5 comments/ 77177 views/ 10 favorites Best in Show By: sr71plt It was raining hard in Newport. Otherwise Sandy wouldn't have come to his club to do his running that morning. Sandy taught sailing at the nearby U.S. Naval War College, and at his age—he was pushing forty-eight hard—he had to work extra hours to keep in shape. So far, running ten miles a day had helped keep him hard, but Rhode Island wasn't the best place to assume dry days. So, he'd joined a club that had its own indoor track, and that's why he was here this day. It was raining hard outside and it was time for him to run. But the track was covered with little furry things on leashes. He had turned back to the men's dressing room in disgust, thinking hard on where he was going to go for exercise now. He wondered if going back to the war college campus and fucking that young naval captain's brains out for two hours would off-set a ten-mile run. It was at least worth a try. While he was changing back into his street clothes and feeling mad at the world and sorry for himself, he overheard the conversation of two of the guys who were just returning from swimming laps in the club's indoor pool. "So, what's going down on the indoor track?" asked one. "Dog show," answered the other. "Oh, that sissy stuff," responded the one. "Owners besotted with their dogs and looking just like them. Total waste." "Not completely so," answered the other. "Clive Bailey owns last year's champion—probably this year's champion too. And he's no dog face; he's a real looker, and I understand he's the most delicious bottom in Rhode Island. He's got one of those fluffy little things that win so many dog shows—his dog, I mean, not his ass. I think it's a Japanese . . . no, it's a Chinese Crested. A very oriental name his has: Da Mei Yang. It was in this morning's paper. But that Clive, now he's got the most talented ass on the East coast." The two laughed as they went off to the showers. Nicest ass on the East Coast was what translated to Sandy. Sandy collected nice asses. And he couldn't resist the challenge of having one that others said was the nicest to be had. Speaking of nice asses, though, there was that young naval captain very ripe and just ready for plucking over at the naval college. Sandy dug out his cell phone and started dialing. He'd had the naval captain meet him down at the boathouse, where he kept a full range of small sailing boats that he used to train these guys in the basics—these guys who'd forgotten all they knew about the basics of sailing because for the last ten years they'd been driving big ships that did everything but wipe their butts for them on automatic pilot. Sandy had taken the young captain into a lifeboat hanging off the back end of one of the larger sailing boats, and the nice, young, firm piece of tail was bent over the center wooden seat on his belly and was grabbing the gunwales with white-knuckled fists and was throwing his head back and screaming his satisfied lust as a crouching and covering Sandy split him from behind with the biggest cock in New England. With each thrust Sandy first thought just how nice and tight this young sailor's ass was and, second, wondered how it compared with the one those guys in the locker room were declaring was the nicest ass to be had in this region. Long after the naval captain had whimpered his surrender and Sandy's digging cock had delivered the coup de grace, Sandy was resolving he was going to get to the bottom of this Clive Bailey guy—to the bottom and then into the bottom and a good ten and half thick inches farther than that. He turned the young naval captain on his back on the centerboard and held his ankles up and out and fucked him again. The guy would be begging for another private sailing lesson again the next day. They all did. Sandy returned to his Brenton Cove cottage after having stopped at a convenience store and bought the morning paper. His cottage wasn't the most luxurious house on the cove—not by a long shot—in fact its low profile and small size, nestled up to his own private dock but hidden from the road by heavy foliage, rendered it almost invisible. But he liked it that way. And in its own way it was more distinctive than any of the hulking wooden waterfront mansions around it. Sandy was quite certain that more future admirals had lost their male cherries and been fucked three ways from Thursday in his bedroom than any of the other houses on the cove could boast. He settled down in his favorite overstuffed chair, with its wide view of the Newport harbor beyond a bank of sun porch windows, and leafed slowly through the newspaper. There was the report on the dog show and a picture of the champion, Da Mei Yang, but that was the only picture. Not a bad-looking mutt. Sandy read the article very closely; it revealed that Da Mei Yang was being used as a stud for the Bailey Kennels. A week later, after the submission of voluminous forms and the writing of a hefty check, Sandy answered his door. The man standing on the threshold looked very young—much too young to have already acquired a reputation as a champion bottom—but Sandy had to admit that he was gorgeous and compelling. He could feel that his cock thought that too. He hoped he wasn't being too obvious. All he had on were a pair of running shorts and shoes. The young man gave him a wondrous smile. He looked like a young Greek god. Dark and heavy tanned and muscled and all white teeth and tumbling black, curly locks of hair. The little ball of fluff he held under his arm that was the celebrated Da Mei Yang was all smiles too. He'd been told why he was here. Sandy was happy to see that his groomer was smiling even though he didn't yet realize he was here for a similar experience. "Admiral Thompson?" the young Greek god asked with a luminous smile. "Yes," Sandy answered with a warm, inviting smile of his own. "Here, come through here to the backyard. The bitch is back here. I have her penned and ready for you already." The Chinese Crested perked up his ears and began to pant in anticipation. Sandy was more than pleased himself with this Greek god Clive, and he was fairly panting himself as he led the groomer and stud through the bungalow and to the backyard. There was a small, newly improvised dog pen just beyond the lattice-covered and grape-vine bedecked patio off the sun porch, on a short grassy area between the house and the start of the pier out into Newport Harbor. A dog looking somewhat like a Chinese Crested was bounding around the pen and yapping its silly little head off. With little fanfare, the young man lifted Da Mei Yang over the lip of the pen, and the champion stud bounded out of his arms and into the enclosure. There was little doubt that the immaculately groomed Chinese Crested knew exactly why he was there. As Da Mei Yang stood solidly in the middle of the pen and stared down Sandy's pooch, Sandy saddled up close behind the dog groomer. The sounds from Sandy's dog turned from ridiculous but noisy yapping to uncertain yipping to whining, and its head descended lower and lower as Da Mei Yang stood there, majestically, staring the other dog down. Similarly, Sandy had come in very close to the back of the dog groomer as he stood at the edge of the covered pation, but well in the shadows. The young dog groomer felt Sandy's hand on his arm and the older man's hot breath on his neck. He had been attracted to the retired admiral's handsome, square-cut looks and hard, well-taken-care of body from his first look at the jib of the man. He was graying, but only at the temples, and on him it looked good. He had the torso of a mature man, but one who was still solid muscle and who took pride in and much effort on his form. And the dog groomer hadn't missed the bulge in the admiral's basket and the curly salt and pepper hair that cascade up out of the front hem of his low-rise running shorts when he had opened the door. The young man felt paralyzed as a hand came around and fiddled with his belt buckle. He didn't move, although he was trembling from the feel of those strong fingers on his arm and the hot breath on his neck, as his belt gave why and he heard and felt the unzipping of his jeans. He had come here to witness the breeding of the admiral's dog by Da Mei Yang. Visual witnessing of the breeding was necessary for the contract to be valid and a fee paid whether or not the admiral's bitch littered. He couldn't miss this. It meant the better part of a k note, which the kennel wouldn't see if the bitch didn't have puppies and no one was there to attest the breeding. The dog groomer was nonplused with what the bitch's owner was doing to him. He certainly hadn't expected the attention he was getting, but he was being played so expertly and the admiral was so good looking and arousing that the dog groomer was confused—and he was paralyzed. Did he even want this to stop? He had no idea. He was just so surprised and the admiral was such a dominating force. But . . . But . . . "Uh, Sir. What—?" "Shush, shush," The older man was whispering. "Just watch the dogs. You must attest. The contract says—" "Yes, but—" The man had pulled down the back of the dog groomer's jeans and briefs, and he had the most gigantic of cocks rubbing up and down between the young man's butt cheeks. "Ah . . . Ah . . . ," the young man was murmuring. The cock was huge and it was tantalizing. The young man felt his legs trembling and his knees going weak at the movement of the underside of the cock up and down on his hole. "Watch the dogs," Sandy whispered. "Attest to the fucking—" Sandy's dog was hugging the ground on its belly. It was looking up with it muzzle and it had its teeth bared and was giving a weak growl. But Da Mei Yang wasn't fooled. Da Mei Yang's muzzle was above that of Sandy's dog and the Chinese Crested stud was still staring the other dog down. And his teeth were more strongly bared, and his growl was much more authoritative than that of the other dog. Da Mei Yang was slowly, one step at a time, moving around the side of the other dog. Sandy's dog had to move its head to maintain eye contact, but it did so. It was being mesmerized. Its growls were turning to whimpering. Sandy had one palm on the young man's belly now and the other one on his throat, pulling his head back. Sandy was kissing the young man on the neck, and the young man was just standing there, his arms drooping at his side, paralyzed by the admiral's power. And he was whimpering too. Just like Sandy's dog, the young man was whimpering softly, lost in the dance of domination—losing the dance of domination. Da Mei Yang was behind Sandy's dog now, and Sandy's dog was lifting its hind quarters. It was still whimpering, but the instinctive response of its body was totally out of its control. The palm of Sandy's hand had left the young man's belly, and the dog groomer felt wet fingers at his asshole. His ass was being prepared. He whimpered and he involuntarily, instinctively lifted his butt toward the invading fingers. Da Mei Yang was moving over the hindquarters of Sandy's dog, covering the back half of its body with his chest and belly. Sandy's dog was whining, beaten, bested. The head of Sandy's cock was now at the rear door of the young dog groomer, who was sighing quietly to himself, beaten, bested. Sandy's dog yelped and writhed under the encasing champion Chinese Crested as it was invaded by a champion cock, while at the same time, the young dog groomer, still standing, but held in the embrace of the older man, felt his ass being entered and conquered and invaded by a master cock. He too yelped and writhed within the embrace of the stronger, dominating breeder. Being split and plowed by a hard, thick, long cock. The yelps of Sandy's dog turned to whimpers, and its tongue lolled out of its mouth, and its eyes blazed wildly, and Da Mei Yang thrust and thrust and thrust. "I speak Mandarin," Sandy whispered in the young dog groomer's ear as he thrust and thrust and thrust. "Do you?" "No," the young man answered through clinched teeth. "Ohhhh, ahhhh, oh my GAWD. Why—? What—?" "It's your dog," Sandy whispered and then laughed. "Do you even know what Da Mei Yang means in Mandarin?" Thrust, thrust, thrust. "Ohhhhahhhhhh. Oh, Noooo. Yes! No, no, I don't know what it means." The young man was panting. His knees gave way, and Sandy turned him to a picnic table and laid him down on his back, spread his legs, and thrust inside him again. Da Mei Yang was having his way with Sandy's dog too. The dog just huddled there, trembling, its eyes begging both for mercy and for more, swimming already in the champion Chinese Crested's millionaire-dollar cum. "Da Mei Yang means 'big beautiful cock.' Whoever bred your dog knew its worth. And do I have a big beautiful cock too, Clive? Am I the best in show too?" "Oh Gawd yes, oh gawd yes." But then he continued. "My dog? Clive? It's not my dog. I'm not Clive Bailey. I'm just his groomer. He sent me because he was busy today." Sandy laughed a deep, lustful laugh. Not at all put off. The young guy was luscious. Worth every bit of what he'd had to pay for a stud fee. He dove deep again, throbbing cock plowing undulating ass walls, deep, down, down, down. And the young man yelped and cried for more. "That's OK," Sandy said, and then laughed again at the totality of the joke. "This isn't my dog, either. I got it at the pound. I even think it's a male. But it's enjoying itself anyway." And both the dogs and the men fucked on, with Sandy already scheming how he was going to track down and breed the elusive and legendary Mr. Clive Bailey. Best In Show "We really appreciate you paying for the wedding, Ben," Amy said. "You didn't have to." "Of course I did. I'm your father," he said. "You're my stepdad." "That may be, and you may be 25, but you're still my girl," Ben said. "Besides, your mom would've wanted me to." The two sat quietly. Amy stared at her white Russian, stirring it slowly with her straw. "Do you remember how mad you used to get when I blew bubbles in my milk?" "I remember telling you that I was going to swat your butt if you didn't stop," Ben said. Amy leaned forward, puckered around the tip of the straw, and blew until her cocktail threatened to bubble over. "You're not too big for me to turn you over my knee," he laughed. "Finish that up and let's get you home. Big day tomorrow." *** The pickup truck bounced and jostled along the back road leading to the cabins Ben rented for the wedding party. Maybe it was the humid summer evening, maybe it was the vodka in her belly, but Amy felt warm, comfortable, familiar. How many times had she ridden shotgun in her stepdad's truck? The feed stores, the 4H meetings, the fairs. He never complained about any of it. All of those blue ribbons they brought home, and not once did Ben let on that he had anything to do with it. He always made sure she felt special, that she was the winner. She looked at him, hands on the steering wheel, a slight smile on his lips. Even in the dim evening light Amy could make out the muscles in his thick forearms. He earned them. She reached over and placed her hand on his arm. "My girl," he said. "My girl." *** The sound of the engine cutting off stirred her awake. Her head leaned on Ben's shoulder. "Wake up, honey, we're here," he whispered. She pretended not to hear him. "Come on, Tiger, we need to get you to bed." She groaned and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Okay, okay. I remember this game," he whispered, and he worked an arm around her back and another under her knees and lifted Amy from the truck's cab. Ben unlocked her cabin and laid her down on her bed. He took off her shoes, and she rolled onto her side and hugged a pillow. "No more pillow hugging for you after tomorrow," he smiled. She pretended not to hear him. He patted Amy's thigh. The thin silk of her skirt slid across her smooth leg. He'd almost forgotten how good a woman feels: her skin, her delicate clothing. He flattened his hand upon the skirt and rubbed the silk along her thigh, quickly glanced toward Amy's face. She didn't react. Back and forth he rubbed, hesitant, gently. The hem of her skirt rose, as did the goose bumps on her sleeping leg, as did the quiet fire within him. Ben could hear his own heartbeat as he pushed the fabric aside with his pinkie and touched Amy's thigh. Her skin was so warm, her thigh so firm. The sight of it, the feel---almost like he was out of his body,floating, dizzy. He ran his hand further upward, her skirt bunching over her haunch. Amy pretended to stir. Ben jerked his hand away. She rolled onto her stomach, thighs slightly parted, skirt around her waist. All that stood between them was a thin layer of white satin pulled tautly over her ass. He sat still, afraid to break the spell, afraid to disturb her. Minutes passed, or so it felt to Amy. She willed him to touch her again, but no matter how hard she thought he didn't move. He just sat there on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep. She began to rock her hips slightly, almost microscopically, barely clenching her firm muscles, hoping he would notice. He did. Ben reached with a weathered hand and touched Amy's calf. She took advantage of the moment, pretending that his heavy arm pushed her legs apart. He stared at the wet satin cradling her sex. They were lost in a cabin in the woods, trapped between their past and her future. He couldn't lose her, too, but he didn't want her to be alone. She trembled as his fingertips traced the inside of her thigh and found the plump curve where leg and satin met. Upward moved his hand, fingertips pressing beneath the elastic of her panties and cradling her firm ass. Amy's hips grew bolder, pressing into the mattress and then against the strong hand on her behind, the one that she could always depend on; the one that kept her in line, kept her safe. She wanted him to know how much it all meant, how he was the man she measured all others against. She lifted her hips high and Ben's hand slipped between her legs and into her secret place. She was so wet, so open, plump lips like her mother's. She moved like her, too, pressing his fingers deep into her, finding a way to position her clit against his hand. He could smell her, hear his fingers sliding in and out of her, the whimpering moans. And then she rose to her knees and shoved her panties to her thighs. "Fuck me, Daddy," she moaned. "Please." "Amy—" "Please, Daddy. It's okay. Please." Ben removed his pants and knelt behind her, his hairy legs tickling her thighs. Amy reached between her legs and found his cock, so hard, so ready. She pressed the head against her opening and settled onto his thick shaft. He wrapped his hands around her hips, watched his cock disappear inside of his stepdaughter, her asshole pulsing as her vagina clinched. She was gone, out of her mind with lust. Nothing mattered but her daddy's big cock filling her up, stretching her. Amy couldn't remember the last time she was this wet. She pounded against him, every thrust emboldening her more. "Am I your girl?" "Yes?" "Say it." "You're my girl." "You like my ass?" "Yes." "Spank it. Please, Daddy. Spank me." He slapped her behind. "Harder." He slapped her again. A red handprint rose on her pale skin. "You always took good care of me. I'm going to take care of you," she said. She turned around and took him into her mouth. He tasted of cunt and sweat. She pulled him out of her mouth and squeezed just behind the head. His slit peeked open and a clear pearl of precum emerged. She squeezed again and the fluid ran. Amy leaned down and caught it on her tongue, then she shoved the head of his penis between her lips. Only one other woman fluttered her tongue like that, he thought, almost like a machine milking him,sucking and fluttering that bundle of nerves just below the head. Only one other woman. Was it genetic, or had she taught her daughter? He tried to shut off his mind and enjoy the sensation. He looked down at the sight of his stepdaughter trying to stretch her tiny mouth around his girth. She looked up at him with her big, brown eyes and said, "Am I doing a good job, Daddy?" "Too good," he said. "Are you going to give me a present?" "What do you mean?" "You know what I mean," she said, and she swallowed him again. "Not yet," he said. He touched her face, pulled his shaft from her warm mouth and gently pushed her back onto the bed. She even tasted like her mother. He tugged her labia between his lips and flicked his tongue across her swollen clit, slipped two fingers into her pussy. She rode them, pressed them against that secret place that no man had ever found. But he did. "Stop stop stop," Amy whispered. "Are you okay?" "Yeah, I just want you inside of me." She pushed his hand and head away. He straddled her, beard wet with her juices. She kissed his chin. Ben grabbed the base of his penis and guided it into her. He pressed his sweaty chest against Amy's breasts and pushed into her. She grabbed at him, clawed his back, bit his shoulders. They moved together, Amy rising to meet each thrust. "Oh," she cried, the orgasm welling inside of her. "Please, Daddy. Tell me I'm your girl." "You're my girl, Amy," he said, and the waves shot through her, her pussy pulsing, body tense. Ben's hands gripped her hips tightly, his pace quicker and quicker, and then she heard him moan and felt the spasm before he relaxed, breathing heavily. "You'll always be my girl," he whispered in her ear. *** After the wedding Ben jumped into his truck and headed back to the small ranch the three of them once shared. Amy's blue ribbons still hung near the fireplace, next to the old photos of her posing with her prize winning livestock; next to the photo of his stepdaughter and her beautiful mother. They were both gone now, but for the first time in many years he felt like everything was going to be okay.