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Raped by the Rottweiler, by Jezebel Rose

Perhaps ironic, Jamie did not blame Mr. Jackson. She felt other things, yes: hatred, rage, disgust… as well as, despite everything…does reconcilable emotions: devotion, need, longing. How could she not on some level long for the man who knew her core being so utterly, who accepted her, who had molded her?

She had always regarded him in a different light compared with other grown-ups. He was handsome, but not in any GQ way. She knew her mom had a crush on him, and that alone spoke volumes. Jamie could see why–there was no mistaking his presence or strength. He was when he chose to be, ruthlessly charming. She often wondered if he had twisted her mother around his finger from the beginning to have easier access to her, Jamie.

Extra weight to his comments, his bits of strategically placed approval, justified words of reproach. However, the most noticeable difference between Mr. Jackson and other grown-ups, other men, became apparent after Jamie started to develop. Jamie’s tits developed early and in earnest. Massive, firm tits swaying from her chest before most of her girlfriends had even sprouted nubs. The moronic comments from the boys were easy to shrug off, the taunts from the girls less so. However, the reaction of men was the most unsettling.

There were two camps, the sneaks, and the pervs. The sneaks stole furtive peaks and glances whenever they could, eyes darting away whenever she became aware. The pervs were oddly less annoying. They held their glances and might try to catch her eye. At first, she would blush and turn away, but soon she realized that the easiest way to defuse a perv was to match his gaze, and then he would be the one shuffling away.

The worst reaction by far was from her dad. It was as though she ceased to exist, in a physical way, anyway. Her childhood in his embraces, his warm affection, his sweet, good night hugs. Gone. It was as if she emitted toxic rays or something. He stopped looking at her at all.

Mr. Jackson? He seemed very unfazed by her changes. He never stopped looking at her, did not treat her differently, did not avoid her or seek her out, and continued to talk to her in that easy grown-up way, even if the tone and tenor of his gazes did change. His looks made her squirm with long, unhurried looks that lingered over her form, her tits, her ass, her legs with calmness and openness that made her tingle. In addition, made her, in an odd sense, feeling for whom she was, for who she was becoming.

The real reason Jamie could never blame Mr. Jackson, could never, despite everything, wish him out of her life, was that he was the reason for Biggy. Biggy, Mr. Jackson’s adorable, furry, big black Rottweiler. When he first moved in, Jamie had squealed with delight, the dog she was never allowed living right next door. However, typically, her mother had strictly forbidden her from going over to bother the neighbor over “that stupid dog,” And then the impossible: Mr. Jackson realized her interest in Biggy and had slowly worked his magic.

Not only was Jamie allowed the occasional visit, over the years her mother gave her blessing to Biggy being Jamie’s surrogate dog. Jamie was allowed to feed Biggy, take him for walks. She did not even mind cleaning up after him. It seemed completely natural, not at all gross or disgusting as if her girlfriends said it was. She became Biggy’s official dog walker. She was entrusted with the keys to Mr. Jackson’s house and took care of Biggy when he was away.

During that summer, the summer, she was over at Mr. Jackson’s more than ever. She grew tired of the boys fumbling over her, of her girlfriends being malicious and backstabbing, of the grown-ups being so incredibly lame and treating her so differently. Biggy was perfect. He adored her. Barked and generally went crazy the second he saw her. They would wrestle around the yard through long, warm afternoons. He listened to everything she told him. Kissed her face with slobbery dog kisses that she increasingly loved. When he was worn out, she could rest her head on the barrel of his chest and read while he slept in the shade.

Mr. Jackson was excellent, too. Never complained about her being around. Gave her and Biggy plenty of space. There was an edge to him that made her mind her manners, but an affectionate side that made her feel welcome.

The first hint of what would follow happened during the late afternoon. She and Mr. Jackson were talking by the front door, something about his needing her to look after Biggy that weekend. Jamie remembered Mr. Jackson’s eyes being more intensely on her than usual. She remembered what she was wearing: tight white cotton shorts that were form fitting snug and a sky blue halter top with built-in cups so no need for a cumbersome bra. Barefoot. Biggy trotted over from them, and while she was squirming a bit under Mr. Jackson’s gaze, Biggy unceremoniously stuck his nose right into Jamie’s mound. It was not as he had never done that before. He did it a lot, actually, and Jamie would just shove his head away and sometimes even roll her eyes if he was being persistent.

This time he did it right in front of someone. In addition, not just someone, but Mr. Jackson. Jamie blushed crimson, pushed her hands and arms down over her thighs and said, “Biggy!”

To her astonishment, Mr. Jackson replied, “He just smells you. Why are you embarrassed?”

Please purchase this story and support me as an author! Thank you! ~ Jezebel Rose

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