Coffee Companion

(by, 22 November 2003)

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Coffee Companion
by John Wexford

I was in an up-market coffeehouse waiting for my companion to arrive.  She's a
beautiful young lady with whom three years ago I used to practice
cross-country running.  We were both competitive athletes then.  I still am.
She's amazing.  Stunning isn't the word for it.  Oh she could run faster than
I, because she did so much training, but I liked the look of her cute ass as I
followed her.

Well, anyway, she went away for a while to another town and then, out of the
blue, came back again.  The first I heard of her return was when she phoned me
and asked if I wanted to meet for coffee.  Did I?  Well, you bet I did!

Well, here I was in the coffeehouse; she came in and kissed me on the cheek.
She was dressed in a short red plaid skirt and a sleeveless black top with a
thin gold chain and pendant around her neck, a slight cleavage modestly
revealed.  Her skin was very slightly tanned and her long hair was golden.
She laid a packet of Marlboro Reds on the table in front of her and a gold
plated Zippo lighter.

"Are you still running?" she asked.

"Me?  Ah yeah, still at it?  You?"

With a shrug, she's said "Not any more; been there, done that..."

"...bought the tee shirt."  I completed the sentence.

"Well, you'd certainly beat me now; I'd be lagging way behind." she said, 
eyes glancing momentarily at her pack.  "I've been on these for two and a 
half years now.  I've had a lot of practice!".

Did I detect a slight smile as she looked at my face?  Something perhaps 
that indicated that she knew about my fetish.  Perhaps I was imagining it, 
but then there's not much men can hide from women.

We ordered salads and talked about all the friends we knew and what they're 
doing now.

Eventually my friend's right hand reached for her pack.  She took off the 
cellophane and opened the top to reveal the twenty beautiful cylinders ready 
to yield her so much pleasure, at intervals over the next day or two. I 
hoped they would give me pleasure too as I'd watch what I hoped would be 
some excellent artwork. Anne is not a woman to do things by halves. She's a 
perfectionist and if she put the same amount of effort into her smoking 
style as she put into her athletics, there would be a treat in store.

She smoked two cigarettes during our long conversation over several cups of 
coffee, but the casual phrase "smoked two cigarettes" doesn't do justice to 
what I saw.   In the most demure and lady-like way she used mouth, hands, 
cheeks and nostrils to create cones and other types of exhale.   Sometimes 
she simply wreathed herself with smoke, so that her face would become 
cloudy.  Almost miraculously cigarettes had become a defining part of her 
personality and her being.

I loved seeing each perfect cigarette in her mouth as she prepared to apply 
her lighter to its end.  She paused a little as she concentrated on the 
conversation before finally bringing fiery life to each of these cylindrical 
pleasure instruments in order to yield both satisfaction to her body and, to 
my male eyes, a wonderful apparition of feminine beauty and elegance.

I adored seeing each cigarette between her carefully manicured fingers as 
she rested her elbow on her right knee, a knee that rested on top of her 
left knee leaving her right foot dangling, a knee that her skirt could not 
quite cover.   She'd exhale a luxuriant cone and the lighted cigarette would 
give off its own dancing smoke.

The tip would glow red and there would be a very slight hollowing of her 
cheek, as, every inch a lady, she'd draw the cigarette's essence into her 

Each of these two cigarettes was smoked so perfectly, even though she was 
engrossed in conversation.  I've heard it said that women are good 
multi-taskers and I can well believe it.  It was clear indeed that she had 
had a lot of practice, although, of course, her remark earlier on had been 
meant humorously.  She was never one to boast.

We met on quite a few other occasions after that.

I'll never forget these times with Anne and my memories of our running 
together.  They're sealed in my memory and rehearsed so that when I'm tense 
after a long day it makes it easier for me to bring relaxation and a sigh of 
relief to myself before I go to sleep.

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