Crowds of people stream into the National Exhibition Centre—owners, handlers, fans—and canines, of course, of every imaginable shape, size, and hairstyle. As the queues diverge into competitors and non-competitors, we part ways with Alan and Sandra and Mrs Gregson. The latter produces a small piece of dried sausage from fuck knows where for Elsa to snaffle from her hand. So that explains the weird smell in the back of the car. Alan hugs his son.
“Sock it to them, love,” he says. “I’d tell you to go out there and make your mother proud, but you’ve done that so many times already.”
And then it’s just us. The warm unmistakable buzz of excitement hits me about the same time as Gerald, if his hand slipping into mine and giving it a hard squeeze is any indicator. Tail up and chin up, Elsa trots nonchalantly at our feet. She’s already decided she’s going to wipe the floor with the competition. Once we approach the entry booth and Gerald fishes the tickets out of his pocket, I catch a glimpse of our reflections in a glasspanel. Me: slim, antsy, and forever shorter than I’d like, with one hand wrapped in Elsa’s lead, the other wrapped in Gerald’s, and our rucksack on my back. Beside me, Gerald stands tall, broad, and calm, holding his wrist out for his competitor’s free entry armband.
“And now your partner,” says the man behind the counter. My ticket is free too. Elsa puts her paws up on the counter to deliver a tongue-lolling doggy grin. The guy flashes a smile. “Human, not dog.”
I step forward with a surge of pride. “That will be me. I’m his partner.” Not in dog dancing, maybe, but ineverything else.
In whispered dreams, chaotic mornings, in big warm hands reaching out in the still of night. In joy, in laughter bouncing off walls, in silent glances when no words are needed. In disagreements, too, because pedantic Gerald likes things a certain way and, on occasion, I can be really fucking annoying. In the small ordinary moments, like clearing up dinner, and also in all the whopping, extraordinary ones, like now.
My matching armband slides onto my wrist, and Gerald takes my hand again.
Together, we stroll into Crufts.
Partners. In everything.
GERALD–12 HOURS LATER…
Judging from the empty champagne bottle and an inability to locate my inhibitions—if anyone finds them, keep them—I may have drunk a fraction more than my liver is used to.
But I can let loose once in a while, can’t I? After all, it’s not every day you win first prize at the world’s biggest dog show.
The win and subsequent champagne may also explain why I’m naked, except for the navy satin shirt half hanging from my shoulders. And also why I’m sashaying into the bedroomwith a gold rosette tied in a bow around my erect knob. At a sensible volume (I’m drunk, not a nuisance neighbour), the Scissor SistersTa-Dahalbum accompanies my impromptu X-rated performance.
My audience of eight million has narrowed down to a rapt audience of one.
Alaric, sprawled on the bed with a leg cocked and his thighs open, is also gloriously naked. His unadorned knob is in one hand, and a glass of champagne rests on his belly, loosely held in the other.
“Hello, shiny golden circle of glory.” Eyes on my dick, he licks his glossy lips. “Haven’t you found yourself a rather tasty display hook?”
My own gaze flicks down to where I’m proudly showing off my win. Tying it there was a massive turn on. Perhaps we should start experimenting with sex toys as well as spanking.
Alaric mock sighs. “Gonna miss seeing this body strutting its stuff now your dog dancing days are over. Which means I’m going to demand more of these private showings.”
“You’re welcome,” I answer, fondling myself. “But I didn’t say I’d stopped dancing.” As if to demonstrate, I suggestively roll my hips. I should drink champagne more often; letting go from time to time is fun. “And I’ll still be hiring Sutton Common Methodist Hall.”
“To dance on your own?”
“No. I’m going to start offering salsa classes. For beginners and intermediate. Like Mum used to.”
“Wow! That is so cool! Iknewyou were up to something.” He chews his lip.
“Teaching people, not dogs, yeah?” he checks. “And clothed?”
“Yes. But maybe Elsa can come along occasionally.” I stalk over to the bed, the satin shirt fluttering like a whisper over my skin. “But I’m going to need a human partner to use fordemonstrations, and I thought maybe you might want to join me, babe.”
“Me?” For a second, Alaric’s hand stills on his cock.
I smile down at him. “There’s no other babe in my life.”
He breaks out into a grin. “Never will be either, if I’ve got any say in the matter. But… I’m… I’ve never salsa’d anywhere!”
“Which is great for when it comes to teaching others.”
“OMG, yes, Big G! Yes!” My hips are already thrusting. I’m literally in heaven. I can picture us—the spins, the cute shimmies, the sensual meeting of groins. “Your big hands around my waist, your biceps rippling under the silky fabric of your—will you wear the shirt? Promise me you’ll wear the shirt.”
I fold a handful of the loose satin draped around my shoulders in my fist and tease it across my nipple. Alaric makes an appreciative sound. Perhaps we’ll incorporate a few silky fabrics into our lovemaking too.
