9-2-02
Scent
The idea first came to her as she watched a silver zipper resting on bouncy breasts, pink-clad eager thighs, and a sultry voice turn his eyes to frosted glass. She tore up the resulting business card in a fit of jealousy, the most feminine emotion known to humans. This was ironic considering she felt anything but feminine.
She waited until he had left the mansion, off to rescue that desolate town full of creatures which had decided to be ungrateful of the electric wonders of modern man. She herself decided to be ungrateful of the way black embroidery accentuated her shapely crimson-clad waist.
She sifted through his armoire like a real lady would though a catalog, searching for a new look, "a new you!" She really didn't have much of a selection, seeing as the only variable was how well-worn his socks--black, of course--were.
She cursed her maker as the borrowed trousers puddled around her ankles, the jacket slouched over her thin shoulders. She looked like a little boy dressed up in Daddy's clothes, because he's all grown up now. She snugged the white-striped silken noose around her frail neck.
"All grown up. How silly," she mused at the mirror.
She shoved back the cuff of the jacket and balled up a section of too-long shirtsleeve in her palm. With rough, angry gestures, she scrubbed the black and blue tint from around her eyes, leaving the shirt cuff looking bruised, and her face looking...well...
asexual.
She realized, with a heavy permanence to the thought, that she could pass for a prepubescent child of either sex, or, as appropriate in her case, neither.
Prepubescent indeed. The term turned her mind from questions of gender to issues of attraction, and she suddenly realized exactly how intoxicating his scent was. Surrounded by soft, weighty fabrics, she carefully considered what these garments usually enclosed...how smoothly the tight skin of his back would glide along the inside of the pressed oxford now draped about her...how with a sigh the woolen jacket would slip onto his shoulders and powerful arms...how the calm satin of his tie could wrap its arms around his neck, hug him gently...but most of all she reveled in the scent of him.
The young woman in man's clothing toddled over to the edge of his bed, despite the best efforts of the overly long trousers, and pondered why her body was warmed by being engulfed in this smell. She brought her hands, enfolded in pliable, crisp cloth as they were, to her face, and deeply inhaled. She pondered rhetorically how her olfactory analyzers knew how to make her neck weak and her arms heavy, how to make them long to be supported and wrapped around the proper inhabitant of the suit.
She laid down on the bed, bringing her knees up to her face; another unknown, she pondered, concerned why the assumption of such a position was so inherently soothing. But as it was of minor import to the grand scheme of things as reflected in her eyes, she tucked the issue away in the back of her head, and whatever electronic paraphernalia contained therein, until she encountered a gray-sky morning with nothing to do.
Back to the scent...which as she focused on it, intensified until it threatened to drug her to unconsciousness. This heady feeling...this lethargy...this lack of desire to do anything to prevent her drowning in its warmth...
***
He was stopped by the butler on his way inside.
"Sir, I would advise you she has conducted another experiment..."
Mildly perplexed, he made his way down the hall, dismissing the butler's statement before he was half the distance to his room, meanwhile deciding that forgoing dinner altogether in favor of a long night's sleep would be a comfortable course of action.
Strangely, the first thing he noticed was her left big toe, pointing straight at him from within the generous folds of his trousers. Her hair was a bloodstain on the black sheets. Her dress, tights, slip, cravat, brooch on the floor were casualties of war, left where they'd fallen with nary a backward glance.
He neared the bed cautiously, already trying to discern why she would dress in his attire. He sat down on the bed next to her, studying her features. Her eyes were twisted shut, tightest at the corners, as if someone had gathered the fabric of her face at that point and knotted it. Her lips were slightly parted, the tip of her tongue peeking out to taste the air. Her...her face was utterly white. He noticed with a start that her signature black and blue eyeshadow, if that it could be called, was missing. Her hands were tightly clenched at her breast, and only the knuckles poked out of the oversized jacket sleeves.
For what would not be the last time, he wondered if she could cry.
He slid his hands under her shoulder, lifting up enough to wedge his arm under her heavy waist. He raised her enough to slide her shoulders onto his lap, and cradled her head in his hands, stroking her hair with a thumb. In a few minutes she woke enough to bring her hands back up to her face, and inhaled deeply of his essence. He misunderstood, construing her deep breath as a weary sigh, and ran a gloved hand over her cheek to console her.
Her eyes snapped open, and, seeing nothing in front of her, looked up into his upside down face. His expression brightened in an attempt at comfort, but mortification needs no assurance. She sat bolt upright, tucking her legs under her in the process, and looked, wide-eyed, at him.
She felt so vulnerable. Not only had she fallen asleep on his bed, in his room, in his clothes, he had laid her head on his lap as a pillow...on his lap...
The scent that was so inherently him overwhelmed her. It wisped from the clothes she wore, permeated the whole room with its faintly ambient presence, but mostly, flew from him. He, sitting on the bed next to her, he, so intoxicatingly sweet-smelling, he, he...
He stood up, walked over to the pile of her clothes. Picked up her slip. "It's white." Held it to his face, breathed deeply of the scent of her, of dusting cloths and soap suds and confusion.
As he pulled it from his features, he smiled.
His eyes were frosted glass.
Some part of her mind tucked away the conclusion that cracked like lightning so fast in front of her face: she could now perceive a way by which she didn't need to be pink or bouncy.
He recrossed the room to stand in front of her. She didn't know what he intended, but knew she could not remain much longer under his obsidian gaze without suffering liquefaction. Moreover, she knew that she would be unable to tear herself from his presence without one last arrogated boon. So, slowly, she stood, tripping a bit on the damnèd hems, and leaned forward into him, burying her nose under the lapel of his jacket, wrapping her arms tight around him.
They stayed that way for a while, he with arms at his sides, looking down at her with a strange light of comprehension behind his still-glazed eyes, she with carmine locks tangled in inky eyelashes, mouth and nose only existing for the intoxicating, drunken feeling birthed in her by being near to him, her body functioning merely by breathing his warmth.
Presently she broke away, molasses-slow, depriving herself of her nirvanah, and gathered up her garments. She caressed his fingers one by one, coaxing them into releasing her slip from their grasp, carefully keeping her embarrassed gaze downcast. He neither helped nor hindered her, aware that his composed silence was bewildering her, but powerless and unwilling to shake off the drugged state of his brain induced by her scent.
As she reached the doorway, he finally spoke.
"You can keep the suit if you'd like..." He smiled bemusedly at her.
She had thought her surrogate heart had felt the apex of humiliation known to the true human breast, but now discovered how deeply she was in error. Busy trying to reason away the thudding ersatz rhythm that seemed to make her tie dance, she found presence of mind to make a small bow and stand rigidly back up, terrified of herself, of this over-ambitious heart of hers. She walked gingerly and with measured steps from the room, and for as long as she, retreating down the hall, remained in his field of vision, she retained her ramrod-straight posture.
Once safely beyond his gaze, she brought two fistfuls of fragrant material to her face and breathed deeply, seeing only his frosted-glass eyes as she returned to her room.
-fin-
AN: I started this at eleven at night, and finished around one-thirty. I am insanely proud of it; please be kind, but honest. Miss Dorothy does not visit me often; when she does, I do my best to capture every inch of red dress I can. Tell me how I can catch more.
Scent
The idea first came to her as she watched a silver zipper resting on bouncy breasts, pink-clad eager thighs, and a sultry voice turn his eyes to frosted glass. She tore up the resulting business card in a fit of jealousy, the most feminine emotion known to humans. This was ironic considering she felt anything but feminine.
She waited until he had left the mansion, off to rescue that desolate town full of creatures which had decided to be ungrateful of the electric wonders of modern man. She herself decided to be ungrateful of the way black embroidery accentuated her shapely crimson-clad waist.
She sifted through his armoire like a real lady would though a catalog, searching for a new look, "a new you!" She really didn't have much of a selection, seeing as the only variable was how well-worn his socks--black, of course--were.
She cursed her maker as the borrowed trousers puddled around her ankles, the jacket slouched over her thin shoulders. She looked like a little boy dressed up in Daddy's clothes, because he's all grown up now. She snugged the white-striped silken noose around her frail neck.
"All grown up. How silly," she mused at the mirror.
She shoved back the cuff of the jacket and balled up a section of too-long shirtsleeve in her palm. With rough, angry gestures, she scrubbed the black and blue tint from around her eyes, leaving the shirt cuff looking bruised, and her face looking...well...
asexual.
She realized, with a heavy permanence to the thought, that she could pass for a prepubescent child of either sex, or, as appropriate in her case, neither.
Prepubescent indeed. The term turned her mind from questions of gender to issues of attraction, and she suddenly realized exactly how intoxicating his scent was. Surrounded by soft, weighty fabrics, she carefully considered what these garments usually enclosed...how smoothly the tight skin of his back would glide along the inside of the pressed oxford now draped about her...how with a sigh the woolen jacket would slip onto his shoulders and powerful arms...how the calm satin of his tie could wrap its arms around his neck, hug him gently...but most of all she reveled in the scent of him.
The young woman in man's clothing toddled over to the edge of his bed, despite the best efforts of the overly long trousers, and pondered why her body was warmed by being engulfed in this smell. She brought her hands, enfolded in pliable, crisp cloth as they were, to her face, and deeply inhaled. She pondered rhetorically how her olfactory analyzers knew how to make her neck weak and her arms heavy, how to make them long to be supported and wrapped around the proper inhabitant of the suit.
She laid down on the bed, bringing her knees up to her face; another unknown, she pondered, concerned why the assumption of such a position was so inherently soothing. But as it was of minor import to the grand scheme of things as reflected in her eyes, she tucked the issue away in the back of her head, and whatever electronic paraphernalia contained therein, until she encountered a gray-sky morning with nothing to do.
Back to the scent...which as she focused on it, intensified until it threatened to drug her to unconsciousness. This heady feeling...this lethargy...this lack of desire to do anything to prevent her drowning in its warmth...
***
He was stopped by the butler on his way inside.
"Sir, I would advise you she has conducted another experiment..."
Mildly perplexed, he made his way down the hall, dismissing the butler's statement before he was half the distance to his room, meanwhile deciding that forgoing dinner altogether in favor of a long night's sleep would be a comfortable course of action.
Strangely, the first thing he noticed was her left big toe, pointing straight at him from within the generous folds of his trousers. Her hair was a bloodstain on the black sheets. Her dress, tights, slip, cravat, brooch on the floor were casualties of war, left where they'd fallen with nary a backward glance.
He neared the bed cautiously, already trying to discern why she would dress in his attire. He sat down on the bed next to her, studying her features. Her eyes were twisted shut, tightest at the corners, as if someone had gathered the fabric of her face at that point and knotted it. Her lips were slightly parted, the tip of her tongue peeking out to taste the air. Her...her face was utterly white. He noticed with a start that her signature black and blue eyeshadow, if that it could be called, was missing. Her hands were tightly clenched at her breast, and only the knuckles poked out of the oversized jacket sleeves.
For what would not be the last time, he wondered if she could cry.
He slid his hands under her shoulder, lifting up enough to wedge his arm under her heavy waist. He raised her enough to slide her shoulders onto his lap, and cradled her head in his hands, stroking her hair with a thumb. In a few minutes she woke enough to bring her hands back up to her face, and inhaled deeply of his essence. He misunderstood, construing her deep breath as a weary sigh, and ran a gloved hand over her cheek to console her.
Her eyes snapped open, and, seeing nothing in front of her, looked up into his upside down face. His expression brightened in an attempt at comfort, but mortification needs no assurance. She sat bolt upright, tucking her legs under her in the process, and looked, wide-eyed, at him.
She felt so vulnerable. Not only had she fallen asleep on his bed, in his room, in his clothes, he had laid her head on his lap as a pillow...on his lap...
The scent that was so inherently him overwhelmed her. It wisped from the clothes she wore, permeated the whole room with its faintly ambient presence, but mostly, flew from him. He, sitting on the bed next to her, he, so intoxicatingly sweet-smelling, he, he...
He stood up, walked over to the pile of her clothes. Picked up her slip. "It's white." Held it to his face, breathed deeply of the scent of her, of dusting cloths and soap suds and confusion.
As he pulled it from his features, he smiled.
His eyes were frosted glass.
Some part of her mind tucked away the conclusion that cracked like lightning so fast in front of her face: she could now perceive a way by which she didn't need to be pink or bouncy.
He recrossed the room to stand in front of her. She didn't know what he intended, but knew she could not remain much longer under his obsidian gaze without suffering liquefaction. Moreover, she knew that she would be unable to tear herself from his presence without one last arrogated boon. So, slowly, she stood, tripping a bit on the damnèd hems, and leaned forward into him, burying her nose under the lapel of his jacket, wrapping her arms tight around him.
They stayed that way for a while, he with arms at his sides, looking down at her with a strange light of comprehension behind his still-glazed eyes, she with carmine locks tangled in inky eyelashes, mouth and nose only existing for the intoxicating, drunken feeling birthed in her by being near to him, her body functioning merely by breathing his warmth.
Presently she broke away, molasses-slow, depriving herself of her nirvanah, and gathered up her garments. She caressed his fingers one by one, coaxing them into releasing her slip from their grasp, carefully keeping her embarrassed gaze downcast. He neither helped nor hindered her, aware that his composed silence was bewildering her, but powerless and unwilling to shake off the drugged state of his brain induced by her scent.
As she reached the doorway, he finally spoke.
"You can keep the suit if you'd like..." He smiled bemusedly at her.
She had thought her surrogate heart had felt the apex of humiliation known to the true human breast, but now discovered how deeply she was in error. Busy trying to reason away the thudding ersatz rhythm that seemed to make her tie dance, she found presence of mind to make a small bow and stand rigidly back up, terrified of herself, of this over-ambitious heart of hers. She walked gingerly and with measured steps from the room, and for as long as she, retreating down the hall, remained in his field of vision, she retained her ramrod-straight posture.
Once safely beyond his gaze, she brought two fistfuls of fragrant material to her face and breathed deeply, seeing only his frosted-glass eyes as she returned to her room.
-fin-
AN: I started this at eleven at night, and finished around one-thirty. I am insanely proud of it; please be kind, but honest. Miss Dorothy does not visit me often; when she does, I do my best to capture every inch of red dress I can. Tell me how I can catch more.