I have this dream, a fascinating dream. Too perfect to be thrown away. I rest on a smooth, spongy meadow filled by rabbits – hundreds of shiny, sleek black ones and fluffy, creamy white ones. They frisk round me, their noses twitching, their tails bobbing. Soft and cuddly, warm and vibrant. A deliriously familiar rabbit-hutch smell. They climb all over me and cover me with their downy fur until they knit me into a delicate bed of rabbits. Gradually we all join – me and the rabbits, to become one huge rabbit, that itself changes too, into Larissa Logan, and she holds me and loves me and . . . then I wake up. Fuck!
Christ, I’m horny. I have a pain right through the middle of my belly. Jesus, I don’t think I can work unless I do something about this rampant hard thumping against my cunt. I’m sure the sheets have to be soaking. Fuck! I should get up and make an early start. With Brenda off ill, it means that I’ll have to help out in surgery as well as do my own work. I hate helping in surgery. Particularly on a Saturday, it seems like a kind of sacrilege to have to work so hard on a Saturday.
Damn her! Three times I have had this dream about her. Three times she’s been down on me and I’ve, in turn, been down on her, rabbiting around, rooting in her cunt, smelling, licking and sucking. Yes. I will have her. I will take her to me and make her mine. Bastard. Dream on, sunshine. I’m only the student seeing practice in summer and she’s the lord almighty veterinarian, the boss lady, the superior one. Oh, come on, I knows that she’s an icicle, hard as a rock. But below that mask, that disguise, for sure there have been some indications that she wants me, needs me, lusts after me, sure she does. Right! Like not! In each dream we are some sort of animal. She’s as beautiful as she is in life – sleek, strong, muscular. Her huge eyes are the eyes of a cow, then a horse or, in this one, the eyes of a rabbit. I ache to rub my hands through her thick black hair, to nibble her tiny ears, to run my hands over her dense skin. I am a hormonal teenager with these hot, wet dreams of my boss.
In the shower, I continue with the fantasy. She’s there, on her knees sucking me, licking me, swallowing me. She is on her knees, her ass to me and I have lubricated her asshole and am ramming my finger into her. I finish desperately on this note, my clit tiny and spent by making love to Dr Larissa Logan.
I arrive early, clear yesterday’s files, pack kits into the autoclave, set-up the operating room, take the dogs out and clean the cats. I look for things to keep myself busy.
For once we finish the office on time and start on the surgery. Cat spay first. Routine. I inject the dose as instructed by Dr Logan, tie the cat, shave it, disinfect the skin, and drape it. Dr Logan only has to make the incision and remove the ovaries and uterus.
If only it was one of the other veterinarians who was on today and if only I didn’t have to help out in the operating room. I have tried to keep my distance from her, but it’s nearly impossible in these cramped rooms to be anything but touching. I would like to be in the other town, not two inches from her, my thigh touching hers, my hand brushing hers now and then. I can almost feel her breath on my face. God, I’m hard, so hard that it’s like being a teenager, worse than when I was a teenager. I have never lusted quite as badly as this. I push myself right up to the operating table. I’m melting with desire for her. Every near brush or touch is like an electric jolt through my body. Damn! One minute I want her and the next I could kill her.
“Shit!” she says.
“What’s wrong?”
“This is the one that’s pregnant. You should have reminded me.”
“Yes?” I say softly. Don’t look for trouble so early in the day; don’t reply in an equally aggressive way.
“Do you remember from the mists of your classes that there’s an extra risk of haemorrhage?”
I ignore this. She isn’t capable of speaking to any of her staff politely, particularly not me. Particularly not now. It’s as if she resents a woman being a vet.
She curses again, but gets on with the work and sutures up the wound. The ovaries and uterus lie in a kidney dish. The uterus is distorted and looks as if it’s filled by a string of marbles. I’m fascinated by those marbles. Can’t take my eyes off them. “They’re alive,” I say. “Of course they are. What did you think?” She doesn’t look up from her stitching.
For a second she looks up at me and there’s a look on her face which could be disgust. Her lips curl down and her eyes are cold. Arrogant bitch. I wonder if the antagonism is because I’m a woman. No, that’s really insulting. No, her attitude is just because she’s a bitch, plain and simple. “Take the cat away and bring the next patient in.”
“It’s a shepherd – Lemour’s one – the one that had a go at you last time when it was in for its ears.”
“You frightened of it or something?”
“I didn’t say so. It would be better if we brought it in together. You could sedate it.”
“Now you’re telling me my job.”
I shrug and untie the tapes holding the cat on its back and take it into the recovery kennels. Carefully I place it on its side and check to see the tongue’s out.
The shepherd is in one of the large bottom kennels and squints at me with glinting red eyes. His mouth twitches, exposing huge teeth, the tail vibrates a warning.
I return to the operating room and clear the table and put the instruments into the sink in the prep. room for later cleaning. Once everything’s ready for the shepherd, I peep round the door of the office and Logan’s there, feet up on the desk with her head buried in a paper, making a show of ignoring me.
I go to the kennel and open the door casually, as if the dog is a tiny, hand-licking poodle, and talk to him quietly. I slip my hand into his collar. The dog raises his lip enough to show red gum.
“Good dog. Good dog.” I stroke his chest and the area behind the ears that drives most dogs into an orgasmic trance. He walks beside me as gentle as a lamb and goes limp when I put my hands under him to lift him onto the table.
Logan is in the pharmacy next to the operating room. I call to her, telling her that the dog’s ready and she comes in and looks around. “Is the Cavitron set up?”
“No. Sorry.”
“You knew that it was to be a scaling and extraction.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“Well, hold the vein and get him under and then set it up fast.”
The morning goes in the same way – snipe, niggle and childish complaints. I should leave this office. Nothing about me is right. Nothing. I will never fit in, not with this hard on, throbbing between my legs. Damn my dreams of sex, sex and Dr Larissa Logan, Larissa, all the time.
As we finish the last case of the morning she says, “I want to do that dobe next. She’s just right. The stud’s coming in at twelve.”
The dobe bitch is as sweet as the rabbits in my dream. Soft and silky and female in every way. I can almost smell her femaleness. Its body, like Logan’s, is without an ounce of fat, and is streamlined to an efficient, beautiful machine. Its coat glistens with health.
And, by god, the bitch is ready. She rubs her back end on the floor, she pushes it against the wall, she does anything to get some sensation to her bright red, swollen vulva.
The male arrives. He’s huge, and as male as she’s female. Big-boned, tall, well-covered, silky and lithe.
I stroke him and bend down to talk to her. The dog licks my face. In fact, this male is as gentle as the female, a wuss, a big cuddly bear.
The two dogs are introduced and sniff and then go to their respective owners and place heads on laps. The owners and Larissa Logan and I sip coffee. Both dogs ignore each other. I pull the male’s collar and drag him to the bitch. The bitch smells me and nuzzles me and he lifts his head and looks at the ceiling. Big deal!
The humans have some more coffee. The dogs stare into air.
I have seen males like this in my dad’s kennel. They just need a bit of prodding, something to get them going. My dad used to joke that they are like men in their sixties, married to the same woman for forty years. I stroke him and pat him and whisper to him. “Come on, come on, boy.”
The dog licks my face. Big sloppy kisses.
Ah, no, it’s not the dog I am teasing but Dr Larissa. She wants me, she needs me. I am here for her.
I rub the edge of the bitch’s vulva and wet my finger in her juices, I then touch the male’s nose with my finger, covered in blood. He sniffs. I let him lick my finger and place my hand almost right into his mouth. He licks again and sucks my ear. If the dog could be as affectionate to the bitch as he is to me, then things would be just perfect.
Oh, this is Larissa I have here, on her knees. I have my finger in her cunt. I have her juice on my hands. I taste her in my mouth. It is she, here before me, waiting for me.
I stroke his penis through the prepuce. Back and forward I massage the organ under the skin. It pulses under my hand. I wet my finger in the bitch’s vulva again and let him lick it.
Now, Larissa has my finger directed against her clit and it’s soaking against it. I suck it and sniff it.
The penis is now sticking out of his sheath, bright and turgid.
My clit is so hard it’s sticking out of my lips, almost hanging down like a baby penis. It’s exposed and vulnerable.
The bitch backs into me, her vulva flagging, red, ripe, juicy.
The dog sniffs and half-heartedly attempts to mount the bitch. He loses interest when it seems too difficult.
God, I am over Larissa, doggie fashion, my cunt grinding into her soft, silky arse, my hands on her breasts, pulling on her nipples.
I again massage the penis until it throbs, and finally the dog, as if saying to himself, “Oh, hell, if I must, I must,” mounts panting and pawing frantically, shagging ferociously. He’s in her and tight, so tight, right in there, his arse muscles pumping and pushing. He thrusts into her, rams his penis right into her, rams it in, pumps himself into exhaustion and they are tied together. He tries to extract himself and can’t. They turn. They are tied bum to bum, like a double-headed monster. The bitch is panting, a smile on her face. He is quiet, dazed.
Larissa and I, sixty-nine, me on top, she panting, panting, screaming, pushing gyrating up to me, stretching her legs until it’s as if she would split into two. This is it. This is what I want and dream. My legs crossed, leaning against the wall, I come silently, violently, without moving a muscle.
When the bitch is gone and the office is cleared up for the weekend, I make myself some coffee and open the paper to catch up with the world. So much for Larissa Logan.
This is my time. This is . . . my eyes are heavy. I want her again. I know she’ll be in Mario’s for her Saturday lunch. I have to mind the shop. My finger slides down my pants. It curls round my panties.
Now, I order her here. She is to be here to service me.
She stands at the door. “None for the boss?”
“Didn’t say you wanted one.”
“Could have offered.”
I make her a coffee and take it into her office.
“Is there anything wrong with having it with me?”
“No.” I return with my coffee and sit across the table from her. I will not sulk. Actually sulking was the last thing from my mind. The show of the bitch and the male have made me hotter for her. I have decided to call Maria and take her out for dinner tonight. Anything to get this woman off my mind. When a woman wants a shag, she has to have a shag.
She reaches in the drawer and pulls out a half bottle of Chivas Regal. “Want one?”
“Why not?” Now what? One minute she’s the bitch from hell and the next almost civilized. What’s going on now? Do I really need to know? Hell with it. Go with the flow.
“Why not, indeed? It is Saturday.”
She pours a good slug into both mugs. The heady, aromatic, full, heavy spirit burns its way down my throat. I feel my face flush in response to the heat.
“I dream about you,” she says. “It makes things difficult. Try not to let it interfere.”
“I know. Me too.”
“Yes, twice I have a dream about you.” Her face is soft, tender, dreamy. “Such rich dreams. Dreams . . .”
“Me too.”
“Never.”
“Sure I did. Dreams about you. Such passionate dreams.” Her hand is over mine. I think I’ll die. I will explode. I smell that vanilla, sweet smell of hers. The smell of her skin and her cunt. That heavy, loamy smell some women have.
“That’s so strange.”
“What were your dreams about?”
The phone rings. It always does in dreams, doesn’t it?
“Damn it,” she says. “Let the service get it.”
“My dreams were . . . rabbits and you in a field. A field full of rabbits.”
She moves her chair closer to mine. “Mine were of you on a swing and you were going up and down, up and down. A swing made of red rope, velvet rope. You were naked. And, as the swing came down, your legs . . . sorry.”
“Go on.” She could not stop now. I have to have more of the detail. “Come on.”
“I walked up to you. And as you came down I was between your legs. Between your legs and you would have your legs right up to my face. So close I could smell your musk. So close and you smelt of honey and clover. Rich fresh clover. I kept the swing right up to my chest. Bent down to you and smelt you. Put my face right into your sex.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. So close and your legs were round my head and my face . . .”
“Yes.”
I knelt before her and started to undo the small buttons of her blouse so it hung forward. She wriggled her shoulders and the blouse came off in my hands.
Reaching behind her, I unclipped her bra and let it fall off her shoulders. Her nipples stood, proud, heavy and turgid. Golden and red at the same time.
First I sucked one and then the other, on my knees, kneeling as if I were praying. Paying homage at the altar of my idol, my goddess. Sucked each in turn until they both shimmered and glowed as if they were lit up from inside. She has enormous nipples. The kind with a knobbly area around them, little bumps, themselves the shape of tiny nipples.
I stood up and drew her up in front of me. We kissed. Her lips so . . . so very wet, as wet as a spring of fresh water. I sucked her juice, my tongue searching every part of her mouth. My sex hard against her thigh. Her skin was all that I had imagined, her taste the taste I had created over and over in my mind.
Desperate and panting, she fumbled with my trouser zip and undid it, then pulled the trousers down. I stood in my panties. They too were pulled down. Her face was buried in them, she breathed in deeply as if drinking the smell of my cunt.
“Yes,” she said. “I have wanted you.”
“I have . . . wanted this for so long.”
Her sweater was the next item to come off and then her bra and they were both dropped on the floor.
Her gaze was fixed on my sex. I looked down. My thick blonde thatch stood proud and luxurious.
She went onto her knees and soaked the tip of my clit, her tongue licking and red, red and quick round it. Then her mouth engulfed me.
Jesus, I could not bear this.
I pulled from her and sat down on the chair. I was not some horny teenager to come the first second she touched me. No, cool down, buddies, cool it. I pulled her skirt down and with it, her slip. I then hooked one hand round her panties and pulled them down. I buried my face in the crotch, my tongue tipping her clit. My body turned into a river, into a pumping waterfall. I have never feasted on such a sugary, opulent cunt. It was jasmine and vanilla and honey.
Her legs were open wide, exposing everything for me to examine it. A smile lit up her face, her skin had a deep rich blush.
I opened her lips and ran my tongue down from her clit into her hole. Up and down. Licking like a child licks a popsicle.
She moaned and leant back. Her eyes were shut.
I wet my finger and circled her clit until it popped up to meet me. Yes, now. I bent to her and ran my tongue round it, round and round, and circled and teased it. I wondered if I should pinch myself to make sure I was awake. Or was this just another variation of the dream I have been cursing?
“Jesus, Christ. I can’t bear this.” Her eyes were shut tight and her lips a thin line. “It’s too much. Too fucking much. I have to come.” Her hand came to her clit and a finger worked it round and round.
Yes. I stopped and watched her for a moment, wondering how long she could go on. My own finger found my clit and worked it just as she worked hers.
“Smells of heaven.”
“So do you.”
I pushed her onto her back and opened her legs. I buried my face in her pussy, licking and sucking. One finger deep in her heavy, mysterious cunt. I felt her begin her orgasm, felt her tighten onto my finger. I rolled her over, rolled her onto her back. “Now.”
“Yes now.”
I was above her. My cunt to her cunt. She fingered me and I fingered her. God, I was right inside her, making her come. She had her hand round my back, her finger in my arse, rolling the finger round and round. God, this was more, much more than I believed possible. Impossible.
I ground into her and no . . . no . . . wait until . . . until . . . I teased her, feathered her and then focused my activity, not stopping, she became rigid for a second or two, then her body grasped me and a volcano erupted, as she panted, and moaned, “Yes, fuck me, for Christ’s sake, fuck me. Shag me silly, come on, you bastard.”
If that was what she wanted, that was what she would get. I pumped into her as if I was working out on the track, as if I was pumping for my life. And shafts of pain, pain and agony, and oh, such ecstasy, such a high in my clit, a charge from my clit right into my brain, a bolt of lightning exploded in my body. I kept pumping, thrusting and ramming into her long after I was finished.
She bit my ear.
I bit her arm.
I heard the door from the outside open.
I licked my finger.
She stood at the door.
“Everything all right?”
“Everything is just perfect.”
She turned her head and smiled. “Better than dreams.”
“Yes, much better than dreams. Even the best of them.”