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Chloe was twelve before she realized her ability to smell other people’s lives was not the typical olfactory experience.
As a child, she watched cats and dogs greet each other with a good sniff and a lick to the bottom. The tongue only served to stimulate that wonderful scent signature that said, “Hi, I’m Fido,”
“Nice to meet you Fido, I’m Fifi. Smell how friendly and unthreatening I am.”
“I’m Tomcat, get the hell off my patch unless you’re a female in need of a fuck.”
Chloe also realized early that unlike her feline and canine counterparts, if she wanted to live in polite society, she had to sniff covertly. Discretion and a sensitive nose uncovered a world that would have made the best equipped voyeur envious.
By his scent, Chloe could tell if her landlord had gotten shagged and if it had been by his wife. Chloe could smell every detail of her flat mate, John’s, sex life. His girlfriend, Kim, was an olfactory layer cake. Deodorant soap and perfume could never completely mask the fact that she worked at a chippie. All those smells fought a losing battle against the tidal pool of scent emanating from between her legs, a scent that was always flash fire urgent.
That the natural perfume of the female body unconsciously elicited in men the urge to copulate was biology bordering on magic. John had no idea how much the heft in his balls and the stiffening of his cock depended on Kim smelling ready for sex. When her scent permeated the flat, his grew to a pungent thrum that Chloe could almost feel against the back of her teeth.
Even from behind closed doors, Chloe could smell the moment of penetration. Each thrust of John’s cock stirred their scents like rolling on rose petals, like crushing garlic. When the immanent explosion happened and John ejaculated, for one powerful moment, his scent dominated.
No matter where she was in the flat, Chloe’s nose recorded the climaxing of perspiration and pheromones, pussy juice and semen. Coded within each scent was the delicious, most basic need to couple. She smelled it all, and no one ever knew.
Though Chloe was intrigued by the smells of others, she was never able to find anyone whose scent suited her. A lesser nose would not have noticed the minor differences, but for Chloe, they were glaring incompatibilities. As a result sex for her was usually a solo act. It was the lack of a love life forced upon her by her nose that inspired her to apply for the position as Dr Matt Engel’s lab assistant. She hoped his research on pheromones would help her understand her gift and maybe help her find someone who smelled right for her. She hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly.
Even while she waited in his office for the interview, his lingering smell made her mouth water and sent tremors down through her crotch. By the time he arrived, it was all she could do to keep from rocking against the chair for relief. She barely noticed what he looked like. It was what he smelled like that told her exactly who he was. Underneath his desert heat, animal fur scent was the tiniest acrid whiff of ozone, like an approaching storm. It sparked against the back of her throat and nose, exciting the feral parts of her. She wanted to sniff between his legs and bury her face in his arm pits to better take in that fierce male scent.
Unaware of her primal urges, he motioned her into his laboratory. “You’re familiar with the T-shirt test? The subjects go unbathed for a couple of days, during which time they wear, and sleep in, the same T-shirt. Then we bag it for testing. We’re all drawn to the scent of the person who is genetically what we need to produce the best offspring. Care to sniff?”
Her stomach did a little flip flop before she realized he was talking about the bagged shirts, not himself. She blinked and tried to wipe the puppy dog look off her face. “Sure.”
None of the bagged shirts appealed to her like his scent did. She stopped at shirt number five and sniffed again. “These are all supposed to be men?”
“That’s right, why?”
She sniffed once more to be sure, but her nose was never wrong. “This is a woman’s shirt.” She smiled apologetically.
He turned the bag over and looked at the label. “You’re right. All female test subjects are labeled with even numbers. It must have gotten mixed in by accident. How did you know?”
“I have a sensitive nose.”
He studied her over the rim of his glasses until she felt uncomfortable and began to shift from foot to foot. “You can tell just by sniffing if the shirt was worn by a man or a woman?”
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He practically ran out of the room.
While he was away she sniffed the other T-shirts half-heartedly, but it was Matt Engel’s thunder storm smell that intrigued her, crowding out the laboratory odours of disinfectant and plastic. The electric part of his scent was heightened here in his space, not from sexual arousal, but from excitement over his work.
She paced the room, sniffing, inhaling, taking in his scent message. She brushed her arm against the high-backed wooden stool. It was where he always sat, she could tell by the smell. Her nostrils flared. She opened her mouth just slightly to take in the tingle of a smell she could almost taste. It was faint, but once she had sorted sex from the other more immediate scents, it was obvious. He had definitely come here– more than once, she would guess. Breathing in deeply, she searched for the second signature, the scent of a woman, the scent of the blending, but it wasn’t there. Like her, the good doctor appeared to be practicing sex for one.
Her own smell was heightened by the thought of Matt Engel sitting on the stool, head thrown back, cupping and tugging a weighty erection. The electricity of his scent would have buzzed like a high tension wire as he ground his arse against the seat, distended and uncomfortable.
Then it would have happened, the explosion of voltage, hot, sticky, animal-fragranced. Had his semen arced through the air to land on the spotless tiles of the laboratory floor? Or had he caught it all neatly, wiped the stretched length of himself, and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket.
Would the women he worked with have caught that pheromonal hint as he walked past? Would they have unconsciously sniffed the air? Their prehistoric ancestors would have recognized the scent of a virile male. They would have opened their legs and thrust their arses out, making certain he caught their scent too. She imagined the scent of a woman blended with Matt Engel’s scent. Once imagined, there was no pushing the thought from her head.
With a quick glance at the door, she shoved a hand under her skirt, pulled aside the crotch of her knickers just enough to expose her vulva, and spread her lips. Then she hoisted herself onto Matt Engel’s stool. She bore down, and with a quick rocking of her hips, slicked her scent against his. The blending of their two smells, even though it wasn’t a proper blending, was completely intoxicating. Orgasm would have followed quickly if she hadn’t caught his scent just before the latch of the door clicked.
“You don’t mind if I test you, do you?” He burst into the room, his arms loaded down with bagged T-shirts.
“Please do.” Surreptitiously, she rubbed her pussy-scented fingers on the back of the stool, and she wasn’t quite sure, but she thought he might have sniffed the air.
He brushed against her as he dropped the avalanche of T-shirts on the lab table. The weighted scent of his excitement swirled around her, making her dizzy. “Here, smell this one.” He handed her a bagged T-shirt.
She opened it, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. “Very pungent male.”
“Female. On her period.”
“You’re joking, right?”
She shook her head as he handed her the next three shirts in rapid succession.
“Female, male, male.” She sniffed again. “This one’s had sex. I can smell female on it too.”
“Unbelievable. How long have you been able to do this?”
“All my life.”
“What else can you smell?”
“Everything. I’ve learned to block out unpleasant things. Most of the time.”
“And you can actually tell when people have had sex?”
“When they’re aroused?”
“What about other emotions?”
“Of course, but nothing smells stronger than arousal.”
She wondered at his thoughts as he held her in a gaze of disbelief, his face lit like a child who had just seen Father Christmas. Did he think her a freak, perhaps a throw-back to a more sensate, more feral past?
She could smell his excitement.
The smile disappear from his face as he realized. He dropped onto the stool. Suddenly his scent was augmented by the astringent tang of nervousness. His breath came faster, and she could see his pulse pummeling his throat. “You can smell me.” His words sounded as though they had been evicted from his mouth against their will.
She nodded. Her own scent was now like a heavy blanket, wrapping itself around him, tighter and tighter, desperate to get his attention.
“How do I smell?” His voice was little more than a whisper.
“You smell electric.” She moved closer and sniffed, first the nape of his neck, then unselfconsciously she lowered her face to where his bicep rested tightly against his armpit. “Yes, you smell very electric.”
“Is that good?”
“To me it is.”
As she lowered her face for another sniff, he curled his fingers in her hair and held her to him. “I can’t smell you.” He swallowed nerves. “That’s hardly fair, is it?” His scent sparked against hers. The lab reeked with the serrated metal scent of uncertainty and the overriding need to blend, and she was desperate to share it with him.
“You’re a mammal. You can smell me. You’ve just forgotten.” With unsteady fingers, she opened her blouse, then guided his face to the valley between her breasts.
He inhaled. She could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the caramel tang of awkwardness. “Your skin. It smells like a hot day.” He cupped her breasts and pulled them closer to his face, nuzzling and snuffling. His thumbs kneaded the rise of her nipples. His scent spiked until the deserty heat of him was nearly physical.
He kissed a path over the mound of her left breast to where it joined her arm pit. “I’m supposed to be sniffing, not kissing.” He words were tight, uncomfortable.
“Surely you’ve studied animals, how they lick, how they nip, how they taste. All that to stimulate scent. You of all people should know that our scent,” she nodded to the T shirts, “is our identity.” She pulled away and lifted her skirt enough to straddle him on the stool. Then she settled over the anxious stretching of his penis beneath his trousers and rocked up and down its length.
He groaned out loud and caught her by the hips, watching in fascination as she slipped the crotch of her panties away and rubbed herself against him. “I’m marking you with my scent, marking you as a strong, virile man, marking you as my territory. Surely you can smell me now.”
He caught his breath in a gasp. “I can. I smell you. You smell like honey.” He sniffed hard. “Honey mixed with damp earth and other things, so complex. I want to smell more.”
Holding her to him, he stood, lifting her until her bottom rested on the cool metal of the lab table. Bagged T-shirts tumbled to the floor. He shoved aside her panties. She felt swollen enough to fill the whole room as she presented herself. He rested the flat of his hand against her spread labia stroking and petting her with his palm. With each caress she could feel herself slickening, she could smell her sharpening scent on his hand.
As though he were Houdini escaping a straight jacket, he shrugged out of his shirt. Then he wiped his hand, glistening with her juices, across his chest and down over the flat of his belly. He paused to open his trousers before rubbing her scent against his erection, which jutted from a matt of dark, fragrant curls. “Your smell, I want it all over me.” He buried his face in her pussy, lapping and suckling in an upwelling of fragrance, an exquisite chemical reaction that made her smell like hot metal and honey against each mammalian flick of his tongue.
Wild for the scent of him, she pushed him away and began shoving and tugging aside unwanted clothing until they were both naked. Then he climbed onto the lab table next to her, and she took his cock into her mouth, breathing in the electric desert of him as she stroked and caressed his pubic hair to heighten the fragrance.
After a few minutes, he pulled her away and repositioned her until her bottom shadowed his face. She could hear him sniffing, inhaling, gasping her scent as he lowered her until his tongue and his breath danced against her cunt. It was as though they were both lost in each other, licking and tasting, sniffing — wet, gulping snuffling sniffs, buried deep in the most fragrant places, places that made every part of her buzz with the electric bloom of his scent.
“I’ve got to come,” he gasped. “I can’t wait any longer.”
“I want you to come. I want you to come on me, to mark me like I marked you.” She could feel the pressure building, she could feel him tense until he was like iron, as she sucked and tugged at the length of him.
When the first splash of semen exploded onto her neck and breasts, her pussy clenched against his mouth as she came. She cupped and rubbed and stroked his wetness all over her, spreading the sticky ozone of him on to her tits and buttocks and face. Then she wiped the slippery fragrance of her pussy over his chest and stomach and down his thighs, until they were blanketed in the scent of their blending.
In a tangle of arms and legs, they caught their breath in the strong odour of mutually marked territory. A good sniff aimed in the right direction seemed much more effective than the complications of modern mating rituals. Perhaps Chloe was a throw-back to a more sensate, more feral past, but as she breathed in the storm cloud scent of Matt Engel intimating more heat to come, that didn’t seem like such a bad thing after all.