The Broken Fence

Tuesday. 2 PM. Hanging laundry like every week.

The sun bakes my shoulders through the cotton dress. Sweat beads between my breasts, trapped under the “Best Mom” apron the kids made me. Everything smells like detergent and cut grass and righteous perfection.

David’s white work shirts. The kids’ soccer uniforms. My modest church dresses. Each piece hung with precision on the line stretching across our flawless backyard.

The broken fence panel has been loose for weeks. “I’ll fix it this weekend,” David keeps saying. But weekends pass with golf and church and blessed routine.

Movement in the gap.

Rex. The neighbor’s massive mutt. Usually chained. Must have gotten loose again. I make a mental note to speak to them about proper pet control. Again.

“Shoo,” I say, not even looking up from the laundry basket. “Go home.”

But the dog pushes through. All the way into my yard. My sacred space.

I turn, hands on hips. Ready to use my PTA president voice. The one that makes teenage boys stop skateboarding in the parking lot. That makes women pull their necklines higher.

The dog is… looking at me.

Not like a dog looks. Something else. Its nostrils flare. Head tilts. And I smell it – animal musk mixing with my clean detergent world.

“Rex. Go. Home.” Each word firm. Controlled.

It takes a step closer.

My stomach does something strange. A flutter. A clench. Between my legs, sudden warmth that makes no sense. I press my thighs together under the sundress.

Another step. It’s so big. Broader than my German Shepherd growing up. Taller. More… male.

“Bad dog,” I try, but my voice cracks. Sweat runs down my spine. Not just from sun.

Why won’t it leave? Why can’t I move? Why is my body…

Its tongue lolls out. Panting in the heat. I watch a strand of drool stretch, break, hit my perfect grass. My nipples tighten under the apron. What? No. That’s not…

“Please go,” I whisper.

It circles closer. I should run. Should scream. Instead I’m frozen, watching this beast pace around me. Evaluating. My pussy clenches on nothing and I make a sound. Tiny. Shameful.

The dog’s ears perk.

No. No no no. I am Rachel Morrison. I lead prayer groups. I organize bake sales. I judge other women for their sins. I don’t…

It lunges.

Not aggressive. Just… decisive. One moment I’m standing, the next I’m down. The laundry basket spills. David’s clean shirts scatter across dirt.

My hands hit grass. Knees follow. The impact jars everything loose – breath, thoughts, the careful control I wear like armor.

Weight. So much weight. Crushing my back, making my arms shake to hold us both up. Paws scramble at my sides, catching fabric. I hear tearing. The apron. My good apron.

“No!” But the word dissolves into whimper as hot breath hits my neck. Then wetness. Drool. Dog drool running down my neck, pooling in the hollow of my throat.

Claws find purchase. Through the dress. Scratching skin. Not deep. Just enough to mark. To hold. I try to crawl forward but the weight pins me. Traps me.

More drool. Soaking through my collar. The smell overwhelming – dog and grass and my own sudden sweat. And something else. Between my legs. Wetness that shouldn’t exist.

Something hard pokes my thigh.

My whole body goes liquid. Some ancient recognition. Prey knowing predator. Female scenting male. The civilized part screaming while the animal part…

“Please.” I don’t know what I’m begging for. “Please don’t. I’m married. I’m a mother. I’m…”

The hard thing seeks. Prodding. My dress riding up with each attempt. Cool air on thighs. On the wet place that shames me.

It finds the edge of my panties. Good cotton panties. Proper white. Bought in bulk. Practical.

One thrust and they tear.

The sound breaks something in me. That rip of fabric. The last barrier gone. I’m exposed. Vulnerable. Wet wet wet why am I wet?

The cock – because that’s what it is, god help me – slides through my folds. Seeking. The first touch makes me jolt. Hot. Hard like nothing living should be. Alien.

“No no no no…” But my back arches. Just slightly. Just enough.

It finds my entrance.

The penetration stops time. One moment empty, the next full. So full. The bone-hard length spearing in without care or permission. My scream echoes off the perfect fence panels still standing.

Then the swelling starts.

Inside. It’s growing inside. How is that possible? The thing already too big now expanding. Stretching. My pussy trying to accommodate this invasion that breaks all natural law.

Thrusting. Fast. Violent. Nothing like David’s careful monthly attention. This is rutting. Claiming. Using. The wet sounds obscene in my pristine backyard.

Drool drips steadily onto my back. Through the torn apron. Soaking the dress. Marking me with scent and spit. The paws adjust, scratching new lines. Holding me for proper use.

The base. Something’s happening at the base. Swelling like the rest but more. Bigger. Pressing against my entrance with each thrust. Demanding.

My wedding ring catches sunlight as I claw grass. Fourteen years of faithful marriage. Two beautiful children. Reputation spotless as these white sheets.

The knot forces inside.

The sound I make isn’t human. Can’t be. Rachel Morrison doesn’t make sounds like that. Rachel Morrison doesn’t take dog cock in her backyard. Rachel Morrison doesn’t…

Locked.

The thrusting stops. Just pressure now. Impossible pressure. And heat. Oh god the heat. Flooding. Pumping. Is that…?

Cum. Dog cum. Filling me. So much hotter than human. So much more. Wave after wave and I can’t escape. The knot ensures it all stays inside. Claiming from within.

My belly presses into grass as it swells. Fuller. Fuller. How much can there be? Twenty minutes the nature documentaries say. Twenty minutes of this. Of being nothing but a receptacle.

The first orgasm hits without warning.

My pussy clamps down on the knot and I sob into the dirt. Coming on dog cock. The good Christian wife. The moral authority. Coming harder than ever before while mounted like a bitch.

Shame burns hotter than the sun. Hotter than the cum still pumping. But the shame makes it worse. Better. More. I come again, smaller tremors, pussy milking the invasion.

Time stops. Exists. Stops again. Just the weight. The knot. The endless filling. Drool pools between my shoulder blades. The apron hangs in tatters. Everything I am pools with it.

When the knot finally softens I think thank god. Over. I can pretend this never…

It pulls free with obscene wetness. Dog cum pours out. So much. Soaking into my perfect lawn. The smell overwhelming. Marking. Claiming.

I should run.

I stay on all fours.

Rex circles back. Through my legs I see it. The cock already emerging again. Red. Angry. Ready.

My body makes the choice. Back arching. Knees spreading. Presenting. Some ancient biology overriding everything I’ve built myself to be.

The second mounting is easier. My pussy swollen and slack. Takes the bone-hard thrust like it was made for it. Like I was made for this.

By the third time, thought stops. Just sensation. Weight. Stretch. Heat. Fullness.

By the fourth, I’m pushing back to meet each thrust.

The sun tracks across sky. Shadows lengthen. Still mounting. Still knotting. Still filling. The yard reeks of sex and shame and dog.

When David’s car pulls into the driveway I’m inside. Showered. Starting dinner. Hiding the ruined apron. The scratches. The way I can’t walk right.

“Smells good, honey,” he says, kissing my cheek.

If only he knew what else smells. What marks me beneath this fresh dress. How my pussy still gapes, still drips, still aches for…

“Mommy! Mommy! Can we play outside after dinner?”

“No!” Too sharp. Too quick. “I mean… no, sweetie. The… the yard needs treatment. Chemicals. Not safe.”

But that’s not why. It’s the broken fence. Still broken. Always broken now.

Because tomorrow at 2 PM I’ll be hanging laundry again. Same time. Same place.

Waiting.

The good wife. The perfect mother. The moral leader.

Dog cum still leaking down her thighs.

Counting minutes until she can be mounted again.

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