Firsthand

She's a smoke show. Femdom Erotica. X35

Photo courtesy of Miss Scarlett Ashley, @Ashdragonprince on X, in whose honor this was written, and who has generously offered to record a reading of it in the near future. Watch this space for updates.

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She hands him a crystal ashtray and orders him to kneel.

He does, naked and collared, already semi-hard merely from being in her presence. He lowers his eyes and holds up the ashtray with two hands. A supplicant making a sacrificial offering to a deity.

She sits down on the chair in front of him and takes a lighter from her purse followed by a long white cigarette. He can’t tell the brand, but whatever it is, it’s the 100. He’s a smoker but has been thinking about quitting, even though he knows he’s fully addicted. He hasn’t had one in several hours and is already feeling the need. She, on the other hand, is one of those people with the superpower to quit at will. She goes months without so much as thinking about them.

But today she had a bad day at work and came home craving. Before they started, she said she wanted him to serve and be silent. Then she told him to bring her a glass of wine. When he did, delivering her favorite grassy sauvignon blanc, she took a slow sip and then put it on the little table beside her chair. Then she told him to keep his eyes down and hold the ashtray.

Sometimes, when she has a bad day, she beats him to tears, so he’s happy to hold up the ashtray as a ward against her anger. Nevertheless, he’s still nervous this scene is a prelude to pain.

She’s wearing the chunky burgundy leather heels that she wore to the office, but she’s shed her pantsuit and blouse and is in her bra and panties. It’s a silk burgundy set that matches the shoes. He catches alluring notes of her sweat amid the scent of her exhausted morning perfume.

She sparks her red plastic Bic and takes a deep drag, the cherry burning bright. The tobacco smell raises the hairs on the back of his neck. Her eyes close as she savors the nicotine buzz. Then she exhales towards the ceiling. He can sense the tension in her body. He can tell she’s still lost in thought, replaying the events of her day. She winces and then shakes her head, silently relitigating an argument he cannot see.

He merely sits mute, keeping his eyes down, which forces them to look at her knees and thighs, and the shadowed triangle of her panties beyond.

She takes another drink of her wine, the two intoxicants beginning to take the edge off her bad day. Then her shoulders slacken, and the floorboards creak as she relaxes into the chair.

She sets the glass of wine aside and looks deliberately down at him.

“Look at me, slave.”

He does, lifting his eyes as she takes another deep pull, the tip flaring in the dim room.

Then she blows a roiling cloud of smoke right into his face. The smell of it, the feeling of her intense gaze, his proximity to the sweat in her panties, it all combines in a subtle sensation of delicious, suffocating arousal. It makes him feel like he’s been draped in a heavy leather blanket. And even though it’s not the buzz of smoking firsthand, it’s better in so many other ways. His eyes water, and he holds up the ashtray for her, and she taps the long end of the 100 against its faceted edge.

She sighs, releasing the last vestiges of her anger and holds up the cigarette. She studies it a moment, as if surprised it can work so quickly to counter her sour mood.

She says, “When I was a little girl, I thought smoking was hideous. I swore I’d never do it. But I had this aunt named Britney. She lived in Virginia Beach, and we would take trips there during Easter break to see her. She was younger than my mom, and she was always single…”

She takes another drag and blows it on him.

His eyes glaze with tears, and he wrinkles his nose reflexively, the smothering leather blanket pressing heaviest on his cock and balls.

She sees this and smirks. “What’s the matter, boy? You don’t like the smell because it’s not your brand? Let me fix that.”

She lifts her feet out of her shoes and bends over and picks one up. Then she places it to his face, covering his nose and mouth with the musky interior. His head is instantly full of the odor of her workday foot sweat. Dark and pungent and earthy, and yet spiked with her irresistible pheromone buzz.

“Take a deep breath, slave. Enjoy.” There’s a tone of playful contempt as she smothers him in the shoe, crushing his nose into the moist sole. Then she takes it away and draws another drag and exhales and ashes into the crystal.

She puts down the shoe, and then she just smirks as he tries to gather his senses.

“Anyway, Aunt Britney smoked big, gross Benson and Hedges 100’s. She would take my parents to bars, and they would make me tag along for their day drinking and fob me off on Britney’s neighbors at night, when they wanted to really party. I spent so many afternoons at marina bars that smelled like Winston Lights and stale beer… I hated it… until one year, when I got a little older… I noticed all the men.”

She smokes again and taps the ash. Then she extends her foot, reaching between his legs. She prods his sex with her big toe, like testing the ice on a frozen lake. Then she hooks the toe under the head of his cock and lifts, gently stroking it. He breathes out a soft needy sigh, feeling her toe lift him, feeling the skin tighten on his shaft.

“They were gorgeous with their 80’s hair and Tom Selleck mustaches, and she could get them to do whatever she wanted. They would compliment her endlessly and offer to take her to dinner or concerts. Some of them even bought her jewelry, and they always paid for her drinks. My mom joked that Britney hadn’t paid for a drink since she turned 19. When I started to mature… I didn’t mind so much getting dragged along in the afternoon, and I dreaded being sent to the next door house at night.”

Her foot probes deeper as she takes another big drag and blows it into his face. The heat between his legs rises with the warmth of her smoke.

“I was just beginning to feel the tingles happening in my sex, and all those men, with their shirts open to reveal their chest hair, they would all be next to me, hanging on Britney’s every word. And whenever I thought of the skin under that hair…”

She pauses for a moment, overcome with the heat of her memory.

“Well... I wouldn’t see or touch a real penis for years, but I’d seen a picture when my best friend stole a dirty magazine from her cousin. Whenever I saw the tanned skin of those men, I couldn’t help but think of the big hard cock from that picture. It felt to me like these men were just parading their dicks for my aunt. It made me shiver between my adolescent legs.”

She leans forward to get more leverage against his now swollen erection, letting her toes stroke the full length of it. Her breasts come closer to his face, her cleavage encompassing his entire field of vision. He moans softly, yearning and lustful.

Her smirk grows wider.

“I knew it was because Britney was beautiful, but there was more to it. She had a way of carrying herself that seemed like a magic spell she could cast on these men to put them under her control. I was in awe of her, of her power. I wanted to be her so badly… In every way except the smoking.”

She looks down her nose at the slave then, and he feels the weight of her gaze. She takes her foot away from his sex and he whimpers involuntarily. She smiles at him, but the smile is laced with contempt, almost sneering.

“She caught me glaring at her cigarettes one afternoon, when the wind on the country club patio blew the smoke into my eyes. She asked me, ‘You don’t’ like smoking, do you?’ And I told her it was a dirty habit, and I couldn’t understand why she did it. And then Britney just laughed out loud.”

And his Mistress laughs too, remembering the naïve child she was in that long ago moment, about to become a woman, inheritor to the sacred female power over men, of which her aunt was the undisputed master.

His Mistress eventually continues, the ash of her cigarette growing long, “She said to me, ‘You want to know why I do it? I smoke because I have to show these boys that I’m a dragon. I have to show them that I breathe fire.”

His Mistress then takes a big drag and taps the ash and blows the smoke in his face.

All the while, her countenance, like a vaporous ellipsis hanging in the air, tells him that her thoughts are not yet finished, that he must wait in silent arousal for what she desires him to hear.

And then his Mistress says, “So tell me boy? Do I look like a dragon?”

Before he can respond, she takes his chin in her free hand and finishes the cigarette with a last deep inhale. Then she leans forward and kisses him. He opens his lips for her tongue, and she exhales the cloud of smoke into his mouth and deep into his lungs. He feels it happening, and gasps, drawing that heat deep inside.

And she says, “Can you taste my flames?”