"No! Down Rex! Bad boy!"

Joyce Wilson slapped down at the large gray and white German Shepherd, backing up until her buttocks were pressed against the sink's edge. What on earth was wrong with that animal? He had been rubbing strangely against her leg while she was sitting at the table sipping coffee, licking her ankles, pawing at her thighs. Joyce had noticed that strange behavior growing worse during the past few weeks.

"Maybe he's hungry," she said to herself, brushing away several stray blonde hairs from her face and glancing at the wall clock. A shudder passed through her cunt, taking her breath away, forcing her to hold tightly onto the edge of that sink.

"Damn, damn!"

That awful, tingling itch! It was getting worse, intensified by this big dog! Oh, she should have listened to her good friend Ann Dennis and bought a gun for protection. That damned animal was more trouble than he was worth. First, he ate Joyce and her daughter Debbie out of house and home. Second, he kept chewing up things, grabbing hold of their panties or nylons and running around the house with them in his powerful jaws. Days later Joyce would find her underclothes torn to shreds or stuffed under the couch or living room coffee table. When she picked them up the woman felt a strange tremor race through her body, seeming to concentrate in her cunt. Why should she feel nervous, aroused when she touched that shredded piece of clothing?

For a while Joyce simply pushed such thoughts and questions out of her mind. She had more important things to do. After her husband Brad had died in that automobile accident four years ago, Joyce had had her hands full in raising Debbie. Thank God the insurance plus early pension took care of most of the expenses. But still there were bills a part-time job could not pay for.

"Stop it!"