Secret Identity, Part 4

    This fictional account contains adult language and themes. If such
language and themes offend you, please do not read further. Copyright 1998 by
SSTORYMAN. All rights reserved. Permission is granted to reproduce this story
in any form and for any purpose as long as this notice is reproduced and no
financial remuneration is received, directly or indirectly, by the person
reproducing it.

    SECRET IDENTITY

    4. The Trigger.

    Over the next three weeks Claire's life fell into a new and pleasant
equilibrium She socialized with Maya and her girlfriends a couple nights a
week. She began seeing Tim a couple nights a week. The first night at his
apartment was ecstatic. They'd made love passionately, over and over. Her
capacity for orgasms seemed endless. In between sessions in bed, they'd
cuddled and smoked. She discovered why so many people smoke after having sex.
Smoking next to Tim in bed, she felt closer to him than she'd ever felt to a
man before. Seeing him became a regular routine, one of the most satisfying
parts of her new secret identity.

    Significant changes also took place in her daily-routine. First, she soon
started each day by smoking one cigarette with her morning coffee. After that
first Saturday morning experience, it seemed to happen naturally. She still
never took cigarettes to work, and she never smoked during the day. But every
morning she looked forward to that first cigarette. It was one of the high
points of her day. She could no longer start the day without that first
cigarette. She needed it, just like she needed her cup of coffee. But she
wasn't addicted, she told herself. She just liked smoking a cigarette first
thing each morning.

    Second, she was now masturbating more often. Though she was fucking Tim at
least twice a week, she found she wanted that more private sexual release,
too. She often did it over the lunch hour in her office. Each time she
pleasured herself in that room, she took her hair down and removed her
glasses. It was her way of demonstrating that the evil Claire was in control.
In fact, more and more she felt the evil Claire was the real Claire. The
boring Dr. Davis was increasingly becoming a mere disguise, a disguise that
got in the way more and more often.

    Third, she had to deal with the challenges of being on call. Her medical
practice was primarily office-based. She rarely went to the hospital or saw
patients evenings and weekends. But she was on call every fourth night and
every other weekend. This meant she had to respond by telephone when paged by
patients with problems. Several times she'd been interrupted at Tim's
apartment. Trying to explain why she was being paged without disclosing her
position as a physician was formidable. It was less difficult with the girls.
She just went to the bathroom, got out her cellular and called the medical
bureau. But at Tim's, it was harder to explain. She feared he'd think she was
dealing drugs. But she couldn't bear to tell him the truth. Not yet. And he
seemed willing to passively accept her secret, whatever it was, at least for
the time being.

    Finally, she was swearing much more. Her new liberated vocabulary refused
to be compartmentalized. Even at the office, she now routinely muttered "shit"
under her breath. Even an occasional "fuck" escaped her lips, both at the
office and the hospital. It was the same phenomenon at home. If anything, it
was more pronounced there. The speech patterns of the evil Claire,
SuperBadGirl, were increasingly creeping into her everyday jargon. More and
more, she sounded like a bad girl. Despite efforts to control it during the
day, people began to notice.

    One afternoon, Roger Cummins cornered her in her office and closed the
door. He had a leering smile on his face. Claire shuddered. What the hell did
he want?

    "Claire, I couldn't help overhear what you said as you read that patient
chart. You must have said the word 'shit' at least five times. I'm not wrong,
am I?"

    Claire cringed. "I'm sorry, Roger," she apologized. "I should watch my
language. It won't happen again. I promise."

    "The nurses are talking, Claire. They say your language has become
'saltier,' if you know what I mean."

    "I've been under a lot of stress since my parents died, Roger," she
ventured, trying to concoct a plausible excuse. "I know I'm swearing too much.
I'm sorry. I hope it's not causing a problem. I'll try to keep it under
control."

    The smile on Roger's face did not suggest any problem. He took several
steps toward her. "Claire, I've noticed many changes over the last few weeks.
The new hairstyle, the earrings, the bloodshot eyes every morning, which
suggest you're staying out late. Now this dirty talking. Is something
happening? None of this seems like the conservative Claire Davis we first
hired."

    Before she responded, Roger put his finger over his mouth. "Shh," he
whispered. "You needn't explain." Taking another step, he stood directly
before her. He was still smiling. "Do you know what I think? I think you've
been sowing wild oats, Claire. Of course, it's perfectly understandable after
what you've been through. I don't mind. I just don't want you to feel alone.
Do you know what I mean?"

    Claire blinked. "I'm not sure," she stuttered. He stood uncomfortably
close.

    "I'll tell you what I mean," he continued. He rested his hand on her
shoulder. "You're a very attractive young woman, Claire. I'd like to help you
through this difficult time. I could be a big help." There was a pregnant
pause.

    "What are you talking about?"

    "Can we agree this is off the record?" Roger grinned. He waited for Claire
to nod her head in the affirmative. When she did, he proceeded. "I'll be
direct. I find you attractive, Claire. That's why I hired you. You were plain,
but wholesomely attractive. You have a wonderful personality. But now you're
taking a greater interest in your personal appearance. Whether or not you
realize it, you're incredibly sexy! Women who talk dirty particularly turn me
on." He smiled and gently stroked her shoulder. "Isn't there some way I could
help ease your pain in the aftermath of your parents' death? I'd love to
try."

    Claire was stunned. This man was old enough to be her father, and he was
coming on to her. No, it was more than that. He just propositioned her. She
didn't know what to say.

    "I don't know, Roger," she answered hesitantly. "I have a boyfriend. I
don't think I'm looking to get involved with anyone else right now. Besides,"
she added. "You're married."

    "My wife and I have an understanding," he smiled. "She doesn't ask who I'm
seeing, and I don't tell. My marriage is no reason we couldn't have something
special between us." He moved his hand to her cheek and began stroking it.
"This might help your career, Claire," he added sweetly. "I could help you
professionally in all kinds of ways." He stepped back. "You don't have to
answer right now." He smiled again, the same leering smile. "Just think about
it. I'll be waiting."

    "I'm flattered," she stuttered politely, though it was a lie. "Thanks for
your concern, Roger. But I don't think right now...." She didn't finish the
sentence. He looked away, obviously disappointed.

    Claire's head was spinning. She wanted to live her life to the full, and
wanted to ditch conservative morality. But could she actually fuck the head of
the medical office just to get ahead? She didn't think so. He was kind of a
creep.

    Roger walked back and again put his hand on her shoulder. He was about to
say something else, but the exchange was interrupted by one of the nurses who
opened the door. "Excuse me, Dr. Cummins, Dr. Davis. We just got an emergency
call from the hospital. Dr. Davis, one of your patients, Ronald Dawson, was
just admitted to Parkside's ER. They want you right away. It's his heart. Call
the ER doctor on your cell phone while you drive to the hospital." The nurse
looked alarmed. "There're not sure Mr. Dawson is going to make it."

    "Thanks, Rita," Claire said efficiently. "Dr. Cummins, if you'll excuse
me."

    "Of course," Roger said professionally. "Let me know if there's anything I
can do."

    "I will," Claire smiled. "Thanks for your concern."

    She grabbed Ronald Dawson's file and ran to the parking lot. She got into
her Lexus. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. Mr. Dawson was elderly and had
heart problems. But in recent months he'd stabilized nicely. What could have
happened?

    She arrived at Parkside's ER and walked through the general entrance. She
ran to the status board and looked for Ronald Dawson's assigned cubicle.
Locating it on the board, she took off down the hall. As she approached the
area, she saw a young, male doctor dressed in emergency room garb walking out.


    "I'm Dr. Davis," she said breathlessly, pointing to the name tag on her
white coat. "How is the patient?"

    The doctor did not look happy. "Thanks for coming. I'm Dr. Ransberger,"
came the reply. He paused. "I'm sorry, Doctor. We lost him."

    "Lost him?" Claire cried. "What the hell happened?"

    Dr. Ransberger explained. Apparently the patient was taking his
medication, but several days ago began experiencing mild chest pains. He tried
to make an appointment with Dr. Davis' office last week, but never said it was
an emergency. He was apparently told by her receptionist that Dr. Davis had no
appointments available until next week. He made an appointment to see her next
week. The patient's wife insisted he come to the emergency room this afternoon
when the chest pains intensified. "We lost him," Dr. Ransberger said simply.
"Heart attack."

    Claire's head was reeling. Fuck! That stupid receptionist! Katy was
supposed to carefully screen all patients with heart problems, ask pertinent
questions, and create room on the schedule if necessary. She knew better.
Damn! If she'd asked a few questions, Ronald Dawson would have gotten an
earlier appointment and might still be alive.

    Taking a deep breath, she sat down at an empty desk in the ER and
hurriedly reviewed the chart, evaluating everything that happened. She quickly
decided the ER doctor and staff were blameless. They did everything possible.
No, the real problem was that Dawson didn't make it into her office last week
when his mild chest pains started.

    As she sat at the desk, Claire became increasingly upset. She tried taking
deep breaths to relax. She exhaled slowly and deliberately. She looked at her
hands. They were trembling. It wasn't working. She tried relaxation exercises.
They didn't work, either. She couldn't calm down. She took off her glasses and
rubbed her temples. Still, no relief. But when she removed her glasses, a
suddenly light went on. She knew the answer. Only one thing would help.. It
was amazingly simple. She knew what she wanted. No, that was too mild. She
knew what she fuckin' needed. God damn it, she needed a cigarette!

    The recognition stunned her. She hadn't expected it. Roger Cummins upset
her, but Ronald Dawson's unexpected death pushed her over the edge. Her nerves
were shot. She needed relief. Only one kind of relief sounded good to her. She
needed to smoke. Right now!

    Tobacco was the only thing in the world she wanted. She needed a
cigarette, and immediately became obsessed with having one. Unfortunately, she
didn't know how to satisfy the unfortunate obsession. She carried no
cigarettes in her pockets or her car. From her residency days at Parkside, she
knew where the staff went outside to smoke. She wanted - no, needed - to go
there, too. But she needed cigarettes first. Where to get them?

    An idea hit her like a hammer: Amanda Stevens and Robin O'Malley! Tim said
both women smoked. Of course, there must be other smokers, too, but Claire
didn't know who they might be. She did know Amanda and Robin. God, they were
her only hope! Swallowing her pride, she ran to the elevator and pushed the
button for the fourth floor.

    As the door opened, Claire made a beeline for the nurses station. She was
twenty feet away when her heart leapt. Amanda Stevens stood behind the desk,
absentmindedly looking at a chart. She was a pretty blond, wearing her white
uniform, in her late 20's or early 30's. Claire took a deep breath and walked
the rest of the way. I've got to be cool, she thought. I've got to be in
control.

    "Dr. Davis," Amanda smiled cheerfully. "We don't often see you up here
anymore." She noticed the look of distress in Claire's eyes. "What's wrong?"

    "Amanda, I've got to talk with you. Alone. Can we step in here?"

    "Sure," Amanda replied, puzzled. They walked into the back room area
behind the desk. "What's up, Doctor? You look terrible!"

    "I feel like shit," Claire gasped as she swung the door shut. "A patient
of mine just died in the ER," she began. "I'm incredibly stressed. I'm about
to lose my fuckin' mind!"

    "Oh, God! What can I do to help?" Amanda asked sincerely. "You name it."

    "You won't believe what I'm about to ask." She paused and took another
deep breath. This might be the end of her fuckin' secret identity! Christ! She
didn't care! She tried to remain calm, but the tension in her voice was
unmistakable. "Damn. I'm just going to say it," she went on. "Can I bum a
cigarette from you, Amanda? I really need one! Like right now!"

    "Um, yeah, okay, sure," Amanda stuttered. For a moment Amanda seemed
unsure how to respond. It was an unexpected request. But she never asked how
Claire knew she was a smoker. She registered neither surprise nor amazement at
a doctor asking for or needing a cigarette. She said nothing. Instead, she
just smiled at Claire and batted her eyelashes. "Let me get my purse," she
added amiably. "My cigarettes are in my purse."

    "Oh God, thanks," Claire sighed. Amanda's cooperative, nonjudgmental
attitude was a godsend. It immediately released some of Claire's tension.
Amanda led her into the room where nurses keep their purses locked. From the
drawer she removed a large, beige handbag with her initials engraved on the
side. Opening the purse, Amanda extracted a well-worn, matching beige
cigarette case. Before handing it to Claire, however, she paused.

    "Doctor, I assume you're going downstairs to smoke," Amanda whispered,
looking to make sure no one was watching or listening.

    "That's right," Claire nodded vigorously. "As fast as humanly possible.
God, I need a cigarette!" Her hands were shaking, and her voice had the sound
of absolute desperation.

    Amanda frowned. "You don't look good, Doctor," she said. "Just a minute.
I'll come with you."

    "No, I don't have time for that ...."

    "Be quiet, Doctor," Amanda ordered, firmly but calmly, as only a seasoned
nurse can. "I haven't taken a break this afternoon. I'll come along to make
sure you're okay. Don't worry. Robin will cover for me." She winked, with an
understanding smile. "Robin understands what it's like to need a cigarette.
I'll keep you company. Really, I could use one myself. Okay?"

    "Okay," Claire reluctantly agreed.

    Helpless, she followed Amanda like a dependent child. Amanda found her
cohort Robin in the hall. "I need to give Dr. Davis a hand with something,
Robin. I'll explain later. I'm taking her downstairs. Okay?"

    "Downstairs?" Robin gasped, incredulous. She stared at Claire. "Amanda, do
you mean what I think you mean?"

    "Yes, I sure do," Amanda said with a wry smile and a wink. "Cover for me,
will you?"

    "Sure," Robin answered, still looking a bit puzzled. Then she smiled and
winked. "Have fun, Dr. Davis."

    Claire smiled weakly. She felt like a goddamn fool, but didn't care. She
just wanted a cigarette, and wanted it in the worst way. She'd do anything.
The anticipation was killing her.

    Amanda signed off the unit and shepherded Claire to the elevator. She
pushed the button for the mezzanine, the well-known location of an outdoor
area where smokers congregated on breaks. She grinned as the elevator dropped.
"Dr. Davis, once we get to the mezz, I have a few questions," she warned.

    "I'll be happy to answer them," Claire smiled. "Just as long as you let me
have one of those cigarettes."

    "I'm happy to help, Doctor. Really, this is an unexpected pleasure."

    The elevator opened and the two women walked onto the mezzanine patio. It
was not a scheduled break time, so no other smokers were present. That suited
Claire, although at that moment she didn't care who saw her or who knew. She
just wanted nicotine. It was simple.

    Amanda stepped into the sunlight. She opened her large, beige handbag and
pulled out the matching cigarette case. Without comment, from the case she
removed two cork filtered cigarettes and a gold lighter. The lighter looked
expensive, the kind a real smoker would own.

    "These are Newport 100's," Amanda explained, handing one to Claire. "I
hope that's okay."

    "Menthol?" Claire confirmed, as she put the cigarette between her famished
lips.

    "Uh-huh," Amanda acknowledged. She placed one in her own mouth. 

    "That's okay," Claire gasped, nodding her head. "I love menthol!" 

    Claire's hands trembled. She couldn't hold the lighter steady. "Can you
light me up?" she pleaded to her newfound smoking friend.

    "I'd love to," Amanda smiled. She clicked the gold lighter and held the
flame. Both women posed with cigarettes dangling from their lips. As Amanda
held the fire, Claire greedily leaned in and got an even light. Her cheeks
hollowed as she focused all her energy on sucking on the cigarette. "Wow, Dr.
Davis," Amanda whistled, lighting her own Newport. "You are having a major
league nicotine fit!"

    It was true. Claire was frantic. She puffed once, twice, three times in a
row. Amanda smiled. She was mesmerized by the sight. Claire's nostrils
released smoke each time she dragged on her cigarette. The full flavored
Newport 100 was the strongest she'd ever smoked. But she didn't care. She just
wanted nicotine, and Amanda's brand provided it, in spades.

    "Oh, Mary, Sweet Mother of God," Claire exclaimed as she finally removed
the cigarette from her lips. She exhaled smoke simultaneously through her
mouth and nose. "Holy shit! That's more like it!" Returning the cigarette to
her mouth, she took another long hit, inhaling smoke as far as possible into
her young lungs. Lifting her head, she did another slow exhale. "God, thanks,
Amanda," she breathed heavily, finally managing a smile. "I owe you an
explanation. But, before I explain, thanks!"

    "No problem," Amanda smiled. "I'm always happy to help anyone who needs a
smoke." She released a long exhale of her own. With her wrist cocked beside
her face, Amanda's cigarette stood upright by her blond head. An inquisitive
look appeared on the pretty face. "Okay, tell me. What the fuck is going on?"

    "Just a second," Claire uttered, puffing again. She turned her head and
exhaled a slow stream of smoke into the air. "God, I can't get enough," she
laughed nervously. She took another drag. The cigarette's ash had grown
unusually long, from her rapid fire drags.

    "Slow down," Amanda suggested with a laugh. "We can have a second one, if
you want. I've got time. Why don't you tell me all about it?"

    "Okay," Claire smiled. She finally felt almost ... normal. "I'm not sure
where to begin."

    "Well, begin at the beginning," Amanda suggested, sitting at the little
cement table and bench on the patio. She encouraged Claire to do the same.
Amanda put her Newport in her mouth and pulled her blond hair back behind her
head. "I want to hear all about it," she said with a big smile. "Believe me,
this doesn't happen every day!"


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    "That's what happened," Claire finished. Maya sat across the table, with a
look of disbelief. The two women were at Denny's, in the smoking section.
They'd just finished a quick supper. The waitress had poured their coffee.
Both girls had just reached for their cigarettes. Once again, Claire wore her
contact lenses and her curly hair over her shoulders. She had changed at home
after coming home. She was again dressed as the evil Claire, wearing dangling
earrings, bracelets, rings, and a tight tee shirt with short shorts..

    "I can't believe it. I thought you weren't going to let anybody at the
hospital know you smoke." Maya paused to light her cigarette. "What will you
do now?" The hanging cigarette bobbed as Maya talked, and she exhaled a few
wisps of smoke from the corner of her mouth.

    "I don't know," Claire admitted with a shrug. She, too, lit up. It was her
sixth cigarette since meeting with Amanda. She'd had two in the car on her way
home from the office, another in the car driving to Denny's, and two more with
Maya before supper. When added to the one she routinely smoked each morning,
this was her ninth cigarette of the day. Never before had she smoked that much
during the day. But something had definitely changed. She wasn't sure what or
how, but now she couldn't seem to stop smoking. Each cigarette she smoked
tasted so damn good! As she thought about it, she double pumped and inhaled.
It didn't matter, she decided. Right now, she only knew one thing. She wanted
to keep smoking.

    She answered Maya's question. "At that moment, I didn't care what anyone
thought. I had to smoke." She paused to release a torrent of smoke from her
lips. "I couldn't help it."

    "It sounds like you've got yourself hooked. But I thought you couldn't get
addicted?" Maya inquired. She squinted as she stared. "Remember that stuff
about defective genes? What the hell went wrong?"

    "I don't know," Claire admitted. "I just had to have a cigarette. I was
upset and couldn't calm down. Suddenly, smoking was the only thing I could
think about. Somehow I knew smoking a cigarette was the only thing that'd make
me feel okay." She paused. "I know, it sounds like I'm addicted. God, maybe I
am!" She took another long drag. "But if I am, then I just am," she sighed,
turning her head and releasing a narrow stream of smoke through pursed lips.
"I'm sure as hell not going to quit now." She switched to a nostril exhale.
For the first time, she smiled and managed a small chuckle. "Like you, Maya, I
already love it too much."

    Maya frowned the same adorable frown Claire'd seen so many times. Her long
black hair fell over the shoulders of a sleeveless white blouse. Over top of
her ample breasts, which were prominently accentuated by the tight blouse,
hung a plain gold necklace. "It might not be too late," she suggested
helpfully. "I mean, you might still be able to quit."

    "No way," Claire smiled smugly. "I thought about that while I was smoking
with Amanda. I was completely out of control. But I don't want to quit. I like
to smoke. It may sound crazy," she said resignedly. "Perhaps the evil Claire
has finally completely taken over my body. But you know, I think the evil
Claire is the real Claire. Dr. Davis is just a disguise." She tapped some
ashes in the ashtray before taking another drag. "Besides, I'm not too
worried. Amanda's won't say anything. My secret identity is still in place.
But there is one big difference. I'm a real smoker now. Let's face it. I can't
go without smoking during the day any longer. I smoke every morning and every
evening. But I've got to figure out how to smoke in between. I tried to
convince myself I could control it, keep my life in separate compartments. But
I can't. I admit it. I have to smoke now."

    Maya exhaled a stream of smoke from pouting lips. "Welcome to the club,"
she said gravely. "I knew this would happen eventually. I never knew anyone
who could control her desire to smoke. Nicotine is too strong." She giggled.
"It's too good to live without."

    "You've got that right," Claire mused. "I think I'll call Liz. I'll ask
her some questions. We haven't talked since the funeral. Maybe she misled me.
I'll bet she smokes more than she admitted." She paused for another hit. "The
little bitch," she said, exhaling from her nostrils. Her words sounded tough,
but she was grinning. "If she lied to me, I'll skin her alive."

    "Are you mad at her?"

    Claire thought. "No, I guess not," she admitted. "I love my new identity.
I love the evil Claire. I'm having fun. Smoking is part of that. No, I like it
too much to be mad."

    "Claire, listen to yourself! You've decided to keep smoking. You're going
to figure out how to smoke during the work day. But you said it would be
professional suicide for a doctor in your position to smoke. Someone will find
out. You can't hide it forever. You'll slip up."

    "It won't be that hard," Claire smiled. "I can hide it." She grinned as
she retrieved another cigarette from her pack, lighting the new one from the
end of the butt she'd almost finished. "I guess we'll find out," she went on,
crushing the old one and taking a long, luxurious drag from the new
cigarette.

    "Listen, the outcome is not in doubt if you smoke like that," Maya
countered. She laughed. "You are totally out of control, Dr. Davis."

    "Please, Maya, don't call me Dr. Davis," she said with mock chagrin. "I'm
SuperBadGirl, the evil Claire." She ran her fingers through her hair. "Let's
go out on the town!"


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    Tim leaned over and gave Claire a gentle kiss.

    "You and Amanda smoked together? That's interesting," he said with a wry
smile. "I appreciate the true confessions. I'm glad you finally told me the
truth, Claire. But I admit that I knew you aren't a nurse. I wasn't sure if
you were really a physician at Parkside, but I suspected. Since last week I
knew the story about you being a nurse in the medsurg unit was a lie."

    "But how?" Claire asked. She was cuddled against him in bed, her naked
body next to his. They'd just finished making love.

    "Amanda Stevens."

    "Oh, God," she said, rolling over and propping herself on her right elbow.
She suddenly became more animated than during the telling of her afternoon
smoking interlude with Amanda, and the revealing of the truth about her life
as a doctor. "Shit! I forgot! You had lunch with Amanda and Robin! When did
that happen?" Her eyes blazed as the faced him in bed.

    Tim smiled at the sight of Claire's naked breasts. Because she was now
propped up, the large globes were only partially covered by her long dark
brown hair. "I had lunch with Amanda and Robin last week," he confirmed. "The
only Claire Davis they know is a doctor who was a resident at Parkside several
years ago. I thought that was odd. I described your appearance, and they said
the description didn't match. But no nurse in their unit is named Claire."

    "It's my hairstyle and contacts," Claire grinned. "My secret identity
worked."

    Tim frowned. "Someday I want to see you with your hair up and glasses. I'm
sure I'll like the liberated Claire Davis much better." He paused. "Why didn't
you trust me?" Why did you lie about who you are and where you work? Did you
think I couldn't handle it? I'm puzzled and, frankly, a little hurt."

    Claire sighed. It was a fair question. She had some explaining to do.
Instinctively, she reached for her cigarettes on the night stand. If she had
to eat crow, she wanted to smoke.

    "Remember what you said that first night we met?" she asked, inserting a
cigarette into the corner of her mouth. "You said you'd never date a social
smoker. You didn't want to run the risk of getting involved in a relationship
with a quitter." She stopped and lit up. "What the hell do you think I was?"
she continued, expelling some smoke from around the cigarette perched in her
mouth. "I was a goddamn social smoker!"

    "But not anymore," he said smugly. "You're as hooked as any smoker I
know."

    "Okay," Claire agreed, finally removing the cigarette and exhaling a
stream of smoke quickly into the air. "But suppose that night I admitted I was
Dr. Claire Davis, a physician who started smoking only a few days earlier and
who only smoked on nights when she went out with her friends? What would you
have done?"

    Tim sighed. "I probably wouldn't have pursued you," he admitted. "I
probably would've wound up in bed with Shanna that night," he added with a
gentle smirk.

    "I rest my case," Claire replied. "I liked you from the moment we met.
You're smart, good-looking and have a good sense of humor. I didn't want to
risk losing the opportunity to get to know you." Transferring her cigarette to
her other hand, she reached under the sheet. She placed the fingers of her
free hand around his rapidly swelling penis. "Let me be more direct, baby,"
she said with a wicked grin, returning her cigarette to her lips. "I wanted to
fuck you! I'd have said I was really Kate Winslett if I thought it'd help me
get you into the sack!"

    Tim watched as she took another hit. She exhaled twin streams of smoke
from her nose. Her exhale was both sensuous and unaffected. Smoke came forth
naturally, without effort or forethought. It was the exhale of a true smoker.

    "I understand," Tim admitted. "I forgive you." He rolled toward her,
hugging her unclothed body. Claire held her cigarette high in the air to avoid
him crushing it in his embrace. His lips quickly found their way to hers. He
kissed her gently, tasting the sweet flavor of fresh tobacco smoke in her
mouth. "I don't want to lose you, Claire," he sighed between kisses. "I hope
you feel the same way."

    "Are you kidding?" she smiled. She took a quick drag off her cigarette and
reached for the ashtray on the table, crushing her Marlboro out early. "You're
ready to do it again, Timmy. Aren't you? Do you want to fuck me again, right
now?" There was yearning in her voice.

    He pulled her hard against his nakedness. "You know I do, baby," he
sighed.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    Next morning Claire arose at the usual time. She'd make her hospital
rounds and be at the office by eight. She'd adjusted to getting less sleep.
She came back from Tim's about one. It was just after five thirty, but she
felt good.

    During her quick shower, she thought about the changes she needed to make.
No longer would she go all day without smoking. She'd faced the truth
yesterday. She was a smoker now. Like it or not, she was hooked. She figured
she could smoke over her lunch hour. The doctors in their office ordinarily
didn't leave the building for lunch, but there was no reason she couldn't run
down the road to a nearby restaurant with a smoking section.

    She toweled off after her shower and was about to put her hair up. She
looked in the mirror. Her naked shoulders were covered by her long dark brown
hair. It looked good. "Fuck," she muttered. "I wish I could wear my hair
down." But she needed to retain her secret identity. Instead, she sighed and
put it up. 

    After dressing in office attire, she went downstairs to start the coffee.
On weekdays she rose too early for the morning paper. She picked up a magazine
and leafed through its pages while the coffee brewed. As had become her
custom, Claire retrieved her cigarettes, lighter and ashtray without a
thought. Her one and only ashtray had attained a prominent place on her
kitchen counter. It was an integral part of her morning routine. Each day
before leaving the house she cleaned it, but it was a permanent fixture in her
kitchen.

    Still reading, she put a cigarette in her mouth and lit up. She
double-pumped to get it started, filling her lungs with smoke in between the
first and second hard drags. During the second consecutive drag, all of her
previously inhaled smoke flowed plentifully from her nostrils. This too had
become her custom. She removed the cigarette from her lips, turned a page, and
exhaled an endless stream of smoke downward toward the magazine.

    She suddenly stopped. She looked at the cylinder between her fingers. She
smiled. God, she enjoyed this! She took another lengthy puff, but this time
intentionally held the smoke inside for as long as possible. It felt good as
it soaked in. She'd never focused on how much she'd come to enjoy this first
cigarette of the day. She pursed her lips and finally exhaled. Relatively
little smoke escaped this time, most of it having been absorbed inside her
lungs.

    The coffee was ready. She put down her magazine and poured the first cup.
She sipped. It tasted wonderful! Instead of continuing to read, she decided to
consciously pay attention to the pleasure she experienced from her coffee and
cigarette. Drinking coffee and smoking made her feel so good. She wished the
enjoyment lasted a little longer.

    She crushed out her cigarette and got up very reluctantly. She glanced at
her watch. "Hell, I can afford to leave a bit later," she rationalized. Why
_not_ have a second cigarette? God, just the thought of it sounded wonderful!
She'd never chain-smoked two consecutive cigarettes in the morning. She
smiled. Of course, until yesterday she'd never smoked at the hospital, either.
She'd also never admitted to needing her cigarettes. But she was a smoker now.
"I'll bet Maya smokes two cigarettes every morning before leaving for work,"
she decided. That realization sealed her decision.

    Without delay she poured herself a second cup of coffee and retrieved a
second cigarette. A sense of illicit joy flooded over her as she lit up a
second time. As always, again she double pumped long and hard to get the
cigarette started evenly. Again, she inhaled the initial mouthful of smoke
deep into her lungs. Again, she smiled. God, she loved to smoke! She could do
this all day!

    Suddenly, in the midst of her pleasure, going all day without another
cigarette seemed absolutely insane. She took a long drag. She had to figure
out how to smoke more often! She pursed her lips and expelled a tight stream
of smoke toward the ceiling. Having one or two over lunch would be help, but
she instinctively knew it wouldn't be sufficient. With her appointment
schedule, smoking more often would be difficult. But she could smoke in her
car between the hospital and the office. She smiled. It was a small thing, but
important. For some reason a picture of her friend Shanna popped into her
head. It seemed that Shanna always had a lit cigarette between her fingers or
in her mouth. Smoking that much was bad as hell-fire for your health, but
Claire understood why people were willing to take the risk. She puffed again.
"It's because smoking feels so good," she sighed.


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