#195) The Olfactory Sense – mild content

Your nose, the sense of smell, has an amazing connection to ones’ brain. A scent can trigger a memory or an emotion, even from long ago. Actors know and use this in their craft. It’s proven true in my life. If I smell Night-blooming Jasmine, I immediately think back to romancing Betty on warm Los Angeles evenings. The smell of wasabi reminds me of Joan teaching me all about sushi and sashimi. The smell doesn’t have to be strong for the memory or emotion to be overpowering.
I wonder, however, if the nose has an appetite with it, like how the sense of taste is connected to the desire to eat, to answer that grumble in the stomach until replete. When I smell a woman’s pussy (which, just like their appearances, all differ somewhat), I hunger for it with an animal’s lust. A stallion will roll his upper lip back, baring his teeth when he smells a mare in heat. A lion will lay his huge, maned-head underneath his mate’s twitching tail, in order to drink-in her similar state of readiness. I’ve always felt that thoroughbreds and lions are my spirit-animals. Of course, it’s the reptiles, from lizards to snakes, who actually are able to taste the air with their tongues. So, as much as I might envision myself like Seattle Slew (who really was “hung like a horse”, unlike some of his brethren), or the “King of Beasts”, I’m really more like a Gila Monster, or that Geico gecko… (Another day, I’ll write a lament about how male humans have sadly lost that valued ability to tell through the air if their mate is fertile.)
Let’s make this specific (and graphic). I dream of lying in bed with her. Her legs are splayed wide apart, she feels no modesty. She feels my index finger tracing her inner pink folds, as my left hand holds her labia open. As my finger approaches her clitoris, her thigh muscles tense, than relax, as if shocked by electrodes. She gets progressively more wet.
“You smell,” I announce.
“Excuse me!” she returns, offended, rising from the mattress.
“…Wonderful!” I complete my thought, and she lays back down again. “I love your scent! The French call it a woman’s ‘cassolete’ and yours is an aphrodisiac.”
“No one gets my ‘casserole’ cooking as well as you do, lover,” she sighs. “I want you to fuck me now!”
“Not yet,” I answer, exerting my dominant side, then lower my mouth to where my finger teased.
I once stood before the zoo cage of a male lion for most of one day when I was ten. I wanted to memorize every moment. I watched this incredible creature lap at his water bowl for a full minute not a yard from my eyes through the iron bars. I saw the small bristles on his tongue, giving it a raspiness, so that he could easily drink up the blood from cavity of his prey.
“Oh, Godddd!” the incredible creature before me exhales, the cavity at her core opens wider, allowing my lapping tongue to probe deeper. My fingers dive in, corkscrewing her sex, as my tongue refocuses on that erect clit. “I’m gonna cum!” she announces, then does. Fragrant, viscous cream flows from her, an olfactory-fancier’s factory.
I’ll fuck her when I think she’s good and ready, three or four more orgasms from now. Her jism and smells will blend with mine. She’ll want me to lie next to her then, cuddle as we spoon, whisper our amorous feelings to one another. I’ll want to hover over her pussy, drink in our co-mingled funk that hangs in the air, bathe in the broth that we cooked up.

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