dawn of the dad

The dobermann made sure to check and double-check to see if he had been followed, setting the heavy cardboard box down on the ground to fiddle with the keys on his key ring. Nobody had ever tailed him on one of his special deliveries before, but as his old man always said: there was a first time for everything.
Once he was satisfied that he was alone, Marco unlocked the door and propped it open with one boot, hefting the care package inside and letting the door close behind him. The contents of the box jostled like a bag of groceries as he made his way through the abandoned house, trying to keep the unwieldy package upright as best as he could. His boots thudded on the moldering carpet and he took care not to trip over any of the long loops of ivy that had flourished in the TV room.

Heavy rain and neglect had caused the roof to collapse many years ago, and the years of exposure were slowly reclaiming the humble ranch home. A muddy brook flowed through the hallway in a meandering path down into the ruined tile floor of the kitchen; kudzu vines smothered the refrigerator, a leafy and anonymous hulk sinking into the weakened foundation. The house looked just like every other house in the cul-de-sac; an inconspicuous ruin, slowly being reclaimed by nature. It was perfect; no raider would give it a second look. 

It had been about eight years since Outbreak Day. After the upheaval and chaos of those first years, things began to stabilize again; survivors' colonies began to collaborate and form small towns, trade routes, secured perimeters, functioning power grids. The infected were still a constant threat, a sort of permanent natural disaster, but rangers like Marco patrolled in shifts to monitor the infected and to ensure safe travel for any pilgrims going from settlement to settlement. Scientists up in New Boston discovered that the infected seemed to seasonally migrate in terrible, terrible herds; like the swallows of Capistrano, or humpback whales. They were also supposedly making progress on a vaccine. His dad, the refrigerator-sized rottweiler who had adopted him at birth, always said that "life had a habit of going on." Marco agreed that it did.

He unlocked the basement door and undid all four of the safety latches he had shoddily installed on the doorframe, struggling to scrape the last one free. Without consciously thinking about it, Marco's paw lightly tapped the gun in his shoulder holster, to ensure he wasn't forgetting anything; spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch. He took a deep breath and opened the door, the moldering basement stairs creaking and protesting with each step he took down into the subterranean gloom. The door eased closed behind him. 

Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. 

Down in the stuffy, sepulchred darkness, Marco Sr. strained at his chains, making them rattle violently in classic haunted house fashion. They rattled, flailing, the hulking rottweiler hunched his immense shoulders, pulling the chains taut; he snarled with exertion and lunged forward and the metal loops chaining him to the wall groaned out pitifully, the disquieting sound of snapping wood and straining beams making Marco Jr. hustle his way down the rest of the steps. By the sounds of the wear and tear, the elder rottweiler had been at this all day. I gotta smuggle a generator out here and set him up with some TV or something, he thought. 

"Dad, relax! it's just me!" He hefted the care package onto a little table and lit a coleman lantern in the corner of the cellar. The slurred, drunken growling started again, and in the dim light he could see his dad's hulking arms shoot forward, every muscle straining at full capacity, trying to break the bonds like King Kong. He could see the elder dog's shaggy pelt of chest hair running down the barrel of his stomach  and terminating at his crotch in a dark bush. From out of this lion's mane between Senior's immense thighs hung a heavy cock that swung with the dog's movements. Marco felt heat in his cheeks and that dizzy feeling in stomach. "Easy! Relax, relax." 

He and Senior had been on patrol down Route 9, almost a year ago, on the lookout for a missing caravan and their cargo of antibiotics. It was springtime, finally warming up after a demoralizing and grey winter. Marco Sr. was sweating through his shirt, causing the thin material to cling to the shifting mass of his immense back, unexpectedly revealing. Junior licked his lips, willing himself to look away, ashamed of himself and his leering, his lecherousness. He had to deal with this; he could barely stand to smell the hulking canine without groaning, there was no way he could lock it up for another seven miles of hiking. Junior decided he needed a minute. "Never gonna find this damn shipment... You holdin up alright? I'm gonna take a leak, i think," he said. Senior had reached one huge mitt into a cargo pocket and pulled out a map, his meatpaws unfolding it deliberately, delicately. "Go ahead, bud," the elder dog grumbled, tracing a claw down their intended route. As junior tromped away, he heard the older dog call out after him, "Let me know if you need help aiming it, ha ha! I'll let ya return the favor!" 

Junior found a suitably wide tree and lay his backpack against the trunk, pulling out a faded red bandana from one of its pockets, his movements jittery with shame and need. Marco held his Dad's sweat rag and buried his face into it and groooaaned piteously, his other paw shaky as it fumbled with his belt and zipper; he hefted his cock out and breathed in deep. he jacked off, groaning muffledly into it. "Fuuuck," he muttered, "i'm so fucked up. Fuck..." He thought. He thought about watching his dad doing lat pulldowns with their settlement's rickety gym equipment, the dense thicket of hair in each armpit, the elder dog's arms marbled with cabled muscle; Marco lapped once into the damp fabric with his tongue and came almost immediately. 

His head swam with shame as he cleaned up and put the bandana away, dizzy with post-nut clarity and guilt; he had only been gone for ten minutes at a maximum, but it was too late. He saw the blood on the dead leaves, a ragged bite mark in his dad's thigh, a dispatched infected sprawled in the dirty snow. The distant, feverish look on Marco Sr.'s face told him everything he needed to know. Bitten, infected, a goner. Only a few hours left if they were lucky. By the time the two of them had found the collapsed house with the basement, Marco Sr. was starting to lose consciousness, barely enough strength in those python arms to help Junior fix the restraints to the wall. His eyes were starting to go dim, but the chains would definitely hold him. Initially, Junior only planned to keep him down here until they had a vaccine. But time flew, and here they were.

Marco squatted down low, careful, no sudden movements, showing his empty paws to the infected rottweiler as he slowly crept forward. Senior bellowed and snorted and pawed at the basement floor with one foot, and when Marco looked into the older dog's eyes he saw no familiarity, no fatherly recognition, nothing but a loose collection of inarticulate hungers, a half-bored interest in food and a frustration at the length of his chains. The rottweiler's cock swung and throbbed and looked as outraged as the rest of him. Before he fed the hulking dog, Marco would help ease this other stress factor--the dobermann's paw closed around the meaty undergirth of the rottie's cock, and the infected dog's movements slowed down, calmed a little. He squeezed and felt a surge of precum run down his paw, down his wrist, pattering on the basement floor. A low rumble of assent in the rottweiler's barrel chest, as if to say 'fucken took you long enough.' 

"I'm sorry, Pops," Junior said softly, muzzle so close to the bigger dog's organ that it looked like he was apologizing to it. He kissed the cockhead gently and shuddered. 

"I'll take care of everything."

hope you guys like flavortext!! happy halloween weekend, everybody!!