Prisoner of the Flesh
A Prisoner of the Flesh He felt someone lift him up. It wasn't mother for her perfume would have preceded her from across the room. Nor was it the wet-nurse nanny. She always smelled like chemicals and wore gloves. No this was someone completely different. The hands were larger, though still soft, and they smelled of ... that was it, whoever it was smelled of Old Spice, just like he used to wear. He felt the person struggling to unlock the mitten around her fist. It took two fingers...