BEL AIR HIGHRISE PLANTATION
by Alex Bucik
from Issue 3
I’m on the fifth floor of the campus library. They’re not supposed to let me into the stacks, but from the outside no one can tell that inside I’m K9. Call me Rex. Although I’m nothing but a big suck. Much rather submit to the alpha of the pack than mark my own territory.
Through narrow gaps in the shelves I see students napping, resting their heads on shut laptops, some others munching on snacks I’m not allowed to have. I’ve been kicked out before for disturbing them. Weaving figure eights between their backpacks and feet. Ready to snatch tasty, careless morsels before they hit the ground.
I’m in the classics section. You’d think zoology would have the stuff I’m looking for, but from what I’ve seen scientists tend to neglect the facts of K9 life. They’ve got a misguided obsession with dissecting dead things. Their ancestors knew better. So I pull a large heavy book on Roman art off the shelf. It lands with a thwack that echoes through the stacks since I lack opposable thumbs.
Stretched out on the floor, I paw through the pages. Frescoes, vases, oil lamps. Finally I get to it. A tile mosaic excavated from some ash encrusted palace in Pompeii. A handsome black hound with red eyes tugs on his chain. He’s beautiful. As if I’ve had an accident, my groin warms, although nothing moves. I’m wearing a flat lock that’s pushing my nads back into me. I want my outside to match my inside. I’m K9.
I’m on all fours, the book spread open in front of me, sniffing desperately against the paper. Why can’t I smell him? I’m distressed. My uneasy whimpers climb to a high-pitched howl. Students missing earbuds from their ears look around with concerned expressions. They’re worried a poor pup’s been hurt. And I am. I’m in heat and need to be mounted.
This hound’s bogus. I don’t know what he is but he’s not one of my kind. Those Romans did the inverse of the scientists. Destroyed the body just to rip into primal spirit. I keep sniffing around the lower shelves, dialed in for something I might’ve missed, a faint trace of urine? That’s when I hear footsteps coming from the elevator. And even though it hurts more than anything, I stand up. Around the corner come two campus security guards. They’re after me because K9s are forbidden. I run the other way, toward the stairwell, then bound down the steps, my barks chaotic against the cinderblocks.
In the main floor lobby I growl and snap at the security guard trying to corral me. Ducking between his knees, I sprint out the door and across the road. Cars honk and swerve and the commotion riles me up. My flustered woofs frighten people walking by. They’re afraid I might be a rabid stray, they back off or scurry past. But I’m just lost and scared. Seeking a pack that’ll have me.
Summer afternoon, out on the street, my senses doused in information. Children’s screams, the tang of sunscreen, a bouquet of grilled meats and beer. I amble through this haze, on purebred instinct, until I arrive at the park where the buffet of odours is gushing from. As I move in, a distinct smell rises above the rest. K9 glands. In the distance I can see them playing. Off leash, wrestling in the dusty dirt where grass can’t grow. I forget about the food and kids and beeline it to the fence.
I’m standing with my forepaws resting on the rail. Owners can’t tell I’m unsupervised because in this position my outside matches my inside. I scratch behind my ear as I consider how to make these K9s’ acquaintance. Their snouts burrowing into each other’s backsides, then lunging open-mouthed in friendly combat. I can’t take it anymore. I clamber over the fence and land with a thud.
A goldendoodle greets me first. While she’s busy under my tail I get some good sniffs of her undercarriage, which is how I find out she’s a bitch like me. Despite my disinterest I do the polite thing and thoroughly sample her unique scent. Rolling onto my back, I send up a cloud of brown dust that brings more K9s running, and from afar I can tell at least a few aren’t neutered. A bossy dachshund shoves a terrier out of the way so he can probe deeper into my crotch. If I wasn’t laying on it my tail would be going haywire. I’m thoroughly aroused even though all the males are retracted at the moment. Tails lightly brush across my eyes. I catch a glimpse of furry scrotums and I can’t help but whine at the thought of them emptying their litters inside me.
Legs lifted in the air, I’m in a submissive pose when I hear shouts and clicks approaching. The whippet licking my lips races off, but I don’t mind because he’s fixed. It’s the mutt with the distinguished grey pattern on his muzzle that’s got my attention. He’s rummaging around in search of my anal glands and I think I see the unsheathed tip of his red member. But just as I’m about to roll over for him, he gets yanked by the collar and dragged away.
How humiliating, to be leashed in the off leash dog park. The injustice turns me semi-feral. I give his owner a mean growl that says don’t get in our way. She’s a blue-haired lady with a wrinkly face and jowls like mine. She’s begging someone to get me under control before her pup rips her arm off, he’s pulling his lead so hard. Until without warning, from behind, a baseball bat conks me out, and my snarl crumples with a yelp.
I come to on a stretcher in a busy hospital hallway. I’m afraid, I don’t know how I got here, and no one’s giving me attention. All four of my legs are strapped down, leaving my soft underbelly exposed. I try to wriggle free but it’s impossible. The belts are so tight they’re cutting off circulation to my paws, which have drained to a pale colour.
I’m beginning to panic. I can’t smell any of my kind nearby. So I start thrashing around, my neck flailing from one side to another, until through sheer force I tip the stretcher over. The crash is so loud it attracts a slew of orderlies that negotiate how to right me. But I’m not wrong. I belong with my nose to the ground. As they lift me in unison I do my best to stay still, hoping to earn a treat, but they exclude me from their kudos.
A nurse hangs back to adjust the restraint on my forepaw. While it’s loose I slip out and, though it pains me on a physical level, quickly manipulate my fingers to free the other one. The nurse calls for help but everyone’s already drifted away. I swat my paw across her face to shut her up. This baffles her long enough for me to push through the pain and undo the belts lashing my hindpaws to the table. Once I’m down on all fours, the tension instantly settles like a frisbee caught in mid-air. From there it’s a breeze dodging security to the street. The refreshing roughness of asphalt and gasoline.
Night falls in the middle of my roaming. It appears I am a stray, a forsaken pooch, shut out by pack and man alike. Even so, my need to feel a K9’s knot lock into me only grows stronger the longer I’m alone. Warmth radiates from my core at the prospect of being knotted by a husky stud, tied for half an hour before he deflates and pulls himself out of me.
Distant yips interrupt my yearning and make my ears prick up. I’m in front of the local kennel, as though I knew my way here all along. I run frantic laps around the building looking for a way in. I’m agitated by the K9s inside I can hear but can’t get to. Out back there’s a fenced in lot for playtime. I’m able to dig my way underneath but not without chafing my paws raw and scratching my back along the chainlink. But the stinging fades as I go through the doggy door.
My entry’s met with raucous uproar. Padlocked in individual cages, my fellow K9s are ecstatic to see – or rather smell – me. The lights are off and I’m not tall enough to reach the switch. Like a heartsick lover returning on conjugal visits, I approach each cage and lean my snout through the bars so that each jailed pup’s tongue can caress my own. By the time I’m done I’m anointed in drool. I’m part of the pack. I’m K9.
Suddenly I’m startled by the fact that I’m still wearing the hospital gown. The only K9s who wear clothes are either victims of abuse or else so imprinted by humans they’re terrified of their own nature. I pull and rip at the thin fabric with my teeth. It tastes like stale air and artificial lemon cleaner. Now, naked as I’m meant to be, besides the device compressing my shaft, I’m wildly elated. The other K9s wag their tails in kinship against the dividing bars, producing a clamour that’s their version of applause.
There’s a fridge in the far corner of the room that I locate by its low electric hum. I get an idea. It requires I momentarily become bipedal, but the possible reward is worth the discomfort. Quickly, I stand to open it before I pass out from the exertion. Nothing takes more out of me than pretending to be something I’m not.
Inside the fridge is sparse, but in the door there’s a jar of half-eaten peanut butter. Just what I’m looking for. I use my hands to unscrew the lid, which makes me feel woozy, but I drop to the floor and shake it off. My K9 friends are singing together, they smell it now. Digging my paw into the container, I scoop out a glob then reach back and smear it up and down my crack, just below my tail.
I’m overstimulated at the thought of what comes next so I do a few spins in the centre of the room to let out my zoomies. A bully breed with a wide forehead and cropped ears mirrors me and does a few spins in his cage, but it’s so cramped he bangs his head on the bars with each rotation. He deserves a treat the most.
I back my creamy ass up against the bars of his cage and lift my tail in the air like it’s a quill about to pen a love letter. The bully barely takes one sniff before his purple tongue starts lapping up the peanut butter. I’m making noises I can’t even describe. The bully’s tongue is so wet and warm that I push back further until the bars are pressing into my hindquarters. A runny paste of K9 slobber and peanut butter leaks down my balls to the floor. But the bully doesn’t let up. He shoves his snout hard into me, taking breaks to exhale in short puffs of approval. He’s in heaven and I’m thinking how I can position myself to give him easy access.
I’m so preoccupied with the imminent possibility of mating that I don’t notice the rescue worker come in. He’s shouting as he turns on the lights. Surprises make me anxious so I pee a little on the floor. I make a few more circles and bow my head low on the off chance he’s feeling playful.
It works. Now the rescue worker’s laughing. He’s having a hard time controlling himself. He kicks the jar of peanut butter at me and I scramble around it. As I’m inspecting it he walks up to me, pulls me by the hair, and drags me to the puddle I left on the floor. He rubs my face into the mess I made as he repeats how bad I’ve been. People think this turns me on but to be honest I don’t understand the draw toward punishment. It’s never made sense to me. When he lets me up I look back at him, hopeful, panting heavily. He’s got the keys to all these cages. He can get me what I need.
He starts ordering me to do something but I can’t seem to understand a word of it. Ever since I french-kissed these K9s words have lost their lustre. I watch him remove a leash and collar from the wall. He clips it around my neck and leads me out back. I try to stall us by going limp, but he’s too strong for me to fight against.
Outside there’s a van that wasn’t parked there before. The cool summer night makes me shiver, which wouldn’t happen if I was properly groomed, and this fact along with the thought that I might never return to the kennel leaves me so despondent I start howling. But a few smacks to my head from the rescue worker makes me quit it.
He swings open the van’s cargo door. It’s empty inside except for a metal dish filled with water and floating bits of kibble. He commands I hop in, which I do, then slams the door shut. A few seconds later the van rumbles to life. I’m sliding, skittish, unable to hold my bearings.
After what could be ten minutes or ten hours, the van comes to a stop. I press my belly to the floor to feel something stable. The back doors swing open. The rescue worker’s standing on a pier, the lights of the city smudged out behind him. I wag my tail because he’s familiar. He’s the only man I’ve known to treat me somewhat right. I jump down at his side and take stock of the air. Sewage, dead cormorants, the sugar factory.
Eventually I hear the crunch of tires approaching and turn around to see a long black limousine making its way to us. It parks nearby. The chauffeur goes around to open the rear door. A tall, strapping man in a tuxedo steps out, followed by a gorgeous intact Doberman. I whimper involuntarily and the rescue worker pinches my ear. As the man and his noble beast come forward, the chauffeur removes a carrying crate and dutifully brings it over.
Once next to the Doberman, I’m smitten. I try to stay well behaved but I’m fidgety. Although I’m eager to introduce him to my scent, he hasn’t moved an inch from his master’s side. His strict obedience only further cements my need to be his bitch. Above us the two men exchange some words and envelopes. Even though I’m not exactly sure what’s happened, I don’t hesitate when the rescue worker points at me, then the carrying crate. I scamper inside and lie down again, getting intimate with the hint of K9 that was in here before me.
The limo ride is much more pleasant than the van. With the crate’s hatch now separating us, the well-dressed man allows his best friend to greet me. I can’t turn around in here so we’re limited to mutual licks on the teeth. He’s more of a gentleman than the bully from earlier, which I suppose tracks.
For a second I wonder if I’m not worthy of being knotted by such a prime specimen, then I remember K9s don’t have a concept of relative worth. The very idea of ranking things never crosses our minds. We’re too involved with the next. Liberated only by what smells good, tastes good, feels good, or is a good boy. I spend the remainder of the ride transfixed on the Doberman’s untouched genitals, his penis furling and unfurling in slow twists like a red hot poker burning through a fur coat.
I’m hardly aware the limousine’s stopped until the chauffeur opens the door. With his master exiting first, the Doberman follows in confident unhurried strides. The chauffeur struggles to lift me, still crated, out at our destination.
We’re somewhere downtown, in a back alley connecting a cluster of swanky condos. The chauffeur unlatches the gate to my crate and I stumble out to stretch my legs. While his master pays the chauffeur, the Doberman plunders around my bottom. I melt. But he’s not able to explore much before we’re both being walked to the delivery bay, as tempting wafts spill from the closest dumpsters.
Inside, his master leads us both into a freight elevator. The smell of dank wood and rusted metal subdues how aggressive I’m getting as my unrequited heat grows. Soon the elevator halts at what must be the top floor. The hallway’s bare and brightly lit and there’s a single door at the end. His master unclips his leash and gives him the command. The Doberman lopes to the door, which is evidently unlocked as he pushes his way in with his nose.
Master now walks me to the same door. I’m whining again because I think I know what’s coming but I can’t be certain, and he’s not scolding me so my whine’s getting louder. Past the door it’s too dark to see at first, but the odour is immediate. It’s a soup of sweat, shit, and dog breath so thick it leaves a film on my skin. Grunts and huffs reverberate from a considerable distance. As my eyes adjust to the low light, I confirm we’re in an expansive loft that’s mostly vacant, except for the single row of shivering K9s, hairless, wearing devices like mine, splayed and in position to be mounted, set at equal intervals on a green tarp running from where we are to a spot that disappears in the dimness.
Master leads me to one end of the row. I’m so excited I’m quaking and I can’t help but bark nervously. Master orders me to lay down and insists I stay. I do as I’m told. I’m a good boy, a good bitch, I’ll earn that knot. However long it takes. I’ll wait for that intact stud to breed every K9 bitch ahead of me. I’ll listen patiently to their appreciative sounds as he climbs on top of them and hooks his forepaws around their hips. I’ll hold still while his knot expands to the point he’s stuck inside their colons, pumping out every last drop of K9 seed. And then it’ll be my turn. Unsheathed dog dick claiming my hole. I’ll arch my back, feel the tickle of his soft fur as he swells and fuses into me then humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and humps and