Lesbian Erotica
"Scent of my Woman" a sex story by Giselle Renard
She knew I’d get antsy without her, but my Monique is a clever woman. While she was packing her suitcase for the Ottawa conference, she dug 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 cologne had dissipated, and my throat burned like it had been doused with exotic alcohol. “But this only smells like your perfume,” I told her, trying not to hack up a lung. My throat was on fire. “It doesn’t smell like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She raised an eyebrow and held that pose.
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 make the fragrance of 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 the other favorite 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. The set was cream with overbearing magnolia flowers. Her hand became a rocking bulge inside those satin pants, urging her forward as she leaned her ass back against the bed.
Mesmerized and utterly aroused, I bowed to her tits until my mouth met that tender flesh. Her nipples were dark, and those hard buds tickled my tongue as I traced around one, then moving over 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, and the thought of Monique coated in a thick drizzle of the stuff made me moan. I sucked her harder, persuading more of that mass of 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 the spice of her perfume. Despite the throb of my pussy against the plain white cotton of my panties, I didn’t reach down. I didn’t feel for the wetness undoubtedly building up inside my body, and ready to lubricate the friction between fingers and clit. Tonight was all about my girl, her pleasure. I wanted her to remember, while she was away, that I was the woman she would come home to, and 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. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d felt quite this lucky.
“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 simultaneously. I slept with her hanky right under my pillow, but even that was too far away. Before getting out of bed, I set that white lace like a shroud over my face and breathed deep of the scent. My whole body trembled.
She was there with me, floating on the air like a meditative Buddha. My body was rendered orgasmic by her scent crossing my flesh, 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 already.”
I rubbed the scent of her cunt against mine. We mixed inside of me. 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.
Bedtime Reading by Valery Bareta
My fingers took over between my lips, and they showed no mercy. They wanted to get me off, and 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 strength of her aroma hidden inside 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 followed me to my desk like a pathetic little suit-wearing lapdog. He asked, “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”
Without even looking at him, I said, “It’s Monique.”
Originally published July 2011