Lemon Smut Novels & Stories

The lemon thyme on the windowsill had been replaced twice. Lemon thyme had opinions about its own duration. The first one had lasted through the first summer and into the fall, had looked promising through the winter, and had given up sometime in the early spring—not dramatically, just stopped thriving, the leaves losing their fragrance, the whole plant settling into a kind of resignation that Elijah had learned to recognize as the plant's way of saying I'm done. The second one had lasted longer—almost a full year—but had succumbed to something that looked like root rot, despite his careful attention to drainage.

Therefore, we often called this game "Lemon" "Shall we play Lemon?" "Who will be Lemon this time?" “Maybe this time we will have three Lemons?” And all because one or several players were splashed with lemon juice before the start of the game. And with the help of two senses - hearing and smell - the leader had to catch everyone except Lemon. But the difficulty was that if the players were in contact, then the smell was transferred. And it was quite difficult to recognize who got the smell right away, and who during the game. Either Lemon won, if he was captured, or the Leader, if he grabbed everyone except Lemon.

She looked at the herb in the middle of the bed. The one that smelled like her father's Sunday mornings. She crushed a leaf between her fingers. The smell arrived exactly as she remembered. She closed her eyes for a moment. Opened them. "Lorenzo," she said. "Yes," he said. "I want to add something to the Sardinia house garden," she said. "When we go back in summer." "What?" he said. "A lemon tree," she said. "In a pot. Like my father had on the Palermo balcony." She held the crushed leaf. "They produce three or four lemons per year if you tend them. My mother treated each one like it was extraordinary."