Her Face-Sitting Fantasy Pt. 01

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If I close my eyes, I can still picture the first moment I smelled you. You were sitting on the Green Line with a bag of groceries on your lap, your earphones plugged in, looking sweaty and annoyed with loose strands of dark hair illuminated by the setting sun behind you. Your Heedley’s Gym tee-shirt was damp at the neckline and armpits. You had a red gym bag resting at your feet. You were looking forward as though you were willing the train to take you home faster.

We were the only two people in the car, and I practically fell over when the train lurched forward from the station stop. I grabbed a support bar and stood up, my face hot with embarrassment.

You turned and smiled at me. “Watch out,” you said.

I think my heart was beating out of my chest. From the way you were looking at me, I could have sworn you knew what was on my mind — knew what I’d been thinking when I was too distracted to hear the sound of the closing doors.

But you couldn’t have known.

… Could you?

When I feel almost fell over, it was because I’d been breathing you in. Your scent had suffused the entire train car: a smell like raspberries and petrichor and the seaside. As intoxicating as the smell of gasoline. As potent as tequila. I was drunk with you from the second I entered the car. I was imagining pressing my face between your smothering breasts, kissing beads of perspiration from your sternum. I was imagining you sitting on me in the vestibule, forcing my snub nose against your dark asshole, gasping for breath in the warmth between your thighs.

I’ve always had a vivid imagination. I’ve always had a strong sense of smell. You commented on it, once, when I knew you were crushing mint to make mojitos before I even entered your apartment. “Emily, you could smell that through the door?” you’d exclaimed. And I smiled shyly, because the truth was that I had smelled the mint from your walkway.

I had smelled your perfume from the street.

Maybe that’s strange. I’ve just never lived without it, so I can’t say for sure. I’ve always organized the world by sense of smell. I never have thought of myself as a strange person…I’ve always thought of myself as being pretty boring, in fact. I’m slight in build, and my hair is the color of a field-mouse’s fur. I’ve got a flat chest and a skinny waist, a butt that’s nothing to write home about. I’m the sort of person you might see in a bus terminal perusing the newstand and look right through, not even registering that there was a person standing there in front of the magazines.

Unlike you.

You have a magnetism that’s undeniable. Men turn to look at the way your hips swish when you walk past them. Women look enviously at your luscious raven hair and your effortless style: you look like a celebrity when you wear yoga pants and a plain tee shirt. How unfair is that? You get more looks in your work out clothes than most girls get in their lives.

I don’t care, though. Maybe it’s for the best that people look through me and stare at you. Maybe that’s how your boyfriend has never caught on after all this time… although, Brian is sort of an imbecile, I’m sorry to say. Whatever. I’ll get back to the point.

After the first time I saw you — and smelled you — I knew that I needed to make our paths cross again. So I went to Heedley’s Gym. I had no idea if you were even a member or how many times I’d have to go to run into you. I barely even had any workout clothes. Thank God that I was lucky. The first time I went, there you were in the window, running on a treadmill with your earbuds in.

Then your eyes met mine through the window.

I stopped walking. I was paralyzed. My heart leapt to my throat.

You smiled at me.

And then it was over. I was now hopelessly smitten. I signed in as a guest with my stomach fluttering, feeling as though they’d see that I was an imposter. I went to the locker room and set down my gym bag, wondering what the hell a person is supposed to do in a gymnasium anyway, and my luck struck for a second time when I saw your red gym back. It was just sitting there on the bench — I guess there wasn’t space for it in your locker. You must of figured, ‘Who is going to want to steal my sweaty clothes?’

Well.

Joke’s on you, isn’t it?

I snatched the pink panties from the gym bag and zipped it back up. I stuffed them into my pants pocket as though I were trying to hide marijuana from a police officer. As though someone was going to come out at any moment and say, “Hey! This pervert girl is taking the dark-haired girl’s panties!” My heart pounding, I tried to leave the scene of the crime. I rushed out from the aisle of lockers —

And ran directly into you.

“Hey!” you said, your voice friendly. “Don’t I know you?”

I don’t know how I even responded. I was sure you’d be able to hear my heart thudding inside of my chest. I guess I must have gotten something out about the train, because your face lit up in a smile of recognition.

“Oh, yeaaah!” you said, pointing your finger at me. “I’ve seen you on the Green bartın escort Line. Do you live around here?”

I explained that I did, and we traded our home stations. Turns out we lived close — walking distance. I was stammering like an idiot, but you kept on me.

“Listen, I’m sort of new to this area,” you said. “I’ve been looking for, like, a work-out buddy? Someone to just keep me accountable and make sure I get my butt out of bed.” You fixed me with a quizzical look, one hand on your hip. “Wanna swap phone numbers?”

And just like that, my luck struck again.

Now, with your phone number and your panties, I stealthily made my way out of the gym. I passed some people who definitely must have wondered why I wasn’t sweating, but I didn’t care. I just had to get back to my apartment where I could take out the panties. When I got to my apartment, I made a b-line for my bedroom and slammed the door. I practically threw off my clothes and dropped down on the bed. I put your panties against my face and inhaled.

Heaven. The only way to describe it. I was in heaven, and I was in you. I pleasured myself with the panties balled up in a fist just beneath my nose. When I closed my eyes, you were right there in the room, your black hair tumbling down onto naked breasts, cherry-red nipples erect. I came with the force of a tsunami, my toes curling and my entire body going rigid.

The image imprinted on my mind was of your face as you looked back at me from over your shoulder, the twin globes of your bare ass lifted and poised to sit on me and extinguish the light.

I sat up from my post-orgasm bliss a new person. I suddenly had a new confidence, and I new purpose. I picked up my phone and I texted you.

You can’t imagine the joy I felt when you responded right away.

It didn’t take long in our friendship for it to come out that I wasn’t much one for exercise. My skinniness is genetic, and I don’t like to sweat. I went to the gym a couple of times with you, just to watch you do squats, mainly — to watch the way the fabric of your yoga pants brightened on your bottom as it stretched. But mostly, we hung out at your house. We went to movies. We watched TV. We took walks in the park and drank mojitos on your porch. It was a friendship — a good friendship. But we were only friends. You had no idea how badly I wanted you. How often I held the panties that still smelled like you and fucked myself until I was gasping and moaning. How much I love you.

Until that one summer night.

You were wearing your black yoga pants and a green tank top with your hair in a messy bun. You grinned at me over your wineglass and did all the appropriate oohing when I brought out our meal. There aren’t many things I’d say I’m good at, but cooking is one of them. Maybe it’s got something to do with my sense of smell. I made a seafood linguini and garlic bread, and we shared a bottle of wine. Our laughter was getting louder as the night went on. It was a perfect evening: cool and clear. We decided we were going to walk over to your place to sit on the porch. You said you needed to use the bathroom before we left, and I sat there looking at my phone as I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

“Emily?”

By the time you called out to me, it had been long enough that I knew something was wrong. I hadn’t noticed the time passing, maybe because of the wine. But you’d gone into my bedroom on a whim, and you were standing at the foot of my bed. When I realized what had happened, my eyes nearly popped out of my skull.

Fuck.

The panties.

I’d left them on my pillow. I’d been using them just last night to get off, wearing them on my face as I lay there, butt-naked and pleasuring myself, cumming like crazy and whimpering your name.

I’d forgotten to put them away.

“Are these…mine?” you asked, holding them up. You were looking from the underwear to me with a hard expression, your eyebrow cocked. “I have a pair just like this and…I mean, no offense, but I don’t think you’re this size.” You at them again, then back at me. “Emily, are these my panties?”

I stammered something unintelligible. You fixed me with an even harder look.

“Emily,” you said. “Did you… did you steal my panties?”

I opened my mouth. No words came out. You leaned forward and the line in your brow deepened. But still, I said nothing.

To this day, I’m not sure why I didn’t try to make something up. Several days after the fact I remembered that we’d actually been to a laundromat together since that day you gave me your number at the gym. It would have been entirely possible that, in the colorful tumble of our underwear, one pair of panties got switched for another. But I didn’t say that, and I didn’t try to make an excuse. I just stood there like someone who was hoping to wake up from a nightmare, only the dream wasn’t ending.

It was only beginning.

You looked down at the panties, considering them with your fingers through the leg holes. Then, seemingly as a reflex, you lifted bartın escort bayan them to your face and sniffed.

You blink, flinching away from them. I honestly felt offended. It was as if I’d just watched someone look at succulently prepared prime rib and push their plate away. I wanted to object. My mouth fell open, but before any of the gibberish on my brain could escape, you looked me straight in the eye and said:

“You actually like that smell?”

Now it was my turn to blink and flinch. I had no reply. It was like if someone had asked if I “actually like” music, or if I “actually like” sex. But none of this came out, so instead I simply gave a small, pathetic, almost undetectable nod.

Your face briefly twists in confusion, even alarm. Then you lift the panties to your face again, lean forward for a small whiff, and a grin breaks out across your lips.

“Smells like ass,” you say, on the verge of laughing.

I giggle. It’s a nervous tic. My shoulders are shrugged up at this point and my face is dark red. You look at me meaningfully, as though seeing me for the first time.

You let the panties fall to the floor.

My eyes follow them in their descent.

Next thing I know, I am looking at your bare foot. You step over the panties, crossing them like a person might cross over a creek to get to the other side. You are stepping towards me. Your breath smells faintly of white wine and sauteed shrimp, and your head is tilted. You take another step forward, and now your nose, slightly upturned and with a smattering of light freckles just barely darker than your latte skin, is inches away from mine. The grin on your face is spreading, and you are holding my eyes like a confident arm wrestler holds his opponent’s hand. You lift your chin, and suddenly, your smell changes.

Now I smell iron and game, like a successful hunt.

I smell heat and loose muscles, the comfortable tiredness that seeps in on hot summer days as the dusk falls and they become cool summer nights.

You are looking down at me: you are taller, only by a few inches, but in this moment you might as well be standing on a different floor.

You lift your hand, and I shrink further as it comes towards my face.

But then you gently take a wisp of my mousey hair and tuck it behind my ear. You let your fingers linger on my ear lobe, and I exhale softly. I am fully bathed in your scent now. I am powerless to move.

And then you say, with your finger still on my ear, the words that I still sometimes hear in my dreams, the words I conjure up when I’m trying to get off on my own, those words that will never fail. You say:

“Want to taste the real thing?”

My god. I think that in those moments between you saying those words and lying flat on my bed, naked and breathless, I lost consciousness. Not memory, fortunately. But I was acting of a will that was not my own. The sounds in my head were fuzzy and white. It felt as though you had punctured one of my dreams and were pulling me into the real world from it, and my fantasy was pouring out with me.

You took my shirt by the hem and lifted it over my head. You unpinned my bra and let it fall. You brought me close against your body and teased my sensitive nipples with your tongue. Then you took off your own shirt and bra and threw them across the room, pulling my head down to your left breast. I took your nipple in my mouth and you sighed ecstatically. I run my tongue over and around the hard nub and you palmed my ass cheek in your hand, squeezing me tightly, pressing me to you. The second I detached I stepped back and sloughed off my pants. You laughed at my eagerness, but I didn’t care. I leapt at you, as naked as I came, pulling my socks off with my feet as I locked my mouth to yours. You tasted more delicious than I ever could have imagined. You tasted like a precious stone looks. I took a fistful of your hair in one hand and grabbed what I could of your ass with the other, holding on to you for dear life. I moulded the firm, pliant flesh of your thigh and you cooed each time your lips released mine with a soft click.

You stepped away from me, and I felt my stomach backflip as I realized what this meant.

“Lie on the bed,” you said in a stern voice.

And so there I was. Completely naked and lying on my bed — just as I had on the night I stole your panties. Only this time, I think, you really are in the room. Your smell is all around me and on me. You get up onto the bed on your hands and knees and crawl towards me. Your lower your head and kiss me. It’s a long kiss, but I want it to be longer. I lift my head to stay with your mouth as you move away from me. You grin.

You begin to turn around.

Now you’re kneeling and facing towards the foot of my bed. I’m looking at the muscles in your back and the curve of your bottom, the gap between your legs before your impossibly thick thighs come together and brush each other again. You take your yoga pants by the waist band and start to pull them down.

As you pull escort bartın off your pants and panties, your bottom spills out of the fabric and takes its real shape. It’s more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. Each buttock is perfectly formed, and the crease between them is dark with mystery. When the waistband of your pants and panties is at your thigh, the pungent scent of you is enough that I can taste you. But I want to really taste you. I want to put my face between your thighs and become lost in the darkness there. I want to tongue your asshole, I want to make you moan. Before you even start to lower yourself on me, I’m reaching out with both hands.

“You ready?” you say. Your voice is steady but tinged with anticipation.

I nod at first, then realize you can’t see my face, so I shakily add: “Mm-hm.”

Laughing softly, you lower your hindquarters towards me. Your bottom blocks out the light, descending and spreading so I can see not only your dark asshole but also you pink and glistening sex. I close my eyes to make the darkness complete. I feel your firm, smooth cheeks against my hands. I’m being lowered into a pool of your scent, and my eyes are rolling back in my head.

You squeal softly as your backside grazes my face, hesitantly dipping off at first, then fully engulfing me. I open my eyes and see nothing: just the light at the edges of your butt cheeks. I breath in deeply. I can taste copper and something sweet like pineapple: you gasp as the lips of your pussy part and my tongue slips inside. My nose is buried in your ass, and I’m counting the rapturous seconds of being smothered by you, inhaling you deeply, tasting the beads of sweat that make rivulets on the insides of your thighs. I am breathing you. I am inside of you. I hear your whimpering sounds of pleasure as I move my tongue, and I can feel my brain shutting down.

And then you lift, and I gasp like a dying fish. I look up as your ass rises, a trail of spit from your pussy to my lips breaking as you rise. I’m clutching your ass cheeks, one in each hand.

There’s concern in your voice when you say, “Okay?”

And I cry out, like a person dying of thirst: “More!”

You laugh again as you lower yourself, commenting that all of the squats you did at the gym are finally coming in handy. I grip on to your ankles as my nose slips between your cheeks. I open my mouth and start to lick the space between your asshole and your pussy, and your laugh takes on a nervous cautious tone before you gasp again with pleasure. Every time you squirm it’s like a new wave of euphoria washing over me. I eat and eat until my face hurts. My nose is just barely peaking out between your crack, and I can inhale fresh air before returning to the task of tonguing your asshole, rimming it so as to take in every drop of your flavor and your smell, my eyes rolling back in my head like a woman in a commercial for chocolate. You, too, are starting to feel your orgasm rising. You put your hand on my pussy and start to stroke my clitoris. My thighs and buttocks clench and my toes curl as you stroke me, and my efforts redouble. I tongue you faster and more rhythmically, and you sigh happily, rocking on your heels to push my face deeper into your behind. I grab your ass with both hands so that we are moving together, and I switch my attention. to your pussy.

You cry out. “Yes! Oh, god, yes!”

I am wet enough that I’m sure I’m leaving an ass-sized stain on the bed. You are rubbing my clit and I can hardly think straight any more, I am leaving this plane, I am entering nirvana. My tongue probes deeper into your pussy, as though my entire face were a cock thrusting into you. You grip my thigh with one hand and grunt, lowing like and animal, your raven hair swaying with the rhythm of our motion.

“Oh, FUCK!” you exclaim, as though you’d just had an epiphany. You make a noise in your throat that makes the feeling in my loins crest and swell. “Oh my fucking GOD Emily, keep doing that, YES!”

And I do. I work my mouth until it hurts, my nose jabbing against your ripe little asshole, my face locked beneath your ass where the air is sour and sweet and more potent than liquor. I tongue you madly, washing about as your fingernails drive into my thighs. At the same time, my butt lifts off the bedspread and your ass stifles a loud and enthusiastic moan of pleasure. The reverberation of my pleasure must somehow travel through you because you shudder and squeal, your thighs clap together, your butt clenches with me inside of it, and you press down hard.

We cum at the same time. You wail and shriek as it rolls through you, and I do too, but my sounds are drowned out by your ass like screams into a pillow. I’ve never cum so hard in my life — it was like a runaway train getting away from me. I kicked my feet, one after the other, as wave after wave of the mind-breaking orgasm passed through me, my fingers twitching and my eyes rolling back like a person possessed.

And finally you lifted your butt off my face, and the world came rushing back into me like I’d just had a near death experience. In a way, I had. I’d been to heaven. I’d seen the face of God. You collapsed beside me and we curled together, naked and silent and sweating and smiling. I could smell your shampoo in your raven hair as it unfurled around me. I could still taste the white wine on your lips.

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