“I just can’t help it,” she wrote in her journal. “Guys always know how easy I am.”

“It doesn’t matter if I play hard to get or tell them I’m not interested, the scent gives it all away. My lust, my desire — They can always smell it in the air — ” She added another line at the end: “See new doctor. Appointment next week.”

She’d sunk to a new level of promiscuity. It happened on the subway last night on the way home from the office. The building she worked in was conserving energy, so the air-conditioning had been barely running, and when she got on the train, she found herself running her thumb along the top edge of her bra, pulling the cups forward. Then she stood up and fanned her skirt back and forth a few times to cool off. She reached underneath, her fingers stretching the leg bands of her panties. She pulled the creeping nylon from the crack of her ass and the moist cleft of her pussy. She could smell something in the air: her need for a man.

On the subway ride home, in the stifling confines of the rollicking car, she didn’t think her embarrassing condition would be noticed, especially when there were so many sweaty people, some with open cups of coffee or bags of greasy fast food, and the vague scent of garbage in the air. But as she stood and held onto the pole, it seemed to change and become a stripper pole. She looked down and was shocked to see how provocatively she was standing, her legs spread apart, one hand on her thrust-forward hip.

A man was staring at her. He could smell her lust. He had a confident look in his eye, and there — he touched his nose with his fingertip. He knew!

She looked down, then back at him, not once, but twice. He followed her out of the subway car, and she became weak in the knees as she walked up the stairs to her brownstone. She knew that each step was sending more of her pheromones into the air, and by letting him walk along beside her, she was basically inviting him to come inside with her.

“It’s hot out,” he said, but her face felt hotter than anything. She opened the door and they entered together. It seemed like the stifling hallway was alive with a pungent smell — hers. She walked to the bedroom and began to remove her clothes. Soon he was on top of her, his nose buried in her hair, his lips on her neck, and her legs locked around his waist. Then he was inside her. She shut her eyes and spread her legs even wider. She heard his heavy breathing and felt his cock, thick and hard, and she knew that her scent was arousing him to the point where he could flood her cunt at any moment.

And she knew that once he came, his seed filling her and his sweat clinging to her skin, she’d be more redolent and he’d want to take her a second time, and maybe a third. Not that this was a problem for her. She wanted it just as much as he did. Maybe more.

Her skin felt like hot velvet as a single droplet of perspiration slid down from her eyebrow and along the side of her cheek, tickling its way over her skin to her neck. Her aroused pussy smelled sweet and sugary, and she exuded a honey-like pungency that was different from that lewd scent of need and desire that she knew this latest pick-up had smelled on her.

His cock slid easily into her juicy well and she whispered, “Oh yes, fuck me. Fuck me!”

The stranger pinned her down with his strong arms, and soon she heard his balls slapping against her skin and the thick cock squishing in and out of her wet and willing cunt. She felt electricity on her skin and a crackling of nerve endings that began a series of fireworks everywhere from her toes to her nipples. No longer did she dwell on the betraying odor that had made the stranger follow her home.

She was so lost in her lust that after he came she couldn’t even remember whether he’d put on a condom. When he eased himself off of her and lay sprawled out on his back, she noticed the drooping sheath with the murky, come-filled tip. She gently peeled the condom off him and spilled the contents over her tits and tummy, then rubbed the slippery stuff all over her nipples and smeared it on her belly. She loved the smell of it filling her nostrils and the way it obliterated, at least for a little while, her own scent.

He got hard again watching her and unwrapped a second condom, taking in the fresh, rubbery smell as he rolled it onto his stiffening prong. Then he fucked her again, slower this time, and after she came, a bizarre euphoria enveloped her. She became drowsy. In the morning she vaguely remembered him getting off the bed and getting dressed, but couldn’t remember when that had happened. All she knew was that no man who was on to her scent would ever get a second chance to use her secret against her and make her such easy prey.

When she next went out, she powdered herself after her bath and wore enough perfume to raise a glare from the woman walking alongside her to the subway. She hoped this would keep her secret safe for a while. But she knew that some time soon — maybe at noon, or maybe at the end of the day — she’d become aware of her scent in the air and some man nearby would be aware of it, too. Then she’d be powerless to do anything but take him home with her.

It seemed that the older she got, the more she was betrayed by her hormones, or her pheromones, or whatever they were. “Can you explain,” she asked one man, “why it turns you on? What is it about the scent of pussy that gets you horny?”

No man could explain it. One guy just shrugged and said, “What can I tell you? The smell of pussy can’t be bottled. If it could, Chanel and the rest of those jerks would be put out of business. But who could ever duplicate that formula?”

He chuckled, but she didn’t. Her teeth dug into her lower lip, and she frowned. I’ve powdered myself, I’ve douched, I’ve used scented soaps and perfumes. I’ve even put sachets in my lingerie drawer, she thought. But this desire — It becomes so obvious to me, and to strangers who I know can literally smell my need. I don’t do anything to provoke them. They simply smell it on me and I give in.

Gynecologists had told her again and again that there was nothing physically abnormal about her. They even claimed to detect no odor when she was positive everyone in the waiting room could tell how aroused she was.

A few days later, she checked her calendar before leaving for work. Her doctor’s appointment was listed. Will this be the day when I’m so aroused that he’ll smell it on me like all the others have? The thought teased and tormented her all morning. At noon, her head throbbed and she smelled her scent in the air, so overpowering it was shameful. She locked herself inside her office and removed all of her clothing except her panties. They were noticeably damp and the crotch was stained, and she could smell her wetness before she touched herself. She slipped her hand inside, made a little rhythmic circle with her index finger, and soon her clit was like a cork on the ocean, bobbing relentlessly. She firmly hit that button again and again before finally climaxing with a groan.

She opened a window. She eased her panties down, blotted herself with them, and hurried to the ladies’ room. She tossed her panties into the sink, drowned them in a fierce cascade of hot water, and pumped the soap dispenser until she’d created a froth of bubbles. Her nylon panties ballooned with air before sinking in a matted clump below the water’s surface. She practically strangled the wet garment, twisting it and squeezing it, soaking it and wringing it out. She used a tack to hang them under her desk, and by the end of the workday, they were dry.

She felt calm after her spontaneous masturbation, and she turned the air-conditioning up to full blast, hoping she could freeze away all thoughts of lust and keep her scent at bay.

The subway ride was peaceful, and she only had to remind herself once that she was wearing clean underwear. She was lulled by the train’s soft rocking motions and the sheer exhaustion of her day, but as she started to zone out, with more passengers leaving and the monotonous commute nearly over, she noticed a man across from her. It seemed the more she looked at him, the more he looked at her, and the more he looked at her, the more obvious it was that something was going on. He knew! She sniffed the air and became aware of her scent. He could smell her lust. When he left the train, she looked over her shoulder and saw him hurry to follow her. She knew he was following her scent, and she let him catch up to her. She even let him follow her home.

Soon he was eating her pussy, and then he was on top of her, filling up her wet and waiting cunt with thrust after thrust. His mouth was glued to hers, and she could taste herself. She could smell herself on his breath. It was all proof of how hot she was, and the musky odor in her nostrils made her swoon. She thrashed her head from side to side as he pinned her shoulders and fucked her relentlessly, his hips rising and falling. She could feel his cock growing inside her before he suddenly stopped thrusting and began pumping load after load into her pussy. He let out a long, deep sigh, and then began to thrust his hips, starting his rhythm all over again. He rode her harder than he had before, and she knew this time it would take much longer until he was through with her.

She became almost delirious when he flipped her onto her stomach and pressed all of his weight down on her, spreading her ass cheeks a little before flooding her pussy with more come. Finally she felt his salty sap trickling between her legs and mixing with the honeyed rivulets of her flowing lust and fell into a deep, satisfied sleep.

In the morning, she told him, “You can take them as a souvenir if you want.” He looked at the panties on the floor. “You can do what guys love to do with stinky panties,” she whispered. “You’ll sniff them later on tonight or tomorrow. Maybe you’ll put them over your head with the crotch against your nose. You’ll like that, won’t you? You’ll sit and inhale the scent of my pussy and it’ll make you so hard. You’ll need to jerk off again and again — ”

He looked at her a bit incredulously, but as she knew he would, he picked up her panties and jammed them quickly into his pocket as he fled.

She’d mentioned all of this to the therapist when she’d gone to his office just before she took the subway home. He wasn’t like the other doctors, the gynecologists and general practitioners she’d visited in the past. No, this doctor simply listened to what she had to say. He didn’t judge her.

“She wants to believe it’s a medical condition,” the therapist wrote on her chart after she left. “The only way she can excuse her promiscuity is to pretend that the men don’t have to read her mind. She’s convinced herself they can smell her lust in the air.” At the bottom of the chart, he added a note for his receptionist: “Schedule another appointment next week.”