Phoenix Ascending, Part 2

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From: sullivangm@aol.com (SULLIVANGM)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.fetish.smoking
Subject: Story:  Phoenix Ascending, Part 2 of 4
Date: 29 Dec 1996 13:04:21 GMT
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[Note - contact address for this author now msulliva@asacomp.com]

Notice:  This story has been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
strong sexual content, violence, and explicit smoking.  If you find any of
this objectionable, try "Alt.Dr_Seuss.Fan-Fiction" instead.

Copyright 1996 by G. M. Sullivan.  All rights reserved.  This story may be
copied and distributed for the uncompensated amusement of others only. 

DEDICATION:  To Linda, with love.

Author's note:  This is a sequel to my previously posted story "Dying for
a Cigarette."  For a full understanding (if it's possible), I suggest you
read that story first.


"Phoenix Ascending"  Part Two of Four


Part Two:  Spiritual Blues


5.  8 January, Marcia's Agency, 2:30 PM

Natalie entered the small conference room.  Seated at its round table were
two young models, both with the "look" Natalie had come to associate with
Marcia's stable of talent; innocent looking, a little bustier than was
typical, and of course stunningly attractive.  One had short, curly,
blonde hair; the other long, straight, chestnut tresses.  Both showed
every evidence of Master Beautician Beth's tender loving care.

"Hello, Mizz Kelly!"  The blonde greeted her cheerily.  "I'm Bluebelle
Loving, and this is Charlotte Devereau.  The other Mizz Kelly told us you
were coming to teach us to smoke."  

The table was laid out neatly with several open packs of cigarettes;  Eve
120s, B&H Menthols and Regulars, Winston 100s, and Salem Light 100s. 
There were also lighters, glasses, a pitcher of ice water, and even an
assortment of holders to fit the differing cigarette widths.  Marcia was
always well-prepared.

"My sister is the only 'Ms. Kelly' around here," Natalie said, smiling. 
"Please call me Natalie."  During an exchange of pleasantries, Natalie
obtained some background on both models.  They were younger than Natalie,
from the metro area, short-timers at the agency, and in awe of their
finally "making it" in the Big Apple.

"Tell me about why you need to smoke," Natalie asked. 

Bluebelle spoke first.  "I've got an audition for a vid at a local
specialty house.  A smoking video." Bluebelle blushed fetchingly.  "I
guess it serves the same purpose as a porno movie, for some men.  Only I
don't have to get groped by strangers or even strip.  I can wear really
nice clothes.  All I have to do is...smoke sexy!"

Natalie wondered if "Bluebelle" had had any experience in the "other" sort
of porno movie.

"Smoking videos," Natalie mused.  Many aspects of Marcia's business were
strange to her; this was just the latest surprise.  It had not occurred to
her that any men would find female smoking so attractive that they would
pay for a video of it.  For a moment, she fantasized about being in such a
video herself, smoking seductively in a formal gown, being watched by
unknown men who would desire her...

Natalie interrupted her daydreaming.  "How about you, Charlotte?"

"Nothing so exiting.  I'm on a shoot for 'Taxi' magazine, and they want
some exhale shots.  It's supposed to be a spread on 'fashions for smoky
places.'"

All of these images produced in Natalie an urgent desire to smoke.  On
impulse, she tapped out a B&H Menthol.  Remembering her didactic role, she
made her every move slow and deliberate, holding either Charlotte's or
Bluebelle's eyes during the whole process.

Natalie placed the cigarette in her lips.  She took a lighter from the
table and lit her cigarette, drawing more deeply than she usually did,
imagining she was performing for an appreciative male audience.  She
removed the cigarette and revealed the creamy, swirling, smoke within,
letting some escape her mouth in a small, ball-shaped cloud.  Then she
captured it all with her inhale.  After a few moments she began a slow
exhale, mixing small wisps from her nostrils with the far heavier flow
from her mouth.  Smoke streamed liquidly across the table toward the two
models.

That, or better, is the desired result," Natalie said, remnants of the
puff escaping as she spoke.  "But we won't get there immediately.  Never,
if we don't get started."  She decided the Salem Lights were best for the
models' "beginner" cigarettes, and had each of the girls take one and a
lighter.

"Hold the cigarettes in your lips while you use the lighters.  When you
bring the flame to the tip, suck gently and briefly.  Don't try to copy
me, yet.  Just hold the smoke in your mouth for as long as you feel
comfortable, then blow it out.  Don't breathe in while you've got the
smoke in your mouth.  Okay, now let's try it."

Natalie saw she didn't need to coach these models on poise or grace; it
already showed in every move they made, and handling cigarettes was no
exception.  Grace was forgotten, though, as the women drew in their first
mouths-full of smoke.  Bluebelle in particular made such a sour face that
Natalie had to suppress a laugh.  Both women blew out their tiny puffs and
sipped water.

"Eeewwee," said Bluebelle.  "People do this for fun?"

"People jump out of airplanes for fun, too."  Skydiving was Marcia's
favorite hobby.  Natalie, of course, had never tried it.  "Like any other
adult activity, it takes a little experience before you can appreciate it.
 The taste gets easier to take."  To put it mildly, Natalie thought,
taking a vigorous drag.  "Now let's try a few more puffs just like those
last ones."

The models did, with Charlotte being much the better of the two.  On her
fourth puff she inhaled shallowly before loosing her cloud.  Bluebelle
noticed the difference and shot her an annoyed look.  "I  thought you said
you never..."

Charlotte laughed.  "Well, I lied.  I smoked for six months when I was 14,
then was grounded for six more.  It's amazing, though, how it all comes
back."

And when was that, Charlotte, Natalie thought.  Last year?  "Okay, girls,
let's put these out and start fresh for the next phase."  She wanted the
smoke to be as cool as possible for their inhaling lessons.  Natalie
watched as they stubbed their Salems and took new ones.

"Can we use the holders?" asked Bluebelle.

"Let's leave those for after we're finished with 'basic training,'"  said
Natalie.  She watched as the models lit up.  "Very good.  Now, this time,
after you take a small drag but before you blow it out, breathe in a
little air.  Just a little.  It may make you cough or gag, Bluebelle, so
be ready."

Bluebelle looked piqued but determined to pull even with her friend.  When
Charlotte drew strongly on her cigarette, so did Bluebelle.  When
Charlotte produced a very dense and respectable exhale, so did
Bluebelle...almost.  Charlotte patted her back sympathetically as
Bluebelle hacked ungracefully.

"Don't worry about it, Bluebelle," Natalie said.  "It happened to me the
same way."  Last month, she didn't add.  "You both have the basics, now. 
The rest is practice.  Charlotte, you're the 'ringer' here, so I want you
to stick close and help Bluebelle.  Work together in front of a mirror
when you can, and concentrate on looking stylish and natural.  Marcia has
a list of movies here for you.  Rent one or two and watch how these women
use cigarettes for effect.  My favorite is 'Embrace of the Vampire...'"

"Oooh, I saw that one!" said Bluebelle.  "Remember when her friend gets
her head bashed in..."

"Cool it, Bluebelle," said Charlotte.  "Concentrate on smoking."

Bluebelle did so, managing to exhale a petite smoke stream without
coughing.

"Attagirl, Bluebelle," said Charlotte.

"You're both doing fine now," said Natalie.  "You'll need to pace
yourselves for a few days.  You too, Charlotte.  Nicotine is a powerful
stimulant, especially at first.  Just remember to practice regularly."

"By the weekend we'll be ready for Carnegie Hall!" said Bluebelle.


6.  8 January, Central Park, 7:20 PM

Flinn walked down a newly paved path to a formerly secluded clearing.  In
its center was a large oak.  Beneath the oak was a recently erected marble
stand and plaque, commemorating the site of Dorothy's Christmas Miracle. 
This was very fast work.  Normally, permanent additions to Central Park
monuments required months if not years of painstaking committee review.

Poor kid, Flinn thought.  Now she and her friends will need to find
somewhere else to sneak a smoke.

Flinn squatted down to examine the small pile beneath the marble stand. 
Roses had been laid there, and two bananas.  Even several unopened packs
of cigarettes.  Offerings, Flinn supposed.

Flinn straightened, suppressing a shiver.  This sort of thing pulled at
doors in his mind which he had long ago closed.  Raised as a Catholic, his
last Confession had been before he earned his badge, 25 years ago.  Long
before.

People he knew didn't make offerings at park "shrines."  That sort of
feeling was foreign to him.  He didn't trust it, and didn't trust the sort
of people who acted on it.  He alternately found it ludicrous and
disturbingly eerie.

And now he was falling in love with a woman hip-deep in the whole affair. 
Without waiting to further examine that thought, Flinn left.     


7.  8 January, Central Park West, 7:30 PM

Flinn emerged from the park just across the street from the high-rise
where the Risling family lived.  He spotted Natalie standing in front of
the lobby door, cigarette in hand, blowing luminescent smoke into the cold
air.  Flinn drank in the sight gratefully.  During the days of the
ASK-man, no one had dared take such risks.  Now, slowly, the sight of
people smoking in public was coming back, and his Natalie was leading the
way.

When the opportunity came, Flinn jogged across the street and grabbed
Natalie in a hug.  She kissed him with her lungs full of smoke and he
drank greedily of her emissions.  He had resisted this for a while because
it had been a special rite between him and his dead lover-partner, but he
had at last given in.  Now, Flinn thought, if I could only get her off
those damned menthols!

Flinn and Natalie rode to the elevator to the 26th floor and rang the
chime.  George Risling opened the door and greeted them warmly, hugging
Natalie and shaking Flinn's hand vigorously.  From behind George, Dorothy
appeared and grabbed Natalie in a big embrace.

It was not the couple's first meeting with the Rislings, but it was their
first "social" occasion at the Risling home.  The duplex apartment was
poshly decorated, reflecting the success of George's career as a
commodities broker.  Nancy Risling ushered them into the living room for a
pre-dinner cocktail.

All of the Rislings smoked, including Dorothy, and no one seemed to think
it at all unusual.  Between the five of them, the living was soon filled
with soft, floating, white layers.

Natalie was monopolizing the conversation, filling the Rislings in on
preparations for the Javits Center benefit.  Flinn shifted uncomfortably
on the couch.  This was another thing he neither understood nor liked. 
What did Natalie hope to gain by parading her personal thoughts and
experiences in front of 40,000 strangers?  It would draw a lot of
attention to things Flinn thought better forgotten.  He just hoped she
wouldn't tell any secrets, intentionally or otherwise.

He had tried before to dissuade Natalie from this crazy idea, but it was
like yanking on a locked door.  He had gotten nowhere, and had managed to
anger her once or twice.

Flinn's real discomfort, however, came later after the catered steak
dinner.  After pleasantly drifting around a number of harmless topics,
conversation again turned to the Christmas Miracle.

When Dorothy spoke of it, her eyes became unfocused, seeming to glimpse
vistas hidden from normal mortal sight.  When she spoke, her was voice
dreamy, hypnotic, unlike any child Flinn had ever heard.

"I was chosen," she intoned.  "I don't know by who, but I was.  Chosen to
live.  Chosen to speak.  Chosen to guide.  If I don't, people will be
confused.  People will be afraid.  People will be lost."

It was all Flinn could do to restrain himself from debunking the "miracle"
then and there.  This couldn't be healthy for Dorothy, for Natalie, for
any of them, to have a child speaking this way.  That, he knew, would be
the finish for his relationship with Natalie.  So, still against his
better judgment, he said, "Dorothy, have you stopped to consider that this
may all be...a little less important than you think, right now?  Maybe you
should give it some time..."

Natalie shot Flinn an angry look, blowing smoke at him as if to conceal
his offending remarks.  The elder Rislings looked uncomfortable.  Only
Dorothy seemed oblivious to his condescension.  She took a cigarette, and
watching her light it and inhale her first puff reminded Flinn of the
incense rituals of a thousand long-ago masses.

"The millennium is coming,"  Dorothy said, exhaling her "holy" smoke.  "I
don't have the time to wait.  It must be soon, or...or...we will all get
lost."

"You'll have to excuse Jake," said Natalie, also exhaling.  "He's just a
hard-headed...police officer."

"No offense meant," mumbled Flinn, hating himself for caving in, fearing
that he had angered Natalie.  Why couldn't things be simpler?


8.  8 January, West 101st Street, 10:46 PM

When they were together Natalie preferred her own apartment to his, and
Flinn agreed it was no contest in terms of cleanliness and spaciousness. 
Still, he would have felt more comfortable at home.

Most of Natalie's things were boxed up for the movers.  Soon she would be
moving to her sister's brownstone, which Marcia was having subdivided into
two duplex apartments.  It was still, however,  neater than his flat.

Flinn began, "Look Natalie, I'm sorry about..."

"Shhhh..." said Natalie.  Happily, she seemed to have left her anger at
the Rislings.  "You're sorry, but I'm horny.  Let's go to bed."   

Flinn needed no further encouragement.  He and Natalie undressed each
other, not frantically but with some urgency.  Soon they were in bed, and
Flinn reached over to switch off the light.

"Leave it on," Natalie said.  "I like to see you when we make love."  This
was not Flinn's usual way, and it left him feeling exposed to nonexistent,
disapproving stares, but he wasn't going to press his luck at this point. 
The light stayed on.

As they caressed, stroked, and kissed, Flinn felt all the world's
confusions and fears drain out of him, lost in a tide of rising
excitement.  He didn't always gain this from his lovemaking; often he
remained distracted and anxious.  Not with Natalie, though.  Never with
her, as yet.

When their mutual arousal allowed no further delay, Flinn mounted her, and
Natalie reached for her pack of cigarettes.  She had done this before, and
Flinn didn't mind.  In fact, it seemed to increase his excitement. 
Natalie needed her reminders, still.  Even in the haze of her desire, she
felt a twinge of fear that she might be lost in ecstasy, her new self
washed away, her precious anger dissolved in joy.

Flinn did not pause to light her cigarette; he was otherwise engaged. 
Natalie drew heavily of the sustaining, defining smoke as they moved in
poignant unison.  Her exhale came with her first orgasm,  mouth stretched
wide, eyes tightly shut.  Flinn pulled at the emerging smoke as if to
snatch it and Natalie's very breath away, to devour her utterly.

Feeling Natalie's spasms and experiencing the clenching of her sweet
vaginal muscles was usually too much for Flinn to resist.  Tonight,
though, he was determined to hold out, to continue until Natalie wept with
helpless pleasure.  Watching her take another slow, almost unconscious
drag on her cigarette increased his urgency, if possible, and he drove her
without mercy, demanding her response.

As she exhaled only inches from his lips, Natalie felt her nerve-endings
begin to erupt in a series of almost unbearable orgasms.  She drew again
and again on the cigarette to sustain her identity, bathing their faces in
sweet smoke, holding on for life itself.  Flinn could resist no longer and
joined her in the gathering oblivion, draining himself utterly within her.
 Their limbs entwined tightly,  twitching together in a series of
aftershocks.

Much later, while he and Natalie lay together smoking in silence, Flinn
felt his worries and doubts begin to resurface.  More than ever now he
feared for her, and for himself if he were to lose her.  He had  to try
again to turn her away from the recent past and from the sort of madness
they had witnessed at dinner that night.

"Natalie," he began, "about tonight, those things Dorothy said.  What do
you think about all that?"

"I don't understand it any better than you, Jake.  I just know it's
something real and important, part of her and part of me that needs to be
expressed."  Natalie puffed on her cigarette and exhaled slowly,
thoughtfully.

"Natalie, you know as well as I that was no 'miracle.'  It's time that
you, Dorothy, and her parents all faced up to the fact.  That child needs
help, and not the sort you're offering.  She certainly doesn't need to be
displayed like some sort of icon in front of a horde of gawkers!"  Flinn
had wanted to say this gently and persuasively, but it just wouldn't come
out that way.  He didn't have the skill.

"So you're saying she's crazy?  That I'm crazy?  Deluded, in need of
psychiatric help?"  The tone of her words chilled the breath in his lungs.

"No, no, not like that..."

"Then like what?  Listen Jake I feel like a Godmother to that child, now. 
There's a connection between us, a...mutual need.  Knowing the full truth
wouldn't change a thing for her.  Most everyone would still see it as a
miracle, and so would you if you really cared to think about it!"  She was
angry now, puffing furiously on her cigarette.

"Look, Natalie, I just don't want to see you or Dorothy hurt.  This Javits
benefit is a mistake, a big mistake.  It will just confuse things by
involving the kind of kooks who want to believe any nonsense that comes
along."  Flinn knew this wasn't helping, but he was too far along to stop.
 "If you can't see that, if you won't stop this, I will. I can't allow..."

"Kooks?  A mistake?  You won't allow?  You're in no position to allow or
not allow me anything!  You don't run my life, and you never will!  You or
anyone else!"  Natalie drew a deep breath.  "I think you'd better leave,
Jake."

Angry at her, at himself, and fighting back tears unshed for decades,
Flinn left.

Fucked up again.


9.  9 January, West 147th Street, 8:55 AM

Flinn had one message on his machine from the night before.  The DFRB had
officially exonerated "his" shoot.  He should stop by HQ to pick up his
guns.  Whoop-dee-do, Flinn thought.  He would go of course, he had to, but
he also decided he would remain on vacation a little while longer.

After one of the longest nights of his life, Flinn was steeling himself to
make what he was sure was yet another big mistake.  He couldn't help it,
though.  Even if he and Natalie were finished, he was worried about her. 
Legitimately, he though.  He hoped.  Anyway, he loved her.  He knew that
one thing for sure, now.

Flinn called Mendoza.

"Hi, Jake, all is forgiven!  You can come home now."

"Yeah, I know, and thanks for your help.  I think I'm going to continue to
lay low for a while yet, but I'll stop by for the weapons."  

"I understand completely.  I would too, with all the newshounds hanging
around here.  Can't get a damn thing done, still."

"Look, Pete, I need another..."

"Favor?  Geez, Jake, at this rate you'll burn up all your IOUs by
February.  What do you need?"

"It's about Natalie..."

"You mean she broke out of that barn already?"

Flinn gave Mendoza a brief and inaccurate account of their breakup.  "I'm
worried about her, Pete, what with this Javits thing.  Now that she's...on
her own, I'd like someone to keep an eye on her.  Discretely."  Flinn
cursed that last word even as it left his lips.  That part had nothing to
do with safety worries, but Flinn couldn't restrain himself.

"Okay, Jake, I'll have her quietly tailed."  Mendoza, Flinn knew, would
see through to his true motives and would never mention it, ever.  The
paperwork would be impeccable.  "It'll fly through the 'celebrated persons
protection' program.  We've already got someone keeping an eye on the
Risling girl. Do you know where Natalie is now?"

Flinn gave Mendoza Natalie's home address, her sister's address, and their
place of employment.  "Later today, we were going to hit the Boat and RV
show at the Javits, around three," he said.  "She'll go anyway since she
wanted to scope the place out, maybe earlier now."

"Shouldn't be a problem, Jake.  You can call in later for a report."

"Pete, you're a wonder."

"Don't I just know it." 


10.  9 January, Eleventh Avenue, 1:12 PM

The Jacob K. Javits Convention Center was an imposing, five-block-long,
glass palace designed by I. M. Pei.  Located between Eleventh and Twelfth
Avenues, its western face fronted the icy Hudson River.  It's cavernous
interior could and usually did house several large conventions
simultaneously.  Currently, most of its space was devoted to the
International Boat and RV Show, an annual event in New York.

Ahmad Rachmani walked down one of the endless aisles on the main floor,
examining the gleaming, sophisticated, marine offerings.  He could admire
the sleek lines, the powerful engines of these craft, but he felt no envy.
 He would never wish to own such a vessel.  He had other pursuits which
brought him both pleasure and prestige in full measure.

With typical American efficiency, all of this would be packed up and gone,
the space entirely reconfigured by tomorrow evening for Dorothy's little
show.  His little show.  With typical American stupidity, security here
was the poor joke he had known it would be.

His apparently aimless wanderings brought him at last to an unwatched door
opening onto a locker room for maintenance personnel.  Apparently, the
Americans believed a "No Unauthorized Entry" sign on the door was all that
was required to keep someone out.  Rachmani entered the room.

There were a few workmen about, showering, changing clothes.  None even
looked up at him.  If he was here, then he should be here.  It did not
take Rachmani long to find an unsecured locker containing a set of blue
coveralls.  Clipped to its pocket was an identification badge.

Rachmani carefully removed a small, black box from the gym bag he carried.
 The device fit over the ID badge without him needing to remove it from
the coveralls.  It would read the magnetic strip and capture a digital
image of the front of the badge.  In hours, a New York associate would
produce a customized version for Rachmani.

This accomplished, Rachmani found a rack of freshly washed coveralls,
emblazoned with the Javits Center logo, in the rear of the room. 
Selecting one that would fit acceptably, Rachmani placed it in his bag. 
As easily as that, it was done.

Back on the main floor Rachmani continued his tour, just to sure no
unexpected hue and cry would be forthcoming.  After another half hour, he
left the Center on the Eleventh Avenue side.

Like most public buildings in New York, the Javits Center was smoke-free. 
By the time he exited, Rachmani was feeling the need.  As he withdrew his
pack of Winstons, he noticed a small group of New Yorkers huddled by the
bank of glass doors, indulging their oppressed habit.  Emboldened by his
easy success, Rachmani decided to be sociable and join them.

He immediately noticed an attractive, familiar-looking American woman
among the group.  He believed it was the woman he had seen yesterday on
the "Jerry Matthews Show," one who would be speaking at tomorrow's
benefit.  She was just now withdrawing an absurdly long cigarette. 
Rachmani approached and offered a light, smiling.

"Thanks," she said.  "I'm Natalie, Natalie Kelly."

Friendly, too.  He watched as she drew hungrily on the cigarette.  When
she withdrew it, she opened her mouth immodestly to show him the smoke
within before inhaling.  She exhaled in a most unusual and flamboyant
manner, as if trying to impress him in some way.

Many men smoked in his country, but few women.  It was considered
unseemly, and hardly convenient through a veil.  Here, the women seemed to
use cigarettes as part of some sort of...mating ritual.  Rachmani was
amused.  Effective too, it was.  He was now feeling the calling of another
need, one long unsatisfied.

"I'm Ahvram ben-Mordechai.  From Israel, you know.  Did I see you on the
television?"  Most Americans were blind to the subtle ethnic differences
of the Middle East.  Rachmani was neither a Jew nor an Arab, but had often
passed for both.  His accent was perfect, and he could speak Hebrew quite
well if the need arose.  It was a frequent cover for him. 

Natalie looked him over, blowing smoke.  The stranger was handsome and
charming, in an exotic, foreign way.  He had a nice smile and an open
face.  Like Flinn, she thought.  She was still hurting over her fight with
him, but her anger and bruised independence were stronger than the hurt,
demanding positive reinforcement.  She talked to the stranger, confirming
her TV appearance, telling him about the upcoming benefit.  One cigarette
became two.

"You should call me Ahvi,"  he said.  "It is easier, I think, for you. 
Perhaps if you are not busy with preparations, you might be joining me for
dinner tonight?  At my hotel, the Pierre, is a very fine restaurant..."

The Pierre, thought Natalie.  A quiet dinner, reconfirming her free
spirit.  Marcia had all the details well in hand for tomorrow, and Natalie
had all her notes ready for the speech.  Why not?  If Flinn didn't call
first, she would call him after the benefit.  He hadn't wanted to come to
that, anyway.  Afterwards, it would be easier to forgive him.  Why not?

"I'd be delighted, Ahvi.  Shall we say eight o'clock?"

"Eight of the clock it is.  I love you friendly Americans!"

There, it was done, she thought.  Why didn't she feel good about it?

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