Are there such things as pre-orgasm hallucinations? If so, why would I hallucinate dog barks? My kinks don’t swing that way.
The barking grows louder, and I discern that there are at least two dogs making the sound.
Tigger pulls his hand away. His tone is filled with frustration. “We’d better get out of the suits.”
Shit. Not a hallucination then.
I sit up and rip the headset off my head, then lie back to peel off the VR suit.
He’s already wearing his trunks and holding my bathing suit out for me. Those military school drills at work.
Flushing again at his heated stare, I pull on the bikini and follow him out into the living room.
Not surprisingly, the barking is coming from two unleashed dogs: the panda and the koala, a.k.a. Caradog and Mephistopheles. They each have a piece of cloth in their maws and are tugging it in opposite directions.
Impressive. I bet I wouldn’t be able to bark with fabric in my mouth.
What is surprising is the pantalooned dude sprawled on the floor, his feet tangled in leashes.
Did the dogs tie him up so they could play this canine tug of war?
Wait a second.
I narrow my eyes at the cloth they’re pulling—just as it rips into two jagged halves. “That’s my dress!”
Tigger shouts something in Ruskovian.
Caradog sits his butt down instantly, and a ragged piece of my dress covered in drool falls out of his maw.
Mephistopheles continues to shred his half of the dress.
Tigger repeats the command with more edge in his voice.
Mephistopheles looks up with puppy eyes. His gaze seems to say, “I’m innocent. I’ve been framed.”
Caradog’s goggles point right at the smaller dog, and he produces the scary growl I heard when Waldo held the knife.
Looking sheepish, Mephistopheles sits down with a whine but doesn’t let go of the small piece of dress that’s still in his mouth.
Tigger walks over and locks eyes with the dog. “Don’t you dare swallow that.”
Bossy. If I had something in my mouth and he didn’t want me to swallow it, I’d spit it out immediately. Or swallow it if that’s what he wanted.
Mephistopheles whines more pitifully and finally spits out the cloth.
I’m reminded of the beer ads once again:
“He has taught old dogs a variety of new tricks.”
“He once taught a German shepherd how to bark in Spanish.”
“Good boy,” Tigger says and helps the pantalooned guy get to his feet.
The guy darts a glance at me. Noticing that, Tigger says something sharp in Ruskovian. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to guess the translation: “Don’t gawk at the almost naked magician.”
The guy replies in Ruskovian.
“Speak English,” Tigger growls.
“I’m so sorry,” the guy says with a thick Eastern European accent, his gaze as far away from my naked flesh as possible. “The vet appointment must’ve gotten them overexcited.”
Vet appointment?
“Watch them,” Tigger says to the guy imperiously. Turning to me, he gentles his tone. “Let’s get you something to wear.”
Seriously, why do I like this bossy side of Tigger? All my life I’ve been told I have problems with authority.
I wink at Mephistopheles to show him I don’t hold a grudge, then follow his master into the bedroom and watch as he pulls out a tank top and a pair of ripped jeans.
“Try this on.” He thrusts the clothes into my hands and leaves for the living room.
I put on the tank. It’s too long and my bikini top is visible from the side, but after I tuck the bottom of the tank into the jeans and roll up the pant cuffs, I look semi-presentable. Boyfriend jeans are totally a thing—if you can call them that when the guy is not your boyfriend. All I need now is—
Tigger walks back in, carrying a belt. “I had to take this out of your flower arrangement.”
I loop the belt into my jeans. “Well, that was crazy.”
He grimaces. “I take full responsibility. They’re my dogs.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Sounds like you owe me.”
He nods earnestly. “Anything you want, just let me know—aside from a new dress, of course. That’s a given.”
I don’t know what possesses me to say the next words. If I didn’t know any better, I’d accuse my sisters of hypnotizing me when we talked earlier. “I want you to join me and my parents for dinner.”
No. Idiot. Sleep with him first. Once he meets the Octo-parental units, it’s game over.
He cocks his head. “You make it sound like a big favor. I’d love to meet your parents.”
Why am I sabotaging this non-relationship?
“When you meet my parents, you’ll see how big of a favor this is.”
He doesn’t look intimidated. “When?”
I pull out my phone. I have ten unread texts from Octomom suggesting we meet “tomorrow.”
I’ve now ignored at least five tomorrows.
Guilt bites at me. I’m such a bad daughter. I should’ve replied earlier, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so.
My twin doesn’t realize this, but there was a good reason why I asked her to pretend to be me, allowing me to skip this cursed lunch, and it wasn’t the reason I gave her: that I didn’t want our parents to bug me about my love life. Well, it’s in part that. Mostly, though, I’m fed up with the lie I’ve been living in front of my family, the lie of being a daughter/sibling without intimacy problems.
The lie that keeps getting deeper each time I talk to my parents, thanks to their obsession with everything sex.
“Are you free tomorrow?” I ask cautiously.
“Sure,” Tigger replies.
I text Octomom back and see if a dinner tomorrow will work.
The reply is instant:
Finally. How does 7pm sound? Where?
After a quick check with Tigger, I give her the location—the cleanest restaurant I’ve ever been in: Magia Pan Tumaca.
When we return to the living room, the dogs are eating food out of their bowls, and the shreds of my dress have been cleaned up.
I rush to the couch to make sure my purse and gloves have survived.
Whew.
I put on the gloves and hang the purse over my shoulder. “I should go.”
“One second, please.” Tigger walks over to his dog sitter and takes a pile of papers the man has prepared. He then examines the papers approvingly before handing them to me.
I scan them.
They look to be test results.
Has he forgotten that I already saw his bill of health?
Wait. The names on the papers are Caradog and Mephistopheles Cezaroff—not Anatolio.
It’s the dogs’ health results.
I flip the pages. Damn. Even his canines are free of STDs. Why did he have them tested for that?
Should I tell him my kinks don’t swing that way?
“I had the vet test them for everything known to science,” he says, as though reading my mind. “I don’t want you to worry about my fur babies when you visit.”
“Wow. Thanks.” Overwhelmed, I hand the papers back.
He drops the documents on top of his own. “I can also train them not to lick you, or rub against you, whatever you need.”
The doggies must know he’s talking about them because they look at him, then at me.
“They can rub against me if I’m dressed,” I say. “In fact, can I pet them?”
Nodding, Tigger repeats the command from earlier.
Caradog is again the first to sit, but eventually, Mephistopheles does as well.
Readjusting my gloves, I walk over to the larger dog and gently stroke his fur.
Caradog’s tail begins to wag, and the eyes behind the goggles close in pleasure.
Even through the gloves, his fur feels rougher than I’d expect. It reminds me of a donkey instead of a panda. Not that I’ve ever petted a panda.
A goofy grin spreads across my face. This is the second time today that I’ve channeled my childhood. At my parents’ farm, we had a whole petting zoo of exotic and mundane animals to play with. Nowadays, I only have access to a cat—Hannibal—but he only lets Clarice pet him, and even then only when he feels like it.
Mephistopheles whines.
“You’re jealous, huh?” I croon, then walk over and pet the little rascal.
This one’s fur meets my expectations, in that this is how I’ve always imagined a koala might feel.
I look up to see Tigger gazing at me with a strange expression on his face.
I clear my throat. “Do you have round-shaped treats by any chance?”
Tigger looks pointedly at the dog sitter.
The guy turns out to have pockets in his pantaloons, and he rummages in there to the point where one might suspect him of playing with himself. Eventually, he pulls out two cookie-like objects.
I take the first cookie and kneel in front of Caradog.
The panda looks excited about the prospect of the treat, but feeding isn’t what I have in mind.
I recently heard that you can fool dogs with sleight-of-hand magic, but I haven’t had the chance to try it.
I take the cookie in a finger grip so the doggie can be sure I have it, and then I perform a beginner trick featured in every book on coin magic—make it disappear right in front of my spectator’s large, wet nose.
When I show my hands empty of the treat, Caradog’s eyes widen comically behind his goggles.
I think if he were human, he’d rub those eyes with his furry paws.
He sniffs the air and his confusion deepens. No doubt he can still smell the cookie nearby.
To my delight, Tigger and the sitter also look amazed. I must not be as bad at coin magic as I thought.
“Now watch,” I tell the panda-like dog and execute the most classic magic trick in history: making a coin—or in this case, a cookie—appear from the ear of a child… or a dog in this case.
Tigger and his minion clap. On his end, Caradog doesn’t waste time. Minding my fingers, he snatches the treat from my hands before it can vanish again.
Mephistopheles whines again.
“I didn’t forget about you.” I take the second cookie and repeat the show.
Mephistopheles doesn’t look as surprised as Caradog when the cookie vanishes, but he’s extra ecstatic when it appears from his ear.
“That’s not fair,” Tigger says when I stand back up. “I want a trick too.”
I was ready for this.
Opening my purse, I take out the props I brought just for this eventuality—three metal rings.
“Check these out.” I hand two rings to Tigger and one to the dog sitter.
Tigger examines the rings carefully, no doubt looking for secret holes.
Is it wrong that I want him checking my holes, secret and otherwise?
When the rings are back in my possession, I perform another classic routine: first the two rings “magically” link together, then all three.
This time, it’s only my human spectators who are amazed. The dogs act like metal penetrating metal is possible, and maybe it is in the canine version of the laws of physics.
I think they hope for a game of Frisbee with the rings.
Tigger exchanges a confused glance with the dog sitter. “That’s just impossible.”
“Check it again.” I hand Tigger the three-ring arrangement so he can be sure they’re now all linked together. “Keep that as a souvenir,” I say with a cocky grin. “Maybe you can figure it out after I leave.”
He shakes his head and walks over to the flower arrangement. “Speaking of keepsakes, don’t forget this.”
After I take my flowers, Tigger calls someone on his phone.
“A limo will take you home,” he says a moment later. “This is also for you.” He hands me a box.
When I see what’s inside it, I chuckle.
It’s brand-new tongs. I resist the urge to ask what he did with the ones they’re replacing.
“Bye.” I wave at the dogs and their sitter.
Tigger opens the door for me and walks me to the elevator. “Training tomorrow?”
The dule of doves resumes its fluttering in my belly. “Sure. When are you free?”
“Afternoon, before the dinner?”
I bob my head, not knowing what else to do. I’m becoming increasingly uneasy when it comes to the stupid free-diving training, but I don’t know how to get out of it.
The elevator opens.
“Later,” he says.
I step in and press the lobby floor button with an unsteady finger.