The Hound is Still Dead II (v1.3)

Tags: Former Male Superhero x His Biggest Female Fan, sex


In the morning she woke up on schedule, took her pills and a shot to her thigh, and ate yogurt and applesauce. She hurt.

George had her bag packed by the door. She didn’t know what to expect, and had three sets of clothes in it and a sketchbook with all the drawing instruments that she’d need to be content. And a ski mask and gloves. Just in case.

Jaws’ contact had messaged George. Was Jaws whiny enough to complain the morning after? Yeah, apparently. She denied knowledge of a girl injecting him with shit that made him puke and pass out. It helped that most people on the forum had always just assumed she was a man anyway. She had never denied it.

The was a knock at her door in the evening, it was heavy handed and generally unpleasant sounding. She scrambled to open it, slipping on the polished wood floor on her way to grab the doorknob.

A black man with curious intensity greeted George, and though she had never seen him without his mask even in his comic, she recognized him at once by his impeccable posture and he shape of his body. He was less than twice George’s age, but that was still notably older. Bloodhound kept his hair so short that it was barely there and watched her with bright dark eyes. He had a wool coat on over a black button-up shirt and slacks.

She smiled, but he was stony-faced. He beckoned her. “Let’s get going.”

George grabbed her bag and keys, locked her door and followed him at her full speed (not fast) out to the elevator and down to the bottom floor. She was able to contain excited babbling, but couldn’t keep herself from staring at him. He sighed, but gave no other indication of emotion.

He led her to a mundane sedan with dirt and dust on the sides that tempted George to write 'wash me' with her finger. On the inside it was immaculate, save for a black bag in the back and a few folders on the passenger seat that George picked up when she got in. “What’s the plan?” she asked finally, stashing her backpack at her feet.

“We hunt,” he said.

“What are the folders for?”

“They’re criminals. Those three you have are repeat offenders who have been in court and quickly released due to the best legal bullshit that money can buy.” She realized now that he was using more polysyllabic words that he no longer spoke with the accent he’d been using the night before, he sounded just as American as George did. “Between those three folders there are about a thousand confirmed deaths, both direct and indirect. I am not exaggerating. The goal is to stop as much corruption as possible.”

“That doesn’t give you a right to kill them,” George said softly.

“Don’t try to guess where I’m going to go when I’m speaking,” he said not unkindly. They pulled into the street. “And give me one of those folders. I promise I won’t kill any one of them.”

She picked the thickest one. "Edgar Thorne. Who's he?"

He snatched the file from her hand. "Doesn't matter, he's not my target." The folder wasn't even opened, Bloodhound sniffed it. Tossing the folder back into George's lap, he leaned his head out the window and searched the air, his nostrils flaring as he did. He knew the way.

“Who is then?” George asked. She gripped the car door and the seat while Bloodhound broke traffic laws.

“The judge being paid not to take those cases seriously,” he said, and pushed his head out of the window to scent at the air again.

She looked away from him and out the window. "You're going to scare him?" She thought about the ski mask she'd put in her backpack to hide her identity if she had to.

There was a bit of hesitation, then he responded like some teenager agreeing to their parents' conditions for going out. "Yes, I'll just scare him." He let out a huff.

She smiled, and made the motion to push invisible hair back over her ear. "Thank you," she said softly. "Let me guess about this guy, though. He's... he was a privately paid defense attorney for a while before he became a judge,and he gets more money now with significantly less work.”

"An astute guess, Puppy." He took his turns rather sharply as he moved down the roads.

The nickname caught George pleasantly off-guard, and she stifled a smile in silence while Bloodhound drove and occasionally stuck his head out the window.

He kept talking: “He did it all. He did his job the right way some of the time--proper defense attorney defending everyone--but he got slimy. Would work together with paid off prosecutors to get them to throw cases, or would take clients and intentionally represent them poorly if someone wanted them to go to jail.”

Much of what he said was dull in her ears. She thought about how to translate this scene to a comic book, how she would draw them both to look enough like who they were to show their emotions accurately but different enough to obscure their identities. She thought about colors and about which medium to use. For the first time in a while she could taste inspiration again, that rare and blessed angel.

“How did Jaws get away from you the first time?” she asked, a question that had been nagging since last night.

“Who?” he asked.

“Jaws,” she repeated, then understood that he’d have no idea about the nickname that her internet friends had given the man. “The guy in with the mask last night.”

“Oh. Julian Rimes,” Bloodhound corrected her. “He got lucky and stole a bicycle some ass forgot to secure properly. What did you call him?”

“We call him Jaws,” she said, embarrassed.

“We?”

“The internet. People who… keep up on what’s happening with masks and capes in Bell City.”

“People pay attention to Julian? Good Lord, Puppy. If ever there was a waste of time, that would be it.”


Bloodhound parked near a stately apartment building. He inhaled. “He’s in there. Up high. Get your stuff.”

George peered at the building. Of all her failings, eyesight was not one of them anymore. “I don’t see any cameras,” she commented.

"Of course not. Security is not the issue for these people, privacy is. If one camera caught them doing something slightly wrong and some not-crooked person got their hands on it, many of them would be done for. Follow me."

She fished through her backpack and grabbed the mask and gloves and shoved them into the pocket at the front of her sweatshirt, following Bloodhound to the front doors. He took out a white keycard, bare except for its magnetic strip, and he swiped them into the lobby of the building.

He tossed the bag to the ground and began pulling out his outfit as soon as they walked up to the landing between the ground floor and the second floor. A bullet proof vest, his utility belt, and of course his staff. Once on, he then forced his mask over his head. It fit more like a helmet than a mask, protecting the sides and back of his head and not just the front.

She matched him and pulled the ski mask down her face, and stared at his mask. “Was your mask always metal? In the old comics it was gold colored. I thought plastic.”

“It was always metal, but The Hound’s was painted yellow-gold. I didn’t bother this time,” he answered, and hit a button to turn on the red eyes of the mask. They provided illumination for him in the dark and had the nice effect of appearing menacing.

“Old eye glow was blue,” George said, glancing down at the image on her sweatshirt to doublecheck. Then she pulled off the sweatshirt and turned it inside out so it would be plain.

“Yes, before The Deck broke it,” he growled.

George remembered those panels of the comics well because she had cried for hours and hours the first time she read them. "I'm just glad you're alive," she told him, and pulled on her ski mask.

He scoffed at her and beckoned for her to follow him again.

It seemed absurd that there would be no cameras, but the more she looked around the more she started to think that he was right. There were no cameras and the lighting was poor. That would have made it an enormously trashy building if the rent wasn’t so incredibly high. Instead the walls and floor were wood-paneled, with persian rugs on the floor and fine art--though not so fine by George’s standards--on the walls.

Bloodhound swiped the unmarked keycard through the two sets of front doors to get them , and then swiped the key card again at a heavy metal door that took them past the second floor offices and up to the stairs that would connect them to where the rich people lived.

George hated stairs but tried not to complain following Bloodhound up. She heard him inhaling at every landing to see if it was the right floor, but it wasn’t until they were on the sixth floor and George was ready to puke that he entered a hallway and followed it down to the door at the end. She stumbled after him, but wasn’t quick enough for his liking.

He stepped back six feet or so and ran at the door like a bull, metal mask first.

The sound of the door breaking in made George cringe. It was a bang like a gun with a creak of metal that tore the hinges from the frame. It seemed impossible to George that he’d been able to just break a door, especially when she reached the threshold and saw it was nearly two inches thick.

Inside, the carpet was thick as summer grass and the air smelled like tobacco. The leather furniture was cookie-cutter, like the apartment was just there to show off a set from a television show. The books on shelves had expensive bindings but looking at the dust she didn’t think that any of them had ever been read before.

She stumbled over a mahogany coffee table with three half-full ashtrays on it, following sounds of Bloodhound’s heavy feet into an illuminated kitchen with pale granite countertops and dark wood cupboards. An interior design by someone with too much money and not enough design sense.

She couldn’t see the inhabitant beyond Bloodhound’s shoulders, just his slipper feet.

Bloodhound pointed his staff at the pale, balding man in the kitchen. The weapon was always more intimidating with the blades out, but he didn’t want George to think he would kill him. She might interfere. The Hound never killed anyone, but that was the thing about Bloodhound--he’d acquired a love of the scent of blood. He pressed the end of the staff to the lawyer's solar plexus to pin him back to the counter. "You're going to quit your job tomorrow." He was back to his English accent.

"Are you serious?" the judge laughed and coughed with lungs that smelled like tar, "That's not gonna happen, creep."

The reaction alarmed George. It seemed insane that anyone wouldn’t shit their pants over a masked vigilante in their home, let alone talk back to them. It told her something was off.

Bloodhound got this reaction a lot, though. If you wore a mask and no one wrote comics or made movies about you, no one took you seriously. You weren’t considered a threat, you weren’t legitimate, and you didn’t matter unless you were getting published. Maybe Georgia's art would change that.

"Are you the nutjob that's been picking off my clients? Have you come to kill me too?"

"Would that be a problem for you?"

"Yeah, it would actually." The judge seemed to pay no attention to George--perhaps he hadn’t even noticed her behind Bloodhound. He opened a drawer next to him. Bloodhound originally thought he was fishing for a knife, but wasn’t too surprised when his target found a revolver there. Bad people left guns everywhere, it was an inescapable and stupid fact. The richer and more paranoid they were, the more hidden, loaded firearms there would be.

The simplest solution was to disable the hand that held the gun, and with a twist of the rod to reveal the bladed tip, it was only one more quick motion before he’d hacked down halfway through the bones in the man’s wrist. He repeated the motion.

George heard the sound and the scream and backed up out of the kitchen to give Bloodhound more room. Regret tripped her up like untied shoelaces. She didn’t hear the man’s hand falling to the ground because he was screaming too loudly. How was she supposed to draw this? To ink it and color it?

It was easier to read about all this blood than see it. And there was a lot of it to see, seeping out over yellow-white linoleum.

It took a severed hand on the floor before Bloodhound was adequately convinced that his prey was scared. Fear didn’t smell as loud as blood did.

"Well, I hope you have have a permit for that gun."

Bloodhound twisted his staff to his back and from there on out, he was all fists. He punched the man until he fell to the floor then he punched him some more. There was no fighting back, but there was flailing.

George peeked into the kitchen and saw her hero like a vulture on top of the man. The man on the floor wasn’t even moving now, and to her shame she wasn’t either.

“Puppy!” Bloodhound barked.

She flinched, but took a shuddering step forward to make herself visible in the kitchen doorway. Bloodhound’s glowing red eyes glared at her over his shoulder. She asked, “Yeah?”

“Find his phone and call the police if you want him to live.”

She resented him for putting the man’s life in her hands instead of restraining himself, but didn’t process that emotion because she was too busy darting around the apartment looking for a phone. George went past it a few times in the confused frenzy of searching, but eventually found the silver phone sitting like a tiny monolith in its charging port on the table. She dialed 9-1-1.

Bloodhound was ready to go on the second ring when the phone picked up. George watched him cross briskly to the door to wait on her, glowing red eyes telling her to hurry up.

She stammered the street they were on but didn’t know the full address. She said they needed ambulances because a man’s hand had been severed. George hung up and dropped the phone to follow Bloodhound out the door. She wanted to run as fast as she could, but he grabbed her shoulder roughly to stop her and took off his mask, putting it into his bag while he walked.

“Walk. Don’t run. It usually takes police a lot longer than you would think to get to a call.” His American accent was back.

“But,” George spoke. She didn’t have anything to follow her ‘but’ and fell silent for a few seconds, looking up at his glowering face.

“Take off your mask,” he ordered. “You should look normal when we leave the building. No one in here is going to dare leave their apartments until the police come. I’m sure they heard the screams. It's the people on the street who might notice a pair of masks.”

“But then they see your face.”

“My face is infinitely more forgettable than a mask. Yours too. Take it off.”

She pulled it off. Static made her hair cling desperately to the material as she stuffed it in her pocket. She was looking left and right, trying to scan every single nook and cranny for threats while a picture of a severed hand flickered and flashed behind her eyes. All those things stacked together made her feel like her heart would explode, but she learned quickly that Bloodhound was right.

No one cared. They walked out of the building and got into his car. He drove away calmly while George's hands rattled in her lap.

George stared at him with her mouth hanging open. Why didn’t anyone do anything when they heard gunshots? Why didn’t anyone come out of their apartments to see what was happening and make sure their neighbor was okay?

It dawned on her a moment later: No one came to investigate this attack for the same reason that no one had saved The Hound from his own death. Her heart ached for him so much more now, to realize that every crime he committed like this must have felt like a reenactment of his own death. That was how he knew exactly what people would do when he hurt people.

George turned to look out the window and watched streetlights slide past her gaze. She realized something. “I don’t even know that guy’s name. I just… you almost killed him and I don’t even know his name.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Bloodhound said, and his tone said that was that. He moved on. “Is anyone going to miss you if you’re gone for a while?”

“No,” she said immediately. “I don’t have anything on my schedule for a few weeks. I kind of assumed you could smell the lonely on me.”

Her last words were muttered almost under her breath just to herself, but she was pretty sure he'd hear her.

"Then you're fine. I'm sure you're dying to see The Hound's lair. I haven't made too many changes from what it was like back then and I still use it." He rolled his eyes.

She was exited to see--enough so that the severed hand in her mind blurred and faded. She felt his eyeroll but didn't let it shame her. "Yeah," she admitted. "Your last artist never showed it. I figured you didn't know them very well."

"He never saw it. He didn't have my permission to write that comic. Followed me around. Just told the stories because he wanted to. I met him once. On his death bed." His voice fell to a grim tone. "The Deck killed him too, a few weeks after they killed me. For writing it. Mickey was his name."

George looked at the man in the driver's seat, recalling rumors on the internet about the artist. "There's a lot of speculation floating around about what happened to him. Now I know. I’m sorry that happened." It took her great restraint to keep from asking how Bloodhound was alive.

"He was a great man. He kept his wife and kid safe." He turned into an old parking garage. It was so old that it was short--the only parking above ground was the floor they turned onto. He drove to a ramp leading down underneath, turned and turned and turned--the parking garage seemed to go down for miles, floor after floor. With no lights on except the headlights of the car, Bloodhound drove mostly by memory.

The dark was infinite to George, and the hairless goosebumps on the back of her neck stood up thinking about what could be at the bottom.

The began to pass cars, lots of them. All different makes, models and colors. Sports cars and family cars. Each car was spaced a few parking spots from all the others and the final cluster of cars lasted for three more floors of the parking garage. When they finally reached the bottom floor, there was nothing but stairs leading down to the next room. He stepped out of the car and grabbed his mask and the black duffel bag in the back seat. "Are you coming, Puppy?"

Outside of where he parked he hit a button on a wall. “5 MIN” was written underneath it in sharpie, the amount of time the light would stay on. The buttons were spaced between every few cars, their wires duct taped to the concrete walls and ceiling until they all converged on a few lights that hung down. He’d done the work himself.

"Yes!" she said firmly. George would never leave him alone if she could help it, not now that she'd finally found him. She grabbed her bag from the floor of the passenger seat and hopped out of the car after him. The area smelled of gasoline and concrete, every familiar scent of a regular parking garage, but she knew well that these cars didn't belong to regular people.

"These are all yours, aren't they?" she asked him, looking around at them all. She took a grim liking to a hearse.

"Yes, every single one." He stepped down the stairs. They were tiled with a pale yellow but something told George they were once white. At the bottom of the stairs was what looked like a lobby. A few dilapidated benches were strewn about the sides and between two glass booths was a turnstile whose handle had be torn off and carelessly tossed to the side.

"This was a subway?" she asked, awed. Her internal map of the city had no memory of any line that ran out here. "I had no idea... how did you find this? How did no one else find this?"

She ran a hand through her hair, grinning now despite the smell of blood that was still hanging on Bloodhound.

"Did you drive down the same parking garage as me? No one wants to come down here. Come on, I'll show you the grand tour." He beckoned her, hopping down to the tracks and walking along them.

That was true enough. The garage above them was a hideous, sketchy wreck. She had to jog to keep up with him on the tracks, which were no longer hot with electricity. She watched her step in the near-blackness to keep herself from tripping.

Just around the corner was a train, several cars long. Wires and tubes stuck out of holes in the sides, connecting it to various external machines that George couldn’t identify. Bloodhound hopped up to enter the back door of the car.

George clambered up with all of the grace of a baby bird and looked inside. It was a house, train car by train car, and she had to assume he’d put it together himself.

“Coats and shoes off,” he told her, and set his mask and weapon down heavily on a wooden counter. He shrugged off his bloody wool coat and kicked off his boots.

George pulled her favorite sweatshirt off reluctantly and untied her sneakers. She praised herself for wearing layers, and gave him her Hound Sweatshirt and the baggy sweatpants she'd been wearing. Underneath she had a tank top and striped yoga pants, things meant to look completely different than the others in case she'd have to change her look fast. She'd seen that trick on TV before when people needed to avoid being identified.

"Good." He put both their clothes in a plastic tub. It reminded her of the ones used to send possessions through x-ray machines at airports. He slid it into a cabinet in the wall and closed and locked it. The purpose of this step eluded George, but Bloodhound continued his tour and beckoned her through. Next was the kitchen car. It was a little messy and consisted of mostly canned and nonperishable foods.

She was charmed by his home. It seemed brilliant to her, sprawling with the sense of connection that all subways had. The metal, the furniture--it was decorative, clever. She admired it all, smiling.

It was so far away from the bloody man on the floor missing a hand.

"I can't wait to paint this place," she told him, and set her bag down on the floor. Watercolors, she decided. She would use watercolors for his comic.

"You will do no such thing. You're not living here long enough to illustrate all of this," they had begun to walk through an entire car that seemed to be a full working bathroom with a sink, shower, and toilet. "You are just staying until you can return to your regular life." He began to walk fast as though he wanted out of the bathroom, not that the next car was any less embarrassing.

"But I have to paint this," she told him, her voice pleading for it while she followed after him quickly, as if he wouldn't be able to hear her. "It's, it's so clever. The colors and the light and the space... I don't need to live here to do that!"

"I said no!" his voice was quick and angry as he pushed into the next room. The bedroom. The bed was large, taking up more than the seat on the train would have, if it had any seats. The yellow patterned blanket was tossed atop white sheets with both pillows strewn about.

George stopped in the doorway to his bedroom car, alarmed by his shouting, realizing she had crossed some line or touched some nerve she should have left alone. "So, no letting this in the comic?"

"No, nothing in this place is will be in the comics."

"So, what?" she asked, trying to puzzle through what he wanted. She was a little gruff, unhappy at being denied the opportunity to paint his home, sullen at the reminder that he was not the hopeful hero she loved. "You want me to work some conversations into other settings?"

"If the need arises, yes. Like in the car. Though you must pick one car, and only draw that one." He looked to her sternly. "Am I understood?"

She nodded. "That makes sense. Alright. I'll do one of the common sedans." She thought about it, and when her thoughts came to her, so did the weight of the evening, and her disappointment. His violence and her culpability were heavy, made her sad. Made her difficult road more plain in her mind. Georgia leaned in the door frame and looked into his room. "Can I have a blanket?"

"Oh, yes." He hadn't entirely thought this through. In fact, he had completely neglected the idea of sleeping. This was his only bed and atop it, his only blanket. "You can use that one." He pointed to the bed and sat down at the tiny wooden desk with some papers and files strew atop it. He didn’t like to sleep immediately after working.

She came into the room hesitantly, skirting around and avoiding him. Maybe this was a bad time to rile him up. Maybe she should wait until he was calm to try to show him that people still cared. George sat down on his bed, tired. She hadn't slept since the previous night, catching Jaws. If she pushed it too much farther she’d be taking risks. "Thank you," she said, plucking at the fabric and pulling it up over her.

For a while she smiled and watched him work at his desk, happy to be in her hero's presence. She started to doze with a soft smile as the image of him sitting there blotted out all other thoughts.

Bloodhound watched his biggest fan on his bed with some disbelief. He hadn’t had a woman in his bed in years and years and he’d never had anyone in this underground place at all. Even though she was the annoying puppy at his heels he could already tell he was stuck with her, it was too late to ever be rid of her. He could smell her honesty and blind devotion--bad traits--even though he wasn’t The Hound anymore. If he hadn’t been able to tell that she meant what she said he would never have let her come with him, and now that she was here he knew he’d never be able to bring himself to get rid of her, just like adopting a puppy.

He would reserve judging himself too harshly. Instead he watched her resting.

George felt the bed shift in her sleep and opened her eyes a sliver. Saw Bloodhound. He was just a man now, and for once he wasn’t scowling, he looked relaxed. She lifted the corner of the blanket in a weak invitation that he share it with her. It was his to begin with, he deserved to get to use it.

He accepted. They shifted and scooted in the relative dark, and George wasn’t shocked when his hands grabbed for her hips and midsection. Bloodhound was aroused. Why? She was human, soft, and devoted to him.

“What’s up?” she asked sleepily, with a surprised smile. Her night had been terrifying and exhausting. It wasn’t a time when she was explicitly horny and begging for a fuck, but she could get in the mood even though it wasn’t the affectionate scene under the moonlight that she had often fantasized about. She got a pleasant grunt from him as a response.

He lifted her shirt up over her head. George had a baby blue sports bra on, and Bloodhound didn’t even bother to try to unlatch it. He pulled it up like it was a shirt and tossed it aside as well. She exhaled in amusement at his methods and helped him unbutton his shirt by touch and slide it off of him. He wasn’t taking her against her will, he was just taking her by surprise. Apparently they were going to fuck.

He wrapped a leg around her hip and pulled her lower body up against him. Bloodhound burned and wanted to grind against her and then some. A sharp little inhalation from George came when she felt his shaft through his tight underwear, her cheeks turned red like her lips. Her skin was cold to the touch and in need of warming up. He lay a hand on the side of her face and stroked her with his thumb, then tilted her head and pressed his lips to hers.

She froze up at first. What to do in this situation? For all that she loved The Hound, this man had proven himself to be a stranger. She did not love him, but for all that The Hound had done for her she was devoted. George kissed him back. She tasted like strawberry yogurt.

He bit at her tongue and lower lip, but broke the kiss to breathe and get out of his underwear.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” she apologized to him nervously while he shifted under the blanket and freed his erection. She had transcended most of her uncertainty and now all that was left to worry about was inadequacy. “It’s just been me and my imagination for… a few years…”

“Don’t worry about that,” he breathed heavily. He found her hips again with searching hands and tugged her pants and panties down together. When they were down he smelled her excitement and it hit him like a drug.

She figured that in the dark under the blanket he hadn’t seen any of the tiny white lines on her lower abdomen left by past surgeries. He’d see them eventually, and she would explain then that, among other things, they were why she didn't ask him to wear a condom.

Bloodhound was more aware than George gave him credit for and he did notice the scars when his fingers ran over them--he was not only gifted in scent, but all senses. The records of so many surgeries on her body were confusing--she wasn’t even thirty. But he didn’t want to ask, let alone interrupt the moment they were enjoying to do so. There were more important things on his mind, rolling her onto her back and finding his way between her legs. Her skin was softer than the sheets and except for her head she seemed hairless to the touch.

He inhaled and smelled all that he could smell. She may as well have been wearing her feelings on her sleeve, if she wasn’t naked. In his moment of hesitation, she wrapped her legs around his hips and smiled shyly in the dark. Rolling his cock on the outside of her wet labia felt so good. He paused for a moment at her entrance, feeling its heat before pressing it in roughly. Yes.

“Gentle!” she yipped. He grunted in assent and reined himself back.

Her reaction was to grab Bloodhound tightly, squeezing with her thighs and soon embracing him with her arms as well, sinking her nails into his short hair and scalp. Her body was out of practice, but it was a good pain to have someone inside of her, someone warm and full of energy. The next thrust came at the same time as a surprise kiss, and George moaned to him with a heavy shudder. More thrusts followed, faster than she could keep up with, faster than she could move with him, especially when he kept her trapped in a long kiss that limited her breathing. He couldn’t just slow down now. Not now, God no.

To George’s credit, she made a genuine effort to keep up. She was determined to give him that. But she had to turn her head and pull her lips from his teeth to catch her breath.

He watched her with dark, glittering eyes. In the low light all that was visible of him were his sclerae and the places on his body where light glanced off his sweat. It wasn’t much. “Are you okay, Puppy?”

It was decent of him to ask, and she shuddered pleasantly again at the nickname. “Yeah,” she panted. “Sorry, I, I was running out of breath.”

He slowed down, but not by too much, and pressed his lips to her temple. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck again.

"I want to save you," she whispered to him as she embraced him and trembled with him inside of her making her head swim with pleasure. "I need to help you. This... it wasn't really on my mind. I didn't think you'd want... to have sex. I just want you to know people care about you."

“Mm,” he acknowledged her. "I believe you. But they care about The Hound. I want them to care about Bloodhound."

With a long, slow stroke he pushed into her gradually to savor the sensation of parting her slick inner walls. “It's okay, Puppy. If you’re already tired we don’t have to last too much longer.”

Well, that was kind of embarrassing. She held on tight and hid her face in his neck, he picked up speed again. Slammed into her again and again. Every time he withdrew and she gushed more fluids onto his sheets he knew she was closer to orgasm. He was running low on self-control himself. Bloodhound reached between them and pressed his thumb to her clitoris, and she convulsed at once in pleasure and moaned. “Ahh! Hound… oh my god…”

“That’s not my name anymore,” he growled, rubbing her clit more aggressively for several seconds until she tensed up and came with a little mewling sound. He pumped into her three more times through her orgasm before he gave in and let himself release into her.

When he relaxed, she was still clinging to him like a shipwrecked sailor clings to flotsam. He rolled them both onto their sides and waited for her to loosen up while he enjoyed the feeling of going soft inside of her.

“Thank you Puppy. I needed this.”

“Yeah,” she panted. She knew.

“And don’t worry, you did just fine,” he added.

Only then did she start to ease up her grip. “Okay. Okay.”