Chapter 5: Cum-Faced Smoking Fuckslut

“Oh fuck, oh Jesus, oh how embarrassing – Janey! What are you doing here?”

“Just on my way home from band practice,” replied Janey, brandishing her clarinet case. “Are you ... all right, Hat?” Janey looked down at her friend, glowing cigarette clamped between her lips, dildo poking hands-free from her cunt, fingers glistening with her own fuck-slime.

“Oh Jesus, Janey, I’m so fucking horny, I need to come, I need to come on smoke, I ... shit, I’ll explain later, babe, just let me...” Harriet resumed desperately jamming her pink dildo in and out of her pink flesh, taking another deep drag on her cigarette.

“Here, let me help you, Hat,” interrupted Janey, kneeling on the path in front of the bench, putting down her instrument, and taking control of the dildo. The skinny dark-haired girl began to ram the toy fast and hard in and out of her blond friend’s pussy, rubbing her clit at the same time. Soon jets of pleasure were shooting throughout Harriet’s body – from deep in her cunt, from her swollen throbbing clit, from her erect nipples, and of course from her lungs, her throat, her lips, her nostrils – all caressed, stroked, pleasured by the creamy smoke which flowed through her whole being.

“Eat me, Janey, eat me!” Harriet called out, lifting her legs backwards and curling them behind her head so that her whole ass and crotch were exposed, facing upwards, available, inviting and irresistible. “I need you to lick my pussy while I smoke. I wanna come on smoke with your tongue up my cunt!” Dutifully, Janey let the dildo drop out onto the path and buried her face in her bestie’s gaping pink gash, tongue slobbering deep inside while two fingers of one hand continued to rub her clit. “Oh Jesus, that’s so fucking good, Janey, you’re such a good friend, you know? You make me feel so fucking good, you know just how to make me feel oh fuck oh fuck OH FUUUUUUUCK!!!” Harriet screamed as she came, exhaling a thick pillar of smoke upwards into the atmosphere. Janey kept rubbing Harriet’s clit and slobbering deep inside her pussy, so that Harriet’s orgasm would go on and on, so that she could milk the last dregs of pleasure out of both cunt and cigarette.

Tears ran down Harriet’s cheeks – tears of pleasure, of gratitude, of devotion. As she wiped her eyes, she noticed that a small crowd of passers-by had gathered, and were now applauding her orgasm. Janey rolled her eyes nervously, but Harriet smiled graciously, uncurling her legs to release them from behind her neck, bowing her head in thanks before taking one last drag of her cigarette and tossing the lit butt on the ground. “See what I mean, Myra?” she heard as the crowd dispersed. “That’s what I’d imagine me Aunt Ethel doin’. Don’ know if she ever did – but innit good that young people today can do fings like that – even in public. I mean, when we were young they’d never ‘ave allowed it...”

“So, enjoying the cigarettes then, cuntface?” Janey giggled.

“Oh, Janey, you have no idea! So fucking good!”

“Lemme see, then. Show us. I mean, I’ve been concentrating so hard on your cunt the past five minutes, I couldn’t watch your smoking!”

Harriet grimaced. “Ah, well, that’s the problem, see, Janey, I’ve run out...”

“Oh right. So can you get some more? I wanna watch you smoke one of those fuckers, like Lauren Bacall, sometime when I don’t have my face glued to your gash.” She got up off the ground, sat next to her friend and gave her a kiss on the lips. “Hey, you know you smell like shit!” she giggled, screwing up her nose.

“Well, tough tits, bitch, I like the smell, and I like the way I smell when I smoke, so there! But...” Harriet hesitated, “I can’t smoke any more till Monday...”

“Oh, OK, no problem, well, you can show me on Monday, then. You can get some more from Nurse Coxucca at school, can’t you?”

“Yeah, well, probably. Problem is, see, I’m addicted now, so I really need some more now. I don’t know if I can wait till Monday...”

“Addicted? How does that work? What’s gonna happen if you go without? Will you, like, drop dead or something?” Janey cackled.

“I don’t think so...” replied Harriet pensively. “But...”

“Well, come on then, fuck-bitch. Come over to my place today, keep your mind off it: we can do some fucking, watch a classic movie, listen to some Benny Goodman, maybe even soak some stamps if we’re feeling really naughty!”

Under normal circumstances, it would have been a lovely day. Janey suggested Harriet have a shower and clean her teeth, to get rid of the smell and taste of smoke – “so you’re not reminded of it all the time,” she said. For a while it seemed to work, though after lunch Harriet felt her craving grow again: her hard palate was tingling, the ashtray taste in her mouth – now so irresistible in its acrid pungency – kept reminding her of what she was missing, her throat and lungs felt incomplete and desirous, she kept sniffing at her fingers as if by doing so she could inhale that heavenly nicotine-laden relief with which she now associated the residual smoky smell.

“Maybe eat my pussy a bit, babe?” suggested Janey. “That should wipe out any other taste, shouldn’t it?” she giggled. Harriet tried – and of course Janey was right: there is nothing quite as all-consuming as the taste of cunt – and Janey’s was a superlative example, rich, pungent and irresistible. Soon Harriet’s lips, tongue, face and fingers were coated with that heavenly savour which, under normal circumstances, obliviates all others. For a while, Harriet loved it, rubbing her whole face into her best friend’s thick, dark, neatly trimmed bush, slobbering joyfully at her fuck-slit, feeling her cunt spasm with pleasure at the touch of her tongue, her hips bucking and her moans rising as she came. Harriet left her face and hands coated with Janey’s cunt-slime all afternoon, hoping against hope that the taste would help her to forget her own craving – but it didn’t. Despite Janey’s best attempts to distract her (fucking, pissing, movies, music, first day covers), by the evening Harriet was desperate: her jaw was trembling, her breath was ragged, her mind was swimming with imagined tastes and sensations: a cigarette between her lips, the rasp of the first drag hitting the back of her throat, her lungs filling with warm smoke, the blessed relief spreading through her mind and body – but none of it was real. She inhaled deeply, her cheeks hollowing as she imagined smoking another cigarette – but she was left frustrated and disconsolate. “Oh God, Janey, help me! I can’t take it anymore!” Harriet collapsed to the ground, pounding the floor in frustration, as tears ran down her cheeks.

“OK, OK, Hat, I’ve got an idea. This bloke in Soho – you know the one I told you about, the one who gets me my classic films and stuff – maybe he could help? I mean, he’s good at getting things: want me to ring him up?”

“Oh God, Janey, do you think he could get me some cigarettes? I didn’t know he did that sort of –”

“I don’t know either, Hat. But it’s worth a try. Here...”

At first the black-market man was not answering his phone, so Janey had to leave a message. By the time he rang back, after supper, Harriet was in a state of utter desperation, pacing up and down the corridor, wringing her hands, sniffing her fingers in desperation, stopping every half an hour or so to jerk herself off with her fingers, in repeated vain attempts to distract herself from the unbearable absence of nicotine in her bloodstream. “He says he can get some for you – ‘Marlboro Lights 100s’, that’s what you want, isn’t it? – by ten tonight – but it’ll be expensive, because they’re not officially available till Monday. That OK with you?”

“Yeah, whatever, yeah...” moaned Harriet, as another unsatisfactory finger-induced orgasm rippled through her body. “Any sooner than ten?”

“He says if he’s lucky he might be able to get some by half nine, but not to count on it.”

“Oh Jesus, yeah sure, I’ll be there...” Harriet groaned.

In the Olden Days, Soho had been a grimy, seedy part of London, home to prostitutes, strip joints, and pornographic video stores of dubious legal status. But the arrival of the Enlightenment had changed all that. Now that free fucking in all its forms had become not just acceptable to English society but the height of respectability, formerly covert sexual businesses were freed from the stigma which had once limited them to certain areas. Prostitution (or “professional fucking”, as it was now called) was far less common than before (as most people were happy to fuck anyone they fancied for free anyway), and was generally limited to highly-skilled specialists trained at august institutions such as the Royal Academy of Fucking. Strip joints, again, were hardly necessary, as the only people interested in covering up their bodies were “Undesirables”: antediluvian religious believers and other misguided conscientious objectors. As for pornographic video stores, they were completely unnecessary in a world where every possible variety of sexual exhibitionism was available for free at the click of a button on your own screen.

As all these purveyors of fine fucking spread elsewhere, however, Soho retained its reputation for illicit, under-the-counter dealings, and became therefore a haven for vendors of illegal imports from the Outside World: modest clothing, underwear, non-fucking novels and films, religious texts in their original pre-Enlightenment translations: anything, in short, which eschewed the high levels of lasciviousness which decent Enlightenment citizens in the modern age would demand. It was a place where one could come to watch a non-fucking show in a dingy underground theatre, or buy a cup of coffee without cum squirted on top (imagine!), or even purchase a pair of jeans where the only holes were at the knees rather than the cunt and ass. And so this is where Janey habitually came to buy romantic novels, classic movies, and pre-Enlightenment stamps for her collection. Her favourite dealer was a young dark-skinned man in a turban who went by the name of Fukhdeep.

“Hey, Fucky, m’ pussy,” trilled Janey as she led a trembling, desperate Harriet into a little store down a dingy back alley that evening at about half past nine. The shop was cramped and filthy, every wall stacked to the rafters with illicit books, films, magazines, pictures, and clothes.