Whew. Glad to get that off my chest. It's very wicked of me. And so unhealthy, I could lie face down and nude on the floor right now and let you lay into my curvy, cute ass with your strap until it's beet red. But what's a submissive girl to do? Somehow I've gotten hooked on the look -- I think it's those elegant women from the '40s movies and war-time picture post cards, Marlene Dietrich and the like, and I get wet just thinking of climbing inside those sultry, melancholy divas, and their soft-light Hollywood images. When I'm dressed in the tight, sparkly, form-fitting evening gowns, the ones that tell me just how to move -- like bondage -- I love smoking long slender cigarettes from a shiny sterling silver holder. I like to throw my head back, all open and exposed from bare neck to pale cleavage, and aim languid snakes of smoke up to the sky. When I'm in my black breast-pressing corset of aromatic leather, I like a short, cruel, punishing cigarette, like a Camel or a Marlboro. Or something brown and dirty looking. Those cigarettes make me wince, and if I'm not careful, the smoke gets in my eyes and makes me cry. But it gets worse. When I'm dressed in baggy men's suits, I like to have a smelly, humiliating, cumbersome cigar stuffed in my pouty mouth. A cigar is like an overlarge, demanding dick. It makes my mouth go all awkward around it. It makes me smoke it like a fish trying to breathe air. The whole ugly process reminds me of when Lord Bryant makes me walk through a public dungeon with my ankles fettered to a spreader bar. I feel so clumsy and open for public view. It makes me wet.
Oh, I know you're probably getting disgusted with me now. This wicked habit being so bad for my health (not to mention my breath). And if you are, you will probably understand how my Lord Bryant feels. Truth is, when he finds me smoking, he punishes me severely. He hates my smoking alright, and I hate to displease him. Really I do. But the punishment he inflicts…ooooh. Well, I'm sorry to say it only adds to the allure and charm of whatever it was I got caught smoking. And that's the twisted part of my addiction. The more I'm punished for smoking, the deeper the habit digs its hooks into me, and the larger grows the aura of hot, sexy imagery in my smoke-filled fantasy world.
I should probably tell you, in this confession, about the time Lord Bryant caught me in the middle of my hottest smoking exhibitionism. I have this cute neighbor who is always finding new ways to spy on me from his house. And what's worse -- in a very steamy, erotic way -- is that he, too, is a smoker. He's not a fetish smoker like I am. He's a real smoker. But no matter, the smoking has been a bond between us. And it's made me wild for him and weaving him tightly into my fantasy life. He's a nasty little voyeur; I'm a nasty little exhibitionist -- soul mates, don't you think? I love to pose for him. When I know he's watching, the affectation around my smoking gets out of control. I take extra long drafts, float smoke rings from my throat, slowly wet and lick my lips -- a lot -- run the cigarette under my nose as if it's a fine cognac. I drag it across my chest and let the ashes fall on the mounds of my breasts. Then I pretend to pick the ashes off, one by one, all the while heaving my full bosom nervously like a queen of melodrama.
I used to be bold and blatant about it, standing in the window where he couldn't miss me in my thin, sexy blouse. I would brush my nipples -- oh my, could that be cigarette ash? -- as if to dust them off and my nipples would pout and poke through the fabric. I wanted to be sure his hungry cock suffered over my show. But once I realized how resourceful my neighbor actually was at spying on me, the chase was on. I started toying with him. For example, I half closed my French blinds, leaving a mere slit between the halves. Then I proceeded to undress and get more comfortable to one side or another of the slit. I'd periodically pass in front of that tiny slit just to let his primal brain see what he was missing. He had binoculars. I imagined him admiring my skin, his hand slipping into his pants. Sometimes I would stand in front of the slit but 6 or 8 feet away. I pictured his frustration. Cigarette in one hand, my other would enter my own pants, or go down through the waist of my skirt. Then I would walk right up to those blinds, showing a quick flash of breast or slipping my underwear sensuously down my legs, my cigarette hand rubbing smoothly along my calf.
Sometimes, standing there with no panties on under my skirt, I slowly lifted the skirt, gradually exposing all -- my bare thighs, the plump peak of my labia, my dark bush. Briefly I would seem to freeze there at the slit in the blinds, as if musing, naked from the waist down, until I'd quickly shut the blinds tight. I thought that was my cruelest tease. I got wet just thinking about how it made his dick swell and uncontrollably give up its pearls. Shortly after that stunt, I noticed the telescope. Third floor -- that's 2 stories above my bedroom window -- the moonlight glancing off it just right. He was able to look down through the small gap at the top of my French blinds! Who knew how long he'd been watching me that way? And what had he seen? I took stock of all he might have witnessed… a shiver went through my nasty clit at the thought. And wetness spilled into the cotton crotch of my panties.I could always tell when my neighbor was watching me because of the glow. He smoked when he watched me as if he knew how badly that turned me on. I liked to tell myself that the frustration he felt while watching me drove him to smoke; I pictured his thick, meaty, pulsing, unfulfilled cock. I told myself how he burned for me. Even now I love to think of him anxiously maneuvering that silly telescope trying to keep up with me. I imagine how badly he wants to tie me up to make me stay put. Or that he wants to put a leash and collar around my neck so that as I undress I can only pace back and forth, and he can watch my breasts bounce and my nipples twitch with the delicious knowledge that I'm helpless to get out of his viewing range. I used this knowledge, these fantasies, when I stripped for bed. In my mind I was his collared stripper and watching me would make his cum drizzle from its hole. I had a great fantasy then of how he wanted to whip my ass and slap my pussy for taunting him so. He, he, he.
One very hot and humid summer night, I had just taken a shower. As usual, Lord Bryant wasn't due home until very late. Wrapped in a towel, I was in my room about to prepare for bed when I noticed him in his third floor window. Or I should say I noticed his little orangey dot glow bright, then fall through the dark and disappear. The heat had me horny enough -- all day I was like a cat in heat. That glowing dot incensed my imagination, and knowing that my sexy, sympatico neighbor was watching, silently watching put me in extreme mode. So I had to do something. I was seized by a vision, a fantasy of mine from way back that I'd never actually realized. You see, my brother keeps this car at our house, this old, old car that he's always swearing to fix up but never does. It's one of those round, bulbous cars with the fat round fenders, black and, I think kind of menacing. It doesn't run; it's dusty and the paint isn't great, but it has chrome and it looks like something from all those movies in which people smoked and smoking was dramatic and sexy and wicked.
I went out to the garage, dressed in my towel, threw the old jalopy in neutral, got behind it and pushed. It took all my strength to get the thing to move about 10 feet, but there it was, its rotund fenders poking from the doorway like two hardening dicks. My towel had fallen, of course. I was naked in my garage and pressed against the back of the car. In the darkness, I could look out the door and over the lawn. I could see the tiny glow of his presence as my breasts pressed against the cold trunk lid, the hairs of my bush sat curled around cold chrome bumper making its indentations in my soft lips. I could see him, his cigarette, but he couldn't see me. I turned round and stooped over to pick up the towel, imagining he could see me, bent over and mount-ready like a bitch dog. Then I wrapped the towel around me and cinched it just between my breasts. At the bottom end, the towel barely covered my bush. Now for my show.
I walked slowly up my walk so that he could see, there I was, outside, dressed in only a towel. I wanted him to wait for me. I went inside and got my sleek, sliver cigarette holder, inserted the slim, snow white cigarette with the long white filter, and returned outside. I hopped my ass up on the fender, crossed my legs and lit up. Oh, the feeling! No, really! I thought I had gone back in time and become someone so sexy that time couldn't hold her down. As I sat backwards on the fender, the hood, the way it scooped upwards, offered me a kind of back rest for the small of my back. The holder between my teeth, I planted my hands just beside my ass and pushed up, throwing my head back and breasts out. I made that squinty face we smokers make when we're managing both inhale and exhale without hands. I was a tough, sexy forties starlet, dreaming of my leading men. Just then, the knot at my breastbone popped open and the towel fell quickly, cleanly away. I didn't compromise my pose one hair, even though I felt the thrill wriggle through my pussy and prick my clitoris. He saw. He enjoyed. I could feel it. I was now a war-time pin-up girl; I was his post card. I blew smoky kisses into the half-moon light. The I pressed my right hand to my lips, slid two fingers around the holder, slowly, ever so slowly, edged the cigarette away from my lips, as if my thoughts were miles away. I stopped, turned my hand slightly, pretended to examine the filter, looked down as if, oh, my, some ashes have fallen on my chest. I brushed my nipples. First one, then another. I repeated the whole slow process. Twice more. A deep dreamy drag, then…oh dear, look… frisky brush of my nipples… By the third time, my nipples were suitably hard. Teasingly hard. From there I hopped backwards on my ass, back and up actually, with help from one hand and my feet, so that I could rest my butt on the top of the hood. It was an awkward move, but I knew he would be loving the awkwardness, the sway and jiggle of my titties, the chance that he might glimpse muff or even sugar. (Oh, he was about to see sugar alright!) After my awkward hop and slide up onto the domed hood of this car, I was able to lean my back against the windshield. I took this opportunity for a celebratory drag. My head resting on the visor area, my breasts swelling full outwards, I displayed for him, so he could watch my belly move, my ribs expand, my chest rise as I sucked on the thin, penile object. And then…oh, yes, you knew I would do it, I brought up my feet, near my ass cheeks, knees up, spreading myself to him, and rested that arm, the left one not holding the cigarette, on my left knee. My right arm, the one with the length of cigarette and holder at the end, I lifted and tossed back along the upper windshield, glamorously. What did he want to do to me now, I wondered. Would he be working his bone right now? Would he be wondering how tight and velvety soft I was inside? Did he want to slap me, to pinch and bite my bratty nipples, for teasing him?
Posing there for him with my active imagination in jitters, I grew so hot and creamy I didn't hear something I should never have missed. My Lord creeping down the walkway…
[To be continued…]
