Koko’s Beastiality Afternoon

During the summer when my neighbor’s vacationed, I
take care of their Rocky, Koko, a German short-haired
pointer. Roughly the size of a German Shepard, but
heavier, Koko has jet black fur, black eyes, and an
insatiable curiosity. He was six years old at the time,
a hundred and sixty pounds, strong as a bear. And
sometimes just as fierce.

I had cared for Koko the past three summers, one time
for three weeks. Outweighing me by twenty pounds, our
backyard romps were always a surprise. He bested me
with ease, causing me to curl in a ball when his
excitement got out of hand to avoid being mauled. I
curled up a lot.

This day was a Wednesday afternoon in July, hot,
muggy, threatening rain. The normal routine was feed
Koko, change his water, go outside for a frolic, then
I’d go home. This afternoon was different. I stuck
around. Koko, no dumb mutt, noticed the change.
Cocking his head, he looked curiously up.

“You stay put, okay?” I said, rubbing his head and
flank. Given the chance, I knew he would interfere.
He licked my hand, continued to watch, black eyes
curious.

I went through the living room, then upstairs to the
master bedroom, where I stood in the doorway. I
wondered if I had the guts. The house was so quiet: the
refrigerator hummed downstairs, and the low buzz of a
lawn mower sounded down the street. Not even the air-
conditioner disturbed the silence.

Excitement was there, tempered by antsy guilt–or
maybe fear. Three years I had fantasized about this
moment, since the Acappella’s moved in; now I stood in
their doorway vacillating. I was close to walking out.
Come on, I said. Chicken out and you’ll regret it the
rest of my life.

I went in and shut the door.

The Acappella’s bedroom was large and roomy, nearly
filled by a king size bed and heavy oak furniture. Light
blue, floor length curtains hung behind the bed, and
matching lamps with blue lamp shades guarded either side.
Pictures of the family adorned the long wall, a second held
a large oil painting of a mountain lake. I had been in this
room repeatedly, over the past three years, her King size
bed the center of my fantasy. Mrs. Acappella was the
focus.

Jessica was thirty-four, dark blonde short-cut
hair curled under at the neck. She was five foot-six in
shoes and one-hundred and ten pounds, (from her driver’s
license), and filled her clothes rather than wore them. It
was hard to imagine her the mother of three. Just the right
mixture of softness and authority, Jessica kept you
guessing.

There are three daughters. Mary Beth, the oldest, is
twenty-two now, a senior at Penn State University. Becky
and Regina, a year apart, are still in high school, Becky a
senior. All rival their mother in looks–and her small chest-
-though Jessica may be the most small-chested woman
I’ve ever known. Regardless, the four together make your
heart groan.

The connecting door to the bathroom was open and I
closed it also, guessing Koko’s appearance was just a
matter of time. This was none business of his. Looking at
the bed, I thought of the many times I had lain there and
wanted to masturbate, wanted to find pictures of
Mrs. Acapella in the nude. I never had. But yesterday
morning I had searched the room top to bottom and discovered
their cache; a damned good one too–a false bottom in the
smaller of the two closets. There was a full box of Jessica
from which to choose. I intended to use them.

I undid my belt.