E033 Emma s Discovery and the Surprise of Pearl Sixteen
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When I felt the sock on my right foot being pulled off, I thought I was imagining it, until someone or something yanked off my other sock, and I immediately realized I wasn't dreaming.
My first guess was that some pervert in the park was stealing my socks. Probably one of those creepy guys my mom warned me about when I was an eleven year-old girl.
Whoever it was, the creep probably hadn't bathed in a while, judging from the strong musky odor wafting through the air.
"What the heck?" I muttered as something warm and wet brushed across my bare toes, accompanied by the sound of heavy breathing. "Excuse me?"
I quickly sat up, and slipped my specs on, so I could catch a glimpse of the perv who removed my socks and was now busy sniffing and licking my bare toes.
My body tensed to scream and kick at this impudent intruder, but the sight of him quelled both reactions.
A dog. A large white dog, clearly male, was zealously sniffing my feet with a wet, black nose.
He was one of those White Shepherd breeds. When I was five, I had a friend about the same age who used to believe that a White Shepherd was just a regular German Shepherd that's been painted white because its owners didn't like the original color. Even at five, I knew my friend was being stupid. I recalled telling her that it was stupid to think that. No one turns a German Shepherd into a white one by painting it. You would have to bath him in bleach.
I assure you, I don't believe that anymore. I'm not five years-old anymore, either. I haven't been for seventeen years.
Seeing the dog, with a pair of my short blue socks between his strong-looking scissor jaws, I almost laughed. Partially because I felt silly mistaking him for a dirty old man in a dirty old raincoat, and partially because my feet were slightly ticklish, especially in-between my toes.
But I was also annoyed, as well. I mean, who wouldn't be at having one's peaceful nap in the park under a shady tree on a hot and sunny Saturday afternoon disturbed?
"Excuse me," I repeated, shifting to a kneeling position, and withdrawing my naked feet from the dog's tormenting tongue. "Can I have those back?"
He just stood there, while my socks dangled from his mouth.
I found his silent stare rather intimidating. Those dark almond eyes were quite striking. They, and his wet black nose, stood out amongst the clean whiteness of the rest of his body. My feet started to tingle a bit. Those dark staring canine eyes were having a weird effect on me.
"Uh, those are mine. I'd like them back, please."
When I slowly reached my hand out, the Shepherd started backing away.
"Please?"
The dog stopped, tilted its head slightly, and began chomping away on my socks.
The head standing proudly on muscular neck was distinctive. His muzzle was long and well-defined, like the rest of its cleanly-chiseled facial features. His expression seemed quizzical, almost like he was trying decide if he should stay or go. His long triangular-shaped ears were erect, and they added to the strange impression of wary curiosity I was sensing.
As the dog began mangling my socks, I noticed his black-leather buckle collar around its strong neck, and the blue-plastic ID tag attached to it. My vision may not be 20/20, but I was close enough to read the dog-tag's number.
#69031.
Hoping to retrieve my socks before before this canine enigma destroyed them, I slowly rose to my feet. The dog started backing away. He must have played this game before, I thought, as he seemed to be anticipating what my next move would be.
Sure enough. I only took one small barefoot step forward, he whirled and took off like the wind.
"Hey," I protested weakly. "Waitaminute!"
I started after him, but stopped as soon as I was out of the shade. The glaring sun assaulted my eyes and blinded me. I stopped, removed my glasses, and rubbed my watery eyes. Without my specs, I could barely make out a large, blurry shape diminishing rapidly against the equally blurry green and brown of the park's landscaping.
By the time I put my specs back on, and my eyes cleared up, that canine sock-snatcher was gone.
Irritated and half amused, I did the only thing I could do - I stamped my foot and shrugged. What else could I do, except collect the rest of my belongings and get on with the rest of my plan for another solitary afternoon.
After leaving the park, I spent the next three hours of the afternoon at the library which was right next to the park. My original plan for the day had been to hit the park, then the library where I intended to pick up a couple of biographies for my normal evening reading.
I spent about an hour looking for something to catch my eye, but found that my usual fascination with other people's lives was rather wanting.
Frustrated, I wandered into the pet section and eventually found myself sitting in a plush chair perusing a thick, heavy book about dog breeds.
Yes, my close encounter with the White Shepherd in the park was still on my mind.
I found what I was looking for. The Berger Blanc Suisse, the official breed name for the White Swiss Shepherd.
The historical facts concerning the breed were fascinating and a bit disturbing, I thought. For many years, the breed was considered 'defective', compared to the average German Shepherd, due to its white coat. It was an outcast breed, that was often rejected for entry into dog shows for years because of the recessive gene responsible for their white coat.
It sounded cruel to me, a dog having to suffer prejudice because of its fur color.
I wondered how other black-and-tan German Shepherds treated its white coated cousin. Would a male White Shepherd be rejected by a regular-looking female one?
Looking over the pictures in the book, I saw nothing at all wrong or defective with the White Shepherd. Quite a handsome dog, really. Strong, agile and well muscled. Supposedly able to move with the steady grace of a well-lubricated machine. Its gait smooth and flowing. I believed it. The dog in the park moved exactly like that.
Personality-wise, the dog was cautious and aloof with strangers. Yet, it could be very friendly with those it trusted. The book also mentioned the dog's hard to define, but undeniable inner nobility. But, nothing I read could adequately explain why that dog so carefully removed my socks and paid such loving attention to my feet. Or, why my socks were such a prize. We had never even been properly introduced.
Suddenly, at that moment, my current train of thoughts were derailed by some awkward sensations. My feet started tingling, and I suddenly felt all hot and flushed. My temperature had risen. Feeling tight and wet between my legs, I was undoubtedly aroused! I almost put my hands between my legs, before I remembered where I was. My Ghawd. I was so embarrassed at feeling like that in public. The last time this happened was in a fitness club locker room, with two undressing women.
But all I was doing, this time, was reading a book about dogs and thinking about - about that White Shepherd licking my toes.
Pulling off my size-7 shoe, I examined the naked sole of my foot. As I stretched out my toes, and wiggled them a bit as they kept tingling, I couldn't help but wonder...
Why did he lick them? Why me?
Eventually, I settled down and returned the AKC book to the shelves. As I headed toward the library exit, I took notice of the billboard. It usually sported, various notices of upcoming book promotions, and of certain guest authors scheduled to drop by for signings. It also had a lost and found section and that caught my attention. Right in the middle was a posted notice:
MISSING DOG - $6500 REWARD
LANCELOT (ID# 69031)
Large White Shepherd
3y/o Male
96 pounds
25 inches
Medium White Coat
It was him, and his name was Lancelot.
I recognized, and remembered the ID number on the tag he was wearing. And, even so, I knew from looking at the color-printed photo that it was the same dog from the park. The look in the eyes were the same. Even from a paper photo, I could 'feel' his look as surely as I could still feel my feet tingle. The tingling sensation increased, and my crotch got wet and 'itchy' all over again.
Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was almost six. I pulled the post off the board, folded it, and slipped it into my pocket. I needed to go home and ... shower.
My eight-floor apartment felt as empty as it always did. The second I was inside, and the door was latched and bolted, I kicked my shoes off. My feet were still tingling.
From my left-side jeans pocket, I removed and unfolded the posted notice I had swiped from the bookshop's billboard.
"Lancelot," I thought. "What a fitting name."
As my feet kept on tingling, and my bare toes clenched in the soft carpet I was standing on, I couldn't help but wonder how nice it would be to have a warm, wet nose sniffing at them again?
I checked out the words and numbers printed above Lancelot's picture - $6500 REWARD.
"Sixty-five hundred," I pondered silently. "I could really use that."
I'm ashamed to admit it. But, at the time, the reward money interested me much more than Lancelot. After all. The rent for my one-bedroom/bathroom apartment wasn't cheap, and I had bills and student loans to pay off. A little extra grocery money wouldn't have hurt, either.
At the bottom of the page was a local phone-number, and the words - 'Ask for Curtis Hopkins'.
At that point, I had made up my mind. I was going to claim the Hopkins' reward for myself. Now, I only had to worry about the second problem.
"How do I get a hold of Lancelot?"
While pondering the question, I suddenly recalled an old saying my late Granny used to use all the time.
"The quickest path to a man's heart is always through his stomach."
I laughed at the memory of her saying that, and at the memory of my Grandpop's embarrassed groans when she did. Granny always claimed that Grandpop found her skills in the kitchen more attractive than the ones she used in the bedroom.
So, I figured, what works on a human male could surely work on a canine one. Right?
"Why not?" I thought. "Eating's one of the two things that all males, humans and dogs, always enjoy doing."
I already knew what the other one was, of course. The very thought sent a few tingles through me again, so I tried not to dwell over it.
Okay. Food would be the key. If Lancelot was still wandering about somewhere in that park, he had to be hungry for a decent meal, by now. But, I had no clue what sort of food he would like. A starving homeless dog might not be too picky, however.
And ... nothing could win a hungry dog's heart faster than a home-cooked meal.
Alright. Tomorrow morning, I would go out and get the necessary ingredients. It would be something quick and simple, but something I hoped he'd love. Neato! It had been quite awhile since I cooked for anyone, aside from myself.
"Hmmmm. I'm gonna need a water bowl," I realized "And some water, too."
Also, I figured I'd need a small picnic basket for carrying the stuff, and a leash to attach to his collar, hopefully while he's busy eating.
"What was I gonna make?"
What did folks do before the internet? Within three minutes online, I found the perfect recipe. It was quick and simple to make, and I already had three of the necessary ingredients. Eggs, oatmeal, and cottage cheese. Just needed to buy some hamburger meat, green beans, carrots, and a good vitamin supplement.
But, as I printed out a copy of the recipe, I couldn't help wondering if food would be enough. Heck, I didn't even know if the dog was still in the park, or would return there, tomorrow. Maybe somebody else found and returned him, already. Or...
"Could he be dead?" I wondered as I sat opposite my computer screen. "NO!"
Pondering that possibility was upsetting. Funny, I mused, that I'd get this worked up over somebody's dog. Weird, actually. But I couldn't seem to help it. Just the thought of Lancelot out there, all alone and starving, really bothered me. My sense of empathy for the poor dog was aroused.
"How'd he get lost?" I wondered. "Did he run away?"
Maybe Mr. Hopkins would tell me, after handing me that $6500 check in exchange for Lancelot.
Imagining that, for some odd reason, also bothered me. I knew, deep down, that it was greed, not empathy, that was motivating me. That realization aroused my sense of guilt. But why? Why should I feel guilty about returning a lost dog to its rightful owner? Lancelot wasn't my dog. I wasn't responsible for his life, or his happiness. Besides, he stole the socks right off my feet!
"Why did he do that?" I asked myself. "Did he just like the way my feet smelled?"
That made me think. Most dogs possessed a heightened sense of smell, didn't they? I've heard that's how some dogs recognize certain people, more by scent than by sight. Could dogs also sense human emotions by smell, too? Did Lancelot smell my annoyance in the park? Is that why he ran away?
"Did he think I was mad at him?"
I just couldn't stop wondering what sort of impression I gave that dog. Would he recognize me if he saw me again, and would he want to get close to me? And, why the heck did my feet keep tingling when I kept picturing what happened between me and him in the park? What effect was he having on me? Why did thinking of Lancelot arouse my sense of ... of...
Okay. I needed to shower, and get some sleep. But, before I did, I had to learn more about White Shepherds.
I spent the next thirty minutes googling for anything about White Shepherds. I got mostly pictures, vet articles, and a few sites by dog owners about their favorite pets.
Shortly enough, I stumbled across a site about dog breeding. It was easier to understand than others. It also had some well drawn diagrams detailing the sexual organs of female and male canines. It was through this site that I learned about the basic mechanics of sex between dogs, as well as the origin of the phrase 'doggy position'.
According to what I read, a male dog possesses a bulbus gladis, which is the gland at the base of a male dog's penis that swells up to the size of a golf ball. This usually happens while the male dog is thrusting his penis within a bitch dog's vagina. Supposedly, the gland reaches its maximum size at the moment of a male dog's climax, or shortly after it stops thrusting. Unless the base gland swelled up outside a bitch, this 'knot' would lock both dogs together as the male dog's sperm-enriched semen flows, fills, and hopefully fertilizes the female bitch's womb. This style of mating was called a 'tie', and it could last as short as a few minutes or as long as a whole hour. It could depend on the tightness of the bitch, possibly.
Honestly, as cold and clinically as it was written, reading the explicit descriptions of sex between dogs was strongly arousing my sense of ... my sense of ... heck, I WAS FUCKING SEXUALLY AROUSED! Okay?
Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), the tingly itchy sensation in my feet had increased, and was already moving up my legs and spreading throughout my thighs.
By the time I unbuckled my belt and pulled off my suddenly too-tight jeans, my crotch was damp and tingling like crazy.
The air I breathed felt stuffy, or maybe it was the air I was breathing out. My metabolic temperature was rising, again. My skin felt too warm. I wasn't ill, just too hot.
Within my rational mind, I had a strong and sensible urge to stop what I was doing, so ... I didn't after noticing the site's dog genitalia photo gallery. After clicking on the German Shepherd link, I clicked on the male pic link, next.
Lifting my feet off the floor, I sat cross-legged on my seat. I felt like an excited kid impatient to open a birthday gift. My pulse speeded up as the large high-definition color photo loaded slowly and filled much of the screen.
Having never seen a dog's penis before, my first impression at the sight of a canine male's naked erection was quite vivid. My widening eyes stretched my eyelids to the limit, as I saw the size and shape of the thing hanging between the dog's hind legs. It was repulsive ... and beautiful. Does that make sense?
Supposedly, the size of the one in the pic was about seven inches. It looked so thick and shiny. It was nothing like any human male cock that I'd even seen up-close. The head looked pointy and blood red, while the rest of it looked pinkish and purplish, decorated with patterns of bluish veins. The knot, to me, looked a little bigger than a golf ball. I winced at the thought of something like that stuck inside someone's body. My whole body trembled a bit, as I felt my clit tingle. I wondered how a dog's full knot would feel in my hand, and could only imagine what a dog would feel if it's cock was within my hand ... or within my ... my...
"Okay," I decided. "I think I know enough, already."
My rational mind was finally convinced to switch off the computer.
That done, I got up and headed for my bedroom.
After pulling off my shirt, and tossing it on the bed, I slid my panties down and stepped out of them as I undid my C-size bra, and headed for the bathroom.
Putting my specs on the sink, I turned the cold water knob all the way before stepping inside the shower.
I needed to cool off before I hit the sack.
My naked body shivered, as I stood beneath the cold cascade of icy water that chilled my tender flesh, and extinguished my fever. My limbs stopped tingling and my clit stopped itching.
After five minutes of cold showering, I turned off the water and stepped out. All cold, wet, and drippy, with goose pimples on my flesh. After putting my specs back on, I was briefly startled by the sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Brushing aside the dripping locks of my long dark-brown hair, I studied the naked wet pale skinny-looking 22 year-old Plain Jane staring back at me from within the long looking glass.
"What's with me," I asked myself. "Why am I suddenly feeling like this?"
Honestly, I've never thought of myself as a very sexual person. Of course, I'm human and have sexual urges like everyone else. But I've never dwelled or fixated on sexual matters that much, in my life.
Sex, in general, was just too much trouble, and often too messy, for me to deal with.
My first (and last) sexual encounter with a man, about three years ago, did not leave me desiring more. We were both nineteen, and sexually inexperienced. He was hard enough to pop my cherry, but not enough to stay hard inside me. I ended up sucking him off. Needless to say (but, I'll say it anyway), I didn't cum. The experience didn't traumatize me, or anything. It just didn't seem, in retrospect, worth all the fuss.
Yes, I did masturbate. Once a month. When I did, I tended to fantasize more about women than men. Does that make me bisexual, or a lesbian? Honestly, I didn't dwell on it. Usually, I just jill myself off mainly to get it over with, and concentrate on other things.
Honestly, I was cool with being a single gal living alone. Human companionship might be nice, but I haven't yet met anyone, man or woman, whom I could imagine sharing my life with.
The worrisome fact that thoughts of that dog did arouse me bothered me a lot. There's a word for people who get turned on by animals who aren't human ... SICKOS!
"Only sick people get off on bestiality," I thought. "Does that mean I'm ... sick?"
Okay. Enough was enough. The money's all I really wanted. Nothing else. Lancelot belongs to this Hopkins guy, and the reward I'd get would cover two months rent.
And, that was that, I thought as I just shrugged, with hands on my hips and elbows bent. What else could I do, except shrug and go to bed?
Honestly, I was tense.
When I arrived at the park at noon, on that hot and sunny Sunday, I was feeling tense and a bit silly.
It wasn't over what I was wearing, at the moment. White Reeboks, light-blue socks, blue denim shorts, sleeveless scoop neck pink cotton cami with spaghetti straps, and my trusty specs. After all, it was nearly eighty degrees.
And it wasn't about the little pink backpack I was carrying, or what was inside it.
Mainly, I was tense over what I was planning to do, and if it would even work.
That's, of course, assuming Lancelot showed up.
As unlikely as it seemed, I was gambling that Lancelot would still be somewhere in the park.
Slipping off my backpack, I parked my butt on the cool grass and leaned my back against the same shady tree I was under yesterday.
Why pick the same spot? Why not?
It was another gamble of mine. Since it was where Lancelot first snuck up on me, and stole my socks, I figured there might be a slight possibility that the canine thief might return to the scene of his crime.
With that thought in mind, I pulled my Reeboks off, removed my specs and put them inside my left shoe, plugged up both my ears with my iPod headphones, closed my eyes, and then just relaxed within the shade as the music of the Beatles filled my head.
As the first song of the White Album played, I started wondering if I was wasting my time. If so, then I certainly wasted this morning's early hours buying and preparing everything I thought I was gonna need. The food, the water, and the leash. All a waste of money, unless he comes back.
That's why I took my shoes off, I suppose. I knew that Shepherds were often used as police dogs because of their good sense of smell, mostly for sniffing out hidden drugs. So I gambled that Lancelot, if he was around, might sense I'm here if he caught my scent.
The socks I wore were unwashed, but not THAT smelly, mind you. Anyway, I was hoping they'd give off a scent strong enough to attract Lancelot, since he already knew what my feet smelled like. Perhaps he'd recognize me by that particular scent.
Still, even if Lancelot was somewhere in the park, it didn't mean he'd allow me to get close to him. I was a stranger, after all. But if he did appear, notice me and approach, like he did yesterday, I hoped the food I made that morning might compel him to stick around long enough for me to get the leash I bought attached.
And if the food wasn't enough, I had a specially prepared 'secret weapon' in my backpack.
As the sounds of Paul McCartney singing about his sheepdog filled my ears, I pondered over the likely possibility that Lancelot wouldn't show up. Yes. I knew. It wouldn't be the first time a dog stood me up. That's the word I used for guys who've stood me up in the past. Dogs. I think my granny said it once, that most men (even grandpop) are no better than dogs. I wondered how she'd react if I told her I'd been stood up by a real dog.
On reflection, it was odd that, if Lancelot failed to appear, I would feel the same kind of disappointment I always felt when I'm stood up on a 'normal' date.
But why, I thought, would I make a comparison like that? I wasn't waiting for a 'date'. What I was doing was strictly business. Wasn't it? It wasn't Lancelot I wanted, it was the $6500 reward I'd get for returning him that I desired.
"I mean," I rationalized. "What would I do with a dog at home?"
Thinking about that made me think about last night, and what I saw and read online ... and what I almost did while doing it.
The second my toes started tingling, I tried clearing my thoughts and concentrated, instead, on the music playing in my head.
I figured that if Lancelot didn't appear, by the time the last song on 'Abbey Road' played, I'd just shrug and go home. What else was I going to do?
So, as I breathed in the fresh air while listening to the soothing sounds of the Fab Four, I started dozing off.
I must have napped under the tree for two hours, at the very least. Honestly. Because, all I remember next was hearing the voice of McCartney sing about yesterday ... while someone or something tugged on my left sock.
Slipping on my specs, my eyes opened to the sight of a large White Shepherd pulling my sock off with his teeth.
As the dog licked the tips of my bare toes, which started tingling again, I couldn't help but let out a giggle or two. When I did, the dog stopped and stared at me.
Without a doubt, it was him. The number on his tag confirmed it. Yet, even without a tag, I oddly felt that I'd recognize him anyway. His eyes, his stare, the sound of his heavy breathing, and even his musky smell seemed so unmistakable. Felt just like yesterday.
As I pulled my earphones off, he started backing away.
"Lancelot!"
He stopped moving, and cocked his head slightly. As he stared at me, I somehow sensed that he was perplexed. Was he surprised that I knew his name?
"Lancelot," I repeated. "Don't you want the other one?"
As if to assure him, and help him understand me, I bent and pulled back my left leg, and lifted up the other one.
"C'mon, Lance," I said as I twisted and flexed my sock-clad foot in the air. "It's okay."
With slow hesitant steps, he moved forward, until his nose touched my foot. Sniffing my toes, he licked the tips until the blue fabric that covered them was damp.
Somehow, without biting me at all, he got his teeth through the big toe of my sock, and tugged.
Honestly, the care and skill this animal used to remove my sock really impressed me. Did someone train him to do this? Mr. Hopkins, maybe?
I wriggled all five of my bare tingly toes in the air, as Lance started lapping my naked sole. Needless to say, I giggled uncontrollably, like a five-year old.
I didn't mind. I was happy he found me, again. At least here's one dog in the world who didn't stand me up.
And it felt good. Honestly, I really liked the feel of this dog's warm scratchy wet tongue on my bare sole. Yes, I took guilty pleasure at the way he used his tongue on my foot. And, yes, I wondered how his tongue would feel on other parts of me.
When I lowered my leg, he just kept licking away. Slowly, I stretched out my other leg, so he'd have two feet to lick. Sure enough, he went for 'em both.
To tell the truth, I wasn't letting him lick my feet just for the fun of it. I was hoping the sound of my giggling would cover up the sound my backpack made as I unzipped it. I was using my feet to distract him while my hand fished through my backpack for the leash.
But, the second my fingers touched the leash, Lance stopped licking.
Again, he just stood and stared at me, with my hand stuck inside my bag. Was he reading my mind? Did he suspect my ulterior motives? Could his sense of smell tell him what I was reaching for?
When he started backing away, again, I let go of the leash and carefully reached for that specially prepared 'secret weapon' of mine.
"Look, Lance," I said with a smile, as I pulled out my 'secret weapon'. "Ball?"
With careful hesitation, Lance moved slowly toward the object I was holding up. It was a ball, a crude one the size of a softball that I made at home that morning. At the core of the ball were those wet panties I wore last night, which I wrapped up with several hundred rubber-bands, and stuffed inside a dirty old sock of mine.
I hoped it would attract his attention. And it did.
As he came forward, and started sniffing the ball in my hand, I used my other hand to slowly reach for his neck. Yes, I was planning to grab hold of his collar and hold him still while I got the leash out. But, I just stroked his neck, instead. Even through the thick warm fur of his white coat, I could feel the strong shape of Lance's neck muscles as he breathed.
As he kept sniffing the ball, I continued to stroke Lance's furry coat. Gently, I ran my hand across his narrow forehead, and over his firm pointed ears. I looked into his dark almond eyes, and held the ball to his nose, as I slowly rose to my feet.
I knew, at that moment, that if I wanted him to trust me, a leap of faith was necessary.
"Here, boy," I said as I pulled away the ball, and threw it. "Fetch!"
In the blink of an eye, Lance turned on his heels and took off after it. I tossed it out just far enough to see where it would land, and to watch him run and get it.
"Here, Lance," I shouted as I squatted down on my toes and clapped my hands when I saw Lance reach the spot where the ball landed. "Bring it here, boy!"
Sure enough. He trotted gracefully back towards me, with the ball in his jaws, as I stepped out of the shade into the bright sunlight.
"Good dog," I told him as I rubbed and petted his head and furry neck. "Good boy, Lance."
Pulling the ball out of his mouth, I tossed it further out, this time.
And away he went, like white lightning, after it.
He moved, at great speed, with a strong but steady gait that I found exhilarating to watch. He reached the area where the ball was about to land, mere seconds before it landed.
When he picked it up, I didn't even have to call to him, as I watched him trot back towards me with the steady grace of a well-lubricated machine.
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