The Dog Shirt

I stared at the computer screen, a mix of feelings crawling through me. Unwilling is not usually a word found in my vocabulary. In fact, I’m pretty sure that everyone who knows me would state that my willingness to do just about anything perverted is probably one of the most endearing qualities I possess. Afterall, it’s not every girl who would willingly strip off her clothes on the side of the road, then subject herself to whatever sexual torment, humiliation, and punishment her audience might be interested in applying to her. Being a “willing” nympho humiliation pain slut means that you understand the risks, the consequences, and the nature of your actions. It means that you walk with eyes wide open.

So when the graphic arrived in my email inbox, along with the instructions, I have to admit that I almost deleted it. My finger hovered over the button, and I had to ask myself, was this really outside of my limits. 

The picture itself was just a silhouette. One of those black and white pictures that used outlines to depict an action. I had to admit, the graphic went beyond the boundaries of good taste. No one in their right mind would print, much less wear, something so... explicit. 

In essence, it was a picture of a dog, a large German Shepherd or Malinois. In front of him, on hands and knees, was another shadow, this one of a slender, curvy, but very naked girl. And the dog was... um... well... mounted on her. But just to make it clear to anyone who might have been confused, there was a caption. In bold letters, “I Fuck Dogs” was emblazoned below the image.

Breanne, you will take the included graphic to a local tee shirt printer and have them apply the graphic to a white tee. It should be tight, so pick the appropriate size. More importantly, you must wear it out of the shop. Once you have the shirt, email me so that I can send along further instructions.

That was what the email said. I almost trashed it. But I had to ask myself, did this violate any of my limits? Of course not. All it did would set me up for some extreme embarrassment at the hands of a shop keeper. 

I dressed for success for the outing. I put aside my regular blue jeans and tee and donned my blue denim pleated skirt, adding a nice, white blouse with it. My long, crimson colored hair was freed from the tight ponytail I liked to keep it in, and with a jump drive in hand, and a curved vibrator stuffed inside my pussy and trembling softly, I climbed out of my truck and walked up to one of those “put your picture on a mug” places. 

“Your graphic is offensive,” said the gentleman behind the counter. He was Asian and in his mid-forties. “I can’t print it.”

I looked him in the eye. “It’s uh... it’s for a prank,” I said dishonestly. “Honestly.”

“A prank?” He asked, clearly ludicrous. Maybe the flaming blush going up my cheeks made my lie a little obvious. 

“Um... yes. It’s for a friend.” Yeah. A friend with the exact same size as me. I smiled woodenly, my pussy clenched tightly around the vibrator, which was still humming. The humiliation of my predicament was making the sensations feel twice as intense. I thought I was going to scream in a moment. 

We stared at each other. I thought about lifting up my skirt, showing him the stuffed, slick, hot little love nest. Offering him a little sexual enticement. But then, I had just asked him to make a shirt that said “I fuck dogs.” What kind of message would I be sending by offering to have sex with him?

“I can pay double?” I said lamely.

He let out a sigh, snorted, and then turned. I relaxed, shuddering as I watched him slide the small sized shirt into the machine and the printer started to hum. It took another ten minutes, but I got my shirt; a thin, tight, small tee that I knew would be stretched tight over my breasts. He handed it over in a small plastic bag.

If I hadn’t already been blushing with humiliation, I would have turned scarlet, because my instructions hadn’t just been to have the shirt made. I looked at the man who had just helped me and with a single movement, peeled out of my blouse.

He didn’t say anything as my boobs hung there, ripe and perfect and totally bare. I wasn’t wearing a bra. My right nipple was pierced, a gold ring going through it while a tiny gold padlock, the size of a charm, dangled from the tight, pink tip. I folded my blouse, set it down on the counter, and opened the bag. 

The “I Fuck Dogs” tee shirt was a little small, but I managed to get into it. My breasts warped the picture and words slightly, but there was little doubt about both the intent and the person wearing it. The bottom didn’t even come down to my navel and I stuck my blouse into the bag. Our eyes met again and I took a deep breath, waiting for the chastisement. 

“Have fun,” the man said, obviously knowing exactly what he was dealing with. Cheeks matching the color of my hair, I escaped out to my truck, arms across my chest to hide both the words and the caption, tossed the bag into the opposite seat, pulled up the hem of my skirt and turned up the vibrator to full power. It roared inside me, a veritable earthquake of sexual pressure surging through my insides. I leaned back, panting heavily, pumping as fast and hard as I could into the sopping wet slit between my legs. My breasts, sporting the dark images of a girl getting dogged from behind, merely echoed the fantasy going through my mind. 

I think I exploded in about thirty seconds.

Dripping wet, sexual euphoria running through my veins, and a stupid smile on my face, I drove home and emailed my tormentor. 

“I have the shirt.” And just to make sure he knew I wasn’t lying, I took a selfie. 

The response was almost immediate. And horrifying. But what had I expected? I was in possession of a shirt that literally said “I fuck dogs.” It had a picture of a girl on her hands and knees, a German Shepherd draped over her rump, clearly ramming himself home. I sat there in my chair, naked from the waist down, trembling as the assignment spooled out on the screen. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to read it while stuffed with the vibrator. But as I closed my eyes, imagining the total chaos of possibilities, I felt myself shudder, the surge of intense arousal pushing me. Suddenly I was bouncing, groaning and rubbing, until I was forced to jam a finger into my mouth to muffle the sounds of my second orgasm. 

Because there is a difference between a limit and a taboo. Limits aren’t supposed to be crossed. Taboos however...

Later that evening I sat in the truck for over an hour, watching the green field in front of me. I’d arrived just after dinner time and the late summer sun bathed everything with a warm glow. It was idyllic too. Dozens of people had brought their pets and the field was a happy, energetic frenzy as beagles, poodles, bulldogs, and dachshunds cavorted, sniffed, fetched, and played. I saw a couple of frisbees flying. A worn green tennis ball flew through the air. But I stayed in my car, knowing instinctively that I was there too early. So I sat there, wearing my new shirt, hoping that no one who walked by would notice the red-headed fuck slut in the truck, dressed in a short black mini-skirt and a shirt that declared, quite starkly, that I fuck dogs. 

Oh, and that vibrator from earlier? Yeah. It was on. And my right hand was slowly moving it in and out of my pussy, my knees spread wide. Was there a chance that someone would walk by the truck, look in and see me masturbating? Oh hell yes. Did that thought scare me? Absolutely. Did it turn me on to the point where I was at risk of having an orgasm even before going out into the field? 

I gritted my teeth, exerted a little bit of willpower, and shut off the vibrator. My pussy objected, tightening and quivering, sending a very clear and powerful message that it wanted me to turn the toy back on and start pumping again. Anything to get to climax. 

Breanne, while wearing your new shirt, along with your shortest skirt, go to a nearby dog park. You will not wear any panties or bra. Stuff your cunt with a vibrator for the trip there and keep it in, on low, until you are ready to go into the park. Remove it. You are exempt from NHPS Rule #1 for the duration.

Well, here I was. At the dog park. People came and went, a few of them seeming to glance at me sitting there in my truck. I’m not sure if anyone read my shirt, or if they could even see the full graphic and caption, considering I’m a short, petite girl and unless they were right at the window, they probably wouldn’t get a good enough view. No one came up to me though, which was both a good thing and a bad thing. Maybe, if I’d been approached there at the truck, I wouldn’t have needed to go into the dog park itself. Except...

Wearing your assigned outfit, you will go into the dog park and make yourself visible. Greet any dogs that come up to you. Pet them. Encourage them. Get down on their level, squatting, with your knees apart. And if they want a little lick, be a good little puppy slut and make sure your pussy is wet and ready. Any owner that approaches you should be cheerfully greeted. Introduce yourself. This includes your name and your official title. I presume you won’t need to tell them what you’re there for, but ask them. Beg even. Compromise if necessary.

Well, my needs wouldn’t be a secret, not while wearing this shirt. I closed my eyes. What I needed was for the place to clear out. Two or maybe even three was the right number. Not a dozen. I sat there, trembling from both trepidation and arousal, waiting. Men and women and their canines came and went. I saw a number of young men that I thought might have been candidates, but I knew that the second I stepped out of my truck I’d be a spectacle. I had to decrease my chances of someone taking offense. Slowly the sun began to set, the field awash in a golden glow, visibility dropping as the number of dogs and their owners decreased, until finally, there were only a few. I would have waited even longer, but two things were working against me. Blue hour, where the sun had already set and darkness was only thirty or forty minutes away, was starting, and my pussy was so wet, so desperate, so completely ready to get reamed, that I didn’t know if I could stand it. I pulled the vibrator out, dropped it in a plastic cup jammed into the center console, and took a deep breath. It was time.

I climbed out of my truck, tugged the bottom of the shirt down so that the graphic wasn’t quite so stretched, smoothed my skirt as best I could so that it covered my slick slit, and headed toward the gate.

I was wearing flipflops, which snapped lightly against the bottoms of my feet and I opened the metal gate, stepping into the field. There were two men and one woman, but the dogs ranged from a shih tzu to a collie, to a... a mutt. I have no clue what breed the third dog was. Instinctively I headed toward the younger of the two men. He had the shih tzu and the little white furred dog was running around crazily, yapping and playing. 

I made it halfway when the cute little mop of a thing spotted me. It hurtled in my direction, as if I were a brand new toy. I squatted down as it practically slammed into me, jumping with excitement, as if I were exactly what she was waiting for.

She. 

Which posed an immediate problem, as far as the assignment I’d been given was concerned. I still reached out and ran my hand through the soft fur on the shih tzu in front of me and she licked at my hand. I was so focused that I didn’t notice that the young man that walked up.

“Her name is Velma,” he said politely.

I looked up. He was handsome. Mid-twenties, dressed in dark blue shorts and a white and blue lined polo shirt. He was wearing relaxed loafers and there was a little plastic bag sticking out of his pocket.

“Velma? Like in Scooby Doo?” I asked curiously.

He nodded. “She is inquisitive. Always wanting to meet people.” His eyes flickered downward, over my breasts and to my skirt. Suddenly I realized that I was squatting in such a way that my skirt had undoubtedly ridden up. Was there enough light to give him a view?

I let out a strained laugh. “That’s a good trait in a friendly dog.” I stood up and turned, making sure that my breasts, which pressed tightly against the stretched cotton of the shirt, were pointed straight at him. You know, just in case he hadn’t been able to read the caption while I’d been petting poor Velma.

His eyes widened as he got the message. “Um... I don’t want to be too forward, but...”

“I’m Breanne,” I declared, interrupting him. I held out a hand. He blinked, just a little surprised. 

“Eric,” he replied, then took my hand. I squeezed a little, smiling warmly, but I didn’t let go. 

“I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut,” I added, though I said it a little softer. Didn’t need to advertise to everyone, did I? The other two dog owners were spread out, far enough away that I didn’t need to worry about them. At least, yet. 

“A what?” Eric asked, as if he didn’t hear me. That was okay. I’m used to repeating myself.

“I’m Breanne. And I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut.”

Sometimes I’m asked to explain that, which seems a little weird to me. Afterall, most people know that a nymphomaniac is someone who can’t get enough sex. Humiliation and pain are two of the conditions that arouse me the most, and a slut is a girl who basically does it with anyone, at any time, because she’s too horny to do anything else. And dog gone it, I was practically vibrating with need. But evidently Eric either didn’t need the explanation, or he had other things on his mind. And despite where his eyes were focused, I don’t think it was my breasts.

Or solely on my breasts. 

“So... uh... do you?” He asked, glancing at my chest. I could see the shock on his face. Disgust? Or was it interest? It didn’t really matter. Velma wasn’t going to be jumping up behind me, thrusting a knobby appendage into my sweet flower. The best I’d get would be Eric, which granted wouldn’t be bad, but it wouldn’t complete the assignment. In fact, it would complicate it. I let go of his hand. 

“Yes, but I’m afraid that as cute as Velma is, she’s not properly equipped for that kind of play.”  

He gave me an inscrutable look and I almost relented. Velma wouldn’t be a fun fuck, but Eric? Oh hell yeah. But then the assignment instructions flickered back through my head. 

Successful completion of the assignment is predicated on one thing: you cumming in the same position and circumstances as depicted by the graphic on your shirt. Any other orgasm by itself constitutes failure. 

It was the last line that concerned me. As horny as I was, sliding Eric’s cock into my wanton little slit would be tantamount to a surrender. There was no way I wasn’t going to cum. The instructions were clear. If I had an orgasm any other way than on my knees, doggie style in the strictest sense of the word, I’d fail the assignment. 

“Oh. Um. Right,” Eric said, seeing my face. “Well, uh... I guess... uh... have a good evening?” 

I smiled. “You too,” I replied, feeling a tinge of regret. Eric would have been a great lay. I could just imagine myself bouncing on his hips, my back arching in ecstasy as I rippled with orgasm. 

He turned back toward the gate and I hate to think that I’d driven him away, but maybe it was the hour. Or the light. In fact, the woman with the dachshund was also leaving, which left just one more individual. And he was looking over at me.

He also had the mutt. 

The dog was a mix of great dane and labrador, with the dane side of things coming out a little stronger. He was not an attractive animal. He also was young. Under two years, and big. He bounded straight at me the moment his owner looked like he was heading in my direction. I stood still and held out my hand, only to have the dog eschew my fingers and push his nose right up into my crotch.

“Sorry about that,” said the man coming up. “He’s a little frisky.” The man was older. Like in his lower sixties, with gray hair, a clean shaven chin, and glasses. He looked professional and he talked that way. “Bosco just likes you.”

Suddenly I knew this was what I wanted. “I like Bosco,” I said. My right hand slid down to my skirt, tugging it upward. “My name is Breanne. I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut,” I added, introducing myself. Bosco helped, pushing the material aside and there, in the gathering darkness, I gasped as his rough tongue found something wet and perfect.

“Among other things?” The man asked. “I’m Randy.”

I gulped. “Of course you are,” I said in a strained voice. Bosco’s rough tongue was lapping. Oh my fucking God!

“He’s likely to knock you over. Maybe you should sit down.”

Our eyes met and I glanced down at Bosco. He was still trying to push on me and I just dropped. No squatting. No anything. I just sat down, spread my knees wide apart, let my skirt ride up in the gloom and lay back.

Bosco sniffed again, licked and then I shuddered. Suddenly he surged forward, his front paws stepping on my chest. I yelped and Randy darted forward. I thought he was going to pull Bosco off of me, but instead he repositioned the dog. It happened so fast. I felt something hot touch my sex and Randy knelt by our side. There was pressure on my labia, then movement, and I groaned as something hard and long slid deep into me. Bosco licked my face, but all I could think about was the rod inside me. He began thrusting, not like a person but so animalistic. Rough and brutal and amazing. I arched my back, letting out a passionate cry and felt myself tighten and warp.

He slipped out and Randy helped him back in. Bosco pumped and I clenched my teeth as the pressures inside me doubled, quadrupled, and then erupted. I boiled over, the hours of arousal and excitement and utter humiliation of being on my back, legs spread, getting fucked by a freaking dog, in front of a man, was just too much. I screeched a little, whining like a little bitch in heat and felt the dam burst, my orgasm hitting to the bone.

Bosco finished up a moment later and jumped away from me, his cock still hanging visible as he slowly softened.

My pussy was a fucking mess. Huge amounts of jism had been squirted into me and it was leaking out, dripping down to my ass. It took me a moment to push through the sexual bliss slowing my brain and I looked up at Randy.

“Can I give you a blowjob?” I asked softly. “As a thank you?” 

His cock came out so quickly I’m pretty sure he intended to use me, regardless of the offer. I got on my knees in the grass, hoping I hadn’t gotten dog shit all over my new shirt. Then Randy’s cock was against my lips and I opened up, wrapping one hand around him as Bosco cavorted around us again. I felt him sniff my bottom, pushing up under my skirt again and I spread my legs, but he didn’t lick. Instead I focused on Randy, the stiffness of his rod, the tension of his balls, and I bobbed my head, hungrily licking and sucking. 

“You can fuck me,” I whispered in the darkness, “or cum in my mouth.” Then I engulfed him again. He pulled out and pushed my shoulder downward. My hands felt the soft earth and for the first time that day I was on all fours. He moved behind me, flipping up my skirt, pressing himself against me, his hands coming up under my breasts. He yanked up my shirt, finding my nipples, pinching the tips as I gasped, his cock sliding deep into my pussy. 

I was filled a second time and it felt wonderful. So different. So good. But I’d already cum. It was arousing, but Randy popped before I was even half way to another climax. He groaned, slumping against me for a second as Bosco continued to worm his way between us, curious and playful.

Randy stood up and  Bosco took his place. This time his tongue found my dripping snatch, filled with the cream of two males, of different species, and he licked, sampling the mix of girl goo and jism. For a moment I thought he might just want to mount me again when a frightening thought shot through my head. The assignment. It was explicit. 

Cumming in the same position and circumstances as depicted by the graphic on your shirt. 

Oh my God. I’d fucked Bosco on my back. Face to face. Legs spread. I’d... I’d failed. 

Randy zipped up his jeans. There were dark spots on his knees from the ground, but he evidently didn’t care. “Well, you clearly love dogs. It was nice meeting you.” He snapped his fingers. “Bosco. Come on.” 

Bosco didn’t listen well and it took repeated commands for the dog to listen, to obey. And then they were at the gate and I was left in the darkness of the dog park. 

My body felt amazing. 

My brain, however, was freaking out. Because instead of going home and putting the I Fuck Dogs shirt in a dark, deep drawer, never again to see the light of day, I had to face the punishment. Slowly I got up, dusted myself off, and headed for my truck. 

***

I stood trembling in the bright lights of the grocery store, my hands holding the basket down by my waist. It was four in the afternoon and everyone around me was looking at my breasts as if I were some sort of perverted monster. And they weren’t even exposed. Granted, you could see the shape of the clamps beneath the material of my shirt, which warped the picture of the dog fucking the girl, but the words “I fuck dogs” was still legible. 

The vibrating pendant hanging from my clit was driving me absolutely nuts, even more than the humiliating circumstances. No one, and I mean no one had approached me all day. I’d gone to the dog park again. I’d gone to the mall. Now I was at the fucking grocery store. People just looked at me like I was nuts. Nuts... for wearing that shirt out in public. For failing an assignment.

Failure means punishment. And the punishment for failing this assignment means no orgasms, your clit and nipples clamped, all while wearing that shirt in public until someone approaches you and finally lets their dog fuck your brains out. 

The clerk at the register stared at me. “Nice shirt,” was all he said, making my cheeks turn as red as my hair. My clit throbbed, pinched in the cruel bite of the clamp, the vibrations surging up into me. I’d lost count of the orgasms. Six? Eight? Something like that. It was the embarrassment. It was supercharging my libido. And since I wasn’t allowed to take off the clamps... was it a surprise I was in a fucked up spiral of sexual need and gratification? I paid and took my bag, then headed out into the parking lot, frustrated, trembling, on edge, and ready for another orgasm.

“Excuse me,” I heard a voice say. I turned. A huge smiling face. White fur. Long pink tongue. Beautiful husky, almost wolfish. Eyes bright. And behind him, a small, pretty brunette wearing blue jean shorts and a tee shirt that said, “Things I do in my spare time: Hangout with Dogs, Look at Dogs, Research Dogs, Talk about Dogs, Think about Dogs, Dream about Dogs.”

We eyed each other and she nodded. “This is Max. I’m Leslie. Max thinks you should come with us. We need to talk.” She patted Max on the head. “Because Max is a very good boy.” 

A smile crept across my face and I nodded. She grinned, gestured, and turned away. I followed. All the way to Max’s apartment. And successful completion of the assignment, cumming in the exact position and circumstances depicted on my shirt. 

Breanne, you will take the included graphic to a local tee shirt printer and have them apply the graphic to a white tee. It should be tight, so pick the appropriate size. More importantly, you must wear it out of the shop. Once you have the shirt, email me so that I can send along further instructions.

Breanne, while wearing your new shirt, along with your shortest skirt, go to a nearby dog park. You will not wear any panties or bra. Stuff your cunt with a vibrator for the trip there and keep it in, on low, until you are ready to go into the park. Remove it. You are exempt from NHPS Rule #1 for the duration.

Wearing your assigned outfit, you will go into the dog park and make yourself visible. Greet any dogs that come up to you. Pet them. Encourage them. Get down on their level, squatting, with your knees apart. And if they want a little lick, be a good little puppy slut and make sure you aren’t wearing panties. Any owner that approaches you should be cheerfully greeted. Introduce yourself. This includes your name and your official title. I presume you won’t need to tell them what you’re there for, but ask them. Beg even. Compromise if necessary.

Successful completion of the assignment is predicated on one thing: you cumming in the same position and circumstances as depicted by the graphic on your shirt. Any other orgasm by itself constitutes failure. 

Failure means punishment. And the punishment for failing this assignment means no orgasms, your clit and nipples clamped, all while wearing that shirt in public until someone approaches you and finally lets their dog fuck your brains out.