Where There Is Smoke

Author: Cecilia

I was hurrying down the street one chilly Friday evening, heading for my car after putting in a few hours at the office, when I noticed a woman standing on the sidewalk directly ahead of me, in front of an old, downtown church. She was desperately trying to get a cigarette lighter to work. And as I got closer, I was surprised to recognize her – Chelsea Madsen, an incredibly sexy woman I’d dated many years earlier.

I stopped a few yards away from her and watched her fight with the lighter, flipping it over and over, a long, slender cigarette jumping up and down between her full, crimson lips as she mouthed her frustration. She had a silver and black fur coat draped over her shoulders, and she was wearing a sapphire-blue evening gown under the coat.

“Need some help?” I asked, stepping forward.

She glanced up at me, startled, and then her mouth broke into a warm smile, the cigarette traveling upward along with her lips. “Greg!” she exclaimed, plucking the unlit smoke from her mouth. “My God, I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Chelsea and I had been teenagers when we’d gone out, and we’d done some pretty wild things together, not the least of which was taking up smoking despite our parents’ objections. We’d lived together for a while, but our fiery passion had soon cooled and we’d drifted apart, the pressures and responsibilities of college and then work curbing my wild ways. But I still smoked, and obviously she did, too.

I pulled my thin, gold lighter out of my coat pocket and pressed down on the burnished top with my thumb, sending a tall flame leaping into the air. Chelsea murmured, “Thanks,” placed the cigarette back between her lips, and reached out and gently gripped my wrist with one of her soft, slender hands, pulling the gleaming lighter closer. She angled her cigarette into the dancing, yellow flame, and we both watched as the tip began to burn, then glow orange as it quickly caught fire. Chelsea drew on the king-sized cigarette, her cheeks concaving as she sucked life into the smoke, smoke into her lungs. Then she pulled her head back and exhaled, let the thick, white smoke stream out of her pursed lips and into the cold night air, into my hot face.

Smoking, and Chelsea, had become forever linked with sex for me; she’d been the first girl I’d ever had intercourse with. We’d just turned eighteen, and she and I had been smoking and necking behind the school one hot summer night, when we’d suddenly torn off each other’s clothes and made passionate first love on the soft grass, under the star-filled sky.

“You’re looking good, Greg,” the pale, husky-voiced brunette remarked, before taking another long drag on her cigarette, filling my face again with warm, intoxicating smoke.

I breathed the cloud into my lungs, my cock hardening as I watched Chelsea lick her scarlet lips, draw on the cigarette, and expel smoke through her flared nostrils. And at that moment, I decided to recapture some of the excitement of my youth, inject some much needed spice into my otherwise bland life. I glanced up and down the deserted, night-shrouded street, grabbed Chelsea’s hand, and pulled her into an alley that ran alongside the church.

I pushed her up against the wall, slid my hands underneath her fur coat and cupped and squeezed her firm, heavy breasts. I stared anxiously into her dark eyes as I excitedly fondled her tits, wondering if maybe I’d gone too far. But then she took a pull on her shaking cigarette and blew the rich smoke directly into my face, and I knew that she wanted me as badly as I wanted her.

I hungrily kissed her, tasted the exquisite soft, smoky heat of her lips. She lifted her arms up over her head, inviting me to ravage her, the burning cigarette dangling dangerously between her fingers. We coiled our tongues together, urgently frenched like a couple of hormonally inflamed teenagers.

Then I broke away from her warm, wet mouth, dropped to my knees on the hard, cold pavement, and pulled her coat open, pushed her dress up to her waist and stared at the satiny pink panties she was wearing. I looked up at her, at the coal-red tip of the cigarette that was now back between her lips, and she blew smoke at me. I tugged her panties down her fleshy thighs and buried my face in between her long, lithe, black-stockinged legs.

I gripped her taut, round butt cheeks and tongued her soaking snatch, her body bucking in my sweaty hands. She moaned, grabbed my head and riffled her fingers through my hair as I urgently lapped at her pussy, the smoke from her bobbing cigarette curling up into the frosty air. I tongued up and down her sopping, furry sex in long, slow tongue-strokes, then spread her slick lips with my fingers and thrust my hardened pink spear inside her.

“Jesus!” she groaned, her body undulating, her big breasts heaving up and down as I fucked her with my tongue. She pulled shakily on her cigarette, which was burnt down almost to her fingers by now, and gasped out the smoke, choking on it. Then she cried out in ecstasy as an orgasm blazed through her trembling body.

I kept right on tonguing her gushing gash, swallowing as much of her tangy juice as I could. And when she at last calmed down again, I stood up on wobbly legs and snatched the lipstick-stained stub out of her fingers, took a good, long, final drag.

“I-I’ve got to get back,” Chelsea stammered, straightening herself up as I ground out the butt on the pavement. “There’s a : wedding going on inside.”

“Who’s getting married?” I asked, licking the beautiful lady’s cum off my lips.

“I’m, um, not exactly sure. You see, my husband’s the minister.”

I gaped at her.
   
She tapped another cigarette out of a slim deck and handed it to me, a wicked smile on her full-bodied lips. “He never has approved of my smoking, you know.”