Chapter Four:
“Smoking Tobacco May Be Beneficial For Your Health”
“Oh sweetcunt! Are you going to smoke and jerk off for us?” Genevieve’s face lit up with maternal delight. Her question was not unreasonable, as Harriet had appeared at the breakfast table this Saturday morning, still in her nightie (translucent pink, clit-themed) brandishing her packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, and her favourite pink dildo. “Won’t that be lovely, Henry?” the older woman added, giving her husband’s buttocks a poke with her stilettos.
Henry replied with a bark and a whimper, but did not emerge from under the table, where he was lying curled up at his wife’s feet. “Oh Mummy,” remonstrated Harriet smugly, “as you know, well brought up young ladies do not smoke before breakfast!”
“Bacon, then, cuntling?” Genevieve held out the platter to her daughter, before herself picking up a slice, using it to wipe some pussy-slime from her vulva, and dangling it under the table. Henry barked and sat up in begging position, dribbling tongue extended so that his wife could drop the rasher into his mouth. Appreciatively, he returned to his place under the table to consume his cunt-flavoured breakfast. “Well, I am so pleased for you, Harriet,” continued her mother. “When I was young I never dared to smoke: it was so frowned upon in those days – even though everyone knew deep down that it was terribly sexy! And then it got banned, which I thought was so short-sighted: I mean, after all, if it gets people off, what could possibly be gained by banning it? Sausage, dear?”
Henry, having finished his bacon, barked, and emerged from under the table again to beg. “Ah Henry, if you want a sausage you have to be a good doggie and have it with brown sauce, all right?” Henry whimpered in anticipation as Genevieve reached downward and slowly fed a chipolata into her tight arsehole. “Good dog!” she signalled, as her husband began slobbering at her crotch, nibbling the sausage as his wife farted it out half an inch at a time into his mouth. “But isn’t it wonderful that they have this smoke-safe technology now, sweetcunt?” continued Genevieve, turning back to her daughter. “I mean, of course, all else being equal, I’d rather you not get lung cancer. Though, as they don’t seem to want us to live beyond fifty anyway these days, I don’t see what difference it would make. More scrambled egg?”
But Harriet had already had one helping of egg and, despite the fact that under normal circumstances she would gladly have had seconds, this morning she felt, unaccountably, more drawn to a cigarette than food. Funny, that, she thought. Is that what Nurse Coxucca meant by addiction? It wasn’t, she felt, that she needed a cigarette as such, but somehow she felt incomplete without it: her hunger wasn’t quite sated, and instinctively she knew merely that eating more food wasn’t what was required.
Once she lit her cigarette, however, she was sure of her choice. As the smoke filled her lungs, she began to feel a degree of satiety spread through her body which mere food could never have engendered. Her hunger this morning was a new kind of hunger, a multi-layered hunger – and it required a new, multi-layered kind of satisfaction. “Oh Hattie, that smoking is so sexy!” her mother continued to witter, even as she spooned a dollop of scrambled egg onto her cunt, which her husband, now stroking his stiff cock with a buttery hand, began to gobble down greedily. “Good dog, Henry,” Genevieve added. “Once you’ve finished your egg you can jerk off on my heels, if you like.”
Henry squealed with delight, before stroking his cock rapidly and depositing five of six stripes of man-cum on his wife’s stilettos. But Harriet was paying attention to neither of her parents, for she was revelling in the pleasure and fascination of her own smoking. Oh fuck, this is good! she thought to herself. And so good after breakfast! It was as if the smoking was completing the pleasure of a full stomach, adding a new layer to her satisfaction which she had never known before. By the time she finished her cigarette (stubbing it out in her milky cereal bowl), she had discovered something which only smokers know, which is that there is nothing to be compared to the sense of completion, the feeling of wholeness, which smoking gives to a human being.
“Oh God, this is so fucking good!” Harriet moaned, as she felt her last lungful of rich tar-laden smoke tingle and stroke and massage her from the inside out, and then let it out in a long, perfectly controlled cone-shaped exhale, across the table into her mother’s face.
“I am so happy for you, sweetcunt,” smiled Genevieve admiringly, despite wrinkling her nose against the smell. “Henry, isn’t it nice Harriet’s found such a pretty fetish?” she added, digging her cum-striped stilettos into her husband’s crotch. “Now, lick my shoes clean like a good doggie…”
Harriet smiled indulgently, but decided not to stay at the table. Her dildo, which had lain unused next to the corn flakes throughout breakfast, beckoned. Smoking makes me horny! Harriet noticed. How strange: so pleasurable, so satisfying – yet always demanding more… Not to be delayed by her self-analysis, she abandoned her parents, slipped out onto the rear patio, found her favourite bench in the sun, opened the front of her nightie, and began to play with her pussy. In the past, her lust had always found satisfaction through self-stimulation alone; now, she knew that it demanded nicotine as well. The last time she had attempted masturbation while smoking it had made her feel ill; this time, as she slid her dildo into her moist pink flesh and breathed in the first lungful of smoke from her second cigarette of the day, she knew things were going to be different. For the more she stimulated herself, the more she wanted to smoke. The hornier she got, the more desperate her need for nicotine became. Soon she was ramming her dildo deep into her cunt, rubbing her clit hard with three fingers of one hand, multi-pumping lungful after lungful of hot smoke, and squealing with pleasure out loud into the warm morning air, “Oh God, oh fuck, yeah fill up my cunt, fill up my lungs, lung-fuck me with that fucking smoke, I need it so bad, I want it so bad, oh God, oh Jesus fuck, OH YEAAAAAH!” She wanted the world to know she was coming; she wanted God to know she was an insatiable smoking slut, an addict, a smoke-whore, who needed nothing more than to come, and smoke, and smoke and come.
Harriet exhaled her last orgasm-laden lungful of smoke, tossed her cigarette butt onto the patio and panted with satisfaction as she watched it burn down to nothing. She sniffed her fingers, sucked her dildo clean, savoured the perfect blend of smoky stink and cunt slime. Fuck, that tastes good! she thought, and she slipped her dildo back into her cunt again – my smoky dildo, now coating the inside of my cunt with tar and formaldehyde and cyanide and fuck-knows-what-shit, making me stink and taste of smoke inside and out – Jesus fuck, I am such a filthy smoking cunt-whore… Once upon a time Harriet might have felt a little embarrassed at describing herself in such self-aggrandising terms, but smoking had changed all that. Now she knew, as never before, that she was, as Nurse Coxucca had predicted, triple-addicted: mentally addicted to fucking, psychologically addicted to smoking, and physically addicted to the nicotine that smoking was bringing her. Oh! she added. Forgive me, Lord: I am not just triply addicted, but quadruply – because I am also spiritually addicted. You called me to be a fuckslut, and now you have called me to be a smoking whore, to the glory of Your Name – hallelujah!
Harriet spent the rest of the morning in the joy of self-discovery – for she realised that smoking had awakened parts of her soul that had hitherto lain dormant, that she had barely even known were there; now that God was revealing them to her she was more complete, more full of the Horny Spirit, more of an ornament to God’s holy fucking creation than ever before. After her shower, she dangled a cigarette from the corner of her mouth as she did her make-up, shutting one eye against the smoke, inhaling hands-free, and exhaling through her nostrils to avoid having to actually hold the cigarette between her otherwise busy fingers. She loved watching the cigarette stiffen and rise between her lips – like a cock! – whenever she took a drag, and go “flaccid” again as she exhaled. Of course it didn’t always work. Sometimes the smoke would get into the other eye, making it water so she couldn’t see what she was doing. Sometimes she simply needed too many hands to do her makeup, and had to rest the burning cigarette on the edge of her ashtray for a while. Sometimes she forgot it was there, and had to make up for lost intake of nicotine with a good deep double-pump. Sometimes she was all thumbs and dropped her lipstick (fuck!), or her mascara wand (fuck!!) or even her cigarette (FUCK!!!) in her clumsiness.
She decided to wear her favourite Barbie-slut clothes this morning, all pink and frilly and see-through, and spent several minutes admiring herself in the mirror posing with cigarette and dildo, looking as coquettish as she could while blowing smoke over her toy, or licking it seductively as smoke drifted from her nostrils. But it was as she was stubbing this cigarette out (her fourth of the day), noticing how crowded her ashtray was becoming with over a dozen smelly misshapen yellowing cigarette butts (Fuck, that looks so decadent! And it smells like shit – fuck yeah!) that she realised she was running out of cigarettes. Fuck, how did that happen so fast? she wondered. I mean, I only started on Tuesday: surely I haven’t smoked that much! Her self-justification swiftly gave way to panic. Shit, what if I am genuinely addicted? Am I going to be able to survive till Nurse Coxucca gives me some more cigarettes on Monday? I mean, what happens to a smoker who can’t smoke? Will I go into withdrawal? Will I have a fit? fall unconscious? have a heart attack? Oh Jesus, help me!
Harriet scrabbled in her school bag for the information leaflet Nurse Coxucca had given her. It was long and boring and full of medical jargon, but eventually she found the paragraph she was looking for:
The Ministry of Health has determined that, properly protected by Medical Modification technology, smoking tobacco may be beneficial for your health. Whilst people over the age of thirty should not attempt to smoke, as the effectiveness of the MM procedure may have some deleterious side-effects (see para. II.C.7.iv below), for the under 30s a Lung-Safe® procedure should induce complete protection against all potential respiratory diseases. Certainly, the tiny risks which remain are more than offset by the massive potential smoking has as a sexual fetish, and therefore for mental well-being. As the Government, led by the Party of the Enlightenment, is keen to promote variety and freedom of sexual expression, and the benefits in health thereby induced, throughout society, but especially in the young…
“… blah blah blah, that’s not what I want, I want to know how I – ah, here we are…
… and therefore cigarettes will be available on prescription through all NHS medical centres, and in schools, from the beginning of September; and to anyone with a Lung-Safe® MM Certificate from participating retailers from Monday 20th September, unless…
“OK, I’ve got the certificate here, but – ‘participating retailers’? What the fuck is a ‘participating retailer’? And – oh shit! – ‘Monday 20th September’ – that’s day after tomorrow! FUCK FUCK FUCK!! Oh Jesus, what now? Even if I can find a fucking ‘participating retailer’, I have to wait till Monday?! JESUS MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST!”
“Are you all right, sweetcunt?” called Genevieve from downstairs.
Oops. Harriet realised that in her alarm – possibly encouraged by her nicotine high – she had been talking, nay shouting, out loud. “I’m fine, Mummy,” she replied. “No problems…”
OK, calm down, Hat, calm down. All you have to do is pop down to the High Street, ask in some of the shops, and see what gives. Nurse Coxucca said something about ‘corner shops’, didn’t she? I mean, if any have got them in stock, I can’t see why they shouldn’t sell them to me. So Harriet donned high-heeled pink latex boots to match the rest of her clothes, popped her cigarettes – and her dildo, of course – into her cunt-themed pink handbag, and skipped downstairs. “Just popping out!” she called to her mother, who was standing over her kneeling husband repeatedly spitting into his ecstatic upturned face, as Harriet shut the front door behind her.
It was a lovely day, and Harriet decided to have another cigarette – her first ever in public as she walked down the hill. It felt remarkable, liberating, joyous to smoke walking down the street. She knew she should have been worried, but – cigarettes make me so happy, she realised, so elevated, so unstressed, so confident! She experimented with different ways of exhaling on the go, but eventually decided she loved the sensation of a long exhale through her lips best, feeling the smoke stroke past her cheek to make an exuberant billowing cloud in her wake.
Some people stared at the sight, puzzled and surprised at the sight of someone smoking – here, now, in Enlightenment Europe. One elderly couple stopped in their tracks. “Oh look, Myra, that girl’s smokin’. I haven’t seen that in years. You know, me Auntie Ethel used to smoke, way back when. I always thought it was so sexy, I’d wank off just finkin’ about it, so glad they’re bringing it back now: did ya read in the papers, they’re wanting youngsters to take up smokin’ again. Not a bad idea, if you ask me…”
Harriet’s optimism was short-lived – for there were no cigarettes to be found anywhere on the High Street. The lady at Titsco’s said they were taking their first delivery of cigarettes on Sunday, but were forbidden by law to sell any until Monday morning. The manager at Shitbury’s said the same, and reminded Harriet that she would need her MM Certificate if she wanted to buy any – as well as ID to prove she was younger than thirty. (What the fuck? Do I fucking look older than thirty? thought Harriet, but nodded meekly.) At Wankrose they showed her their cigarette stock list: “Marlboro Lights 100s” were indeed on the list, as well as several other brands, and they had already received their delivery – their first ever in twenty years, the manager was very excited to reveal – but under no circumstances could he sell her any until Monday morning: “Strictly against the law – I could get into real trouble,” he explained.
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! thought Harriet – and, sitting on a park bench, had another cigarette to calm herself down. This one she drank down desperately, barely removing it from her lips as she allowed the smoke to suffuse her body, revelling in the rasp, in the high, in the stink, in the creaminess of the smoke wafting around her face, her hair, her fingers: it was as if the fear of being deprived of nicotine was making her even more desperate than ever for the blessed high it gave her. And by the time she flicked her spent cigarette butt, still lit, down the path, her head was spinning – and she loved it.
She wanted more – but her smoking was making her horny again, and she wanted to come. She got out her dildo again. Oh, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, she thought. I’ve only got one cigarette left, I need to save it, I need to eke it out over the next twenty-four hours, no, thirty-six, no, fucking forty-eight or whatever – oh Jesus fucking Christ, is this what it means to be addicted? to be out of control? to be powerless? to be dependent? Now, almost without realising it, her legs were apart, her crotch was exposed to the sun, her dildo was in her cunt, and her fingers were scrabbling, wildly, uncontrollably, for the last cigarette in the packet. She lit it, and began to draw on it desperately, as she rammed the dildo fast in and out of her sopping gash. “I gotta come, I gotta fucking come on this fucking smoke, then it’ll be all right, won’t it, if I fucking come, if I fill myself up with smoke, I fucking need this, I fucking…”
“Harriet!”
Harriet looked up. “Oh fuck – Janey!” she exclaimed.
To be continued…
