Sensory erotica
Man in a Bottle," an erotic story by J.M. Kaye
The Top Note:
I begin by sniffing his hair. Faint smell of soap; the lye and fats bringing back a memory of my grandmother rendering tallow in her big iron kettle. Push that memory aside, save it for later. I need an animal fat smell, possibly lanolin.
I don’t usually go looking for inspiration in coffee shops; that smell kills everything. But I had just popped in for an espresso when I saw him sitting at one of the outdoor tables. He was sipping from a paper cup of overpriced coffee and studying a college textbook. Chemistry, how appropriate. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about his appearance: medium height, slim build, dark blond hair and wire-framed glasses. But his pheromones were the strongest I had sensed in years, powerful enough to get past even the inevitable coffee odor. I did not imagine this; my nose doesn’t lie and I made my fortune in scents.
I asked him to come home with me. He was immediately defensive, saying he isn’t anyone’s cougar bait. It’s all nonsense, of course, adolescent bluster. A boy his age will fuck anything. But I had no qualms about making an offer; one does not survive communist Romania without knowing a thing or two about bribes.
His scalp oil is slightly spicy, I think I can replicate it with bay laurel and fenugreek. As I make my way down his throat he asks, uncertainly, if he should get undressed now. I tell him no, clothes are an important part of the bouquet and I will remove them when I see fit to. He has taken off his jacket, but the smell of leather lingers on his neck.
My offer was dinner at the forbiddingly expensive restaurant on the hilltop overlooking the city. He would probably be just as happy with Denny’s, but it is essential that his food be absolutely pure. Besides, if I am to play the part of the rich older woman, I had might as well take it to the limit.
In return, all I asked was for him to let me smell him, from head to toe, his naked skin. He looked intrigued and a little disgusted. He wanted to know why, and I told him.
“I want to put you in a bottle.”
The Middle Note:
I unbutton his shirt to smell his chest. Cotton has its own smell, as does linen. But silk! Silk is the sexiest smell in the world, after human musk. I can smell it from across a store, sometimes even from across a mall. If I see him again, I will buy him a raw silk shirt, loose and soft as an old blanket.
Not wanting to intimidate him too much, I left my diamonds in the safe and dressed simply, in a black cashmere sweater, black trousers, black satin heels. I pick him up in my most modest car, a three-year-old silver Lexus.
He had followed my instructions to the letter: Wash thoroughly with unscented soap, no aftershave, no cologne, no antiperspirant or deodorant. Dress in freshly washed clothes, but not new clothes, they must be things he has worn before, things impregnated with his own essence.
I pull his shirt back and lift an arm, putting my face to his armpit. The hair tickles my nose as I breathe in. Salty sweat and something else, something acid. Lemon. Lime. Each has its own distinct odor, but together they form something completely new, lemon-lime. I can sense his growing excitement; he is not accustomed to having a woman paw over him like this.
I ordered for him. No red meat, and nothing with onions or garlic. He had never tried raw oysters before, never tasted good Alsatian Riesling. We both ate roasted pheasant and grilled vegetables. No coffee, but I allowed him a glass of Liquore Stega.
His stomach trembles as I exhale through my mouth, onto his skin, the warmth and moisture releasing more smells. I inhale through my nose. Cardamom, cinnamon. Getting closer now, to what I’m really looking for.
The Base Note:
I remove his shoes and socks, unbuckle his belt, and pull off his pants and briefs. His cock is erect, but that’s his problem, not mine. I promised I would only smell him. I find the sweetness here, buried in his pubic hair.
Patchouli does not deserve its bad reputation; it is a shame that the hippies had to overuse it and ruin it for everyone. It is the one smell in nature that comes closest to warm, earthy human pheromones and should be used sparingly. It is intoxicating; I spend more time nuzzling his groin than is really necessary.
He moans, trying to push my mouth closer to his cock, but I firmly remove his hands from my head and continue my downward progress, spreading his legs and nudging my face up between his thighs to huff the aroma of his ass. The food has not yet been digested, and he is clean, but pungent. Cumin seeds and black pepper.
El bosque de tu espalda by Martin Toyé available at ObsessionArt.com
His feet require only a cursory sniff: more leather, and perhaps a touch of balsam. I now have everything I need.
“Thank you,” I say, handing him his clothes. “You can go now.”
My pussy is dripping, but he doesn’t need to know that. It will be addressed later, at my leisure.
I can’t drive him home, for I must get to work immediately, while the memories are still fresh. I order a cab and hand him some money. He stumbles out, looking as if he had been hit over the head with a sandalwood branch.
I quickly scribble my notes: Bay laurel, lanolin, fenugreek. Leather, cotton (try silk!) salt, lemon-lime. Cardamom, cinnamon, patchouli. Cumin seeds, pepper, balsam. In time, there will be many more ingredients, hundreds more.
For now, this is the beginning of the task I have given myself: I will put him in a bottle.
Originally published September 2010