The Scent of Awe
“Until the day breaks and the shadows flee, I will go to the mountain of myrrh and to the hill of incense.” — Song of Solomon 4:6
They met at a flower show twenty years ago today. They were both extending their necks to get a sniff of a beautiful orange rose, their noses almost touching—when Destiny knocked their heads together. From that day onward their passionate lovelust seemed to always be on fire and it certainly was today.
For their anniversary they went for a day at Coney Island. The weather was beautifully warm for a late day in April. The smell of sand and ocean and hot dogs filled the air. Philip wore some tan linen pants, sandals and a tank top. Elizabeth, a lovely summer dress through which he could see the outline of her thighs when the sun was behind her. More than once he mentioned thinking of the lovely furry junction between them, wrapped in soft cotton. And she likewise examined, and with a sly smile, made reference to the outline of the bulge in his pants. They hugged as the sun went down, faces in each other’s hair, taking in the intoxicating familiarity they loved.
Osmolagnia —from Greek: smell lust. They discovered their common passion soon after they met.
They had a fluctuating list of favorite smells which they would refer to casually, but they’d never made the effort to actually write it down. For both it included jasmine and lily-of-the-valley blossoms in spring, old books, and freshly baked crusty bread. And for both of them sex smells were a true intoxicant.
She thrilled at nuzzling her face on his thigh where it met his groin, and he looked forward to every opportunity to bury his face in her pussy.
Honest talk about sex is a rarity. People get very easily embarrassed when confronted by their animal natures. She still teased him about the one time, fueled by an extra drink or two at a party, he went on about what he called their proboscis pleasures.
Walking along the beach she teasingly reenacted that speech for him.
There are times when it is a special vintage and enters realms of perfection. Just the right amount of clean and sweat, freshness and time, a slight hint of muskiness, pee and soap. Sometimes she would rub herself with her hand and offer me a sniff while we fucked, inspiring our passion—but, it’s nothing like directly from the source, up close and buried in fur, with the extra element of body heat pushing the bouquet outward. If Awe had a scent . . .
Some of the more shocked ones are probably still talking about it, she said.
Well, you are, he smiled back at her.
Those words and thoughts still turn me on, she said.
Their energy was such that evening on the subway home that they felt like the other passengers could sense it — a young couple across from them seemed charmed by the older folks encapsulated in lovelust.
It did turn out to be a perfect day. She put music on, starting a playlist with the Lou Reed song. They put candles around the room, as they often did, and took turns undressing each other. He gently pushed her onto the bed and buried his face betwen her thighs.
Perfect vintage he said, only his eyes visible above her pubic hair. He worked his tongue all over her slick smooth labia, dipping deeply into her cunt, and dancing madly with her clit. She turned onto her side and he kept rubbing his face against her warm quim, his hands pulling her buttocks firmly towards himself. She grabbed him by his hair, and held him there as she exploded on his face.
As she lay there in a glow he smiled and told her that he could feel the imprint of his lower teeth against the inside of his lower lip.
After her orgasms her pussy got very sensitive and while sometimes fucking was the order of the day, today it was another favorite. She turned to him and said: fuck my face!
He got on his knees on the bed next to her, slid his cock into her mouth and began thrusting, just as he knew she liked it.
She moaned and sucked, her tongue playing with his foreskin. She buried her face deeper under him to capture his sweaty man smells—inhale me, he said—and a while later he came into her mouth as she hungrily swallowed him up.
You tasted good, she said. I could even smell the ocean. Vintage!
© AleXander Hirka 2019. All Rights Reserved.
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Tempest Tossed in New York City — writing and art and life in New York City