He passed behind me, and I wondered if he’d seen me at all. I waited the appropriate moment or two before I followed him to his seat and smiled hello.

“Oh! hello darling,” He grinned in his ever-charming way.

How are yous exchanged, I asked if I could sit with him and he happily presented me with the worn, almost-soft seat beside him.

Sitting in place I took our my pen, my notebook, my glasses, and settled into my usual role; assiduous student and copious note-taker.

It wasn’t until then, sat and contented, that the acrid scent of him reached my nostrils. I bristled and drew in the smell again. Like a mouth ulcer you can’t help but tongue, eliciting ecstatic agony in your head, I found myself breathing in the foul odours again and again.

It was alcohol. And sweat, and tobacco smoke. And the thousand other fumes that polluted the city. I couldn’t bear it. It burned my nose, my throat, my lungs. I wanted to cough and push it out, and then draw it in again. I wanted a clean, toothpaste-fresh atmosphere in my body for his sour smells to invade.

And all of a sudden it was too much; the ecstasy was gone and I turned my head, rested it on my other hand, smiled to another friend, trying to focus on work and knowledge, anything to ignore him.

It didn’t work. I found myself drawing him deeper as I worked; the more I tried to ignore it, the more it polluted every pore of my skin. I felt saturated with him. I longed to be home, I longed to be soaking in the steamy cleanliness of a warm bath. I wanted my skin scorched and red, begging to be clean. I wanted to scrub until my body was pink from the friction of my pumice stone.

As the sensation and the desire grew, his odours became more sensual. I thought of my skin, and he seeped into me.

Like that ulcer, painful, open, bitten, I poked it again, and allowed him to imbue my senses. And somewhere deep in my distasteful taste buds, I began to like it. Sick fascination; something real; something human. I found myself leaning closer, and closer, drawing it more deliberately, more consciously. The ebb and flow, the unclean honesty of him.

I thought of leather. I thought of the deep, wonderful scent of expense and quality. Dark wines. I imagined him drinking and smoking. Working. I knew, in every part of my being, how real, how close he was, and I wanted to be closer. I wanted to taste what I could smell. Human. Male. Worked and working. His sweat was no longer sour or acrid; it was earned. His hazy expression was no longer drunk; it was decadent.

I wondered what he would taste like as he pushed inside me. I imagined the force of his cock, the lump in my throat that always chokes me with desire when I am penetrated, and what it might be like to feel it rest on my tongue, between my lips.

I wondered if I would be able to taste and smell and breathe in the steamy skin of him as he curved over me and fucked me into my clean bed linen.

I wanted to lick the palms of his hands. And then the head of his cock. I wanted to suck his balls into my mouth, and adore the sweaty, spent taste of him. I wanted everything true. Everything real. Everything that wouldn’t let him hide. I wanted to taste the wealth of his life upon his body.

Breathed again. I tasted wine; I drew in smoke; I licked salty skin.

As we left the auditorium he leaned over to light my cigarette, cupping his hands beneath my chin, before we walked in opposite directions.

This entry was posted in Fiction, Lustful, Playful, Sensuous. Bookmark the permalink.

11 Responses to Perfume

  1. Jilly says:

    YES! My god, that’s hot! A smell can trigger so much…


    • LadyGrinSoul says:

      Haha, I always feel like I haven’t done my job properly when people like/agree with my smut. Thanks hun.

  2. Squeaky says:

    *rises from scent-induced trance*
    huh? what? smelllllll.. now i want to go lick his workday armpit and bury my nose in the reek of his tired, dusty, heated body…

  3. Molly says:

    I LOVE smells… I am very scent orientated… I often find myself breathing people in. As for Sir, is it possible to be addicted to a smell? Not a day goes past where I don’t push my nose into his arm pit and inhale him. It is the most heady yet calming smell in the world to me.


    • LadyGrinSoul says:

      You can definitely be addicted to a smell. I know exactly what you’re talking about.

  4. Wyeth Bailey says:

    All the smells you so eloquently describe are really, well, icky to me, personally ;-) but I still found myself kind of turned on. That’s an achievment. You manage to communicate the narrator’s desire with increasing urgency. I think it’s the pacing that works so well. I like :)

    • LadyGrinSoul says:

      Oh! THE perfect comment. I do love it when people read my pieces and sort of feel turned off by the content, but end up aroused by… something else. Thank you!

  5. Yes, THAT Tonya says:

    I feel as if I am just echoing Wyeth at this point, but I felt the same way. When I first read your description of his smells I thought, “Ew, gross.” Even as you turned them from distasteful to sensual, they didn’t appeal to me. However, these same smells on someone I love and not someone who is mostly a stranger to me? That would be very different. I love the way my man “stinks”. He is a graphic artist by career, so he does not often get dirty and sweaty. But on the days when he does yard work or has been out turning wrenches under his hood? Sooooo hot. I am very directly affected by smells. Walking through a crowd and catching a whiff of someone’s cologne I’ll get wet and be consumed with lusts in an instant.

    But like Wyeth said, I was drawn into the eroticism of the narrator, even if I would not be personally turned on in that situation. You are always quite skilled at invoking your narrator. :)

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