There was something quietly enchanting about the nights I spent with my Master / love, from April 8th to 10th. We didn’t do anything grand—just shared space, warmth, and quiet affection. But my senses were alive in a way I hadn’t expected. On the first night, I rubbed my wrists together absentmindedly, and to my …
There was something quietly enchanting about the nights I spent with my Master / love, from April 8th to 10th. We didn’t do anything grand—just shared space, warmth, and quiet affection. But my senses were alive in a way I hadn’t expected.
On the first night, I rubbed my wrists together absentmindedly, and to my surprise, a soft, woody scent emerged. It wasn’t from any perfume—I hadn’t worn any. And the soap I used didn’t carry that note either. The scent wasn’t exactly like my Master’s cologne, though he does wear one with a woody tone when he goes out. It was subtler, like the echo of something comforting and warm. His room has a diffuser with a floral-woody profile, and perhaps that lingered on me too. Or maybe it was something deeper—my body reacting to his presence, to the intimacy of being so close to someone I love.
The next morning, we added a TWG fruit gummy into our hot sugar-free tea, letting the fruity aroma swirl into the air. Later that evening, I rubbed my wrists again, and this time… the scent was fruity. Sweet, almost whimsical. Again, no perfume. Just skin, warmth, and a hint of something magical.
Since then, I’ve tried recreating that moment, rubbing my wrists like before. But nothing happens. No fragrance. Just skin.
It makes me think—maybe scent is more than just particles and oils. Maybe it’s a memory. A feeling. A silent conversation between our bodies, our hormones, and the spaces we share. Maybe during those two days, I was so wrapped up in love and presence that even my skin began to speak.
It smelled like us.
