Unwashed

An inconvenient discovery

She lies back in bed, with mixed emotions.

It’s their 3rd anniversary, and her husband had pulled out all the stops. Took the day off work, took her out on a shopping spree through the city, then a luxury spa, then dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant, and a night in this hotel that cost - no, she won’t think about the cost.

He’d even made an extra effort during their lovemaking that night, focusing entirely on her pleasure, doing his best to give her the night of her life before he finally blew his load, and now he’s lying beside her in bed, snoring lightly with a smile on his face. She smiles as she looks over at him. Such a lovely, lovely man. He really didn’t need to, after all, she’d have been happy with pizza in front of the TV. But she appreciates the effort.

So why did she have to fake her orgasm just so they could end the night? She’d never had to do that before. What was different about tonight? Something’s different, that’s for sure. But what?

As she racks her brain, a suspicion begins gnawing at her. She rolls towards him and takes a deep breath. He smells like - well, like him, of course, but normally when she’s close to him, his smell hits her viscerally. It makes her want to climb him like a tree. Could it be...

She carefully lowers her head to his armpit, and takes a careful sniff. Mm, better. But it still doesn’t scratch that itch. That squeezing of her gut that tells her this is the man for you is not there.

He’d taken extra care to shower before they went to bed, and he still smells faintly of chlorine and the ylang-ylang oil that the masseuse had used on them both.

Could that be the problem?

Carefully, she slips out of bed and, still naked, tiptoes to the pile of clothes they’d worn that day. She roots through it, and finds what she’s looking for: his underpants.

Her heart pounds. Is she really going to do this? Act like some kind of pervert, stealing underwear to - to sniff? Her own husband’s used underpants?

She could just ask him of course, he’d probably say yes. Probably. But she couldn’t, just couldn’t bring herself to admit it. She can just picture it now: Honey, can I have a pair of your used pants to sniff because I think the smell of your ball sweat turns me on like nothing else in the world?

He would never look at her the same way again.

She still leaves the room to fart. Keeps the door shut when she’s in the toilet, and forbids him from even walking past the door if she’s just done a number two within the last twenty minutes.

Although she has recently loosened up on having the lights on while they...make love. And she even lets him use the bathroom when she’s having a shower now.

But still, to confess to being turned on by the odour of his unwashed...willy would just kill her. No, there’s no helping it. If it is true, then she will take this secret to her grave.

She holds her prize up to her nose, still unconsciously holding her breath.

And then finally, cautiously, she takes a little whiff, and it’s like the dark room lights up in glorious technicolor; like a choir of angels has started to sing.

The musk goes directly to her monkey brain, and from there, straight through her belly to punch her in the groin.

She never wants to breathe out again. She just wants to hold that scent in her, in case she never gets to smell it again. Which is silly, because - breathe out, breathe in, oh God - all her suspicions are confirmed: she needs the smell of her husband’s sweaty, unwashed body - preferably his cock - to really get going. And she is holding the absolute motherlode in her hands.

She lies down on the plush carpet of the very expensive hotel room, clutching her husband’s pants to her face and huffing it like an asthmatic trying to get at the dregs of the salbutamol.

Her free hand reaches between her legs and she moans, softly, still retaining enough presence of mind - for now - to keep her volume down. She cannot get enough. She is an addict. She must admit it, if only to herself.

She needs both hands to really get going. She wants to squeeze her own breast while she’s touching her pussy, to remember what her husband had done to her hours ago, only now, with his true smell in her nostrils.

What can she do?

Aha, an easy question to answer: she wears his pants on her head. They’re large enough that they fall to just past her nose. Perfect.

Now that she has both hands free, she can really go for it. One hand touching herself, the other tweaking her nipples.

It is not long before she reaches her climax, whimpering and moaning on the floor of the hotel room, next to the pile of dirty clothes. She trembles, her foot kicking out reflexively once, twice, toes curling as she tries to stop herself from making more noise than she already is.

It is one of the most powerful orgasms she has ever had, and when she is done, she feels her eyelids growing heavy. She is a mess between her legs. Must get up, must get pants off head, must get back to bed before -

The light comes on. It nearly blinds her, even through the dark cotton of his pants covering her eyes.

“Honey, are you OK?”

Oh poo.