All persons described having sex are over the age of 18.
Special thanks to Ciguardian, who commissioned this tale, provided me with great inspiration and details, helped me edit and tweak the story.
From a young age I'd been fascinated by women smoking. The ones that dominated my mind were the glamorous women dressed to the nines: stockings, heels, coiffed hair, deep red lipstick and pearls. White tendrils of smoke, wrapping around their moist tongues before they inhaled enchanted me, their sexuality inextricably entwined with the oral-centric habit.
I grew up in a different time, mind you. Cigarettes were not readily advertised as being unhealthy as they are now. I still remember a vague commercial or two about which brands doctors smoked. Every actress on television and in the movies smoked; it was a part of everyday life. So it is no wonder I became enamored of my mother, who also smoked.
I remember looking forward to watching her smoke her after-dinner cigarette. She'd come into the living room and sit down on the couch while I was sprawled on the floor watching the television, pull out her pack and light up while she set her ashtray on the coffee table. I don't remember what show came on during that hour, but I never watched a minute of it, my eyes were riveted to her as she pulled on that cigarette, the end burning brightly as she drew smoke into her mouth.
She'd exhale, that sweet sound of relaxation as her foot bounced lazily below her knee where her legs were crossed. From my vantage point on the floor I tried to look up her skirts, even at that young age, though I could never see anything of consequence. I'd seen a pinup or two, and even caught glimpse of an issue of Playboy once, so I had an idea what things might look like underneath, but I was hungry for first-hand knowledge.
Mom was a looker, a real head turner, if I do say so myself. Her shiny blond hair, waves of golden silk carefully prepared each day along with her meticulous makeup, made her seem as beautiful and glamorous as the women in the movies. She wore curve-hugging clothes, neatly tailored at home by the light of a bare bulb on an ancient sewing machine she worked at tirelessly to keep herself stylish. I can still remember the day I became aware of the flare of her hips and the mouth-watering shape of her derriere, I think it was the first time I popped an insta-boner. Not that I didn't notice her well-formed, pear shaped breasts, especially when she wore those soft, fuzzy sweaters. I swear I think I spent more time imagining the shape of her nipples, willing them to appear by staring holes into her tops, than looking at her face. Whenever I'd look up, caught ogling once again, she'd just smile, a wistful, almost pained look.
Finished with her smoke, she'd ruffle my hair and head off to whatever chore needed doing next. I'd watch her until she turned a corner, my adolescent heart pounding, counting silently the minutes until the next night when the routine would repeat itself.
It wasn't all hazy daydreams and unrequited longing. Mom ran a tight ship, and I, as the only crewman of that ship, had a lot of weight to pull. She worked long, hard hours at a real estate firm, working her way up from receptionist and finally to junior agent after studying for the exam at home. I remember the small celebration we had, a couple of cupcakes topped with candles to mark the occasion.
She made sure I was current on all my school work, drilling me with facts whenever a large test loomed, or I'd come home with a substandard grade. By the time high school came around Mom had me so accustomed to working hard I was acing all of my classes and amazing my teachers.
Mom was almost as fanatical about working out. She was ever conscious of her figure, knowing full well it was part of her success as a real estate agent, and she never let me slack in that area, as well. To this day I can't pass by a gym and see women working out in tights and not feel my heart tugged by memories of working out with mom. It was during these sessions I got to see more of her shapely body, though it was still within propriety, Mom was a stickler for that as well.
Despite the prime physical shape she whipped me into, I never excelled at sports. Mom blamed my lack of a father figure. The sperm donor, as she referred to my unknown father, had bolted at the news of her pregnancy, leaving behind yet another unwed, teenage mother to bring shame upon her family. She'd recount the events whenever I asked, a vague recollection of a handsome boy who appeared suddenly and left the same way. In the beginning I remember a misty sadness in her eyes, in time they dried completely, as if the pain had never existed. She always told me I was the only man she ever needed, and I guess I never questioned why she didn't date. Later, when I grew up and understood more, I guessed I was the reason why she didn't have many suitors. It was still an age where our situation brought down a certain amount of shame. Sure there were men who would have loved to take Mom to bed, but she kept them at arm's length, occasionally seeming to welcome their advances to further her career, but never letting them close the deal.
My smoking fascination was not limited to just watching others do it, I wanted to smoke as well. I played with Mom's cigarettes on occasion, holding them up to my mouth and pretending to suck in a lung full. She caught me once, when I was twelve, holding a lipstick stained butt from her ashtray up to my lips as my fingers tried to work the lighter.
"Danny! What are you doing?" she said in her motherly tone, though I wouldn't have called it yelling. She barely had to raise her voice and I was already sorry.
"I just wanted to try," I answered after whipping the cigarette out of my mouth and holding it behind my back. Her face softened and she held out her hands until I placed the pilfered items in her palms.
"You are still too young," she said softly. "Maybe when you are older you can try."
"When?" I asked quickly, my heart filling with hope.
