Virgin Lola lets her rottweiler Axel knot her. Years on: three women, eleven dogs, dog bodies forever, and no clue who fathered the litters.
Chapter One: The Longest Shower
The house had never sounded so empty.
Not quiet — empty. There’s a difference. Quiet is a house with people in it, holding their breath. Empty is a house where the refrigerator hums like it’s talking to itself and every floorboard creaks louder than it should, because there’s nobody around to cover the sound.
My parents left Friday afternoon for a wedding two states away. A hotel, a long drive, and they wouldn’t be back until late Sunday night. My brother got picked up an hour later for a weekend at Marcus’s house — forty-eight hours of video games and frozen pizza and not showering. So it was just me, one dog, and three days of answering to absolutely nobody.
Eighteen years old. Just graduated. Three weeks from moving into a dorm room I’d only ever seen in a brochure.
And a heat wave sitting on the house like a wet blanket.
The AC worked the way a grandmother “works” — wheezing, grumbling, giving you about sixty percent of what you asked for. By Friday night the upstairs had gone sticky and heavy, and the shower had stopped being a hygiene thing and become the only air conditioning I could actually control.
I have a thing about showers. Not a weird thing. Just a thing. Long ones. Twenty minutes, thirty, sometimes longer if nobody’s banging on the door. Water hot enough that the mirror fogs all the way to the ceiling and the whole bathroom smells like steam and shampoo. And when the house is empty you can be loud. You can sing. You can stand there with your eyes shut and think about things you’d never admit to thinking about.
I’d been in there a while.
Water down the back of my neck, over my shoulders, between my legs. One hand braced on the tile, the other between my thighs, taking my time because there was no reason not to. Slow circles first, just to warm up. Then the middle finger, curling in, that little come here motion against the spot that made my knees go soft every single time.
I’m a virgin. Actually, officially, properly a virgin. Intact, if you want the clinical word. Nothing had ever been in there except my own fingers and, once, at prom, two of Trent Donnelly’s, for about ninety seconds before his curfew ruined everything. That was the entire history of my body and boys. Which is probably why I spent so much time alone in the shower. All that curiosity with nowhere to put it.
The first one rolled through me while the water was still hot — a long slow tightening that made me lean my forehead on the wall and breathe through my teeth. The second came faster and harder, and I gave up on being quiet and let it bounce off the tile.
Then I stood there another five minutes under the spray, lazy and stupid with it, until the water started running cool.
I got out. Towel around my hair, towel around my body, and stepped into the hallway to plug in the hair dryer, because the bathroom outlet was a death trap and my mom had been saying so since we moved in.
That’s when Axel decided to pay attention.
Axel is a rottweiler. Three years old, a hundred and thirty pounds of black-and-tan muscle and a square block of a head, and his whole personality is waiting. He doesn’t bark. He’s the quietest dog I’ve ever met. He’ll sit in a doorway for an hour like a bouncer at a club, watching, deciding, and you don’t find out he’s made a decision until he’s already across the room. He sleeps across my bedroom door. He follows me from room to room without making a sound. All day Friday he’d been doing it — appearing behind me in hallways, sitting outside the bathroom, watching me with those flat brown eyes like he was cataloguing something.
He came up behind me while I was bent over the outlet and pressed that cold wet nose to the back of my bare thigh.
I yelped. He did it again, higher, and this time it landed somewhere it definitely shouldn’t have.
“Axel.”
He pulled back an inch. Sniffed again. Sniffed again, slower, more deliberate, that big head tilting sideways like the question was written on my leg and he just couldn’t read it yet.
“Okay, yeah, I get it, I smell weird. Move.”
I pushed at his snout. He took it personally — backed up two steps, sat down hard, and stared at me with the expression of a man who’s just been told to leave the room during the important part.
I unwound the towel from my head and knelt down on the carpet in front of the hallway mirror, because the cord was short and my hair was long and there was a patch of late sun coming through the window that felt good on my shoulders. Knees apart, elbows up, dryer in one hand, brush in the other.
And Axel got up.
He didn’t rush. That’s the scary part about him — he never rushes. He just crossed the hallway in three long strides and arrived, and stood over me with his chest against my back, and then leaned his whole weight forward.
A hundred and thirty pounds of dog is a lot of weight when it’s resting on your shoulder blades. My arms folded. I went down onto my elbows with a small surprised oof, chin almost on the carpet, ass up, towel slipping off my shoulder.
And then he stepped over my hips, front legs clamped around my ribs like a barrel, back legs braced wide, and mounted up.
He stood there a second, adjusting, humping at the air a couple of times while he lined himself against my thigh. Which is when the thought finally caught up to what my body had apparently already figured out — because I turned my head and looked back over my shoulder, and saw it.
His cock was out.
Pink, slick, glossy, sliding out of its sheath in a way I’d never seen up close before. And it was long. Not just longer than I’d pictured — long, a pale wet column sliding out of him in pulses, straightening and curving up against his belly, still coming, still getting bigger. Thick, too. Thicker than the two fingers I’d had in myself ten minutes ago. Thicker than my wrist, honestly, and the head of it was a blunt fat bulb like the end of a baseball bat, and when I finally got my hand around it — warm, startlingly warm, hard in a way nothing else is, stiff but with give to it, alive, twitching in my palm — there was more of it left over on both sides of my grip.
I’d read things. Everyone reads things. Whole evenings on my phone looking up stuff I’d never say out loud. I knew vaguely, in the abstract, that there was a bone in there, that it swelled and locked, that there was a whole vocabulary for it. But knowing it in the abstract is nothing like a hundred and thirty pounds of rottweiler breathing hot on the back of your neck while his cock pulses itself upright two inches from your bare ass.
I was already wet. Not from the shower. Wet wet.
He found my pussy lips and pressed the tip against them. Just there. Not in. A hot blunt nudge, like he was waiting for permission.
Permission. Right. I moved him a quarter inch, lined him up properly, and he didn’t need telling twice.
He thrust.
And he didn’t get in.
The head of him hit me and stopped — the fat bulb wedged against the entrance, stretching me wide, going nowhere. My body had taken a finger, two fingers, at most. This was a completely different order of thing. I made a thin noise and dropped my forehead onto my arms, and Axel pulled back and tried again, harder.
Second try. The bulb pushed in an inch and stalled, and I felt the widest part of it sitting right inside the ring of muscle like a cork in a bottle, and my whole lower body clenched down and tried to push it back out.
Third try.
He shoved, and I felt it — a tear. A sharp bright pinch, deep and thin, like a fingernail flicking the inside of me, and then a small wet give, and something that had been closed for eighteen years came open all at once.
My cherry. He’d just popped my cherry.
Oh, I thought. Oh. That’s it. That’s the thing.
Then the head of him slid past and the rest of him followed in a single long wet rush, and I screamed — a real scream, into my own forearm, because it was so much more than anything had ever had inside me. The pain was there, a hot stinging ache right at the entrance, and he didn’t care, he just kept pushing, that thick shaft dragging along every wall of me, until his hips were flush against my ass.
And then he kept going anyway.
There was more of him. More length than my pussy could hold. And so instead of stopping, he pushed the extra length up into me, and I felt the head of his cock travel up past the top of my pussy, past the place where things usually end, and press hard against something soft and deep and completely unused to being touched.
My cervix. And even pressed against it, there was still length left over.
Then he started to move, and I found out what that actually meant.
His hips slapped against my ass. That wet rhythmic slap-slap-slap, fast and even, no hesitation, no “is this okay,” just a dog with a job. Every thrust dragged that thick shaft all the way out to the head and then drove it back in — and every thrust, the head of him punched the full length of my insides, all the way up, and hit something that made my whole body jump.
And then I looked down.
My stomach was moving.
Not subtly. Not a flutter. There was an actual bulge, a hard round ridge pushing out from inside my belly, low and slightly to one side, appearing and disappearing in time with his hips. In, out, in, out — this lump travelling up under my skin, pressing my own stomach wall outward like a fist under a bedsheet, then sliding back down and vanishing as he pulled out.
That’s him, I thought, dazed. That’s his cock. In my stomach.
I put my hand flat on my belly and pressed down, and he thrust, and the ridge came up and shoved against my palm from the inside. Hard. My own body pushing back at my hand. He thrust again and it happened again, and I made a sound that wasn’t a word, and I couldn’t stop touching it.
Every single thrust. Every one. A long hard few inches of him driving up into me and tenting my stomach out on the other side, over and over and over, and me there on all fours with one hand on my own belly feeling him do it, gasping into the carpet like an idiot.
The first orgasm hit and I screamed into my own forearm, and he didn’t slow down at all, didn’t even notice, just kept hammering that rhythm while my legs shook and my thighs clenched and my whole body tried to close around him and couldn’t quite manage it.
Four. Maybe five. I lost count. That’s the honest answer. Dog stamina is a completely different category from anything my own hand had ever given me, and he just went, flat out, for what felt like forever, while I came and came underneath him and watched my own stomach bulge with every stroke until my throat was raw.
Then something changed.
A pressure at the entrance — not his cock, something behind it, swelling and pushing and stretching me wider than anything had ever stretched me. My body fought it. Clamped down. Fought it again. And it kept coming anyway, this slow fat swelling that got bigger and bigger against my lips while I hissed and squirmed and dug my fingers into the carpet.
No way, I thought. There’s no way that’s going in.
It went in.
Slow — so slow — a long burning stretch that built and built and built, until the ring of me was pulled tight as a drumhead around the widest part of it, and then it slid home with a wet pop I felt all the way up my spine.
The knot.
And it wasn’t small. It was enormous — a fat glossy bulb of him locked inside me, so big that when I looked back down between my own legs I could see my lips stretched out and bulging around the base of it, a visible fist-sized lump of him seated in my entrance. Bigger than my fist. Bigger than a tennis ball.
I felt impossibly, completely plugged.
He came. Not in a spurt — a flood. Hot, and endless, and a lot of it, landing somewhere deep and then continuing, and my whole lower belly went warm and heavy and full, so full that I could feel the pressure of it pushing back against his cock. My stomach, already sore and stretched from being pounded, went tight and round under my hand.
“Oh my God,” I said, to nobody, to the carpet, to the empty house.
Then the pulling started.
He stepped off, turned around — that thing they do, pivoting and standing there ass to ass with you like you’re old friends — and the knot stretched my lips out with it, tugging, and it hurt. A sharp burning pull that made me hiss through my teeth. He waited. Just stood there breathing, tail swinging, patient as a rock.
Thirty seconds. A minute. Then the pressure softened, and the knot slid out of me with a sound I’ll never forget — a long slow release, my whole entrance stretching wide one last time — and everything that had been inside came with it. A hot rush down the insides of my thighs onto the carpet, and me there on all fours in the hallway, gasping, wrecked, hair dripping wet and stuck to my shoulders, completely naked.
When I finally sat back on my heels and looked down, there was a smear of pink on the inside of my thigh, thin and watery, mixed in with everything else. And when I reached back and touched myself, my fingers came away red.
I sat there staring at them for a second.
That’s it, I thought again, dumber this time. Eighteen years, and that’s what took it.
I thought that was the end of it.
I was wrong.
───
Chapter Two: The Second Time
I lay there for a minute with my cheek on the carpet, just breathing.
The cum was running out of me in slow lines down the inside of my thighs. My belly felt warm and used and heavy. There was a wet patch under my knees and the hair dryer was still going somewhere behind me, blowing hot air at nothing. I could hear the refrigerator humming downstairs.
And I was still so, so horny.
Which sounds insane. I’d just come five times. But there’s a specific kind of greedy that sets in when your body’s been opened up and filled and then emptied all at once, when every nerve ending is lit up and complaining about the vacancy.
Then I felt it.
Axel hadn’t softened.
He was standing over me with his nose down between my shoulder blades, and when he stepped back over my hips — a second time, casual as anything, like he was just repositioning — I looked back and saw his cock still out, still wet, still thick, and getting harder again by the second. There was a faint pinkish streak down the side of it. Mine. It looked even bigger than it had the first time. Maybe that was just perspective. Maybe it wasn’t.
I shifted my knees wider on the carpet. That was all the invitation he needed.
He mounted, and this time he didn’t hesitate. He drove straight in — and even slick and open and freshly fucked, the widest part of the head still caught, still made me grunt, still needed two hard shoves before it popped past and the whole length of him came sliding in after it in one long dragging rush. The sting was still there at the entrance, that raw stretched ache, and this time it was almost nice.
The bulge came back the second he was in. There it was again, that hard ridge pushing out of my stomach, and my hand went straight back to it like it belonged there.
And then he went further.
The first time, he’d stopped with the head of him jammed up against my cervix. This time he leaned on it. Hard. Insistent. A blunt, patient pressure that didn’t let up, like something trying to get through a door.
And my brain, running on pure horny autopilot, woke up and started screaming.
What if it goes in. What if it actually goes IN.
Because I’d read about that too. Somewhere. Half-remembered. The idea that a big dog’s cock could slip into the cervix — through that little ring of muscle — and that it felt like nothing else on earth, and that a lot of people said it hurt.
I braced my hands on the carpet, stared down at my own bulging belly, and thought, what do I do, what do I do, what do I —
It went in.
Not a nudge. Not a press. It went in. There was a pop — not a sound, a feeling, deep inside, a sudden give, like a joint cracking in reverse — and the head of his cock slid past the ring and into my cervix, and everything in my lower body clenched at once. Bright, sharp, alarming pain that made my eyes water.
And he kept pushing.
He didn’t stop at the entrance. He kept going — inch after thick inch of him sliding up inside that tight little channel, and he was long, so much length that I could feel the whole shaft dragging along the inside of my cervix like a second, narrower, impossibly tight pussy stretched around him. Two inches. Three. Four. Five. He kept feeding himself into me, deeper and deeper, and I could feel the head of him travelling up into my body, past where anything had ever been, until the base of him was wedged tight in my pussy and the rest of him was buried past the door.
And there was still length left over. Even then.
He pushed one last time, hard, and something in me stretched and gave again, and he went another inch. Two. Until he was flush, until my ass was pressed to his hips and there was nothing of him left outside me at all.
The head of his cock was somewhere in the middle of my stomach.
I could feel it through the wall of my own belly. A hard thick ridge of him pressed up under my navel like something trying to escape, and when I put my hand flat there and pressed down, I felt him — felt the shape of him, the fat bulge of the head, the long line of the shaft running up into me — and my own body squeezed back against my palm.
Then he started to move, and there was no question of a rhythm anymore. Every stroke dragged the head of his cock almost all the way out of my cervix — that weird sucking friction on the inside, like being pulled inside out an inch at a time — and then shoved it back in, several long hard inches, all the way to the base. Over and over. In and out of my cervix. In and out of my womb’s front door, while the ring of muscle stretched and gripped and swallowed him again and again.
And with every single thrust, my stomach bulged.
Worse than before. Bigger. Higher. The whole length of him was inside me now, so there was nowhere for it to go but out — and it went out, tenting my belly up under my ribs, a long hard shape rising under my skin and then retreating, in and out, in and out, slap-slap-slap against my ass while I watched my own stomach heave with it. My hand was still pressed there and I could feel every inch of the travel. I could count them.
It didn’t stop being painful. It just stopped mattering. Somewhere around the tenth thrust the pain folded itself into the pleasure and disappeared, and after that it was only full — enormous, impossible, wonderful full — and I was making noises into the carpet that weren’t words.
Then his knot swelled.
And it swelled behind the ring, right up against the entrance, sealing me shut — so the head of his cock was buried deep inside my womb, his knot was plugging the door from the outside, and my cervix was clamped around the middle of him like a fist holding a rope. No room left anywhere. He’d turned me into a sealed container.
Getting that knot in the second time was worse than the first. A long slow burning stretch that kept going, kept widening, kept making me think it couldn’t possibly — and then it was in, and I was so full that I couldn’t tell where he ended and I started.
And then Axel came, and he came straight into my womb.
Not into my pussy. Not around him. Into me. Past the knot, up the length of his cock, and out the tip of him, deep inside, where nothing had ever reached before. Hot. Endless. A thick pouring flood delivered into the one place in my body built to hold it — and it had nowhere to go, because the knot was blocking the only exit.
I felt my womb fill.
Not a trickle. A fill. A warm heavy swelling that started deep and low and spread outward in every direction, pressing back on all sides of me. And it kept going. Pulse after pulse after pulse, and every one of them had to fit somewhere, and there was nowhere left, so my belly just… gave.
It swelled.
Not a bulge this time. A swell. My stomach rounded out and kept rounding, pushing forward and down, going tight and smooth and shiny with it, until I was lying there on my elbows with a low heavy dome of a belly hanging under me and it was still growing. The skin pulled taut. The pressure inside built to a deep, aching, overfull throb. Every pulse added another layer of it, and I could feel each one land, and feel the space inside me stretch a little further to make room.
By the time he finished I looked pregnant. Actually pregnant. Five months, easy. A round swollen belly pushing out from under my ribs, so tight that the light from the hallway window made a highlight on it, so heavy that it dragged down against the carpet when I breathed.
I made a sound I’ve never made before. Half laugh, half sob.
And then I did the thing I’ll never forget. I pressed my hand into it.
It wasn’t firm like muscle. It was fluid — hot and liquid and shifting under my palm, sloshing when I pushed, and I could feel his cock still buried up inside the middle of it, a hard line running through all that soft fullness. My whole belly was full of him and full of what he’d put there, and it moved when I moved.
He kept coming for a while longer. Every pulse landed somewhere new, and every time he pulsed, my womb pulsed back around the length of him still buried up inside it, and he’d shove a little deeper, and the belly would swell another fraction, and I’d come again — a deep, dragging, internal orgasm that felt like it started in my spine and ended in my knees.
When he finally stopped, my legs were jelly. I was on my elbows, cheek on the carpet, and I could feel every one of my own heartbeats down there.
Then the pulling started. Worse than before — his knot was stuck behind my cervix, and when he stepped off and turned and the tie stretched taut, I honest-to-God squeaked. He just stood there, patient, tail going slow, while I hissed and breathed and waited for him to soften.
It took longer that time. He’s stubborn about everything.
The knot deflated and slid free, and I felt the whole plug of it come out of me at once — and then nothing came out. That was the strangest part. Nothing poured. My belly was still huge. My womb was so full of it that it was just… holding. Sloshing. Every time I moved there was this wet heavy shifting deep inside me, like a waterbed with the mattress half off.
The ring of my cervix had been stretched open and then let go, and it hadn’t quite closed all the way. Still loose. Still soft. Still open enough to feel.
He got hard a third time. Of course he did. He’s three and built like a truck. He stepped back over me, slid in like he owned the place, and fucked me slow this time — long deep strokes, in and out of my womb’s front door — and every single one pushed that enormous bellyful of cum around inside me, and the sloshing — God, the sloshing — was better than anything. I had both hands under my own stomach by then, holding the weight of it, and I could feel the shape of his thrusts moving through the fluid from the outside.
He came again. Twice, maybe. My womb was already full so it had nowhere to go, and the pressure just built and built and built, until I genuinely thought the skin across my belly couldn’t stretch any further and then it stretched anyway, and I came again with my face mashed into the carpet and my fingers clawing at the fibers.
Then he stopped. Stepped off. Turned. Tied.
And this time the pulling made me cry a little. Just a couple of tears. Not sad ones. The knot finally let go, and the cum came pouring — a gush down my thighs, over the carpet, a puddle under my knees — and still, still, when I put a hand on my lower belly, it was huge. Round. Heavy. Swollen out past where my waistband had been.
I got up onto my knees, and the weight of it pulled forward, and I had to put a hand under it to stand.
I walked to the bathroom like that. Eighteen years old, naked, hair a wreck, one hand cradling a stomach that looked five months pregnant, and every step shifted the load inside me with a slow heavy roll. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and stopped dead. There was a curve. An actual curve, low and round and full, sitting on my hips, with the light catching the tight stretched skin over it.
I looked like something out of a biology textbook.
And it stayed. That’s the part nobody warns you about. There was just too much of it in there, and it took hours to come out. Hours. I’d stand up and feel it shift and a fresh warm trickle would run down my leg, and the belly would go down a little, and then twenty minutes later it’d still be there, still heavy, still round. I’d sit on the couch with my hand flat over it. I’d go to the bathroom and push and only get a fraction of it. I slept on a towel Friday night with a pillow wedged under my stomach because the weight of it was pulling on my back.
Saturday morning I finally got most of it out. Most. Not all. I swear I could still feel the last of it somewhere up inside me until Saturday afternoon — this low warm ache and a stubborn soft fullness that made me clench around nothing every time I thought about it.
The sting at the entrance lasted about a day and a half, too. Just a thin sore thread of it, right where he’d torn me, that made itself known every time I sat down.
By Saturday night my stomach was flat again and it genuinely felt wrong. Empty. Like I’d lost something.
And that isn’t the end of the story, because it kept happening.
It happens whenever. Axel knows now. All I have to do is come out of the bathroom in a towel and kneel down on that carpet for any reason at all, and he’s there, quiet as ever, waiting for me to bend over. He doesn’t even need a whistle. He just arrives. And it still takes me three tries to get him in at the start, every single time — that’s just how it is with him — and by the end I can take every inch of him through my cervix without even thinking about it, and my stomach swells up like a balloon while he does it, and I hold it with both hands and watch.
Two years later and it’s still the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I still can’t watch him drink out of the toilet without thinking about it.
Trent Donnelly got two fingers in me for a minute and a half at prom and thought he’d done something.
He hadn’t done anything. My cherry got popped on a hallway carpet by a hundred and thirty pounds of rottweiler, on a Friday night in August, while the hair dryer was still running and nobody was home, and there’s not a single boy in my graduating class who could have done it the way he did.
I’m not a virgin anymore.
Not by any definition at all.
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