A Feast of the Senses

I’ve been trying to find ways to inspire myself to write more. It’s weird that something I love to do can be so challenging to sit down and do. But it is, and I find that I need to find things to goad me into writing, such as a prompt that I can’t not write to. I’ve found a new writing challenge, the Erotic Journal, and this first week’s prompt (first for me) is one that I really couldn’t ignore.

Thus why I am sitting here on the couch, after an amazing rope scene with V, writing instead of curling up to him in bed.

Sensuality (The 5 Senses)

Whatever your sensual situation may be, consider what part your senses play or have played in your erotic life. How might you want to experience them in ways that you haven’t yet? Focus on one or all. 

As I mentioned, I am sitting here on the couch, after a fairly intense rope scene with V. I lift a glass of Fireball, give it a deep sniff, enjoy the mind-clearing cinnamon and whiskey scent. We frequently share a glass while we play; the scent of it has become inextricably entwined with memories of play and sex with him. I wonder if I would ever be able to drink it again without being drawn back to this time in my life, to my time with him.

Smell, scents, are a huge part of my sensual life. Maybe more than any other sense, in a way, because it is primal, the connections made on a level far below the intellect, maybe even unknown by my conscious mind.

Tonight:

I walk into his house. It has its own smells, familiar, and yet so different from my own home. But even in its difference, its familiarity is comforting.

He comes to me, draws me against him. It’s been a bit of a ride to get here, two hours in a raging snowstorm to be precise, and I lean into him, inhaling him. The safety of him, his scent that is so known, so dear. Sharp and sweet and a little musky. Him. I press into him, breathing deeply, calmed.

Later.

He presses me to my knees before him, my face to his thighs. I smell his jeans, with traces of who he is at work, and the room around us, plate glass windows bared to the cold crisp snowy world outside – I can smell the snow. I can smell him, warm. Warm and here. I feel his hands at the back of my neck, fastening my necklace around my throat.

Still later.

The smell of hemp. The feel of it tightening around my body, my limbs. The scent pulling me back, of course, to rope scenes with W.

And yet.

Once he begins, I smell him, only him, recognize and yearn for him. Far from calmed now, I am excited; anticipatory.

I smell my own perspiration as the rope tightens. Under my arms, between my legs.

These smells excite me, in the absence of his.

Later, the smell of my sex, of his, accompanied by the fluid slicking my inner thighs, is heady and intoxicating. Whenever he is close enough I push my face close to his, to the sweet spot at the juncture between his shoulder and his jawline; inhale.

His cock pumps in and out of me, and I smell hemp and sweat and sex and semen.

Last

I curl against him in bed. He doesn’t know that I inhale him like a drug. He laughs when I press my nose into his armpit, sniff deeply, gulp him in with great breaths. I’ve always done this; everywhere, all the time. Scenting him like a hound; like a kitty in heat.

Later and later, when he goes home, I will decline a shower. I will remember our times together by inhaling the scent of him on my skin and between my legs.

 

 

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