Serena, Part 1 | |
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Serena, Part 1 puffery@prodigy.com The unassuming way that she descended the three shallow steps off the street; the uncontested victory of footwear comfort over show; the brushing back of her shoulder length natural blond hair as she shed today's mandatory raincoat; they all signaled American, fellow American. And if, by the very fact that I trouble you with such detail, you were to presume her more than a little attractive, well, then you would be getting to know something of me in addition. This particular bistro thrived on its decorous, coveted, street-side seating with a stash of five indoor tables little more than a contingency. Today, however, the great outdoors weren't so great. This young woman would have little choice but to settle into my snug little hollow. Further, having already cornered the prime real estate adjacent to the establishment's sole functioning heater, good sense and damp clothing would necessitate her locating pleasantly near me. And that's exactly what she did. Lest in its re-telling my observations border upon ogling, let me assure you that they were all executed surreptitiously and with the inconspicuousness of a master. I'm not without practice in such matters, what with something like twenty years of discreet female surveillance to my credit. You might even be startled to know that my initial enthusiasm was actually somewhat tempered. Certainly not with her appearance mind you but rather her all too familiar ethnicity. Let me explain. Empirically, European women in general, and the French in particular, are several times more likely to smoke than their health obsessed American sisters and it was precisely the reliable presence of such an audience that brought me frequently to this particular table. Truthfully, this is no tame preoccupation. It is an obsession; such an obsession that it is not an inconsiderable factor in my continuing Continental residence. This too requires some clarification. For lack of a better word you could call me a tobacco-phile although I find the sound of that imprecise and a bit too coarse. I've been afflicted (or blessed) with this particular fascination since I was a child. From my earliest memories I can recall being captivated watching women smoke. And to be more exact, the rapture specifically centers on attractive women - the younger the better; smoking cigarettes - the longer the better; and doing so in a sensual, provocative, and unequivocally feminine manner. Let's be square here. Like it or hate it, turned on or turned off, conscious or otherwise, recognizing the sexual overtones to smoking requires no postgraduate degree. Now while attractive smokers draw my most fervent attention, my fetish is not so insidious that I'll edit out an attractive non- practitioner altogether. Let's be reasonable here. So when, in a rather diffident manner, she slipped a softpack of Benson and Hedges Menthol Lights out of her parka pocket, I was not caught completely off-guard. My attention did however immediately intensify. Thanks to the superbly placed Heineken mirror I watched as she inadvertently nudged the pack up against that Parisian tabletop fixture - a Martini and Rossi, flame red, embossed ashtray - with the purse she aggressively continued to rifle through. Maintaining my exterior aloofness as she dug frustratingly through her purse, then all of her jacket pockets as well, in a progressively fruitless search for any functioning combustible, presented me with a not inconsiderable struggle to preserve my anonymity. With a full two minutes consumed and a growing air of exasperation about her, she reluctantly resigned her search in lieu of an alternative course. Approaching the counter to retrieved a book of matches, I was rewarded with my first full length profile. Man was she hot! Retreating, but not yet re-seating, she anxiously picked up the pack and expertly shook loose a single cigarette, my signal that the time was finally appropriate. Innocently, I looked up as if I'd not even seen her come in, feigned surprise at her very presence, then proffered my most beguiling smile. I clearly caught her by surprise and her American smoker's guilt raced pavlovianly. Cigarette, once dangling freely from her glistening lips, and match, in soon-to-be-lit pose, both froze. "Par- don" she sputtered out with an unmistakably Midwestern twang as she struggled vainly to recall the French for "Do you mind?" or some comparable apologetic. I smiled silently as she resorted to a Chaplin-esque cigarette lighting mime punctuated by a passably communicative, palms up "May I?" "Be my guest, ma'am" I both verbally responded and physically nodded, my distinctive Houstonian drawl completely throwing her for an evident loop. "You're an American?" she retorted, beginning interrogatively but, reality setting in, finishing rhetorically. "That would be so, ma'am" I responded with forced stoicism as, without fully standing, I took a short step with my ever ready lighter already ignited, the dancing flame accentuating her magnificent luminance. Her gentle little touch of my hand as I held the lighter was more familiar than two hours of conversation and the ensuing mellifluous "Thanks" maybe two more. Speechless, I watched torrents of smoke disappear to unseen recesses of her being with a familiar warmth encompassing me as I awaited the inevitable tornado. None of these individual events however prepared me for the barrage that was to come. "I've only been over here a little over a week" she continued "but I've got to tell you what a gigantic relief it is not having a bunch of pissy ant fuckheads shooting me those knowing little disgusted smirks. It just makes me want to walk up to them, stick my hand down their pants, pull out their puny cocks, and slice 'em up like a banana." Then with a decidedly non Marina Bobbitt little giggle she concluded "I guess you can tell that I haven't exactly mastered my self-consciousness over smoking yet, can't you? American are just so fucking cruel and self-righteous about it, don't you think?" I didn't respond immediately. It wasn't the kind of question that begged a thoughtful answer. As it was, I was having a difficult time camouflaging my surprise over her forthrightness and that was more containable than the captivation of watching her smoke. I was totally enraptured by this performance art she'd so clearly long ago perfected. The animation initiated by my flame was now bringing warmth to all extremities. Juxtapose Cameron Diaz with Jim Carrey and you've got the picture. Ethnically she might not have been French but stylistically her ravenous nostrils would never expose her. "Not a problem for me ma'am" I crooned two or three magnificent puffs later, my body temperature still rising. "It's entirely your business whether you smoke. Not mine. Not anybody else's." Pausing, I added on "And don't you ever let anybody tell you any different" then wondered belatedly if I'd laid it on a little too evangelically. "I'm Simon by the way" I quickly appended just in case reconnaissance was in order. Now it was her turn to pause. This big smile just enveloped her entire, likely Nordic lineage face as she volunteered "With that attitude I think you could be Jeffrey Dahmer and I'd still have you over for dinner. Not one guy in years has ever cut me a single minute's slack over my smoking. All I ever hear from these assholes is what a weakling and degenerate I am. Would you believe that I've actually lost two pretty serious boyfriends and one fiancee because when forced to choose between them and smoking ... and every one of the son-of-a-bitches made me choose ... no matter how dumb it seemed, the guys came in second." "In a way that kind of worries me" she rambled on. "It just doesn't seem natural. I never have figured out if I really love smoking that much or maybe they're right. I'm weak and scared shitless that I could never quit no matter what. Or maybe none of them have been worth quitting over. I don't suppose it matters much what the motivators are. The bottom line is that at this point in my life, and who knows, maybe it'll always be this way, it's 'love me, love my cigarettes'. How stupid does that sound, I want to know?" "Not one bit. Au contraire, sounds like a totally irresistible offer to me" I responded with a playful inflection and a knowing twinkle making certain to hold her gaze. "Anyone not up to that offer isn't up to you." Not seeming quite certain how to field that comment, she just laughed it off but there certainly wasn't anything to suggest that she was put off by the blatancy. To the contrary, she hardly broke stride continuing to chat on blithely with her disarmingly refreshing charm amid periodic pauses of nicotine ecstasy. Continuing to effervesce, she exuded "It sounds so fifties-ish, so play-it-again-Sam-ish to say this but may I offer you a cigarette, monsieur?" she teased, as she flipped the pack in my general direction, a single cigarette not coincidentally emerging in the maneuver. "I can think of little more considerate and I thank you for what is uncommon thoughtfulness in today's world, but unfortunately I'm afraid I'll have to decline. You see, actually personally I don't smoke. Haven't, for that matter, in a number of years." Holding fast to her gaze, a detectable tension infiltrated the conversation at that moment. But barely hesitating, I alleviated. "Even though I don't smoke like I've already indicated, I just don't happen to mind others smoking. In a way I even kind of like it." And rapid fire her expression transformed from mild disappointment to major disbelief. "You what? You kind of like it? You kind of like people smoking around you?" she reiterated in every possible permutation while stubbing out her cigarette. Perhaps inadvertently exhaling directly at me, "You kind of like it?" she muttered one more time as if the words themselves would somehow breed understanding. "For God's sake where have you been all my fuckin' life?" she cooed. "All these well scrubbed boyfriends I've had haven't been able to dish out disapproval fast enough and here's a hunk who actually likes smoking. For Christ's sake, I'm the one who smokes and I don't always even like it myself. How the hell can a nonsmoker like you say such a preposterous thing?" she questioned. "Oh, and by the way I'm Serena. " Again I was in no particular rush to respond. The reference to me being a hunk grounds enough for pleasant reflection. Her jiggling out a second cigarette on the heels of stubbing out her first, gave me further opportunity as I lit it for her and then sat back to watch her inhale. Once assured that the cigarette was properly lit, she took an extremely hard pull parting her lips just enough for me to see the lucky smoke be helplessly sucked behind those luscious breasts. In no rush to exhale, she stared back at me for several seconds with her tongue teasing her upper lip. In good time she did exhale, not once, not twice, but three times before her lungs were apparently evacuated. And given that at this point she was again drawing firmly, who's to say they'd even been fully evacuated then. Never taking my eyes off her, I finally commented with unabrogated suggestiveness "I don't know how that was for you but I know how it was for me. Watching a beautiful woman like you enjoy a cigarette, crave it, master it, envelop it, consume it; you could say that I find that act exceptionally arousing. That's what I mean when I say I kind of like it. I more than kind of like it." Revealing just the slyest hint of a smile ... okay, a licentious one at that ... I awaited her reaction. I didn't have to wait long. She met my glance head on with a mixture of dumbfoundedness and wonder. "Arousing? You aren't talking about physically arousing, are you?" she posed as a question with skepticism clamoring out of every pore. "You're putting me on aren’t you? This is a game you play to somehow set us smokers up to eventually feel even more wretched and depraved than usual, right?" she continued, but I noted just the most fleeting glance at my crotch as she spoke. Fleeting however did nothing more than mandate a return visual visit to my undeniably bulging Levi's. And doing so, no further corroboration would be called for. "Well I'll be God damned to hell" she said. "Something's revved your motor. I guess maybe you do find smoking sexy, don't you, you apparently well endowed little rascal? One part of me says 'God must have sent you' yet the other cries out 'What a fuckin' pervert.' I honest to God don't know whether to be honored or repulsed by your peculiar form of recognition." There was something about her body chemistry that suggested to me that the question had already been answered for her but she'd have to make that discovery herself. On the other hand, perhaps I could help her along just a little bit. The journey looked short and all down hill. "Let me tell you what I see when I watch a breathtaking woman like you smoke Serena. From the moment that you put your pack of Benson & Hedges on the table there was this sense of mystery about you. The determined yet delicate way that you removed the cigarette from the pack. The way your lips gently but firmly clasped the cigarette as you took my light. The charm and sensuousness of the gentle little caress of your fingertips as I cradled the flame. The elegant, upright way that you hold a cigarette, the interminable pauses between your inhales and exhales, and then the measured precision of your exhales. Your confluence of confidence and control with simplicity and nonchalance. Your portfolio of styles and perfection of each. And maybe most of all, that look of sheer contentment you radiate as the nicotine works its magic sublime." I paused only long enough to take a quick reading and the sensors said she was fully engaged. It might even be a little wet under the table. "So you see, the way you smoke a cigarette is pure sensuality to me. There's other elements as well that get a little more psychologically convoluted. Should I continue?" I already knew her answer but none-the-less awaited the affirmative nod and the endless bobbing exhale that majestically accompanied it. "Well, you certainly can't overlook the Madonna-whore aspects either. There is something totally erotic about a woman who clearly places pleasure high on her list. Smoking, particularly today, makes you a kind of wanton woman and to more of us than you can possibly imagine, that's a total turn-on - a woman who first seeks creature comforts." Then taking a final gamble I finished, "And as a climax, I suppose I needn't even broach the weakly camouflaged symbolism of watching a woman lick and suck a firm cylindrical object." That last comment again caught her totally unprepared but surprisingly both unfazed and unfettered. With nothing more than a momentary pause, she took a substantial drag, exposed an intentionally impressive sphere of smoke allowing it to languish tauntingly between her cherry lips, then took it Mark McGuire hard and deep. If her coy little smile left any question as to her receptivity to my explanation, it was dismissed by the alluring roll of her tongue along her glistening upper lip as we both awaited the delightfully expectant exhale now within her command. It came concurrent with her right hand settling well up my left thigh, perhaps in scientific confirmation of the sorcery she'd performed. Before I continue, I guess I should point out how slow a day it was. We remained the only two customers in the bistro and through a set of small movements we now shared a single table. I couldn't however explain those movements if my life depended upon it. Just some strange preternatural mating choreography I suppose. It is then neither an accident nor an acrobatic phenomenon that her hand should have meandered to its new and welcome location nor I suppose the corresponding and near simultaneous placement of mine. The pot at the end of the rainbow she was now exploring should come as no surprise to her but my explorations were a bit more unpredictable. I must say however I was more than pleasantly rewarded by encountering distinctly damp undies before the formal transgression of her welcomingly lubricated pussy, another testimonial to the erotic power of my personal fantasies. The good sense to relocate to a more intimate venue gave way to the passion of the moment. We didn't even retire to the privacy of the WC. We just got it on there. Gently we rocked each other back and forth with dexterous digits until finally her warmth and wetness explosively released, her free hand tightly over her mouth to stifle the vocalization of ecstasy. Her bliss unmistakable, I offered and lit a fresh cigarette - for her now a post-coital treat. Cigarette heavily lipsticked and hanging slut style from her lips - what with both her hands otherwise occupied - and smoke billowing out around it, her first few lusty puffs in conjunction with her skilled handicraft brought me quickly into a rather sticky situation of my own. I'd just engaged in a public sexual encounter and before my third morning cup of coffee. Neither of us had the foggiest notion where this might lead to next but clearly neither of us were rushing for the door, at least not alone. After a little freshening up we agreed to an early lunch and left the bistro together now arm-in-arm. While our intentions were to head for an 'in' little spot I'd taken intimate acquaintances to before, the walk necessarily took us past my flat in the process. Grabbing a half dozen items, the minimal number of necessary supplies at the corner store, we chose my place as an alternative rendezvous. Our hunger once again raged and it wasn't for lunch. In a movie-like scene we undressed each other one luscious article at a time taking substantial time to sample each new cuisine. Nothing disappointed. Her blondness was pleasantly universal, her skin silky to the touch with a complexion of pure ivory, and her distinctively unexpected navel ring - a remarkable turn-on. Everything was low calorie, nourishing, and delightfully insatiable. Just as I was about to direct her through the door and onto my awaiting bed which I had fortuitously made that morning, she paused to reach into her purse. Expecting her to produce some form of protection, I was pleased to see that it was instead her cigarettes that she'd again retrieved. Pushing me back down into the chair, she draped herself salaciously over its nearby garage sale companion. Mechanically she rapped against her wrist the new pack of full strength Benson and Hedges that she'd just purchased. "Fuck those god damned Lights I've been smoking. Just another apologetic concession to politically correct behavior" she'd said at the time. "If you're looking for a naughty little girl then this naughty little girl might as well get all the pleasure she can too, don't you agree?" And so this self-proclaimed naughty little girl proceeded to put on a show. Legs distractingly spread, she opened the pack meticulously and deliberately, then audaciously tapped out a couple of white filter tips substituting my recovering rod for her wrist. First brushing the partially exposed cigarettes from stem to tip, she next drew the pack back up to her lips. Capturing a cigarette, she then teased it out as she slowly withdrew the pack momentarily laying it to rest upon my pronouncedly pulsating crotch. My reaction certainly didn't go unnoticed. She watched me rise to rigid attention with far more than my eyes. Throbbingly, I saluted as she conducted a classroom demonstration on how to seductively light, draw on, inhale, and exhale a cigarette. Cigarette dangling provocatively from what were now obviously moist lips and ashtray in hand, she floated about me landing butterfly lightly on her knees square between my anticipatively parted legs. For perhaps a minute she kept both hands gainfully employed to my incredible delight and just when I thought it could get no better, she made a single comment "What was that you said about licking and sucking cylindrical objects?" Then swallowing a colossal drag, she sent me in after it. In awe I watched as exhaling smoke made literal my figuratively burning loins. Two more similar iterations and the smoke summoned a well deserved and welcomely received chaser. Two horny Yanks in Paris had found each other. I hadn't the foggiest notion of whether the attraction ran deeper. Hadn't given it any thought. For the moment I didn't care. Here was an incredibly hot and uninhibited young woman who would live out my smoking fetishes with lust no less than my own. Whether we were long-term destined for each other wasn't even a thought. I couldn't think beyond the next orgasm and on that account our brief history indicated more of a need for a stopwatch than a calendar. We did do the Brie and baguette thing with a little vino and admittedly I was in need of this kind of sustenance too. It just hadn't been a priority. We talked a little about what got us to Paris and what might lie ahead. It didn't sound like there were any priorities for either of us any more pressing than this grope fest. She might be looking for a job over here but she really hadn't thought things out that far yet. Her last relationship had just come unglued and she just plain had to get away. We both agreed that she'd made a great choice of where to come. Halfheartedly I suggested that we go back out and maybe walk the Seine and she agreed that we could probably use a little variety in this exercise program that we'd just embarked upon. In the meantime however the conversation just took over again thwarting the best of intentions. Finding the story behind a woman smoking nearly as erotic as the act itself, I'd casually introduced the topic and she took it from there. The outdoors would just have to wait. "Well, I'll have to think about that for a minute" she began. "How exactly did I start smoking? Well it was probably a good ten years ago now. I was maybe twelve or thirteen, twelve I think, at the time. No one smoked around our place. My folks hated smoking. Actually my folks weren't fond of many things other than ladder climbing. They were so busy with their lives that they barely knew that my sister or I existed. I can remember that I tried smoking with a couple of my friends but I'm pretty sure we didn't inhale. The kids I hung with were like A- list and smoking wasn't really on the seventh grade agenda. It was more like a ninth grade thing for them. No, you couldn't say that it was really my friends that got me started. Maybe more like the other way around would be more accurate" she chuckled. "It was actually my aunt, my dad's brother's wife where it all started. This aunt's kind of a crazy woman. Actually she's more than just crazy, she's got more than a little problem with the bottle as well. I don't really know the whole story but Aunty Neve was always on the outs with the rest of the family one way or another. Nothing she did was ever good enough for them. I felt kind of sorry for her 'cause she'd always been okay to me. It was the summer after sixth grade when she started asking me to baby-sit for her and I didn't really have much better to do. I didn't really need the money 'cause the way my folks justified their inattention was by buying me and my younger sister most anything we wanted. We were kind of rich then but unfortunately it came apart later. I'll tell you about that some other time. At least baby sitting would get me out of the mausoleum we called a home. So anyhow I started baby sitting for Aunty Neve that summer and hanging out there quite a bit. Most days she didn't actually go anywhere. Only Thursday afternoons, which was her shopping day, was she sure to go out. For some reason shopping would always seem to take her at least four hours. But that's another story too. Most of the time she'd just pay me for helping out or just being there. We'd spend a lot of the time at her kitchen table and she'd chain smoke Salems and sip enthusiastically away at her jug of Chianti. Eventually she'd either get silly and giggly or morose and start crying. I'd listen either way. The silly was more entertaining but the morose more educational. One day when I was particularly pissed about something, I was taking my turn bitching about my parents. This was an action always certain to draw her wholehearted support. I said something about how lucky they were that I was such a model kid, near straight A's and all, and I wondered just how they would feel if I started causing trouble. I rambled on extolling my own virtues saying something about not drinking or smoking and blahdy, blahdy, blah. It was just one of those pity pot days. Before I quite knew what hit me, Aunty Neve had my empty water glass half full with wine and was handing me her freshly lit cigarette across the table. For a moment I just froze thinking that since I'd kind of just described how she was that maybe she was offended. I should have known better. With unusual animation she said something like "Well, so there's your answer. You can be just like me and that'll sure get their attention, won't it?" flashing a big grin. The irony suddenly struck me and I began to laugh too as she concluded "Go ahead. Take my cigarette." So put to the test I said "You're really serious about this, aren't you? You'd honest-to-God let me do this stuff here if I wanted, wouldn't you? I bet you'd even let me bring some guy over to sleep with if I was in to that, wouldn't you?" "Fuckin' right!" was her patented response. "Just let me know when your ready. Nobody likes to get walked in on. I should know" she concluded cryptically. Continuing, "I don't need a niece near as bad as I need a friend. It's about time for you grow up anyway, Kathy. And I'll tell you this, when they find out that you're another Neve, I want to be there to rub their faces in it." That day began the transformation from Kathy to Serena. "So for the first time, certainly the first time in front of an adult, I said 'What the fuck', raised up the wine glass up awkwardly and took a little sip, and then lifted the cigarette gingerly from the ashtray acclimating to the feathery feel of this contraband object. My history of cussing, drinking, and smoking were all launched in a matter of seconds. All soon to become comfortable friends. |
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