Her perfume hit him hard in the face, a spray of unseemly fragrance, so he did not know if he smelled the hill or the woman.
Ack—
Eotigan had so many questions. First, like, 'what the fuck?'
El Cabana was a weird one. He'd thought he was done with the nudist culture and cult shite already. And now this? Was the Heaving Hut really named after the acts committed within it? A masturbating girl? What? Eotigan rubbed his eyes.
The girl was still there: on the albatross rug.
He knew now it was her he smelled, for sure. Her scent was everything from comely to pure crazy. When the first winds of her fragrance had entered his nose, he'd thought of walking through summer fields. But now he had settled into her smell, she was far more sinful in his mind. Looking down at her, all his questions evaporated one by one.
Eotigan did not notice her face at all for the first ten seconds.
It was her body.
