So. Long(12)

He lets out a low whine past the yellow tennis ball held firmly between his slightly crooked teeth.

“Being cute won’t win you playtime right now. It’s getting hotter out here every second, so scoot.” I wedge the toe of my boot under his rump and give him a little push.

He jumps up and lumbers across the yard, tossing sad glances over his shoulder as he goes.

I attack the shed with all the energy I would use to fuck Kelsey if I’d give myself the chance. I won’t, of course, but if I could, I’d do it right. Hard and deep.

Three long days have passed since I tasted her sweet pussy, and I’ve had a craving for more unlike anything I’ve experienced in the past. I’ve done every hard labor job I can think of on this stinking house, and still my dick stays erect from morning to night.

Every night, I dream of her. With her knees spread wide and that pink bit of heaven open to me, like a flower waiting for the sun. Wet with the dew, smelling beautiful, and tasting like the sweetest ambrosia, she waits for me, a mischievous smile on her face and a sparkle in those blue eyes.

And every day, I wake with my dick straight as a fucking board and harder than the head on this pickaxe.

That first morning, I took a frigid shower right off the bat. But as the day went on, sneaky little thoughts of her crept in, and before long, I had a woody that would make a great oak proud. Yesterday, I went straight to work, tearing the brick that needed replacing off the side of the garage. I’d just about managed to get my shit calmed down when she came outside to check her mail. Her shorts hugged that ass, and the frayed edges of the jeans feathered across her thighs as she moved. Even though her pussy was covered, my memory easily filled in the blanks, and my erection was instantly harder than ever.

So today, I’m working in the back of the house. A nice, tall fence stands between me and any possible sighting of Kelsey, Kelsey’s ass, Kelsey’s legs, and, most importantly, Kelsey’s sweet spot.

Back in the hospital, if someone had told me I’d avoid getting a stiffy, I’d have laughed in their fucking face.

Now? Not so much.

Every swing of the pickaxe ends with a crack in the brick and a jolt to my arms that travels all the way through my spine. Sweat races down my back and over my chest. I drop the tool and run my forearm across my brow to stem the flow of salt dripping into my eyes.

Something presses the side of my knee.

Spike leans on me, the top of his skull against my leg. I step aside, and he whips his head up. This time, two tennis balls perch in his wide mouth. His jowls drape over them on either side of what is surely a smile, even if some would say dogs aren’t capable of such a thing. His eyebrows rise as though he’s convinced that this time, I will definitely throw one or both of his prized possessions.

My aching arms complain with each movement. “Not now, buddy.”

He looks up at me, his expressive eyes saying everything his too-full mouth couldn’t—even if he tried. You no love me?

“Oh, stop. You act like you never get to play. Now shoo. I’ve got work to do.”

Head down, he drags himself off to the other side of the yard, where he drops both slimed balls. Then he pounces between them, plucking one from the grass and tossing it over his own shoulder. It bounces off the fence, and he chases after it. He does this again and again.

At least he’s smart enough to know how to entertain himself.

I get back to work.

Ten minutes later, an insistent whine halts my progress.

Spike has his ass in the air and his nose under the edge of the fence on Kelsey’s side of the yard. He furiously digs, all the while whining like he’s lost his best friend. Since I’m his best friend, I know that isn’t the case.

I clap once. “Hey. What’re you doin’, Goofball?”

He pops up and sprints around the yard a full circle before coming to stop at my side. He paws at my foot, and then runs back to the beginnings of his escape hatch. He shoves his muzzle into the dirt and lets out a high-pitched sound designed to convey his unhappiness with—well, whatever it is he thinks is wrong.

At the fence, I squat. “Nice looking hole you’ve dug there, young man.”

He pulls out of the gap under the fence and licks my ear. I push him away and survey the damage.

Wait. Something’s missing.

His tennis balls.

I check around in the bushes nearby and the rest of the yard.

I pat the top of his broad head. “You went and threw your balls over the fence, didn’t you?”

He barks.

“Oh, all right. I’ll see if we can get them back. But you have to stop digging holes under people’s fences. That shit ain’t gonna fly. You hear me?”