Poodle-wacky

She adores the pink poodle. I didn’t ask why, but the second I unzipped its belly, the answer hummed against my palm. She keeps the toy tucked there, smooth, heavy, waiting for its master. I leave the poodle on the bed, unzip just far enough to work the switch, and press the vibrating shaft to her mouth. Her tongue curls around it, slow and lavish, the same way she savors silk between her teeth. I guide the damp toy lower, parting her lips with steady pressure until it sinks inside, the poodle’s plush legs brushing her inner thighs while the hum rises and falls. Her fingers grip the plush ears, knuckles whitening, every stuttered breath lost inside its fur.