Mindy’s Pheromones Part Two — Jeremy Edwards

Did you miss Mindy’s Pheromones Part One? Check it out here.

Over the next few days, my sense of smell finally seduced my other senses. Now I could not look at Mindy without admiring the subtle grace of her features, and I could not listen to her talk without feeling tremors. How, I marveled, could I ever have found her looks to be bland and her voice to be ordinary? I began to see my previous unresponsiveness to her physical charms as a reflection on my own shortcomings.

Even more significantly, her personality began to fascinate me. Her lack of interest in the things I cared about somehow became an intriguing lack of interest. Her enthusiasm over subjects that bored me became an enchanting enthusiasm. I was infatuated with everything about this woman, even though I knew it was ultimately just the result of mischievous molecules from her vagina tickling my horny nose, day in and day out. I didn’t care. I just wanted to fuck her all night, every night, and really get to know her during the intervening days.

On Friday, the day she wore the soft white jeans with the pocket-buttons, I couldn’t hold back any longer. You know the sort of pants I mean—with cute little button-down pockets on the ass, impractical as pockets but intoxicating as textures, ornamenting pert cheeks the way that nipples ornament breasts. When Mindy was standing at the photocopier with her back to me, I found I could not take my eyes off those little buttons. All I wanted to do was unbutton each pocket in turn and caress her ass.

I had three deadline-sensitive projects on my desk. But the only project I worked on that morning consisted of developing various fantasies that each involved (a) unbuttoning those pockets and (b) fondling Mindy’s bottom through the thin layer of fabric inside them. (For the purposes of these fantasies, I took the liberty of presuming Mindy to be wearing a thong.) By lunchtime, I had already masturbated my head off three times in the john.

“Hey, do you have plans this weekend?” Any reservations I might once have had about asking this question were by now comfortably submerged beneath my consuming desire to touch Mindy’s body.

She smiled. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

So dinner that night it was, at a restaurant near our building. It was a curry place—one of the few cuisines on which we agreed. It seemed appropriate that we were going somewhere enticingly fragrant.

“They don’t serve alcohol,” she warned me. Mindy liked beer; I liked wine.

“No worries,” I ventured in reply. “I’ve got stuff at my place, so we can go up for a drink afterwards.”

“Perfect.”

Dinner conversation involved a predictable assortment of dead ends. And yet there was a level of comfort there, a rapport. We had come a long way in two weeks of cubicle-bumping.

After dinner, we very naturally slid onto opposite ends of the convertible couch in my pad, drinks in hand. We raised our glasses in a casual, unspoken toast.

“You realize we have nothing in common,” said Mindy after a sip of beer.

“Oh, yes,” I replied.

“But you’re cute,” she stated, as if this were a fact. “That’s why I wanted to go out to dinner with you … and everything.” She blushed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent an evening with a woman who blushed. “How about you?”

“You mean, why did I want to go out to dinner—and everything?”

“Yes. Even though we—“

“I know, I know. Even though we have nothing in common.” We laughed together, perhaps for the first time, united by a shared awareness of our irreconcilable differences.

Mindy’s candor inspired my own. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but—believe it or not—I wanted to go out with you because … .” I hesitated and made a quick detour. “Now, I think you’re cute, too, and I like you. I like you more with each moment, in fact.” I cleared my throat. “But I really wanted to go out with you because … I can unconsciously smell your cunt all day long, and it’s driving me wild.”

Her mouth dropped open. Was it shock? Incredulity? I thought I saw her eyes tearing up.

“Wow,” she said softly, her soprano pitch suddenly husky.

With great delicacy she placed her beer on the coffee table, next to my glass of wine.

Then she pounced on me, and I was enveloped in arms and legs and breath and liquid kisses, my head spinning in the strongest dose yet of Mindy’s aroma. Of all the times I had fantasized about Mindy, it had never occurred to me that she might go even wilder than I would, that she would fling herself onto me and fuck me like she’d been waiting for it all her life.

I don’t remember how, or when, our clothes came off. But I’ll never forget the way she rode me, her thighs trembling while she guided herself up and down my pole, juicing every ounce of pleasure from the machine of our genitals. She smelled like home, like dinner, like laughter and dessert … and, of course, like cunt.

“Ngh,” she said, her face a grimace of hard-earned bliss. “Ngh,” she reiterated, and reiterated, with shorter and shorter interludes between iterations. When she’d taken us as high as we could go, I clutched her butt cheeks for ninety eternal seconds of free-fall.

Afterward, she rolled into the crook of the loveseat. I dropped to the floor, preparing to make a proper meal of her. But her ass was facing out, and I couldn’t ignore it. I had to kiss every inch of this ass—this ass I had once dismissed as “ordinary”—before going near her pussy, potent though the pussy’s olfactory beckoning was.

When I had kissed cheeks and crack so comprehensively that Mindy’s bottom was jiggling in my face like it had a motor, I moved at last to the heart of the matter. Tonguing and kissing every possible place between her legs, I felt drunk on her essence. It was the oxygen my lungs had craved since I met her. And though Mindy claimed not to have a musical bone in her body, her soprano trills were tonally perfect every time she hit a climax. “Ngh” for fucking and trills for being eaten, I noted, having always been a devoted student of languages—unlike Mindy, who could rattle off sports stats but had flunked out of Spanish.

“I have to pee,” she said after I’d finally exhausted her.

My bathroom would soon smell like Mindy’s cunt. My couch smelled like Mindy’s cunt. My body smelled like Mindy’s cunt. And I knew I would do my best to make sure that Mindy returned again and again, so that her delicious scent could never dissipate. Mindy who is … Mindy.

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Jeremy is a favorite author here on Every Night Erotica click here to read more from him.

Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over forty anthologies. His work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, and 9, and he has read at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile.

Catch Jeremy live in New York on March 19th if you are in the area find out exactly where and when he is appearing here.