I take the stairs two at a time, so eager am I to reach your bedroom.

Once inside the room, I lower the blinds and undress completely. I lean my head down over your pillow and sniff. Shampoo. It smells yummy, almost edible . . . yet it isn’t this I’m searching for.

I turn down the covers, mount the bed on all fours, and continue along the scent trail, down the length of the bottom sheet, until I find what I’m seeking—the spot you have subtly directed me to, the spot where you masturbated this morning.

It smells like the essential, private you. En route, I have passed the appetizing, fruity scent of your hair, the refined, floral scent of your cologne, and the clean, tangy scent of your deodorant. But the scent I have tracked down is completely distinct from all of these. It is incomparably richer and grander . . . and more genuine. It is your most intimate scent -- the familiar, intoxicating aroma of your sopping, aroused cunt, a sharp, earthy, ultra-feminine essence that almost defies description but which connects directly to my most primal urges. It is a scent that, when you are present, unabashedly cries “Fuck me!” And now, though you are absent, your aroma is as fresh as it is pungent, as it is irresistible. I decide that you must have been pleasuring yourself immediately before leaving the house. Maybe your claim that you “ran out of time” was the grain of truth in your tricky little note.

The lingering smell of your juices has aroused me wildly. My nose presses lewdly into the joy-stained sheet, and I let my entire consciousness sink with it into olfactory paradise. I raise my chin just enough to begin licking your invisible but potently-fragrant residue, and I begin to grind my manhood, with involuntary urgency, into your mattress. Soon I am clutching myself, and the delirious spasms erupt. It has taken me only moments to add my personal, elemental stain to your own.

Just as I am milking the last drops from my throbbing pump, I hear a noise on the stairs. Before I can even grab for the topsheet, you saunter in through the open bedroom door.

“I thought I’d find you here,” you say, your eyes glinting.

I am delighted but perplexed. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to Oregon?”

“Who’s going to Oregon?” you reply.

You explain that when you learned I couldn’t accompany you, you had secretly postponed the trip. The part about not being able to change the plane tickets had been a benign fib, and you’ve spent the past two weeks planning for this moment.

Your hands have been busy with zips and buttons while you’ve been telling me all this. By the time you have finished, you are as naked as I am. As you ease into the bed, I can see that your intimate zone is already glistening, and my sense of smell succumbs to the new wave of feminine essence that is coming to me, this time, directly from its pulsating source. You take my sticky cock in a tender grasp, knowing that though I have just gloriously creamed your cool sheets, I will soon enough be ready to cream your warm, oozing, boldly-aromatic love-hole. It was all part of your vacation plans, after all.

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