The Smell of My Brother Left Me Powerless That Night

What I’m about to tell you is the most intimate thing I have, and even so I need to get it out of me. Before I begin, I should warn you of something: this story revolves around an extreme fetish, one that for years I believed belonged to me alone. You may find it disgusting. It may also help you know yourself a little better, and discover how far you’re capable of going when desire drags you along.

My name is Camila, I’m twenty-two years old, and I study at university. My problem, if you can call it that, is that I never learned to control my impulses. As far back as I can remember, I’ve liked strong smells. Not perfumes or scented candles: I mean the raw stuff, what the body leaves behind when no one dresses it up.

I think it comes from childhood, though I hate explaining it that way because it sounds like an excuse. My father would come home exhausted from work and many nights he’d fall asleep without showering. As a little girl I was clingy; I’d climb into his bed, and while he snored I’d press my face to his shoulder and breathe in that thick smell of sweat and a long day. There was nothing sinister about it, I was just a child looking for comfort. But the brain stores associations and then doesn’t know how to let them go.

When I got older I discovered masturbation, and with it I understood what those smells did to me. They excited me until I was trembling, on the edge, with a single deep inhale. I started doing crazy things: smelling things I shouldn’t, in places where I couldn’t, stealing used underwear from whoever lived under the same roof. One summer I even went days without showering just to recognize myself in my own scent. I was young and alone with it. I’m not asking anyone to understand; I’m just telling it the way it was.

The day everything changed began like any other of those days when you think you have things under control. I was getting ready to masturbate and, as always, I went out looking for something to press against my face. My brother Tobías had left, his room was empty, and I went in knowing exactly what I was going to steal.

I was looking for two things. First, some paper or rag he’d used to wipe off his cum after finishing. Second, unwashed underwear, briefs with the fresh stain still on them. I checked the trash bin beside his desk and found a handful of stiff tissues, hardened by dried semen; I shoved them into my pants pocket without a second thought. Then I bent down and rummaged under the bed: T-shirts, socks, a pair of boxer briefs tangled in a ball. I was so focused, with my pussy already wet under my panties, that I didn’t hear the door.

—Were you looking for this? —a voice said behind me.

I spun around. Tobías was standing in the doorway, with one of his boxer briefs hanging from a finger and a calmness that chilled me more than any shout could have. I felt like I was dying. My ears burned, my eyes filled with tears, and my throat closed up. I wanted to disappear.

—Calm down —he said, lowering his hand—. Don’t scream, don’t cry. Sit down.

I sat on the edge of his bed because my legs wouldn’t work. Then he told me everything with a calm that was almost more frightening than anger. He’d started to suspect weeks earlier, when he noticed socks and underwear going missing. He left an old camera running on his desk during the day, pointed at the room, and recorded me coming in once, twice, three times. He knew already. He’d known for a while.

Then came the lecture. That it was dangerous, that I could get myself into trouble, what would happen if someone else caught me instead of him. I listened with my head down. And at some point, I don’t know why, I told him the truth. I told him about the smell, what it did to me, that it wasn’t a whim but something stronger than me. I expected disgust. I expected him to ask for something in exchange for keeping quiet.

—Don’t do it again —was all he said, and he let me go.

***

Back in my room I threw myself onto the bed with my legs apart and yanked off my panties. Something had changed: now someone knew, and instead of humiliating me, that burned my pussy from the inside. I took the stiff tissues of my brother’s dried semen from my pocket and pressed them to my nose with both hands. They smelled horrible, a thick, acidic, animal smell, of curdled milk and sweaty cock, and precisely because of that my head stopped thinking about anything else.

I shoved two fingers into my pussy in one motion and screamed into the tissues. I was so wet it was leaking down to my ass and onto the sheet. My fingers went in with a wet sound, sloshing, and I moved my wrist faster and faster, without pause, my palm pounding my swollen clit. The only noise in the room was my ragged breathing against my brother’s stained paper, the sloshing of my soaked cunt, and the occasional muffled moan that escaped through my nose.

I slid in a third finger. Then my thumb crushed against my clit, in brutal circles. The smell of Tobías’s dried cum rushed into my nostrils and down the back of my throat, and I closed my eyes and imagined his cock unloading there, onto those papers, how much he must have come, how his body must have shaken when he finished. I imagined licking the tip, swallowing it whole. I arched over the pillow and came screaming, my legs shaking and my pussy clenching around my fingers as if it never wanted to let them go. I marked the pillow with my sweat and my juices, and from that night on that pillow became my favorite, because it held my smell mixed with his.

I lay there on the bed, awake but motionless, watching the afternoon light fade against the wall. The tissues were still pressed to my face, now damp with my saliva and sweat. My mother was outside, my father was still at work. The whole house was mine. And my mind, instead of calming down, wanted more. Not the tissues, not the leftovers. It wanted the direct source. It wanted the pure essence, the cock, the semen fresh out, without intermediaries.

Without a shred of fear I crossed the hall naked from the waist down. Before I even got there I could hear him: Tobías was masturbating, thinking he was alone again. I could hear the wet sound of his hand sliding up and down his cock, and an occasional low gasp. I pushed the door open and found him sitting at the computer, pants off, with his rock-hard dick in his right hand, watching a video of a girl kneeling and sucking off two guys. He jumped and yelled at me to get out, furious, red with embarrassment, trying to cover his erection with both hands. But to me it seemed like the perfect moment.

—I want you to cum on my face —I said, bluntly, without trembling—. More specifically: on my nose. I want to feel your semen so deep inside me I can’t get it out for hours.

—What? No. You’re crazy —he shot back, covering himself with the sheet—. If the old folks find out, they’ll kill us.

—So you do want it —I said slowly, looking him in the eye, looking at the bulge still outlined under the fabric—, but you’re afraid we’ll get caught. That’s not the same thing.

He went quiet, and in that pause I understood I was right. I spent almost an hour working him over, sitting in his chair, patient, telling him no one would find out, that it would be just once. It wasn’t easy. In the end we reached a deal he himself proposed so he wouldn’t be the only freak in the house: he would fulfill this fantasy of mine, and I would, someday, fulfill one of his. Any one he wanted. No right to say no.

***

I knelt between his legs. The rule, he said, was clear: I could only smell. No hands, no mouth at first, he didn’t want any more trouble than necessary. It was hot that night, sticky heat, and he hadn’t showered after the gym. I pulled the sheet down and his cock bounced against his stomach, thick, with the vein standing out, the tip already gleaming with pre-cum. His balls hung heavy, coated in a sheen of sweat, and all that smell of unwashed man, of raw testosterone, hit me full in the face.

I buried my nose between his balls and didn’t pull away. The smell was brutal, almost unbearable, a smell of old sweat mixed with dick, and my head was already on the verge of breaking. I inhaled deeply, so deeply my lungs swelled. I felt his balls moving against my face, how they tightened as I inhaled, how his cock hardened against my forehead. I stayed there, breathing, until I felt him stop being tense, until his whole body surrendered to the sensation and sank back into the chair.

—Okay —he murmured—. You can keep going.

When he gave me permission, he started stroking himself, and I moved my nose up the whole length of his cock, slowly, breathing at every inch. His skin smelled of concentrated sweat, of hours trapped under clothing, of sex. I climbed the thick shaft, over the throbbing vein running beneath it, until I reached the tip. The smell was pure glory. I traced the head breathing deeply, as if I wanted to memorize it, leaving not a single spot unrecognized.

He was jerking himself with his right hand, pulling the foreskin up and down, and with every motion a thick drop of pre-cum gathered at the tip. The drop pooled against my nose and slid to my lip; when there was enough, I ran my tongue over it and tasted. It was salty, thick, viscous, delicious, or maybe by then my head no longer had a single rational thought left in it. I sucked the tip just a little, a wet kiss, and he let out a rough groan that made my thighs clench.

—You said just smelling —he gasped.

—Shut up —I told him, and buried my nose in his balls again.

I started masturbating with a violence I didn’t even know in myself. I shoved one hand between my legs and drove three fingers into my pussy, so deep I could feel the back of it. My other hand went to my clit, rubbing it in fast circles, frantic, rhythmless. I was sloshing, soaked through, leaving a puddle on the floor beneath me. My thighs trembled. With my nose pressed to his balls and three fingers inside me, I stopped feeling my legs.

We stayed like that for a long while, him breathing harder and harder, his hand sliding up and down his cock faster and faster, the wet sound of his jerking mixing with the slosh of mine. I was stuck to his body with my mind lost somewhere very far from that room, punishing my pussy like never before, driving my fingers in and out furiously, burying my nose to the root of his balls, inhaling his male smell down to the bottoms of my lungs.

—It’s coming —he suddenly murmured, voice breaking—. I’m going. I’m gonna cum.

I lifted my face. I placed the tip of my nose right against the tiny hole at the head of his cock. It was the moment I had waited for all my life. My own body was on the edge, my pussy throbbing around my fingers, I only needed that final shove. Tobías jerked his cock two, three more times, clenching his teeth, and came hard.

The first jet of semen hit me squarely on the nose, warm, thick, and went into both nostrils at the same time. The second slapped my upper lip and slid into my mouth. The third splattered across my cheek and chin. He kept cumming for what felt like an eternity, with guttural groans, shaking his cock against my face, and the rest of it ended up spread all over me, between my eyebrows, over my closed eyelids, hanging from the tip of my nose, leaving me soaked and ruined.

But the only thing I registered was the smell. That smell of fresh semen, hot, heavy, flooding into my nose, saturating my brain. I was in heaven. In that instant I knew I would want that smell for the rest of my life.

He was saying something, I don’t know what, my brain had stopped processing words. And it got worse when I tried to breathe: as I inhaled, all the cum I had in my nose slid to the back of my throat, thick, salty, with that unmistakable taste of fresh-spilled sperm. That was when I finally lost myself. I swallowed, felt the semen go down my esophagus, and that sensation pushed me over the edge. I shoved my fingers in to the wrist, pinched my clit between thumb and forefinger, and came on my knees on the floor of his room, shaking, moaning with my mouth open full of his load, leaving a huge wet stain on the parquet. My pussy was dripping, my face was dripping, and I kept trembling in waves that never seemed to end.

—You need to clean yourself —he said, still breathless, handing me something.

The truth is I didn’t want to clean myself. I wanted to stay like that, suspended in that moment, forever, with my face drenched in his semen and my pussy throbbing. But almost without realizing it, I grabbed the first thing he handed me and wiped my face. When I came to and looked at what I had in my hand, it was my mask, the one I have to wear to get into class. It was completely stained with his cum, soaked through, with white patches that would take hours to dry.

—I wanted to kill you —I told him, and he laughed softly.

—Relax. I thought you’d like it —he replied—. That way, wherever you go tomorrow, you’ll have my smell keeping you company all day.

I wanted to kill him and hug him at the same time. He had fulfilled the dirtiest dream I had hidden away, and instead of judging me, he had found the exact way to tie me to this without a single rope.

Back in my room I threw myself onto the bed and put on the mask, pulling it tight over my nose. I inhaled deeply. The smell of his semen was still there, intact, dense. I spread my legs and masturbated again, this time slowly, savoring every breath. With two fingers I stroked my clit in slow circles while my other hand pinched my nipples, tugging at them until they went hard. I inhaled deeply, so deeply the mask clung to my face, and with each inhale I felt my brother’s semen sliding into me again. I came three more times before there was almost no trace of the smell left in the fabric. I didn’t care that I’d have to get up early the next day. I wanted to squeeze that night dry, down to the last drop.

***

The next morning, under the shower water, I thought about everything again and for a moment I felt bad, like someone who knows they’ve crossed a line with no way back. And I was right to feel it: there was no turning back. What happened that night was not the end of anything. It was only the beginning of how my mind learned to shut off completely in order to feed my darkest desires. But that’s another story, and I’m still not sure I want to tell it.