In one of the larger, more expensive apartments downstairs from Melanie lived a thirty-year-old divorcee who owned a huge Irish wolfhound.

The woman's name was Arabelle Tremayne. She was an elegant redhead with jade-green eyes, high cheekbones and a rather haughty demeanor. She had lovely tits and a splendid ass, but she did not dress provocatively. Being a horsewoman, she was usually wearing jodhpurs and a hacking jacket in the daytime, which was the only time that Melanie ever saw her.

Melanie, a middle-class girl, envied Arabelle her aristocratic bearing and manner. And she envied her large alimony checks.

But most of all, she envied her wolfhound. Melanie had never fucked a wolfhound. In fact, she had never met an Irish wolfhound. Irish wolfhounds did not grow on trees.

But she knew they had cocks like tree trunks.

Melanie had often seen Arabelle walking her dog in the park. The dog was as haughty and as aristocratic as the woman, and, to Melanie, as sexy.

The big brute stood forty inches at the shoulder, weighed one hundred and fifty pounds and was fleet enough to run down a wolf, strong enough to fight it – yet with humans he had a gentle and intelligent nature. The dog also had a massive prick, Melanie had often noticed. The beast's balls were so big that its hind legs were slightly bowed out around them. And its prick, even in a dormant state, flopped up and down like a pole, the tip almost bouncing on the ground when the dog broke into a trot.

Melanie wasn't even sure that she could take a cock that huge up her cunt – but she certainly wanted to try. It made her mouth water, too.

But how on earth could she manage to get the wonderful brute alone? It posed a problem. She couldn't just ask Arabelle if she might borrow her dog, obvious-ly – and certainly not admit why she wanted to borrow it. If it had been a cat, say, she might have claimed there was a mouse in her apartment and borrowed it to catch the rodent. But it wasn't a cat – nor was Melanie into fucking cats.