Testicular Scent; .an .avalanche

So few times it had happened that she was nearly overcome with awed paralysis: this was exactly as she imagined. This was the place she had adored for so many hours in the sprawl of her brain. And now, she was here.

Below him, under him, kissing, licking, gently and controlled, the slight raised ridge of skin that welded the sack of his testicles shut. Licking, kissing, right here and then right there, the place where diaphanous hairs branch out in wiry helixes. It would never matter how many women prior or how many women afterwards would find themselves looking at him from the testicles up. Looking at him the way she did now, as she pressed deeper into her kneel to lengthen the reach of her tongue. It would never matter because they wouldn’t feel what she felt here. No women would ever match her unblemished delight to experience this part of him.

Through her kisses, a nuzzled smile transmitted her joy into the velvety micro-grooves of his scrotum. Kissing right here, was almost too much for her composure. Her tongue caressed the origin of that scent that riddled her heart beat with such yearning. Breathing in right there, with a depth of inhalation keen on digesting his aroma direct from its source; to gore her senses in the hopes that his smell would never abandon her. Breathing in right here and knowing that in this moment, it was his scent that was oxygenating her bloodstream.

It was his scent that was sustaining her life.