Chapter 45: The Morning After – Scent of Sin
POV: Divya Rana Scene 1 – Waking Up Ruined
Divya woke with her thighs glued together.
The sheets beneath her clung to her skin—damp, sticky, and reeking of her own sin.
She blinked slowly, adjusting to the pale light filtering through the hotel blinds. Her head throbbed—not from alcohol, but from something far more consuming.
The first thing she felt was heat. Between her legs. Across her chest. Behind her ears.
Then came the ache. A dull soreness radiating from her thighs up through her belly. Her clit pulsed as if still trapped in the throes of that final orgasm.
And then… the shame.
She pushed the sheets down.
Her nightshirt was twisted, bunched above her navel, clinging to her sweat-slicked skin. Her panties were shoved halfway down one leg, drenched, fabric clinging between her folds like a second skin.
Her hand—still damp—rested across her bare hip. Two fingers sticky. The other trembling.
She brought them close to her face and inhaled without thinking.
Her scent was raw, animal, desperate.
She should've been disgusted.
She wasn't.
Her thighs twitched again.
Divya sat up slowly. Every muscle in her lower body protested. Her sheets bore the evidence of the night before—a shameful imprint of lust soaked into luxury cotton.
Her cheeks burned.
She reached for her phone without thinking.
A habit.
But instead of messages or Instagram, she opened her browser.
And there they were—last night's search terms:
"Can you cum from sound alone?"
"Is it normal to fantasize about your roommate?"
"Why does hearing moans make me wet?"
"What does it mean if I want to be used?"
She stared at the words, throat dry, heart pounding.
She should clear her history.
She didn't.
💭 "I want to be her."
The thought returned unbidden.
Her own voice from the night before echoed in her mind, whispering through the haze of moans and mattress creaks.
"Please… let it be me next time."
She looked down at her body.
The bruises on her inner thighs from clenching too hard.The teeth marks on her wrist from trying not to scream.The soreness in her fingers from pushing too deep.
Divya hugged her knees to her chest and rocked slowly, eyes wide, heart cracked.
Then she reached across the bed—toward Jasmine's pillow.
It smelled like her.
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POV: Divya Rana Time: 7:06 a.m. | Scene 2 – The Pillow and the Scent
Her hand hovered over Jasmine's pillow.
The right one—always fluffed, always untouched.
Except now… it was different.
The moment her fingers grazed it, a faint warmth still clung to the cotton. As if Jasmine had been there recently. Or maybe it was just in her head. Her obsession made things up now.
Divya leaned in slowly. Her breath caught before her nose even touched the fabric.
And then—
Jasmine.
That exact mix.
Feminine. Expensive. Filthy.
Sweet vanilla layered under the sharp tang of sex.
And something else—the scent of someone else's skin. A man's cologne faintly left behind, mixed with sweat and latex and cum.
Divya inhaled again.
Deeper.
Slower.
And let the scent flood her chest.
Her nipples tightened instantly, brushing against the inside of her shirt. Her legs shifted without thinking, thighs grinding together as her core responded like a match to dry leaves.
She crawled across the bed slowly, dragging her body over the soaked sheets she had ruined just hours before.
She brought the pillow to her face.
Pressed her mouth to it.
Kissed it.
"You don't even know what you've done to me," she whispered into the cotton.
Her hand slipped back between her thighs.
She didn't fight it this time.
Her panties were still halfway down her thighs, sticking in all the wrong ways.
She didn't bother adjusting them.
She buried her face in Jasmine's pillow, moaning softly into the fabric as she slipped two fingers inside herself again.
Soaked. Already. As if she hadn't cum three times just hours earlier.
Her other hand clutched the center of the pillow where Jasmine's perfume was strongest.
In her mind, she was no longer in the room.
She was pressed between Jasmine's thighs.
She was licking her.
Kissing the "Ryan" tattoo on her wrist.
Swallowing her moans like prayer.
"Do you like how I taste?""Say it—say you love being between my thighs."
Divya's fingers curled.
Her back arched.
She bit the pillow to muffle the cry as her second orgasm of the morning tore through her—violent and fast, like her body didn't even need permission anymore.
She shuddered.
Froze.
Then collapsed—still face down in the pillow, Jasmine's scent buried in her nose, her moans replaying in her head like a siren's song.
"I'm not like this," she whispered, as tears pressed behind her eyes."I was never like this…"
And yet she stayed there.
Panting.
Throbbing.
Wanting more.
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POV: Divya Rana | Time: 8:42 a.m. | Scene 3: Shared Bathroom Tension
The bathroom door creaked open, and Divya flinched like a thief caught mid-crime.
She'd been standing in front of the mirror, still naked beneath her loose bathrobe, water droplets glistening down her thighs, her hair damp and clinging to her collarbones. Her breath was steadying—finally—after the second orgasm that had left her collapsed on Jasmine's side of the bed not fifteen minutes ago.
The pillow still smelled like her.
Her skin still did too.
She was still shaking when the sound of heels clicked against the tile.
And then Jasmine walked in.
She didn't speak.
Didn't apologize for walking into their shared room nearly twelve hours after disappearing with a stranger.
She didn't need to.
Her presence filled the space like perfume—bold, erotic, untouchable.
Jasmine wore nothing but a black silk robe, barely tied, falling open just enough to reveal the curve of her right breast and the dark ink trailing from under it.
Her thighs were exposed—kiss-bruised and fingerprinted, with faint red marks across her hips that looked fresh.
Her lips were glossy.
Her eyes were glowing.
And she looked happy.
Divya stood frozen by the sink.
Toothbrush in hand.
Mouth dry.
Her robe clutched tighter at her chest.
Jasmine walked past her without a glance, humming softly to herself as she opened the cabinet, pulled out a bottle of body oil, and uncorked it with one smooth twist.
The scent—jasmine and neroli, sweetened by skin and sex—filled the room like steam.
She doesn't even care that I'm here.
Divya watched as Jasmine let the robe fall to the floor without hesitation.
Fully nude.
Not even shy.
She turned toward the fogged mirror, admiring herself, not checking anything—admiring.
Her back carried the faint outline of handprints. Her ass was red along the edges. Her inner thighs bore trails of dried slickness—not hers alone.
A bruise peeked from the side of her neck, and the butterfly tattoo below her nape looked sharper, darker, as if the sex had given it new life.
Jasmine poured oil into her palm and began massaging it into her thighs.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like a lover might.
Divya's throat clenched.
Her breath came shallower.
She turned her gaze away—but couldn't stop her eyes from flicking back in the mirror.
Jasmine's hands slid up her waist, fingers grazing just beneath her breasts.
And then—
She met Divya's gaze in the mirror.
And smiled.
"You're up early," Jasmine said casually, her voice syrupy and unaffected.
Divya stammered.
"Y-yeah. Didn't sleep much."
Jasmine chuckled and reached for a towel, draping it around her hips, her breasts still bare, nipples pointed and proud.
"Me neither."
She winked.
Winked.
Like it was nothing.
Like she hadn't screamed through the wall just hours ago.
Divya nearly dropped her toothbrush.
She turned to leave, heart hammering in her chest, but Jasmine's voice followed her:
"You should try this oil sometime," she said. "It feels incredible on sore thighs."
Divya didn't reply.
She couldn't.
Her whole body was vibrating.
Her clit throbbed against her robe with humiliating clarity.
She fled the bathroom with the image of Jasmine's oiled body etched into her mind—every drop catching the light, every movement graceful, every mark a reminder that she had been owned the night before.
💭 "I want to look like that."
Not just physically.
Emotionally.
Sexually.
To be so open. So unashamed. So claimed.
Back in her bed, Divya fell to her knees on the mattress and pressed her forehead into the pillow Jasmine had slept on.
She didn't touch herself.
She didn't need to.
Her body pulsed from just the memory of Jasmine's eyes meeting hers through the mirror.
"You're not just aroused by her anymore."
"You're becoming addicted to her."
She knew it.
She was terrified of it.
And she didn't want it to stop.