June 28, 2009; Ecstasy

Finally killed that fucking Mr. Snowman who was tormenting me. I drilled him an asshole and pulled his guts out through it. Even with one arm gone and his innards all over the floor, he was still smiling...obviously crazy and needed to die!

I have found something else the Mooks are good for...at least Mook A is good for it. Ecstasy. I'm not talking about those pills faggoty party-goers use to stay up all night; I'm talking about ecstasy like in the old days (the same way we have to say "'gay' like in the old days", dammit).

It was the middle of the day, just before I was due for another walk, and Mook A was looking for me. I came running, of course, but then I saw he had a look in his eye I didn't like and I scrammed. I knew it was bad; he came for me, chased me to a corner, and scooped me up and off to the bathroom we went. Ah! A bath, fuck!

I didn't feel like a bath, I didn't want a bath. Do you have any idea how hard I had to work and how long it took me to get the sissy smell of the last one off me and get real dog smell back? And now I'd have to start all over, the cuntwad. He tossed me in the tub, one of those deep, old-fashioned things you just don't bother trying to escape from, and then he ran the water...

Now I don't know why this was different from the last time except maybe I was so stunned the then that they were even doing this to me it was impossible to understand the ramifactions. But it was different. OOOOOOOOOOOOO so different.

First, there's the shower head. I think I began to understand why women find those things so attractive (if you know what I mean and I think you do). The Mook found exactly the right temperature for the water and the right force for it and when it hit me...well, as an old ad for condoms with French ticklers on them used to say, it was, "Like a thousand tiny fingers begging you to let go!" And I let go, a little sigh escaping from me. The Mook said, "You like that, don't you, you little fucker?" I just stared up at him with adoration. "Well there's more!" he added like some sadist to his slave. "Do it!" I wanted to say.

He did. The soap, rather than being slopped on, was then massaged—oh!-so-deeply—into my fur and skin. I let out another groan. "I knew you'd like it, in the end!" he said. Yes! Yes! Go on. Then he was doing my stomach, between my legs and—oh!-my-fucking-stars—under my tail. But gently...sooooooooo gently. I think I closed my eyes. I'd been sniffed and licked there a thousand times but never had it been so...I don't have the words. The soap slathering, the fingers rubbing me so...kindly? And then the showerhead again and the warm water exploring all those unexplored places. A rumble came out of me. The Mook laughed quietly. I licked his arm.

You have to understand: when you have no balls, sensuality is all you have and all of your being—the senses, the heartbeat, the breath—goes into it. It's why dogs who are "fixed" (fuck I hate that term) enjoy a good scratch.

The bath was done, but the Mook wasn't. "Shake!" he said. I obliged by shaking off the excess water. Then he lifted me out with a huge, soft towel that smelled like home. He wrapped me up in it, took me out on the balcony in the sun, then rubbed me more fiercely, getting the towel deep into my fur and skin and muscle. I stared at him, my head wobbling about (I just could not keep it upright) and let out another one of those noises. "Did you enjoy that?" he asked. I licked his nose. (What a fucking whore I am!)

Then he let me down, back into the house and I went straight to the bathroom. He laughed like a madman and I hoped...no, devoutly prayed!...we'd do it again. No such luck; he cleaned the tub and bathroom.

So I ate the soap.