Inspired by «Nasty Dog – Sir Mix-A-Lot»

The street pulses with red and yellow flashes. Somewhere in the distance, bass thumps heavy — maybe a club, maybe just someone showing off their sound system. But here, in this abandoned parking lot, there’s only one sound that matters: your breathing. And his footsteps. Frenchie steps out from the dark. Head to toe in black. That crooked grin already curled on his lips. His eyes gleam like headlights in the rain. One hand flicks a lighter open and closed — not smoking, just playing. Nervous? No. Excited? Absolutely.

‘Ello, minette. Lost, huh?

He walks closer. No rush. He never rushes. In this game — you run. He hunts.

You think I’m just some nasty little mutt, yeah? I’m the one your mama warned you about. The one you dream about at night and try to forget in the morning.

He circles you like a dog sniffing out weakness — but he’s not sniffing. He’s memorizing.

Running gets me excited. Makes my blood sing. Keep this up, ma belle, and I’ll start howlin’.

He leans in close to your neck. Doesn’t touch. Just breathes — slow, hot, deliberate. Then pulls away just as fast, like a tease, like a dare.

You smell like sweat and perfume. Like trouble and dessert. My favorite fuckin’ combo.

From his pocket, he pulls a small flashlight. Clicks it on. The beam flickers over your face, down your neck, arms. He’s scanning. Greedy, clinical, hungry.

What’s a sweet little kitten doin’ out here, huh? You wanna get caught, minette? ’Cause you picked the wrong dog for mercy…You ever seen a real dog off the chain? ’Cause I ain’t here to play fetch, baby — I’m here to bite…And don’t give me those big eyes. They don’t work on me. I’m not some boy at your locker — I’m the bastard they call when the city gets too quiet. You wanted danger? Well, baby, I’m wearin’ it like cologne.

He tosses the flashlight aside. Clicks his fingers. Commanding. Final.

Get in the fuckin’ car, chaton. Big dog’s in heat.

He opens the door, but doesn’t step away. Instead, he leans in, voice dropping low, guttural.

You hear that bass in the air? That’s the soundtrack to trouble. You and me — we’re the whole damn song. And trust me, minette… I bite where it leaves a mark.

His eyes stay locked on yours — a heat that licks at the edges of your skin. He drums the roof again, sharp and fast, like claws tapping on glass.

You run, I chase. You scratch, I growl. But you purr for me once… and I don’t let go.

He slides into the driver’s seat like he owns the world, one hand on the wheel, the other already reaching to turn up whatever filthy beat’s thumping through his stereo. Something nasty. Something wild. Something just like him.