A Study in Fragrance Pt. 05

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Author’s Note: Emily, a bright, overly confident, North American, white 18 year old, has decided to enlist the help of one of the contractors doing a remodel in her home. She’s discovered a secret room, The Study, that has been walled up since forever. In exchange for his help, not only in opening the room, but in teaching her construction and training her in sex, she’s agreed to offer her body to him. But, after several interactions with him, she’s beginning to have her doubts about the arrangement.

Up at dawn, dressed, bike loaded in the car and off to the club for the first leg of the proper triple. It was only ½ but it was the first time they’d put it all together with as brief a break between legs as possible. Unlike yesterday, Coach was focusing on the transition, getting them used to moving from one event to the other as smoothly as possible. At least she’d gotten a solid night’s sleep, the shreds of troubling dreams surfacing as she drove in the early dawn. But she was focused. She was going to show Coach she was focused.

And she was focused. Halfway through the laps, she felt her body ease into the effort, her breathing regular, her heart pumping. She was just getting warmed up. Out of the pool, she hopped on the bike and took off through the streets, lit up now by a clear morning. It was cool, the water evaporating off her skin keeping her body temperature regulated. The streets were empty, it was early and rush-hour didn’t start for a while. Her mind drifted then refocused. Not now, bitch. Dropping the bike. Now you’re going to run like you’ve never run before. And she was off, looking forward to the run, her heartrate keeping a steady 150. 12:15…12:15. She was working toward 12:15 average. Maybe not today, but soon. At least she’d show Coach she could keep to her target in the first several miles.

And, she was back at the house by 8:20, feeling no pain, overjoyed at her times and the smile on Coach’s face. The crew was already started, and as usual, she raced upstairs. Tossing her racing gear onto the floor made her pause. The memory of Cos having to wade through her dirty clothes in her room embarrassed her. Standing naked in her doorway, she looked at her room, at the mess, and sighed. The shower could wait. She wasn’t ready for it anyway.

She moved through the room, pulling clothes off her bed, the floor, open drawers, until she couldn’t load any more up. She dumped the pile into the empty hamper and went back for more. She pulled dirty plates and empty glasses from her dresser, and moving quietly, she walked with them toward the back stairs. The fragrance from The Study tugged at her as she approached. In spite of the room’s open windows, the perfume persisted, wafting out into the hall. A yellow light spilling into the hall stopped her in her tracks; she fantasized one of the crew had come upstairs. She knew that was stupid—she’d just passed by and no one was there—but she persisted in the fantasy. Walking on tip toe up to the entrance, she peeked around the corner and saw The Study was empty. He must have come up this morning. Setting the plates down, she walked into the room to see what he might have done.

The two boards she was supposed to drill were clamped on the sawhorses, the plywood back had been moved against a wall. She looked down and saw all of the shavings and dust; it was stupid to be in there in bare feet. She left, intent on straightening her room. Looking into her room through her doorway, she saw empty food wrappers and other trash, the disarray on her bedstand. The place needed a good vacuuming. God you’re such a slob. And when she didn’t have anyone coming over, what difference did it make? But she didn’t want Cos to see her room like that again. Moving through the room, she grabbed the trash tossing it into the can. She saw how much dust there was on every surface. Fuck! She stripped the bed, tossed everything from the dresser and bedstand onto the mattress, grabbed the vacuum from the linen closet, and ignoring the risk someone might see her, went over every inch of horizontal surface. 20 minutes later, she’d put the shit away. Her bed could wait. Even though the temperature was still cool, she’d worked up a sweat. She couldn’t face the closet.

As the shower washed the chlorine out of her hair, she thought about the day. Drill and sanding. The boxes upstairs! Blow jobs!!!! She felt the tendril rising and she rubbed her breasts, feeling her nipples harden under her palms. She could taste him. The salt and that smell in the back of her nose. She closed her eyes and let the streams run across the front of her body, her hands sliding down to between her legs. She was slippery in the way she knew wasn’t from the soap. She rubbed across her clit, and down and underneath to feel her own asshole and how different it was from his. She pushed the tip of her finger in. It was the first time she’d tried it. Hers was so much easier to get into, and her finger felt izmit rus escort weird inside. So different from being in her vag. The skin and muscle between the two were so different from his too. That ridge of skin, hard, like a seam running from the back of his scrotum to his ass. She slipped her thumb up into her slippery opening.

She was going to figure out how to blow him today. Her stomach clenched at the idea of swallowing his semen. It had tasted so different yesterday from the day before, but she didn’t know if she would be able to do it. Now that she’d seen how much he spurt out, she realized it was totally possible to hold it in her mouth, that she wouldn’t choke on it, but then she remembered how slimy it had been. She pulled her finger and thumb out of her. It wasn’t helping; it was only keying her up more. She lathered up, and as she ran her hands across her buns, she felt the difference in their texture again. Her fingers felt rougher somehow, and the skin felt a little tougher. She had been feeling the effects of the spanking in so many small ways; this was just another. And then her thoughts drifted to Cos’s attitude. How he treated her like a little girl even when he was just talking to her, forget about the spanking! And then how he would hold her so gently. She felt the tendril swaying, her feelings a jumble. She thought about what she could do to get him to spank her again and she swore at how weird she was being.

Dried off, she stood at her dresser figuring out what to wear first. Researching blow jobs, she could just sit on the bed naked. But she needed to eat, so she might as well get dressed. And the boxes tugged at her. She knew she had to get to those soon; she’d be too distracted by them to focus on the drilling. Drilling last. Maybe after lunch. Eat first. She picked a matching set of underwear, a pair of denim, not suitable for working but more than suitable for everything else, and a blue Oxford cotton button down. She’d be playing it cool until the boys left. She smiled, heading downstairs for breakfast then up to her parents’ room to figure out just what the fuck was in those boxes.

“Slim. Bobby. Cos. How you guys doing?” She half-shouted down the basement steps as she passed them by. She scrambled up some eggs and poured a glass of OJ. Her friends had been planning a trip to the beach on the weekend and were asking which day. Would she be able to go? She figured she could take some time in the middle, after they got started. She’d check with Cos but she didn’t know why he’d care. He’d probably make more progress without her. The thought of coming back, all sandy and hot, maybe he’d need to take a shower with her. She smiled thinly, building on the fantasy.

“I’ll be upstairs in my parents’ room if anyone needs something.” She dropped the dishes in the sink, she’d get to them later, and ran up the stairs.

The boxes were where they’d left them, and so was her sleeping bag, embarrassed again. She picked it up, remembering how wet it had been; it was a little stiff. She threw it down the stairs figuring she’d need to get it to the dry cleaners sometime soon.

Sitting cross-legged in front of the boxes, she carefully turned the first one so she could read the labeling. Personal effects, Abeline Crewitt! “Holy shit,” she said under her breath. “Holy holy shit.” The flaps had been glued shut and the cardboard, although much thicker than the newer boxes in the attic, felt brittle. She slipped her finger under the flap and it popped up, the glue cracking into pieces. When she opened the top flaps, her eyes flew to the contents. Carefully, she lifted a lacy piece of fabric up and out, watching it open, the folds darkish brown against the off-white fabric. It was a night-shirt. Emily stood and laid it carefully on the bed. Abby couldn’t have been very tall, the lingerie would have been a long shirt on Emily. Beneath it were several more items of clothing. A stiff wool skirt, its waistband moth eaten. Stockings. A pair of well-worn women’s boots. Smaller boxes were stacked below the clothing. She lifted one out carefully. It was heavy and she was worried it might break apart. Laying it on the carpet, she gently opened its flaps and looked inside.

“Holyfuck…” she whispered. Almost filling the box were coins. She could see pennies and nickels, but there were smaller coins and larger ones too. Picking one up, she saw it was foreign, an English shilling, dated 1885, its sheen dulled by tarnish. “Oh my god.” The box wasn’t large, but there were hundreds of coins and all of them she picked up were from the 19th century. “These must be worth thousands of dollars…” She immediately wondered if her mother knew they were here (she figured her father had nothing to do with the attic boxes) and whether she’d even cared to find out what they were worth.

Setting the box aside, she reached for another one. This one was much lighter; it had Abby’s personal izmit escort grooming items—combs, brushes, hair holders, bows and clasps.

The next had jewelry, and Emily had no idea whether any of it was junk or real. The silver broach she lifted looked tarnished, but when she turned it over she couldn’t see any mark. She knew enough about contemporary jewelry that the real stuff had a mark, but maybe old stuff didn’t have a mark. Was that a real stone or glass? She looked at what could have been an ivory ring, and another ivory bracelet. But maybe it was bone. She lifted a wristwatch, the crystal clouded and scratched, but still transparent enough to see the roman numerals for the hours. She didn’t recognize the maker and the strap was a complex intertwining of metal cords, each composed of tiny metal threads.

The final box held random items: a tortoise shell shoe horn, a bracelet of black wood, its grain visible through the shine, a pair of glasses which, when Emily looked through them didn’t change her vision at all, a bunch of skeleton keys on a ring and yet another small black lacquered wooden box, about three inches on each side. When she gently lifted the top off, the bottom was lined with a deep blue satin pillow holding a perfectly clear crystal ball, the room’s windows and lights reflected and warped in its surface.

Having emptied the first box, Emily paused to look at the treasures laid out on the carpet. Abby’s belongings, perhaps valuable, perhaps not, but a time capsule nonetheless. If only I’d known about this last winter for my paper! The memory of Ms. Fromier’s excitement about Abby’s life flashed behind her eyes.

She rolled onto her knees and crawled to the next large box, pulling it carefully away from the hatch to a clear spot on the floor. It was heavy. When she opened it, she saw it was filled with books. Staring up at her was an encyclopedia of herbs. Beneath that one, a reference for medicinal plants. Each one she pulled out had something to do with gardening. Curious, she carefully opened one and was surprised to see full color renderings of plants with examples of their budding, flowering and late season stages. There were dozens of books, some really old, leather bound with engraved titles, others hardbound and well worn. With the last of them pulled out, one item remained at the bottom. At first she thought it was another huge book, maybe a bible, its cover engraved with a gold cross. But it wasn’t a book at all, she discovered as she slipped her fingers between it and the outer box. It was a black box, perhaps cardboard or more like fine wood. Catching her fingertips under the bottom, she shimmed it up and out, careful to support it from underneath as she laid it on the carpet.

She looked at the top more carefully: the cross wasn’t gold after all, each arm a different color. Red, yellow, blue and the base a complex of gold, black and white. Engraved throughout were five pointed stars, zig-zags and peeking out from the corners, a compass star with a letter in each point. “H, O, G, D,” she read them out loud, lightly tracing her finger over the engraving. Slowly, carefully slipping the top up, she tried to predict what she’d find, figuring another book. As the top came off, a faint smell reminded her of her grandma. “Mothballs,” she noted. The top set aside, she looked at white tissue paper, or at least tissue paper that may have once been white, now yellowed and cracked. Emily slipped the folds open and she gasped when the covering had been peeled away to reveal its contents.

“Oh my fucking god.” She stared at the most complex embroidered neckline she’d ever seen. Slowly she removed the shirt, lifting it up as far as she could. She stood, careful to not move too quickly and laid the piece on the bed. It was a cloak, its neck embroidered in gold and white, the same multi-colored cross from the box top embroidered along its back.

“Holy fucking shit.” She stood back and didn’t know how she was going to put it back. And then she looked at the floor and she got worried. If any of this was of value, she’d want to put it back. Carefully. But the cloak was amazing. It was completely unharmed. Not a moth hole or any wear at all. No stains, no defects that she could see. It smelled musty and mothbally, and she wondered if it would fit her. If it was Abby’s, probably not. But what an amazing costume party piece!

And then she remembered the third box, still sitting by the hatch. She looked at her phone. 10:35. She’d look at the third box and get things cleaned up by 11:30, do a little BJ research and head down for lunch, then hit the drilling by 2PM.

She turned and sat down to explore the final box. As she opened it, she thought she heard a slight tinkling sound, like small bells, or broken glass, the contents hidden by crumpled sheets of newspaper, yellow and brittle with age. Removing the top one, Emily worked carefully but couldn’t avoid splitting the paper kocaeli escort apart while she tried to read its date. As she expected, it was an issue of The Barker and Trumpet: February 12, 1897. The headlines were broken, but she got the gist: a new mayoral candidate, some crisis with Spain, an accident with a horse and a shop. She turned her attention back to the box, removing the remaining stuffing to explore the actual contents: another set of black cardboard boxes, textured and sturdy as well as a wooden jewelry box.

Lifting the first, she was surprise at how heavy it was, its contents shifting slightly as she moved it, and she felt the first tinge of fear. Nothing up to this point had made her anxious, except the thought she was ruining valuable antiques. But this time something tugged at her conscience, like she was violating a trust or snooping. But I’m not! This is my house.

She set the box down but didn’t open it, reaching for the next. And the next after that. She had three boxes laid out on the floor, all black, all textured. All about the same size and each heavy. At the very bottom of the box was a book, a rectangular binder, short and wide, like the accounting ledgers her mom used, only sturdier.

She lifted it out and opened it gently, looking at the frontispiece. In very careful handwriting, the script more perfect than she’d ever seen, Emily read Abeline Bennet Crewitt Diary and Personal Journal Birthdate: June 12, 1845. “Holy holy crap.” She turned the page and saw the first date: February 28, 1855, before scanning the page. Abby at ten years’ old writing so proper and formally. So darn cute!

As she gently leafed through the diary, she saw Abby had penned entire weeks of her life squeezed into a single page. Her pen must have been microscopic. Only occasionally did she see a strikeout; Abby’s writing, even though the English was antiquated and sometimes difficult to understand, rarely had a misspelled word.

She turned to the final pages, studying the final entries when Abby was 17. Her last entry was mourning the death of one of her pets and her hope for securing a position as an apprentice gardener with a local nursery.

Emily sat back against the wall and stared at the journal. She wanted to just sit and read every page, learn everything she could about this young woman’s life from a prior century. But there were so many other boxes to look at and, glancing at the clock, she had so many other things to do today. BJs! She needed to do her homework! She smiled at the new meaning she’d given to sex education and how academic she was making it. But remembering yesterday and how much better she had done after just one night of study, Cos’s dismissive attitude striking a sour note, she was determined to learn as much as she could before she tried anything new on him.

“Okay,” she returned to the present moment, “what the fuck is in these boxes!”

She reached for the first largish heavy box and lifted the flaps. It appeared to be filled to the top with paper. Not paper, she realized as she reached in, but pamphlets.

The cover paper was stiff, dark green with black curlicues and vines winding around the title. “A Modern Guide to Women’s Health or Commonsense Manners of Fulfilling the Daily Needs of Every Woman Young Or Old.” Abby was the author and ABC Essentials was on the cover as a “sponsor.” The inside pages were yellowed, and Emily stopped before opening them, concerned she might ruin them. Moving her finger to the inside binding, she carefully tipped the page open, letting it drift over onto the inside of the front cover. It made a slight cracking noise, but it held together.

Emily started from the beginning. The front page was a reproduction of the cover, followed by a dedication.

To Martha who showed how bravery and fortitude are not limited to the stronger sex, but can be expressed in gentle and firm ways like the birch, whose trunk sways but doesn’t falter in the evening breeze and whose leaves glint red in the setting sun.

“If that’s how the rest of these are written…” Emily shook her head at the flowery language, her eye catching the date inside the front cover: May, 1891! Still shaking her head, she turned to the first page, a letter to Abby’s readers.

Dear Ladies,

We are not often graced with the strength comparable to our opposites, but we mustn’t succumb to the notion that our strength, in grace, comportment and bearing, isn’t as equal a source of sustenance and energy as any of those we assign the title of the stronger sex. In my numerous encounters and conversations with many of you, I have learned of the challenges we face, as a sex, in the contemporary world of men.

Change is all about us. In the flow of rivers, in the passing of the seasons, in the budding of flowers and the gentle coloring and eventual falling of leaves. Just as Nature’s changes remind us of the ever-present fluidity of her character, so too we note the changes in our own bodies: the inexorable growing of our locks and nails requires our constant maintenance, the monthly flow of our life’s blood, the extension of our bones when we are young and their contraction as we age.

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