Sarahs Sense Of Scents Ch 03

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.

Chapter 3

One family at a time, we managed to make a little difference. Some of the seven families had just been stranded, two with flooded cars, another with a tree across their driveway, an oak that had probably stood for 2 centuries or more. They had no chainsaw, but P had thought to grab one, so he and Lamar, the employee, went to work on clearing the tree enough for them to get their car out, while his girlfriend Lecretia and I sorted the supplies and played with their two children, Lamont and Janet.

I couldn't help but steal looks at the two men as they worked. P had stripped off his white polo, and he helped roll logs off to the side as Lamar worked the chain saw. I don't know that any straight (or bi, as in my case) woman could have avoided at least a little ogling at the sight of two grown, fit men working in undershirts in the heat. It was like having our own little male burlesque show, and we both just stopped talking as we watched them.

"Damn...them men...they lookin' good, ain't they? Ain't nothin' like dark-skinned men workin' hard," she offered quietly. "You gettin' any of that?" she asked me, nodding towards P.

"Huh? Oh, uh, no, not at all. He's my boss!" I offered, somewhat lamely, and I wondered if she could hear in my voice the regret that I was not, indeed, getting any of that. "And his wife, she works with us. And SHE'S hot, too," I blurted out before I thought it through.

Fortunately, if Lecretia had caught on to the implication of my comment, she didn't let on that she did. "Well, I don't doubt it, but a man like that...I suspect he probably wouldn't fight you off too hard. And if he did," she giggled, "that just means you gotta tie him down!" She laughed and so did I. "I mean, at least at first..." she added.

After we left Lamar and Lecretia, Mr. P, his white polo back on, looked over at me. "So, what has you smiling now? You and Lamar's girlfriend, you know each other?" he asked.

"No, nothing like that," I replied, and though I tried, I couldn't quite get the smile completely off of my face. "Just girl talk," I added, trying to build a little feminine mystique. It wasn't flirting, but it wasn't too far from it, either.

We had another 20 minutes or more to get to the next family, so P turned up the air and pressed the button to close the windows. Almost immediately, I became aware of my own scent, and while it normally aroused me, I was instantly mortified by the thought that P was now getting a whiff of my body. There was no way he couldn't smell me, I realized. I turned my face towards the window so he wouldn't see me blushing. I fully expected him to make some excuse to wind down the windows so he could breathe.

But he didn't.

After a minute or three passed, and he still hadn't aired the truck out or made me ride in the back, I carefully took a glance his way. He not only wasn't gagging, he had a faraway, dremy look on his face.

I wasn't sure what to think. Maybe he had a stuffed up nose? Allergies? Maybe he stunk, but I just hadn't realized it because I was focused on my own scent? Maybe he was just trying so hard to hide his disgust that he couldn't look at me?

Or maybe...? No, I couldn't even let myself imagine that.

Our next stop was in an area that had seen more damage from the storm. Where we parked, there were drifts of sand where either storm surge or wind had created a tough terrain to get through. P came around to my side of the truck and helped me down. This time, his strong hands went up under my arms to my sweaty pits. I was horrified, but hoped my sunglasses hid the shock in my eyes. He held me for just a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, ostensibly to just make sure I had sure footing in the sand.

From behind my sunglasses, I surreptitiously watched him, waiting to see him wipe his palms on his shorts or something in disgust, or reach for some hand sanitizer or something. He did neither.

In fact, what he DID do, when he thought I wasn't looking, was take a quick whiff of his palms.

**********

I was flustered, to say the least. I chose to avoid looking at him for a few minutes, busying myself with getting the supplies together for Henry Silverman's family. Fortunately, Henry walked up at that moment, and began talking to P, thanking him profusely for bringing the food, water, and other supplies out.

Henry's wife, Sophia, a brunette with, I would guess, Italian blood in her veins, helped me carry in the bags of groceries, while P and Henry handled the cases of water and the generator we had brought. P only had two generators available; one had gone to a family member, he told me, and the other was going to the Silverman family.

I listened as Sophia recounted the terror of the storm hitting them. They had been planning to evacuate, but then their van would not start. By the time Henry had figured out the problem (his battery had "dry cells," whatever that meant), they heard on the radio that the Johnson Causeway, the only route to the mainland, had already been compromised by storm surge waters. They moved all their valuables and food supplies upstairs, in case the storm surge waters reached them. In the end, the waters didn't breach their house, but when the storm finally abated, they found that their home was an island in the midst of a sea of sand and mud.

I managed to throw in a few "Oh, my"'s and "That's horrible!"'s, but to be truthful, my mind was being tossed to and fro in a completely different type of storm, and I had to fight to stay in the here and now.

My boss...a man I had spent many a sleepless night fantasizing about as I abused my toy collection...had smelled my stinky, slimy sweat...and actually seemed to...like it? I mean, I can assume he did, as he didn't show any sign of disgust or distaste. When he sniffed his hands, he took a deep breath. You didn't do that unless you expected to like what you smelled...right? Or was I just completely misreading this?

My face flushed; I could feel the rush of heat, and I was sure my face was beet red. By a stroke of luck, the Silverman's power outage meant there was little air circulation in the house, and it was hot, so anybody looking on (which would only have been Sophia) would have assumed I was just hot because of the heat. At least, that's what I was hoping was the case. Fortunately, if Sophia thought it was anything more, she didn't let on that she suspected anything.

I'd settled down after a while, but then it was time for us to go. We had one more stop to make, and then we were headed back to the office. We wanted to be off the roads by sunset; there was talk of a curfew in some of the areas more directly affected by the storm.

Getting back into the truck just brought all that tension back to me. Now, I was even more sweat-soaked, my shirt was just about soaked, and my skin was shining from the perspire. I heard one of my dad's sisters once say "that Southern women don't sweat, they glisten." I say that's a load of crap; I sweat. Needless to say, I could also tell that I was even more...aromatic.

I mentally begged him to wind down the windows, wanting to be able to air myself out, or at least dilute the smell. Of course, part of me, a deeply hidden, hopelessly desperate part of me wanted to believe the impossible, to think that maybe, just maybe, this hot, exotic man actually wanted to smell my body's odor. But that, of course, was ridiculous.

The last supply drop went quickly and easily. Brock Nesbitt and his wife lived in an apartment, and their complex seemed to be unharmed, although Brock told us that his power was still out. After having seen Henry's family's plight, I was actually a little put out that Brock was even asking for help. Of course, I kept that thought to myself.

And then, we were done. I mentally checked out a bit as P drove. I had so much to process, from the damage we had seen, to the lives of the coworkers into which we had gotten a deeper glimpse, to the revelation about my boss's interest in my body's scent.

I tried not to make more out of it than it was. "I probably just read it wrong," I told myself. "You're just making it up because you want it to be true." Besides, the man was married to an exotic, beautiful, brilliant woman; what on earth would he want from me? Other women can understand this; we almost never see in ourselves the beauty that the men in our lives can see.

But it was true. His wife was sexy and wonderful. He was a gorgeous specimen of masculinity, a wonderful combination of fit physique and warm, friendly personality. It would be easy to slip into imaginations about what it would be like, to run my hands over those arms, those abs, those thighs...and maybe to touch and taste that beautiful bride of his, the exotic and alluring Kareena...

About 20 minutes into the drive, P asked me a question, and it took me a few moments to realize he had spoken to me.

"I'm sorry; what did you say?" I asked him to repeat himself.

"I asked if you wanted me to turn the air down. I don't want you to get too cold," he offered.

It took me a minute to process the question. "Oh, no, I'm fine," I finally replied. "It feels good after the heat."

And about 15 seconds later, I realized why he was probably asking me this.

My nipples were impossibly hard, and poking through my flimsy bra and thin T-shirt, as if they were trying to lead the truck on the right path.

I quickly crossed my arms across my chest, and I could feel the impertinent pencil erasers poking into my right forearm. For the 90th time that day, I blushed a rosy red.

Distracted as I was, I didn't realize that we weren't actually heading back to the office. Instead, we were heading southwest. I didn't realize this until we approached a gated community, where a real, live security guard waved us through. Quickly we were in a neighborhood full of very, very nice houses.

"Wh-Where are we going?" I asked, taking in the sights of houses that would never, ever be within my budget. Driveways with Mercedes Benzes, BMWs and Tesla cars and trucks were spread far enough apart that one could back out without any danger of hitting a neighbor's mailbox.

That might seem trivial to some, but the only neighborhoods I'd known growing up were little ⅕ acre lots with 2 or maybe 3 bedroom houses where you could hear your neighbors arguing through the walls. These big houses sat on sprawling lots. Each had perfectly coiffed yards, maintained by crews from landscape companies, with some yards taking 3-4 men at a time to maintain them in a constant state of perfection.

"Uh," I started, my awe momentarily interrupted by a thought of the practical, "um, Mr. P., my car...it's at the office..."

Mr. P. brushed off my concern. "Oh, don't worry about that. We'll get you back there later to get it. Kareena and I wanted to thank you for all of your help today, and, well, for all you've done to make this last year such a success. So we wanted to invite you to our humble abode. I hope you don't mind my presumption. You seemed like you were deep in thought, and it has been a long day, so..." He trailed off just as we pulled into a cul de sac and coasted in to a stop in front of what I can only call a mansion.

"Here we are," he said. I just kind of froze up, appreciating the beauty of this house. That gave him time to get out of the truck, and come around to my side of the truck. He opened the door, and offered up his hands again to help me down. Again, his hands went under my armpits, and as he helped me down gently, I realized just how grateful I was for his strength. I was more exhausted and sore than I thought I was from the day's activities.

"That's my husband, always the gentleman," I heard from the front porch, and I looked up to see Kareena smiling at her. At first I thought she might be jealous, but then her warm, genuine smile dispelled that fear immediately.

"Yes, he's been very much a gentleman today," I called out to her. "I LOVE your home! It's beautiful!"

Her smile seemed to get even bigger, her pearly white teeth particularly bright against her olive/brown complexion. "Thank you! Come on in, girl! I will give you the 10-cent tour before we eat."

As I came up the front steps to the porch, she took my hand and like two life-long friends, we were off to explore their house. She took me through the five bedrooms, the two home offices, one for each of them, the kitchen that looked like a chef's dream, the ornate bathrooms with walk-in showers and, in one, a large, claw-foot tub. I moaned a little at that one.

"You like the tub, huh?" she asked, smiling.

"It looks so inviting. And big," I remarked.

"Yeah, it is designed to hold two people. I suppose three if they are...close," she said, smiling wickedly. My eyes went wide at that, and she noticed.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be like that. P is always telling me I need to dial myself back, but sometimes, well, sometimes, a girl's just gotta let go, doesn't she, Sarah?"

I turned to look at her, but her smile was inscrutable. Was she probing me for my response, or was she just being informal to set me at ease? I couldn't tell.

"Uh, yeah, sometimes, you just gotta be you," I offered, kind of a weak response but all I could muster given my uncertainty.

She walked me down a side hallway, and I couldn't help but notice that we skipped a door. Innocently, I asked, "What's that one?"

For once, Kareena actually seemed to balk. "Um, that's a, uh, kind of a...rec room, yeah," she stumbled over her words. "It's uh, kind of a wreck right now," she offered, guiding me past it. We came back to the main living room, by a set of double sliding glass doors that led to a beautiful backyard.

A very large rectangular pool ran from left to right, about 15 feet wide and, I'd guess, about 50 feet long. Off to the left was a hot tub area. The edges of the property were marked by tall privacy fences, and strategically placed trees kept any prying eyes from neighboring houses from interrupting the privacy of this oasis.

There was a table with 4 comfortable chairs to the right, and two people with the same catering uniforms as those who had catered the first event at Mr. P's introduction event were setting up food on the table.

"Come, let us sit down and eat," were the first words that alerted us to P joining us from a side door.

"Uh, I need to, um, wash my hands, and uh, clean up," I sputtered to Kareena. I was conscious that I was sweaty, dirty, and stunk.

"Oh, don't worry about that. Wash your hands over there," she said, gesturing towards an outdoor sink off to the side. "There's hand soap and paper towels," she pointed to the right of the fixture. "We'll wait for you," she said, heading off to her husband. She rose up on her tiptoes, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him, then whispered something in his ear. I could only imagine what she was saying to him as I headed over to the sink.

What I really wanted was a hot shower, lots of soap, shampoo, and (God, please!) deodorant. While I was comfortable with my "natural" self, I was aware that most people didn't share my odd tastes and desires. P's "interest" in my sweaty aroma aside, I still was nervous about sitting down to dinner with him and his wife. The memory of him not being put off by my scent in the truck gave me a little peace, but I could hardly expect his beautiful, glamorous wife to not be put off by my sweaty aroma.

Could I?