Chapter 1 — She Was Delicious—Her Pussy Smelled Like Herbal Shampoo

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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Having sex with someone I don't know isn't really my thing. Sure, one-night stands are every guy's fantasy—at least that's what they say—but not everyone's wired that way, right?

Of course, I've dreamed about sleeping with beautiful women. But I've always preferred the stages before sex, and especially what comes after. Sex isn't everything. Still, this story is about a somewhat casual encounter.

She had a smell down there—hard to describe, but if I had to put it into words, it was like herbal shampoo. A mix of medicinal herbs and a faint sweetness. That's what stuck with me.

I was scrolling through my friends list when I suddenly saw her name.

She was still there, in my contacts. I didn't want to message her directly, so I decided to write this instead.

I got her number on a bus. Back then, I was hopping from one girl to another.

I was heading home after hanging out, sitting in the very back seat. To my left and right, both seats were taken by women.

I hesitated—who should I ask?—and ended up asking the one on my left. The woman at the center of this story.

I opened a note on my phone and scribbled something. She gave me her number. And from the moment I got home, we started talking.

She was slim, a year older than me.

I liked her calm voice, and her deep double eyelids gave her a sleepy, drowsy look that somehow suited her.

Later, over the phone, I asked her why she'd given me her number.

"Because it was strange," she said."I glanced over and saw you—tall, decent-looking—and then you asked for my number. I was just… curious."

Fair enough. I can respect personal taste.

We met up once after that. She lived about thirty minutes away by bus. It was drizzling that day.

She came straight from work. Not strikingly beautiful, but she had a genuinely pleasant figure.

What drew me in most was the curve where her T-shirt ended and her jeans began—the line of her waist. It pulled me in completely.

We made small talk, ordinary stuff, but I was so busy staring at her body that I don't even remember what we talked about.

Maybe because she was a year older, she gave off this older-sister vibe—someone from the neighborhood you'd quietly crush on.

That was our first meeting. Nothing special.

The conversation was painfully dull. She only gave short, clipped answers. I had to drag every word out of her, and it started to annoy me.

The interest she'd shown at first seemed to vanish. After that, we had a few late-night phone calls.

I'd call her when I was bored, just asking, "What are you doing?"

One day, after a particularly boring conversation, we fell into silence. Then, out of nowhere, she said:

"… Are you good?"

"Good at what? Good at that?"

"… Yeah. Good at that?"

"If I say I am, what then? I try my best."

"… Then… wanna go to bed now? I'll come near your place."

"What?"

I wasn't in the mood. It came out of nowhere—sex, just like that. I felt resistance rise in me.

Sure, I'd gotten her number hoping for a hookup. But I cared about process, about buildup. This felt too easy, too cheap.

Other guys might call me crazy, but that's how I felt. I didn't want it to be that simple.

And yet—contradictory as it sounds—I also thought, Ah, so she's already into me. Selfish, I know.

I even thought, Next time, I'll call her when I'm in the mood.

We weren't dating. We weren't going to date. So that selfish thought took root.

A few days later, we met again. This time, I didn't want sex—I just wanted to see her.

It was drizzling again. She showed up in a fluttering dress, looking incredibly sweet.

We had a drink, talked for a couple of hours, and when she said she was heading home and got on the bus, I walked with her for about ten minutes to see her off.

And suddenly, I wanted her.

Not because I'd developed deep feelings—she was cute, petite, innocent-looking—but honestly? I just wanted to fuck.

I blurted it out.

"Hey, wanna go to a motel?"

"What? Out of nowhere? What's that even about?"

"Well… you came out looking this pretty. You can't blame me, can you?"

"No. I want to go home."

Wait, what? I thought this would be easy. But she wasn't playing hard to get—she genuinely didn't want to go.

For ten minutes, I stood there like a pathetic beggar, saying anything I could to convince her. Eventually, she gave in, and we walked into the motel.

Even inside, she kept her distance, avoiding me.

I spent about an hour trying to persuade her, until I finally gave up. Exhausted, I lay down and said, "Fine, let's just sleep."

And then—she pounced.

She told me to kiss her.

I gave her a quick peck.

She said, "Again."

This time, I kissed her deeply, tongue sliding into her mouth.

My hands wandered—over her chest, down her waist, to her hips. That waistline… still perfect.

I was tired, hadn't slept, but who cared? My cock was rock hard.

When she took her clothes off, her breasts were smaller than I'd hoped, but her body was toned—clearly someone who worked out. I was instantly turned on.

I kissed from her lips down her neck, along that perfect waistline, lavishing attention until I reached her pussy.

And then I noticed something strange.

Her pussy smelled like herbal shampoo. A mix of medicinal roots and a soft sweetness. It was… oddly pleasant.

I asked why.

She said she wore scented patches in her underwear to prevent odor. I told her to keep wearing them.

Then I started going down on her.

Sucking her clit with my tongue, one finger gently pressing her G-spot. The more she arched, the more that scent poured out—like steam rising from heated herbs.

Her juices mixed with my saliva, soaking her ass and pussy, but I didn't care. I didn't even mind.

I'm not usually into eating pussy, but I wanted to keep going.

The herbal scent lingered around her vulva. I sucked for about thirty minutes. She seemed to orgasm just from that.

She wasn't great at giving head—not skilled, exactly—but she was filthy about it.

She looked me in the eyes, tilted my cock sideways, and licked the shaft with her tongue.

It was more intense than any hard suction on the head.

Eventually, my cock was so hard it hurt. I pushed inside.

She gasped.

"Haa… too deep. It's… too big."

"Hey… does my cock taste good? Want me to go deeper?"

"… Yes. Deeper. I can't… I can't take it… haa…"

She was slim, so my cock must've hit bottom.

Any guy who hears "your cock is too big" isn't going to complain. I felt proud.

I came beside her pussy, spilling cum onto her skin.

Without a word, she wiped it with a tissue—then climbed back on, slamming her ass down hard.

My cock hadn't gone soft, but I was oversensitive, almost in pain.

"Wait—just a sec! Ah… wait!"

"… Stay still…"

That night, I learned something new: even after coming, she could make me cum again—immediately.

After the second round, she collapsed, exhausted, and fell asleep right away.

A few hours later, she woke up, said she had to go home and get ready for work, and left.

The problem started after that.

She began calling every day. "What are you doing?" "Where are you?" "Who are you with?" It became harassment.

My feelings faded fast.

One moment she seemed indifferent, the next she was obsessively clinging. The disconnect was jarring.

Honestly, I don't like clingy women.

After a few days, I blocked her, claiming I was busy. I stopped answering her calls.

I'd thought we'd shared something intense, fiery. I regret never telling her that.

She always felt… dull in some way. Like she overthought things. Conversations were constantly stifling.

Sometimes I see her on my friends list. Once, I saw a photo—pastel-toned, just her upper body.

It looked artsy. Someone might've thought it was stolen from the internet.

We met lightly. We had sex that wasn't light. And then we parted—just like that.