Smell. Confession #569

My middle finger smells like your asshole.

I'm aware of this as I drive away from your apartment for what will be the very last time if I have anything to say about it. Which, I realize, I do. I've always been the one in charge of this thing between us, in control of my actions and in so many ways, yours, but something kept drawing me back to you time and time again. What it was I have given up trying to determine.

I didn't wash my hands afterwards on purpose, you know. And so the memory of you lingers with me here in the car, as I drive down I35 with this, my fragrant souvenir of what was certainly our last time together. If I have anything to say about it at least.

Which I do.

But this is a nice recollection I am having as I breathe in deeply the scent of you. The scent recalls exactly how my finger was deep inside of you just a little while ago, as you jerked off while I watched intently. How my mouth and tongue sought enthusiastic residence upon your testicles until I could tell you were so-very-close. And how I then shifted, ungracefully even, and hovered eagerly above your cock with hungry, exultant anticipation at your delivery. All the while, my finger remained deep inside of your ass, while your body trembled and tensed and asked, soundlessly, for more. And how your tight, wanting asshole contracted around my finger, grasping for some semblance of purchase as you ascended the peak.

And then you were there.

And you exploded it all, gave it to me in one single burst – a surging salvo of white, ropy come – into my mouth. Mostly anyway. What didn't make it into my mouth sat quietly on my lips and face until I wiped it away… with the other hand, the one whose fingers weren't occupied.

By your asshole.

The one that I can smell now.

Even though I drove away from you … days and days and days ago.

Republished with permission from Sexie Sadie's Stories of Seduction. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.