Sarahs Sense Of Scents Ch 01

I want to give a special thank you to my muse, my inspiration, my co-collaborator, Aruna! She is the source of the spark (and the special twist) This will be a series, and hopefully the moderators help me get that set up right.

There are various elements to this: Fetish, Lesbian, Erotic Couplings, a little BDSM, etc., however I think unquestionably it is first and foremost a Fetish story. I hope you enjoy, and I welcome constructive criticism.

Sarah Discovers Scents

It makes sense that a big hot storm would create such a big hot storm in my life.

My name is Sarah, and I'm an HR representative for a customer service corporation in Jacksonville, Florida. The corporation I work for had been bought out just four months earlier, and employees were still very much on edge about their futures at the company. Many of them have been with us for longer than the three years I've been there, and some are close to the point where their retirement investments from the company would be fully vested. So, needless to say, my office had had a steady flow of people asking some crucial questions.

I could understand their qualms; I was junior to many of them, and still young at 28, so I had my own concerns. To make things worse, I barely knew anything about the new owners, save what I had been told through official emails and memos, and some of the unsubstantiated rumors which always circulate through a company any time there is a big change coming.

What I did know officially is that PKP Investments was a corporation with diverse holdings. There were ties to hotels, personnel management firms, a string of walk-in clinics...none of which would seem to tie in to each other or to a customer service call center company like ours. Other than that, none of us knew anything about the new owners of our future.

Finally, on a Wednesday in late June, we got a broadcast email to all employees informing us that there would be a mandatory meeting on Friday afternoon at 3:00 p.m. Rumors immediately began to fly, with a common consensus being that the chosen hour and day were clear indications that this would be a "clearing the house" kind of event.

When the day finally came, our General Manager Charlotte Walters ushered us all into a corner of the main call center floor. Charlotte, a 40-something white woman who always wore a heavy load of makeup and never got close to anybody in the office. Charlotte's demeanor was hard to read; was she stressed or was she excited by the events? It was hard to tell, especially since none of us were really close to her.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming," she announced, (as if we had a choice!). "I know many of you have questions, and I'm sorry we couldn't get together sooner, but now we can answer some questions and put to rest any of your fears." Charlotte smiled as if she expected us to cheer or something, but when we didn't, she pressed on seamlessly. "But before we get to that, I'd like to introduce one of the principal new owners of the company. Please help me welcome Mr. Pankaj Patel." She turned, already clapping (a hint to us to follow suit) and the door behind her opened.

The man who walked in was not what any of us expected. He was a tall Indian man, dressed in an impeccable dark gray suit, with a bright white shirt and a blue silk tie. His jet black hair was longer than expected, not reaching his collar but definitely not a traditional middle-aged business man's cut. He was clean-shaven.

He was clean-shaven, fit, had a beautiful and genuine smile, and, I decided quickly, was gorgeous. He was older than me by maybe 10-15 years, I guessed, though it was hard to say. Obviously, the man was successful; more so than I would expect at his age.

I had to shake off this initial sense of awe so I could hear the words coming out of his mouth.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Pankaj Patel, my friends and associates call me simply Mr. P, and you are welcome to do the same." His smile was disarming, and his accent was slight and actually added to his charm. "We, and by we I mean my wife Kareena and I, are truly happy to join the Allied crew here."

In conversations with others, we all remarked that his choice of words was interesting. He had bought the company, but he spoke of it as if he had just been hired.

He continued. "First of all, let me take care of what I am SURE are your first concerns. All of your jobs are safe. Kareena and I have no intention of coming in here, guns blazing, and upsetting the apple cart. You have a good team here," he told us earnestly, sweeping the room with his gaze but making eye contact with many, "and that's part of what made this company such an attractive investment to us. Why on earth would we want to come and muck that up?" he asked.

"And just to get us all started off on the right foot," he turned towards the double doors we all come through each day, "we wanted to show our appreciation for all of you and your patience as you've gone through this time of uncertainty..."

At that, both doors swung open, and led by a strikingly beautiful Indian woman in a turquoise dress, a team of caterers wheeled in three long steel carts with covered trays on each.

"My wife and I wanted to end your week with a bang. Eat all you want, they have more in reserve. There's no alcohol," he smiled at this, "as we know you all still have to go home, but I think we can all find something to enjoy."

The unexpected party did a lot to dispel our fears and win our trust. Feeding people is ALWAYS a good way to win people over, and P and Kareena were gracious hosts, circulating among people, learning names and getting a feel for the human dynamics of the crew. By the time they left, we all had a sense of relief.

**********

Summer is my favorite season of the year. Living in Jacksonville, we're close to some of the nicest beaches around: Ponte Vedra, American, Fernandina... I'm half Latina, half white, and the sun is kind to my complexion. I'm not stuck on myself, but I know from experience that my 32D breasts and curvy ass draw attention from both men and women, both of which I welcome. The beach provides a great opportunity to soak up the sun and, most of the time, enough attention to feed my healthy libido.

It gets hot in Florida, even when the ocean breezes are blowing steadily off of the Atlantic. Even with a cooler of cool adult beverages handy, laying out gets you hot and sweaty. My friends and I often like to hit some of the beachside clubs after the beach, and that means either having a hotel room to go back to and clean up (which none of us can afford) or using one of the little public shower areas to clean up. My friends, Trish and Maria, weren't so keen on the public shower areas, but they were both very uptight about their hygiene, especially when it came to body odor.

I was quick to join them, but not for the same reason. There, in the confined space of the little individual shower room. With the water splashing on the floor, I would lift my arms and...

Sniff.

**********

I don't know when it all started. Maybe high school P.E. classes? When other pubescent teen girls were mortified by the smells coming from their developing bodies, I was finding mine...inspiring.

A close friend, one of very few who know of my unusual predilection for the unwashed, undisguised scent of a sweaty woman, asked me once to describe what it was about this smell that "did it" for me. I struggled to put it into words, and I still do. I've read others' writing on it, and some described it as earthy, though it doesn't smell like dirt to me. Others called it a musky smell, though I've never smelled a musk, so I can't compare it. What does that mean, anyway? Like a muskrat? I still can't really peg a certain word or phrase that really nails it for me. I just knew I liked it.

At first, I didn't put two and two together, meaning I didn't immediately link the heady rush I got from the smell of my sweaty pits to my budding sexuality. I'd come home from school and run upstairs to my room. In Southeast Texas (between Houston and Galveston), where I'm from, it's pretty much ALWAYS hot, so the days where I wasn't hot and sweaty were a lot more rare than those where I was.

One of the reasons I was probably slow to associate my fascination with female body odors to sexuality was because I at this point HAD no sexuality. An overprotective father and devout Catholic mother had pounded it into my head that any form of sex or even sexual thought outside of marriage would result in a destiny of everlasting fiery torment in Hell's deepest depths. And yes, Hell had a capital H because, as she repeatedly told me, "It IS a real place."

And that's why, believe it or not, I didn't even masturbate until I turned 18. And it was fitting that that event was tied to my fascination with feminine body odor, including my own.

Oh, and yes, I had ascertained by now that it was only women's "stink" that aroused me. I'd dated a couple of boys during high school, not many, due to my parent's rigid controls, but enough that I had ample opportunity to smell their stink, and it did nothing for me. Making out with star quarterback Ethan Clark after the last game of the senior year confirmed it for me: Sweaty men stunk, and it wasn't sexy.

Along the Gulf Coast of Texas, you're bound to find yourself hot and sweaty often, no matter what your wealth or health are like. Sweat marks under your arms and even around your collar are a constant concern, unless you work manual labor, where it's just a fact of life.

Of course, any form of same-sex relationships were completely impossible to consider in our ultra-religious family. One of my cousins had "come out" when I was 15, and they were never seen or mentioned at any family functions again.

So, when I started to figure out that I was attracted to both boys and girls, I couldn't tell anybody anything. And at a graduation party at her parent's beach house, when I made out with sleazy, slutty Debbie McMurtry, she was just high enough that she not only didn't remember me sniffing her sweaty armpits, the next day she was bragging about how she had made out with Maria Ramirez, who, to be honest, did look a lot like me. I didn't defend Maria's honor, but nobody believed Debbie anyway. Meanwhile, I had my own battles to fight.

At 18, just a month after graduation, during a heated argument, my mom called me a whore just because I came home 20 minutes after my midnight curfew, driven by a boy whose sole offense was giving me a ride home. She met me in the driveway, cursing at me in Spanish and English, and called the boy, Kyle, names in both languages. When I told her to leave him alone, that he was just a nice guy who gave me a ride home, she smacked me. Hard. Hard enough to knock me down. Kyle, bless his heart, helped me up, but then had the good sense to evacuate and head home from the crazy lady.

To make things worse, my dad refused to back me up. I know he was afraid of her, too, but when he just told me, "You know how she is," it broke all my confidence. Two days later, I packed what I could and headed off to Florida on a Greyhound bus, my acceptance letter and scholarship confirmation to UCF and the $725.19 I had saved up in my purse. I had made contact with an aunt from my dad's side of the family. Nan was a hippie of sorts, and most of Dad's family just ignored her existence. She let me stay on her couch for the two months before classes started.

**********

I found a lot of people were put off by the idea of a girl enjoying the smell of a sweaty female pit. Through four years of college, I got by by hooking up with female track stars and a few volleyball players. Most of them didn't care about my fetish; a few even shared that they too found feminine sweat sexy. They were just happy to find an eager female tongue to bathe them and pleasure them, and I most avidly fit that bill.

After college, though, my fetish often went unfulfilled. With no abundance of libidinous female athletes, hungry to explore, from which to choose, finding suitable opportunities to engage that particular predilection grew much more difficult.

Not that I lacked for opportunities for sexual adventure, mind you. After graduating from University of Central Florida with a B.A. in Business, I was recruited to work for an insurance company in Jacksonville. Jacksonville isn't South Florida in terms of the opulent lifestyle and the buffet of carnal pleasures, but it is still Florida, and there is an active nightlife scene. Depending on my mood, I rarely had trouble finding someone to warm my bed. I discovered I am fully bisexual; to me, it is not unlike good food. I love Tex-Mex food, but not every day. Some days, it's good Thai food. Other days, it's good Italian. If I can have all these options to feed the hunger in my belly, why can't I exercise the same liberties for the hungers just south of it?

As fate would have it, eventually I would find a male partner who shared the love of my scent. Mario and I met at the gym, and he was the kind of guy who inspires women to come back again and again, just to watch him. Six feet tall, and not too lean, not too muscular, but everything he had was toned and defined. And yes, I mean everything was defined. He always looked good, but on the days where he wore those tight fitting royal blue shorts, there was a lot more than sweat flowing from us ladies.

I thought it was my tits that drew him in; I still think it was. But Mario insisted it was my deep brown eyes and my eyelashes that snared his attention. To be fair, he loved to look into my eyes, especially, well, I'll get to that part in a little while. But a Wednesday "go have coffee" led to a Friday night date for Thai food and, of all things, a horse-drawn carriage ride. Two weeks later, this led to a Saturday morning jog together, and that, that led to Saturday afternoon sex. That in turn led to some important discoveries for me.

As I mentioned before, I am half-Mexican and half-white, but my fair complexion normally leads people to see me as white, and that's kind of where I fall socially. In spite of my mother's desire for me to embrace my heritage, I don't speak more than a handful of Spanish, and have no discernible accent except perhaps a bit of my father's southern one.

Mario, on the other hand, was a fairly dark-skinned Latino. His family hailed from Cuba, and even he wasn't sure of all of his roots more than a generation back, as his mother and father had escaped from Havana in the mid-1960's.

The first time he took my hand, which was during the carriage ride, I looked down at our hands and was struck by the difference in skin tones. It turned me on, seeing the difference between us. I think that was the night I knew I was going to be welcoming Mario into my bed if things continued like they were.

That Saturday, we got back to my apartment, walking the last half mile or so to cool ourselves down and allow our hearts to return to a reasonable rate. As we rounded a blind corner of the path through the park, Mario spun me around and pulled me to him. "This is it," I thought, as he leaned in to kiss me. I kissed him back eagerly.

After exploring each other's willingness (and tonsils), he reluctantly released my lips, but then began to nibble on my neck. This took me back a bit, since we were both sweat-soaked from the May heat and ever-present humidity, but it also sent a little jot down south, if you know what I mean. And then I heard him inhale deeply, and I froze. Surely, by now, I'd developed a bit of an...aroma. Would he be...could he be...

And then I heard it. It was like a little growl, deep within his throat. A growl that sounded like hunger, like desire. I think my heart skipped a beat, wondering if I could have found someone who really got into the same thing I did.

We finally broke off enough to make it the rest of the way back to his apartment. No sooner had we made it through the door than we were at each other.

If I had any doubts about his appreciation for my sweaty scent, it took only seconds to dispel them. We were frantically pulling clothes off, our own and each other's, right inside the door. No sooner had I shed my sports bra, freeing my boobs, and Mario was upon me, kissing, licking, smelling my breasts and torso. When he ran his nose and his tongue up by my left armpit and inhaled deeply, I almost came just from that.

"God, you smell...so fucking sexy! I hope you don't mind, but your scent...I just love the scent of a woman, the real scent...not the soap, not the perfume..." he panted. I stretched my arm straight up above me, and he buried his nose in the pit, then worked his way across my chest, licking under my boobs and between them, cleaning up any sweat that was remaining, then attacked my right armpit with the same voracious appetite.

Mario picked me up easily and carried me over to his couch. He sat my butt on the arm, then knelt before me, pulling down both my black running shorts and my matching panties in one sweeping move. He pushed my torso back, so that my torso fell back on the couch, but he kept my hips perched upon the arm. Immediately, his face descended between my legs, and I heard him sniff deeply, even though I could only see the top of his head.

"Fuck, you smell fucking delicious!" Those were his last intelligible words for a while, at least as far as I know. He dove face-first into my pussy, licking me from hole to clit, round and round, then back down again, lapping up my sweat and my quickly releasing flood of desire.

For what felt like an hour, Marco devoured me. He even ran his apparently bionic tongue down, tickling my little virgin starfish, which brought an exclamation from my lips that I think I meant as 100% protest and 110% desire. I was breathless and as limp as a wet rag by the time he pulled away. Reaching down, he grabbed my arms and pulled me back up to a seated position on the arm of the couch. I could feel it was drenched beneath me, but I was too tired to be ashamed.

After all he had done to and for me, I was eager (albeit exhausted) to return the favor, and I made to move to my knees to do so. But Mario wouldn't let me.

"No, not yet. Let's go take a shower. I stink." And with that, he led me to the shower. Once I had him clean, and I had regained some of my energy, I finally did return that favor, though it was a slower, more sensuous event than his oral ravishing of me on the couch had been.

Mario turned out to be a dynamic lover, and I learned a lot from him. He was dominant without being an asshole about it, and I discovered that I loved the seemingly rare man who could master both of those. If Mario wanted it, he told me he wanted it, and I willingly gave it to him. I suppose if he had demanded something horrible, I would have protested, and he probably would have honored that, but it was never an issue.

He wanted anal, and even though I was afraid and a virgin back there, I let him take me, and it was a wonderful experience, one we repeated occasionally. On occasion, I would let him dictate what I would wear - or not wear. At dinner at a very upscale restaurant, he told me to remove my panties - at the table. We had seen it done in a movie we watched at my apartment, and it had made us both hot, but I really didn't imagine I could do it, not until Mario told me to, anyway.

So, blushing, and terrified that everybody in the place knew what I was doing, I gently squirmed and wiggled and finally slid them down my legs, bending forward just slightly to slide them off of my left high heel. I went to hand them to him under the table, but he kept his hands above the table and smiled at me. I know my face was probably as red as my dress - and the drenched thong in my hand - as I handed it to him over his salad plate. I had to make two trips to the ladies room before dessert came just so I could avoid staining my dress. We barely made it out of the parking lot before my head was in his lap that night.