Dogs

He had her there on the dining table, and the fucking was like the Pomeranians beneath them barking and twisting and clawing bare-clawed and paw pads on the windowpanes with their tails in rotation like propellers blowing wind on the ground, a sandstorm's fury matched only by heaving, grunting, panting pants-free near the pantry, fingers clutching hot flesh dog jowls and lips locked like her thighs in a clamshell lock around his pearl, and who cares if that comes from an oyster not a clam because adrenaline sizzled their brains like greyhounds at the track chasing hard tabletop gymnastics, pistons pounding and Pomeranians running opposite directions around the skinfest on the table whose legs quaked like their own as they shuddered at each other like the lights going out when they saw the neighbors outside in their lawn chairs sizzling steaks stuck on a hot clutching barbeque grill.

©2010 by Jezz Woodruff

                                                                                                                                                                                               

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Jezz Woodruff celebrates his maiden voyage on the good ship Clean Sheets. He is a business executive, part-time writer, and amateur fantasizer.