Chapter 4: What the Fuck is a Participating Retailer?

“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.