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It was wet and slippery to the ears, the kind of noise one could immediately identify as being greasy and slimy. The squelch would come at intervals, a steady pace mediated by a second or two and followed shortly after with the softest of grunts or moans, caught just under the breath. It was the only sound in the room that commanded attention, as the two individuals who were within one another's presence quietly waited. Although, it must be said, one male in particular was much more enrapt with the man standing over him than they were of him. It was he who interrupted the lewd slurp with his whimpering groans, teeth occasionally gritted and a shiver claiming his body as he worked himself over, easing his hips up and down as he knelt upon the floor. The wooden floor dug into his knees, an uncomfortable radiating ache that had since bled throughout his legs, numbness that was deeply unpleasant. He'd spent so long now on the floor, lifting himself up only to sit back down, but there was little choice in this decision. His gaze was cast upwards, staring almost pained at the man standing over him, looking to the man who ultimately had control over the mutt.\n\nThe smell too was equally potent. If one did not notice the noise, for some reason or another, it would have been impossible to deny the stench that stained the air like smog. The heavy scent of perfumed chemicals, something distinctly clinical but freshened to be amiable to the sense, smothered much else, but there was a definite aroma beneath it of thick musk. This mixture of sweat, piss, and cum, a smell all too familiar to both men for certain, was strong and sticky, enough to leave a taste in one's mouth as they sucked in every lungful. Though it would naturally be both men who were responsible for the scent, it would be foolish to not acknowledge their little setting; the room, housed in the infamous dark, seedy clubs in the bowels of the city, was a hotspot and frequent witness to scenes such as the one playing within it now. Men, just like the mutt upon his knees and the burly Pitbull standing over him groping a paw at his crotch, would visit these backrooms and perform unspeakable, depraved acts before returning to the outside world which remained none the wiser. Patrons from all over with all sorts of particularly nasty tastes, otherwise dissatisfied with conventional means, came to these clubs in search of the deepest itch imaginable for a craving few could - or indeed would - satiate. The remnants of these visits soiled not just the walls or the floors but every single article of furniture that happened to furnish the room. Bizarre marks, clouded and large and faded blemishes of a darker shade dotted every surface as testaments to what would go on within these confines. The men would come and go like ghosts haunting the halls with their screams, but their stains would remain behind forever.\n\n\"You're slowing down.\"\n\nHis voice was so warm and powerful when he got like this. Martin had spoken to him many times before, clothes on and off, but it was whenever they were back here he'd turn into something wholly different. The intonation would take on an icy quality, but still retain its authority and heat. If anything, Martin could only describe it to the sensation of drinking whiskey, an apt enough expression as the dog held a glass in his free paw whilst the other loosely held a whip. He swirled the golden amber around before absently taking a swig, gulping back the hot brew. Yes, it was the only way to describe his voice, like whiskey; pleasing to see, unassuming to watch, but when it gets inside of you, its bite is just as brutal as its sting, the taste finally exploding in musky notes until it leaves you warm and gasping and just begging for more. It was so rich Martin almost failed to pay attention to the command, implied even as it was.\n\n\"Bitch, I said you're slowing down!\" The crack of the whip was sharp and sweet, much sourer than Max's voice - though Martin wasn't supposed to call him that. Back here, he was Master, or Sir, or whatever title he liked when they walked in. But the whip, unlike Master's voice, was more akin to a shot of something only good for its purpose. Like vodka or some other potent drink, it was something to be taken briefly, painfully, and only in the intention of getting lashed. As Master brought the tangles of leather striking across his back with just a flick of his wrist, the flare of pain erupted out like lightning under his skin. Every tendril moved from nerve to another, moving faster and faster as he'd already been subjected to multiple in the past hour or so for not being fast enough. Either that or he was going too fast, or too hard, or he looked like he was enjoying himself too much. Any reason the Pitbull could muster was an ample excuse to punish the mutt and show who was in charge.\n\nMartin redoubled his efforts as he winced from the scoring pain of the whip. Deep inside him he could feel the heavy plough of the bear cock that sat within him. The unyielding silicon rubbed and wrought his insides relentlessly, until over time the sensation had been dulled to nothing but the uncomfortably alien coldness of hardness constantly in transit within him. When they'd started he could have made out the feel of every contour, the exact depth the dildo was reaching, how wide it made him feel, but over time, under the watchful, punishing glare of the canine, Martin had ridden that toy until it had eroded every nerve ending within him. All he was aware of now was its presence, sloppy and lodged, sitting in his gut like a stone. He'd pull himself up with his screaming thighs, the muscles so overworked now he was amazed they were even capable of lifting his weight, the drag of the dildo pulling the rim of his hole out with it, only to lower himself back down like a good boy. Over and over, he'd been forced to perform this for the dog's leisure as he'd stood idly by, flogging, whipping, touching, groping, kissing, doing whatever he pleased, made to keep pace with some illogical rhythm that only seemed to exist within Master's head on a whim.\n\n\"Good, that's better.\" It was as much of a compliment as he was ever going to receive. Still though, praise was praise and the mutt took it as such. Master was firm but fair, and Martin knew rather well just how firm he could be as he did fair. If the whip was no indication of that, the cage encasing his sheath was. As per their contract, something the mutt had signed some time back, Martin was placed under service of the dog, locked into chastity to ensure the mutt's attention was focused solely on the canine during their sessions, and commanded into a routine of following Master's orders wherever and whenever it pleased him. Now Master had seldom taken advantage of his power over Martin, but every now and then, when the need arose, he would demonstrate to his contracted slave just what authority he could wield, from ordering him to strip in public to servicing him whenever the dog liked. Failure to comply by the contract and the keys would be kept indefinitely and the case taken over by one of staff at the club who would oversee the deal was adhered to until they were convinced obligations had been met. Either that, or Master could go to the mutt's employer, knowing full well it would not end well for him with a particular dragon in charge. The warm steel wrapped around him served as a reminder to that he was very much enslaved to the Pitbull, who watched him intently as the mutt fucked himself upon the dildo, kneeling on the floor.\nNot that it was an awful thing. On the contrary, the mutt had signed willingly, and though at times he was horrifically embarrassed as to some of the dog's more public requests, he followed every command to the letter with eagerness. There was something so liberating about knowing there was no choice in his actions, that it was either comply and enjoy the moment or resist and end up suffering anyway before doing whatever it was the dog wanted regardless. Many might have seen it as an evil thing, but the mutt had gone voluntarily and even as his body wracked with pain now, his ass sore from the constant driving of the toy inside him, he was happy he was there, beneath a bigger man. Master's swollen belly, hardened into muscle but still very much rotund, his barrelled chest and squared jaw, his heavy limbs only thickened with more strength, all of it was looming above him in what Martin could only justify as their rightful place. Master was superior, Martin was not. Martin was to serve, Master was to be served. Everything was so elegantly simple.\n\n\"But now for my share.\"\n\nMartin watched as he continued to heave himself up and onto the toy over and over still, feeling the hardness of it pushing deep into him than he dared to conceive. It ground over his prostate mercilessly, like any object should, just as the man who seemed almost unfeeling to his plight climbed atop the furniture in front of the mutt. With a flagged tail, Master knelt upon the top and turned his ass towards the enslaved boy on the floor currently fucking himself. With a sly grin, Max leant back and spread his cheeks before the mutt's face,\n\n\"Now eat me out, slave. Do a good job, and you might just get what you want.\"\n\nWhat Martin wanted was up to wild interpretation, he realised. Most likely it would wind up being something he didn't necessarily want, but knew the Pitbull would want, so by extension it too would become his desire. With a hot flush burning in his cheeks, Martin strained himself forward, still riding his hole on the thick dildo, as he pushed his muzzle in between the dog's cheeks.\n\nImmediately the stench of sweat and unwashed musk invaded his senses. The smell was ripe and thick, like molten lead, oozing down Martin's throat like a serpent, sliding into him regardless of what he wanted. He pressed his nose deep into the dog's crack, feeling the intense heat just radiating off his spread globes, that throbbing, clenching hole just mere inches from his mouth. Nothing was stopping him from just reaching out to taste it, to kiss it, to feed it...\n\n\"I don't feel any tongue. I better do soon or else someone's gonna take a good lashing.\"\n\nThere was no way out, not that Martin wanted a way out. But there was no alternative option, no means of savouring the moment or prolonging the sensation. He put his lips to the canine's hole and pushed his tongue forward, flexing his muscle against his rim. It was dry, tinged with sweat, but clean, and he pressed forwards with more strength, until the hole gave way. Martin entered the dog's insides - a rare change - as his tongue slithered inside, the flavours soaking him and coating his mouth. There was something male about it undeniably, something hot and rancid, but at the same time unknowingly phenomenal. Greedily the mutt doubled his efforts as he continued to ride the toy lodged within his rectum, tongue plunging further into the dog's bowels just as the toy left his own, only to return in tandem. He was trapped between the two, sitting upon the false cock just as Master sat upon his face.\n\nAs the pace was settled, Martin felt the dog lean back; Master had edged himself backwards so that he was proudly sitting upon the mutt's face, leaving him no room to move away, his muzzle buried deep in his ass, sucking and slurping on his hole with desperate, anguished whimpers. Drool was matting his cheeks, the smell pasting his face in the canine's scent, and all at his command. Martin shuddered and groaned, cock straining within its cage, as he resigned himself to licking out the dog's hole whilst keeping his own ass stretched and ready for when Master ever desired to fuck him.\n\n\"Now let's see if you can get me to cum before I get bored of this.\"\n\nThough then again, that might be for some time.[/i]\n\n---------------------\n\nGifted by [url=https://pittbull-paw.sofurry.com/]SF: Pittbull-Paw[/url]\n\nArtwork by [url=http://www.furaffinity.net/user/Elbestia]FA: Elbestia[/url]","description_bbcode_parsed":"Sit

There was a juicy, slick sound that filled the air, louder perhaps than the staggered pants or heavy breathing. It was wet and slippery to the ears, the kind of noise one could immediately identify as being greasy and slimy. The squelch would come at intervals, a steady pace mediated by a second or two and followed shortly after with the softest of grunts or moans, caught just under the breath. It was the only sound in the room that commanded attention, as the two individuals who were within one another's presence quietly waited. Although, it must be said, one male in particular was much more enrapt with the man standing over him than they were of him. It was he who interrupted the lewd slurp with his whimpering groans, teeth occasionally gritted and a shiver claiming his body as he worked himself over, easing his hips up and down as he knelt upon the floor. The wooden floor dug into his knees, an uncomfortable radiating ache that had since bled throughout his legs, numbness that was deeply unpleasant. He'd spent so long now on the floor, lifting himself up only to sit back down, but there was little choice in this decision. His gaze was cast upwards, staring almost pained at the man standing over him, looking to the man who ultimately had control over the mutt.

The smell too was equally potent. If one did not notice the noise, for some reason or another, it would have been impossible to deny the stench that stained the air like smog. The heavy scent of perfumed chemicals, something distinctly clinical but freshened to be amiable to the sense, smothered much else, but there was a definite aroma beneath it of thick musk. This mixture of sweat, piss, and cum, a smell all too familiar to both men for certain, was strong and sticky, enough to leave a taste in one's mouth as they sucked in every lungful. Though it would naturally be both men who were responsible for the scent, it would be foolish to not acknowledge their little setting; the room, housed in the infamous dark, seedy clubs in the bowels of the city, was a hotspot and frequent witness to scenes such as the one playing within it now. Men, just like the mutt upon his knees and the burly Pitbull standing over him groping a paw at his crotch, would visit these backrooms and perform unspeakable, depraved acts before returning to the outside world which remained none the wiser. Patrons from all over with all sorts of particularly nasty tastes, otherwise dissatisfied with conventional means, came to these clubs in search of the deepest itch imaginable for a craving few could - or indeed would - satiate. The remnants of these visits soiled not just the walls or the floors but every single article of furniture that happened to furnish the room. Bizarre marks, clouded and large and faded blemishes of a darker shade dotted every surface as testaments to what would go on within these confines. The men would come and go like ghosts haunting the halls with their screams, but their stains would remain behind forever.

"You're slowing down."

His voice was so warm and powerful when he got like this. Martin had spoken to him many times before, clothes on and off, but it was whenever they were back here he'd turn into something wholly different. The intonation would take on an icy quality, but still retain its authority and heat. If anything, Martin could only describe it to the sensation of drinking whiskey, an apt enough expression as the dog held a glass in his free paw whilst the other loosely held a whip. He swirled the golden amber around before absently taking a swig, gulping back the hot brew. Yes, it was the only way to describe his voice, like whiskey; pleasing to see, unassuming to watch, but when it gets inside of you, its bite is just as brutal as its sting, the taste finally exploding in musky notes until it leaves you warm and gasping and just begging for more. It was so rich Martin almost failed to pay attention to the command, implied even as it was.

"Bitch, I said you're slowing down!" The crack of the whip was sharp and sweet, much sourer than Max's voice - though Martin wasn't supposed to call him that. Back here, he was Master, or Sir, or whatever title he liked when they walked in. But the whip, unlike Master's voice, was more akin to a shot of something only good for its purpose. Like vodka or some other potent drink, it was something to be taken briefly, painfully, and only in the intention of getting lashed. As Master brought the tangles of leather striking across his back with just a flick of his wrist, the flare of pain erupted out like lightning under his skin. Every tendril moved from nerve to another, moving faster and faster as he'd already been subjected to multiple in the past hour or so for not being fast enough. Either that or he was going too fast, or too hard, or he looked like he was enjoying himself too much. Any reason the Pitbull could muster was an ample excuse to punish the mutt and show who was in charge.

Martin redoubled his efforts as he winced from the scoring pain of the whip. Deep inside him he could feel the heavy plough of the bear cock that sat within him. The unyielding silicon rubbed and wrought his insides relentlessly, until over time the sensation had been dulled to nothing but the uncomfortably alien coldness of hardness constantly in transit within him. When they'd started he could have made out the feel of every contour, the exact depth the dildo was reaching, how wide it made him feel, but over time, under the watchful, punishing glare of the canine, Martin had ridden that toy until it had eroded every nerve ending within him. All he was aware of now was its presence, sloppy and lodged, sitting in his gut like a stone. He'd pull himself up with his screaming thighs, the muscles so overworked now he was amazed they were even capable of lifting his weight, the drag of the dildo pulling the rim of his hole out with it, only to lower himself back down like a good boy. Over and over, he'd been forced to perform this for the dog's leisure as he'd stood idly by, flogging, whipping, touching, groping, kissing, doing whatever he pleased, made to keep pace with some illogical rhythm that only seemed to exist within Master's head on a whim.

"Good, that's better." It was as much of a compliment as he was ever going to receive. Still though, praise was praise and the mutt took it as such. Master was firm but fair, and Martin knew rather well just how firm he could be as he did fair. If the whip was no indication of that, the cage encasing his sheath was. As per their contract, something the mutt had signed some time back, Martin was placed under service of the dog, locked into chastity to ensure the mutt's attention was focused solely on the canine during their sessions, and commanded into a routine of following Master's orders wherever and whenever it pleased him. Now Master had seldom taken advantage of his power over Martin, but every now and then, when the need arose, he would demonstrate to his contracted slave just what authority he could wield, from ordering him to strip in public to servicing him whenever the dog liked. Failure to comply by the contract and the keys would be kept indefinitely and the case taken over by one of staff at the club who would oversee the deal was adhered to until they were convinced obligations had been met. Either that, or Master could go to the mutt's employer, knowing full well it would not end well for him with a particular dragon in charge. The warm steel wrapped around him served as a reminder to that he was very much enslaved to the Pitbull, who watched him intently as the mutt fucked himself upon the dildo, kneeling on the floor.
Not that it was an awful thing. On the contrary, the mutt had signed willingly, and though at times he was horrifically embarrassed as to some of the dog's more public requests, he followed every command to the letter with eagerness. There was something so liberating about knowing there was no choice in his actions, that it was either comply and enjoy the moment or resist and end up suffering anyway before doing whatever it was the dog wanted regardless. Many might have seen it as an evil thing, but the mutt had gone voluntarily and even as his body wracked with pain now, his ass sore from the constant driving of the toy inside him, he was happy he was there, beneath a bigger man. Master's swollen belly, hardened into muscle but still very much rotund, his barrelled chest and squared jaw, his heavy limbs only thickened with more strength, all of it was looming above him in what Martin could only justify as their rightful place. Master was superior, Martin was not. Martin was to serve, Master was to be served. Everything was so elegantly simple.

"But now for my share."

Martin watched as he continued to heave himself up and onto the toy over and over still, feeling the hardness of it pushing deep into him than he dared to conceive. It ground over his prostate mercilessly, like any object should, just as the man who seemed almost unfeeling to his plight climbed atop the furniture in front of the mutt. With a flagged tail, Master knelt upon the top and turned his ass towards the enslaved boy on the floor currently fucking himself. With a sly grin, Max leant back and spread his cheeks before the mutt's face,

"Now eat me out, slave. Do a good job, and you might just get what you want."

What Martin wanted was up to wild interpretation, he realised. Most likely it would wind up being something he didn't necessarily want, but knew the Pitbull would want, so by extension it too would become his desire. With a hot flush burning in his cheeks, Martin strained himself forward, still riding his hole on the thick dildo, as he pushed his muzzle in between the dog's cheeks.

Immediately the stench of sweat and unwashed musk invaded his senses. The smell was ripe and thick, like molten lead, oozing down Martin's throat like a serpent, sliding into him regardless of what he wanted. He pressed his nose deep into the dog's crack, feeling the intense heat just radiating off his spread globes, that throbbing, clenching hole just mere inches from his mouth. Nothing was stopping him from just reaching out to taste it, to kiss it, to feed it...

"I don't feel any tongue. I better do soon or else someone's gonna take a good lashing."

There was no way out, not that Martin wanted a way out. But there was no alternative option, no means of savouring the moment or prolonging the sensation. He put his lips to the canine's hole and pushed his tongue forward, flexing his muscle against his rim. It was dry, tinged with sweat, but clean, and he pressed forwards with more strength, until the hole gave way. Martin entered the dog's insides - a rare change - as his tongue slithered inside, the flavours soaking him and coating his mouth. There was something male about it undeniably, something hot and rancid, but at the same time unknowingly phenomenal. Greedily the mutt doubled his efforts as he continued to ride the toy lodged within his rectum, tongue plunging further into the dog's bowels just as the toy left his own, only to return in tandem. He was trapped between the two, sitting upon the false cock just as Master sat upon his face.

As the pace was settled, Martin felt the dog lean back; Master had edged himself backwards so that he was proudly sitting upon the mutt's face, leaving him no room to move away, his muzzle buried deep in his ass, sucking and slurping on his hole with desperate, anguished whimpers. Drool was matting his cheeks, the smell pasting his face in the canine's scent, and all at his command. Martin shuddered and groaned, cock straining within its cage, as he resigned himself to licking out the dog's hole whilst keeping his own ass stretched and ready for when Master ever desired to fuck him.

"Now let's see if you can get me to cum before I get bored of this."

Though then again, that might be for some time.

---------------------

Gifted by SF: Pittbull-Paw

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