Sarah told herself it was research.
The laptop sat warm against her bare thighs, its fan whirring softly in the silent apartment. She’d changed into sleep shorts after dinner, soft cotton that rode up when she tucked one leg beneath her. No bra under her tank top – just research comfort, she reasoned, though her nipples were already tightening into visible peaks.
Her thesis on human sexuality and taboo had taken her down strange paths before. This was just another data point. The forum post that started it all had been clinical enough: “Women who have experienced zoo: what drew you to it?”
But the responses…
Sarah shifted in her desk chair, the leather slightly sticky against her skin. The first confession was three paragraphs long. By the end of the first, she noticed her breathing had changed. Shorter. Shallower. Her lips parted slightly.
“Human cocks are flexible. They bend, adjust, work with you. But dogs have a bone inside – the baculum. It doesn’t bend. It doesn’t compromise. Your body does all the conforming. When he’s inside you, every movement translates directly through that bone. Every thrust rearranges you because he can’t bend to accommodate your angles. You have to accommodate his.”
Sarah’s hand moved without conscious thought. Slipped beneath her waistband. Found wetness that shocked her with its abundance. She wasn’t like this. She had normal desires. Vanilla, her ex had called them. Boring, he’d meant.
Another post. This one with specifics that made her breath catch.
“The temperature difference is exactly four degrees. You’ll feel it immediately – this heat that’s definitely not human filling you. And because of the bone, he comes out already hard. No working up to it. Just immediate, rigid penetration that your body has to figure out how to take.”
Her middle finger slid between folds that felt swollen, hypersensitive. The first brush against her clit made her hips jerk. Too sensitive. Too ready. She circled instead, gathering wetness, shocked at how much there was. Her pussy lips felt different – fuller, hotter than usual. Like they were preparing for something specific.
“You can feel every single spurt. Every pulse. The knot presses against places inside you that have never been touched. And if he shifts even slightly – to adjust his grip, to breathe different – that rigid bone moves inside you and you’ll cum from just that.”
One finger pushed inside. Her pussy clenched immediately, trying to hold something that wasn’t nearly enough. She added a second, spreading them, feeling how open she was already. How ready. The stretch felt good but wrong – her fingers could bend, could curve to find her g-spot. But that wasn’t what the women described. They talked about rigid insistence. About being opened straight and deep.
She tried holding her fingers stiff, pushing in at the angle a dog would mount. Her pussy flooded at the thought, fresh wetness coating her palm. The heel of her hand ground against her clit with each thrust but it wasn’t right. Wasn’t enough. She needed-
Her fingers slipped beneath cotton. Found curls damp with arousal she couldn’t rationalize. The first touch to her pussy lips made her gasp. She was soaked. When had that happened? Her middle finger slid between folds that felt swollen, hypersensitive.
“The pace isn’t human. No build up. No rhythm you can match. Just piston-fast thrusts that knock the air from your lungs. You can’t participate. Can only take. Receive. Submit. Your body understands this is mating, not making love. Opens differently. Deeper. Like recognizing its purpose.”
Sarah’s finger found her entrance. Pushed inside to the second knuckle and felt her walls clench greedily. Her pussy felt empty. Achingly, desperately empty in a way one finger couldn’t fix. She added a second. A third. Stretched herself while reading about stretching.
“Then you feel it. The swelling at the base. Each thrust tugs at your entrance as it grows. Your body tries to adjust but it’s too much, too fast. When it locks inside, you scream. Not pain. Recognition. This is what you’ve been missing. This fullness that doesn’t end.”
Her left hand abandoned her breast, reached for the water bottle on her desk. Still half-full, lukewarm. Without thinking, she tested its width against her entrance. Too wide. But the hardness… she pressed it against her pussy lips, imagining. The rigidity that wouldn’t yield. That would make her body do all the conforming.
Three fingers now, pumping desperately. She curled them, straightened them, trying to replicate what she was reading. But her knuckles were in the wrong place for a knot. Her fingers too short for the depth described. She ground her palm harder against her clit, chasing sensation that stayed just out of reach.
“The heat is what gets me. Four degrees hotter than human. You feel it immediately when he cums – this temperature your body recognizes as foreign. Animal. It triggers something primal. I cum hardest when I focus on that heat filling me.”
Sarah’s free hand pressed against her lower belly, imagining heat flooding that deep. Her fingers thrust harder, faster, but the angle was all wrong. She shifted in her chair, spreading her thighs wider, tilting her hips. Trying to recreate the position the women described. On all fours. Knees wide. Hips tilted to present.
The new angle let her fingers go deeper but it still wasn’t enough. She was right on the edge, pussy clenching rhythmically, but something was missing. That unyielding pressure. That foreign heat. That loss of control when something locks inside and won’t let go.
Sarah’s climax hit like a seizure. Her back arched off the chair, thighs clamping around her hand as her pussy convulsed. She felt herself gush, heard the wetness drip to the floor. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as wave after wave crashed through her.
But even as she came, she felt the inadequacy. Her fingers weren’t enough. Weren’t thick enough, deep enough. Couldn’t lock inside her and force her to keep cumming. She ground her palm against her clit, chasing the intensity the story promised, sobbing when she couldn’t reach it.
The orgasm finally released her. Left her slumped and panting, hand still buried in her drenched pussy. The laptop screen blurred through tears she didn’t remember shedding. Her body felt electric. Changed. Like someone had rewired her nervous system while she read.
More stories waited in other tabs. A forum for women “in the lifestyle.” Tips for safety. Anatomy diagrams. Local contacts.
Sarah’s clean hand moved the mouse. Clicked. Kept clicking. Her wet fingers stayed inside her pussy, slowly pumping as she read. Her body wouldn’t let her stop. Each new detail made her clench. Each confession made her wetter.
By three AM, she’d cum four more times. Her shorts were ruined. Her chair leather stained. Her pussy swollen and oversensitive but still desperately empty. She’d learned new vocabulary: tie, breed, mount, knot, baculum. Words that made her clit throb just thinking them.
She’d also learned the practical details that made it real. How women cut the crotches from shorts to protect their skin from scratches. How you had to file dog nails smooth. How your pussy would gape for hours afterward, unable to close properly. How some women could take their dog daily but others needed recovery time – “My boy is 170lbs and enthusiastic. Every other day is my max or I can’t walk.”
The forums were full of specifics. Yoga mats for easy cleanup. The best positions for different height differences. How to deal with drool in your hair. Why you needed to prep with enemas. The way cum would leak out of you for hours, so always put a towel down in your car.
Real women with real experiences. Comparing notes. Sharing advice. Normalizing what Sarah’s body was screaming for.
This was recognition. Of a hunger she’d carried unknowing. Of a shape her emptiness took. Of exactly what kind of bad girl she’d always been beneath the good girl performance.
Sarah saved the bookmarks to a private folder. Cleared her history with shaking hands. Crawled to bed on unsteady legs, pussy still throbbing with need her fingers couldn’t satisfy.
Tomorrow, she’d return to her thesis. To academic distance and scholarly language.
Tonight, she lay in soaked sheets and admitted the truth: she’d found her obsession. And it had sharp teeth and a swelling knot and absolutely no concern for her dignity.
The wetness between her thighs pulsed agreement.
She was already lost.
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