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    Story's fetishes: zoophilia, bestiality, domination.

    I had decided that Jurgen was the man I wanted to marry and I was smart enough to know that he could never love a woman who did not share his passions for his way of life. That included his trucks, friends, and most of all, his dog. It was obvious the way to this man's heart was through his dog. And it was a very big dog. I was young and naive. To me, he was the most gorgeous man alive!

    Jurgen had a nice, lean muscular build and looked wonderful in a tight tee shirt and faded blue jeans, which was what he wore around his house. He was the sexiest man alive, as far as I was concerned. I loved his piercing grey eyes, his big strong hands, his charming smile. I was infatuated. He was so romantic and exciting. He enchanted me like no man ever had. He had a dark side that I found exciting. He was not like any man I had ever known.

    On our first date he took me to a wonderful restaurant high up the tallest building in the city. We had the best table and a wonderful view of the city lights. At dinner he noticed my charm bracelet. He asked me to explain the significance of the charms. He seemed fascinated by my explanation of how the charms represented the essence of my life. In fact I had worn it deliberately that night hoping he would ask so I could tell him about myself. I wanted him to know. I had been given the bracelet by my mother on my sixteenth birthday and had been collecting charms from friends and family ever since.

    I showed him the little diploma my father had given me for my high school graduation, the ballet slipper from my years of dancing, the winged Mercury foot my father gave me after my cross country season. Gifts from boyfriends.

    He asked me about my background, my heritage he called it. I told him about my Spanish and French relatives, but he was most impressed that I had a Mohawk Indian grandmother. He said I had good bloodlines and he said that of all my attributes, he was most impressed by the bone structure in my face. He ran a finger along my face, praising my cheekbones, my mouth and my big green eyes. He pinched my lower lip between his thumb and forefinger and gently pulled it out, telling me he liked the way my lower lip was naturally pouty. You have good genetics, you know. You were designed to be attractive to men. Every feature was genetically designed to excite men physically, to invite sex. You were meant to be bred!

    That was a rather curious thing.

    I kept quiet when he lit up a cigarette after our meal.

    I was an adamant nonsmoker. I always despised smoking. I always found the odor of cigarette smoke nauseating and I had no interest in ever putting one of those things to my lips or inhale that smoke into my lungs. I found the whole idea of smoking to be incomprehensible. It was a dirty, disgusting habit. I hate cigarettes. Hate them! When I was little I watched my aunt died of lung cancer. Cigarettes are immoral. I object to smoking on political, philosophical, health, hygienic. economic and social reasons. There is no reason at all to smoke. It is stupid. For stupid people.

    Jurgen listened to me rant against cigarettes with a condescending smile, then slowly blew his cigarette smoke into my face. It was a deliberate, dramatic gesture. I felt humiliated. He was mocking me, but he seemed intrigued that I had never smoked a single cigarette in my life. He asked me many questions in an incredulous tone.

    "Weren't you ever tempted?" he asked.


    "You never smoked one, not one? In all your life? Everyone sneaks a cigarette in junior high!"

    "Not me. I don't even date a man who smokes. At least I never did. Until you. I plan to convince you to stop!" I told him.

    "Lips that touch tobacco, shan't touch yours, huh?" he said with a wry smile.

    "Something like that. I never thought it was cool. I never wanted to have a cigarette dangling from my lips. Wouldn't you rather I smell of lilacs or Poison? Rather than Camels?"

    At one time he reached out and touched my lips, very lightly, with his fingers and said they were virgin and pure because they had not touched a cigarette.

    "Good for you! It is a vile, dirty habit."

    "Cigarettes enslave people."

    "That's right," he said agreeably. "You would not want to be a slave to cigarettes, sacrificing your lungs so some corporation can make a profit." Jurgen seemed to be thinking. He had a strange look on his face. That was before I knew how Jurgen's mind worked.

    "I bet you have the prettiest, pinkest, sexiest lungs on earth," he told me as he blew a big puff of smoke into my face.

    He found my attitude amusing. He said it was sad that I did not even try smoking. That I did not know what I was talking about, but he was fascinated by the fact that no cigarette had ever touched my lips. He considered me some sort of virgin and a challenge. He teased me, blew smoke in my face and vowed he would get me to smoke.

    "I smoke," Jurgen said firmly. "You will have to accept that. It is pathetic that you don't even know what you are talking about."

    Jurgen had some unusual quirks, but I was willing to put up with anything imaginable for this man. I was willing to change, and deep inside I was confident he would make some changes for me. For one thing, he smoked. Never in my life did I think I would have ever loved a man who smoked. But I did. Jurgen was a man's man, who liked dogs and hunting. Jurgen was not like any man I had ever known. He was a bit older. He liked guns, worked on Jeep engines, drove a pickup truck and often wore the same flannel shirt two days in a row. He was a weight lifter and had the hunkiest chest I had ever seen. He also had a master's degree in European history. He was, by far, the smartest man I ever dated. Jurgen had some quirks about sex, but those were exciting. I willingly followed him where he took me. I let him know I was open minded and he could do anything he wanted with me. He appreciated that about me, he said, after going through a series of prudish women of kissed with clenched teeth and would not roll over in bed.

    Jurgen insisted Diesel was unique. It would kill in a minute to defend its master or its home, he said. But that was its nature. He had raised Diesel from a puppy and was confident he knew his dog.

    During my first tour of Jurgen's place, he took me out to the garage to introduce me to what he called "The Intruder" and to show off the power of his big dog. "The Intruder" was a man-sized dummy dangling from a chain hanging from a rafter in the garage. When Jurgen said something in German to his dog, Diesel went absolutely wild, leaping for the intruder's throat. The dog was in a frenzy. It was a growling, hair-
    raising, teeth baring savage. If the intruder was a person, it would have been dead. It was a horrifying demonstration. Jurgen was beaming with pride.

    I loved that man so much, I only saw the greatness in him.

    I wanted to be his wife. There was nothing imaginable I would not do with this man. What he wanted of me was unimaginable. I had it bad. Jurgen made me feel the way I did over Tommy Saunders back in the eighth grade. I found myself whispering our names in my mind all the time, Jurgen, Julie, Jurgen, Julie. It became my secret mantra. I was convinced that the alliteration was proof that we were meant to be together. I found myself writing our names over and over, and writing my name as Mrs. Julie Goetz , Mrs. Jurgen Goetz, and Julia Marie Goetz just to see what it looked like. It looked right to me.

    Jurgen always said he loved the way I kissed. He had never had a woman who kissed with such abandon. That was something guys have always liked about me. I had no secrets from Jurgen and told him the story behind my kisses, how in my sophomore year in high school I used to get a pass from study hall for the library, but sneak off to the back of the empty auditorium where I would give "French lessons" to senior boys. My kisses were always open mouth with my tongue wriggling around inside their mouths or sucking their tongues into my mouth, topped off with licking their lips and faces. The guys loved it. Those French lessons got me into a lot of trouble. They got out of hand when word got out and guys I did not know would show up in the auditorium. I got scared, but there was nothing I could do, but go through with the lessons. It started out with me and a guy I liked meeting secretly in the dark shadows of the auditorium. Then he begged me to kiss on of his buddies and within weeks it was an open secret among all the guys. Some days I would have as many as six guys, including steady boyfriends of other girls, taking turns kissing me back there. I would go from boy to boy with my open mouth, tongue wriggling kisses. Some of the guys tried to go farther than the kisses and would paw my breasts or grab my ass with their hands and press me against them. I got a bit of a reputation from that, but Jurgen said it was all part of my passionate nature. Jurgen said my kisses were sexual experience by themselves and kissed for hours until my lips were swollen.

    I had told Jurgen about those French lessons and all about my life before him. He had demanded to know every detail of my sex life and he was constantly asking me for every story of every sexual experience I ever had. Of course, his life remained a mystery to me.

    Jurgen said the way I kissed was an indication of incredible passion inside me. He was going to develop my wildness while I was planning to civilize him. I did get him to the ballet once and a few times I read him poetry and once I played my flute for him. I thought I would get him to stop smoking for me and dress better. For his part, he was insistent that I dress to please him, and he was constantly pushing me to be more wild sexually. In the struggle between the two of us, he was always the stronger personality and he always prevailed. I found myself abandoning my efforts to make him into a sensitive male and becoming more wildly erotic to make him happy. It was my kisses that made me special to him and the way I would hang on to him.

    He was constantly testing me, constantly making me prove my love to him or prove that I was different from other women. It seemed like my life revolved around demonstrating to him that I was "the one woman" for him. The harder I tried, the more indifferent he acted, and that indifference drove me crazy, making me go to further extremes to win his approval. I see now, of course, that that was his strategy and, blinded by love, I was falling into his trap.

    He was incredibly imaginative when it came to sex.

    One memorable evening Jurgen had incense burning in his living room, romantic music on his stereo and several candles burning as he spent more than an hour just brushing my hair and kissing me, telling me how much he loved my long brown hair. It excited me to hear him say the word "love." I told him I loved him with all my heart. He would not say he loved me, but he did say he loved my long hair. I was sure that it was hard for a man like Jurgen to say he loved a woman, but I was confident I would soon hear those words. He made me promise never to cut my hair.

    He had some expensive German white wine bottles just for the occasion. After a few glasses I began to feel the soft warmth of the alcohol enveloping me, lulling me. It was a nice sensation.

    When he was finished brushing my hair Jurgen undressed me and gave me an incredible, luxurious back rub, then he painted my fingernails and toenails. He put a beautiful diamond necklace around my throat and brought out a delicate gold ankle bracelet and put it around my ankle while he stroked my legs. He then brought out eight gold and silver rings that he put on the four little toes on each foot. It was like he was decorating me!

    He had me stretched out rug. I felt absolutely sinful. My naked body adorned with all that jewelry made me feel like an exotic Egyptian slave. After the wine and the massage, I was in a strange, languid mood, reveling in my love for Jurgen and I watched my man get up in the flickering candlelight. I remember how strange the shadows were as he stood over. Suddenly I was being burned all over my belly and my breasts. He had taken the candles and was drizzling the hot wax on my body, enjoying the sight of my naked body writhing in shocked pain. I screamed as he dripped the hot wax over my breasts and around my belly button. He was aiming much of the wax at my nipples. I twisted and turned over to escape the hot wax and he dripped it onto my shoulders, down my back and all over my butt, making sure it went between my crack. He manipulated the pain of the hot wax by holding it close to me or further away.

    When he had poured the last of the melted wax over my body, Jurgen knelt down and kissed and licked my burns, which were not very serious, but bad enough to leave red marks in places. He took ice cubes from the wine bucket and rubbed my flesh with them, making me shiver with the cold. I was trembling from the shock and the pain when he started making love to me.

    It was an incredibly sensual evening and he made love to me in the most soothing, erotic way. I was so wound up I cried when he brought me to the most delicious orgasm of my life.

    All the while his dog was sitting across the room watching us. It was very attentive. I was certain it was watching me. Occasionally it whined, but Jurgen would not make the dog leave. I felt like we were being watched the whole time we made love.

    He was unlike any other lover I had known. Men are always so gentle and loving with my breasts, especially my nipples, kissing and licking and sucking them. But he was just the opposite. He was mean to them.

    He did not like his women to wear bras.

    He had this intense fascination with women's nipples, more than breasts, it was the nipples. My nipples are small, the size and color of old copper pennies and very sensitive. He seemed to disapprove of my nipples. They were inadequate. He kept telling me about his old girlfriend, Linda, and comparing me to her. She had such nice breasts, he said, full, and nipples the size of silver dollars. Not half-
    dollars, I remember him stressing, but SILVER dollars. Mine were just pennies to him.

    Where other men would roll my nipples between their fingers, he would pinch and twist them, making me wince and cry out. He would sneak his hands into my coat when we were in the car or in my sweater when we were at the movies and do that to me until tears rolled down my cheeks and I could not make a sound or embarrass myself in public.

    He liked to torment my nipples in all sorts of devilish ways. For my birthday he gave me a very beautiful panty and bra set that he had carefully inserted little circles of fine sandpaper in the tip of the bra so that my nipples rubbed against the fine grit when I wore the bra. It took a while before I felt anything but suddenly the agonizing burning set in as the sand paper rubbed my nipples raw until I worried they were bleeding. He thought my reaction was all very funny. I had no idea what was happening to me. The rule for me after that was that if I wore a bra, it had to be with the sandpaper inside, irritating my nipples so the pain would make me think of Jurgen. He was a genius in making him dominate my body and mind twenty-four hours a day no matter where he was.

    My nipples were constantly tender and sore during that time. I remember being at work and feeling the fabric rubbing against them, the hurt constantly reminding me of my lover. I worried that I would not be able to respond normally to a man ever again, that I would always need that burning pain to orgasm.

    Jurgen was an incredible lover. I loved being beneath him, running my fingers through the coarse curly chest hairs, feeling the hard muscles of his wonderfully broad chest against me. I felt dwarfed by his masculinity. He was unpredictable and at times maybe a little dangerous. That danger made him even more exciting to me. Adding to the danger was Jurgen's insistence on unprotected sex. The first time we made love he felt my diaphragm inside me and made me take it out. He said he would never make love to me with that inside me or if I used any birth control. I had never had a man treat me like that. It was exciting to see him take my diaphragm in his hands and tear it in two. I liked the idea of risking pregnancy for him. It was an opportunity to demonstrate the depth of my commitment to him. Every time we made love, I was showing him I was willing to have him impregnate me. There was nothing I wanted more than to be the mother of his baby.

    I don't know what kind of father he would have made, but Jurgen was certainly good to his dog.

    Jurgen loved that dog more than anything. Even its name -- Diesel -- seemed to represent everything masculine. Everything about the Rottweiler was big. It had a big head, a massive chest, a thick neck, and it was all muscle, one hundred and forty pounds of canine masculinity, or "stud muscle" as Jurgen called it. The animal outweighed me by more than twenty-five pounds. Except for that red tongue lolling out of its mouth, the dog reminded me of those body builders on the cover of men's magazines. The damn dog intimidated me. It intimidated everyone, everyone except Jurgen, of course. He made no effort to make me at ease around the animal. It seemed dangerous, on the verge of being out of control. I stayed close to Jurgen whenever it was around. The dog did not like strangers and Jurgen made sure it regarded me as a stranger. When I was at Jurgen's the dog's brown eyes never left me. The dog seemed arrogant and aloof to me. It strutted around. If a dog could swagger, that dog swaggered with its massive chest thrust out. The only person who could make the dog act like a dog was Jurgen. To everyone else, the dog was a spoiled bully. I hated the dog, but I knew right away that the way to Jurgen's heart was through his dog.

    I told myself the dog would get used to me. It would just take time. I loved Jurgen so much, I certainly was not about to let an unfriendly dog get between us. Jurgen warned me to keep my distance and never make a sudden move when the dog was around.

    "He doesn't make friends easily. He's not a Lab," Jurgen said. He'll tear out your pretty throat.

    Jurgen had photographs of the dog hanging on his walls, files and file of records tracing its lineage back to some famous dog in Germany. There were certificates, ribbons and trophies all over the living room.

    Jurgen said his dog was handsome, strong, brave, loyal; better than a person, according to my lover. It was a stud and people came hundreds of miles away and paid Jurgen hundreds of dollars to breed their female Rottweilers with Diesel. The dog was scheduled for months in advance, according to when the female dogs were in heat. At least every other week, Jurgen's canine stud muffin had a "date." Jurgen was obviously proud of his pet's sexuality. Jurgen bragged that it took three strong men at breeding to keep the dog from hurting the female.

    Several times a year Jurgen took the dog to shows. He spent more of his time and money on that dog than anything else, including me. He gave it everything. Jurgen's life revolved around that dog. We could not even watch television together without listening to the annoying sounds of that big dog noisily crunching its dry dog food and lapping up water with its big tongue. At least I found it annoying. Jurgen did not mind. It made me uncomfortable when we would be nestled on the sofa together whispering and kissing and his big dog would start licking its genitals with an incredibly disgusting slurping sound. Jurgen seemed to enjoy my reaction.

    The dog was extremely loyal to Jurgen and from the start it regarded me as its rival. The dog was trained to be safe around people, except me. It was trained to guard him and his house. It would be friendly if its master gave approval to certain people. He never gave it that approval for me, no matter who much time I spent with him. The dog had no respect for me, and that was the way Jurgen wanted it. I did not like the way it looked at me, always watching me, always growling, always waiting for me to make a wrong move. It scared me.

    The dog was especially trained to obey only its master's commands, which were always in German. I could not even understand what my boyfriend was saying to his dog. The dog seemed to think that I was a rival for Jurgen's affections, that I was a threat to it. I always tried to be friendly to the dog and never show it my fear. That was what I had been taught when I was little. Dogs can smell fear, I had been told.

    Jurgen would not allow me to pet his dog or even to have eye contact. He was to be the dog's only source of affection, praise and food. If I were to give the dog a treat or pet it I would be confusing the animal and jeopardizing Jurgen's authority over it. Authority was all-
    important to Jurgen. He had a ritual that he performed every other day, making the dog sit before him and hold direct eye contact with Jurgen until he gave the dog permission to look away. The dog seemed to be intimidated by Jurgen. Then Jurgen made the dog present its muzzle to him and he would grab the dog's snout and, in a very solemn voice, say My muzzle. Then the dog would present its paws and Jurgen would say My paw. It was Jurgen's way of reinforcing his control over the big dog. I felt privileged to even be allowed to witness those intimate moments between Jurgen and his dog.

    Smoking remained an unresolved issue between us the first month or two of our relationship. He would stiffen and turn mean when I tried to coax him into putting out his cigarette and I was annoyed by the sight of the ashtrays in his house. He knew it bothered me and that made him more determined not only to keep smoking, but to turn me into a smoker.

    Jurgen's friends were very important to them. He went out a lot with a small group of friends and it was important to him that they like me if I was going to fit in. In fact, it was clear that he wanted them to want me, to envy him for having me. I had to be as unique a woman as Diesel was a dog.

    All his friends, I called them "the dog people," smoked. And he had a bunch of them over at least once a week to watch football or play cards and talk about raising dogs, hunting dogs and running dogs. They were crude and old fashioned, but basically friendly people. They always smoked and drank. They argued about which breed was the best, what was the best method of training dogs, what was the best dog food. Dogs were their favorite subject. And they all seemed to respect Jurgen the most for his accomplishments and they all talked admiringly of Diesel, Jurgen's big Rottweiler. It became one of my roles to play hostess to his friends, to entertain them, feed them, make sure they had their drinks and, of course, to clean up after them. I always hated being around guys who smoked, the way the stink would cling to my hair. But Jurgen smoked and I loved him. He was the only man who smoked that I would go out with.

    Jurgen was especially concerned with my appearance when his friends were over. He insisted on picking out my clothes. He liked me to wear sheer blouses with no bra so the guys could see my nipples. He liked men looking at me. And he wanted me to act provocatively. He liked me to tease them and make sexual innuendoes. He liked me to touch him and sit in his lap in front of his friends. He embarrassed me terribly the first time he had them over to meet me by telling them all the story about my "French lessons" back in high school.

    The first time I realized how difficult Jurgen could be when he gave me a sheer blouse and insisted I wear it to meet his friends, the people I called "the dog people." They were having one of their weekly parties and Jurgen wanted to introduce me to them. He wanted me to make a good impression. I tried the blouse on, but was embarrassed to see my bra was clearly visible through the fabric. He did not care about my embarrassment and insisted I wear the blouse, but without the bra.

    At first I was outraged and humiliated, but he coaxed me into going to that party in the blouse showing off every detail of my breasts and nipples for his friend. That was the whole idea. He wanted to show me off, to give his buddies a thrill. He was the one thrilled.

    He had insisted I wear the clothes he picked out for me. A black blouse so sheer that it was virtually see-through, a pink mini-skirt and black stockings with pink high heels. It was his fantasy outfit. I bought a pretty pink lace bra that was cut daringly low so my nipples peeked through the delicate lace. I knew he would like the effect, and the blouse was so sheer it demanded a beautiful bra. I felt hot. Jurgen would be so pleased. I knew he would not be able to keep his hands off me.

    Jurgen was not pleased, I had never seen him angry before and the sight of his cold dark eyes and the clench of his jaw frightened me.

    No bra.

    Don't be silly, Jurgen. The blouse is beautiful. I love it. I really do. But it shows everything. I am practically naked. I don't want your friends to see my nipples.

    That's the idea. Get rid of the bra.

    I don't want your friends to think I am cheap.

    They'll think you are sexy. They'll know my woman is one hot bitch.

    I stiffened at the word. He liked to call me that when we made love. It turned him on to call me his bitch. He was my Alpha Dog. It was our secret game. But now he used it with a special harshness. He was extremely angry.

    Lose the bra and make me proud, bitch, his voice was stern. The way he called me bitch sent a shiver through me. In a strange way I found it exciting when he called me dirty names. No man had ever talked to me that way. Only Jurgen. He used that word a lot. Bitch. Sometimes he called he slut or whore, not only in bed, but routinely. Coming from him, for some reason I never understood, it was all right. It was exciting to be his bitch.

    He unbuttoned the blouse, slowly and methodically, one button at a time. The vein in his neck was pulsing, the smell of his cigarettes and beer on his breath. I stood still, afraid to move. He opened my blouse wide and grabbed the bra in his fingers between the cups, pulling it away from my skin. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and flicked it with his thumb, letting the flame flare up close to my face. I stopped breathing as he put the flame to the beautiful lace. I could feel the heat of the flame against my skin and smelled the burning material as the bra melted away beneath the flame. Jurgen was rough as he pulled the slender straps away from my shoulders and burned them off with the flame until he had completely burned the bra off me.

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