Short Story: Fresh Linen
What happens when we take pleasure too seriously?
My last breath was orgasmic. The French call an orgasm la petite mort; unfortunate for me, my final orgasm turned into la grande mort as my eyes bulged from their sockets and were subsequently closed by my quietus. As soon as I felt my body going numb, darkness engulfed me.
My death occurred during a typical weekend. As soon as I awoke on Saturday morning, I made tea, checked my personal email, and got ready for the day. I had a great shower. The warm water cascading down my naked body was a reminder of my glory that evening--a session with the aromamaster. As is typical during my Saturday morning showers, I emerged as a new woman. Cleaned from the week’s stress, I was ready to take on the day. Next was breakfast: a peach and spinach smoothie, and a quick call with Timothy to arrange brunch.
Timothy was my best mate and a former work colleague. He and I met ritually for brunch on Saturday afternoons to sip mimosas while comparing office drama. It was fun relief from the doldrums of my job as a Marketing Coordinator. My work was mostly uninspiring and the culture of the company I worked for had zero room for unicorns, but the bright side was that I was overpaid to do a job I was overqualified to do.
Brunch with Timothy was side-splitting. Timothy was a Senior Executive at a high-profile advertising agency and each week he would share with me the most outrageous office gossip. I always looked forward to the hilarity of his accounts. This week he’d caught his secretary in the copy room with a handful of dick and balls belonging to the office moron. He fired her on the spot and demoted the unlucky bastard to her position. To have such power over others must be nice. Although Timothy swears that he had no idea the two were entangled. I wasn’t sure how Timothy could be kept in the dark about his secretary’s liaison, as keeping office romance a secret is no cakewalk, but I knew from experience it could be done.
I worked with Bradford briefly last year. I remember our first meeting; it was the day of his onboarding. He had a yellow mustard stain on his tie. I was more interested in the cold-calling I had to do that afternoon than I was in engaging with Bradford, and I deliberately expedited our introduction. Initially, that was about the amount of chemistry that we had.
Bradford was a recent college graduate and his position at my firm was his first job. His looks were average and there seemed to be little going on between his ears, so I kept our interactions professional until he showed up one Friday smelling fresh. His mother used too much fabric softener on his dockers that week because the moment he wafted past my desk I was gagged with desire. That evening, I spent the night at his house.
Call me an asphyxiation olfactophiliac.
I’ve always loved the smell of fresh laundry, and in my adult years, I developed a fetish for being nearly suffocated by this particular odor. Though nothing in the world could get me off the way Abreeze extra-strength fabric refresher in fresh linen could. I set aside time each Saturday evening to over-douse myself with its synthetic essence and make love to myself while in the process.
As evening approached, I blossomed ecstatically. I was determined to set myself a new record: fifteen back-to-back orgasms. Just the week before I’d reached twelve; and immediately after, I thought to myself next week I’ll try for fifteen. Unlike my gay boyfriend, Timothy, I did not own a single dildo or vibrator. All I needed were my hands and the special mask that I designed and constructed myself. The aromamaster. It took me a couple of weekend to draft the pattern and sew it, but when it was finished I was never a happier girl.
The design was simple, it was a black neoprene hood that fastened tightly around my throat. It featured a pocket over my nose and mouth that was outfitted with a cotton pad that I would saturate with the scent of my choice--fresh linen-- and breathe my way to orgasm after orgasm. Perhaps I could’ve patented it if It had not been the catalyst in my death.
Back to Bradford.
Brad was a virgin that lived with his mother and despite his inexperience, we had the most incredible sex. The best part was the never-ending supply of Abreeze his mother kept; the second best part was that she was completely deaf and could not hear our rambunctious romps that would last into the wee hours of the morning.
The first night that I visited his home I ruined my panties moments after I walked through the door. It seemed his mother also had a fondness for the smell of fresh linen and their home reeked of Abreeze. This was no delicate aroma, it was thick and lingering; I was suffocating in the best possible way. Delirious and horny as Brad introduced me to his mother, I could only focus on the wetness dripping down my inner thigh. In hindsight, I realize that she probably thought I was some dumb whore who’d come to steal her son’s virginity, and I was. Blame it on Brad’s smelly dockers.
Engorged and tingling with desire, the only thing I could think of was getting Brad between my legs. In my urgency, I tripped down the stairs to his basement apartment and tore a hole in my stockings. Normally this would send me into a tailspin, as I was devoted to wearing only fine silk stockings, but I didn’t care. Brad’s skill as a lover was unremarkable given his age; he was just 24, but I had 7 orgasms that night. In the morning, I wrote his mother a note asking what the fragrance was and she showed me a bottle of Abreeze extra strength fabric refresher.
After a few weeks, Bradford and I would leave the office together on Friday, have a quick dinner and bang each other’s brains out well into Saturday morning. My favorite game to play with Brad was to hide under the sheets and deep throat his cock. Next, I would straddle Brad and ride him into a coma. Afterward, I’d lie next to him with the sheets pulled up to my nose and Brad would ask me if I liked to smell his farts. I told him that the fresh linen smell made me horny and he laughed.
The last night I spent with Brad, I generously sprayed a black and white floral kerchief with Abreeze and tied it over my face. As I did this, Brad laughed hysterically. But his hysteria ceased as I grabbed his ankles and lowered myself onto him. I realized that my fetish must’ve appeared insane to someone as inexperienced as Brad, but I’m positive that he enjoyed my womanly arse bouncing on his pelvis. I had 9 orgasms that night.
Though I suppose it was just too strange for him, as the next morning he told me he wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue seeing me. And the Monday after, I found a bottle of Abreeze on my desk with a note that read: “Sorry. I hope this is enough. Thanks for the experience.” Brad avoided eye contact with me from then on but was polite to my face. To my knowledge, nobody at the office ever found out about my fragrant fetish. Months later, Brad was promoted to a different department at my job. I wasn’t sorry to see him go.
After a wholesome dinner of brown rice, steamed vegetables, and roasted turkey breast, I poured myself a glass of riesling and gave myself a striptease in the mirror. I had chosen one of my favorite lace bra and panty sets and upon the sight of them, I grew moist. A few generous glugs of wine later, I put on some music and poured myself a second glass of wine. In a blissful haze of Abreeze and alcohol, I settled into the suede club chair sitting next to my bed. A few more sips of wine and I retrieve the aromamaster from my closet. I slipped the hood over my blonde locks, and I felt accomplished as I tightened the velcro closure around my neck. I began to spritz the cotton pad with Abreeze. In a greedy haste, I oversaturated the pad, and the sting of cool liquid dripping on my thigh reminded me to wring it out. My body flushed a second time as I placed the pad over my nose and mouth.
My nipples were rigid with anticipation. The first inhale of fresh linen sends me into a quick catharsis and before I even began touching my body I'd already finished one orgasm. My second breath was deep and slow and my clit responded with a second spasm. I caressed my nipples through the black lace of my bra, folded my legs up onto the club chair, and spread them wide. I lightly grazed my labia with my fingernails through the fabric of my panties as I inhaled.
Three. Four. Five.
With one hand folded behind my back, I unfastened my bra. My nipples were delightfully rosy and puffy. With both hands, I massaged my breasts as I inhaled deeply; while pinching and twisting my nipples, the crotch of my panties slickened as my stomach churned with desire.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
I slid my fingers down into my panties and sampled the wetness between my pussy’s lips. I lined up each caress with a breath. With my legs in the air, I slid off my panties and dangled them on my big toe. I bent my knee and dropped them to the floor. I palm my left breast, pinch my nipple, and glide my fingers deep inside. I inhale deeply and am barraged with spasms.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen
My hand cramped and I grimaced. I am determined to reach fifteen orgasms, so I use my thumb to tap my clit. With each thump, my body writhed.
I inhaled as deeply as I could, but I failed. The lightness in my head has turned to numbness and my hands stopped moving. I am swept into eternal darkness. It was my final breath, though, there is a better way to enter into eternity.