Catching Her Scent

I regret sharing this with my colleague.


It was so casual; I walked past her one morning, on my way to the work station, when she looked up.


"What are you wearing?"


I was taken by surprise - was I not dressed right for a day packed with client meetings?


"Why what's wrong?"


"Nothing, I am just trying to place your perfume."


"Oh!" I breathed, relieved. "It's Dior. Midnight Poison. It's the only one I ever wear."


I regretted saying that immediately. Like I had spilled some family secret. No, even worse. Like I had admitted to some disgusting intimate secret that would be the death of me.


She nodded and said she would check it out. I hated that. I did not want anybody else smelling like me in a fifty mile radius of him. No, five hundred.


He knew me by my scent. He knew it would draw him to me eventually, every night, every weekend, and he would start by sniffing exactly the places I had dabbed  a bit of it on. We eventually turned it into a game and he would tell me exactly where he wanted me to smell like Midnight Poison. He would start by smudging just a bit of it onto his fingers and then continue leaving those marks on my shoulder, my eyelids, my ear, my lower lip, my left nipple, my navel, my thigh, my clit...


He would then bend down over me, lower me into the bed, and start smelling the fragrant traces he had left on my body while I writhed and moaned under his fingers, his mouth, that gorgeous tongue that was capable of inflicting as much pain as it inflicted pleasure. I would beg him to not stop, not tonight, not ever and he would tease, slow down, talk, whisper, and tease and bite and lick again until I would beg him to fuck me, to make love to me, to tear me up, to use me, to fill me up so I was useless to all other men.


He would oblige when I was incapable of putting up with his slow torture techniques. We would lie spent, minutes later, and he would then nuzzle his nose, tracing my jawline and say he loved how I smelled mixed up with Poison and the combined heat that would leave our bodies.


"I wish I could bottle this scent," he would say.


No way was I going to let my colleague get her hands on the scent that made up my nights.


Did she buy it? No. And apparently, I did not have to plot or buy off all the perfumes in my city either. She just decided it was too expensive.


But of course - it has been paid for, in full with countless sleepless nights. Who would afford it anyway?