Chapter Three:
Gonna Lose My Smoking Virginity
The next twenty-four hours passed very slowly for Harriet. Tutor time on Tuesday morning featured a short film on the history of the New Enlightenment, concentrating on the invention of Flexible Fertility Technology in 2023, Medical Modification in 2025, and Genetic Modification in 2027 – all of which had culminated in the Societal Reconstruction Act of 2031, which allowed parents, for the first time, to select Genetic Modifications for their offspring in vitro. Gratefully, Harriet kneaded her large beautiful GM tits, but her mind was elsewhere: to be precise, on smoking.
Harriet’s first proper lesson was double Further Fucking. Sadly, this week’s lesson was light on practice and heavy on theory. Miss Poussée was reading out excerpts from E. J. Cuntslicker’s A Brief History of Fucking:
An Enlightened society, we all now know, depends upon the radical separation of “love”, child-bearing and pleasure – and the recognition that once they are separated mankind naturally seeks what is truly most important: Pleasure. “Love”, like the state, must wither away! This was the genius of the Great Enlightenment…
But Harriet’s eyes glazed over: her mind was still on smoking.
French, with Madame Grossebite, featured one of Harriet’s favourite poems:
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où durcit ma grosse bite,
Je jouirai…
But Harriet spent her time whimsically rewriting it – though admittedly the alexandrine evaded her:
Aujourd’hui, à l’heure où se mouille ma belle chatte, je fumerai…!
Eventually, the bell rang, and Harriet skipped home from school with a rarely-felt anticipatory joy. The pack of cigarettes had lain reverently on her dressing table for the past twenty-four hours, in pride of place on top of her Bible, waiting for her Medical Modification to take full effect.
“Smoking, Mummy!” she called to her mother as she dashed past. Genevieve Danes was in the living room, dripping hot candle wax on her recumbent husband’s clamped nipples, as he slowly stroked his stiff dick. “Hi Dad!” Harriet added an afterthought, as she leapt up the staircase, two steps at a time.
“Now, calmly, calmly, Harriet,” she instructed herself in vain, as she picked up the cigarette packet to examine it. It was some four inches long, with what looked like a highly sophisticated vintage triangular pattern on it in a pale gold hue, and the words “Marlboro Lights 100s” printed on it. I guess that’s the brand name, Harriet thought to herself: she had seen a variety of different designs in her smoking videos, but had never been able to examine any of them closely enough to form any opinions. Wrapped in cellophane, the packet looked pristine, untouched, pure. I’m gonna open up this virgin packet of cigs, she thought, grinning cheekily. I’m gonna fucking deflower it, gonna lose my smoking virginity now, today – oh God fuck! She moaned with desire and anticipated pleasure.
Harriet peeled off the sealing strip and the top part of the cellophane from the packet, before gently prising open the flip-top lid. What greeted her took her breath away: twenty white cigarettes nestled snugly in their packet, the filter ends elegantly inscribed in gold with the word “Marlboro”, in silent but irresistible invitation. Fingers trembling, Harriet carefully removed one, thereby instantly destroying the perfect tight symmetry of the packet. I’ve deflowered it, she smiled. There’s no going back now!
Harriet held the beautiful white cylinder to her nose and sniffed it deeply. Oh fuck, that’s amazing! she thought, for the fragrance was full and earthy, like rich tea, or dry autumn leaves. I wonder if it’s that good when you light it? She put the filter end of the cigarette between her lips and turned to her bedroom mirror to see what she looked like. “Oh fuck!” she whimpered out loud – for greeting her from her mirror was the sexiest sight she had ever seen. She was still herself, blonde and buxom and beautiful, dressed in her school blouse and short plaid skirt. But the white tube now dangling from her lips had transformed her: this was Harriet Danes, smoking slut, looking as sexy as all those other wonderful smoking sluts she had been admiring since the preceding weekend, from Lauren “Fuckall” to Megan and Jasmine and Lolly and the rest of them. She pouted her lips, so that her dangle looked even more sultry than ever. “Oh f’ck,” she muttered again. The cigarette jiggled sexily between her lips as she spoke. “OH FUCK!” she exclaimed in delight – and the cigarette accidentally almost dropped from her mouth, only just held in place by the saliva on her lips adhering to the paper of the cigarette.
Oh fuck, she thought again – but this time it was not an expression of excitement, but of frustration. I haven’t got any fucking matches! Keeping the unlit cigarette firmly grasped between her lips, she ran downstairs. “M’mmy!” she called, “c’n I b’rrow s’me m’tches?”
“What’s that, cunty-pie?” replied Genevieve Danes. Her husband’s nipples were now fully coated, and she was proceeding to drip hot wax on his stiff cockhead, while he groaned with painful delight. “Oh look, how sexy!” she exclaimed, as she took in the sight of her daughter’s dangling cigarette.
Harriet grinned, but removed the cigarette from her lips to repeat the question more clearly: “I need matches to light my cigarette.” She brandished the white cylinder, her eyes announcing her excitement.
“Of course, sweetcunt. I’ve got my candle lit now. Here.” Genevieve tossed a box of matches towards her daughter – and Harriet caught it one-handed, as deftly as Lauren Bacall, and beamed with pride.
Back in her bedroom, Harriet stood in front of her mirror again, admiring the way the cigarette enhanced both her beauty and her sexuality. She held it between index and middle fingers, the way she had seen it in the movies, posing with it poised just in front of her half-parted lips. Then she dangled it from her mouth again, admiring the contrast between the white end and her moist red lips. “OK, now let’s light this fucker,” she muttered, glorying in the way the cigarette jiggled between her lips as she spoke, whilst removing one match from the box. She struck it, but – “Fuck,” she muttered – it didn’t light. She tried again, and this time it worked. Slowly moving the lit match towards her face, she concentrated hard – Fuck, I’m going cross-eyed! – to ensure that flame and cigarette tip met. Her heart skipped a beat in excitement.
But the cigarette didn’t light. There was a faint smell of charred tobacco leaf, but no smoke. “Fuck, I forgot to breathe in!” she mumbled. “Gotta draw hard while holding the flame to it – like Megan does when she’s horny!” she reminded herself. “And then take a deep inhale, to fill me up with sm–FUCK!” she swore, as the forgotten still-lit match began to scald her fingertips; she shook it out urgently.
The next attempt worked better. The match lit immediately, and Harriet aimed just right with the flame, the cigarette stiffening upwards as she gripped tighter with her lips and sucked in deeply. She shook the match flame out and gripped the cigarette between two fingers, filled her mouth with a large churning ball of virgin smoke, removed the cigarette from between her lips, and, mouth open just like Megan, she inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs.
“FUUUUUCK!!!” Harriet hadn’t even managed to inhale a quarter of the smoke before she was gagging and coughing frantically, instinctively expelling as much as she could from her body. “Jesus, what the fuck?!” she began to exclaim, before realising that, in her panic, her cigarette seemed to have disappeared. “Where the f–” But then she saw it, dropped on the floor in her panic, beginning to burn a hole in her carpet. She pounced to rescue it, swearing, “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!” as she rubbed the scorched patch with her foot to extinguish it.
“You all right, cuntling?” called Genevieve from downstairs.
“Fine, Mummy!” Harriet lied, calling through her door.
“How’s your smoking going?
“Oh, getting there… I’ll show you later, Mummy, all right?”
Harriet sat on the floor, holding the still burning cigarette firmly in one fist, assessing the situation. Jesus fuck, she thought. This is harder than I thought. Nurse Coxucca wasn’t lying. I hope I haven’t made a bad mistake. She didn’t have long to wallow in any self-doubt, though, for her cigarette was continuing to burn, and a head of ash was forming at its tip. Fuck, thought Harriet, I need one of those – what are they called? – “ashtrays”. She considered running downstairs again to ask her mother, but felt a bit embarrassed at the prospect of advertising her continued lack of smoking progress to her parents. So she got up and made her way into the bathroom. I can flick my ash down the toilet for now, she reassured herself.
It was as she stood in the bathroom that she noticed the smell of the burning cigarette: acrid, sharp, but fascinating. She breathed in deeply: the smoke was now filling the room, giving her reflection in the bathroom mirror a slightly mysterious air. The odour was strange, but continued to attract her. No, I could get used to this, she thought. I just need to take it gradually on the inhaling for now. She dangled the lit cigarette between her lips again. The smoke got in her eyes, and she began to leak tears. She adjusted the cigarette so it hung out of one corner of her mouth, self-protectively shutting the eye on that side but watching herself with the other. Oh fuck, that is hot! she thought. So sultry, so nonchalant, so totally “fuck you”! Her lips trembled, as she tentatively took another drag, filling her mouth with a churning ball of smoke, but cautiously blowing it out without inhaling. OK, that worked – but I’m not going to get a proper long cone-exhale like Lauren unless I inhale. Maybe just a little bit?
She took another drag, held the cigarette between her fingers again, and watched the smoke swirling around in her open mouth, before taking a slow, cautious, shallow open-mouthed inhale, taking care to breathe in some normal air along with the smoke. That was better. It still rasped on the way down, she felt slightly nauseous and dehydrated, and her head began to pound and spin – but this time she exhaled from her lungs, and watched in awe as an admittedly thin stream of white smoke issued from her lips, struck the bathroom mirror, and bounced off, spreading in all directions. Oh fuck, that’s hot, she thought. So fucking hot, in fact, I can feel my pussy juicing…
Harriet reached under her school skirt with her left hand and found her fuck-lips, already slick and flaring, and slipped her middle finger in-between. “Oh fuck!” she muttered. This smoking makes me so horny! She took another drag of the cigarette, and this time was able to inhale a bit more than last time. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” she squealed under her breath, and was amazed to see smoke emerging from her mouth in little white puffs as she swore. She opened her mouth wide, exhaling the rest in one wide column, which obscured her reflection in the mirror.
“Oh fuck! That’s so fucking hot!” she moaned. The cigarette was beginning to burn down, but Harriet was feeling hornier and hornier, and was determined to come on her smoke – just like Lolly in the videos. She gripped the cigarette tight between her lips, dangled it out the side, and pulled her blouse up so she could knead her tits with her right hand even as her left rubbed her clit and frigged in and out of her wet cunt. She inhaled again, but this time kept the cigarette dangling between her lips. The smoke hurt her throat, but she resisted the temptation to gag, took the whole drag deep into her lungs, held it there whilst she rubbed harder and faster at her cunt, and exhaled through her nose. Two thick streams of smoke issued from her nostrils, bouncing off her tits. “Oh yeah, oh fuck!” she mumbled at the sight, still gripping the cigarette between her lips. “‘M gonna f’ckin c’me, f’cking c’ming, J’sus f’ck, f’cking c’ming!” she squealed, as smoke wafted from her lips and nostrils, billowing around her face and hair. She felt sick, her throat hurt, her lips were dry, her eyes stung, and her head pounded – but the sheer filthy pleasure of watching herself smoking, the rapidly diminishing cigarette end dangling sluttishly from her lips, was too much to resist. She watched herself come, panting and squealing with joy as her cunt spasmed and smoke swirled around her.
Harriet Danes collapsed onto the floor of the bathroom in spent, painful, mind-fucked ecstasy. Holding the nearly spent cigarette butt between the fingers of one hand, she brushed ash off her clothes and tits with the other, panting, breathless, nauseous. She dropped the cigarette butt into the toilet, heard it fizz, smelt the rank odour of wet ash. It was only then that she noticed that everything stank of smoke: her clothes, her hair, her breath, the entire room. She sniffed her fingers, and they gave off a double stink: as well as tobacco smoke, the strange heady smell of spent nicotine. She felt sick, crawled over to the toilet bowl, and waited just in case, in the meantime gazing in fascination at the now submerged cigarette butt, yellow at the filter (Fuck, is that the shit I was breathing in?) but disintegrating slowly from the burnt end.
Harriet felt filthy, fetid, thirsty, sick. How the fuck am I ever going to get used to this, she thought, never mind get addicted to it? And yet, her head was spinning, her mind was buzzing, lit, glowing with awareness and energy. She had just had one of the best orgasms ever – and the memory of what she had looked like in the mirror, a true smoking slut – OK, not quite Megan or Lolly yet, but surely if I work on it… And so Harriet knelt on the tiled floor, clasped her stinking hands before her face, and prayed. “Lord Jesus, I know that wherever you lead me, your right hand will hold me fast. You pleasure me, my God, and I trust you to hold me in your fucking embrace, to teach me to be the best smoking slut ever. Help me to become totally addicted, Lord Jesus, so that I can smoke and fuck for your glory. Amen.”
“Harriet, dinner! called Genevieve from downstairs.
“Coming, Mummy,” Harriet replied, flushing the toilet and picking herself up off the floor.
*
“So how was the smoking?” asked Janey, as she bounced up to Harriet the next morning before school.
Harriet felt foul, but attempted to confect enthusiasm. “Oh, fine, it’s going nicely…” she lied, eyes glazed over.
Janey raised one eyebrow quizzically. “OK… so show me! I wanna see you do a Lauren! Like, ‘Anybody got a match?’” she added in her best Bacall-imitation voice.
Harriet fumbled for an excuse. “Oh, I… well, I kinda… I left my cigarettes at home…” The truth was, she felt hungover: she had barely slept last night, her head was aching, her eyes were bloodshot, and she felt dehydrated, her throat parched.
“You left them at home?! I thought you were gonna smoke, like, non-stop or something, be a total smoking slut…”
“Oh fuck it, Janey, leave it, will you?” Harriet snapped. “It’s not so easy, smoking. It takes time to get used to it. I’d like to see you do it!”
Janey was visibly deflated. “Fuck, Hat, what’s brought this on?”
Harriet opened her mouth to speak, but all she could do was burst into tears. Janey put her arm around her friend and held her tight. “Hey, hey, it’s OK. You take all the time you want, babe. Sorry if I pressurised you, I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s just… well, it’s the nicotine, I think,” Harriet explained through tears and sniffles, “it gives you a headache, it dries you out, it makes you want to throw up, and it keeps you awake all fucking night. I had my first cigarette after school yesterday, and it looked so hot, I just couldn’t stop myself schlicking my cunt, and I came so fucking hard – but it made me feel like shit. Then after dinner I tried another one, without rubbing myself off, but it made me feel so fucking sick I couldn’t even finish it – and it left me so high I couldn’t sleep a wink. This morning I tried another after breakfast – and I still couldn’t finish it, and I feel so fucking shitty after last night I just… Jesus, Janey, I had no idea how hard it was going to be!” Harriet bawled into her friend’s shoulder.
“Fuuuck… fuuuck, babe, take it slowly. You don’t need to prove anything. I mean, it took me ages to get used to the taste of piss. It’s like learning an instrument. You just take a bit at a time, space it out, easy does it, I’m sure you’ll get used to it eventually…”
“Well, Nurse Coxucca says I’m going to get addicted to it,” sniffed Harriet, “but I hope it doesn’t stay like this: I can’t imagine anything worse that being addicted to something which makes you feel like shit all the time…”
Harriet was, of course, worrying needlessly – for, though she did not know it yet, no true smoker has ever yet had difficulty finding pleasure in addiction. However, whether consciously or otherwise, she took Janey’s advice and decided to be in less of a hurry from now on. Thankfully, her first two periods were free, and so she was able to curl up with her head on a desk in the library for most of the morning. She drank lots of water all day, and by the afternoon felt largely detoxified, even refreshed. Lunch was followed by double Fucking with Miss Poussée which, pleasingly, went very well this week: the teacher even complimented Harriet on her blowjob technique, making her feel very proud of herself.
Back home in her bedroom after school, Harriet smoked her first cigarette of the afternoon gently and cautiously, carefully mixing modest amounts of smoke with plenty of air, enabling herself to inhale several shallow drags without feeling too nauseous or dehydrated. She wisely avoided looking at any smoking porn, or touching herself up, so as to maintain calm and self-control. Once the cigarette was half-spent, she was beginning to find it hard to inhale any more without gagging, so she decided to stub it out in her newly purchased ashtray (actually an ornamental dish, pink and tit-shaped), and congratulated herself on the wisdom of her self-restraint. And after dinner, even though she thought she could probably manage the remaining half of the cigarette, she chose not to, so as not to ruin her chances of a decent night’s sleep.
*
Harriet maintained her cautiously calibrated smoking method throughout the next day: one after breakfast, one after coming home from school for lunch (no afternoon lessons on Thursdays), a third later in the afternoon, and a fourth after dinner. With each cigarette, she felt able to inhale a bit deeper, and was able to smoke a bit more before nausea convinced her to stub it out.
By the middle of the day on Friday, Harriet was beginning to experience a quite novel sensation: she felt like a cigarette. She wasn’t quite sure why, or how: there was a tingling in her hard palate, a warm residual tobacco taste in her throat inviting replenishment, the faint scent of smoke on her fingers, and a slight nervousness in her disposition she wasn’t used to. Despite the fact that Friday lunchtimes meant Porn Club (always her favourite), she felt on edge, slightly ill at ease, and for some strange reason she just couldn’t get cigarettes out of her mind: whilst everyone else was marvelling at the oral technique of pre-Enlightenment fuck-pioneers like Erica Boyer, Cara Lott and Ginger Lynn, Harriet’s eyes were glazing over, as she imagined what it would be like when she got home, went upstairs to her room, lit up her first cigarette of the afternoon, felt the smoke rasping down her throat, felt her lungs fill, experienced the relief, the satisfaction that would surely bring…
By home time, Harriet couldn’t get smoking out of her mind. Her walk home was not exactly desperate, but brisk and purposeful. She tore upstairs, not even noticing what her parents were up to in the living room (though the sounds of intermittent whipping echoed up the stairs behind her), strode directly over to her packet of Marlboro Lights 100s, struck a match, and lit up. It was good: the smoke did rasp at the back of her throat, but in a manner which, she realised, felt familiar rather than painful. Her chest felt reassured by being filled with warm tobacco smoke, and the nervousness she had been feeling all afternoon began to dissipate. She exhaled confidently, watching the full-bodied cone of white smoke flow across the room before bouncing off her bedroom mirror, disintegrating and billowing up towards the ceiling.
Oh! This is nice, she thought. Tempting as it was to smoke faster and deeper, or to slip a hand under her skirt to play with her pussy, now slightly damp from excitement, she resisted. Instead she concentrated on her basic smoking technique, watching herself in the mirror: how to balance the cigarette comfortably between two fingers of her right hand, how to position it pointing straight forward from her mouth and fold her lips around it just enough to form a strong seal without ruining it with a surfeit of moisture, how to drag just the right amount before running out of breath, so she could remove the cigarette and continue to inhale air to escort the ball of smoke down to her lungs; then, how to exhale neatly – either between pursed lips, or through her nostrils, or even in little puffs as she practised smoking fetish-flavoured versions of some of the dirty talk they had been rehearsing in Further Fucking that afternoon: “I’m a fucking smoking whore… Watch me smoke while you stroke your dick… Wanna eat my cunt while I smoke, babe?” Harriet giggled, then marvelled as the smoke sputtered out through her nostrils.
This cigarette Harriet was able to smoke all the way down to the filter. The last drag was rich, strong, hot on her lips, the rasp in her throat rough but satisfying. When she stubbed her cigarette butt out in her tit-shaped ashtray she noticed it was soft and warm, the filter deep yellow, almost brown from the tar she had been inhaling through it. She sniffed her fingers: fuck yeah, the smell of smoke and nicotine was heady and exciting.
It was less than an hour before Harriet felt like another cigarette. And after dinner she smoked two more while doing her homework, before retiring to bed. And she slept well. Really well.
To be continued...
