Harriet Learns To Smoke And Fuck Ch 07

Interlude

Report:

Harriet Danes

Upper Sixth Form

Kunt College

December 2049

Dear Mr & Mrs Danes,

Harriet has had a very successful autumn term. She has maintained her high marks in English, French and Fucking and, whilst she has found the Further Fucking syllabus quite challenging in some respects (she needs to work hard on deep-throating, and prepping her anal, for example), her devotion to her chosen fetish, and the hours of extra time she has spent on it, mark her out as a distinctive fucker with massive potential for the future.

There has, sadly, not yet been a massive take-up of smoking amongst young people since its legalisation three months ago -- despite the commendably strenuous efforts of the government to encourage it (including the provision of cigarettes free of charge through schools). For this reason, the Ministry of Education has decided to sponsor a nationwide youth smoking fetish competition. Smoke-'n'-Fuck will take place at Wankminster Central Hall in June. I think Harriet should definitely enter, as she has great potential.

On another subject, the Royal Academy of Fucking are already welcoming applications for the 2050 intake, as you know. Harriet tells me that you have been helping her with hers. Please do let me know if I can be of any assistance. We at Kunt would of course be delighted to write a reference.

Kind regards,

Miss P. Poussée

Deputy Head of Fucking | Tutor, Fuckindor House

Kunt College, London

"Proud to be Enlightened: Valuing and Nurturing the Fuckers of the Future"

PART TWO:

Spring

Chapter Seven:

We Wrestle Not Against Cock and Cunt

"Why are we doing this, Harriet?" Michael looked sullen and disgruntled, as they climbed a pee-stained outside staircase leading to a grimy concrete balcony which ran along the front of the third floor of a small grey block of council flats in East London.

Harriet exhaled a plume of smoke, which burgeoned and hung like a thick cloud in the damp winter air. "Because we've been fucking each other for three months now, and it's time we stopped sneaking around behind our parents' backs. I mean, fucking out in the park every Sunday after church was fine in September -- but not in this kind of weather." She took another drag of her cigarette, letting this lungful out in a series of puffs as she continued to speak: "It's all right for you: you can keep all your clothes on and just take your dick out to fuck me. But if you want to see my tits and ass, then I want to fuck somewhere which is not totally fucking freezing! And the public fuck-shelters are so grim. Besides, we live in Enlightened times now: we should be able to fuck where we want, when we want. And we agreed th--"

"All right, all right," grumbled Michael. "But can't we just go to your place instead? It sounds like your parents are a lot more reasonable, and a lot more welcoming, than my mum. There's a reason my dad walked out on her. She's going to be awful to you, you know, I mean, she hates me, and... well, we're here..." He stopped, deflated, outside a peeling green door which must once have had the number "69" in plastic adhesive letters on it -- though the "9" had long since fallen half off, leaving a paintless outline, so that it looked to the untrained eye as if the number on the door was "666".

Harriet took one last drag of her cigarette, admiring the misshapen yellow butt, the filter almost brown from the many damp lungfuls of tar she had been inhaling through it, before flicking it casually over the parapet into the misty afternoon air. Despite Michael's protestations, she was somewhat sceptical of the manner in which he described his mother. Her naïveté proceeded, perhaps, from her protective upbringing, and from being such a well-balanced young lady herself, with parents who pleasured each other, kept nothing from each other or their daughter, and accepted -- nay, honoured -- Harriet as she was: a kind, conscientious, courteous, hard-working sixth-form fetish fuckslut.

If Harriet had ever encountered dysfunctional parenting in her life, she might have recognised in Michael the signs of family-induced low self-esteem. But as it was, she saw no reason why both her parents and Michael's single mum should not be delighted that she and Michael had been contentedly boning each other for over three months now, and eager to meet their respective children's fuckbuddies. Harriet and Michael had been continuing to meet each Sunday, to pray and to fuck. Whilst the weather was warm, the park was their favoured after-church fucking ground, but, if Harriet were being completely honest, she would have admitted that it wasn't just the logistics which led her to insist that they both should introduce each other to their respective parents: she felt, instinctively, that there was something special in their relationship.

It wasn't just that she liked fucking Michael, liked smoking for him, and liked doing both together: she also liked hanging out with him, going to All Cunts youth events, chatting, joking, reading the Bible and praying together, and generally chilling out. She had no intention of dumping him, despite her occasionally teasing him to the contrary -- and she doubted very much that he was losing interest in her. Being a well brought up teenage whore, she felt it was only right that their parents should welcome their fuckship into their homes.

Wearily, Michael opened the green front door and called ahead into the flat, "M' cock, Mum, I'm home -- and I've brought Harriet with me."

Fuck me, baby, that feels so good; I love feeling that dick in my cunt

, was the only response from within the flat -- and it was very loud indeed. Harriet raised her eyebrows quizzically, before the soundtrack continued:

Oh yeah, baby, ram that big black cock deep in my cunt-hole, that's so fucking good, baby...

Michael's mother, a pale, corpulent woman with straggly once-blonde hair, multiple chins, and huge drooping breasts, sat naked on a dusty sagging sofa in the living room, watching television. Dark frayed curtains were half-drawn over the metal-framed windows, and she was surrounded by piles of damp cardboard boxes full of unidentifiable matter, wreathed in flies. The volume on her screen, an old 2030s television which looked as if it was about to fall off the wall, was turned up full, making the entire flat, small as it was, echo with the sound of moaning, squealing, and dirty talk, over a closeup of a big black cock doggy-fucking a white girl's tight hairless cunt. Michael's mother's flabby thighs were spread wide, her pussy -- as slack and unkempt as the pornstar's on the screen was tight and perfectly coiffed -- speared by a huge pink dildo which she gripped with her right hand. Her left hand was alternating between dipping deep into a large bag of Cheezy Wotsits, and slugging from a two-litre bottle of purple Vimto -- giving the entire room the unmistakable combined odour of stale e-numbers and fishy cunt. As Michael and Harriet came into view, the older woman muted the sound, pulled her dildo out with a noisy squelch, and brandished it at her son accusingly. "Where the fuck've you been?" she demanded, in a gravelly voice.

"Church, Mum," answered Michael quietly, his eyes fixed on the dark but faded floral carpet. "And I've brought Harriet home for a fuck -- and to meet you..."

"If that's all right, Mrs Didcock, how are you, lick my pussy, I'm Harriet, what a lovely home you have...?" added Harriet urgently but respectfully from behind Michael's shoulder, smiling as broadly as she could.

The woman studied Harriet for a couple of seconds, then guffawed loudly, her large drooping dugs jiggling as she resumed gesticulating at them with her slimy dildo. "Oh, I don't mind

you

visiting,

cunt

," the woman sneered at Harriet, "but I'm amazed this good-for-nothing layabout managed to pull a hot piece of arse like you. What the fuck d'you see in him?"

Harriet stammered, "I... I... he pleasures me a lot, Mrs Didcock -- and I hoped you wouldn't mind us coming home together after church..."

Mrs Didcock laughed again, a deep, uproarious belly laugh, as if Harriet had just said something utterly ridiculous. "He

pleasures

you?! Pull the other one,

cunt

. He's pathetic and useless, like his dad was. And he's got a tiny dick, can't get it hard most of time -- how's he going to pleasure you with that?" She rammed her dildo back into cunt and muttered a quiet "fuck" of pleasure.

Michael looked as if he wanted to disappear into the floor -- but Harriet stood her ground: "No, Mrs Didcock, Mikey's been

healed

: now his cock's huge, and hard, and it pleasures me to be fucked by it."

"Healed?!" Mrs Didcock's face was a picture of incredulity and contempt. "You don't really believe that bullshit, do you, cunt? Oh I know, I know, 'God' healed him, did He?" she scoffed. "Well, 'God' didn't give

me

a husband who pleasured me! 'God' didn't heal

his

cock! And 'God' has given me a son who's no good at any fucking thing at all! Michael could've gone to college, got some proper qualifications. But no, instead he works in that fucking art gallery earning peanuts with all those other monkeys, and spends all his free time drawing pictures, or fucking

praying

," -- she pronounced the word with undisguised contempt -- "deceiving himself into thinking that Jesus is going to come and save him from his own stupidity! You could do much better than him, cunt: look at you, all hot and blond, with your big tits and your tight arse, going to a posh school and all -- sure, go on, go into his bedroom and suck his pathetic little dick if you like, but he's not worth it, slut. Go and find a proper man who can pull his weight in the world, and who can fuck you like you deserve!"

Harriet stood, trembling. Michael's face, red with humiliation, was still fixed on the floor. And on the screen, the big black cock had shifted upwards and was now silently sliding in and out of the girl's asshole. Michael didn't bother to reply to his mother, but shuffled backwards out of the living room, head bowed. Harriet followed him down the corridor. "Dickhead," muttered Mrs Didcock at her son's retreating footsteps, before turning the volume on her television up to full again, and ramming her dildo back into her hairy cunt. The dialogue from her movie -- currently:

Oh yeah, fuck my ass, stud; keep fucking my asshole with that big black cock!

-- pursued the youngsters down the corridor and through the door into Michael's bedroom.

Michael's bedroom, though modest, was the polar opposite of his mother's dank smelly living room. His floorboards were bare and sanded, his belongings neatly stowed on rickety but clean shelves, and his bed was tidily made. Weak winter sunlight illuminated the room through a large bay window. But what made Harriet gasp in astonishment was the pictures. It seemed as if every square inch of the room -- walls, doors, shelves, even the window-sill -- displayed a piece of artwork: pencil drawings, water colours, oil paintings, charcoal rubbings, prints,

batik

-- and the subject matter was equally varied: landscapes, portraits, groups, figures, and of course, plenty of nudes, and loads of fucking. In pride of place above his bed was a framed watercolour of Harriet herself, nude and smoking on her side in Regents Park -- the completed version of the hasty pencil sketch Michael had made three months prior. It was even more beautiful than before, exalted, as if to the heavenly realms, by added interplay of colour and light and shadow. "Oh fuck, Mikey, did you do all of this? You've shown me a few of your sketches, but this is amazing, I had no idea, oh my fucking God, you're --"

Harriet stopped, as she noticed that Michael had slumped down on his bed, and was holding his head in his hands. Down the corridor still blared the soundtrack from Mrs Didcock's film:

Oh yeah, you like gaping my ass, stud? You like stretching my fucking asshole wide with your big black dick? You gonna ram that motherfucker back where I shit, make this fucking white trash whore scream?

-- but neither Harriet nor Michael was paying attention.

"Oh Jesus, I'm sorry, Mikey, is your mum always like that? Did she really upset you?" Harriet sat next to her fuckbuddy and gave him an affectionate squeeze. The scent of stale tobacco smoke was strong on her clothes and breath, and Michael nuzzled into her neck so as to savour the comforting aroma better.

"Yes, she is. And yes, of course," replied Michael, shaking his head despondently.

"Why do you put up with it?"

"Why? Well, what else can I do? Where else am I going to live?"

Harriet paused, her mind whirring, but hesitated to think out loud, as down the hall they heard:

Oh yeah, stud, you gonna come in my ass? Squirt your cum in my fucking gape, baby, go on, jerk that fucking black dick off in my gaping shithole!

Instead Harriet suggested, "Wanna fuck? That'll make you feel better."

"I don't think I can get it up now..." moaned Michael, pointing sadly at his crotch. "Besides, aren't you going to dump me now? Every other girl who ever met my mum did..."

"Oh Mikey -- I don't care about your mum. You're the one who pleasures me, not her! And don't give me this shit about not getting it up: I bet if I smoke you will!" Harriet grinned, searching in her pussy-pink handbag for her cigarettes -- but then paused, as she realised the import of what Michael was saying. "Oh God, Mikey..." She kissed him tenderly on his cheek. "Is this the source of all your fears, all your doubts, all your self-loathing? Is that why..."

She didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't need to. "Yeah, maybe... maybe it is..." sighed Michael.

"But Mikey, that's all over now. God has healed you! He gave you a huge stiff dick to fuck me with," Harriet gesticulated with her unlit cigarette, "and that's His sign, isn't it -- His sign that you have nothing more to fear, remember:

neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor anything else in all creation

-- including your fucking bitch of a mum! --

will be able to separate us from the lust of God!

So come on, fuck me, Mikey! Here, I'll give you a nice smoky blowjob to get you going," she added, dangling her cigarette between her lips, and lighting it. A burst of smoke escaped from her lips, as she continued to dangle whilst taking a second deep inhale.

"No," said Michael firmly, deliberately averting his eyes from the normally irresistible sight of Harriet smoking. By now his lips were trembling, and tears were welling behind his eyes. "No, I can't... I'm sorry. Not here. God does not enter this house, Harriet. Here there is only humiliation, and pain, and fear, and..." Michael ran out of words, but gesticulated in the direction of the living room, whence the blaring soundtrack was continuing, louder than ever:

OH YEAH, FILL MY ASS WITH ALL THAT CUM, MOTHERFUCKER -- YEAAAAAH!

Harriet let out a long nose exhale, before removing her cigarette from her lips. "How can God not enter here, Mikey? Is this a place where Evil reigns?" Harriet was trembling too now, and nervous puffs of residual smoke burst from her lips as she spoke, but she gathered her wits to continue: "Remember what Reverend Fumbel always says, Mikey? Jesus casts out the Evil One, rescues the possessed, frees the prisoner. Jesus can change this house, even change your mum! We need to cast out the demons from this place, Mikey! Come on!" She took a deep double drag, as if to steel herself for battle.

Harriet did not wait for Michael's consent, but grabbed his hand and led him out of his room, back down the corridor. The soundtrack continued to blare, louder than ever:

OH YEAH, I LOVE THAT CUM IN MY ASS, YOU FILTHY MOTHERFUCKER! SEE ALL YOUR FUCKIN' CUM SWILLING AROUND IN THAT GAPING SHITCUNT?

-- but Harriet marched purposefully into the living room, Michael quavering in her wake, and stretched out her cigarette-free hand towards the obese figure of Mrs Didcock on her armchair, now writhing and moaning in the throes of her impending orgasm, her pink dildo a blur as she rammed it hard and fast in and out of her cunt.

The television blared, but Harriet declaimed loudly: "We wrestle not against cock and cunt, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world; and so I command thee in the name of Jesus Christ to hold thy peace, and come out of her, thou unclean spirit!" She took another deep double drag, as if to seal her holy command, and exhaled it towards Mrs Didcock and the television, which was now displaying a closeup of a swirling, whirling cocktail of man-cum, bubbling and frothing within the rim of the actress' gaping asshole.

But there was no response from the corpulent Mrs Didcock, other than a long "fuuuuuuuck", as she jammed her dildo hard and deep into her gash, and her pussy began to spasm. "Come out her, unclean spirit!" repeated Harriet -- but all that came out of Mrs Didcock was a dribble of cunt squirt and a long noisy fart.

OH YEAH, YOU FILTHY FUCKER, WANNA WATCH ME DRINK YOUR CUM FROM MY ASSHOLE, STUD?

screeched the pornstar on the screen, as Mrs Didcock moaned, "Yeah fuuuck..." while cramming a large handful of Cheezy Wotsits into her face, followed by a slug of purple Vimto which dribbled down her chin and onto her drooping tits. "Y' fu'..." she repeated, as her mouth overflowed with half-chewed orange-and-purple gloop, which she scooped up and began to massage into her tits and cunt.

Michael's mother was in no hurry to react to Harriet's intrusion, waiting for her orgasm to fully subside, then turning down the volume on her TV again, but continuing to revel in the pleasure of the junk food she was massaging into her cunt and tits in post-orgasmic bliss. On screen, the actress was now methodically squatting over a wide-rimmed champagne coupe, before farting the contents of her asshole into it and swilling it around like fine wine. Harriet stood waiting, expectant -- but there was no sign of any evil spirit departing from Michael's mother; nor did the supposed demon respond in any way.

Instead, Mrs Didcock slowly turned towards Harriet and laughed derisively: "'Come out of her, unclean spirit'?" she cackled, food and drink splattering obscenely from her lips. "Fuck you, Jesus-cunt! No 'unclean spirits' here -- just a middle-aged woman who's been fucked over by the world, gaining her pleasure where she can." She gave a loud burp. "Take my advice, Harriet. Your Jesus doesn't care about you -- and nor will Michael once you've served your purpose. Smoke, fuck, pleasure yourself, and take whatever pleasure anyone else will give you -- but there's no meaning hidden underneath it all, Harriet, neither in your fake God nor in the fake ideals of this Enlightenment... just more and more ways of spreading the shit... but it's still shit, you understand...?"

Harriet stood, trembling, her cigarette still lit but forgotten in her hand, listening to the echoes of Mrs Didcock's nihilistic creed in her head, before she came to her senses, took another reassuring nicotine-laden drag of her cigarette, and skulked, humiliated, out of the door, Michael still lurking in her shadow. On Mrs Didcock's television screen, the actress was now ostentatiously gargling with the contents of her glass, before slurping the precious liquor down with a grin.

"Shit," said Harriet.

"Yeah," Michael agreed.

To be continued...