Chapter 4
753 Words
Chapter Four
Holy spirit and mother of all pheromones.
This was a huge mistake.
Musky and delicious in a manly way, this overwhelmingly arousing smell is doing the exact opposite of what I hoped and expected.
The Russian could bottle this aroma and make a fortune.
Damn it. Operation BS is a huge flop. Instead of getting him out of my mind, I’ve just wedged him in there so deeply it’s a wonder my ears don’t pop.
Oh, and that fetish I was claiming not to have—I might’ve just developed it, at least as far as this man’s undies go.
Why me, universe? It’s bad enough I can’t be with a realistic prospect due to my heightened sense of smell. Why should a guy I can never have smell so heavenly?
I force myself to pull the dance belt away from my nose. Instantly, I miss the scent. Also—and this might be due to the orgasm interruptus during the performance—I’m hornier than a teen bonobo.
Hmm. I am wearing my s*x toy underwear… And I do have this delicious thong at my mercy… Most importantly, life has just handed me a new lemon in the form of The Russian’s god-like scent, so the least I can do is make sweet, orgasmic lemonade out of it—as per my motto.
Oh, and this could also be inspirational for my blog.
In fact, I owe it to myself and my followers to do this.
There. It’s settled. Before I can chicken out, I lock the door, plop my butt on the chair, and turn on my vibrating panties.
Oh, wow.
This is amazing—and the only way I can make it better is by picturing The Russian’s powerful legs, each muscle flexing as he leaps across the stage.
I gulp in another whiff of the aphrodisiac undies.
Fuck. This feels better than anything in recent memory, and not just thanks to the thong. It must be the naughtiness of the situation. After all, I am m**********g during a breaking-and-entering. No, make that spelunking during a robbery. Because who am I kidding? I’m stealing this dance belt after I’m done.
Unbidden, the image of The Russian’s mouth on my c**t comes to mind. He’s pursing those uber-lickable lips and blowing a cherry to generate the sensation that matches the vibrations I’m feeling.
Ooh. Nice. I increase the speed of the vibration and close my eyes.
Yeah. Just like that.
Blow another cherry for me.
A little more.
Yes.
No.
Damn it.
For some reason, the orgasm is too far away, probably because the real Artjoms Skulme is only here in spirit, unlike during the performance.
I increase the speed some more.
The gizmo purrs louder and the orgasmic horizon moves close enough that I can’t help but moan—but I do manage to keep my volume low in case some cleaning person happens to walk by the dressing room.
A minute later, the orgasm is still not coming.
I take another hit of the magic scent and picture The Russian’s tongue flicking over my s*x.
It’s great, don’t get me wrong, just not enough. I think what’s keeping me from reaching my destination is this gnawing emptiness that I yearn to fill. More specifically, to fill it with Mr. Big, as that’s what my nose has been smelling. Unfortunately, the closest I can get at the moment is my fingers.
I let the remote join the thong in my left hand to free up my right digits. Pretending they’re The Russian’s, I lick and suck my index and middle finger, then slide my hand into my still-vibrating panties and locate my entrance.
Fuuuck.
This is exactly what the m**********n doctor ordered. Now that the feeling of fullness is there, the orgasm rushes forth at the speed of sound.
Also, the images. Oh, the images… The Russian is pounding into me, hard, his pelvis performing tricks that only a ballet dancer is capable of.
Another moan escapes my lips, one that might be a tad too loud. Oops. I muffle the next moan with the dance belt.
Wait a sec.
Did I just hear a clack?
Nah. Must be my jaw clicking from holding in a scream.
I’m almost there. Just a few seconds more. I take a deep whiff of the thong, inhaling the arousing aroma like I’m underwater and it’s my oxygen.
I’m almost there.
So close.
Just a little bit more—
Now the sound is unmistakable.
The hinges on the dressing room door squeak.
My eyes fly open.
Before I can remove my fingers from inside myself and create some distance between the dance belt and my nose, a man steps into the dressing room.
A man who’s starred in all of my recent fantasies.
The Russian himself.
- Writer
