#107203 - Wake up, cunt! As if dredged up from a grave, it rose into full consciousness, bereft of self and yet light of spirit, nothing existing except the pressure of the bladder and the need to follow Master Tark out of the car, and obey Master Tark who wore a leather jacket and construction boots that he, slave Bobby, bitch and pig and dog and cunt, loved to lick. The moon seemed pocked and dirty like a piece of dried rotted meat a dog would find in a trash can, and it became aware of hunger in its stomach, and if allowed it would have scavenged in the dark, searched garbage cans for that discarded meat, scraps of food rejected by human owners. As he watched Master Tark fidget on the seat, ruffling papers, putting out half-smoked cigarettes and lighting another, his caged cock strained against its restraint.
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