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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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The Scent Of Norma
by Montag (1992)
***
A tactile little story about sensations, feeling and
smell sex. (MF, rom)
***
Some of the courses one is required to take in college
are absolutely unreal! Sociology is one of them. Sitting
and trying to feign attentiveness while listening to
some professor pedantically drone on about "Modes of
Alienation" is surely beyond the threshold of endurance.
As such, thoughts and eyes tend to wander to more
stimulating subjects. My preoccupation in Sociology II
was Norma.
I had met Norma through a mutual friend at the beginning
of the semester. When we discovered that we both had the
same class, we naturally gravitated towards each other's
familiar territory, sitting side-by-side in the same
row.
Norma was slim and leggy; her short hair was of a
nondescript brownish hue.
Her unencumbered breasts were small and she had a
compact little tush which was invariably ensconced in
tight-fitting, faded jeans. She wore no make-up and I
never saw her in a dress or skirt. Often, she'd sport a
purple scarf about her head, effectively framing her
face in a manner quite pleasing.
Perhaps Norma's most striking physical attribute was her
hands, pale and long-fingered, with shortly-cropped
nails. She probably could have been a marvelous keyboard
virtuoso. The whole demeanor of her gazelle-like being
was decidedly hoydenish; sort of a willowy Jamie Lee
Curtis type if quantification was necessary.
Of singular interest to me was the fact that she never
used perfume of any sort. Yet sitting beside Norma,
especially on a dank, humid day, I'd perceive a decided
redolence about her. How could this be described? Musky?
No, musty might possibly be more accurate. The closest I
could compare Norma's olfactory aura to would be that of
jonquils.
This scent had a profound influence upon me; throughout
most of the class I'd be burdened with a massive
erection. Later, when time came for a piss-break, I
noted that the end of my cock was wet with the glint of
arousal.
Norma was definitely an unconventional sort; latter-day
hippie should well suffice to describe her. Every so
often, she'd punctuate innocuous conversation with non
sequiturs such as "Damn cold makes my nipples hard!" and
"Can you loan me a dime for the tampon-machine?"
Parenthetically, now that I think of it, she never did
pay back any of lo, those many dimes she borrowed.
Amongst a group, she tended to be rather reticent and
introspective, electing to keep her own counsel. It was
only when we were alone, and others had departed a
lunch-table discussion, that she'd whisper an opinion on
the topic(s) of discourse: usually a sotto "My ass!" or
drawn-out "Bulllllshiiiit!" delivered disdainfully from
the side of her mouth.
Despite the fact that Norma (or was it just her scent?)
was a constant source of distraction for me, I never
made any moves to get intimate with her. I liked things
just as they were; Norma was a friend, a pal. Perhaps
subliminally I was a bit intimidated by Norma. Her
inherent assertiveness frustrated any overtures, sexual
or otherwise. She was also five inches taller than me.
It was just before Christmas vacation that Norma acted
out of character. It was the first time I had ever seen
her wear a skirt, a full pleated affair in some vaguely
familiar tartan. At the end of Sociology II, as we stood
up, gathering our books, she quite casually said: "Well,
what the hell, have a happy holiday," and planted a kiss
full on my lips. For the briefest of microseconds, I
felt the tip of her tongue caress my mouth. With perfect
aplomb, she tossed a coat about her shoulders and left
the classroom.
Needless to say, I could hardly keep my mind on the
Coriolis Effect which was being deliberated upon in my
next Oceanography class. My thoughts were all of Norma,
that free-spirited, insouciant Lady of The Jonquils.
When the lecture was finally over and I made my way to
the parking lot, I spied Norma, leaning against a wall,
smoking a cigarette. She smiled at me. "Miriam couldn't
give me a lift home. How about giving me one?" We walked
silently together to my old Subaru, the redoubtable
"Silver Wraith." The air was still and dry; the sky a
transparent grey, so characteristic of cheek-reddening
New England winters.
Norma lived quite far from school, in a part of town I
was unfamiliar with. Getting to her home was
exasperating; she appeared to have an almost dyslexic
concept of right and left. As we drove, I learned that
her roommate Miriam had left for a holiday visit with
her parents in Bangor.
We ultimately pulled up to an old building which had as
a facade an interesting tracery of ironwork. As she
kneeled over the back of her seat, scrambling for her
books, she offhandedly asked: "Care to come up and have
some hot chocolate? It's good stuff. Comes from Holland.
A real Dutch Treat."
"Sure" I answered, and followed her to the door. As she
walked up the stairs before me, my gaze was fixed on the
creases behind her kneecaps which opened and closed with
each step.
Her apartment was (how can one put it tactfully?) a
mess. An eclectic mixture of reprocessed Victoriana,
Japanese boutique, and neo-Haight-Ashbury. "Hey
Tweezer!" she yelled out to a battered birdcage, large
enough to comfortably house an albatross. In it chirped
a finch of some nondescript sort, while the cage bottom
was covered with sheets of newspaper printed in
Cyrillic.
"Make yourself comfortable while I heat up the
chocolate" Norma directed as she disappeared into the
kitchen. There wasn't much room to sit down anywhere
except on a large threadbare sofa, which I doubt had
ever seen better days. Piled haphazardly on the chairs
were books of all sorts, with titles like: "The Works of
Virgil Finlay," "The Kalmyk Mongols," "Les Fleurs du
Mal," "Sundials," "Memoirs of a Tattoist," etc. In all,
a most diverse assortment of interests.
When Norma returned from the kitchen, I noticed that she
had changed her clothes. She was again wearing her
accustomed jeans and a black tank-top. I had never
before seen her bare arms. I was mildly shocked to note
that her underarms were unshaven; adorned with sparse
wisps of silky auburn down. She was also barefoot. Her
feet were tiny and well-formed, without any of the usual
calluses heels inflict on a woman. She looked adorable;
women are so sylph-like when barefoot.
She carried a large stoneware mug in each hand, steaming
with the frothy, fragrant chocolate. Handing me one, she
announced: "Music we need," and walked over to a
cassette player. I expected something weird, but was
surprised to hear the strains of bossa-nova and the
voice of Astrud Gilberto.
As we sat, we drank the chocolate and smoked, a kindred
vice which somehow branded us as being of like kidney.
Our conversation consisted of the usual mundacities:
school, friends, relations, etc. I found myself becoming
warmer, doubtless because of the beverage and the fact
that she kept the flat at a temperature amenable to her
finch. Rivulets of sweat coursed down my sides from my
armpits. I wondered if she detected the rutting-odor of
my arousal.
"Dance?" she invited.
"I really don't dance very well," I honestly admitted.
"Then I'll dance for you."
She danced slowly, her eyes closed; her steps were
frugal, her feet hardly moving from the same spot. She
danced more with her hips, hands and head. When the
piece was finished and the next one began, her lips
formed a little gamine-like smile. "Well, looks like
it's SHOWTIME!" she exclaimed and summarily reached down
and pulled the tank-top up over her head. She cradled
her small breasts provocatively in her hands. "Like
'em?" she inquired.
The point where two people spontaneously embrace is
easier experienced than written about. Suffice to say,
our arms were about each other and our lips pressed
together, tongues flicking, probing, entwining. Norma
turned around in my arms and guided my hands to her
breasts. They were firm and her nipples jutted out in
two hardened nodes. As my hands meandered down under the
waistband of her jeans, I found that she was not wearing
any panties. She chuckled at my discovery. "I like to go
G.I. style once in a while."
By now my erection was both prominent and achingly
insistent, a state she augmented by rubbing her ass
against it. Slipping from my arms, she took my hand and
led me into her bedroom.
The bed had certainly not been made since the morning.
She laid down upon her back, hands behind her head,
looking at me as if to say: "Let's see what you're made
of." I quickly undressed, then reached over to pull her
jeans off.
Divested of her jeans, Norma obligingly and coquettishly
spread her legs wide so I could delight in the sight of
her sex. There are those who maintain that "women are
all the same below the waist." This is far from true.
Women's pussies are as infinitely varied as women
themselves are, each unique in its own way.
Norma's pussy was surmounted by a light-colored tuft of
brown hair which formed a perfect triangle. Yet, all her
pubic hair was confined to her mons, little of it
extending to her pussy nor down to her perineum. Her
engorged, pouting outer lips were dark red and slightly
opened, while her cleft shone with moisture. It was the
closest I had ever got to receiving a vulval smile.
Out of propriety and self-consciousness, I allowed
myself but a brief moment to visually savor her sex. I
laid down between her legs and continued the ardent
kissing which had been temporarily suspended.
As we kissed, her jonquil-like scent became almost
inebriating. From whence did it emanate? I sniffed her
hair, a warm amber scent. Her soft, aromatic breath was
merely an amalgam of chocolate-sweetness and tannic-
tobacco. Her hirsute armpits offered more interesting
territory. The hair trapped her odor, both concentrating
it and radiating it like some sort of seductive antenna.
As I greedily licked her sweat, both olfactive and
gustatory sensations came into play. What might I
compare her perspiration to? Brine-like, sak‚-like,
cider-like; her smell mixing with the odor of my saliva.
As I switched my attention to her breasts, she enveloped
me with her legs, her lubricious pussy grinding against
my stomach. Norma's areolas had their own distinctive
scent, albeit a subtle, ephemeral one. My tongue
delighted in the tactile sensations her erect nipples
afforded. Norma too, seemed to share my enjoyment,
softly moaning pleasure-sounds, her pelvis spasmodically
jerking upwards from time to time.
Unhurriedly, my kisses moved down her torso, lingering
about ribs and tummy. My mouth serendipitously
encountered her navel, not a demure little hollow but a
great crater of voluptuous rugae. My dalliance there
caused Norma to arc her precious body to meet the
proddings of my tongue-play.
"Go down there, now," Norma hoarsely insisted.
As my head nestled between her legs, I soon realized
that this was the axis, the veritable nucleus of the
woman Norma. My tongue fluttered about the creases where
her thighs met her trunk, then assertively darted full
into her sex. Oh mellifluous, mucoid myrrh which is the
ineffable woman-dew! Tastes and smells of the sea, of
musk and must, of urine and clitoral smegma; the feral,
fruity, primal, fermenty, fenny nectar which is the
female yin-essence.
I drank her in as a hummingbird does a flower; a
kaleidoscope of steamy, heady smells, rank and
ambrosial, skyrocketed through my head. I hungered for
more. I turned her over onto her belly, caressing and
gently kneading her buttocks. These preliminary palpings
were short-lived; with dispatch I drew apart the
cleavage of her ass and post-haste made for her pink-
puckered anus.
Here were different smells and tastes. Bitter, mephitic,
funky, sour; yet at the same time smelling mildly
reminiscent of certain overly-cloying flowers; a
variance which vacillated between sweet and rank. Thus
so was the asshole of my darling. My tongue slipped past
her wrinkled sphincter as I attempted to fully probe
her. Alas, the task was a difficult one. Spasmodic
contractions, punctuated by tiny yelps precluded my
love-skewerings.
Norma turned over onto her back, drawing me up until our
yonic parts were well-met. Reaching down, she clasped my
cock and drew it into her warm, distended pussy. Her
breath came in short gasps as she held my sides,
orchestrating my movements. Wanting to prolong her
pleasure, I stuffed a bit of pillow into my mouth,
biting down hard upon it.
My hand reached around to her ass, which she obligingly
lifted. It was wet with the overflow of her copious
secretions. Gradually, I worked my finger into her
asshole. Initially, it was tight, but I was eventually
able to gently coax her anal ring to relax and dilate.
As my middle digit entered its whole length, Norma's
breath sucked in languidly. Though the base of my finger
was being firmly gripped, inside there was room to move
about. I perceived my cock moving in her vaginal canal,
and massaged the barrier which was common to both
openings.
Her final orgasm was overpowering; I could feel the
sheath of her vagina gently gripping my cock, milking it
as it were into ejaculation. Within seconds, I too
attained the zenith of my ecstasy. Sperm which had been
dormant for weeks coursed through me into her. I felt
the resilient, electrifying tingle of her cervix against
the tip of my cock. The crescendo of my pleasure-cries,
like hers, were guttural and unrestrained.
Post-coital comments are usually limited; "That was
great," "Was it good for you?" or some other sort of
inanely redundant colophon. Nothing original like
"Quick, gimme a Chinese Restaurant palindrome!" (Answer:
"Won-ton? Not now!") The best and perhaps tenderest
thing to do is to fall asleep in each other's arms, wet
spots be dammed.
***
I awoke to the sound of splashing water. Norma was bare-
assed in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. As I watched
her, she let out a little groan, quickly taking a tissue
to wipe something off her instep.
"Everything okay Norma?" I yelled out.
"Wha?"
"Everything, okay?"
"Wha?" She shut the water. "I can't hear you with the
water running."
"I said, 'everything okay?'"
"Yeah. Just memories of you--dripping all over my
floor."
I got up and joined her in the bathroom. She kissed me,
and I tasted the "minty-freshness" of a popular
toothpaste. "Here, use my toothbrush." she offered. "I
gotta wash my smuss."
She climbed into the tub, opened the tap, and with the
aid of a sponge, started moiling away at her privates,
transforming the whole bath into a massive bidet. I
elected to follow suit in these ablutions. Her damn sink
was high and I had to stand on tiptoe in order to lave
my cock and balls. After toweling down, I brushed my
teeth. As I did, I half-wondered about any fermenting
food particles from Norma's mouth which might be
enmeshed in her brush's bristles. "What the hell," I
thought, "I had my mouth in worse places."
While we were dressing, Norma smiled warmly and pinched
my cheek. "You're a good lover. A gentle lover. Why not
stay the night?"
"I'd like that, but I have to drive my sister to the
airport. She has a late flight."
"Well, maybe next time."
"Next time soon, dear Norma," I confirmed as I lightly
kissed her forehead.
We had a parting cup of tea together, which was prepared
by merely tossing a teabag into a mug and filling it
with hot water from the faucet. Norma made no pretense
of being a gourmet.
Glancing at my wristwatch, I knew that I must leave. We
embraced; I kissed her eyes, cheeks and lips. She led me
to the door and before opening it commanded me to wait.
She reached down under her jeans to her crotch. Her
fingers glistened as she brought them up to my face and
lightly daubed her juices under my nose. "Here's
something to remember me by." Done by anyone else, the
gesture would have been crass, wanton. But done by
Norma, it was tender and loving. Perhaps in some way she
was marking me as Her Own.
As I drove North, Norma was the only thing I smelled,
the only person who occupied my thoughts. There would be
a next time. Soon.
END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 67