...and now this...
Scent of My Woman
by Giselle Renarde
by Giselle Renarde
She knew I’d get antsy without her, but my Monique is a clever woman. While packing her suitcase for the Ottawa conference, she dug out one of those lacy white old-lady hankies from her sock drawer and sprayed it with perfume.
“To help you remember me,” she said.
I sniffed it before her signature scent had dissipated, and my throat burned.
“But this only smells like your perfume,” I told her. My throat was on fire. “It doesn’t smell like you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
My eyes were watering, and I sputtered but I managed to speak. “You don’t smell exclusively like your perfume. You smell like your makeup and your shampoo and the oils of your skin. It’s a combination of scents that all come together to create Fragrance de Monique.”
“Fine.” She plucked the hanky from my hand and ran it through her dark hair, down her jaw line and her neck. Pulling up her satin camisole, she used her chin to hold the hemline against her neck while she swept the square of lacy fabric between those big breasts. I knew my mouth would blissfully visit and revisit them until her departure.
Then it was down, down her belly, never ceasing until she’d reached my other favourite site. Monique shoved the hanky between her thighs, out of view, and rubbed. I watched her smooth forearm moving gently where it disappeared inside the satin bottoms that matched her camisole. Her hand became a rocking bulge inside those satin pants, urging her forward as she leaned her ass against the bed.
Mesmerized and utterly aroused, I bowed to her tits until my mouth met that tender flesh. Her nipples were dark, hard buds that tickled my tongue. I traced one before moving to the next. I barely touched her with my hands, except to rest the tips of my fingers against her sides. Her skin felt smoother than butter. The thought of Monique coated in a thick drizzle of the stuff made me moan. I sucked her harder, persuading more of that big brown breast into my mouth. Her body was my altar and she was my idol.
I knew her eyes were closed now. I could hear her panting above me, like a puppy begging for treats. The scent of Monique’s cunt pervaded, though it mingled proudly with her perfume.
Despite the throb of my pussy against my plain white cotton panties, I didn’t reach down. I didn’t feel for the wetness building up inside my body and ready to lubricate the friction between my fingers and clit.
Tonight was all about my girl, her pleasure. I wanted her to remember who she'd be coming home to. When she returned, it would be to the greatest of sensual delights.
She got quiet when she came.
Monique had always been that way, at least for as long as I’d known her. Her whimpers grew softer and softer the more her body trembled, until I couldn’t hear her anymore. I licked her tits, even as they bounced and heaved and got away from me. My tongue chased those gorgeous nipples, capturing one, capturing the other, sucking until it hurt and she pushed my head away.
Leaning against the dresser, I watched Monique tremble. Her chemise fluttered to cover her belly when she threw her head back. Though her shoulders moved up and down and her chest expanded with each breath, she made no noise that I could hear. Her hand was still in her pants when she looked up at me and smiled sheepishly.
“There,” she said, bringing the lace hanky from between her thighs. “Now it smells like all of me.”
Monique left Wednesday night. Thursday morning, I was already craving her presence the way I crave chocolate and potato chips. I’d slept with her hanky underneath my pillow. Before getting out of bed, I set Monique’s white lace like a shroud over my face and breathed deep the scent. My whole body trembled with momentary renewal.
She was there with me, floating on the air in my lungs. My body was rendered orgasmic by her scent, and I caressed my breasts with the fragrant fabric. That hanky was Monique’s smooth hands tracing down my belly and rattling my thighs.
“Monique,” I whimpered as her aromatic tongue licked my pussy. “I miss you.”
I rubbed the scent of her cunt against mine. My clit was engorged after a night spent breathing in Monique’s strange perfumes, and it protruded rudely, deliberately, from between my pussy lips. The hanky had been dry, but now it was wet with the very idea of being with her again. Fragrant juices soaked my inner thighs, and the slickness nearly pushed me over the edge.
My fingers took over, and they showed no mercy. They wanted to get me off. How could I refuse? My hips bucked to meet my hand as I swept Monique’s hanky across my belly, my breasts, and finally over my face. My whole system was shocked by the strength of her aroma hidden in that innocent fabric. Monique was right there inside it, and that made me feel a little less lonely.
Alarm sounded, coffee perked, toast popped. Time to face the day alone. When I stepped into the office that morning, Sid made his usual pass by my desk and asked, “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”
Without even looking at him, I said, “Fragrance de Monique.”
Giselle Renarde is an award-winning queer Canadian writer. Nominated Toronto’s Best Author in NOW Magazine’s 2015 Readers’ Choice Awards, her fiction has appeared in well over 100 short story anthologies, including prestigious collections and Lambda Award-winners. Giselle's juicy novels include Anonymous, Nanny State, Cherry, Seven Kisses, and The Other Side of Ruth.
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