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The following is fiction, intended to entertain. If it doesn't, by all means erase, exit or otherwise eliminate it from your life, as is your right. If I offend or disturb you in anyway, I am sorry, for that is not my intention. If by chance, I make you smile, or maybe wiggle in your seat, well, you'll be getting a touch of what I felt while writing this story. And that's exactly why I wrote it. Thank you sincerely, for your precious time.
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Prologue
A luckier guy never lived. There stands before me a statuesque woman in her underwear. Her long, silky, dark blonde hair is arrayed down her back, her shoulders, even forward over the upper swell of her bulging breasts. She's wearing five inch spike heels, and thigh high stockings held in place by her modestly muscular, contoured thighs. Her eyes are a blue-green mix that rivals that of reef waters in the Caribbean. She's not a small woman, more a woman of substance, of sinew and shape that invites lookers to touch and squeeze and play until they pass out in bliss. Even the perfectly round areole on her large and firm breasts point straight through the stretchy material of her bra, as if to say, "I want you!" Or maybe, it's "I dare you."
She stands before me ready, straight, proud and defiant. As I walk around her my eyes are entertained with a show they can scarcely grasp. Her hips are wide yet perfectly shaped to dare anyone to find a flaw. Her midriff is molded, not flat, so deliciously curved as to define new standards in this skin and bones world. Her breasts are the size of cantaloupes, yet firm and malleable while straining to be free of the non-wired, lacey bra. Her lingerie was coordinated, a matched set of tan, delicately stretched, slippery smooth material, partially transparent, and all edged with an appropriate amount of similar patterned lace. Around the bra, the lace was no more than half an inch wide, while around her garter belt, the lace was three times that, and at the top of her stockings, a full six inches of sexy, see-thru pattern begged the eye to look long and hard. Her panties were French cut and featured the lacey touch riding provocatively on her high and accentuated hips. Long strong legs were highlighted by her carefully molded thighs and muscled calves, culminating in slender ankles flowing into diminutive feet. Finally, at the tips of her toes, visible reaching out from the front of her stilettos, was an ultra transparent stocking pattern that let me see her bright red nails. A goddess, she was, right there in front of me, and not the least bit uncomfortable about me checking her out.
I stepped around her, simply looking on the first circuit, maybe six feet away. I dropped my clothes as I walked, stripping down to my near bikini briefs. I watched her eyes and she did check out my bulge as I passed. The circle closed as I made my second revolution, down to three feet, and close enough now to smell her perfume, a musky scent made that much more so by the natural aroma beginning to spread from between her legs. Her thighs were together, but unable to hide what I knew was going on inside her. The woman was hot, horny as could be, perhaps more than I was prepared to handle. Yet she was unable to do anything about it, but hope. She was enslaved, subjugated to my will, with no hope of escape.
Chapter One
I had to quit smoking. It was interfering with everything I did. I felt like a fool going down in the elevator to take a smoke break outside the office, a task made even worse in the winter. I hated not being able to enjoy a good smoke after dining out, or worse, after sex. Trying to find a woman with no smoking inhibitions was far more difficult than finding one who'd fuck on the first date. And I could no longer ignore the cacophony of claims throughout my world from media to doctors to those rat bastard refined smokers that my health was deteriorating with every drag. I simply had to quit, and yet nothing I had tried had worked.
The sign on the door a block and a half from my office read, "Hypnosis - painless control over bad habits." It was different. That's what I first thought, and did again every single day I past that door on my way to work. It was different. In the advertising business, we looked for "different," to catch the eye, but different still had to convey the message. This sign did, and yet I went through three years of passing it by without acting. Did that mean the message wasn't clear to me? Or did it mean I just wasn't ready to admit defeat and accept help?
That morning, I gave in. I pushed and the door opened against a heavy spring and led to a rather steep, narrow stairway. There was light enough to see but not enough to relieve concern. People died every month in dark hallways in New York City. I took the steps quickly and loudly as if that might scare any errant ghosts or ambushers away. At the top, the way was blocked by a metal door, with no handle and dead bolted from inside. It bore a sign that read, "Please Knock." I did.
I was about leave when a click sounded and the door opened inward. Strange, I thought, but I stepped through, less gingerly than the way I had climbed the stairs. When the threat of surprise rises, so does the level of caution, or cowardice.
"Come in, please." The voice was soft, un-hurried and warm. I walked in leaving a few of the butterflies in the stairway.
The woman, my soon-to-be hypnotist I assumed, was dressed in a printed floral patterned, long skirted dress with darker colors to match the gloom of the stairway. She rose to meet me with an open hand. I shook the cool slender fingers with mine, now stiff with concern. What the hell was I doing? She led me to a couch and guided me down into the plush cushions before sitting across from me in a matching arm chair.
I said, "Pardon me, but before we get carried away here..."
"Carried away?" She asked in genuine puzzlement.
Uh, oh... I thought, a littoral woman. You'd think I just asked her to suck my dick. We hate nit-pickers on the creative side of advertising. You tell them your product is the best, and they want proof. Don't they understand advertising is lies, all in their best interest? Would they listen to another word if we told them it was the third best product in its class? I said, "I mean, before we go any farther... What I mean is, I want to quit smoking."
She smiled and said calmly, "I know."
I was somewhat surprised by her response, but my New York cynicism overruled the surprise and I said quickly, "You know. I guess that's your job, the occult and all. Well, I noticed your sign downstairs, and it has kind of a direct marketing ring to it. Short but very to the point. Kind of like a brutal mouthwash, kills germs in thirty seconds, if you can take it that long. I suspect you have some salesmanship in your background, but what the hell? I thought I would see if there was a chance you might be able to help me." I can be pretty intense at times, and pretty cool at others. The cool times seem to become more and more scarce with experience. Sometimes I can be a real ass. I felt like one now and rested back into the comfortable couch.
She smiled again. Must be her defense, I thought.
"Only you can say if I can help you quit smoking." Matter of fact.
"Yes, well, I haven't been able to establish that yet, have I?" That came out a bit more direct than I had intended, but she started this oral sparring match. Actually, she seemed like a nice lady and didn't deserve to be considered guilty until proven innocent. "What I mean is, will you try to help me quit smoking?"
She smiled. I guess that pleased her, my capitulation. She pulled her armchair right up in front of me, so close that our knees were touching and I spread mine to let hers ride between. She leaned into me and stared directly into my eyes. For the first time in my life, I felt each of my eyes sending independent images to my brain. I could see different vein patterns in her eyes, flaws in the iris's even a slight difference in the timing of her blinks. My left eye was looking into her right, and my right into her left. It was all a bit unnerving in the sense of someone peering inside my head.
