The Smell of Sex
I wonder if men can smell when a woman’s been freshly fucked. Even after she’s had a shower and washed the sweat and come and pussy juice off herself. Or did I have a sign on my forehead as I wandered the grocery store aisles this afternoon, trying to concentrate on my (minimal) grocery list and making a big hash of it because all I could think about was–
How freshly fucked I was.
How my pussy was still throbbing, still swollen, still aching, two hours after I’d been just-about fucked into oblivion on his couch.
How wet I was, how hard he was, how I couldn’t stop coming with his voice in my ear and his stories in my head and his hands on my hips and how I wanted to come again.
Right then, right there.
I swear the men passing me in the grocery aisles all knew. I could feel their eyes on me as I passed, feel their heat, their questions: who, where, when, how?
And would I with them?
Yes, I’d thought, as I slid myself behind a tall, blonde man standing in front of the beer cooler, yes I would. If he told me to.
Maybe it was the sway of my hips that told them. Hips that only two hours previous were thrusting against him, against his hand and the wooden pony and his cock, and still remembered those movements, making me walk loose and slow, inviting them to stare, inviting them to splay their hands around them, to lift me up and settle me back down on their laps…
Or did I just smell like sex, even after he made me wash the sweat and pussy juice off myself in the shower, telling me that if he washed me, if he put his hands on me again we’d start all over, because we both knew he didn’t have any willpower.
I don’t have any willpower. Maybe that’s what those men in the grocery store sensed. That I was still stupidly, mindlessly aroused, and that all I wanted to do was to lay down in a corner somewhere and spread my legs and let them all come at me, one by one…
If he told me to.
We’d had a bit of a rough patch just before and during Dark Odyssey. Nothing insurmountable, and we still had a great time at DO, but…we didn’t play with our usual fire. It was fun–he displayed me and we scened a couple times and we really enjoyed each other’s company–but there wasn’t that thrusting-grinding-clawing-panting-push-pull-fire that we usually have for each other. But we came home, and talked it out…and then, when we were done talking, he tied me up and hurt me. And made me come. And made me beg and plead and whimper and made the line between pain and pleasure blur so thoroughly I didn’t even know there was a line between them. And then he made me fuck him, and made me come some more and fuck him some more…til I was a sweaty, juicy, panting, shaking–deliriously happy–mess.
No wonder the men in the grocery store stared. Sex that deep just doesn’t wash off that easily.