This piece of bittersweet erotica takes its inspiration from something I mentioned to a close friend about my new apartment. I am, finally, moved in and functioning again (just about), and everywhere I go in this lovely little new place of mine, there is the aroma of the previous tenant’s aftershave. It makes me often pause in my tracks and revel in its scent because I find it extremely arousing. I don’t know how long it will last (I very much hope for a long time), but it definitely helped create this #WickedWednesday post!
The keys dangle off my finger. How long have I been standing in the middle of the hallway, still unbelieving, still wondering how I ended up in this new place, how I was so lucky to find this apartment? There’s something about every room I wander into that excites me, makes me aroused, just as if the softest of paintbrushes was running over my flesh, brushing the tips of my nipples with its tender sable. I have to slip my hand beneath my top and touch them through my bra to check, the feeling is so convincing. There they are, erect and willing me into each room, this feeling of arousal spreading, brushing my belly into knots and transferring the feeling between my legs as I realise what it is that affects me so: it is the smell of you. My consciousness, rooted in reality, knows it’s the aftershave of the previous tenant; my passion so far removed from real and present life knows the scent, the sandalwood that permeates my awareness, leaving me wandering dream-like from room to room.
I find myself staring around the kitchen, circling further to my living area and coming to rest at the gigantic desk I was sure would never fit. My desk is my lifeline; once it was you.
If you ever still love to write letters like you once did, do you fill them with stories much better than any I could create – ones of how you thought of offering me up to your desires, your body, and submitting me to your will? Do you make calls at your desk, remembering how your words change my blood to magma and my voice to a husky pant as I lay on my back, pleasing you with my naked playtime? Fingertips trailing over my skin, the toys leaving you whimpering down the line as they bring me to the brink even before I push them inside and return your expressions of arousal with my own moans. Almost appearing to forget you are on the line until I call out your name as I convulse, pleasure coursing through me, beginning between my thighs, plundering my spine and filling my flesh with a blistering heat until I can take no more. Your aroma washed over me then, just as it wraps itself around me now, this ghost of a remembered scent that makes me want to fall naked into your arms and lay entwined with you for hours, days.
Do I want to unwrap myself from you? I move through the hallway and you envelop me still, the scent winding into my hair like the breeze in the trees beyond the back garden. I can see for miles, high up here. I pause to take it in: the birdsong filling the void, rabbits on the grass, and, when I peer hard, a deer hides among the trees. You would love it here.
If you ever want to take a long drive and stop your car in the silence of a secret space and listen to the sounds of nature, does your mind play tricks on you? Do you mistake the coos and trills of frisky animals in mating season for the moans we made, buried among the flora and fauna of your upholstery, the gearstick no obstacle to my adept fingertips on your buttons, your hardness springing from your clothes, my eyes, fingers, mouth chasing it in a mirror image of the mating dances going on all around us? My moans as you catch me unawares, hold me, your teeth grazing my breasts and sucking them to their peak? The echo of my wails of ecstasy as you plunder me with the rampant fingers of an animal until the only thing that separates us from the creatures beyond the car is the way you cover my mouth with your to quieten me? Nothing else will appease me, not even the full force of my orgasm on your car seat. Because all I want is more of you, the aroma of musk and sea scent of my sex combining in the upholstery.
That smell; it catches me unawares on the breeze through the vent in the window, brings me from my reverie to the sight of the trees beyond my new home, so deceptively quiet. As if they’re watching me; watching my hands roaming my body at the window where no one can see. And I can feel your presence.
The scent is strongest in the bedroom. It’s no real surprise, yet it delights me so much my flesh tingles. It’s like being at the core of you. I clamber onto the bed, kneeling in supplication to the delirium of desire that overcomes me as my senses fill with you.
If you ever need to lie there, on your bed, touching yourself as I touched you, do you imagine me with your wet tip between my lips, drawing you in, the soft cave between them taking care of you, my tongue tantalising the juices from you so I can taste them, leave my mouth awash with them as you harden more, and begin to moan, and seek out my sex with your fingers, finding it wet and in need of your love? Or do you lie back and imagine the cloak of night speckled with the first signs of sunrise through the blinds, enough for you to see the fire in my eyes as I climb over you, rocking back slowly so that you feel every inch of me as I take you? Do you convince yourself that your hand is me enclosing you in my hot, soaking flesh until you can’t control your desire any longer and you come in that soft wall of fingers you make, remembering how it feels to drown me with your pools of lust? The room is drenching me in the warmth of sandalwood. It’s penetrating my clothes, entering my skin. I’m going to come, right now, kneeling on the bed…
The telephone rings, scorching my ears with the jolt of a tortuous present. I rush to stop the noise. A voice at the end, the letting agent, offers pleasantries to which I murmur assenting and placating replies without really being fully aware of the conversation.
“I hope you’re very happy in your new home. Goodbye.” That bit I heard. The line goes dead, taking reality with it, leaving only the strange newness of the apartment, and me in its centre, alone, the sun streaming through the windows, shimmering down the walls and onto the floor of my new existence. As I replace the receiver and turn to leave the room, there it is: that smell, the beautiful aroma of my memories of you. Some things never go away. We never want them to. And I am consumed by the feeling that I’ll never want to leave here.
I have a new chair. It’s soft, inviting. I’m at ease in it. Almost. My fingers stray between my legs and find the familiar wetness. They know better than me what I need.
If you ever…? Did you, ever…?
Do you still…?
I’m sitting by the window with the ghost of your aroma inciting me to touch my flesh and find relief; waiting. Come find me. Please.