Date: Sun, 8 Sep 2019 22:21:51 +0000 (UTC) From: Mikhail Conrad Subject: HELPING HANDS Part 1 Chapter 1 This is a story about sex between adult men and male dogs. If that offends you then you know where the back button is. You must be 18+ to read this, if not go back now even if it doesn't offend you.This story is my intellectual property and may not be posted in any way or used for anything other than personal reading without my express permission. Archive;'Helping Hands #1'{Mikhail Conrad}( Mdog best )[1!6] HEY READERS! HELP NIFTY KEEP SUPPLYING YOU WITH THESE GREAT STORIES BY DONATING TO THE SITE AT: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Feel Free to contact me about this story at Mikhailconrad@yahoo.com HELPING HANDS Part 1 THE GREYHOUND BREEDER Chapter 1 AN UNUSUAL MEETING It was a really good day when I met Mr. Gatti. I had gotten a raise and a promotion. I was now a high limit parimutuel teller on the club house level at the local Greyhound racetrack. Being fast, efficient, friendly, and too good-looking for my own good had gotten me the job way out of my age group norm at the track. It was my very first shift when a venerable, handsome, tall, well- dressed man came up to my window and placed a two-thousand- dollar trifecta bet. I pressed the button on my teller machine to signal a supervisor that an over-normal high bet was being placed at my station and entered the bet without pausing. I could take anything up to a thousand dollars at my own discretion. I could refuse service to someone that was gambling up to a thousand dollars that was overly intoxicated for instance. As the machine began printing the ticket I glanced to my left and saw the supervisor. She gave me a smile along with a very slight nod of approval. The gentleman looked at me as I handed him his bet ticket. "Good luck sir," I said with a smile of my own. "Thank you, young man," he responded giving me a chin nod and then glanced at my supervisor, "Please call me Luca, or Mr. Gatti if you will. Sir is just a bit impersonal for my tastes for someone I'll be conversing with regularly. Mayzie will be right along to tell you that you don't need to get approval for my bets anymore. I'm not bragging, I'm predicting. Tell me if I was right when I come back to collect my winnings." He turned casually and slowly walked away. He had a most definite New York accent. Not heavy, but all of his a's were short a's and that gave it away. He was dressed in a dark charcoal grey suit that was obviously custom tailored. Lustrously polished black wing-tip oxfords, black alligator leather belt with a pewter greyhound head profile buckle, and a black dupioni silk shirt with a dark, blood-maroon, polished cotton-silk, paisley embossed tie completed his suit with an unashamed air of wealth and elegance. "His Italian family was one of the first to settle in New York, around 1720-something, I think is what he told me," Mrs. Aimes, AKA Mayzie, said quietly from behind my left ear. My head gave a small jerk of surprise as she startled me out of my visual appraisal of Mr. Gatti. I decided that was the name I'd use when I next encountered him, as he had so clearly also predicted. And then, right on cue... "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said and gave me a friendly double-pat on my right shoulder, "You had a curious look on your face. And you don't need to key me for approval on any more of Luca's transactions..., bets or pay-outs." "Uh-huh," I reacted with a chuckle. "What's so funny?" she asked, "What did that shark say to you?" "Oh, he just made some predictions," I answered, "Does he do that all the time?" "He's pretty self-confidant," she replied, and then asked me another question of her own, "What kind of predictions?" "Well, he more or less said we would be seeing a lot of each other," I answered, steering away from the prediction about her. I wanted to keep that between me and Mr. Gatti. I felt like he had implied it was a harmless secret when he made it and I went with it, adding to the misdirection, "And I swear, he talked like his trifecta bet was already won." "Don't be surprised if he does win it," Mrs. Aimes laughingly replied, "He is one of the main breeders of champion racing Greyhounds alive. He has probably been well acquainted with all three of his picks since they were pups and you can bet he's seen all three of them race, at least in practice. His status as an award- winning breeder gives him a lot more access to the Greyhound world than the normal tourist gambler. Don't let his age fool you Alan. He's sharp, and well educated. His accent is part of his heritage not his mentality. You'll see. He's right about the `seeing a lot of each other.' You're the new teller at high limit window number three here on the Club level. We keep this window open whenever the track is open because it's Luca's lucky number. He's also an expert adviser for the track board of directors. That should tell you something." "It tells me he makes a lot of intelligent bets," I said. "A lot of HIGH DOLLAR intelligent bets," she corrected me and pointed at the polished nickel countertop in front of my window, "And he doesn't tip bad either. Go ahead and pick that up and put it in your tip tray. Make sure you don't move to the right and block your security camera's view." I looked to where she pointed and saw a flat crisp new Ben Franklin on the counter halfway across the inlaid brass strip that separated my part of the counter from the customer side. I had full access to all parts of the counter. I could reach through my window to the customer side if called for, say with a guest in a wheelchair. There was a sign next to my window facing the customer's side that prohibited them from crossing the brass line as well as several other rules like `no knives or firearms.' I picked up the tip with financial-gain excitement and added it to the other tips I had received that day in my drawer. We couldn't pocket tips for security reasons. Well, we couldn't actually pocket them because we had no pockets on our uniforms. We had no pockets for security reasons. No purses, bags, sacks, belt pouches, or containers of any sort were allowed either, unless it was dropped off at the security window at the employee entrance first. They decided if it could be brought to where you wanted it. Birthday or celebration cakes were the most common items. Our employee IDs were as good as cash at any vendor except parimutuel betting at the track. Anything we spent just came directly out of our pay, and we got a discount. There were security cameras everywhere. Rumor had it that security had an expert lip reader on staff. They wanted us to mind our pee's and que's. They paid us enough to insure it too. "Luca will try to get to know you Alan," Mrs. Aimes added. She turned to walk away and then paused to look back at me, "He tries to get to know all the guys like you. If you're smart, you'll let him. Are you a smart BOY, Alan?" Her emphasis on the word boy made me give her sharp look but she already had her back to me walking away. She knew I was gay. I knew `she knew' when she called me in to interview me for the new position. I was a butch-jock type queer. I wasn't ever pegged for gay in the straight world, but the Chanel tweed business suited forty something had gaydar. I knew who taught it to her too. Don't argue with me. If your gaydar is good enough then you can teach it to even straight redneck guys if they are acceptant of gays. They don't have to `do it,' they just have to accept that some of us do `do it,' and that it's okay. I saw the framed picture of her instructor on the desk in her office. I recognized the beautiful hunk right away. He was one of the city's highest priced male escorts. An older flamboyant rich bottom (and proud of it) queen I knew from parties and the bars employed him from time to time. Mrs. Aimes called him son. I wondered if she knew what her own grown-up man-boy did for a living. Her question to me made me think she did. Her perception only went so far though. I had kept my sexual forays very private and closeted. I had to since most of them were with pet dogs, our family Golden Retriever and two of the neighbor's dogs, a German Shephard and a Collie. It was my really big secret. I thought that there might be others like me somewhere. I took a job at the track so I could be around dog people all the time. I thought that maybe I could ferret out another fellow dog lover if I hung around enough of them. I was sort of right. They found me. Toward the end of my shift I still hadn't seen Mr. Gatti again. It was almost time to close my window and do my close-out paperwork when the venerable man came walking up to my window with a ticket in hand. "Here you go...," he paused for my name. "Alan, Mr. Gatti," I added and pointed to my name printed on my clipped-on employee ID card and took his ticket. "Well you brought me luck today Alan," he continued, "I won my trifecta." "Congratulations Mr. Gatti," I said and ran his ticket through the machine. It processed very quickly and came back with a payout of over twenty-two thousand dollars. The track IRS office received an immediate notification. The cash and change dispensary behind me activated and dropped two currency straps of hundred-dollar bills and twenty single hundreds into the hopper rack. I collected them and collected the remaining amount from my drawer and counted it out across the brass line as the IRS worker showed up behind Mr. Gatti. I finished by placing the receipt next to the payout. "There you go Mr. Gatti," I said as he collected his winnings and put them into the inner chest pocket of his suit jacket, "Congratulations again!" "Thank you, Alan," he said with a smile and then asked, "Well...?" "Excuse me?" I queried back. "Was I right about Mayzie? Did she meet my expectations?" "Oh, yes sir," I said with a laugh and then corrected myself, "I mean Mr. Gatti. She sure did." "So, you've decided to call me Mr. Gatti I see," he observed, "I like the respect Alan. You seem to enjoy showing respect. Tell me Alan, do you like dogs?" He captured my eyes with his when he asked the question. He said, `dogs,' but my wishful thinking canine sex mind changed it to; `dog cocks.' I blushed and my eyes darted across his face barely maintaining eye contact. His one-sided lecherous smile let me know he saw right through me. "Dogs are amazing creatures Alan," he stated when I didn't answer while eyeing me intently, "Especially the big male Greyhound racers. Watching them race is just one way to experience their raw energy. You have the look of a dog lover. Do you have one of your own?" "Uh... I am... I am Mr. Gatti. I mean, I am a dog person," I stammered, "I don't own a pet currently. My brother took our family dog to his house this year so he can live out his final years in the peaceful countryside." "It sounds like you miss him. You did say `He,' didn't you?" "Yes," I affirmed with my own sly grin as I caught on to this new kind of innuendo game, "He was all male." "Maybe if you have an off day this weekend, you can meet me here at kennel building 2, stall 17," Mr. Gatti offered and pushed a stack of bills up to the brass line, "There's an animal I want to wish good luck. Would you like to join me?" "I'm off on Saturday," I told him, "That would be great." "I'll see you then," he said and walked away talking to the tax agent, "Come on Nolan, time for Uncle Sam's pound of flesh." A pair of security guards came by and signaled me to close. I raked my tip in and saw that it was the remaining amount of his winning payout over the twenty-two thousand. It was almost three-hundred dollars, more than I had collected all day long. Then I realized I didn't get a time for us to meet. I resolved to show up at 6am opening time at the kennels and wait all day if I had to. I closed out my station with raunchy Greyhound sex fantasies tumbling in my thoughts. Thankfully I still balanced out to the penny. I needn't have worried. Mr. Gatti showed up at my window every day for the rest of the week. The next day, Wednesday, he asked if 10am would be convenient for me. I agreed to that. On Thursday he asked me if I would like to join him for lunch after our meeting. I agreed to that. On Friday, the last day before our scheduled meeting, he asked me if I would like to visit with him at his breeding estate 50 miles out of the city for cocktails after our outing. I agreed to that too. All the time I was waiting for more dog innuendos, but he never made direct mention of dogs again the whole week. I began to think that my twisted sexuality had led me to think things that weren't true. Maybe the old man was just gay and warm for my form. I could deal with that too, but Mr. Gatti put me right back on track when he came by my window at closing with another winning ticket. "Maybe you can tell me just what it is you like about dogs tomorrow when we meet Alan," he said as I paid him his winnings, "I think we have plenty of time scheduled to learn a lot about each other. Think about it and be specific." He left me with another big tip and walked away leaving me too rattled to respond. If the impeccable Mr. Gatti thought that I was going to come right out and claim my sexual attraction to dog cock, then he had another think coming. The idea of talking to anyone about my bestiality kinky side was altogether too much outside of my emotional comfort zone. I wasn't about to open myself up to that much vulnerability. I had a hell of a time getting to sleep that night. I tossed and turned until I finally got out my box of toys. I ended up double dildoing my ass with two eight inchers and nutted big time. I fell asleep after that workout laying on my back with my cum splattered across my chest and abs cooling from the ceiling fan. I woke up with my front side all dried cum crusty. The lube I had used with the dildos had dried also and pulled stingingly at the hairs around my asshole and in my crack. I headed for the shower. As soon as the spray began to warm, I stepped in and let loose with my morning stream of piss while the spray dissolved the cum flakes. I turned around and let the shower wash away the lube crust on my ass. I spread my cheeks with both hands to rinse the now goopy remains from my hole. I continued casually showering and before I rinsed all the suds away, I turned the valve on the shower head and diverted the water into the hose attachment. I had replaced the hose spray nozzle with a bullet head and used it to clean myself out thoroughly, stepping out repeatedly to empty the douching into the toilet. I turned the valve back to spray and finished my shower. I dried off, wrapped my towel around my waist, brushed my teeth, and shaved. I dressed in a white narrow band jockstrap under grey linen shorts with a white polo shirt. I finished with a grey web belt and my grey top siders worn sockless. I looked in the mirror and was satisfied that my appearance wouldn't offend the dapper Mr. Gatti. On the way to the track, I went through a drive-thru for coffee and a croissant. I pulled into the employee lot and finished my meal while enjoying the car's air conditioning. It was only nine- thirty and already over ninety degrees. Today was going to be a scorcher. I lowered my sunglasses and headed for the security entrance to the kennel compound. The track kennels were comprised of four long cinderblock buildings positioned outside the end of the racetrack behind the big electronic sign board overlooking the final two turns. Buildings 3 and 4 had one side facing the track. Building 2, my destination, was the furthest one away. I went through the security checkpoint showing my ID card and then clipping it on my shirt. I made my way around the walker's paddock and followed the walkway between buildings 1 and 3. The whole distance was a major distraction for me. There were greyhounds of every color being groomed and walked all around me. Most of them had fat plump sheathes between their legs with a hefty pair of balls backing them up. There were plenty of bitches in the mix, but my eye disregarded anything without a sheathed dog cock. As I got closer to building 2, I began to see dogs with shiny red cock tips sticking out of the end of their sheathes. My dick throbbed and started to engorge. I was thankful that I had decided to wear a jockstrap today. It helped to constrain my swelling cock. Stall 17 ended up being on the outer side of building 2. There were only three more past it and they were all empty. I was still about fifteen minutes early, but Mr. Gatti was already there with another man who appeared to be around thirty-something. They were talking while looking into the stall. A pickup truck with a dog cage trailer attached was parked next to the stall. Mr. Gatti noticed me and motioned me over. "Alan, glad you could make it," he said shaking my hand and introducing me to the other man, "This is Drake Weston, one of the most talented trainers in the area." "Nice to meet you Alan," he said also shaking my hand, "just call me Drake." Drake shook my hand a little longer than a normal handshake took. I caught him scoping me out with fast glances at my legs, crotch, chest, and shoulders. He was assuredly a connoisseur of men. He was a nice physical specimen himself with curly brown hair, bright grey eyes, and gym toned arms. His smile told me that he had caught me checking him out too. "We were just waiting on you Alan," Mr. Gatti said with that lopsided smile of amusement that could only be from noticing Drake and mine's visual interactions, "Everything's ready. Go get him Drake. Take a look at this bitch Alan." Mr. Gatti motioned me to the gate to stall 17. I stepped over to the gate and looked into the stall to see a fawn colored Greyhound with her head bent around licking at her snatch. I was taken back by the implications. Just as I was about to say something, Drake nonchalantly moved me aside with a smile and opened the gate. I looked at him as he bent over beside me. He had a blue (the designation for Greyhound gray) colored dog on a lead. I couldn't see to determine the dog's sex from where I was, but the size indicated a male. And the dog was excited. He fairly shook with nervous energy. Drake unhooked the lead and the dog bolted into the stall. Drake stood up and shut the gate. He motioned me to join him as he and Mr. Gatti put their hands on the top of the four-foot stall wall and looked into it. I was left looking over the gate. The first thing I saw was that the blue, who was absolutely a male with big hanging nuts, had taken over licking the female's cooch. My thoughts were spinning around and I was caught up in feelings of shock, embarrassment, curiosity, and a bit of indignation. I mean, who invites someone to watch two dogs fuck without any warning of what is going to happen? I'll tell you who..., Mr. Gatti. Before I could sort my thoughts, the male mounted the female clasping her slender waist aggressively with his forelegs. She took a firm stance and pushed back into his humping hips. The backend of the male was a blur of brisk spirited thrusts. I could tell by a lurch from the female that he had penetrated her. He fuck- pistoned her for a good two minutes before he began to slow. He started panting heavily as his lunges slowed. The bitch stood solidly and held still. You could tell she wanted this fuck. She must have been deep in heat. "Watch this Alan," Mr. Gatti said drawing my mind away from the dog fuck, "Stormcloud is the most graceful turning dog I've ever seen." Sure enough, the male hiked up his right back leg and gave a hop off the bitch's back. He ended up on all fours ass to ass with her, leaning forward pulling at her cunt to put pressure on his knot for his own pleasure. While his move was smooth and nimble, the female's response wasn't. She squirmed and whined, nuzzled at the joined area, whining more as the knot pulled on her locked tight vagina. "He's got a big knot," Drake said and elbowed me laughing, "She'll get used to it by tonight, just in time for her owner to pick her up." "So let's wish her luck," Gatti said and opened the storage room door beside the kennel stall and stepped inside. He emerged promptly with a rectangular wooden tray bearing three rocks glasses and a bottle of Glen Alba scotch. I was torn between watching Stormcloud breed and what Mr. Gatti was doing. He set the tray on top of the wall and poured a good heavy-handed shot into each glass and handed one to me and then one to Drake. He lifted his glass up to us. "Here's to a good strong healthy litter from Lady Bric-a-brac," he toasted. "Here, here!" Drake added. I nodded to Mr. Gatti and downed the scotch along with them. Drake collected the glasses and tray and returned them to the storage room. Mr. Gatti gave me an appraising look as we continued to watch Stormcloud cum into his bitch, Lady Bric-a- brac. "I believe you really do like dogs Alan," he said deliberately staring at the bulge in my shorts. I could feel the tight constraint of my jock holding back my bent throbbing prick. I blushed because of Mr. Gatti's observance. I felt like I should say something but stood there tongue-tied and embarrassed. I felt an immediate need to flee but was saved that humiliation by Drake joining us again from the storage room. He also took a good look at my obviously tumescent dick. I instinctively moved my right hand to hide my growing dilemma. "It gets me every time too, Alan," Drake said smiling with his hands spread palm outward by his hips, "Don't worry about it. There's nothing wrong with a healthy sex drive pal." I looked between his hands to see a big long cock bulge angling from the base of his jean's zipper almost all the way to his right hip. The man was hung, thick and long. The denim hid whether he was uncut or not, but I saw the fabric move as his erection lurched. My mouth was dry, and I still couldn't get it together enough to say anything. "You done here Luca?" he asked as he turned to put his crossed arms on top of the four-foot wall to watch the ongoing breeding. "Yeah, we're through," Mr. Gatti replied, "Are you bringing him home?" "Yes, I'll let them have another two rounds and then I'll bring him. I'm guessing around sevenish. That okay?" "It'll be fine Drake," Mr. Gatti said, "Come on then Alan, I'm ready for our lunch. A good breeding always gives me an appetite." "See ya around Alan," Drake said with a single hand wave. "Nice to meet you," I managed to stammer back still darting glances at his big package. I followed beside Mr. Gatti back the way I had come in. He didn't say a word the whole walk back to the parking lot. As soon as he went out the gate a black limo pulled up in front of him. A short pudgy driver got out and came around to open the back door. "I made reservations at the Cattleman's Club if that's all right with you," he told me as he moved to get into the limo, "Do you need a ride?" "I've never eaten there so I'll just trust you. I know where it is though, and I have my car. Can I meet you there?" "I'll see you there," he stated as he sat down. The driver closed the door, went back around the car, got in, and drove away. I walked across the lot to my car and headed off after him. Thoughts were careening through my mind for the duration of the ten-mile drive. What did he want from me? Why in the hell would he have invited me to a dog breeding with someone I didn't know being there too. Should I just take off and ditch him? I couldn't do that. I had my job to consider. Was I in any danger, or was I just freaking out over the whole scene? He had to want something from me. He was deliberately teasing me. To what end? Maybe I could fake getting sick and get out of the whole social engagement. If I did that, I would never find out what the fuck was going on. Okay..., okay, I could keep the faking sick plan in case I needed to bail. I'd go to lunch and see just what the game was. I felt more relieved now that I had a plan, but my goddamn dick still throbbed with blood pumping through it from the memory of the dog fuck. I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned and unzipped my shorts with one hand while I drove. I reached into my jock pouch and positioned my semi-hard dick straight up under the waistband. My cockhead peeked out over the strap and got even firmer. I sighed and zipped back up just as my turn into the restaurant parking lot came up. I chose to park myself and saw Mr. Gatti's limo at the front door as a valet got in the driver's seat to park it. I stood in the concealment of my open car door to tuck my shirt back in properly and rebuckle my belt. I walked briskly to the double glass door entry and went in as the doorman opened one of them for me. I was nervous, anxious, and excited all at the same time. My hard-on still throbbed in my jock but remained held upright by the elastic strap across my cockhead. At least I wouldn't be showing a boner bulge in public. The restaurant host took one look at me and motioned for me to follow him. He led me to a booth in the back of the room that was full of assorted well-dressed people dining, drinking, and chatting. I was pleased to notice that several younger men were wearing dressy shorts and polo shirts like me. Mr. Gatti looked like he was going to stand when I got to the booth. "No, don't get up," I told him as I slid into the mahogany leather booth opposite him and added, "I like this place. The décor is fantastic." "It better be," Mr. Gatti said, "They charge enough. Everything should be gold plated, but the food is excellent. For you, I'd recommend the house ribeye. It's the best steak in town." "That's what I'll have then," I told him, "What are you having?" "I'm getting the veal parmigiana," he answered, "I swear it's my mother's recipe. The chef denies it though." "I take it you eat here often?" "Four to ten times a week for the past ten years, less before that, but still what you would call often," he answered, "My father financed the original owner. His granddaughter has the place now. Her husband is the head chef. The lowest health score they've ever gotten was a 99. The chef pitched a fit and had the whole place cleaned and remodeled in two weeks." "Wow!" I said with a laugh, "That's pretty high standards." "That's why I eat here Alan, high standards," I hope my own high standards don't throw you off." "Not at all," I assured him, "I admire them. It's something to strive for to me. I don't have the kind of money to have standards like yours, but maybe one day... "Resources do affect standards," he noted, "It's easy to deride a thief for stealing when you have a warm place to stay and plenty of food." Our whole meal went like that. He would make a comment or tell me a short tale and we would talk about it. The conversation never touched on dogs. The food was excellent, and Mr. Gatti talked me into splitting an order of crème brulee with him. Then the meal was over, and the waiter brought the check. I reached for my wallet in my back pocket and Mr. Gatti gave me a frigid stare. "Don't even try it Alan," he said, "You're my guest. Any time we go somewhere in the future you will be my guest. I insist. Do we have a problem?" "No sir," I shot back spontaneously. "There you go with the sir again," he said with a laugh as he signed the ticket after writing a tip amount on it and waved the waiter back, "I like the respect, but it's oh so formal for the type of relationship I'm aiming for with you. Maybe I can use it. Would you like that Alan? Do you like calling me sir?" It was the first anywhere near sexual comment he had made throughout our lunch. The waiter gave me a surreptitious wink as he took the bill case back from Mr. Gatti and walked away, having heard the last two questions. It didn't bother me. I had pegged him as a fellow cocksucker when he first introduced himself. Now he had pegged me thanks to Mr. Gatti. "Just what are you getting at Mr. Gatti," I asked finally resolved to get some answers, "What kind of relationship do you mean?" "I don't want anything sexual with you Alan. I'm pretty sure you don't want any of that from me. Do you?" "I don't think so," I answered quietly to avoid anyone overhearing us, "I don't want to be rude or hurtful. I'm just not sure it would work for me. I don't want to be a hustler or an escort either." "Nobody's asking you to," he said just as circumspectly and started to get up out of the booth, "I think we can be friends Alan..., good friends. I can help you out if you'll let me. We can talk about this with more privacy at my place. Do you need the restroom or to stop for gas?" I did need a pit stop to take a leak. So did Mr. Gatti. He didn't even stand next to me at the second urinal. He used the commode stall. Outside the restaurant his limo pulled up before the door shut behind us. "I'll have Bob wait on you to follow us," he told me and handed me a business card, "Here's my cell number just in case." The card was black. It had `GATTI KENNELS' in bold silver engraving across the top. `The World's Finest Racing Greyhounds' was in smaller italic silver letters underneath it. At the bottom was an address and the cell number also in silver engraving. A Greyhound head in profile exactly like the belt buckle Mr. Gatti wore regularly was embossed on the card. I hurried over to my car as the limo pulled into my parking lane past my car waiting on me to follow. I won't recount the crazy imaginings that filled my head on the forty-five-minute trip. Just to suffice it to say that most of them were about Greyhound dog sex. I had finally lost my erection during lunch, but now it was back with a vengeance. I wished that I had told Mr. Gatti not to wait on me, that I could just use my GPS. That way I could have pulled off somewhere to jerk-off and get my dick under control. But I hadn't, so I just dealt with it, readjusting myself over and over trying to get the rampant organ into a comfortable position. My jockstrap made it impossible as the mesh strained to hold my engorged cock in place. Down a nicely manicured country road we came to a wrought iron gateway. `GATTI KENNELS' stood out in brass colored letters across the gate. It divided between the two words and the gates automatically opened inwards. I followed closely behind the limo and saw the gates closing in my rear-view mirror. We crested a small rise in the wide driveway and a Tuscan masterpiece of architecture dominated the scenery. Dozens of tall thin pointed cypress trees framed the house and bold blocks of flower gardens amid lush green lawn gave it an elegant air. It was stunning. "Just leave your keys in the car," Mr. Gatti said loudly to me as I got out, "Bob is going to take it to get it washed and detailed and fill up your tank. He'll have it back long before I've even shown you half of the kennels." I opened my mouth to object. "Don't forget that you are my guest Alan," Mr. Gatti cut me off, "If your car comes back with a single new scratch, dent, or scrape I'll buy you a new one. Will that work?" "Thank you, Mr. Gatti," I said resigning myself to his generosity. "That's better Alan," he said walking toward me and pointing back behind me, "Would you mind driving?" An elderly man in a dark green jumpsuit pulled up behind me in an almost silent electric golf cart. Mr. Gatti got in the passenger seat and waited on me to join him. I sat down and checked out how the thing operated. There was a steering wheel, and on the floorboard a flat plate at my right foot and a regular brake pedal to its left. "I think I can handle it," I answered. "The estate is much too large for me to walk it," he explained, I hope you don't mind." "Not at all. Where to?" Mr. Gatti directed me around the house onto a six-foot-wide concrete pathway that led to another gate that opened as we approached. Mr. Gatti had activated it using his cell. This one was in a black plastic coated eight-foot tall chain link fence. It enclosed more than an acre of closely cut grass with a single-story Tuscan styled building stretching over eighty feet long in the middle of the field. I could see definite kennel fences attached to each end of the structure. The middle of the building had an open archway drive-thru entrance. I was instructed to pull right in. We came to a stop with open hallways leading through the building, one on each side. There was a smell of freshly washed concrete in the air and I saw two workers at the far end inside the right corridor using push squeegees. Mr. Gatti led me to the other hall. On our left the building was open without walls. Five square Tuscan columns were spaced evenly dividing the space into six eight-foot sections with an arched window opening to the front lawn. Each divided area had a shelf unit in front of the window that displayed various trophies, plaques, and ribbons. There were other items there too. I could see stools, pads, and even a bench in one alcove with a clear dog cone collar resting on it. Hooks on the columns held brushes, leads, harnesses, and the occasional muzzle. On the right, the room did have walls, six-foot high ones, dividing the space into eight-foot wide wrought iron fenced kennels. Each kennel had a doggie door on the far side that opened to a back area I hadn't seen. There was a Greyhound in each stall, every one a full-grown male, all standing behind the bars wagging their tails and looking at Mr. Gatti. The smell of dog was very faint. "These are my champion breeding studs Alan," Mr. Gatti told me while he reached into a canvas bag hanging on one of the hooks, "They were all once winners at major racing events across the world. Now they are retired. They are all over five-years old and past their racing prime. The empty stall at the end down there is Stormcloud's kennel. You saw him earlier. Most of these dogs were born here at my kennels. When I sell them for racing, I add a stipulation in the contract that when they are sold after they are retired that I can buy them by matching whatever price they go for. Racing owners have to agree to it if they want to buy from me, and they do want to buy from me. My dogs are raised with high standards." "This place is amazing Mr. Gatti," I said as he gathered a handful of bone-shaped treats from the bag, "There's what... seven stalls on each side. Are they all occupied? You keep fourteen dogs?" "No, no, Alan," he answered laughing and started down the hall stopping to give each dog a treat and scratch under the neck, "These are just the breeding studs. There are twelve other buildings on the estate. The whelping kennel is much larger. I currently have 27 pups of various ages from two days old to thirteen weeks. I keep them until they are fifteen weeks old. Most breeders say that twelve weeks is long enough, but I like to keep them long enough to make sure they are house broken and lead trained. It also gives me time to get to know them. Not all Greyhounds are right for racing and not all of them are right for house pets. I like to make sure that my dogs get placed in the right environment, more of my high standards." "I'm impressed," I told him, "I bet it takes a lot of people to run this place." "There are currently nine employees for the kennels..., no wait, I always forget about Dr. Yates," he told me, "He's our staff vet, so that makes ten." "I guess you don't get much privacy," I observed. "You're wrong Alan," he responded, "You can't see the house from here. Trust me, I designed it that way when I remodeled after my father passed away. Behind this kennel, the chain link fence continues. It encloses fifty-eight acres and all the other kennels. You can't see any of this from the house. The employee entrance is on the other side of the estate and they aren't allowed outside the fence. I also employ three people for my personal needs at the house. Bob, my driver, lives in the carriage house along with Gifford, my groundskeeper. You saw him earlier. He brought the cart to us. He has a group of college kids that work for him on Mondays and Tuesdays. The other employee is Alda. She's my housekeeper. She works on Mondays and Wednesdays. Thursday through Sunday I have all the privacy I need. Bob comes when he's called. Gifford is never around the house without letting me know well in advance. Now tell me, what is it you like about dogs, Alan?" His question came as a complete surprise. He looked at me standing in front of him blushing and too flipped out to answer. He walked across to an alcove and picked up a short wooden stool. He brought it up to the nearest kennel and sat on it right by the fence. The dog on the other side stuck his muzzle through the bars and Mr. Gatti stroked his head. The whole time he never took his eyes off of me. "Well, you've had all night and today to think about it. You knew I was going to ask you this question. Don't you have at least one reason you can tell me about why you like dogs?" "I..., I..., uh..., its...," I stammered still unsettled by the turn of the conversation. "Let me help you out," Mr. Gatti said with a laugh, "They're friendly. You like that about them, don't you?" "Yes!" I said gladly relieved, "I do like that." "And what else?" he asked. "They are loyal," I told him gratefully keeping to good general dog traits, "And they don't lie." "I think that should be; CAN'T lie, Alan," Mr. Gatti replied, "They don't have the capacity. I'm adding that one to my list too. What else?" "I like their fur. It's soft and warm. And I like their physical beauty. They are strong and sturdy. I admire the more athletic dogs the most. I'm a jock at heart and I guess I can relate to them best." "No wonder you look at Greyhounds the way you do," he said still petting the dog but keeping his eyes on me, "They are the most athletic of all the breeds." "I think so too," I agreed with him. "Is there anything you admire the most about them?" he asked and began to stroke the dog's chest. His quiet question caused me to look under the dog at his sheath. This Greyhound had a thick short cock cover. He was brindle and his chest and underside were white. I couldn't see his balls because from my angle his left haunch hid them. I could tell he was a big boy in the schlong department though. I felt my cock start to harden again. I looked back at Mr. Gatti and saw that he had seen exactly what I had been looking at on the dog. "I think I know what it is you like the most about them Alan," he quietly informed me and reached under the dog with one hand and started to slowly stroke his sheath, "Go ahead, tell me what it is. You can tell me, Alan." My mouth went dry and my cock felt like a trapped animal straining against the mesh of my jock. Mr. Gatti kept his eyes locked to mine as his sheath strokes made the dog's red cocktip peek in and out of its covering. I couldn't keep my eyes from darting back and forth between him and the dog cock. "Come here Alan," he softly instructed me when I didn't answer him, "Come over here." I nervously took the three steps that separated us. He motioned me to get down with his right hand while he caressed the dog's sheath with his left. He took my right hand in his and guided it through the bars to the dog's cock. He used his fingers to position my hand under his left one and moved it slowly back and forth. I felt the boner in the sheath and my dry mouth started to moisten. I felt a pulse in my hand and the sheath encased cock in it grew a bit. There was now a good two inches of dog prick sticking out of its covering. Mr. Gatti withdrew his hands and left masturbating the dog to me. "His name is Dancing Dervish," Mr. Gatti almost whispered in my ear, "You like him don't you Alan?" I nodded my head yes and continued to stroke the dog's cock through his sheath keeping my eyes on it. I could feel the beginnings of his knot with my thumb as I moved the hairy foreskin in my hand back and forth. I felt like my cock was going to come ripping out of my shorts in some kind of Hulk-like transformation. "Tell me what you like about him Alan," Mr. Gatti repeated, "Tell me and I can see to it that you can get it whenever you want it. All you have to do is tell me." "His..., his ca..., I like his cock!" I finally blurted out rapidly, "I fucking love dog cock! I'm a slut for dog dick! Is that what you want to hear? Are you happy now?" "Hush!" he told me, "Relax Alan. You needed to be able to say it so we can talk about it. Hell, boy, I'm a..., what did you call it..., a slut for dog dick? Well, I'm one too, an old one. I don't get to participate much anymore, but when I see a young zew, like you, I want to help them. I know what you're going through. And I have the facilities and resources to help you out. I only want one thing. I want to watch. I don't think that's unreasonable. Your secret's safe with me. Get that lead over there and put it on Dervish. Let's take him back to the house and we can talk." I slowly looked up at Mr. Gatti. He didn't have that devilish lopsided grin. He had a warm friendly smile on his face this time. I let go of the dog and stood up to get the leash. END OF PART 1, CHAPTER 1