The gate creaked open and I stepped into the park.

Sunlight spilled across the grass, but my eyes were on the spotted bodies already on all fours—leashed, collared, panting with flushed cheeks and swaying tails. Dalmatians, all anthro, all female. Their fur shimmered in the warm light, some of them fully naked except for their gear—tight collars, little bells, tags with filthy nicknames engraved. Some still had scraps of lingerie clinging to their thighs or stretched between breasts far too large for modesty.

The handlers strolled casually. Some with coffee cups in one hand and leashes in the other. Others with their pants halfway down, one hand sunk into thick fur as their obedient mutts sucked eagerly beneath the trees. A few girls knelt beside water bowls, dripping wet from both ends, tongues out like good little pups in heat.

One dalmatian locked eyes with me—her tail wagged as her thighs opened wider. The pink glisten between her legs caught the sun like a welcome mat.

I knew what kind of park this was. And I came prepared.

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