletons of phantom projects, empty promises by politicians to \"clean up Oberhafen.\". Of course, none of them ever come to fruition but that is precisely the point. More affordable housing in this part of the city would immediately be taken up by Wildies and Yeens. Still, this has not dissuaded some from trying.\n\nTo my right stand the failures of those efforts in the form of multi-story flats. Post-war buildings that would make any Soviet architect weak in the knees. The earliest attempts of the Plattenbau structures that now plague the German landscape all around; prefabs made in a factory, then shipped out and assembled in record time. Cheap. Affordable. And as ugly as they are depressing. The walls painted in a sickening pastel yellow have long since lost what little sheen they sported. Greyed and blackened by the rough harbour air and smoke from countless cases of small house fires and people fashioning makeshift heaters to combat the frequent failures of the ancient decentralized heating system, whose enormous pipes snake their way across the old walls like veins, only to funnel into central boiler houses in the midst of the courtyards these buildings curl around like a stinking mutt on the side of the road.\n\nThe stench of marihuana hangs in the air as I approach third building on the strip. It permeates the soil, held in place by the high humidity and only grows more prominent with every step taken. The entrance door to the apartment block is made of worn, blue-painted metal and positively covered in knife wounds and sticker patches. Whoever was tasked with keeping the façade intact had given up on removing them at some stage; merely the scribbles speaking fondly of the AfD have been haphazardly scratched off or covered with their popular counter-argument in sticker form. To my right a doorbell panel protrudes from the wall, perhaps the starkest indicator as to the dwellers of the many narrow halls inside; tenants change and move with such frequency, the administration has long since stopped replacing the plastic cards, leaving the buttons populated either with handwritten names on lined paper or simply empty altogether. A problem swiftly rendered moot by the electronic lock on the door having had its bolt removed, leaving it to swing open without much resistance. There is no safety to be found here.\n\nInside, the atmospheric changes continue. The floor tiles are worn; every corner of the long hallway bears bits of caked-up soil and other unidentifiable matter. The light fixtures above have managed to survive, if only because the hallway is too tall to reach them easily; the bulbs cast a steady, cold light that does not do the scene any favours. Long lines of post boxes hang from the right-hand side, many of them bearing signs of attempted prying. The walls are covered in oil paint, a sickly green on the bottom, the same off-yellow as the outside on top. No moulding to bridge to the ceiling, the walls flow over in a seamless arch, a very common feature for building of its age. My nose is unfortunately as upset about the scene as my eyes are; I attempt to not breathe in too much as the stench of old smoke is so potent, it nearly manages to cover up that of urine, which is strongest in the little corner of where the staircase ends. I begin to make the climb up the Z-shaped stairs that lead up into the higher floors of the building, watching my step on the speckled anhydrite which is making it difficult to discern the dirtiest spots. The stairs are frequently travelled, however, and I am spared stepping in anything offensive. The deeper I make my way into the bowels of the flat, the more the soundscape begins to alter. No longer am I in Hamburg, I have entered a jungle of chitters and yipping, of gurgling water in old pipework and of sounds of whores dealing with customers or their offspring. Muffled noises of quarrels between young families and thumping tunes of dance music whose bass frequencies permeate through the concrete. I feel properly immersed in this world and by the time I reach the fourth floor, I can see the hallways growing darker. Light fixtures with broken or stolen bulbs, clothing lines running between tops of doorways like power cables and a figure or two waiting outside the doors, smoking or drinking. Most of them girls. They beget me with but a single, tired look, clad in pyjamas and flip-flops which makes up their home wear; social death, as far as I am concerned.\n\n\"Good evening.\"\n\nI always greet them passing by even though I know they care not for my presence nor my pleasantries. They never respond and the ones that look up are quick to avert their gaze. The dampened mood continues until the 7th floor is reached and my poor legs get to take a little breather. This floor is slightly cleaner than the rest, the old linoleum looks as though it at least knows what the touch of a mop feels like and the light fixtures are working, as is their motion detection. Six doors on the hallway, in alternating fashion, starting right and ending with a small window at the end someone saw fit to be replaced with a plexiglass pane and which features a small fan, aiding the air quality immensely. I still refrain from taking too deep a breather.\n\nMy destination is apartment 45c, the third apartment down the hall and second on the right. It is unmarked and the door is painted in an ill-fitting off-green with a missing handle and a small peephole at the top. I stop in front of it and lean forward to smile right into the little lens before I reach out to knock against the wood. My ears pick up sounds of Peter Fox blaring from a speaker and naked feet on a wood floor before the door moves with someone leaning against it, followed by the ratcheting of a chain and the lock being turned to swing the door open.\n\n\"Moin-Moin,\" the single occupant delights me with Hamburg's signature greeting, \"ya lookin' good!\"\n\n\"Hello, Makena.\"\n\nA wry grin sneaks itself onto my lips as I bend over at the waist and let the girl standing in the doorway push forward to take a sniff at my lavish neckfur. A customary greeting I still remember from my time in the South-Western colonies and a good means to mark yourself as culturally versed among her kin. I reciprocate the gesture and my nostrils screech at me in retaliation; the dog stinks of marijuana something fierce. \n\n\"Come on in! Ya smell nice…\"\n\nI love the little resentment in her voice. It isn't a compliment; she is disappointed. Perfumes and fur powders have no place in the culture of the untamed dogs of the prairies, refusing to adjust. It reminds me much of myself when I was her age. And as much as her scent loves to upset my olfactory, her looks are more than making up for it. She's a small one, barely managing to put her nose to my chest. Beautifully trim, curved lines draped in short, rough, and amazingly speckled fur. Many a customer's favourite feature – besides the spade, of course, baha!\n\nI do not answer and instead begin to disrobe, unbuttoning my coat and slipping it off my shoulders to reveal the three-piece worn underneath. I have opted for a more classic get-up in a light navy-blue with a windowpane pattern. Peaked lapels, of course. Single-breasted, two buttons and a tri-stripe dress shirt with a lovely, marble-pattern tie in red dominating the collar spread with a Balthus knot, contrasted by a mint-green, zig-zag pattern pocket square.\n\n\"Good to see you, but things be a lil' tight right now– \"\n\n\"I seem to recall to instruct you to stop smoking before our sessions.\"\n\nHer pleas for money are noted though I care little for her woes. The wild dog staggers in her speech she no doubt had prepared for and falls silent almost immediately. We have known each other for a while now – in a sense that I am a frequent customer – and the lass is often tempted to presume that this makes me more prone to fall for her little games. \n\n\"Asshole.\"\n\nAnd there it is. Staunched defiance, the moment she does not get her way. I beget her irate expression with a little smirk whilst removing the slim end of my tie from the loop on the broad side and, after undoing the first button and flipping the collar up, I remove it in full. She rolls her eyes watching me disrobe the many layers comprising my outfit and with me not making any efforts to so much as appear rushed, she eventually trots to the mattress on the floor and sits down on it to watch me.\n\n\"If you wish to make a little extra, you have to give me a reason for it- put that away, for heaven's sake!\"\n\nMy final notion carries genuine anger, watching her reach for the brown, little stub she had left lying on the bottom portion of an old coke can that functions as a makeshift ashtray. I remember gifting her a proper one at some point in the past but she likely has sold it. The Wildie does not comply and instead clamps the blunt in between her lips to take a deep puff with her arms crossed underneath her plain, black top. The brown eyes follow my every move and they soften up somewhat when I reach the dress shirt and slip out of it.\n\nMy physique is much to her delight, I can tell. Broad shoulders and large muscles, my fur is semi-long, trimmed to perfection in all the right spots. I like to keep it short to aid in fitting in a shirt but the chest still sports a prominent tuft of long, soft, and white fur that forms a triangle between my shoulders and ends at my solar plexus. Her hands pull the stinking stick from her lips and she leans her head towards the open window next to the head end of the mattress to exhale.\n\n\"Want me to do the rest, Big, Bad Wolfie?\"\n\nHer tone has turned playful as if by command. She is a good actor. And more over she is itching to get things started, which is one of my favourite features of hers. The lass isn't able to sit still, even with her brain dosed on cannabinoids. So, I comply, turning to face her and spread my arms with my fingers fanned; a gesture of invitation. She complies without thinking, taking one final draw of the dreaded blunt before she dabs it out in the red-lacquered ashtray to crawl up to my person on all fours. She mimics the motions of a feral predator, which would carry a notion of idiocy with most species but appears to come naturally to her. It's an act, still but one I am unsure how conscious she is of when with me. I like to thing she does it by accident.\n\n\"Weeeell, what we got here, bo?\" her voice drops sweet and sultry form her flews, her nose pushes against the shin of my left leg as she draws it up the fabric until her torso raises from the floor and her snout eventually reached the by now very prominent bulge in my pants. She lets her tone and dialect slip and her act is put on in full.\n\nAnd I would be lying if I said it doesn't get my dick aching in my sheath. I make haste to disrobe further but she is keen to take it into her own hands from here. I do let her indulge. Rough hands opening the button of my pants and she keeps her tucking at the rims to unbutton the suspenders and slip my pants down in full. Her left hand finds her way to the Steffano Ricci underwear, wholly unappreciative of their cashmere construction. I want to slap her just for that but have my resolve pulled at next when her left hand finds its way into cradling my balls to hoist them up. Heavy, massive, white-furred orbs, each the size of a coconut and churning in her palm. \n\n\"Nnnngf… you so damn big…\"\n\nShe'll have to do better than that. The snout is put to good use and nuzzles into the depths of my sheath, pulling the felted sides with her right index finger to aid the dick in finally making its grand escape. I can feel it push from its hideout, making the glorious rise into the fleshy pillar it is bound to become. The little pull on the sheath lets my knot escape – a structure stubbornly too wide for its own good, requiring assistance every time it wishes to feel fresh air.\n\nMy hands guide down to her face, cupping the rough fur of her cheeks in my palms before the right finds its way to the back of her head, pushing her against the rigid, fleshy structure. The cold nose meets the hot flesh, the bulging urethra underneath the dick twitches upon contact and her tongue draws out to pull up in a reverse lapping motion, drawing along the dick and making my toes curl in my socks. She's quiet for the next part, planting kisses down the heavy shaft, her left hand gripping firmly around the base of the dick with a finger and thumb. Much the same way the girls who enjoy the company of beasts do – just with the opposite intent.\n\nAs the grip on my baculum tightens I try to imagine if she'd consider laying with one. Watching the African spade get bent over by a hound certainly would be a delightful spectacle! I remember observing such an event in the port of Lagos once, in the backyard of a half-burnt shack. A girl draped in rags, showing her love for man's best friend for a couple shillings to anyone willing to pay. Some said she refused to lay with men altogether, though I am sure that was marketing on her part.\n\n\"Somebody gettin' excited, huh?\"\n\nI blink out of the little fantasy and peer down to watch the Wildie's brown eyes bat their lashes at me, leaving them at half-lids whilst her hand squeezed around my heavy sack to coax more blood into my cock, leaving it to throb heavy against her cheek. She demands attention and I am willing to give. My hands bury into that delightfully curly hair. It feels like cheap steel wool. Pulling her head back nets me a delighted giggle, yet the tension in her neck betrays it. The mutt hates being handled by the hair and even more so being guided along. Maybe, it feels infantilizing. Maybe, she simply dislikes the lack of control. The only thing I know for certain, as I push her opening muzzle down my dick, is that it isn't for a gag reflex, of which she has none.\n\nAnd oh, I do so cherish this quality in any dame. Or lad.\n\nHer throat feels wet and tight, the sharp fangs plant short, dotted kisses along the length of my sensitive flesh and the adrenaline rush it sends up my lumbar, followed by the choked giggle and subsequent handling of my knot and balls are exactly why the lass is so popular with the dogs of Hamburg. Her eyes, softly lidded, the wet flews closed around the fat flesh is not match for the bout of irritation shining through her actions. I make an effort to work against her natural flow with my hand on the back of her head and the rising agitation is making me painfully hard!\n\nMy balls receive rougher treatment for it and the other hand put on my knot is massaging it in short, arrhythmic motions that are more fitting of a broken paint shaker than a skilled working girl. And yet, it is exactly this roughness which excites me most. Soon enough, my muzzle parts and I feel saliva draw between my fangs, my panting becoming audible and loud. My hand grips all the stronger and it takes but a few minutes for me to be worked up to a climax, final pushing her head in will all my might to poke my shaft down further into her insides! \n\nA bulging throat, a clear outline of my shaft and the inevitable hunching forward to overcome to stiff curve of my dick forced unto it by the baculum. I pull the whole wild dog with me and the pose begins to resemble something decidedly more feral as I cum! A low, short howl escapes my throat and the sensation of my vocal cords feels nearly as liberating as the seed pumped down the fleshy spire and straight into the lass's stomach; it is by far the most valuable thing she was fed this week.\n\n\"Goood… girl…\" I manage to press from my lips, the flews wet and sticky with drool, leaving some of it to drape down across her tight butt underneath me. But I am not done yet! No, if anything, that first round is taken by my libido as a mere amuse-bouche and without much fanfare, I pull myself out of her throat, delighted to hear her gargle around the enormous insertion pulling out her neck. I can watch the bulging in her skin lessen as it happens and she releases a low huff, letting saliva-diluted cum splatter on the floor. She remembered that I like hearing it make a mess; how thoughtful! Perhaps, the lass deserves a little extra after all today. \n\n\"Want me to finish it off, bo?\" The wild dog's left hand moves to inspect the taut bulging of her stomach as the right balances her body above the floor. The three fingers spread across the dome on her midriff, big as a football but yet to truly distend the speckled furcoat: we will change that with haste! My meat has barely lost any of its stiffness and I am eager to move to the main course.\n\n\"Get on the bed,\" I bark and arch my snout upwards to gesture the mutt to get a move on. She complies without any further quips, getting into position whilst giving me a half-lidded look over her right shoulder, the right hand moving to pull the up the long skirt to reveal the wares. Her ass is firm and defined, leaner than fat and distinctly lacking what a stocky Hyena could provide but I could not care less for it. She knows what I am here for and the three fingers pulling her buttock to the side, distorting the little star of her pucker puts all the more emphasis on the black medallion sitting between her legs.\n\nMy hands clamp tightly around her thighs, thumbs on her kidneys and the tip of my dick pointed right at the delightful heat of her cookie that has seen so many before me. It is the lone indulgence that the pussy I keep at home simply isn't able to provide; the proper shape for a canine gent, those Y-shaped lips and the pocket to fit my knot into, that wedges around the bulbus shape and sucks it in like a little vacuum. I miss it, every time I find my dick stuck in a Doe.\n\nMy hips push forward and both us are thrown into animalic growls as the tight fit becomes all-too apparent! I am not made to fuck something this much smaller but our sexes could not care less! Exchanging heat like this, feeling it equalize as I pump into her and watching her throw her head up and moan for me the way I like it… this is what I come here for!\n\nI have grown wary of contraception of any kind through my long years. Wrapping my meat and denying it contact is the same as butchering meat with gloves on. A requirement for hygiene and safety of others but one that thoroughly robs the experience of its most intimate component. Prey is obviously a non-issue on this front but preds always carry risks. Lest the bitch got the snips, there is nothing one can do to thoroughly pregnancies and while money keeps the problems resulting to a minimum, catching a bug from loose lips certainly isn't something I need repeat screenings of.\n\nAs I bend over to let my teeth make contact with her nape, my hips buck all the harder, savouring this moment of undiluted and reckless rutting I can perform with her. Unlike her European counterparts, there is nothing to fear here. No pregnancies, no nasty surprises… nature truly has blessed us by being this different. And it only makes me harder!\n\n\"B-baby… yeah… c'mon… fuck me harder! I feel you, bo, make me yours!\"\n\nThe dialogue comes in stutters, intercepted by my thrusts deep into her core! Every hit of my fluted tip against her cervix is another missed syllable, her claws dig the mattress and her expression tries desperately to hold on to something resembling sultry and alluring. She does not want to appear scared or hurt, even though the flesh is causing her agony. I can tell from the way her fur bristles and her eyes squint with every subsequent thrust against her second door.\n\nEasy it would be to tell her that this is the source of my excitement. To just allow her to let loose and yip, growl, and clench that tight, little pucker to try and offset the pain. If the client likes it, why not give him what he wants? But that wouldn't be the whole package. Watching her try to suppress it, attempt to keep up the dialogue and act for me, it all adds to the stress of needing to perform. It makes the muscles tense, it keeps her posture stiff until she remembers she should be moving with me, it aches her THC-riddled mind that has long-since missed its mark on multi-tasking like this.\n\n\"B-Bo… ya playin' rough… shit-!\"\n\nAnd we are slowly approaching the climax. She is beginning to scramble. Unsure how to keep up the act. As my claws dig into her midriff and my fangs sink into her neck deep enough to make her consider breaking character, she weighs the benefits of pleasing me and my oh-so-thick wallet against the need to draw a line and put her paw down to stop me. She knows that giving a boy like me an inch will be a foot the next time. And it is exactly this conundrum that pulls the seasoned veteran out of her waters and makes the ensuing distress genuine.\n\nHer spine stiffens. Her claws dig into the mattress. Her ears lay down flat and she finally opens her muzzle into a hissed, feral growl directed at me I begin to try and wedge myself deeper into her.\n\n\"Nah… nah, no knot! Boy, ya fuckin' crazy if ya think this fits! Bastard!\"\n\n\"HWRF~\"\n\nThere we are. Finally, I set off the dynamite and got a reaction that isn’t acted! With my knot wedging against her spade to push in, I can feel my tip breaching the cervix and her head snaps back at me, furious, and with murderous intent but never able to reach me as my jaws on her neck firmly keep her tamed! She bows her backside and I can feel the strength of a rebelling animal rock my old bones – she is strong for her size but this not a fight; she weighs less than a third of me.\n\nI let her struggle, I allow her to snap, growl, and bite, swing her back and do everything she can until I wrestle her down, force her head into the mattress as I push further and make her take it. My already-swollen knot spreads her cunt open and I can hear a soft whimper as her cervix is opened and I finally slot into her in full.\n\nRetching sounds escape her throat and heavy breathing gargles from her nostrils as the Wildie tries her best not to barf onto the mattress she'll pass out on after this is over. I refuse to howl again, I want her to take it in silence and thus, my guttural growls are muffled by her neckfur, seeping into her very skull and letting her get one final reprieve before my taint flexes and swells fat, the baculum forcing her rump to lift from the sheer force as a second orgasm propels a heavy rope into her womb.\n\n\"RAAARGH!\"\n\nOf course, the sheer impact force my pipe is able to muster is a touch more difficult to take by the top of her inner sanctum than her food court and the push makes for quite the reaction – one that I have to put just a modicum of force against to contain. Oh, how I love her showing her strength! Please, keep struggling, Daddy likes it when they twitch ~\n\nHot seed pools around my dick, the temperature change is barely even registered but I can feel the pressure rise when her womb distends and her belly swells in conjunction, doming outwards and making for a most pleasing visual in my lower vision. I use my jaws to guide the wild hound about and assure better visibility, wanting to witness the doming gut and the subsequent movement of her fur pattern. Something mesmerizing about it, watching the spots move in conjunction of with my many ropes expelled until the raging boil in my loins finally dies down and I can let me body slump across hers.\n\nUsing my arms to stabilize myself above her, I release my clenching hold on her neck, pinching them shut to catch her scruff and hold her upper body in suspension so she may scramble to rest herself on her lower arms as to not put the weight on her midsection – I know well of the harm sudden impacts to an overly bloated stomach can cause and this little bundle of growling rags is still needed. \n\nThe room quiets down and for a little while, the only sounds that can be heard are my panting and her repeated grumbles and growls, amidst hushed insults in Bantu that I cannot help to begin to translate. It isn't necessary; I can gleam enough from her tone to cause some pleasant post-orgasm flexes in my taint. \n\n\"Ya payin' extra for the time…\"\n\nMy flews pull up and delighted grin splits my lips. Of course, she is by now well aware of the stuckage that afflicts all of the canine family; once in, the knot won't allow for easy dismounting. While the bulbus glandis may be less prominent in the modern dog – some of them even able to shrink it within minutes, I hear – they are a force to be reckoned with in old-world preds such as myself. And thus, I am to spend another half hour at least with the growled African banshee stuck on my dick. My baculum is stretched and my hips are forced to move alongside her as she reaches out to pick up her phone and inch me to turn on my side, so that she may lay more comfortably.\n\n\"How about a story while we wait?\" I make an effort to calm her, one hand resting my head, the other driving claws through the now sweat-drenched afro. I get no answer and instead am subjected to watching her scroll through social media while her right hand reaches out fish a small, metal tin from under the broken radiator in the room, the stench leaving no doubt as to its contents.\n\n\"You really should restrict the usage of the herb,\" I tattle, if only to see her reaction. \n\n\"Ya call it weed, fancy-bone. That's what my people get,\" she scoffs, her right hand working with the efficiency of a Cuban cigar maker, grinding several buds before depositing them unto the tobacco leave and rolling it, one-handed, \"ain't got no meth or whatever ya on.\"\n\n\"Please, despite the libido, I am not one for that sort of chocolate.\" I muse and drive my claw down her neck to subtly inspect the small indents my fangs have left. It's a little collection I have started when we met and it is steadily growing. \"I am more for Cocaine.\"\n\n\"Fuck ya Coke, old man,\" the Wildie snarks and finally looks me in the eye over her shoulder, bringing the rolled blunt to her lips to draw her tongue across to finish it, \"and fuck ya too. Ya payin' extra, or ya better go find a new hoe.\"\n\nI do so love it when she gets demanding. Girls leaning out of their little windows often end up a stain on the pavement. But not tonight. The spade shall have her little extra, once my knot has decided to re-emerge from its little dip into the Sub-Saharan Sea.\n\n\"Wait until I am gone,\" I acquit the flicking of the flintstone on a cheap Bick lighter and my hand doting her neck snatches onto her holding the flame. Our eyes meet, the look of disapproval turning to disdain but she complies, lowering the lighter and tossing it back into the tin, alongside the blunt she rolled. Communication ceases as a result of my action, the Wildie spending the remainder of our encounter in stubborn silence.\n\n\n\nThe clock strikes 2200 when I am finally able to break our bond and, in doing so, elicit a little yip from the Wildie; the tip pulling out of the womb and allowing the cervix to close again reminds her of its existence. And the moment I slip the suspenders over my shoulders, I can hear the clicking of the lighter ratchet again, followed by a deep inhale and a loud cough.\n\nAs I turn around and count the small stack of 20 Euro bills, I catch her leery glare in the corner of my eye, driving a little smile on my flews. The very moment I reach out to hand it to her, she snatches it from my fingers and begins to count; her expression drops with the final two notes, and she looks up at me, unsure whether to be pitiful or aggressive.\n\n“Ain’t cuttin’ it, barker.”\n\nShe decided on the latter. I lean forward at the waist and get my head closer to hers. “I have an extra 50 with your name on it – for a little kiss ~”\n\nI catch a waft of stinking smoke in my face for an answer, but the Wildie is now agitated, if yet clearly suffering the effects of the THC already.\n\n“Dog, ya know I ain’t ‘bout kissin’! Go fuck ya’self.”\n\n“Is that so?” I stand up straight once again, cursing the feeling it sends through my old lumbar and scapular muscles. Oh, heavens, I need to stop doing this. “Then I’m afraid that extra will have to kiss itself. Goodbye, that is.”\n\nI turn on the heel and busy myself with buttoning up my waistcoat, whistling Vivaldi’s Summer Allegro as the shifting behind me on the mattress becomes more violent.\n\n“Dog, quit playin’! Ya time done, gimme my fuckin’ bag!”\n\nShe rounds me to get in front, trying to force eye contact, but I simply turn in tandem, refusing to so much as look at her while I put on my jacket and adjust the lapels, following it up with my coat. Her hands drag on the fabric, and with each step of mine towards the door, her voice grows more desperate.\n\n“Ya ain’t serious! Gimme my fuckin’ money!”\n\nMy subsequent glare loosens her grip on the coat, but she does not give up.\n\n“Bo, please, I need dis. C’mon, I did it all – what mo’ ya want?”\n\nHer voice is cracking. I can hear the tears being held back, and by the time I reach for the handle, there is a short, unmistakable hiccup coming from behind me. “Okay. Okay, shit! I do it!”\n\nI finally turn around, sporting about the biggest and toothiest smile I can muster. I gesture her to come closer and cup her cheek, bending down to meet her flews with mine. She does not close her eyes, nor does she return the pressure; the slightest gracing of our snouts is exchanged, but it is enough for me. I can smell her resentment and panic through the fresh marijuana stench, and it delights my libido enough to let my dick harden against the inside of my briefs again.\n\n“Good girl.”\n\nShe bolts backward. Whether it was the words or the act, I cannot tell, but her eyes are watering and the short bout of retching is drowned in a deep draw of the blunt and a much more violent coughing fit to follow it up. Without hesitation, I produce my wallet anew, running my finger down the cognac-dyed serpent leather and the bold Stefano Ricci eagle embossed in the face before producing two bills.\n\n“Very good! Here is the 50 to help out my favourite working girl,” I begin, offering her the bill, which is snatched even quicker than the first one, and follow it up with another 10er, “and a little extra. For the kiss.”\n\nIf there ever was a more delicious dessert than the delayed reaction of a furious dame, I have yet to discover it. The wild dog stumbles over the first few words before she yells at me in Bantu and finally finds her usual tongue again, bolting at me as I open the door.\n\n“Fuck ya, [b]FUCK YA![/b] Get the fuck out, I finna kill ya, bastard!”\n\nI can feel her hands in my back as her speech grows continually more slurred; they push with all her might, and my slight resistance is met with fists battering my kidney area, which I accept with a soft huff, finally stepping into the hallway.\n\n“OUT! OUT! [b]Outta mah crib![/b]”\n\nThe door is slammed shut behind my back with so much force, I can feel the gust of stagnant wind in the hallway and a fit drumming against the wood behind me. It continues for but a second until I begin to move down the hallway to take my leave. My ears pick up the muffled sound of the bitch sliding down the door, followed by a heavily disguised sob that is quickly drowned out by what I can only presume to be another draw of the blunt.\n\nI remain standing at the top of the stairs for a little while longer, listening for any more while my raging endowment demands more attention. I briefly consider leaving her a little surprise at the door, but I doubt I could manage to be quiet enough to not have her notice. With a teeth-gritting smile, I adjust my junk and finally take my leave for the night.\n\n________________________________________________________________________________\n________________________________________________________________________________\n[b]The artwork for this story was provided by [url=https://www.furaffinity.net/user/eger/]Eger[/url][/b]", "description_bbcode_parsed": "I've always had a knack for the scrappy things in life. I realize it sounds borderline sacrilegious; Doctor Heros Sooniecher, the man with more taste than sense, the golden boy of Schwerin; he, out of all people, is seeking the company of the girls dwelling outside the Reeperbahn? One would expect someone like him to only frequent girls of similar status, prized arm candies, picked from the lavish box of crown jewels that is the social elite! Perhaps the wife of an ambassador or a quick escort smuggled into his chambers while on a business trip. The kind you can order on the room service menu, even if they don't put it on the card.

And even when in Hamburg, or, perhaps especially when in Hamburg, one would expect those things. Plenty of brothels to serve the affluent customer who, drunk on Berliner Luft and Havanna Club, peruses the streets, mating calls sounding loudly from his hoarse throat as he swings about the glass he forgot to return, not a care in the world about the 6 Euro he'd see returned if he did. I mean, for Christ's sake, the whole inner city is but one continuous whorehouse! Even the brown coats, despite all their attempts – and there were many, I assure you – couldn't beat the filth out of this district.

A paradise for all those interested in debauchery. Sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. In fact, miss the latter, just sex and drugs will do fine. So then, with all this established, what reason could one possibly have to venture outside of Eden's Garden and cast themselves out into the harsh, cold world full of concrete, rebar, and the stench of fish that the docs, which border the Southern end of the city, offer?

Wild dogs.

Yes, deer reader, wild dogs! The yipping, chattering spawn of the sub-Saharan womb! The humble African spade! The Afro-Germans of the peninsula named HafenCity that form a microcosm housed in cheap flats and perpetual construction zones. Amidst the buzzing ecosystem, comprised of the old generations of early immigrants, illegal Aliens and squatters, there is fun of a wholly different kind to be found!

The kinds of sluts that don't tell you off, should things get a little rough. The kind that won't rally their girls to toss drinks at you and pay their boys to key your Royce if you smack their cheeks and remind them of their place. Down here, you meet girls that stand on their own. The true working girl! Girls with sleek bodies and minds that understand where they came from. Fled from horrid conditions in their homelands, they come loaded with many interesting stories to tell you post-coitus. They'll invite you into their own dwellings and sleep in the same bed you fucked them raw on. Something you would never find in the inner city.

Or anywhere else in the country for that matter.

And I am by no means the only man to enjoy the specific wares the peninsula offers; dog boys of all kinds, who will swallow either their fear or bigotry, will flock to the wild dog to experience sharing the sheets with a species that still bears proper teeth and claw and the genetic incompatibility provides a lovely excuse for lack of wrapping.

HafenCity provides its own little world for anyone adventurous enough to indulge in it: one run by its own rules, and one the city is tolerating of – provided it sticks to that little strip of land – like a sprinkling of sesame-segregation on Hamburg's cultural bun! It has been this way since I came to Germany, at the beginning of the century.

But I have no qualms about the stigma that arises from a European gent being fond of African wares. The Americans love their diversity hires; I prefer diversity fucks. Consequently, I am far from a stranger in HafenCity. "Oberhafen," they call this part, which is nomenclature entirely based on geographics, baha! And despite the seedy nature, I don't concern myself with the dangers that usually come with strides through these parts of the city. And there are plenty, as one would expect. Thievery, muggings, and the occasional use of claw or blade are not at all uncommon but the gangs know better than to lay their paws on me; status may be of little value in their world but infamy transcends culture.

My person may trail a scent of Tom Ford and Hermès, but the trained nose can still smell the trouble. Still yet, I much prefer to take what I rent for a spin in more than one way; bringing a Wildie to the fancier places in the city is always a delight to me! Flummoxed stares are a guarantee when your arm candy wears a skirt in tribal colours and a top that barely manages to render the chest modest. But what good is it hiding that pretty coat which a painted dog sports? Arm hooked around the sleeve of my Bijang coat and her jawline cupped by my peccary gloves, when I demand her attention and speak sultry as though we were lovers, and her trained gaze grows to half-lids, acting as though she cares for nothing but hearing my spoken words. Most of the girls here are good actors too, it really leaves the average viewer guessing just what they are seeing when I show up with them in tow. And they aren't shy to show off either, much in contrast to their so-called affluent sisters in the city; ask one of those to flash in a restaurant and they'll tell you to pound sand.

I'll pound it with the shovel when you're four feet under it on the beach, you godforsaken,
ugly bitch.


My black Oxfords click across the broken asphalt as I stroll down the promenade of grey, and I can feel my paws growing slightly uncomfortable. I remember a time when Gucci used to make things worth sticking your feet into but those are long gone. It's discomfort of my own fault, really, but I cannot bring myself to wear the Ferragamo to this place; the stench of marijuana is ever-present and nigh-impossible to remove from leather goods once it has settled in. My nose is most perturbed by it, the nostrils flaring involuntarily, making ignoring it much more difficult. To my left, I see rows of the aforementioned construction zones. Pylons of concrete and steel beams, some of them rusted to a point that further construction efforts would see their replacement before it could continue. Skeletons of phantom projects, empty promises by politicians to "clean up Oberhafen.". Of course, none of them ever come to fruition but that is precisely the point. More affordable housing in this part of the city would immediately be taken up by Wildies and Yeens. Still, this has not dissuaded some from trying.

To my right stand the failures of those efforts in the form of multi-story flats. Post-war buildings that would make any Soviet architect weak in the knees. The earliest attempts of the Plattenbau structures that now plague the German landscape all around; prefabs made in a factory, then shipped out and assembled in record time. Cheap. Affordable. And as ugly as they are depressing. The walls painted in a sickening pastel yellow have long since lost what little sheen they sported. Greyed and blackened by the rough harbour air and smoke from countless cases of small house fires and people fashioning makeshift heaters to combat the frequent failures of the ancient decentralized heating system, whose enormous pipes snake their way across the old walls like veins, only to funnel into central boiler houses in the midst of the courtyards these buildings curl around like a stinking mutt on the side of the road.

The stench of marihuana hangs in the air as I approach third building on the strip. It permeates the soil, held in place by the high humidity and only grows more prominent with every step taken. The entrance door to the apartment block is made of worn, blue-painted metal and positively covered in knife wounds and sticker patches. Whoever was tasked with keeping the façade intact had given up on removing them at some stage; merely the scribbles speaking fondly of the AfD have been haphazardly scratched off or covered with their popular counter-argument in sticker form. To my right a doorbell panel protrudes from the wall, perhaps the starkest indicator as to the dwellers of the many narrow halls inside; tenants change and move with such frequency, the administration has long since stopped replacing the plastic cards, leaving the buttons populated either with handwritten names on lined paper or simply empty altogether. A problem swiftly rendered moot by the electronic lock on the door having had its bolt removed, leaving it to swing open without much resistance. There is no safety to be found here.

Inside, the atmospheric changes continue. The floor tiles are worn; every corner of the long hallway bears bits of caked-up soil and other unidentifiable matter. The light fixtures above have managed to survive, if only because the hallway is too tall to reach them easily; the bulbs cast a steady, cold light that does not do the scene any favours. Long lines of post boxes hang from the right-hand side, many of them bearing signs of attempted prying. The walls are covered in oil paint, a sickly green on the bottom, the same off-yellow as the outside on top. No moulding to bridge to the ceiling, the walls flow over in a seamless arch, a very common feature for building of its age. My nose is unfortunately as upset about the scene as my eyes are; I attempt to not breathe in too much as the stench of old smoke is so potent, it nearly manages to cover up that of urine, which is strongest in the little corner of where the staircase ends. I begin to make the climb up the Z-shaped stairs that lead up into the higher floors of the building, watching my step on the speckled anhydrite which is making it difficult to discern the dirtiest spots. The stairs are frequently travelled, however, and I am spared stepping in anything offensive. The deeper I make my way into the bowels of the flat, the more the soundscape begins to alter. No longer am I in Hamburg, I have entered a jungle of chitters and yipping, of gurgling water in old pipework and of sounds of whores dealing with customers or their offspring. Muffled noises of quarrels between young families and thumping tunes of dance music whose bass frequencies permeate through the concrete. I feel properly immersed in this world and by the time I reach the fourth floor, I can see the hallways growing darker. Light fixtures with broken or stolen bulbs, clothing lines running between tops of doorways like power cables and a figure or two waiting outside the doors, smoking or drinking. Most of them girls. They beget me with but a single, tired look, clad in pyjamas and flip-flops which makes up their home wear; social death, as far as I am concerned.

"Good evening."

I always greet them passing by even though I know they care not for my presence nor my pleasantries. They never respond and the ones that look up are quick to avert their gaze. The dampened mood continues until the 7th floor is reached and my poor legs get to take a little breather. This floor is slightly cleaner than the rest, the old linoleum looks as though it at least knows what the touch of a mop feels like and the light fixtures are working, as is their motion detection. Six doors on the hallway, in alternating fashion, starting right and ending with a small window at the end someone saw fit to be replaced with a plexiglass pane and which features a small fan, aiding the air quality immensely. I still refrain from taking too deep a breather.

My destination is apartment 45c, the third apartment down the hall and second on the right. It is unmarked and the door is painted in an ill-fitting off-green with a missing handle and a small peephole at the top. I stop in front of it and lean forward to smile right into the little lens before I reach out to knock against the wood. My ears pick up sounds of Peter Fox blaring from a speaker and naked feet on a wood floor before the door moves with someone leaning against it, followed by the ratcheting of a chain and the lock being turned to swing the door open.

"Moin-Moin," the single occupant delights me with Hamburg's signature greeting, "ya lookin' good!"

"Hello, Makena."

A wry grin sneaks itself onto my lips as I bend over at the waist and let the girl standing in the doorway push forward to take a sniff at my lavish neckfur. A customary greeting I still remember from my time in the South-Western colonies and a good means to mark yourself as culturally versed among her kin. I reciprocate the gesture and my nostrils screech at me in retaliation; the dog stinks of marijuana something fierce.

"Come on in! Ya smell nice…"

I love the little resentment in her voice. It isn't a compliment; she is disappointed. Perfumes and fur powders have no place in the culture of the untamed dogs of the prairies, refusing to adjust. It reminds me much of myself when I was her age. And as much as her scent loves to upset my olfactory, her looks are more than making up for it. She's a small one, barely managing to put her nose to my chest. Beautifully trim, curved lines draped in short, rough, and amazingly speckled fur. Many a customer's favourite feature – besides the spade, of course, baha!

I do not answer and instead begin to disrobe, unbuttoning my coat and slipping it off my shoulders to reveal the three-piece worn underneath. I have opted for a more classic get-up in a light navy-blue with a windowpane pattern. Peaked lapels, of course. Single-breasted, two buttons and a tri-stripe dress shirt with a lovely, marble-pattern tie in red dominating the collar spread with a Balthus knot, contrasted by a mint-green, zig-zag pattern pocket square.

"Good to see you, but things be a lil' tight right now– "

"I seem to recall to instruct you to stop smoking before our sessions."

Her pleas for money are noted though I care little for her woes. The wild dog staggers in her speech she no doubt had prepared for and falls silent almost immediately. We have known each other for a while now – in a sense that I am a frequent customer – and the lass is often tempted to presume that this makes me more prone to fall for her little games.

"Asshole."

And there it is. Staunched defiance, the moment she does not get her way. I beget her irate expression with a little smirk whilst removing the slim end of my tie from the loop on the broad side and, after undoing the first button and flipping the collar up, I remove it in full. She rolls her eyes watching me disrobe the many layers comprising my outfit and with me not making any efforts to so much as appear rushed, she eventually trots to the mattress on the floor and sits down on it to watch me.

"If you wish to make a little extra, you have to give me a reason for it- put that away, for heaven's sake!"

My final notion carries genuine anger, watching her reach for the brown, little stub she had left lying on the bottom portion of an old coke can that functions as a makeshift ashtray. I remember gifting her a proper one at some point in the past but she likely has sold it. The Wildie does not comply and instead clamps the blunt in between her lips to take a deep puff with her arms crossed underneath her plain, black top. The brown eyes follow my every move and they soften up somewhat when I reach the dress shirt and slip out of it.

My physique is much to her delight, I can tell. Broad shoulders and large muscles, my fur is semi-long, trimmed to perfection in all the right spots. I like to keep it short to aid in fitting in a shirt but the chest still sports a prominent tuft of long, soft, and white fur that forms a triangle between my shoulders and ends at my solar plexus. Her hands pull the stinking stick from her lips and she leans her head towards the open window next to the head end of the mattress to exhale.

"Want me to do the rest, Big, Bad Wolfie?"

Her tone has turned playful as if by command. She is a good actor. And more over she is itching to get things started, which is one of my favourite features of hers. The lass isn't able to sit still, even with her brain dosed on cannabinoids. So, I comply, turning to face her and spread my arms with my fingers fanned; a gesture of invitation. She complies without thinking, taking one final draw of the dreaded blunt before she dabs it out in the red-lacquered ashtray to crawl up to my person on all fours. She mimics the motions of a feral predator, which would carry a notion of idiocy with most species but appears to come naturally to her. It's an act, still but one I am unsure how conscious she is of when with me. I like to thing she does it by accident.

"Weeeell, what we got here, bo?" her voice drops sweet and sultry form her flews, her nose pushes against the shin of my left leg as she draws it up the fabric until her torso raises from the floor and her snout eventually reached the by now very prominent bulge in my pants. She lets her tone and dialect slip and her act is put on in full.

And I would be lying if I said it doesn't get my dick aching in my sheath. I make haste to disrobe further but she is keen to take it into her own hands from here. I do let her indulge. Rough hands opening the button of my pants and she keeps her tucking at the rims to unbutton the suspenders and slip my pants down in full. Her left hand finds her way to the Steffano Ricci underwear, wholly unappreciative of their cashmere construction. I want to slap her just for that but have my resolve pulled at next when her left hand finds its way into cradling my balls to hoist them up. Heavy, massive, white-furred orbs, each the size of a coconut and churning in her palm.

"Nnnngf… you so damn big…"

She'll have to do better than that. The snout is put to good use and nuzzles into the depths of my sheath, pulling the felted sides with her right index finger to aid the dick in finally making its grand escape. I can feel it push from its hideout, making the glorious rise into the fleshy pillar it is bound to become. The little pull on the sheath lets my knot escape – a structure stubbornly too wide for its own good, requiring assistance every time it wishes to feel fresh air.

My hands guide down to her face, cupping the rough fur of her cheeks in my palms before the right finds its way to the back of her head, pushing her against the rigid, fleshy structure. The cold nose meets the hot flesh, the bulging urethra underneath the dick twitches upon contact and her tongue draws out to pull up in a reverse lapping motion, drawing along the dick and making my toes curl in my socks. She's quiet for the next part, planting kisses down the heavy shaft, her left hand gripping firmly around the base of the dick with a finger and thumb. Much the same way the girls who enjoy the company of beasts do – just with the opposite intent.

As the grip on my baculum tightens I try to imagine if she'd consider laying with one. Watching the African spade get bent over by a hound certainly would be a delightful spectacle! I remember observing such an event in the port of Lagos once, in the backyard of a half-burnt shack. A girl draped in rags, showing her love for man's best friend for a couple shillings to anyone willing to pay. Some said she refused to lay with men altogether, though I am sure that was marketing on her part.

"Somebody gettin' excited, huh?"

I blink out of the little fantasy and peer down to watch the Wildie's brown eyes bat their lashes at me, leaving them at half-lids whilst her hand squeezed around my heavy sack to coax more blood into my cock, leaving it to throb heavy against her cheek. She demands attention and I am willing to give. My hands bury into that delightfully curly hair. It feels like cheap steel wool. Pulling her head back nets me a delighted giggle, yet the tension in her neck betrays it. The mutt hates being handled by the hair and even more so being guided along. Maybe, it feels infantilizing. Maybe, she simply dislikes the lack of control. The only thing I know for certain, as I push her opening muzzle down my dick, is that it isn't for a gag reflex, of which she has none.

And oh, I do so cherish this quality in any dame. Or lad.

Her throat feels wet and tight, the sharp fangs plant short, dotted kisses along the length of my sensitive flesh and the adrenaline rush it sends up my lumbar, followed by the choked giggle and subsequent handling of my knot and balls are exactly why the lass is so popular with the dogs of Hamburg. Her eyes, softly lidded, the wet flews closed around the fat flesh is not match for the bout of irritation shining through her actions. I make an effort to work against her natural flow with my hand on the back of her head and the rising agitation is making me painfully hard!

My balls receive rougher treatment for it and the other hand put on my knot is massaging it in short, arrhythmic motions that are more fitting of a broken paint shaker than a skilled working girl. And yet, it is exactly this roughness which excites me most. Soon enough, my muzzle parts and I feel saliva draw between my fangs, my panting becoming audible and loud. My hand grips all the stronger and it takes but a few minutes for me to be worked up to a climax, final pushing her head in will all my might to poke my shaft down further into her insides!

A bulging throat, a clear outline of my shaft and the inevitable hunching forward to overcome to stiff curve of my dick forced unto it by the baculum. I pull the whole wild dog with me and the pose begins to resemble something decidedly more feral as I cum! A low, short howl escapes my throat and the sensation of my vocal cords feels nearly as liberating as the seed pumped down the fleshy spire and straight into the lass's stomach; it is by far the most valuable thing she was fed this week.

"Goood… girl…" I manage to press from my lips, the flews wet and sticky with drool, leaving some of it to drape down across her tight butt underneath me. But I am not done yet! No, if anything, that first round is taken by my libido as a mere amuse-bouche and without much fanfare, I pull myself out of her throat, delighted to hear her gargle around the enormous insertion pulling out her neck. I can watch the bulging in her skin lessen as it happens and she releases a low huff, letting saliva-diluted cum splatter on the floor. She remembered that I like hearing it make a mess; how thoughtful! Perhaps, the lass deserves a little extra after all today.

"Want me to finish it off, bo?" The wild dog's left hand moves to inspect the taut bulging of her stomach as the right balances her body above the floor. The three fingers spread across the dome on her midriff, big as a football but yet to truly distend the speckled furcoat: we will change that with haste! My meat has barely lost any of its stiffness and I am eager to move to the main course.

"Get on the bed," I bark and arch my snout upwards to gesture the mutt to get a move on. She complies without any further quips, getting into position whilst giving me a half-lidded look over her right shoulder, the right hand moving to pull the up the long skirt to reveal the wares. Her ass is firm and defined, leaner than fat and distinctly lacking what a stocky Hyena could provide but I could not care less for it. She knows what I am here for and the three fingers pulling her buttock to the side, distorting the little star of her pucker puts all the more emphasis on the black medallion sitting between her legs.

My hands clamp tightly around her thighs, thumbs on her kidneys and the tip of my dick pointed right at the delightful heat of her cookie that has seen so many before me. It is the lone indulgence that the pussy I keep at home simply isn't able to provide; the proper shape for a canine gent, those Y-shaped lips and the pocket to fit my knot into, that wedges around the bulbus shape and sucks it in like a little vacuum. I miss it, every time I find my dick stuck in a Doe.

My hips push forward and both us are thrown into animalic growls as the tight fit becomes all-too apparent! I am not made to fuck something this much smaller but our sexes could not care less! Exchanging heat like this, feeling it equalize as I pump into her and watching her throw her head up and moan for me the way I like it… this is what I come here for!

I have grown wary of contraception of any kind through my long years. Wrapping my meat and denying it contact is the same as butchering meat with gloves on. A requirement for hygiene and safety of others but one that thoroughly robs the experience of its most intimate component. Prey is obviously a non-issue on this front but preds always carry risks. Lest the bitch got the snips, there is nothing one can do to thoroughly pregnancies and while money keeps the problems resulting to a minimum, catching a bug from loose lips certainly isn't something I need repeat screenings of.

As I bend over to let my teeth make contact with her nape, my hips buck all the harder, savouring this moment of undiluted and reckless rutting I can perform with her. Unlike her European counterparts, there is nothing to fear here. No pregnancies, no nasty surprises… nature truly has blessed us by being this different. And it only makes me harder!

"B-baby… yeah… c'mon… fuck me harder! I feel you, bo, make me yours!"

The dialogue comes in stutters, intercepted by my thrusts deep into her core! Every hit of my fluted tip against her cervix is another missed syllable, her claws dig the mattress and her expression tries desperately to hold on to something resembling sultry and alluring. She does not want to appear scared or hurt, even though the flesh is causing her agony. I can tell from the way her fur bristles and her eyes squint with every subsequent thrust against her second door.

Easy it would be to tell her that this is the source of my excitement. To just allow her to let loose and yip, growl, and clench that tight, little pucker to try and offset the pain. If the client likes it, why not give him what he wants? But that wouldn't be the whole package. Watching her try to suppress it, attempt to keep up the dialogue and act for me, it all adds to the stress of needing to perform. It makes the muscles tense, it keeps her posture stiff until she remembers she should be moving with me, it aches her THC-riddled mind that has long-since missed its mark on multi-tasking like this.

"B-Bo… ya playin' rough… shit-!"

And we are slowly approaching the climax. She is beginning to scramble. Unsure how to keep up the act. As my claws dig into her midriff and my fangs sink into her neck deep enough to make her consider breaking character, she weighs the benefits of pleasing me and my oh-so-thick wallet against the need to draw a line and put her paw down to stop me. She knows that giving a boy like me an inch will be a foot the next time. And it is exactly this conundrum that pulls the seasoned veteran out of her waters and makes the ensuing distress genuine.

Her spine stiffens. Her claws dig into the mattress. Her ears lay down flat and she finally opens her muzzle into a hissed, feral growl directed at me I begin to try and wedge myself deeper into her.

"Nah… nah, no knot! Boy, ya fuckin' crazy if ya think this fits! Bastard!"

"HWRF~"

There we are. Finally, I set off the dynamite and got a reaction that isn’t acted! With my knot wedging against her spade to push in, I can feel my tip breaching the cervix and her head snaps back at me, furious, and with murderous intent but never able to reach me as my jaws on her neck firmly keep her tamed! She bows her backside and I can feel the strength of a rebelling animal rock my old bones – she is strong for her size but this not a fight; she weighs less than a third of me.

I let her struggle, I allow her to snap, growl, and bite, swing her back and do everything she can until I wrestle her down, force her head into the mattress as I push further and make her take it. My already-swollen knot spreads her cunt open and I can hear a soft whimper as her cervix is opened and I finally slot into her in full.

Retching sounds escape her throat and heavy breathing gargles from her nostrils as the Wildie tries her best not to barf onto the mattress she'll pass out on after this is over. I refuse to howl again, I want her to take it in silence and thus, my guttural growls are muffled by her neckfur, seeping into her very skull and letting her get one final reprieve before my taint flexes and swells fat, the baculum forcing her rump to lift from the sheer force as a second orgasm propels a heavy rope into her womb.

"RAAARGH!"

Of course, the sheer impact force my pipe is able to muster is a touch more difficult to take by the top of her inner sanctum than her food court and the push makes for quite the reaction – one that I have to put just a modicum of force against to contain. Oh, how I love her showing her strength! Please, keep struggling, Daddy likes it when they twitch ~

Hot seed pools around my dick, the temperature change is barely even registered but I can feel the pressure rise when her womb distends and her belly swells in conjunction, doming outwards and making for a most pleasing visual in my lower vision. I use my jaws to guide the wild hound about and assure better visibility, wanting to witness the doming gut and the subsequent movement of her fur pattern. Something mesmerizing about it, watching the spots move in conjunction of with my many ropes expelled until the raging boil in my loins finally dies down and I can let me body slump across hers.

Using my arms to stabilize myself above her, I release my clenching hold on her neck, pinching them shut to catch her scruff and hold her upper body in suspension so she may scramble to rest herself on her lower arms as to not put the weight on her midsection – I know well of the harm sudden impacts to an overly bloated stomach can cause and this little bundle of growling rags is still needed.

The room quiets down and for a little while, the only sounds that can be heard are my panting and her repeated grumbles and growls, amidst hushed insults in Bantu that I cannot help to begin to translate. It isn't necessary; I can gleam enough from her tone to cause some pleasant post-orgasm flexes in my taint.

"Ya payin' extra for the time…"

My flews pull up and delighted grin splits my lips. Of course, she is by now well aware of the stuckage that afflicts all of the canine family; once in, the knot won't allow for easy dismounting. While the bulbus glandis may be less prominent in the modern dog – some of them even able to shrink it within minutes, I hear – they are a force to be reckoned with in old-world preds such as myself. And thus, I am to spend another half hour at least with the growled African banshee stuck on my dick. My baculum is stretched and my hips are forced to move alongside her as she reaches out to pick up her phone and inch me to turn on my side, so that she may lay more comfortably.

"How about a story while we wait?" I make an effort to calm her, one hand resting my head, the other driving claws through the now sweat-drenched afro. I get no answer and instead am subjected to watching her scroll through social media while her right hand reaches out fish a small, metal tin from under the broken radiator in the room, the stench leaving no doubt as to its contents.

"You really should restrict the usage of the herb," I tattle, if only to see her reaction.

"Ya call it weed, fancy-bone. That's what my people get," she scoffs, her right hand working with the efficiency of a Cuban cigar maker, grinding several buds before depositing them unto the tobacco leave and rolling it, one-handed, "ain't got no meth or whatever ya on."

"Please, despite the libido, I am not one for that sort of chocolate." I muse and drive my claw down her neck to subtly inspect the small indents my fangs have left. It's a little collection I have started when we met and it is steadily growing. "I am more for Cocaine."

"Fuck ya Coke, old man," the Wildie snarks and finally looks me in the eye over her shoulder, bringing the rolled blunt to her lips to draw her tongue across to finish it, "and fuck ya too. Ya payin' extra, or ya better go find a new hoe."

I do so love it when she gets demanding. Girls leaning out of their little windows often end up a stain on the pavement. But not tonight. The spade shall have her little extra, once my knot has decided to re-emerge from its little dip into the Sub-Saharan Sea.

"Wait until I am gone," I acquit the flicking of the flintstone on a cheap Bick lighter and my hand doting her neck snatches onto her holding the flame. Our eyes meet, the look of disapproval turning to disdain but she complies, lowering the lighter and tossing it back into the tin, alongside the blunt she rolled. Communication ceases as a result of my action, the Wildie spending the remainder of our encounter in stubborn silence.



The clock strikes 2200 when I am finally able to break our bond and, in doing so, elicit a little yip from the Wildie; the tip pulling out of the womb and allowing the cervix to close again reminds her of its existence. And the moment I slip the suspenders over my shoulders, I can hear the clicking of the lighter ratchet again, followed by a deep inhale and a loud cough.

As I turn around and count the small stack of 20 Euro bills, I catch her leery glare in the corner of my eye, driving a little smile on my flews. The very moment I reach out to hand it to her, she snatches it from my fingers and begins to count; her expression drops with the final two notes, and she looks up at me, unsure whether to be pitiful or aggressive.

“Ain’t cuttin’ it, barker.”

She decided on the latter. I lean forward at the waist and get my head closer to hers. “I have an extra 50 with your name on it – for a little kiss ~”

I catch a waft of stinking smoke in my face for an answer, but the Wildie is now agitated, if yet clearly suffering the effects of the THC already.

“Dog, ya know I ain’t ‘bout kissin’! Go fuck ya’self.”

“Is that so?” I stand up straight once again, cursing the feeling it sends through my old lumbar and scapular muscles. Oh, heavens, I need to stop doing this. “Then I’m afraid that extra will have to kiss itself. Goodbye, that is.”

I turn on the heel and busy myself with buttoning up my waistcoat, whistling Vivaldi’s Summer Allegro as the shifting behind me on the mattress becomes more violent.

“Dog, quit playin’! Ya time done, gimme my fuckin’ bag!”

She rounds me to get in front, trying to force eye contact, but I simply turn in tandem, refusing to so much as look at her while I put on my jacket and adjust the lapels, following it up with my coat. Her hands drag on the fabric, and with each step of mine towards the door, her voice grows more desperate.

“Ya ain’t serious! Gimme my fuckin’ money!”

My subsequent glare loosens her grip on the coat, but she does not give up.

“Bo, please, I need dis. C’mon, I did it all – what mo’ ya want?”

Her voice is cracking. I can hear the tears being held back, and by the time I reach for the handle, there is a short, unmistakable hiccup coming from behind me. “Okay. Okay, shit! I do it!”

I finally turn around, sporting about the biggest and toothiest smile I can muster. I gesture her to come closer and cup her cheek, bending down to meet her flews with mine. She does not close her eyes, nor does she return the pressure; the slightest gracing of our snouts is exchanged, but it is enough for me. I can smell her resentment and panic through the fresh marijuana stench, and it delights my libido enough to let my dick harden against the inside of my briefs again.

“Good girl.”

She bolts backward. Whether it was the words or the act, I cannot tell, but her eyes are watering and the short bout of retching is drowned in a deep draw of the blunt and a much more violent coughing fit to follow it up. Without hesitation, I produce my wallet anew, running my finger down the cognac-dyed serpent leather and the bold Stefano Ricci eagle embossed in the face before producing two bills.

“Very good! Here is the 50 to help out my favourite working girl,” I begin, offering her the bill, which is snatched even quicker than the first one, and follow it up with another 10er, “and a little extra. For the kiss.”

If there ever was a more delicious dessert than the delayed reaction of a furious dame, I have yet to discover it. The wild dog stumbles over the first few words before she yells at me in Bantu and finally finds her usual tongue again, bolting at me as I open the door.

“Fuck ya, FUCK YA! Get the fuck out, I finna kill ya, bastard!”

I can feel her hands in my back as her speech grows continually more slurred; they push with all her might, and my slight resistance is met with fists battering my kidney area, which I accept with a soft huff, finally stepping into the hallway.

“OUT! OUT! Outta mah crib!”

The door is slammed shut behind my back with so much force, I can feel the gust of stagnant wind in the hallway and a fit drumming against the wood behind me. It continues for but a second until I begin to move down the hallway to take my leave. My ears pick up the muffled sound of the bitch sliding down the door, followed by a heavily disguised sob that is quickly drowned out by what I can only presume to be another draw of the blunt.

I remain standing at the top of the stairs for a little while longer, listening for any more while my raging endowment demands more attention. I briefly consider leaving her a little surprise at the door, but I doubt I could manage to be quiet enough to not have her notice. With a teeth-gritting smile, I adjust my junk and finally take my leave for the night.

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