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The Scent of Success

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I had never smelled anything like that. It smelled like a cross between a public toilet and an old locker room. I could smell stale acrid sweat, old urine, and something rotten old fish sticks. My eyes watered at the whang of the stench, and my nose wrinkled involuntarily. But I couldn't wait to get my mouth on that soiled pussy-meat.

I met her down at The Bunch, where it's easy to get a beer but almost impossible to get laid. I wasn't really looking anyway, just tired of looking at the same four walls, playing with the same two balls. I had a beer and literally saw her through the bottom of my mug, in the bar mirror. Her dark hair was messy, and it was tangled in the back. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and her clothes were incredibly. Quite frankly, she looked like she had just rolled out of bed and right into the bar. But hey, who hasn't been THERE a time or two?

She sat next me. I always sit in about the center of the bar. People actually tend to sit at the corners of the bar, strange though it seems, so I usually have a good deal of space to myself there at the center. She sat down beside me, and I could instantly smell her body odor.

I guess it's obvious, that's the kind of thing that turns me on: I love it when a woman (usually) uses me like a washrag on her dirty body. It's humiliating and degrading; it gives me that small, victimized feeling I've always craved. Even when I was in grade school I found ways to prompt disgust and derision form the girls, which excited me, and even a beating from the bullies from time to time, which made me feel…special.

So she sits down next to me, and I start getting hard immediately from the aroma. I figure if I talk to her, she'll make a fool out me one of two ways: shooting me down (which isn't so bad; it gets me in the mood to go home and whip my belt back across my shoulders and back while I stroke myself) or letting me get closer to that wretched scent wafting off of her.

"You look like you could use a drink," I said.

She looked around then looked back at me. "Are you talking to me?" she asked with genuine surprise.

I smiled. "Well yeah! Whaddya say? Can I buy you one?"

She looked at me for a minute and then said: "Gin, neat. I'm Rita."

My cock was throbbing as her sour stench filled my nose. "You bet, Rita. I'm Larry." I signaled the bar tender and got her a gin.

Rita looked at me doubtfully. "What's your angle, Larry? I'm not exactly in high fashion at the moment."

She was a little heavy--curvy, I would say. Full-figured. But she wasn't obese. She was fit and feminine and soft in all the right places. It's the body style I like (on women), and it went sublimely with the body ODOR. I knew she would be sweaty and hot between those thick thighs.

Fuck it, I figured, here goes nothing. "Rita," I said, "I'd like to take you out. Actually…I'd like to take you IN. Any chance you're up for some…fun…tonight?" Nine times out of ten, this approach ends with just me, my belt, and my pecker, back at my place. But sometimes…

"Seriously?" she asked. I told her hell yes. She looked at me with confusion, and then a light suddenly came into her eye. "Ohh… I see…" she said quietly. "Well Larry, I think I can find something 'fun' for to… get into." She smiled and put her arm up on my shoulder. Her rancid armpit filled my senses. She whispered, "But you have to come home with ME, Larry… My turf; my rules…"

She got up and walked toward the door. Going back to her place was a no-brainer. I followed her like a shadow, shaking with the excitement of the sour cloud that followed her.

…to be continued…
Seems to me that she smells exactly like the NYC subway stations.

I can see my elegant upperclass Stephanie all girlie smelling of perfume and dressed up in something nice from her couture collection allowing herself to go to Rita’s turf.

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