Oil of Erosia

At last I was opening the inner box. Four days before, on my birthday, I'd unwrapped a present from an old friend, but inside it had been another box in different wrapping, and a note.

Sweetheart,

I wanted you to have something to open on the day, but to enjoy this present properly, you'll need

privacy for an evening, a place to comfortably recline, and a CD player. Open the inner box when you have these things to hand. Happy Birthday!

Love, Mark

I knew, "... a place to comfortably recline ..." was meant seriously: I know my friend's turn of mind. Now at last the conditions were met. I was home, I'd showered, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, and I was bursting with anticipation.

There were several things within the inner box. There was a delicate glass and a bottle of fine liqueur, a small box of Godiva chocolate with its golden orange wrapping, a bottle of essence of sandalwood, a CD, and a hinged box which had probably once held a necklace from Penney's. This last was the strangest, for it had been repacked with foam padding and it protected a very tiny bottle. As I held the bottle up to the light, I could see within it but one drop of a thick, pinkish fluid. A handwritten label read, "Erosia." I put the CD in the player, and set it running.

"Happy birthday sweetheart!" I heard his voice say. "Presumably you're alone, with time to enjoy your gift properly. The major part of it is the Oil of Erosia; the rest is just to enhance the experience. After a bit, I'll tell you how to use it. But for now, open the other items and lie back and enjoy them. At first, I'll try to set a mood."

Romantic music began to play, and it seemed clear he intended the evening to be a treat for the senses. I poured my drink and tasted one of the chocolates. I released the sandalwood scent and lay back as I'd been directed. I began slowly to feel myself relax. Within a minute or so, the tensions of my stressful job were losing their grip on me. My friend's voice began to overlay the mellow saxophone and violin composition on the CD. "I remember the first time we made love," he said. "Interesting, I think, after all the patience it took us to reach the day, when it finally came we were so urgent we didn't even make it to the bedroom." I flushed warm with remembering, and lay rapt as he recounted it for us. Within a few minutes I realized, as he must have known I would, what sense was missing: that of touch. I shrugged off my bathrobe and cast it aside. I let my hands slide over my rounded tummy, since at that moment he was recounting his appreciation for that particular one of my curves. As the CD played, I let his words guide my hands over my other curves in turn as he mentioned them, pausing only enough to nibble the candies and to sip the wine and breathe in the arousing scent of sandalwood.

My reverie was interrupted as the disc went to the next track. "Now it's time for your real present, sweetheart. Open the little bottle carefully; there's only one drop and you don't want to spill it. It goes right on the tip of your sweet spot, all at once, and don't miss!"

The music then resumed, and I considered what I'd heard with my eyes wide with surprise. My friend was a biochemist, and very resourceful. What would his concoction do to my "sweet spot," his euphemism for my clitoris? I realized, without much surprise considering my state, that I was anxious to find out. I took up the bottle and carefully broke the seal and uncapped it. I reached down, and with the first and third fingers of my left hand, I separated first my outer, and then my inner lips. With my second finger, I pressed inwards and pulled upwards at the base of my clit, exposing its tip to its greatest extent. I tipped the tiny bottle over it, and waited while the thick liquid within it pooled slowly into a drop on its rim. At last, the drop fell that fraction of an inch that separated it from my most sensitive place.

I was surprised at how quickly it soaked in through the pink skin where it landed: it was gone within a second. A very pleasant warmth was noticeable right away, and it seemed that I could feel some subtle rhythm in my tiny organ. I set the bottle down, intending to use my right hand to explore and see how the oil would change my sensations. But before I could address this exploration, the situation abruptly changed.

I don't know exactly how much my sensitivity to pleasure was magnified, but I don't think a thousand times is an exaggeration. Just the pressure of my pulse in its tiny arteries was enough stimulation to drive every pleasure nerve in my clitoris right to the firewall. Five heartbeats − somehow through it all I remember that number distinctly − was all it took to propel me to my first orgasm. As my release shook me, I reflexively reached for the place with my hand. Mistake! To actually touch my pink pearl at this point, to brush it with the tips of my fingers, was a pleasure so sweet and intense it seemed no mortal could bear it. But somehow I had to bear it, though I snatched my hand away as hastily as if I'd scalded it. The orgasm that touch caused rolled on and on. Did it last for a minute? Two? I was no objective witness at the time, I just quivered in the grip of it. At last I got a respite, but it only allowed me to catch a gulp of air in a hasty gasp. For my heart was still beating, and the pressure of my pulse was still all the excuse my clitoris needed. My respite was five heartbeats, each one rebuilding the erotic tension within me, and then I was coming again.

For some time I lay as still as I could and that rhythm defined my universe: an orgasm, then five pulses of build-up to the next one. I relaxed into it, letting the climaxes wash over me, letting everything else go and just being ecstasy. Gradually, however, the build-up began to take a little longer. Six heartbeats, then seven. I still just let it happen, setting aside everything and fully feeling the gradually slowing pattern of sexual tension and release from that tension. Sometime later, several hundred climaxes later, I think, it stirred my awareness that I hadn't come in almost half a minute. My clitoris was still throbbing at the very edge of orgasm, but by itself was just barely short of the needed energy. I carefully tried to stretch my calves a bit...but no way! The attempted motion brushed my labia together for just an instant and I was coming again. I was smiling over my happy predicament, when for the first time in many minutes, my friend's voice overlaid the soft music. He said, "Sweetheart, I love you." My heart swelled with emotion, and in sympathetic response my clitoris swelled with passion. I went right back over the cliff, and when I could think again I whispered, "That rascal! Now he'll brag he can make me come just by saying, "I love you."

Now an orgasm is a very fine thing, but there's also a lot to be said for the sensation of being almost there. Now that the oil had worn off slightly, I was in a perfect place to enjoy that sensation. I lay there quivering on the verge until I could bear it no longer. When this point was achieved, I simply squeezed my thighs together and came. I guess I stayed in that mode for about fifteen minutes, though towards the end of it I needed the touch of a fingertip to prompt the explosion, rather than just thigh pressure. The effect was slowly wearing off, and I'll guess that at that point I was only a hundred times more sensitive to pleasure than usual. I marveled at the specificity of the Erosia: if I'd become as extravagantly sensitive to temperature or pain, the experience would have been torture and not delight. But somehow, the effect was confined only to pleasure and I couldn't hurt myself with it.

I slowly stretched muscles that were a little tense from involuntary contraction in sympathy with hundreds of orgasms. As I did, I smiled as a sweet notion struck me. I reached carefully for all my pillows and laid them in a line beside me. Then I rolled myself over on top of them and fantasized a lover beneath me. I began rhythmically pressing my hips against a pillow and imagined that my friend was once again my lover as of old. This part of my present was wonderful too, though less intense than the first part: I could now control my sensations rather than be controlled by them. I climaxed effortlessly whenever the script of the fantasies I was playing in my mind implied that I should.

When an hour had passed since applying the oil, the effect was nearly gone. I was once again lying on my back, letting my hands drift across the rest of my body to give all of my skin a feeling of a closure to the experience. The music on the soundtrack diminished and then ended, and my friend's voice reappeared, saying, "And that's your present, sweetheart. I hope you liked it. Call me when you get a chance. Happy Birthday!" The CD reached the end, and the player went into standby. I smiled and reached to turn out the lamp. Normally I feel energized and not depleted by orgasm, but then I'd never had hundreds in one frantic hour before. My nervous system had used up all its reserves and I was asleep by the time my hand was back in the bed.

I called him the next day of course, and made clear my appreciation for his gift. He asked obliquely and I admitted that the, "I love you," had been timed correctly to bring on climax; you could almost hear his grin over the telephone line. I said the only thing that could have made it better was to have had two drops in the bottle.

He replied, "Well, that's precaution, sweetheart, not parsimony. You see, the active ingredient is neutralized in the body by binding with a protein within the target cells. But the protein is usually only produced in small amounts: the promoter at the beginning of the gene sequence is only a weak one unless the cell is in active growth and producing more cell wall, which developed nerve cells usually aren't. This makes the clearance curve extremely non-linear."

I said, "Could I hear that again, this time in English?"

There was a slight pause, then, "One drop wears off in a hour, two drops wears off in a month!"