She had become fascinated with her own scent. Lifting her arms over her head often to breathe in the sharp musk of her underarms. Sitting with her legs slightly apart, shifting in her seat, her smell wafting up to welcoming nostrils, flaring at the tart earthy aroma. Bathing only in water, no oils or lotions or gels. Unscented soaps, old towels. She had stopped doing laundry, preferring instead that the scent of her body remain on her shirts and pants, flooding her each morning as she dressed. Every time she sat she could smell herself. Every movement, every turn of a page, every reach for a mug or plate or bowl, every brush of hair from her forehead resulted in the bliss of an overwhelming stench of self. She had become oblivious to others' glances as she sauntered past them in malls, or stood arms high gripping the rails of public transit. She had become proud of her scent, embracing the particles escaping from the strands of her hair, the folds of her stomach, the joints of her thighs to her hips, her armpits, under her breasts, between her toes. She found herself in the smell. She was seduced by the essence of her own body. The vapours of her sweat and her sex brought forth a confidence unlike any she had ever felt. The fascination progressed. She stopped shaving. The hair held the scent. Made it thicker, more potent. She lounged for hours, spreading the smell over her sheets, her couch, her pillows and blankets. She became the smell. It was her in her purest form. It overcame her flat. It wove its way into her food. She could sip it with her wine. It became her lover and her friend. She had become addicted to her own perfume...
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