Chapter 5 Scent and Submission

Adrienne

​

The morning is quiet. Light slips through the blinds of my office, brushing against the edge of my desk like it’s asking permission to shine.

I arrived earlier than usual, just early enough to avoid questions, but not so early as to look suspicious. Sleep didn’t interest me.

The data was written across his face before he left. The real results arrive now. In hours where men like him try to pretend they’re not already craving more.

I sip my coffee as my phone lights up.

7:14 a.m.

“Last night was incredible. When can I see you again?”

Right on time. I smirk. Let the screen go dark. I don’t reply.

8:03 a.m.

“Did I do something wrong?”

There it is—the chemical ache I designed. Stage two always comes with a question. Not for something they’ve done, but for the reaction they didn’t get. That’s when the tether tightens like a collar.

More messages arrive. I scroll through them slowly. The syntax shifts, there are short bursts, and punctuation is missing. Then overcompensation. Too many words.

He’s spiraling in microbursts already. Perfect.

004G is ahead of schedule.

Last night’s formula matched his file: B-004G. Charming. Responsive. Effective.

I glance at the vial and go over the formula.

I’m done writing formulas. These are mine. They’ll be named how I want.

B-005G.

1.5↑ velvet for accelerated sexual arousal

2.5↑ rose for immediate olfactory lock

4.8↑ Vocal resonance to deepen infatuation

I’ll wear it tonight.

He’ll come closer.

And I’ll pull away even harder.

6:38 p.m.

I sent him a message.

“Sorry, sweetness, I’ve been busy all day. My place, 8:30.”

Just enough softness to be gentle. It didn’t matter if I apologized or called him a fucking pet name. He was already captivated.

He just didn’t know why yet.

8:27 p.m.

He knocks three times like he rehearsed it. Like he wants me to know he’s polite, but not too eager.

He’s freshly shaved, with his hair styled. Button-down shirt, no tie. The sleeves are rolled. Casual, but curated. He’s wearing cologne. Not mine. It’s something similar to sandalwood, an attempt at control.

It won’t work.

His eyes land on me and freeze.

Good.

My white dress is sleek and unforgiving, so tight that it outlines the lace of my thong every time I move. The neckline sits high. Modest. The back? Exposed. Fuck a Bra. My hair is down, loose and dark, one wave caught behind my ear with a pin shaped like a scalpel. A joke. One he won’t get.

004G tries to smile. His mouth moves, but his eyes don’t follow.

“You look.”

He stops himself.

“I wasn’t expecting.” He exhales. “You look incredible.”

I step back and gesture for him to enter without touching him.

“I hope you like Pinot Noir. I opened some from Oregon.”

He hesitates, like he’s afraid to breathe too deeply. He should be.

I close the door.

He keeps glancing at my neck. Below my jawline, over my carotid artery, where the scent pools in warm skin.

I pour the wine and hand him a glass. His eyes are following the scent. I can feel it pulling him. Inhaling like he’s forgotten how to breathe, and my scent is his memory.

“Long day?” I ask.

He nods. “I’ve been… distracted.”

I take a sip.

“It’s probably nothing.” He swallows hard. The glass shakes in his hand.

Perfect.

He sits on the couch without being asked. Close, his knee already touching mine. Progress.

We talk about nothing again. His job. He recommends a podcast he thinks I’d like. I nod, I listen. I let him believe we’re connecting. I could probably tell him to get on all fours and bark, and he would.

I flick my hair back slowly, shifting the air just enough to give him another taste of what he’s craving. I reduced the potency so that it does not waft in the air as much tonight. He was a little jittery last night. I want him controlled, not buzzing. I want him to bend to me.

The scent hits him like a wave. His pupils are dilated. His voice drops. “I keep thinking about the other night.” I don’t answer. I smile. He reaches out, tentative, fingers skimming my wrist. I let him touch me. Lightly. One hand brushes my hip, then lingers. I don’t pull away. His palm drifts over the line of my dress, just enough pressure to trace the edge of the thong. No deeper. He leans forward. Inches from my throat. I look down, and his cock is definitely hard. Perfect

“Can I kiss you?” I let the silence stretch.

Then I whisper, “No.” And stand. He blinks. Breathless. Derailed.

“I’m tired,” I say sweetly. “You should go.” Confusion. Disappointment. A flash of frustration he tries to hide.

I walk him to the door. Instead of closing the door and saying good night, I lean in to let him breathe me in one last time. He closes his eyes, and I see his chest rise and fall as if I am permitting him to breathe. When he opens his eyes, they are still dilated. I place my hand on his chest, and I whisper in his ear:

“Next time, don’t ask.” I close the door before he can respond. And smile.

"Hello, Dr Volke, another early morning?" Charlie Davison, the oldest night guard on the face of the earth, says sweetly as he stands. I give him a genuine smile and wave. "Yep, science never sleeps," I say as I swipe my security card to enter my private elevator.

No knocks. No voices. Just the muted hum of temperature control. I keep the room dim enough for reflection, bright enough to see what matters.

I sit at my desk and open the encrypted file. Subject 004G’s entry waits for me.

I press the record button.

“Subject 004G,” I say, voice smooth. “Day twelve. Messaging pattern increased post-interaction. Notable language shift between 6:38 a.m. and 11:42 a.m. Multiple emotionally baited phrases, including ‘did I do something wrong’ and ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’

I pause and reach for the vial I wore tonight. B-005.

“The newest blend of B-005B reduced velvet, heightened rose, produced a stronger proximity response than projected. Eye dilation is consistent. Motor hesitation is visible. Physical touch initiated. Erection achieved with no physical provocation.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. The pure thought of an erectile dysfunction 'med' via olfactory sensory receptors is groundbreaking. However, I want to control.

“I denied escalation. Response: compliance with visible confusion. Emotional destabilization expected by morning. Subject will likely overcompensate to regain perceived status.”

I look at B-005B. “This batch is close,” I say. “Very close.”

I end the recording, encrypt the file

From my hidden drawer, I pull a thin, blue-labeled file.

Subject 014B.

My next experiment.

Vulnerable. A man who craves attention. The formula won’t just seduce him. It will ruin him.

The scent for tomorrow is ready and waiting with my thumb to the biometric lock. A cool drawer opens, and I slide the vial into the drawer alongside its siblings.

And I can already see how it ends