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And that would be a shame because I’ve been working on this for about three months. I check my bio nanite dish—the emitting signal is strong. I check the monitor to ensure all four digital video cameras—two in the brush, two in the trees—are working. None of them have gone anywhere in the last hour since I set up. There’s still confusion and fear, but now there’s also arousal. The hand at her crotch goes from testing to confirming to rubbing. Dogs shouldn’t wear clothes, and neither should she. The camera catches her perfectly, eyebrows knotted, eyes empty, panting. Lust is eating her feelings, and it’s eating her thoughts. It’s instinct, the same way a dog tries to remove a ridiculous sweater. The Dane, his cold snout presses into her asshole, and he laps at it, the brown rosebud, and at her pink and gooey cunt. She brings her head to the dirt path, her face pointed toward mine, but she does not see anything. Her huge breasts—no, really, they’re teats, now—hang heavy and free. Her nipples and areolae are mind-blasting sensitive, so she smooshes them into the packed earth and rakes up the friction.

Her beloved pet has just succeeded in mounting her, and now he’s furiously jackhammering her in a way only a dog can. The Great Dane, he swivels atop his blonde conquest, lifts his legs over her, and lands facing away from her, his ass pressed against her buttocks .

I’m hunched in the brush, miles into the forest, the brook quietly babbling behind me. They all want something new, even the kindest customers, and in truth, so do I. Like I said, if it goes south, this is three months and a few thousand dollars mostly down the toilet.

I have a clear view of the packed-dirt pathway, the bright summer sun beating down on it. I’m no soldier, and I’m not a hunter—not of animals, anyway—so the camo feels like dress-up. If I’m seen, the venture isn’t exactly over, but it won’t be as successful as it could otherwise be. They’re getting closer, and my pulse kicks up a couple notches. I’m excited in a way I haven’t been since I began videoing my wife and Gunther a few years back. It’s not going to work if she knows what’s going on.

She’s feeling something, something warm and wet down low. Her crotch already had a damp line from the running. But as soon as her hand reaches that hot patch, she knows it’s something else. Her hindquarters are now a squooshy blotched mess of stained fabric. Wauling and warbling, her hand plunges beneath under her waistband to frigging herself frantically, sloppily, and—oh, my God—audibly. The body of this blonde, strong, sprinting, big-titted beauty is in heat. I’d spent three months staking out this pathway, evaluating the women running by.

I’ll wager she thinks she’s lost control of her bladder, that she’s peeing into her shorts. I can’t see it, but I know what’s happening: The hard side of her hand is pressing her clitoris and smooshing apart the lips of her labia. He prods the blonde’s crotch, firmly, with his snout. The Dane, he’s knocking, he’s knocking, and he wants in— The blonde.

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