Related products

• 

  Wrapped in Sable Garments Perfume Oil

  Cacao, smoked mahogany, tonka, sweet aged patchouli, and white sandalwood.

  Add to cart
• 

  Strawberry Moon 2024 Perfume Oil

  “We must not look at goblin men,
  We must not buy their fruits:
  Who knows upon what soil they fed
  Their hungry thirsty roots?”
  “Come buy,” call the goblins
  Hobbling down the glen.
  – Christina Rossetti

   

  A dark and dreary fragrance, honeyed yet ominous, hovering in sweet shadows: overripe strawberries and bloody smears of red currant hovering in a gloom of indigo musk, black tea, plum incense tears, champaca, cacao, and hazy laudanum accord.

   

  Art by Drew Rausch!

  Out of Stock
• 

  Oak Moon 2023 Perfume Oil

  The century oak, rugged and gaunt,
  Holds high to-day, as he was wont
  A hundred years ago, his head,
  Hoary with snows that have vanished,
  Defiant and grim to the wind’s wild taunt.
  The hooting owl finds here a haunt,
  And feathered choristers now chaunt
  As when the century’s dawn made red
  The century oak.

   

  No season’s coil his heart can daunt;
  Processive years their changes vaunt,
  But, constant till the line have fled
  And mouldered in oblivion’s bed,
  He holds his own, rugged and gaunt, –
  The century oak.
  – Harvey Carson Grumbine

   

  Oak bark, tree sap, wild acorns, and a touch of honey.

   

  Art by Drew Rausch!

  Out of Stock
• 

  Bast Perfume Oil

  There was a girl. He had met her somewhere, and now they were walking across a bridge. It spanned a small lake, in the middle of a town. The wind was ruffling the surface of the lake, making waves tipped with whitecaps, which seemed to Shadow to be tiny hands reaching for him.

  — Down there, said the woman. She was wearing a leopard-print skirt, which flapped and tossed in the wind, and the flesh between the top of her stockings and her skirt was creamy and soft and in his dream, on the bridge, before God and the world, Shadow went down to his knees in front of her, burying his head in her crotch, drinking in the intoxicating jungle female scent of her. He became aware, in his dream, of his erection in real life, a rigid, pounding, monstrous thing as painful in its hardness as the erections he’d had as a boy, when he was crashing into puberty.

  He pulled away and looked upward, and still he could not see her face. But his mouth was seeking hers and her lips were soft against his, and his hands were cupping her breasts, and then they were running across the satin smoothness of her skin, pushing into and parting the furs that hid her waist, sliding into the wonderful cleft of her, which warmed and wetted and parted for him, opening to his hand like a flower.

  The woman purred against him ecstatically, her hand moving down to the hardness of him and squeezing it. He pushed the bedsheets away and rolled on top of her, his hand parting her thighs, her hand guiding him between her legs, where one thrust, one magical push . . .

  Now he was back in his old prison cell with her, and he was kissing her deeply. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, clamped her legs about his legs to hold him tight, so he could not pull out, not even if he wanted to.

  Never had he kissed lips so soft. He had not known that there were lips so soft in the whole world. Her tongue, though, was sandpaper-rough as it slipped against his.

  —Who are you? he asked.

  She made no answer, just pushed him onto his back and, in one lithe movement, straddled him and began to ride him. No, not to ride him: to insinuate herself against him in series of silken-smooth waves, each more powerful than the one before, strokes and beats and rhythms that crashed against his mind and his body just as the wind-waves on the lake splashed against the shore. Her nails were needle-sharp and they pierced his sides, raking them, but he felt no pain, only pleasure, everything was transmuted by some alchemy into moments of utter pleasure.

  He struggled to find himself, struggled to talk, his head now filled with sand dunes and desert winds.

  —Who are you? he asked again, gasping for the words.

  She stared at him with eyes the color of dark amber, then lowered her mouth to his and kissed him with a passion, kissed him so completely and so deeply that there, on the bridge over the lake, in his prison cell, in the bed in the Cairo funeral home, he almost came. He rode the sensation like a kite riding a hurricane, willing it not to crest, not to explode, wanting it never to end.

  A desert wind alight with myrrh and golden amber, cardamom and honey, bourbon vanilla and cacao.

  Out of Stock