Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Hound Dog Part 3: "Samson and Delilah": A story of olfactory pleasures

Lila, short for DeLilah, could tell almost to the hour when she was ovulating because she was even now experiencing something scientists, specifically male scientists, said wasn't possible.  Alone among primates, the female of the species Homo Sapiens was not supposed to experience estrus.  Women did not just go into maniacal sexual frenzy like your average chimpanzee.  Except, thought Lila, some of us.  Or something like it.
 She sat on the sofa in front of the television, in a loose Guns n Roses T shirt and jeans cut off right up to her butt.  She was vaguely watching Modern Family, irritable, bloated and daydreaming about penises.  If it were confined only to the penises of the male of the non-estrus species Homo sapiens, she might have a found a grain of normality, something she might tell herself was healthy goddess life energy - but this.  Damn.  It was humiliating.  She wanted to rub up against a tree.
Everything looked like a penis.  Everything was a penis. Popsicles. Bed posts.  Mop handles.  Toilet plunger handles.  Gear shifts.  She imagined Sophia Veraguas with a penis.  She imagined threesomes with each of the gay guys on the show.
 Samson somberly came into the room, sniffing the air.  The sable colored Great Dane was the great love of her first and so far only client.  Samson was the size of a small pony and totally the wrong dog for an urban brownstone condo.  He was intelligent and bored with the attitude of a spoiled aristocrat.  He sniffed the corners of the room where she had touched, the refrigerator, the furniture, licking his face and looking longingly out the bay window.  Finally, he positioned himself in front the 64 inch flat screen obliterating the view completely.
"Move," she growled.
Samson growled back. 
She gave up and reached for her purse.  She took out a bottle of cherry red nail polish and methodically began painting her toenails.  Samson watched her, bored, sniffing the air.  He ambled over, looking her in the eye defiantly, and sniffed her feet.  Watch it, dog."  She said.  "You'll get yourself high on that shit."
She was horny. 
Just plain horny as a toad.
Ready to fuck somebody up, down and sideways.  Fat guys, skinny guys, winners, losers, it didn’t matter.  Hey, even Samson had a great looking dick. For a dog.  Hung like a horse.  When dogs got their doggy boners, didn't some tiny little red thing pop out?  Was that like a little doggy clitoris?
"Doggy?", she whispered.  "Doggy want a boner?"
No,no,no,no.  I’ll be one of those weird human beings who gets referred to a sex therapist after they turn up in emergency with a dead gerbil up their ass, or a sawed off bed post up their twat.  Just stop.
Must have Cheetos.
Little yellow dick shaped cheesy goodness.
She stood up and went to her client's well-furnished kitchen.  She had hoped to have a kitchen like this herself someday.  Now she felt depressed as well as horny.
She had been a neighborhood baby sitter in high school, a kind of lost ritual for girl at her modest level of society.  She had been a chunky, bookish, small town southern girl, what Hannibal Lecter would have called a "rube".  She had grown up nervous, shy, and inept around boys.   Oddly, this made her more desirable to guys hunting for an easy and grateful lay.  That had made her turn tough and confident, shoving them off her belly like a wrestler, punching one stubborn guy in the balls to get her point across.  Over time, she refused to be pathetic.  Or to lie still.
She opened the fridge and it was full of thick erect phalluses.  Cucumbers.   Thick carrots.  Suggestively shaped kefir bottles.  Rows of artisan bratwurst, thickly veined and tied off with weird dangly little foreskins.
Fuck me, Lila, whispered the bratwurst.  You know you want to.
She closed the door, breathing hard.
Cheetos.  They might fuck with your health but not your head.
She opened the fridge.  She stared at a particularly dark, hand tied bratwurst with visions of Barrack Obama.
C’mon girl, her friend Moira's voice whispered in her head.  Even rich country club pricks like these don't keep Cheetos in the refrigerator.
But I'm here, said the bratwurst.  I want to be inside you.  Now.  Spread your legs, let me in.  So thick.  So cool and dreamy, between your legs. Or in your ass. In.  Out.  In.  Out.  The meat slides in.  The meat slides out.  The meat slides in. I'm so meaty for you. Take me. Fuck me, Lila. Who's gonna know? Stuff me right up your gorgeous southern cunt. 
Cheetos? She whimpered.  Please God.
She closed the door.  Her panties felt a spot of wetness. She stepped her legs apart.  This was getting insane.
"Help yourself to anything," said her client, Mrs. Carmody, her first and only client.  The one she would rely on for ecstatic future references.  They never really meant it, but it was part of the baby sitter ritual, even when it was a dog.  She began opening the cabinets, hunting.  A bag of Cheetos, a lil' ol bag of lil’ ol’ Cheetos, the opium of the Proletariat, would be forgiven, surely even by the wealthy donor class.  She sighed. 
There would be no Cheetos tonight.
She felt the weight of cultural reality sink on her, crushing her hopes.  She had been defeated by yoga.  This client, yoga slimmed, Avocado toasted, Mediterranean dieted, with her righteously organic fair trade Shiraz, her body carefully crafted to elicit the maximum male gaze, a woman like that doesn't go around scarfing fistfuls of Cheetos like a peasant.  Under employed, horny losers eat Cheetos.  Like me, she thought.
There - there on the lower shelf of one promising cabinet among a variety of artisan pickles in faux mason jars, was a plastic jar of good old Biscoff spread.  Chunky style.  How the hell did that get here?  Waiting for her, of course. Oh, Biscoff will do.  And it won't try to fuck me after dinner.
She skipped the bread and hunted in the drawer for a spoon. 

She took the Biscoff and the spoon and sank onto the sofa, sprawled, splayed her legs wide wallowing and resigned to a kind of blissful, trailer trash sluttiness.  She unscrewed the jar and put her nose in, breathing the homey, grandma scent of cinnamon and spice and everything nice. The smell of airline cookies, she thought.  If this were mine, which it isn't, I'd stir a big gob of honey in it, and maybe bananas and gobble it down.  But that would be too much.  I might be allowed, low rent as I am, to steal a little from the jar, as long as no one finds my personal germs in there, but mixing it with honey would be an act of defiance.  A revolutionary overstepping of boundaries.  Yes, I put honey in your Biscoff, motherfucker, up against the wall Imperialist oppressor of the working class.
Samson was coming over, his nose raised alertly.  He moved boldly between her splayed thighs, his nose searching.
"You gotta be kidding me," she said.  "Peanut butter?  Really?"  Before she could jerk her hand away, his tongue, a long rough tongue, was all over her spoon.
Shit.  Dog cooties. Someone had told her once, feeding chocolate to a dog would kill it.  What would Biscoff do?
Samson didn't seem to care.  He placed a fore paw on the sofa which sagged deep under his weight, tipping her into him.  He sniffed her.  He sniffed her breasts, licked her face.  Sniffed her face.  She pushed him gently away and he snorted, which she had never heard a dog do.  He hiked up and smelled her ear and for a moment she felt terrified and thrilled as if a bear had broken into her camping tent looking for food.
Samson got down and sniffed her thigh.  Then her inner thigh.  Then -
She tried to close her legs, but his nose was already in there, sniffing at the crotch of her cut off shorts.  Pressing his nose against her.  Getting it in there.
“Okay - okay!  Wrong species, if only you were a guy.”  She pushed him back by the shoulders.  He moved down and looked her eye to eye beseechingly.
Would she get a chance like this again?  But was this pathetic or what?  But still.  Yes, she thought.  No one knows if you don't tell 'em so.  C'mere baby.
She unfastened the brass button of the cut off jeans and pulled them off, dropped them to the floor.  Her worn pink panties felt the breeze against the now much larger wet spot there.  Samson shoved his face eagerly between her legs, licking at the wetness, spreading it.  "Samson," she moaned.  "You got talent."
She put a finger in the Biscoff jar, looked around guiltily, listened for the door, nothing, and lifted a gob onto her finger tip.  "Chunky style," she whispered to Samson who lifted his head to notice.  "Wait for it."  She pulled back the edge of her panties, exposing her wet vulva and smeared the brown goo all around her clitoris and glistening lips.  "There you go, boy.  Help yourself."
Samson's tongue sent electric shocks through her.  He was perfect.  He was ravenous in a way men never were.  This was news.  This was a discovery.  She put another gob there.
Goddamn, he was really getting to her. 
From the fridge, the Viennese Bratwurst, crafted by meticulous Germans called her name.  She staggered up, ignoring the dog and went to the kitchen.  "Fuck it," she said out loud.  "I mean, just fuck it.  A girl’s gotta have it too."  The bratwurst in the fridge was even bigger now than she remembered it.  Surely this was fate.  She thought of her fantasy lover “Big Boy”, a big German lug, a strong ass that went halfway up his back, and Olympic thighs that could crack walnuts.  Laying on a bed with his thick bratwurst standing up.  Look at me, Fraulein, he said.  Look at me.
She Removed the plastic wrapping carefully, untangling it, not tearing it, if she put it back just like it was, she might get away with hiding this little affair. 
If the sausage didn't survive what was to come, She could always say Samson was hungry.  It would show caring and enterprise.
She sat back on the sofa, slipped off her panties and stuffed them under a sofa cushion.  She spread her legs and daintily slipped the bratwurst in.  For a moment the cold meat touching her swollen clit made her jump.  And then it turned her on. Cold, like being fucked by vampire might be.  She moved it in deeper, first an inch, then two inches until she felt it tapping at her G spot.  Not too far in, she didn't want this thing coming apart in her cunt. 
She squeezed her thighs together gently around the slick meat and   .  .  . moved it.  Let it move her.  Like sawing a bow across a viola string, sending vibrations through her very loins.  C’mon, big boy.  You want it, big boy?  You want it?  You like it like this?  You like it.  You want it.  C’mon Big Boy, fuck like you want it.  Fuck like you mean it, Big Boy, fuck like you mean it, goddamn you, move your ass. C’mon Big Boy.  Don’t come till I tell you.  Don't you come. Don’t you dare come.  Just do me Do me do me.
And then Samson was there.
"No!" she said sharply.  But Samson was there, and he had smelled the meat.  "Not yours!" she said, holding it behind her back.
But Samson didn’t want the sausage.
He wanted her.
He rammed his nose between her legs, inhaling the meaty grease and the smell of a female in deep heat.
He licked.  He nosed and nuzzled and licked.  And the more he licked, the more she felt the lightning bursting in her loins.  She bent forward, scratching and tugging at the Dane's shoulders.  "You fuck," she husked.  "You big sexy pussy licking fuck."
She came hard in the dog’s face which drove him wild.  She saw squirming stars and for a moment the room seemed to turn gray in rhythm to the hard throbbing of release.  As she tightened her body against his muzzle, the dog whined and withdrew, but it was enough.  She held out the sausage. He seized it in his mouth and moved away to gobble it on the carpet.  She sat breathing hard.  "There’s a good boy," she whispered.  “who’s a good boy . . . you’re a good boy.”
"Is that my sausage?" said a voice behind her.
Mrs. Carmody stood by the sofa with a Christian Dior trench coat on her arm.
Lila looked around wildly for her clothes.  Fuck no.  Busted.
"It’s not what it looks like," she said and then realized her confession, being exactly what it looked like.
"I'm glad to see you two getting along so well," said Mrs Carmody.
Samson finished the bratwurst, licked his face and came over.  He put his huge head on Lila's knee.
"Well, look at you two," said Mrs. Carmody. 
"I'm sorry – it’ll never happen – "
"Are you available next week?"
"I have to be in the Hampton's next week for five days.  I'll pay you triple.  Would that do?"
"I think. I guess.  Okay. Sure.  Definitely."
"You know, he doesn't really like people.  You're the sixth dog sitter I've had and they were all terrified of him.  But you seem to have hit it off on a, uh, rather deep level."  She smiled.  "I will definitely recommend you."


  1. I read somewhere those cheese puffs were actually invented to be addictive. Addictive in the sense of including flavors that Americans can't seem to get enough of.. Fried cheese, corn and salt.

  2. Oooh... definitely transgressive! But very sexy.

    If I might make a suggestions, though - the introduction of the concept of "client" is really unclear in the current version, and it distracts from the story.

    So maybe you could start with this:

    "Help yourself to anything," said her client, Mrs. Carmody, her first and only client. The one she would rely on for ecstatic future references. They never really meant it, but it was part of the baby sitter ritual, even when [the baby] was a dog.

    This would set the scene while providing the critical information that Delilah is dog sitting.

  3. That's good. Also - I'm wondering if I should skip the part about estrus. Would women find that sort of demeaning compared to just good old horniness? I don't think I may have that right

  4. Hi Garce,

    Lot of tension in this story, and the twist at the end is so hilarious. I think maybe you should skip the part about estrus. It confused me and made me think about science, whereas her obsession wiith phallic objects makes perfect sense to me on its own. I love stories with that fuck the whole kitchen vibe! :D

  5. I agree. First couple paragraphs gotta go. Women have so many wonderful things they can play with. . . .


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