I made him inhale deeply. Working on his breath for an hour before I let him stick his tongue out and try and taste. To beg. I teased him and put my hands down my pants and my fingers slipped right into my pussy. I took my fingers out and held them in front of his face and made him look at the little beads of wetness pulled apart into spider webs between my fingers. I draped the spider web over his tongue and teased, “look how wet you’re making me.”
I buried his head back into my panties and made him breathe in deeper to remember my scent. I told him to memorize it. To get drunk on it. To write an essay about it. So he could conjure that desire wherever he was. He said, smiling “This is how Mistress smells before I cry.” Before the rain. Like the 15-year-old bottle of Burgundy wine that he brought me. I jokingly told him that I tasted notes of worms. That mineraly smell that comes up right as the rain first touches the earth that is always accompanied by the drowning carcasses of worms. That wet stones release a mineraly gas into the air when caressed, wet. Maybe that is the smell I smell when I think I smell worms, the minerals. Minerality. Petrichor.
He says my pussy smells differently after I watch someone cry. The wine opened up in the hour we let it sit.