A Girl and Her Bitch (Futa/M)

This is the first of many unfinished short stories that I hope to one day finish, but likely shall... something. A continuation of At the Dentist's (2nd POV story inspired by irradiatedd) that I started yesterday and finished today in a marvelous act of determination, influence, and boredness, this shall chronicle the adventures of a plucky dickgirl (futa or otherwise) and her faithful, underdog companion. It has not been beta'd at all, so if anyone capable of turning my mediocre skills into the next Dostoyevsky masterpiece feels like it, just ask PM me.

P.S. I don't plan on rereading this draft tonight.

Pre-story obligatory cleverness: He came from the rape. Now he comes for teh cawk. Dickgirl Assbangers 2 - The Asswreckoning.

Oh, and before I forget, here's the original file for those who like to read with wide borders. I know I do.

9:15.

He walked up to the door, and almost immediately turned back around. He would’ve left if he didn’t walk into someone who couldn’t have gotten that close unless she was running, and she wrapped her arms around him.

The hallway was bathed in a golden apricot, a sort of faux sophistication with violet red strips at the middle of the walls that stopped at the corners. The lamps overhead were probably good looking in their day, but now they just flickered and swayed as if they were going to crush anything unlucky enough to be under them. The strips of violet red were lucky to continue to the next corners or not to be interrupted by large cracks in the wall, unsightly breaks in the paint, or graffiti, and he was standing on the only section of carpet on the entire floor. He was positive. After walking around, looking for the room, he had circled it thrice to see the entirety of the floor in its lackluster glory.

He had been skeptical when she called him, even a little frightened when she took the initiative to *69 him to get his number. He hadn’t given it to her for a reason (but that was now moot). She told him to meet her at the old Vanbusen building in one of the shadiest parts of the city. It may have been Broadway back in its day, and the Vanbusen building may have been a theater once, a famous hotel for the stars and fame-hopefuls, but now it was a cheap residential cesspit for the homeless and rats, and people who had fallen on hard times despite it’s size. The windows were boarded up and trash littered the perimeter. He had ignored a few catcalls from prostitutes outside and around it on his walk there because, admittedly, he didn’t live very far from it. There were even a few deep-voiced prostitutes too; some who were obvious drag queens and others who it took a long hard stare at their package to realize that yes, they indeed had a package to realize they were, in fact, not the genuine article.

They weren’t who he was looking for. This… area, seemed to be