Authors: Madeline Moore
Ignoring him, she French-inhaled, blew plumes, tried a smoke ring and, when she was sure his attention was on the smoke, surreptitiously popped the press stud at her thigh. A movement of her leg hissed the silk of her dress on her nylon, drawing his attention down to the length of slender thigh she’d exposed. Her cigarette was half burned. She stubbed it and lit another. In the course of consuming her second cigarette, she popped another stud and shifted to part her dress to the top of her thigh. A movement of her foot swayed her dangling pump. Her client gurgled his appreciation.
Sarah managed to rub herself against the arm of the sofa, dislodging one strap of her dress to dangle halfway down her upper arm, almost baring one breast. After all, he did want actual sex, as well as to watch her smoke.
Once more, she stubbed half of an extremely expensive cigarette. At last, she turned her gaze in his direction and husked, ‘Light me.’
He stood as fast as he could while tucking in and zipping up and strode to her. In the indirect lighting from the floor, he looked to be in his late forties, ginger-haired, with a broad high brow, aquiline nose and thin lips. His hands shook as he fumbled with the matchbook and held a quivering flame to the end of her cigarette. She drew deeply and aimed a stream of smoke at his face.
‘I …’ he said.
‘Stay there, beside me,’ she told him, still keeping her voice husky, like that of a heavy smoker. Keeping her eyes hooded, she treated him to two more plumes of smoke to his face. For the first time, she let him see that she was looking directly at him. A shrug slithered the loose strap to her elbow, baring her right breast. His eyes darted from her nipple to her mouth and back again. Sarah bent her head and aimed a stream of smoke at her own nipple. In the still air of the room, wreaths of smoke circled her breast. That focused his attention.
Sarah took her cigarette from between her lips and held it low, letting its smoke rise in a rippling veil over her breast. Her fingers reversed her cigarette, bringing its glowing tip close enough below her nipple that she could feel its heat. His eyes widened.
‘Ashtray,’ she said.
He took it from the table and held it for her. After she’d flicked her ash, she brought the filter end of her cigarette to her nipple and caressed herself with it. He spluttered in a most satisfactory way. While his eyes were riveted to what she was doing, she popped the last stud on her skirt’s slit. Cool air caressed her tummy.
‘Take it out,’ she told him.
‘Wha–?’
‘Your cock. Take it out.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He unzipped and pulled out a very slender, very white, shaft. It was cute rather than impressive and might have been a rather thick king-sized cigarette. Could the similarity be the origin of his sexual preference, or just coincidental? The way he stood there with his cock hanging out half-erect, it looked as if he was unsure what he should do with it. Sarah let him wonder and smoked some more, ignoring his discomfort. It felt a little strange for her, taking the dominant role, but she let herself be guided by what she’d learnt from her research.
When she stubbed again, he snatched up the matches and held them ready. Very slowly, Sarah selected another from the
box
of identical smokes, inspected it and put it to her lips with, ‘You may.’
‘Thank you.’ Once more, his hands trembled as he lit her cigarette. Seeming to gather his courage, he asked her, ‘What may I call you?’
Sarah let her eyes narrow before replying, ‘Lady Nicotine, of course.’
‘Of course.’
Her next smoke ring circled his cock. It leapt in response. She directed a plume directly at its head. It twitched. Sarah filled her lungs, French-inhaled, and opened her mouth into a smoke-filled ‘O’. Holding the smoke there, she brushed her dress aside, exposing her pubes and slit, reached down and inserted the filter tip between her pussy lips.
Her client buckled at his knees.
Sarah slowly masturbated herself with the cigarette. His cock strained and quivered. She plucked the cigarette out and held it up to his mouth.
‘I don’t,’ he said.
‘Do it!’ she commanded.
His lips closed on the pussy-juice soaked end. He sucked. She returned the cigarette to her pussy.
He gasped, ‘Oh God!’
She gave him another drag with the order, ‘Hold it!’
He obeyed.
She pulled his face down to hers and told him, ‘Kiss me.’ As he did so, she sucked the smoke from his mouth, blew it back, sucked it again and then released it, their mouths an inch apart, to swirl about both of their faces. When she took his shaft into her free hand it was rigid.
With an aloof look on her face, she slowly pumped his cock while blowing smoke at it. He had to clutch the arm of the sofa to stay upright. By the way his thighs were flexing inside his trousers, she had him close to a climax but it was far too soon for that. The poor man was paying dearly for the smoking fetish experience of his life. She owed it to him to prolong his pleasure.
She said, ‘There are drinks in the minibar. Pour me one.’
‘Oh – of course. What would you like?’
Somehow, champagne didn’t seem appropriate. ‘Whiskey.’
‘Should I get ice?’
‘No, pour it straight up, for both of us.’ Instinctively, she knew that he’d rather drink what she told him to drink than whatever he usually did.
When he returned with a drink in each hand, Sarah had another cigarette waiting to be lit. She made no move to take a glass from him. Looking confused, her client clunked both glasses down on the side table and hurriedly fumbled a light from the matchbook. Sarah arched back to take a glass. She took a long drag from her cigarette, drank half the whiskey in her glass, looked him in the eye and exhaled the smoke she’d been holding in her lungs while she’d swallowed. He seemed to like that so she did it again, draining her glass.
‘You may drink,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Lady Nicotine.’ He made the last word of her pseudonym three distinct and savoured syllables.
Sarah twitched her extended foot. Her pump fell to the floor. He glanced down at it, uncertain how to react.
‘Put it back on for me,’ she told him.
He stooped. His fumbling fingers obeyed her command, inserting just her toes and leaving the pump dangling once more. When he touched her stockinged foot, his face contorted with lust.
‘Kiss it,’ she said.
He pressed his lips reverently to her instep.
‘Stand now.’ Her cigarette was halfway burnt so she put it out and had him light her a fresh one, which she held in her left hand instead of her right. The first two fingers of her right hand took hold of his stem in the same way that she was holding the cigarette. She looked from one to the other, as if comparing. Sarah held her next drag in her lungs, applied her lips to his cock, sucked on it, withdrew and exhaled a plume, as if his cock had been a cigarette. He clutched the sofa’s arm again.
Sarah repeated, cigarette, cock, French-inhale, cigarette, cock, plume, over and over. He was trembling from head to foot. Very subtly, she moved the fingers that held his shaft, gently masturbating him. His face turned purple. His legs stiffened, pushing his hips forwards. When Sarah judged that he was on the very brink, she stubbed her cigarette and moved the ashtray closer, just in time for him to grunt and ejaculate into the tray, on top of the ashes and crushed butts.
He staggered backwards. ‘Oh! Oh!’ The backs of his calves hit the armchair. He fell into it with a groan.
Sarah lit up again and waited. She was heartily sick of the smoke but she didn’t let it show. Would he want to go again?
Her client recovered, stood and zipped himself. ‘Thank you. That was … Most marvellous. Thank you.’ He left the room.
Sarah butted out. The entire date, not counting her research and preparation time, had taken an hour and a half. Usually, she earned about a hundred bucks an hour plus tips. This time, she’d made twenty times that. When next she spoke to Veronica she’d remind her that she wanted any kinky fetishistic clients, provided they weren’t dangerous or icky.
Those upmarket whores she’d seen in Veronica’s waiting room – she bet that they never made $3,000 an hour by attending their silly parties.
22
‘GOD I LOVE
this class.’ Penny moved the books she’d used to save Sarah a front row seat so Sarah could sit down. ‘Professor Trelawney really makes you think, doesn’t he?’
Sarah nodded. Christopher, seated on Penny’s other side, leant forwards and tapped his temple. ‘I love to think, don’t you?’
‘Yes!’ Penny hugged him. ‘I’m going to miss you next year. Why don’t you come to Berkeley with me?’
‘Perhaps. It all depends on which fine institution of higher learning offers me the biggest scholarship. In the meantime we could spend the summer together, baking in the blazing Bajan sun,’ said Christopher. He grinned at Sarah. ‘You too, babe. It’s time for some midnight love …’
Sarah smiled. She’d given up trying to engage in playful banter with her friends in the moments before Jon entered the lecture hall. It was pointless. They’d figured out she had a mad crush on the teacher. Perhaps it was because every time she saw him Sarah blushed beet red. She could not help herself. Apparently, her sympathetic nervous system went into hyperdrive at the very scent of Jon.
‘Sympathetic to what,’ Penny had wondered when Sarah’d offered her clinical explanation for her flushed face.
‘Her pudenda,’ Christopher had suggested.
No, better to just sit quietly and let them amuse each other while she arranged her notebook and pen and tugged her short skirt down so her friends couldn’t see the lacy tops of her fancy stayups.
‘My love,’ whispered Christopher, ‘is like a red, red rose.’ He grinned, then suddenly gaped at Sarah. ‘Hey!’
Jon strode to the podium. Sarah dropped her pen. She leant down to pick it up and knocked over Penny’s stack of notes.
‘Shit!’ Sarah almost never swore out loud. Why now? ‘Sorry,’ she said in response to Jon’s raised eyebrow.
‘Everybody ready? Let’s begin,’ he said.
Sarah tried to concentrate. Jon was, as Penny had opined, a terrific teacher and the material was nothing short of mind-blowing. Yet all she could do in his class was compulsively play their weekend together in her mind. He was the one. Why didn’t he see that?
Or was she destined to fall in love with her clients, over and over again, mistaking business transactions for something much more. Something she might never have, if she continued in her present profession. The sound of the bell shook her from her reverie.
She glanced around, startled that an hour had passed. Sarah was gratified to see that she wasn’t the only blank-eyed student. Boys and girls alike were transfixed by Trelawney’s lectures.
As this was their last class of the day the three friends usually repaired to the student pub before heading home. Christopher had something to attend to so Penny and Sarah started off together.
‘Come to Berkeley with me,’ said Penny. She was on a crusade to get Sarah to at least apply to a few universities for the fall and the one she was heading to was top of the list. We could have a blast. Fun, sun and philosophy. I bet you could still get in.’
‘Nah.’ Sarah kicked the loose snow along the path to the pub. She always felt a little blue after her ethics class. She couldn’t seem to shake Jon from her system the way she’d eventually managed to shake Jack. ‘I’m sick of school.’
‘I never thought I’d hear you say that,’ said Penny. ‘I thought you were going all the way, sister. Dr Sarah Meadows.’
‘We’ll see. Maybe later,’ said Sarah.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothin’, why?’
‘Lately you’ve become aloof again. I thought we’d really become friends.’
‘We have.’
‘So talk to me. I can keep a secret. If there’s something going on between –’
‘Between?’
‘I don’t know. Between you and Professor Trelawney. Or maybe you and Christopher?’
Sarah froze in her tracks. Trelawney? Christopher? ‘Oh my God! I have to stop Christopher!’
‘Stop him from what?’ Penny called after her as Sarah took off at a dead run back towards the philosophy department. ‘OK so I’ll save us a table!’
Why, why, why can’t I connect the dots?
Sarah stabbed the button repeatedly even though she knew it wouldn’t summon the elevator any quicker. ‘Why do we do that?’ she wondered as she gave up and headed for the stairs.
She’d seen the look on Christopher’s face when Jon had entered the auditorium. But she’d been so flummoxed by the presence of her true love she’d failed to recognise what had happened. Her only hope now was to get to Jon’s office before Christopher and …
As soon as she opened the door to the fifth floor she heard the sound of men arguing. Her heart sank, although if they were arguing it meant they hadn’t come to blows – yet.
‘Don’t play cute with me, you pervert.’
‘Get out or I’ll call security.’
‘Big baby teacher is afraid of the black kid from the Islands?’
‘You’re making no sense, Christopher.’
‘You think it makes sense to mark my friend, your student’s, ass the way you did?’
Fuck.
Sarah slipped in the open door and closed it behind her. ‘Christopher, it wasn’t him.’
She was just in time. Both men were standing. Christopher was rolling up his sleeves, something he never did because he
was
always cold. He obviously meant business. Jon’s fists were clenched at his sides. He glared at her.
‘I’m sorry Jon – Professor Trelawney.’ Sarah glared at Christopher. ‘It wasn’t him. Got that through your thick skull?’
‘But –’
‘But nothing. Not him.’
‘But –’ The expression on Christopher’s face would’ve been comical if the situation hadn’t been so dire. ‘He didn’t … Those welts aren’t from … I just assumed …’
Jon spoke. ‘You assumed because I’m English that I’m responsible for the marks I’ve come to understand that my student, Ms Meadows, bears on her bottom?’
Christopher nodded miserably. ‘That sums it up, sir. Very nicely, may I add.’
‘From one island man to another, Christopher, I’d call that stereotyping.’