Doin' Him Puppy-Style
NOTE: This work is intended for adult audiences only, and should not be read by individuals age 17 or younger. All characters herein are entirely fictional and of age 18 and above.
Metal weights clack on the exercise machines. Fighters grunt it out in the cage, and the crack of flesh against bone sounds in the air. Casey Mitchells has signed up as a Fight Dog: a hot young stud who will satisfy the most primal needs of his sponsors, in more ways than one. A hot blend of martial arts and sexy studs!
~~~~~ EXCERPT:
We must've been driving at least an hour.
I can understand the blindfold, even the cuffs that bind my wrists behind my back. What I don't quite get is the bar gag that they'd fitted between my teeth. Damian only chuckled when I growled around that mouthful of latex. At first the most annoying part was the saliva wetting my lips and trickling down the corner of my mouth. But after an hour of sitting in the back of the jeep sucking on the gag, my jaw had begun to ache something fierce.
"I'm doing this for Tommy," I tell myself. That makes it easier.
He was asleep when I said my goodbyes. Poor kid wasn't looking good, pale and skinny in his hospital gown. I felt queasy just looking at him... with him lying in that bed it was even more apparent how gaunt and unhealthy he was, and inside I was screaming about how I hadn't noticed earlier. It hurt having to see him off without Tommy being able to talk to me, but he'd needed something to put him to sleep and I wasn't about to wake him. I left a note though, and a couple handheld video games that Damian had allowed me to bring along.
I tussled Tommy's hair and kissed him on the forehead. I'd be gone a year, but all his needs would be taken care of until I got back. I just hoped that he'd survive that long, at least.
The crunch of gravel and sand beneath the jeep's wheels brings me back to the present. Finally, we roll to a stop.
When the door opens a blast of hot desert air hits me in the face. My skin, still cold and dry from the heavy air conditioning, now itches with the blistering sun and the dry air. Someone grips me by the arm and helps me shuffle out of the seat. With my feet on the sand I give each leg a little kick and arch my spine a little to stretch.
Damian's cool fingers brush against my neck as he undoes the bar gag, though for a moment they linger a bit on the dog collar around my neck. That makes me grunt in frustration. He'd made a little joke earlier about me getting leash-trained, and I hadn't taken it well.
A moistened hankerchief wipes the spittle from my chin, and I work my jaw a little to ease the ache out of my mandible. A plastic straw pokes at my lips, and immediately I latch on and take a couple sips. Ice water. I gulp so quickly that my throat begins to ache with the cold. It's delicious.
Once my thirst is quenched, two thugs grab my arms and begin to drag. There's the sound of a heavy metal door opening, and I have to shuffle my feet on the ground to find the steps.
"I can walk on my own..." I croak. Being gagged for an hour hadn't been good for my voice.
They ignore me, and the toes of my sneakers smack against the concrete stairs. I count fifteen, a turn, and another fifteen steps before we stop. If we figure maybe four inches a step, we're maybe ten feet underground.
A series of beeps sounds as Damian enters a code into a keypad, and there's a heavy clang as the locks disengage. It's loud and heavy, and my insides clench immediately. If this bunker is as heavy-duty as it sounds, we won't be able to escape on our own. We're entirely trapped.
The moment the door opens there's the sound of metal weights cracking, grunts of exertion, and the tail end of some chatter dying off as the goons drag me inside. Damian's slim fingers brush my hair again, working to undo the buckle of my blindfold.
"Good afternoon, Dogs," Damian says cheerfully. It's just so goddamn creepy how artificially chipper he always seems. For a moment I wonder where the hell he was from. Some sort of pod scenario or lab experiment, I'm guessing.
"Hi Damian," Mike greets him in his sweet little singsong voice, "Oh awesome! Hey guys, Damian brought pizza!"
"Always a day to celebrate when a new one joins the ranks," Damian replies smoothly, tugging the blindfold off.
I hiss as the sterile fluorescent light floods my vision.
1110914913
Metal weights clack on the exercise machines. Fighters grunt it out in the cage, and the crack of flesh against bone sounds in the air. Casey Mitchells has signed up as a Fight Dog: a hot young stud who will satisfy the most primal needs of his sponsors, in more ways than one. A hot blend of martial arts and sexy studs!
~~~~~ EXCERPT:
We must've been driving at least an hour.
I can understand the blindfold, even the cuffs that bind my wrists behind my back. What I don't quite get is the bar gag that they'd fitted between my teeth. Damian only chuckled when I growled around that mouthful of latex. At first the most annoying part was the saliva wetting my lips and trickling down the corner of my mouth. But after an hour of sitting in the back of the jeep sucking on the gag, my jaw had begun to ache something fierce.
"I'm doing this for Tommy," I tell myself. That makes it easier.
He was asleep when I said my goodbyes. Poor kid wasn't looking good, pale and skinny in his hospital gown. I felt queasy just looking at him... with him lying in that bed it was even more apparent how gaunt and unhealthy he was, and inside I was screaming about how I hadn't noticed earlier. It hurt having to see him off without Tommy being able to talk to me, but he'd needed something to put him to sleep and I wasn't about to wake him. I left a note though, and a couple handheld video games that Damian had allowed me to bring along.
I tussled Tommy's hair and kissed him on the forehead. I'd be gone a year, but all his needs would be taken care of until I got back. I just hoped that he'd survive that long, at least.
The crunch of gravel and sand beneath the jeep's wheels brings me back to the present. Finally, we roll to a stop.
When the door opens a blast of hot desert air hits me in the face. My skin, still cold and dry from the heavy air conditioning, now itches with the blistering sun and the dry air. Someone grips me by the arm and helps me shuffle out of the seat. With my feet on the sand I give each leg a little kick and arch my spine a little to stretch.
Damian's cool fingers brush against my neck as he undoes the bar gag, though for a moment they linger a bit on the dog collar around my neck. That makes me grunt in frustration. He'd made a little joke earlier about me getting leash-trained, and I hadn't taken it well.
A moistened hankerchief wipes the spittle from my chin, and I work my jaw a little to ease the ache out of my mandible. A plastic straw pokes at my lips, and immediately I latch on and take a couple sips. Ice water. I gulp so quickly that my throat begins to ache with the cold. It's delicious.
Once my thirst is quenched, two thugs grab my arms and begin to drag. There's the sound of a heavy metal door opening, and I have to shuffle my feet on the ground to find the steps.
"I can walk on my own..." I croak. Being gagged for an hour hadn't been good for my voice.
They ignore me, and the toes of my sneakers smack against the concrete stairs. I count fifteen, a turn, and another fifteen steps before we stop. If we figure maybe four inches a step, we're maybe ten feet underground.
A series of beeps sounds as Damian enters a code into a keypad, and there's a heavy clang as the locks disengage. It's loud and heavy, and my insides clench immediately. If this bunker is as heavy-duty as it sounds, we won't be able to escape on our own. We're entirely trapped.
The moment the door opens there's the sound of metal weights cracking, grunts of exertion, and the tail end of some chatter dying off as the goons drag me inside. Damian's slim fingers brush my hair again, working to undo the buckle of my blindfold.
"Good afternoon, Dogs," Damian says cheerfully. It's just so goddamn creepy how artificially chipper he always seems. For a moment I wonder where the hell he was from. Some sort of pod scenario or lab experiment, I'm guessing.
"Hi Damian," Mike greets him in his sweet little singsong voice, "Oh awesome! Hey guys, Damian brought pizza!"
"Always a day to celebrate when a new one joins the ranks," Damian replies smoothly, tugging the blindfold off.
I hiss as the sterile fluorescent light floods my vision.
Doin' Him Puppy-Style
NOTE: This work is intended for adult audiences only, and should not be read by individuals age 17 or younger. All characters herein are entirely fictional and of age 18 and above.
Metal weights clack on the exercise machines. Fighters grunt it out in the cage, and the crack of flesh against bone sounds in the air. Casey Mitchells has signed up as a Fight Dog: a hot young stud who will satisfy the most primal needs of his sponsors, in more ways than one. A hot blend of martial arts and sexy studs!
~~~~~ EXCERPT:
We must've been driving at least an hour.
I can understand the blindfold, even the cuffs that bind my wrists behind my back. What I don't quite get is the bar gag that they'd fitted between my teeth. Damian only chuckled when I growled around that mouthful of latex. At first the most annoying part was the saliva wetting my lips and trickling down the corner of my mouth. But after an hour of sitting in the back of the jeep sucking on the gag, my jaw had begun to ache something fierce.
"I'm doing this for Tommy," I tell myself. That makes it easier.
He was asleep when I said my goodbyes. Poor kid wasn't looking good, pale and skinny in his hospital gown. I felt queasy just looking at him... with him lying in that bed it was even more apparent how gaunt and unhealthy he was, and inside I was screaming about how I hadn't noticed earlier. It hurt having to see him off without Tommy being able to talk to me, but he'd needed something to put him to sleep and I wasn't about to wake him. I left a note though, and a couple handheld video games that Damian had allowed me to bring along.
I tussled Tommy's hair and kissed him on the forehead. I'd be gone a year, but all his needs would be taken care of until I got back. I just hoped that he'd survive that long, at least.
The crunch of gravel and sand beneath the jeep's wheels brings me back to the present. Finally, we roll to a stop.
When the door opens a blast of hot desert air hits me in the face. My skin, still cold and dry from the heavy air conditioning, now itches with the blistering sun and the dry air. Someone grips me by the arm and helps me shuffle out of the seat. With my feet on the sand I give each leg a little kick and arch my spine a little to stretch.
Damian's cool fingers brush against my neck as he undoes the bar gag, though for a moment they linger a bit on the dog collar around my neck. That makes me grunt in frustration. He'd made a little joke earlier about me getting leash-trained, and I hadn't taken it well.
A moistened hankerchief wipes the spittle from my chin, and I work my jaw a little to ease the ache out of my mandible. A plastic straw pokes at my lips, and immediately I latch on and take a couple sips. Ice water. I gulp so quickly that my throat begins to ache with the cold. It's delicious.
Once my thirst is quenched, two thugs grab my arms and begin to drag. There's the sound of a heavy metal door opening, and I have to shuffle my feet on the ground to find the steps.
"I can walk on my own..." I croak. Being gagged for an hour hadn't been good for my voice.
They ignore me, and the toes of my sneakers smack against the concrete stairs. I count fifteen, a turn, and another fifteen steps before we stop. If we figure maybe four inches a step, we're maybe ten feet underground.
A series of beeps sounds as Damian enters a code into a keypad, and there's a heavy clang as the locks disengage. It's loud and heavy, and my insides clench immediately. If this bunker is as heavy-duty as it sounds, we won't be able to escape on our own. We're entirely trapped.
The moment the door opens there's the sound of metal weights cracking, grunts of exertion, and the tail end of some chatter dying off as the goons drag me inside. Damian's slim fingers brush my hair again, working to undo the buckle of my blindfold.
"Good afternoon, Dogs," Damian says cheerfully. It's just so goddamn creepy how artificially chipper he always seems. For a moment I wonder where the hell he was from. Some sort of pod scenario or lab experiment, I'm guessing.
"Hi Damian," Mike greets him in his sweet little singsong voice, "Oh awesome! Hey guys, Damian brought pizza!"
"Always a day to celebrate when a new one joins the ranks," Damian replies smoothly, tugging the blindfold off.
I hiss as the sterile fluorescent light floods my vision.
Metal weights clack on the exercise machines. Fighters grunt it out in the cage, and the crack of flesh against bone sounds in the air. Casey Mitchells has signed up as a Fight Dog: a hot young stud who will satisfy the most primal needs of his sponsors, in more ways than one. A hot blend of martial arts and sexy studs!
~~~~~ EXCERPT:
We must've been driving at least an hour.
I can understand the blindfold, even the cuffs that bind my wrists behind my back. What I don't quite get is the bar gag that they'd fitted between my teeth. Damian only chuckled when I growled around that mouthful of latex. At first the most annoying part was the saliva wetting my lips and trickling down the corner of my mouth. But after an hour of sitting in the back of the jeep sucking on the gag, my jaw had begun to ache something fierce.
"I'm doing this for Tommy," I tell myself. That makes it easier.
He was asleep when I said my goodbyes. Poor kid wasn't looking good, pale and skinny in his hospital gown. I felt queasy just looking at him... with him lying in that bed it was even more apparent how gaunt and unhealthy he was, and inside I was screaming about how I hadn't noticed earlier. It hurt having to see him off without Tommy being able to talk to me, but he'd needed something to put him to sleep and I wasn't about to wake him. I left a note though, and a couple handheld video games that Damian had allowed me to bring along.
I tussled Tommy's hair and kissed him on the forehead. I'd be gone a year, but all his needs would be taken care of until I got back. I just hoped that he'd survive that long, at least.
The crunch of gravel and sand beneath the jeep's wheels brings me back to the present. Finally, we roll to a stop.
When the door opens a blast of hot desert air hits me in the face. My skin, still cold and dry from the heavy air conditioning, now itches with the blistering sun and the dry air. Someone grips me by the arm and helps me shuffle out of the seat. With my feet on the sand I give each leg a little kick and arch my spine a little to stretch.
Damian's cool fingers brush against my neck as he undoes the bar gag, though for a moment they linger a bit on the dog collar around my neck. That makes me grunt in frustration. He'd made a little joke earlier about me getting leash-trained, and I hadn't taken it well.
A moistened hankerchief wipes the spittle from my chin, and I work my jaw a little to ease the ache out of my mandible. A plastic straw pokes at my lips, and immediately I latch on and take a couple sips. Ice water. I gulp so quickly that my throat begins to ache with the cold. It's delicious.
Once my thirst is quenched, two thugs grab my arms and begin to drag. There's the sound of a heavy metal door opening, and I have to shuffle my feet on the ground to find the steps.
"I can walk on my own..." I croak. Being gagged for an hour hadn't been good for my voice.
They ignore me, and the toes of my sneakers smack against the concrete stairs. I count fifteen, a turn, and another fifteen steps before we stop. If we figure maybe four inches a step, we're maybe ten feet underground.
A series of beeps sounds as Damian enters a code into a keypad, and there's a heavy clang as the locks disengage. It's loud and heavy, and my insides clench immediately. If this bunker is as heavy-duty as it sounds, we won't be able to escape on our own. We're entirely trapped.
The moment the door opens there's the sound of metal weights cracking, grunts of exertion, and the tail end of some chatter dying off as the goons drag me inside. Damian's slim fingers brush my hair again, working to undo the buckle of my blindfold.
"Good afternoon, Dogs," Damian says cheerfully. It's just so goddamn creepy how artificially chipper he always seems. For a moment I wonder where the hell he was from. Some sort of pod scenario or lab experiment, I'm guessing.
"Hi Damian," Mike greets him in his sweet little singsong voice, "Oh awesome! Hey guys, Damian brought pizza!"
"Always a day to celebrate when a new one joins the ranks," Damian replies smoothly, tugging the blindfold off.
I hiss as the sterile fluorescent light floods my vision.
2.99
In Stock
5
1
Doin' Him Puppy-Style
Doin' Him Puppy-Style
eBook
$2.99
Related collections and offers
2.99
In Stock
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940014455367 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Abbey Kypner |
| Publication date: | 05/16/2012 |
| Series: | Fight Dogs , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 78 KB |
About the Author
From the B&N Reads Blog