The second time I took Ellie to dinner at my parents’ house, my mom made her special pot roast. Meat cooked out of this world tender. Carrots and potatoes and baby onions flavorful beyond belief. “Mm-mm, this is really, really good,” Ellie told my mother appreciatively.

“Thank you,” my mom said, obviously satisfied and sincerely pleased by the compliment.

My father lifted his coffee cup. “Yeah,” he said, offering a wry toast, “nothing tastes as good as Mother’s pot roast. And it smells good, too. But the best smell in the whole wide world...”

Oh oh. I knew what was coming. I’d heard this story a million times. When I was barely more than a boy...

“When I was barely more than a boy, I had a job in the city. My first real job, and I had to travel over the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan every morning at 5:30. The roasting coffee—oh, Lordy! I’ve smelled your new mown hay and your fresh-baked bread, but that coffee...”

I couldn’t help myself. “You’re wrong, Dad.”

Three weeks ago I’d had a meeting with Union Bank in Milwaukee, and I’d convinced Ellie to drive up with me, our first real trip together. I checked us into the Aster, and we had just enough time for some serious fooling around before I had to hurry the four blocks to the bank. Memories of the slip of Ellie’s silky skirt along her legs, the sweet moan of her release, but especially the scent of her sex accompanied me every step of the way.

In something of a daze, it was a few minutes into the meeting before I noticed that the client, Ms. Schurr, kept looking at me with twinkling eyes and a curiously knowing smile. I took a deep breath, and I realized the buzz of Ellie’s cunt was still in my nose. Oh, that impossibly wonderful wildflower and honey aroma—all over my brand-new mustache. A week later I shaved off the little caterpillar. It had come in a touch too red, and Ellie complained that it tickled.

“Okay, Mister Smarty-Pants,” my dad said, bringing me out of my reverie. “What’s the best smell in the world?”

Now I’d done it. For a moment I couldn’t think. “Um, shaving cream,” I stammered.

Around the table—silence. Ellie was blushing. Back in the Aster after the Union Bank meeting, I’d told her about my mustache adventure, and then I demonstrated, and demonstrated again.

“Shaving cream,” my dad exclaimed. “Hmpf!” He looked at Ellie. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

Ellie’s little shrug was most endearing. Her blush was beautiful.

“Sorry we have to eat and run,” I told my parents.

“You’re sure you can’t stay for coffee?” my mom asked.

“Shaving cream,” my dad muttered.

Two blocks from my parents’ house in a quiet little park, I had Ellie’s seat back and her skirt up and my nose in her heaven. “You’re so naughty,” she said, tasting herself first on my lips, then on my cock. A little later, straddling me for the second time, she said, “I can’t believe you told your dad ‘shaving cream.’” She kissed me naughtily, her tongue teasing where my mustache might be. “Some day, if you’re really, really good, maybe I’ll let you grow it back.”