Pussy Hound

"When guys are screwing, you could hit them with a frying pan and they wouldn't notice," Faith declaimed. "Once they start, all they want to do is finish, and nothing gets in the way."

Kate was vehemently in agreement. "Even if they're great kissers, even if they go down on you, even if they like foreplay, when the fucking starts, it's all about them. And then it's just pump and drill, pump and drill, until they cum. If you happen to get off, too, great; if not, that's your problem."

Stacey chimed in. "This guy I was with this weekend was a great lay. From the minute we got in the room, we were all over each other. He was very sweet, mostly, and he usually took his time. But most of the time, I could tell he was just waiting to start screwing, and then he forgot that I was there." She sighed long and hard. "Don't get me wrong. This was a weekend of really great sex and lots of it. Hell, I can barely walk. But the actual fucking felt like working out at the gym. Intense, but in a strenuous sort of way."

"We're getting a bit too negative, here, aren't we, girls?" It was Sheryl's turn. "One of the reasons we're all such good friends is we all feel the same way about sex." When the other four all shouted at once and practically threw their glasses at her, Sheryl corrected herself. "Alright, so I'm a little more sex-crazed than the rest of you. But don't pretend that you don't think about it as much as I do. I just do something about it more often." The room remained silent.

"Anyway," Sheryl continued, "what you're complaining about is just reality. We all love a good, hard, long screwing, and that's what we get from these guys when they do it right. They're men. They're physical. Yeah, they like blow jobs, yeah, they might indulge in a little foreplay now and then, but what they're really all about is fucking. They want to shove their big, hard cocks into our pussies and get to work, and then they just want to blow a big load inside us. This is not news, ladies." Sheryl surveyed the room as if daring anyone to disagree.

Kate spoke up before she had really thought through what she wanted to say. "You're not getting the point," she said. "I love having sex and I love having intercourse. God, I love all of it and I've had some great guys. I guess I'm talking about balance or something like that. It always seems like sex is divided into the big part - intercourse - and the little part - everything else. It's not just the amount of time, it's the emphasis, too. How much the guy cares about you."

Faith agreed. "It's like when it comes to screwing, we're along for the ride, but it's really about the guy. We're incidental."

"It is about the guy," Sheryl answered. "He has the cock, we have the pussy. The cock goes in the pussy. Even when we're on top, the cock still calls the shots."

Beth refilled everyone's glasses, as everyone seemed to agree more or less that that was the way things were and the way they would stay. They all liked to get laid, they agreed, and they all liked it long and hard, for the most part. They even had to admit that even they sometimes forget about the man when they were screwing their brains out.

But they also admitted that Kate had a point when she complained about the lack of balance. They all felt a bit deprived when it came to intercourse. The feeling was less with guys who were great in bed, of course, but most men weren't great in bed. With those guys, it really was all about fucking, and it was all about the men getting themselves off. Women really were along for the ride way too much of the time.

Chapter 4

Shaking off her late afternoon hangover after her guests had departed, Beth reflected on the fact that she was the only married one of the group and the one who seemed the most dissatisfied about the situation. She and James had a decent sex life, but sex had certainly become less frequent over the years, and their sessions were shorter and more routine. Intercourse became more central to their lovemaking, and she now realized that was a big part of the reason sex had seemed less satisfying.

When Beth masturbated, which she did much more frequently it now seemed, she didn't think about having intercourse. She thought about getting head for a long, long time. Some guy with his mouth on her pussy, lapping her up with his tongue, keeping it up while she came and came and came, until she brought herself to a genuine, crashing orgasm.

Suddenly, Beth realized that she wanted just what men wanted: to be completely selfish while her partner paid attention to her desires until she was completely satisfied. The big difference was that her fantasies of selfish, greedy sex turned to oral sex, where she could guide her lover's head with her hands, grind her hips into his face, and pretty much control how he ate her out. Intercourse was cool, too, but she craved more oral sex, not more screwing.

By this time, Beth was making herself good and horny. Her hand had found its way down her pants, and she was gently stroking her pussy on top of her panties, making her hips squirm on the couch. She slid her hand inside her underwear and laced her fingers into her soft pubic hair, before placing her middle finger on her wet slit and sliding it up and down with increasing force. She pulled her hand out to unsnap her pants and pull down the zipper so she could get at herself with both hands. One finger smashing her clit, the other fiercely fucking her hole, she kept at it attentively until she felt the spasms coming and gave into the flood of feeling and warm liquid.

Panting heavily for a couple of delicious minutes, she recovered her clothing and straightened up on the couch. Thanking herself for a very nice time, Beth picked up a book from the end table that a friend had loaned her, The Surrender by Toni Bentley. Other than the subtitle, An Erotic Memoir, she knew nothing about it and read the flaps and back cover, astonished, and continued to read until it was time to make dinner, except for one short break to make herself cum furiously one more time.

h

Sheryl had fucked boys and girls and men and women of all ages and races, in various multiples, combinations and permutations, and her appetite only increased the more she indulged. But despite seemingly leaving no sexual frontier unexplored, Sheryl had stayed away from anal sex. The idea appealed to her plenty, but she was genuinely scared about taking one of those magnificent cocks she liked so much in her dainty little asshole. She had fingered her anus a few times, with some pleasure, and she let a couple of guys do the same, usually with less pleasure. But now it seemed like everyone and her mother had taken it up the ass, and Sheryl was not one to lag behind (so to speak). If they could do it, she thought, so could she.

So when Beth called to tell her about The Surrender, she was out the door like a shot. Self-confident girl that she was, Sheryl marched into Barnes & Nobles and asked the surprised young man at the information booth if they had it in stock. "It's about anal sex," she volunteered.

After the clerk recovered some of his composure, he checked the computer and asked, with considerable embarrassment, "Would you like me to check the shelf to see if we have it in stock?"

Sheryl decided she was going to have some fun; she just couldn't help herself. "Let's go check together, okay?" She flashed him a dazzling smile, hooked her arm inside his, and told him to show the way. The poor sap started to walk in the wrong direction, suffering as he was from sensory overload, before finally finding The Surrender featured on three shelves in the New Arrivals section, displayed impressively with its front and back covers alternating. The back cover was a handsome and fetching grayscale photograph of the author, who seemed to have a thought bubble over her head saying, "Yeah, I've been getting fucked in my ass. What about it?"

The front cover had a peek-a-boo keyhole cut out with something pink behind it. The frightened clerk had managed to take one down and hand it shakily to Sheryl, who promptly lifted the flap to solve the mystery. There on the cover was the loveliest, most erotic and touchable color photograph of someone's absolutely luscious ass cheeks covered by the sheerest pink panties one could imagine. The poor boy was horrified when Sheryl leaned in to show him, pressing her chest into his shoulder.

"Oh, my, this looks perfect!" she said. "Let's take a peek!" She marched him into a back corner of the store, sat herself down in a handsome oak Windsor chair, pulled him onto her lap, opened the book to a random page, and read aloud in a stage whisper:

"Then I asked that he lick my pussy for a while, taking long strokes from my ass to my pussy to my clit and back again, the whole wet package. That was great. Really just great. Next I asked him to concentrate on rimming my asshole with slowly increasing pressure until his tongue starting forcing its way inside: 'Like you want it.' 'Like'? He did want it. Then he served me four or five inches of a red chili pepper vibrator up my ass. I hadn't asked for that part, so to speak, but it was hot so I didn't object."

Her lap rider had become supremely uncomfortable, not least due to the fact that something big and hard was raging in his tight black jeans. Sheryl did everything she could to compound his misery. "Oh, man, doesn't that sound great? Have you ever done that? I'm starting to get kind of wet, here!"

She ground her crotch into his backside, and reached around his front to roughly take his hard-on in her hand. The boy had no idea what to do, so he did nothing, which let Sheryl lead the way. She pulled his mouth to her with her free hand and Frenched him deeply while she worked his dick like someone who had done it a thousand times before, which of course she had. As he began to lose control, Sheryl pulled him back to her so she could rub her stiffening nipples against him, and reached inside his belt. As she applied friction to his substantial erection, she tongued his ear and breathed into it noisily. In no time at all, he whimpered helplessly and released himself into her hand. She kissed him mercilessly, thanked him for his help and marched off to the ladies' room to clean up. The young man collapsed into the chair to contemplate the meaning of life.

h

Back at home in front of the fireplace, Sheryl could not believe what she was reading. Bentley was an educated, cultured and beautiful woman, a member of the tiny elite world of professional ballet dancers, who was writing graphically and eloquently, even poetically, about ass-fucking as the best sex she had ever known. It sounded both excruciatingly wonderful and excruciatingly painful, although Bentley seemed to have figured out how to alleviate the physical discomfort. Sheryl was enthralled as she read, in no small part because Bentley seemed to be as much of a sexual connoisseur as Sheryl was.

Sheryl was certainly getting the education about anal sex that she'd been looking for. It sounded exotic and possibly worth trying with the right guy, but her misgivings remained. How could a big, hard cock fit inside a little hole that wasn't really meant to accept one? And how could anal sex give you an orgasm, anyway? Does a rectum have the same kinds of nerves that a vagina has? She wasn't sure it made sense, although Bentley certainly described it in ways that made it sound very appealing. Sheryl had to admit she was getting extremely horny.

Chapter 10 was entitled, "Hound Sex." Sheryl practically dropped the book as she read the opening paragraph:

In those first years after my marriage, I discovered that the great antidote to bad fucking - or no fucking - is fantasy, and that fantasy's greatest aide is the Pussy Hound: the man who lives to dive. Every woman should have at least one; it can mend years, even centuries, of patriarchal ramming. Thank heaven, then, that women's liberation has fostered what appears to be an entire generation of this particular man: the male masochist who can now masquerade, legitimately, as the feminist man, the male lesbian. They can be spotted on street corners everywhere. I say grab one, girls, and give him a job!

She felt like an archeologist who had just stumbled upon the Rosetta Stone. This smart and sexy lady, who had transcended every boundary of conventional sex, and then obliterated the inhibitions of anal sex, had not only identified the very problem that the Wine Group had argued about, but she had also come up with the perfect solution: Pussy Hounds! There were men - supposedly lots of men! - who loved nothing better than to give women unlimited oral sex. They loved to give as much as women loved to receive. Men who "lived to dive." Imagine, a man "with his whole consciousness poised on his tongue," not his prick!

Forget anal sex, thought Sheryl. If such men existed - and Sheryl had such admiration for Bentley that she was sure they did - then she would find them. She would find them and give them just what they craved: her divine pussy. She would give them her naked thighs and her naked ass and let them have their way with her cunt and her clit and her soft, curly pubic hair, and they could cover their faces with her cum to their heart's content. Sheryl had no difficulty conjuring vivid images in her filthy mind of nice, considerate orally-obsessed men who would give her pussy their full attention while they brought her to unrestrained orgasm after orgasm, until she begged them to stop. She grabbed the phone.

"Stacey, you will not believe what I just read!" As she read her friend the entire chapter, both girls squealed with their fingers inside their panties, thrilling themselves with the thought of unlimited Hound sex, eager faces between their legs, taking all the time in the world, letting the women direct the action.

"Sheryl, how do we make this happen? Where are we going to find these guys?"

Sheryl didn't know, but she was determined to find out, and fast. "Get dressed, Stace. We're going out. I'll be right over."

h

Nymphomaniacal though she was, Sheryl had very refined taste, and she graced her beautiful slim body with a lovely print silk dress, revealing at the top and bottom, barely reaching her mid-thigh. She covered her graceful legs in ultra-sheer stockings infused with silver sparkles, and her long heels with razor-thin straps would have made Carrie Bradshaw proud.

Stacey took a different approach. She was quite tall and didn't need any extra height that might disqualify guys under six feet, so she started with an attractive but demure pair of low-heeled pumps, and built her outfit on that foundation. A simple cotton calf-length skirt, with a tight pink collared blouse, but without a bra and with one too many buttons unfastened. Both women were ready to lay waste to any qualified Hound, and they set off.

In the car, they discussed both strategy and tactics. "How the hell are we supposed to recognize a Hound?" Stacey asked. "Do they look like every other guy you'd want to jump on?"

"I have no idea," Sheryl answered, pulling The Surrender from her bag. "She says 'the man who materialized in these heated encounters was more often than not almost physically repugnant to me - a beast-man.'" Silence filled the car, as neither girl was sure she wanted to take home a "beast-man."

"Well," offered Sheryl, "it sounds like we should at least be open to the possibility that any guy could be a Hound. If that's really what we want, we should keep an open mind."

"Fuck, that's what I want," admitted Stacey. "Imagine having some guy just eat you out 'til you couldn't take it anymore. Is that even possible? Shit, I'll keep an open mind for that any day."

Sheryl readily agreed, as they entered Sullivan's. It was almost 7:00 on a Thursday night and the bar was packed. Every pair of eyes in the place, even the women, turned to take in the two newcomers as they surveyed the scene. Two would-be pickup artists at the nearest table offered them seats. Sheryl and Stacey exchanged glances and accepted. Drinks were ordered and delivered.

"So," began the first laboratory rat. "You girls from around here?" Stacey said they weren't, and Sheryl decided to take the direct approach.

"Have you guys heard about this book called The Surrender? This really hot chick wrote it about her experiences having anal sex." Both men stopped what they were doing and practically did spit takes with their drinks.

"Um, no," said the second rat. "Sounds interesting."

"Well," said Sheryl, as she leaned conspiratorially into the table. "The thing that we found really interesting was the chapter on 'Hound Sex.' Have you ever heard of that?" Their table mates had not. "Well, she says there are guys who love to eat women out more than they like to screw. They can't get enough of it."

Both guys had incredulous looks on their faces; in fact, they were so appalled that they quickly recovered from their shock at the direction in which the much hotter of the two girls had steered the conversation.

"Guys who would rather eat pussy than fuck? Are you serious?"

Sheryl and Stacey assured them that they were, and looked at their companions intently. "Come on, use your imaginations," insisted Stacey. "You could drive a girl insane if you just ate her non-stop 'til she couldn't stand it anymore." She could tell she wasn't winning any converts. "Seriously." She leaned in close to the boy to her right, and put her hand on his thigh. "What if she had her legs wrapped around your neck and you were just diving into her for all you were worth? Doesn't that sound totally hot?"

Sheryl joined in. "Yeah, her pussy could be all shaved, and she'd be going totally wild on your face!"

The guys looked at each other, confused. Here were these two gorgeous women who they'd been sitting with for less than five minutes, out of the blue they had brought up the subject of anal sex - which was really cool! - and now they were saying that they wanted oral sex but no fucking. What the fuck?

"I thought you said the book was about anal sex," one stammered. "Have you ever done that?"

Sheryl flashed a murderous look that made them both shrivel. She was used to having men deal with her on her terms and she wasn't about to let these amateurs change the subject. "Hey, pal, we asked you two a question. Wouldn't it be hot to just eat a girl out until she couldn't stand it anymore and leave it at that?"

The boys were at a loss. One tried to explain weakly that he liked oral sex and everything, but that fucking was pretty cool, too. The other agreed, adding, "Um, isn't oral sex just, like, foreplay?"

Sheryl and Stacey exchanged knowing glances and disembarked from their chairs. "Thanks for the drinks," Sheryl said, clearly not meaning it.

Resettled on a couple of stools at the end of the bar, they commiserated over cocktails. "Well, what did we learn from that pathetic experiment?" asked Sheryl.

"Well, Sher, at first, I was thinking that maybe the direct approach wasn't the way to go. You know, hitting them over the head with it. But now I'm kinda thinking that maybe that's exactly what we should do. I mean, those two dopes weren't into giving head no matter how we brought it up. So why not just jump right into it? The kind of guys we're looking for would've loved it if we came right out and asked them!"

Sheryl listened and nodded. "Makes sense. We'll probably scare a lot of guys off, but so what? Either they get it or they don't. Just don't waste our time. If Bentley's right that there are a lot of guys who live to eat pussy, eventually we're going to find some."

And so the intrepid explorers split up and made their way through the available gentlemen in the bar, all of whom were impressed, even intimidated, by their overt sexuality, but all of whom were equally dumbfounded by what they were asking. Giving head instead of fucking? Were they serious? Not only did the boys make clear that they were definitely not that interested in going down on a girl, but they also clearly thought that a guy would have to be half-a-fag to not care about screwing her afterward.