FrauLohse

...is not to be found here.

According to my statistics, maitresse is one of the most worn fragrances. Sounds strange at first, even for me, especially as she scarred dangerously along the launch pad a few times.

But why don't I want to part with a fragrance that I wouldn't have a public opportunity to wear? Or rather, one I thought I didn't wear so often after all.
Because the mistress is actually a couch potato.
When I come home after my day's work, I am drawn into the shower after a good deal of housework and afterwards I actually want one thing: No conspicuous scents.

The Maitresse thus secretly conquered the hit list of home fragrances.
It is subtle, almost reserved, exudes transparent, non-sticky flower powder whose sweetness comes from the flowers alone, leaves a velvety skin and gives me an infinitely well-groomed, clean feeling without having to think of the typical Saubär.

She purrs and purrs, ensnares and caresses. From behind. I didn't realize I was reaching out to her more and more.
Erotic, huh, yes. It is erotic because it gives me a good body feeling, just this velvety skin texture. I feel blurred with her. No pimples, no pillows. Like gephotoshopt.

Ylang subtly sensual, jasmine sambac cooling, rose beguiling, violet tart, musk clean, suede velvet. She hardly appears to be ambered and even Iso only provides the sparkle, does not outshine the scent.

Well, ladies, and this may seem shocking, but isn't it, the mistress? Desire awakening through silent presence. Sneaking insistently into the bed and heart, quietly pulling the strings in the background and barely have you provided yourself, you have decayed with skin and hair. Harhar.
Thank God that it's still in the courtship display phase, bigger dramas are not to be expected, also no poison is mixed in. It is also suitable for sheets, as it beautifies and supports the body's own odour and never fully seizes the skin. Paste neither mouth nor nose of the beloved.

And as much as I was fascinated by Montespan at a young age, today I enjoy the more sweet mistress. By the way, in my imagination blond angel lured, for whatever reason. :)

When summer ends and winter approaches,
beguiles Emilie with a soft voice.
She lures and calls and calls and lures.
Nectar balm spreading on your skin,
shimmering golden, iridescent reddish.
Wrap you up with her sweetness,
into a fiery patchouli cape.

Lets heat smell in swaths of the ground,
drives from the last sunbeam.
The earth still impregnated by fruits,
gives her rearguard of potential,
steaming almost, under leaf load,
and then fall completely into a cold sleep.

Comforting she takes you in her arms,
to protect you from the first frost,
lullend gar, never pressing.
Sing you a song,
of fruits, fluffy, tender and overripe.
Build a warm house of wood,
in the middle of the earth.
Takes you in and takes you away.
Drop down, step by step.

When summer ends and winter approaches,
emilie gives you her warm hand.
If it chills you in the morning,
she wraps herself around you, a warm scarf,
very homey.
Laughing, with joy she jumps through mountains of leaves,
with the sun in my heart,
and breathes it deeply in and out:
Autumn.

The last one I was on one of my short trips in an old windmill. At the bottom the area was converted into a bakery, at the top one could sit comfortably and watch and hear the "zing zing" of the mill leaves, which put one into a slight state of trance. The weather was wonderful, we enjoyed the pastries and the café.

When I sprayed Vanille Fatale for the first time, I thought, uh, not another drunken vanilla like that (mog i net so) and it will certainly get dark again (mog i o net so) and had already put the bottling into the "to go" box. But during some ungracious chores: Wiping, folding clothes, making food, I always got a delicious touch of light vanilla in my nose. That's where the scent had made quite a change.

But it wasn't just vanilla I smelled. It was a very peculiar mixture - not even pure spices - it was dust-dry and light. And that's when it occurred to me. It had a similar smell in the windmill. The baked goods, the coffee, the lots of flour. A strange dryness, almost brittle. The baker has honey-smeared flour hands and spices the mill with a hint of this and of it, the oven bubbles before him, brightly decorated with wood and decorated with yellow flowers.
Everything is beige-friendly in this fragrance, nothing beats, nothing demands or requires. A Tom who is simply there, chilling beautifully in the background with a cozy mill house aura in his suede couch. Soft, resinous, balsamic. Balancing, late summer, calming.

From "to go" we went to Idealo. That's always been my death sentence. If I want to know the price of a fragrance. Swallowed and side closed. Better sleep on it for three more nights. The punch line, of course: the three nights are over, a bottle is on its way to me. Tom was right about his name. The fatal thing about it is the way the fragrance slowly creeps into your heart and into your own fragrance shelf... ;-)