A Change of Scene—Seven Sins Part 6

A Change of Scene

By Smokedawg

(Part 6 of “Seven Sins” – Click Here for list of all current chapters)

I was dreaming of smoky kisses before I awoke. Smoky kisses with my wife, and with so many other women—some of which I had actually known; many of which were mere creations of my lust-sodden mind. And then I drifted back into the world of the waken, and realized my wife was gently blowing smoke across my face as I slept. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see four spent butts in the ashtray; she had only smoked one cigarette before bedtime, so that meant she might have been lovingly bathing me in her smoke for some time already this morning.

“You’ve been sleeping long and hard. Wore you out, did I?” she said to me in a tone that was teasing, but also utterly arousing. “I’ve used you hard for the past three nights, I admit. Tonight will be much less intense. Well, physically at least. As for your mind, well…”

She stood up, blew smoke back down on me, stroked my face, and blew me a kiss. “Have your shower. Leave some hot water for me though. And dress decently. You’re not hanging around the house today. I need to bring you along for the preparations and shopping for tonight’s theme; I need your opinions on some items.”

My cock, already turgid from the usual “morning wood,” was even harder now, engorged and aching from thoughts of what today and tonight might bring, and I didn’t even have the first clue what new kink she had in mind.

* * *

I drove us, though with as much as she smoked and exhaled toward me—and as much as her fingers tickled at the front of my pants—I was surprised I didn’t drive us right off the road. She had directed me toward the most upscale shopping mall in our area so, if nothing else, at least I knew we weren’t shopping for fetish furniture, fetish accessories or sex toys—at least, not yet.

All the smoking she was doing this morning had me wondering; was her humoring my fetish turning her into an addict, or was she simply inundating me with smoke to make me placid and yielding? She had suggested that tonight might be intense mentally if not physically…

So many thoughts ran through my mind, and I found myself considering and even desiring the possibility of kinks that I had never imagined before. She had four more that she planned to unveil, but my now-lust-crazed mind was considering the entire erotic landscape, and wondering if there was anyplace she might take me sexually that I might balk, and in balking, perhaps cost me her smoking.

We started in a lingerie boutique, which did nothing but fuel thoughts of sex in my mind. She asked my opinion on several items, and I found that everything she considered was both sexy and quality. I told her so, but I left unspoken a thought that had occurred to me. She was picking out panties and bras and camisoles and other attire that was out of character with her usual fare. Things frilly, with the most girly colors like pink and lavender.

My mind flashed to things like schoolgirl fantasies, and I wondered if some teacher-student fetish was to be played out tonight. Or perhaps something kinkier, like playing at some incest scene, with me in the role of father or uncle or older cousin?

My mind reeled, and I wondered if my wife knew how much her silence about the nature of the kinks she was unveiling had been working me up for days now, and weakening my ability to even consider resisting her will.

Then to the makeup counters of the department stores in the mall, where she stocked up on lipsticks and lip glosses and other accoutrements that we in candy-like shades of pink and purple and blue. Then off to buy some scented oils and perfumes as well, many of them light and flowery, reinforcing my earlier hypotheses.

The dresses and blouse-skirt sets she bought after that were also girly in the extreme, many of them bought at stores that catered to young women.

My theories about what tonight held remained solid until we arrived at a fancy shoe store and, when a well-dressed, well-coiffed woman came to help us, my wife held up two high-heeled shoes and one boot and asked to see them in a size 10.

She wore a size 9.

When the saleswoman left and my wife told me to sit down and take off my shoes, any brief flash of hope that she might have been possibly buying stuff for another woman to join us in sex play vanished. And my earlier theories evaporated as well. Or, at least, what remained of them no longer featured my wife in the girlish role.

She and I had similar frames and heights, so all that she had bought before could have fit me as easily as her. But the shoes were likely to fit me alone. I hadn’t realized the trap until now. Hadn’t realized I had been helping to build my own snare.

All of the clothes were for me. All of the makeup. And now the fuck-me heels, the strappy heels, and the go-go boots on which we waited as well.

When the woman returned with the footwear, my wife asked her to send one of her associates back to check on a few more styles, but to remain here and help me with my fitting.

The woman looked taken aback for a moment, but it didn’t take long for her to mark my wife as a woman with money, and she began to help me try on my girly shoes. My cheeks burned with shame and embarrassment. A part of me wanted to flee, but my wife simply lifted her pack of cigarettes slightly out of her purse.

A reminder of what I was doing this for. A reminder of my promise.

And then she locked her eyes on mine with a depth of lust and command in them that held me to my seat and made me endure the indignity of having a woman put high heels on my masculine feet.

My wifes’ look was a reminder of its own. A reminder that I had given in to everything she had done to me so far, and with passion. A reminder that I should trust her, not matter how frightened and ashamed I was.

She ensured that we would claim the saleswoman’s time for as long as we wanted when she told her she planned to spend no less than $2,000 today at this store. The saleswoman’s eyes lit up with thoughts of commission, even as the woman let condescension toward me glimmer in those eyes as well.

I was still blushing with a furious hotness. But I had an erection as well. She made a patently insincere attempt to pretend she didn’t notice.

Most humiliating of all was the small audience we had attracted. People who lingered off the side and tried so hard not to look like they were watching—all to witness the man being fitted for women’s shoes.

We were there for several hours, and my wife spent $3,958.67 to purchase four pairs of heels, two pairs of girlish sneakers, two pairs of high boots, one pair of low boots, and a pair of sandals.

I tried on at least half of the stock in that store, and my wife had the saleswoman coach me how to walk in high heels until I could do it without stumbling. When we left, my wife slyly slipped the woman some cash as an extra thank-you, and ordered me to walk out with my head held high and proud.

My presence there had drawn what I gathered was more than the usual size of crowd the store enjoyed, and I suspect the manager would be happy with what our visit had done for business today, no matter how kinky it had been. A few snickers drifted my way as my wife led me out of the store, but what surprised me most was the voice of one man uttering a quiet and awed “holy shit” and another man, I was certain, whispered, “you luck son of a bitch.”

I was also floored by how many women—and men—wore looks of arousal in their eyes as I carried this latest set of bags.

Full of my new footwear.

* * *

“You did very well,” my wife told me when we were out in the crowds again, and the heat in my face and neck began to dim. I was shocked at how her simple words of praise made my cock twitch. How they made me feel special.

I was not surprised when one of our other stops was to buy some wigs, which she didn’t hesitate to try on me in plain view of staff and customers, until she had six styles and shades that pleased her.

Nor was I surprised when she took me into a salon for a manicure and pedicure. She had them paint my toenails a cotton-candy pink, but told them not to polish my nails.

“That’s for us girls to do tonight,” she whispered ardently in my ear.

We stopped by a drug store somewhere between the mall and our home, and my wife had me wait outside in the car.

When she returned, I couldn’t help but notice that, among the packs of cigarettes and lotions and such were some razors, some very feminine scented shaving gel, and depilatory creams.

* * *

By the time we got home, it was early afternoon, and my wife stripped me herself. I thought she would order me to go remove my body hair for my girly transformation but she surprised me by leading me by my hand to our master bathroom and drawing a hot bath for me.

She soaped me up lovingly and slowly. She let me linger in the bath, and poured fragrant oils into it. And she smoked, and the mix of the scents made me dizzy; it intoxicated me and seemed to open my mind. It made me open to all the words she whispered and moaned to me while she bathed me. It made me float and made my mind seem to half-separate from me and hover there in the room, accepting all the feminine terms she ladled upon me and all the things she promised to do to my girlish body. And it felt even more decadent when my wife polished my short nails a flowery, glistening pink.

I knew objectively that my body wasn’t all that girlish. But I also knew I was slim enough, and my features soft and neutral enough, that she was going to be able to make me into a very convincing woman.

Once she was finished with my nails, she shaved me slowly. She did it with a languid thoroughness. She used the creams on me. She stripped me of my hair from neck to ankle, leaving me with only my public hair, and even that she trimmed. My facial hair had always been thin and fair, and I never wore a mustache or beard, but she used depilatories there as well.

During all of this, she was breathing heavily, even moaning at times. And I could smell her sex through her skirt and panties after a while.

She toweled me off, and I felt so passive inside, like I could no longer make a decision of my own. I also felt pampered. Treasured. Kept.

I most assuredly did not feel equal to my wife at this moment.

In our bedroom, she sat me down to begin applying my makeup.

Even thinking that way—my makeup and no one else’s—was odd. The notion felt both binding and liberating. I felt diminished. And exalted.

But then I began to think about the implications. About the step we were taking. I tensed, began to breathe heavy in a sort of light panic.

“Shhhh, my sweet,” she said quietly, and lit up a cigarette. She enfolded my head in a roiling cloud of whiteness and I took a shuddering breath and sighed. She stoked my hair, and my face, and blew smoke in slow circles around my head, around each ear, across the back of my neck.

I still felt a fear of where this was all going, but her smoking was like an anchor holding me on the shoreline of her desires. Keeping me from bolting out to sea. And I had no doubt that she knew it. She netted me with a smoky mesh more powerful than steel wire. She pinned me with my addiction to her smoke.

And then she began.

I found out more about makeup over the course of nearly an hour than I had from watching my wife for years previous. As she used eyeliner and eyeshadow to make my gaze more intense and somehow more innocent and shy. As she brought attention to my eyes and made them stand out without being cartoonish. I fell into my own gaze, wondering at those strange new eyes, and hardly noticed that my cock was rising, filling my the space between my lap and the satiny pink robe I was wearing.

I felt like a doll as she applied a foundation to my skin, smoothing its appearance. My imperfections vanished under a sheer coating of silky, almost lotion-like powder. As she applied subtle blush to the line of my cheeks.

I began to feel sexy as the lip liner glided around the perimeter of my mouth and made my lips look more full. As cotton-candy pink lipstick glided over my lips, making them feel slippery yet clingy. As that succulent bright color was made even more moist and attention-gathering with several coatings of a pink gloss.

And then my mind was washed away for a time as my wife dabbed me with spicy fragrant oils at my throat and shoulder, then rubbed a complementary but citrusy lotion all over my torso, arms, and legs. And then topped that off with a light, flowery perfume, the spray of which filled my mind and drove out that last vestiges of my masculinity. All of it mixed with the aroma of her silky blue-white exhales and the twirling smoke from the end of her cigarette when it lay in the ashtray on the vanity table.

And that lost masculinity began to be filled by something new at the sight of myself in the vanity mirror, capturing my attention more with every passing second—and making me wonder who this person was before me. This person who no longer looked like me. Yet was me. A strange new woman with smoke swirling around her face.

The snare on my identity and mind was pulled tighter as my wife fit the long strawberry-blond wig onto my head and fluffed it a little. Then combed it out leisurely and stroked it with one hand. And then she pulled something out of a bag that smelled of latex and looked bulky. I stared with fascination as she pulled straps over my shoulders and snugged the contraption up to my chest. A pair of false breasts, hugging closely to my own, held tight by latex straps now. Firm against me. Weighty on my torso. Perfect breasts with nipples. Where had she found something like this, and how could it fit so perfectly? Was it custom? How long had she been planning this escapade of seven nights and seven kinks? How long had she been plotting to make me a slave to her desires for the small price of giving in to just one fetish of mine: the smoking.

“Oh, God,” I said, my voice breaking with desire and confusion, and my wife lit a new cigarette to anoint me in more of her eldritch breath. Like a charm or spell, her smoke held me fascinated and she worked this modern magic to make me a woman for a time—but for how long? Or how often? Or would I be allowed to be a man again at all?

She pulled one of my frilly, pink, lacy sexy bras onto my new tits, then admired her handiwork from behind me, locking her eyes on mine in the mirror, pinning me with her gaze and a slow, cone-shaped exhale.

“I see that my sexy girl is very aroused. Her huge clitty is so engorged.” With those words, my wife twisted the vanity seat around so that I was facing her, and she knelt before me, and sucked my cock into her mouth. “Such a big clit my lovely girl has, and dripping with her girl cum.”

The erotic absurdity of it was overwhelming. So much pent up already through the process of our shopping and my slow transformation, and now her hot lips and tongue working at my cock…no, my huge clitty…and I came, bucking, into her mouth. She swallowed most of my cum and then kissed me, and gave me what was left in her mouth; kissed me until I swallowed that sample of my own cum.

“You were so pent up,” she said softly. “So in need of your first orgasm as a woman. Not your last of the day, though.”

And that was when I realized that it was still only 2 or 3 in the afternoon. What more was in store for me? She wiped a stray bit of semen from the edge of my lip, sucked it off her finger, and then fixed up my lips to be perfect and shiny again. Then she kissed me hard and long and often. She mixed sloppy wet kisses and deep soul kisses and smoky kisses, until my lipstick and gloss were almost gone, and then fixed my lips up once more, and told me to put on the clothes on the bed that she had laid out.

As I turned though, she grabbed a shoulder with one hand to hold me still, and then my now-flaccid cock with the other, and pulled it back through my legs. And then I realized the other reason for making me come—to ensure my penis was spent. To inhibit any unsightly erections. She wrapped something around my balls and cock and between my legs, and hid my cock. Then slapped my ass and told me to hurry up.

There on the bed. Frilly pink panties to match my bra. A short lavender dress. Garters and stockings. A pair of pink fuck-me heels.

When I ran into trouble, she coached me. And so I completed my transformation. And then she led me to the car. It was 20 minutes later, with her at the wheel this time, that I realized she was taking me to her office.

Panic began to well up in my chest. She was going to parade me in front of her staff. People who had seen photos of me in her office. Who had met me at office parties and office events. The boss’ husband, about to be shown to them as a helpless, kept woman.

She introduced me as Amy, and told them I was contract help, and would be in the office off and on for an indeterminate period of time.

If anyone recognized me, they showed no sign. And I doubt that any of them did, though one person who caught my wife kissing me in the hall registered an odd expression. The married boss having a lesbian smooch, or so it seemed. The notion that the staffer would think such a thing made me hotter, and I realized that my cock was straining helplessly against the bonds my wife had snared it in.

My huge clitty was burning for freedom and release. Burning for the bitch to whom it was attached to begin submitting again to the woman who had created her.

After an hour, apparently satisfied with the success with which she had buried and hidden my masculinity and my very identity, my wife took me away. She filled the car with her smoke as we drove. I sucked it all in as if I were gasping for air after nearly drowning. And I shuddered as she fondled my fake breasts and twirled her forefinger in my wig.

She took me out to dinner. She told me she wanted me to look perfect and pretty all night, so many was the time I had to take out my makeup and compact—or head to the women’s restroom—to fix my face.

We had drinks afterward.

My head was swimming in a haze of makeup and perfume. In the control my wife now had over my very gender.

* * *

When we got home, she told me strip, and she did the same herself. I watched as she donned an intricate strap-on with a small dildo that slipped into her own cunnie, and a slightly larger one destined to impale me. It was smaller than what she had used on me before, and she lubed it well before unstrapping my cock and balls and filling my ass with it. But because it was smaller than what I had already been trained to receive, she was able to ride me hard and fast. She pummeled me for a half hour until the dildo inside her had brought her to two orgasms.

“My pretty little bitch,” she said wetly in my ear, licking the lobe. “Now to fuck your cunt instead of your ass, and show your big, freakish clit what a fucking really is.”

I had no idea what she planned, as she pulled out some latex and leather straps and pinned my cock to one thigh, pointing as much downward as she could manage. It was uncomfortable, but  the pain was mixing with the arousal now, and I made no complaint.

She took off the strap on she had been wearing, slipped three Ben-Wa balls into her dripping pussy, and then put on a more traditional strap-on; the monster she had fucked me with two nights earlier. She poured clear, slick lube onto it and then squeezed a torrent of that same lube across my own cock, balls, and thighs—until it was running down my legs. She bound my ankles together and rose up before me, and I wasn’t sure what she planned until she slid that latex cock of hers in between my greasy thighs. She fucked me hard and fast.

My slick thighs, so close together, were to be my girlie cunnie. My cock, being rubbed by her thrusts, was the clit. The copious amounts of lube made it easy for her to fuck me with a fierceness. The balls inside her sex drove her to another orgasm, and before long, the friction of her fucking against the side of my cock and over my balls drove me my own release, as my girlie-cunt-monster-clit sprayed my girlcum all over my legs. As my imitation pussy drooled down my legs.

My wife scooped my cum up on her fingers and fed it to me. Every drop.

As her breathing and mine began to find a more normal rhythm, she released my bonds, and spooned me in the bed, telling me to sleep, and to dream of her cock and mouth.

Me. Her submissive little femme bitch.

How thoroughly she had broken me and push me beyond my comforting bounds of normalcy.

And there were still three sins yet for her to introduce me to.

Older Than His Time

The weird and wonderful thing about the Internet is that just when you think you’ve found the weirdest piece of erotica you can find, you are proved wrong.

Case in point: “Older Than His Time,” a story in which parents turn their 18-year-old son into a chain-smoking old woman with the plan to hook him up with a widowed friend.

This story does nothing for my nether regions at all. It’s a smoking and transformation story that just doesn’t resonate with me. But all the same, variety is the spice of life, and some of you might find it interesting, so click here to read it…if you want to.

Picture Perfect: Looking Forward

So, given that I hate missing a day of posting, and loathe missing a couple in a row, let me fill some space and time giving the fans of the “Picture Perfect” series a taste of what’s to come. Don’t worry, no spoilers. (or, for some of you, perhaps that’s “Damn, no spoilers?”).

I figure that we will have three more chapters covering Chloe’s college years…no more than four.

There will probably be two or three for the couple of years immediately following college.

Then another two to four more chapters for the period covering about four or five years out of college.

That will wrap up the storyline and establish Chloe, Leslie and Sandra’s fates.

So, that’s potentially a total of 16 chapters (which would be double what I did for the “Nightkind” series), though I’m shooting for lucky number 13, actually. Whether I can restrain myself enough to do that, who knows?

If “Picture Perfect” does crop up again after that, it would likely be some one-shot stories, either taking place during the timeframe of the current series or after it. Those stories might develop tangential or secondary characters or just show snippets of life from the main characters.

Picture Perfect, Part 5

This is part of the ongoing Picture Perfect series, which was supposed to be a one-shot story, then supposed to be a trilogy, and now who knows how long it will be? The original story was inspired and modeled around an idea by Blackbladder, a smoking fetish author in his own right.

This is a particularly long installment owing to a lot of setup and exposition I felt was necessary. This should be the last time there’s quite so much at once, though of course there will be other expository revelations as the story progresses.

Click here to find the earlier installments, if you haven’t read them already, since failure to read those might make this story a bit confusing at first.

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Picture Perfect 5: Split Image

By Smokedawg

Leslie couldn’t deny that the sex last night was good—very good indeed, in fact. Chloe was amped up from her first two official conversions in the house since she turned their landlady, Rebecca. And Chloe had been fired up as well from not only planning out the next conversions but figuring out what new and interesting things she might yet do to Gail and Victor—whether smoking-related or otherwise. The whole control thing got Chloe hotter than just about anything else, and Leslie was the most frequent beneficiary of that—though she knew she wasn’t the sole beneficiary.

And, if truth were to be told, it gets me more than a little hot to think of what Chloe does and how it must feel, even if it makes me feel a little guilty, too, Leslie considered. Or maybe it’s the guilt, or the taboo, itself that makes me hot. Whichever, I’m not in a position to complain or back out at this point, so might as well enjoy the ride.

But as good as the sex had been—including a couple go-rounds with Chloe’s strap-on—the delicious memories of it didn’t provide much cushion against the emotional assault from her mother over the telephone today. It had been painful enough for Leslie when she had originally told her mother she was, at best, a female-leaning bisexual woman, and perhaps a full-on lesbian. That was six month ago, and the wounds were still fresh on her mother’s heart and mind—and her father, while less upset about it, still stung as well.

Hell, now she’s decided to use religion against me to try to “cure” me, and she hasn’t even gone to church in 10 years or more, Leslie thought, shaking her head.

In the phone call this afternoon, her mom had inserted a choice set of disparaging and demeaning comments about Chloe, whom she blamed utterly for Leslie’s downfall—not that Leslie could argue with that entirely, but her mother didn’t know a fraction of what that downfall entailed, nor how willingly Leslie had participated in it. Then her mom had to add in how disappointed she was, and how weak-willed and easily led Leslie must be. Stressed out from the conversation already, Leslie had just snapped. Usually, she kept her feelings in check regarding this galling kind of “parental concern,” but she had started crying, and then she began shouting, and finally she hurled a few very colorful swear words and insulting insinuations at her mom. That had gotten her dad in on the phone call, and he added his two cents, over and over, and…

Shit. So much for loving me no matter what. I hope to hell they remember at some point how many times they told me over the years that they would.

Leslie pulled the clear wrapper off a pack of cigarettes she had just bought minutes ago. A pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights. Frankly, she hadn’t cared what she got. She just picked one at random from the rack behind the convenience store counter, and fled to the car with it, telling the clerk to just keep the damn change.

She lit up, and sucked the minty smoke deep into her lungs. Then again. After four fierce, quick inhales, she began to slow down. Calm down. Center herself.

This, too, will pass. My life, long-term, is with Chloe, so I can’t be bothered with what my folks think about her. And blood is blood. They’ll come to that realization soon enough, even if they don’t ever agree with my sexual choices. I just hope I don’t have to go through too much hell before they do.

She was three-quarters through with the cigarette when she realized she was smoking simply because she was stressed out—and realized that it was helping her feel better. She stubbed it out, quickly, suddenly feeling almost afraid of the smoldering butt. She looked at the pack in her lap, picked it up, got out of the car, and tossed it into a trash can.

Smoking every once in a while to satisfy Chloe’s fetish, sure. That’s nice. But even if I smoke from time to time, very rarely, I don’t want to be a smoker. I don’t.

At least, I think I don’t.

Leslie got back in the car, and drove back toward the house, tasting tobacco and menthol on her tongue and wishing that she had some gum to cover it up.

And glad that she didn’t, too.

* * *

“Hasn’t the absurdity of it ever occurred to you, Sandy?” Chloe asked.

She had decided to call her aunt on a whim, and decided it was time to mostly drop the “aunt” title in their conversations. Their ages were too close, and Chloe figured she held most of the cards these days so, at best, they were peers, and at worst—for Sandra, at least—Chloe was in the far stronger position.

Sandra had been hoping that Chloe had called with a change of heart; a desire to get rid of the camera or at least stop using it. But instead, she started with patently insincere small talk, and then regaled Sandra with her latest escapades, even though she know full well Sandra was already dreaming replays of every such use of the camera. And now this question, out of the blue.

“The absurdity of you continuing to let that camera corrupt you? Is that what you mean, Chloe?” Sandra snapped.

“Corrupt me? Pleeease. As if I wasn’t well along on that path already under my very own inertia. The camera empowers me, but it doesn’t have some Satanic agenda. Because if Satan exists, I’m pretty sure turning people into smokers, submissives and sex freaks would be pretty low on his priority list. What I meant was the absurdity of a magical digital camera.”

“Why not a magical digital camera?”

“Well, let me put it another way. I mean, I already know a lot of the answers, but it’s fun playing with you like this,” Chloe said sweetly. “Do you know that the camera has more Mystere functions now than when you first gave it to me? It’s acting almost like a video game. The more I use it and the further along I go toward my destiny, the more options it opens up for me. Isn’t that interesting?”

“It’s fucking scary, Chloe. Don’t you see what you’re becoming?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. And so does my dear Leslie—mostly, anyway. You’re the blind one here, but I’m going to educate you by gradual degrees,” Chloe said, switching her voice briefly to a French schoolmistress style. “The point is, the camera is behaving in a magical way, but also in ways that are in line with modern technology. Now, if this was a tool of Hell, wouldn’t we expect something..I don’t know…older? More traditional? Some arcane scepter? Some Pandora’s box-style chest? Some bejeweled cursed necklace? A monkey’s paw? But a digital camera? And not even an old-style camera. A digital one.”

“What are you getting at, Chloe?”

“Ever wonder what happened to all those ancient gods and monsters? Ever wonder why magic pretty much started vanishing from the world, too, Sandy? All of this like, a couple thousand years ago, give or take?”

“Maybe because those gods and goddesses didn’t exist. And magic didn’t either.”

Chloe snorted back a laugh. “Sandy, you were once the owner of the camera, however short that time was. You used it. You know what I’ve done with it. It’s magical. Don’t you think it’s a little foolish to go off on a ‘magic never existed’ trip?”

“OK, you have a point there. But Greek and Roman pantheons? Ancient Sumerian deities? Norse gods and goddesses? Egyptian gods? I don’t buy it.”

“Oh, but I do buy it, Sandy. And I’m also investing in it. You see, you get to see what I’ve been up to when you dream. But you don’t actually get my actual dreams. You don’t see the snippets and insights that camera has shipped my way for a couple years now. A shame that the damned thing has a purpose and a will, but no coherent intelligence, or things would have been clearer, faster. But I’ve pieced it together pretty well. Magic existed back then because of the plethora of belief systems.”

“How so?” Sandra asked, dubiously. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but Chloe seemed talkative, so if there was any way to get some insight that might help her separate her niece from the camera, it was worth humoring her. She needed to know.

“Magic isn’t anything more than the collective psychic power of the human race bending reality a bit and tweaking physics a little. We’re all connected. We create magic by collective subconscious agreement. Not many people can tap it or know how to use it, but we’re all part of creating it. But it’s the friction of competing beliefs, held together with some common themes and memes, that provides the spark and feeds the flames.”

“Doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“People believed in magic, so magic existed,” Chloe said. “People created belief systems, and they believed in them, and so gods and goddesses arose to fill those spaces they created—to tap the magic humanity itself created in all those minds and hearts. And because so many people believed in so many different things, the pot was always stirred up, and magic was flowing. And then that Yahweh guy comes along…”

“So, you believe in God Himself, Chloe? Doesn’t that give you any pause when you consider what you’re doing?” Sandra ventured.

“I don’t know if God in the singular, patriarchical sense exists. Maybe He does, maybe He doesn’t. It’s not important,” Chloe answered. “Fact is that He became popular. The whole Islamic-Judeo-Christian monotheism thing crowded out the vast array of other systems, and so many of the gods died out with the loss of those systems, and that blunted the whole human psychic gestalt. There wasn’t enough friction. Not enough spark for magic to really have a notable role anymore. And so magic faded out. Ancient goddesses. Monsters. And so on.”

“Interesting theory.”

“It’s no theory, Sandy. I’ve been living it. I’m just one of the first people, maybe the actual first for all I know, to have some totem—some tool—of the new order. Our camera.”

Sandra was immensely disturbed that Chloe would refer to the camera as theirs and not hers alone, but she pushed that feeling aside. “Why now? Why all the magic piled into that one camera looking for someone to spark it up?”

“No, Sandy,” Chloe said, a glimmer of irritation creeping into her voice. “Not all the magic. We humans created this camera. Subconsciously. But I’m sure there are other tools like it out there. Maybe a magic cell phone. Maybe another camera. Maybe a laptop. But it’s all going to be technological.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the new faith that people believe in Sandy. We worship our technology, and it’s a glorious, beautiful mess. Think about it. Almost everyone has cable TV and there are a billion channels with almost nothing good on most of them. Everyone has cell phones. But do you get a Nokia, or an AT&T, or an iPhone, or a pre-paid phone? Do you get service bundles on it? Which ringtones will you pick? Which apps?”

“Computers,” she continued. “Do you want PC or Mac? Are you going to run a Linux operating system instead of standard stuff? Whose software suites will you use? And the Internet—I think that’s what really pushed things over the edge. All those sites, and blogs, and discussion boards. People gathering around differing belief systems and opinions. People sucked into social media. People sharing things they never would have otherwise. Sites that tell you truth and sites that have agendas and lies but people believe them no matter how obviously shit what they’re saying is…just because they figure if it’s on the Internet, it must be true. Billions of pages. Connections and conflicts, maybe even more so than those old-time religions mustered.”

“Technology is the new religion?” Sandra pondered. “And now that everyone is on board with that notion, whether they realize it or not, all the brains are in synch, magic rises again, and we start seeing expressions of that?”

“You got it, Sandy. Was wondering for a while there if you were paying attention. Because I know you’re not an idiot. Just overly burdened with excess conscience.”

“So where are the gods and goddesses, and will the ‘big guy’ God get mad?” Sandy asked, mostly rhetorically, and ignoring Chloe’s jab for now.

But Chloe answered anyway, even though she knew Sandra didn’t want her to. “If there is one big cosmic creator God, why would He or She or It care? Running a universe, you know? Kind of a big job. What’s a little ebb and flow of magic among us really advanced monkeys? As for the littler gods and goddesses that seem a lot more down-to-earth and more like us mortals in terms of emotions and motivations? Why haven’t we seen any overt signs of them? I think the magic comes first, Sandy. Then the gods.”

“The egg before the chicken.”

“Exactly. And I’ve been breaking open a lot of eggs for one big metaphysical omelet. Doin’ my part.”

Sandy couldn’t help but shiver at that thought, and she was very glad when Chloe ended the conversation a few minutes later.

* * *

Chloe wasn’t all that disappointed to end the phone call with Sandra. It had been entertaining to get some reactions out of her and befuddle her a bit, and it felt good to unload all that knowledge on someone other than Leslie. But the fact was she could only afford to let Sandra know so much at one time. She couldn’t push her aunt too hard, or burden her with too much insight. It was a delicate dance; a kind of seduction, and it had to be played just right. Too fast, and her aunt might try something heroic and annoying. Too slow, and Chloe’s own plans would set put off schedule.

For that matter, there were a few things that she couldn’t even share with Leslie yet, even though her lover knew more than her aunt did. Those were the things that even Chloe was having some challenges fully accepting. It wasn’t that she dreaded those revelations and realizations; it was simply the enormity of it all.

Besides, the other reason she was feeling fine about where she left off with Sandra was because she needed to end the conversation, so she could attend to her next subject for some smoky conversion. As she grabbed her camera and purse, Chloe caught a glimpse through the window of her landlord, Rebecca, strolling down the sidewalk, toward campus, with a clipboard under one arm. Her weekly—sometimes twice or thrice weekly—foray to gather signatures for a petition to overturn smoking bans in some of the public, entertainment and business areas both in town and on the campus itself. An idea all her own, with Chloe having been as surprised as Leslie when they found out what their landlady was doing.

In hindsight, I’m glad I had to give Rebecca that unplanned, third ‘amity’ shot with the camera involving friendliness toward smokers and smoking, Chloe mused. Obsessive, evangelistic behavior can be a problem with some of the Mystere functions, but in this case, it might be true serendipity. Even if it is way too early for Rebecca’s efforts to gain traction. Even if I haven’t laid enough of the foundation yet.

* * *

Sitting in Joe’s two-bedroom apartment downstairs, Chloe didn’t have to be tricky about the smoking. He was an amiable guy, and fun to talk with—in part because he shared many of Chloe and Leslie’s geekier interests—but he was painfully shy with women. Rather, he was great with them as friends, but horribly fearful of rejection owing to his experiences in high school. As a result, having a cute woman in his apartment, he wasn’t going to complain about any of her habits if letting her indulge them meant keeping her around a while.

Chloe suspected that short of sacrificing a goat on his carpet, a woman could probably get away with doing just about anything in front of him. He had let her know, though, that his roommate Derek, who would be moving in tomorrow, was a health nut, and so she probably wouldn’t be able to smoke in here after that point.

Don’t worry, Joe, Chloe chuckled to herself. Derek will come around to my way of thinking.

But that was later. Right now, Joe was the target. Or, perhaps more accurately, the subject. Chloe wanted to do something a little more positive with Joe than she had with many other guys in the past. It wasn’t compassion really, but a certain kinship. Joe had been an outsider in high school. Pushed to the fringe. Like Chloe and Leslie. Except that Chloe, even pre-camera, had always possessed a force of personality and will that let her forge her own way. And get laid, unlike Joe. Hell, if Leslie and Chloe hadn’t hooked up, Leslie probably wouldn’t have gotten laid in high school either.

Of course, making changes for the benefit of another person—other than Leslie, so far—was contingent upon things working out as Chloe planned. If she was misjudging the camera’s functions or if it slipped in some subtle agenda of its own, Joe might not turn out like she planned. And if so, she didn’t plan on shedding any tears. She liked him well enough, but in the end, he was just another piece in the puzzle. Another step in the grand plan. And she had a backup plan for him.

First, though, things weren’t going to go one step farther until she did something about the way he looked. Joe wasn’t ugly, but lack of intimate female companionship and lack of confidence that he would have any in the foreseeable future had left him with precious little incentive to step up his dressing and grooming game. And nature had dealt him a few curve balls, too, in the form of a little acne and a couple facial features that made him fall more than a little shy of “cute nerd” mode.

“Hey, Joe, how about I snap a couple shots of you?”

“As long as you don’t blame me if the lens cracks when you do,” he joked. “Man, Chloe; do you carry that camera everywhere you go?”

“Yup. Necessary evil if I want to be the most bad-ass photographer around.”

“Well, at least you don’t sleep with it, right? Or shower with it.”

Chloe cocked one eyebrow suggestively at the first comment. Then smiled wickedly at the second, and Joe laughed. “You’d be surprised,” she told him. Then she lifted the camera and switched it to the ‘Beauté’ function from the Mystere menu. As she put her eye to the viewfinder, she realized once again that this was where Plan A could go utterly awry.

She’d been curious of the effect of the beauté function on men for some time, ever since it had appeared in menu; it was one of the first new functions that had appeared on the camera after she took possession of it, perhaps three months after that day. In terms of making someone look better, there was only that choice with the camera—beauty—no handsomeness-oriented function was to be found. And she had wondered what kind of beauty it would bestow on men. Not to mention the fact that up until recently, she hadn’t used it on anything but specific body parts, like Leslie’s feet, for example.

So, she had tested it on a few guys around town and around campus. The results varied widely. In all cases, it made a guy look better if he was ugly or average or just mildly good-looking. And it never altered facial features so much that a person was unrecognizable; the camera, apparently, didn’t want to have people changed so drastically that too much attention would be drawn to its actions.

Sometimes, when Chloe would snap a beauté shot on a guy—or just preview him in the viewfinder without making a change, depending on her mood—he would look cuter in a masculine way or more handsome, usually in subtle ways. Other times, it would make him look prettier in a distaff manner. So far, it seemed like half the guys got a masculine makeover, and half of them ended up looking a bit androgynous or even feminine in their features. What Chloe hadn’t figured out yet was how much of that was due to her own subconscious thoughts affecting the outcome, how much was just random chance, and how much might be the camera working its own agenda subtly.

She was pleased with what she saw in the viewfinder when she just zoomed in on Joe’s face. His eyes were deeper and darker; more sultry in a not-too-obvious way. His nose lost its slight crookedness, his ears were flatter to his head. His hair was less dull, and more wavy. His acne was completely gone. And his lips were no longer thin and lifeless but full and oh-so-kissable. When she zoomed out, determined to give him a full makeover, she noticed his shoulders were a tiny bit broader, it looked like his ass might be a fit fuller, and he was lean everywhere else.

Glad you didn’t end up looking like some fragile flower with a dick, Joe. I don’t think my Plan B changes in that case would have been quite as nice for you if you had looked like some super-sensitive androgynous emo type.

That’s when she began to suspect her desires were calling the shots on the beauté changes, because he now fit her tastes of someone pleasant-looking but not some pretty-boy, frat-style guy or massive jock type.

Because for Plan A, Joe, I have to have someone who looks a bit better than original Joe. A girl’s got to have some standards when she’s looking for some dick, even if she isn’t looking for some stereotypical stud.

Chloe snapped the shot officially, and lowered the camera to admire her work.

But it was still only the start. “Joseph, my dear,” she said in a mock English accent, “you aren’t tiring of my camera work, are you?”

“Not a bit, Chloe.”

She had finished a cigarette 10 minutes earlier, but had been in no hurry to light up again. That would be step two. Which was now. She puffed her cigarette to life and enjoyed it for a couple minutes, snapping normal digital shots of him and letting the smoke fill the air. Then she switched to the ‘Sicuro’ function—a word that meant ‘confident’—and let her mind focus on the smoke as she snapped the photo. All at once, Joe’s posture changed, if only marginally, and the hint of timidity in his eyes faded.

But she wasn’t out to simply make him more confident. She wanted him confident when he was around smoking. And one sicuro shot wasn’t enough for this personality makeover.

“Joe, what do you think about smoking?”

“I’m pretty neutral on it. Never much wanted to do it myself, but I don’t mind it that much. My dad smoked pretty regularly. Grew up around it.”

“How about women smoking, Joe. Ever think about how sexy it looks sometimes?”

He eyed her curiously. At his heart, he was still a nerdy virgin who’d had only a handful of dates in his life, even if he was feeling more confident, and Chloe knew it; could see it in his eyes. She was talking to him about sexy things, and it was making his heart pound. A woman talking about sex with him, however tangentially.

“I guess in some of the old movies and stuff,” Joe said.

“I think smoking is kinda sexy myself,” Chloe said, drawing out her words. “I particularly think it’s sexy when women do it. Something very sensual about it all. Love being surrounded in smoke. You should consider that. Being surrounded in an attractive woman’s smoke.”

And with that, she snapped her second shot with the sicuro function, and sexualized his confidence, while tying it to the smoke, and to femininity.

“You know what I mean?” she said, tilting her head and catching his eye.

The shyness was gone from his face, but she wanted to know if her change had taken place exactly as intended, so it was no time to indulge his new personality trait. Chloe stubbed out her cigarette. “Oh, damn, I left the oven on,” she said. “Joe, you stay right here. I’m not done hanging out with you. Gonna leave my camera, but don’t touch it. This is my pride and joy, and I don’t want to see it moved one centimeter.”

She rushed out of the apartment, sidled down the hall a bit, and relaxed against a wall. She let a couple minutes pass, and then cleared her mind. She reached out to the camera. This was something she had discovered almost six months ago, but hadn’t told Leslie about. She’d only tested it in their apartment, because there were precious few places and very few people around whom she would dare leave the camera unattended. As her mind quested for the camera, her eyes shut, she could see Joe’s apartment in her mind, and him sitting there, flipping through some channels on the television as he waited.

His eyes and face had regained much of their shyness and innocence. She continued to observe the journalism sophomore for a couple minutes, and the longer she was gone, and the more the smoke dissipated, the less confident he appeared. Not lacking in confidence, exactly, but back to his geeky self, with the sense that while he might be a fine human being, he knew that “cool” people looked down on him.

She headed back to his apartment, and opened the door.

“Howdy, sailor,” she said, noting the smile on his face and in his eyes, but with that shyness again. It was endearing in its own way, but it wasn’t what she needed now—or for her future plans for Joe. She sat down, and lit up a new cigarette. Almost immediately, his attention was on her, and the more her smoke filled the air, the more she saw the confidence return to his demeanor. And since she had snapped him twice, there was an erection growing with that confidence as well. Everything was going as she had hoped, so that probably meant he would have this reaction around almost any smoking woman, and not simply Chloe. But only time would confirm that; and Chloe had needs right now that Leslie couldn’t satisfy.

“Chloe, you’re a pretty amazing woman, you know that?” Joe said after a couple minutes of small talk. “And that’s not just me trying to talk up some freshman like I think she’s easy pickings away from home for the first time. I really enjoy your company.”

“I enjoy yours, too, Joe.”

“You know, I’ve wanted to kiss those lips of yours for a long time. If you weren’t taken already…”

Confident, but still a gentleman; his parents had raised him well in that regard, at least, Chloe mused. “I’ve never really thought about it much, Joe. I like you. Just never thought of you like that. But it’s not like Leslie holds me back from anything. She’s my main squeeze, as it were, but our relationship isn’t what I would called closed-ended.”

There. The truth out that she was available. And a lie that she had never considered any action with him. The kind of thing that would tantalize the old Joe, but leave him feeling like he had no chance.

But this Joe leaned closer, her smoke around him fueling his confidence, and he said, “Then I don’t have to worry about offending her.”

With that, he leaned it for a kiss, and while he might not have had much practice, having a more assertive personality apparently gave him a certain natural ability. His kissing needed work, but not as much as she had feared.

When he pulled away, he said, casually, “Now I just have to worry about whether I’ve offended you.”

She answered with a deep, wet kiss of her own, and they made out while she smoked. His hands touched her breasts through her blouse, and roamed over the back of her jeans, but he wasn’t groping her exactly. Just showing a clear interest and restraint along with it. His kisses gained fervor, and his tongue was finding an excellent rhythm with hers.

Just what a confident nerd should be, Chloe thought. Someone I can watch a zombie flick with, and then fuck afterward—or during.

She doubted that she would need to continue the smoking to keep his momentum going. It was clear to him now that she was interested; even a shy guy wasn’t going to pull away from a woman eager to give up the goods. But then again, Chloe had a smoking fetish, and that meant that Step 2 needed a Step 3. Not that she might not consider more changes later, but this last one would be enough for now.

As he became well and truly worked up, his shirt and hers both on the floor, and his lips and hers glistening with each other’s spit, she cupped one of his cheeks, and looked into his eyes. “I need a smoke, Joe.”

“By all means,” he said, “as long as you don’t mind if I remove this bra of yours and move my kissing southward.”

With the super-sensitive nipples that went along with the breast fetish she had accidentally given herself some two years earlier, the idea stuck Chloe as an excellent one, and she gasped and sighed as she brought her cigarette aflame and let those wonderful new lips of his work magic on her along with his tongue.

She let the smoke curl around them, and blew some down his way.

“I have kind of a thing about smoking, Joe, in case you hadn’t noticed. But maybe you can smell a little bit of what I’m talking about wafting from those jeans, which I hope you’re planning to remove in a few minutes. Smoking makes me hot, Joe.”

He disengaged from one of her nipples, a little string of spit connecting him to her for a second, and looked her in the eyes. “A little odd, Chloe, but I have my own kinks, and as long as you’ll consider humoring mine, you can smoke as much as you like. Going to have to sit Derek down tomorrow to let him know what’s what on that front.”

But Chloe realized that the confidence Joe had now was tied to smoke and women, not some general thing. It might bleed over eventually to his personality on a full-time basis someday, but he wasn’t going to stand up to Derek that forcefully any time soon unless a woman was nearby with a smoldering cigarette or cigar. “Oh, don’t worry about Derek putting the kibosh to my smoking in here. I can be very persuasive,” she told him. When she caught a look of faint jealousy, she added, “I already told you I’m not monogamous, Joe, so don’t get too attached. I’ll be only too happy to get down and dirty with you from time to time, but I’m not the settling kind, except with Leslie, and even she has to share me. But don’t worry, I won’t fuck your roommate, at least. Now get back to my tits so that you can warm up my pussy some more.”

Joe obliged happily, and she continued to wreathe the both of them in smoke, the sounds of her lips sucking at the filter of her cigarette punctuating her gasps and moans and cooing noises. After a few minutes, she said, “Joe, how obliging are you of my fetish?”

“Hmmmm?” he said, still sucking on a nipple, and looking up at her face.

She grabbed his hair with her free hand, pulled him away from her tit, and placed the lipstick-tinged filter of her cigarette to his mouth. “Suck, baby,” she said.

He shrugged, and gave it a try. He coughed, and she stifled that quickly with a deep, smoky kiss. Always so much easier to take smoke from someone else, and nothing like a deep kiss to kill a cough, in her experience. She traded more smoky kisses with him, acquainting him intimately with the smoke, and then handed him her cigarette, saying, “Once, more, Joe, but don’t really inhale.”

He tried again, and this time, with no cough, he expelled a middling little hint of smoke.

“This time, hold it in your mouth, and then breathe in afterward.”

He did, and her pussy twitched in satisfaction. She began to pull off her pants. “Do it again, Joe.”

“As you wish,” he said, unsure if he was breathless from the smoke or from the unexpectedness of this erotic encounter with his neighbor.

“Close your eyes” she told him, “and smoke for me. Not too deep yet, with those virgin lungs. But smoke. Close your eyes and smell my cunt as you smoke. Taste my mouth on that filter.”

As he complied, she quietly grabbed the camera, flipped it to the “Verslaving’ function—a Dutch word for addiction—a function that had appeared mere weeks ago, and snapped a photo, then a second one as he took another small drag on the cigarette.

Two sexualized changes for you today, Joe. My newly addicted smoker.

That was all she needed of the camera, as she pulled her cigarette from his fingers, took a drag, and pushed her hips up to let him feel and taste her steaming passion. He buried his face in her sex, and showed her just how much a gentleman he was as he licked her to a pair of orgasms.

She lit up a smoke for him and then one for herself after that, and beckoned him into her sex with his cock. For a virgin, he wasn’t bad at all, and he showed a lot of endurance during their smoky liaison. And he sprang back to attention faster than she would have expected after his orgasm. She had figured that with that special brand of smoking fetish she had given him—aroused by his addiction to smoking—and the smoky blowjob she given him, that he might be hard again in about 20 minutes. It only took five.

Guess I’ll never really know if that was beginner’s luck, natural talent, several years of reading erotica and committing moves to memory, or the power of confidence that has him performing so well, Chloe thought. And who the fuck cares, anyway?

* * *

Chloe hadn’t planned on spending over two hours with Joe; she’d figured things would be over and done with in less than an hour. As pleasant a surprise as that had been, though, her return to her own apartment was met with a mildly hurt look from Leslie, who had long since become accustomed to Chloe’s sexual freedom, but wasn’t used to being totally uninformed about Chloe’s whereabouts. So, Chloe happily placated her with a smoky session of sex of her own—this time with Chloe doing the fucking instead of receiving it, and then a quick 69 to give them both a second set of orgasms after that.

So, there was over two more hours lost, since it was just too damn nice to cuddle with Leslie after sex to just fuck and run.

That meant she got to her second camera-related project of the day two or three hours later than she had planned, her brain thoroughly clouded and dulled by post-coital bliss. Which, in hindsight, might have explained why things didn’t go quite as planned.

Or maybe, just maybe, she would say to herself the day afterward, I’m trying too hard to be creative with some of my changes.

But, as she would also consider, she had just told Sandra she was sort of making a big metaphysical omelet, and from time to time, an egg is bound to hit the floor and just end up a big mess instead of part of a delicious meal.

Still thrumming between her thighs, and her tongue tingling with the perfect level of soreness that told her it had been put to good use, Chloe went to John’s apartment, figuring she might as well alter two J-named men in one day.

The quiet and intense junior, who was majoring in information technology and computer science, was slow to answer his door, meaning he had probably been busy coding something in one programming language or another—Chloe pretty much zoned out when he talked about his projects and what he did on the computer. He wasn’t a maladjusted geek-boy—hell, he wasn’t even a shy nerd like Joe—he was simply intense, focused and very much into programming to the exclusion of just about everything but eating and showering. And occasionally trying to score a one-night stand.

It’s amazing the things people will share with you about their lives when you snap just one picture with the amity function, Chloe thought.

Like most of the residents here, John had moved in because he wasn’t a smoker—since before Chloe’s arrival, there had been a strict no-smoking policy here. But unlike with Joe and Victor, Chloe didn’t figure she was going to be able to wheedle him into letting her light up. Although the amity function had made him friendly to her, she had noticed a certain indignant look in his eye when he saw her smoking in or near the house.

But the point of this change wasn’t to be sly and find some creative way to make him a smoker; she was more interested in seeing what she could make smoking do for him, and how she might be able to bind him more tightly to the act once she got him started.

So, she mentioned she wanted to get a shot of him, claiming that the one she had taken before had gotten corrupted, and then she gave him one application of the fumer function. With almost no effort  on her part, he was now a smoker, with a smoldering Winston dangling from his lips. Chloe surreptitiously set down a bag on his table, containing a carton of that brand and a couple ashtrays, and lit up herself.

They talked for a bit, and then, as he went looking for an ashtray and noticed the bag on the table, taking one of them out, Chloe switched the camera to the ‘Intelligentie’ function and snapped him once. With her thinking about the smoking and him fixated on smoking-related matters at the moment, she hoped it would create the effect of making him more intelligent when he was smoking.

What she wasn’t sure about was whether this would create a sexualized response. He already seemed to be intelligent, but that was sometimes a subjective thing. If he was already intelligent by the camera’s standards, or by Chloe’s assessment, then a single shot would be enough to sexualize the effect, making him not only smarter while he smoked, but aroused by the increase in his smoking-related intelligence.

When she didn’t expect, as she took the shot and he heard the quiet click and noticed the flash, was for him to turn to her, lock his eyes on hers as he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled, and say, “What have you done to me?”

Stunned, Chloe had no response. All the more so because he was looking at her with a very confused expression. He clearly still felt friendly toward her, but also betrayed and angry.

“What do you mean?” Chloe said, her voice wavering just a bit. She hadn’t lost control of a situation yet, and the thought that she might have fucked up now didn’t sit well with her.

“I didn’t smoke before you came into this apartment, and my first cigarette was after you took a photo of me,” he said with absolute conviction—the kind of awareness no one had ever shown with regard to the camera’s changes in the past. “And you just snapped me again, and now I fucking have the answer to a programming problem that’s been driving me mad for weeks, and I have a fucking hard-on about that fact. What is that thing, and what the fuck makes you think that…”

At that, Chloe stood suddenly and fled the apartment. He was hot on her heels, though, and she whipped open the door, slipped through it, then slammed it into his face before slamming it shut. She ran to the end of the hall, and quickly fumbled with the camera’s Mystere menu.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, she swore silently. It made him very damn smart, and very perceptive. Too damn perceptive.

Heart beating fast, and breathing like she had just run a 100-meter dash, Chloe found the function she was looking for, and brought up the camera just as John was roaring down the hall toward her, nose bleeding, seeking answers and his eyes clearly showing that he wasn’t sure what he might do to get them.

He was only a few feet away when she snapped him with the schiavo function—slave. He halted, confused, and she didn’t hesitate. She snapped another shot, to fetishize his slavery to her. And then a third time, to make it downright compulsive for him to obey her and serve her.

I think I was focused enough on slavery to me alone, but at this point, I don’t care if the end result is that he will be a submissive for any woman he sees, as long as I can control him. I can’t change the fact that he smokes and that smoking makes him intelligent enough to connect his changes with me and this camera. But I can make sure he keeps such insights to himself.

She ordered him back to his apartment. Once his nose had stopped bleeding and her heart had stopped hammering in her chest, Chloe spent a few hours making sure he knew who was mistress. And who was slave. She wasn’t gentle, but by the time she had left, he knew his place, and understood that whatever pleasures he gained from serving her could be easily taken away forever if he ever showed resentment for what Chloe had done to him, or ever discussed the camera with anyone, including her.

Chloe slept uneasily that night, mostly because she didn’t like the thought of Sandra gaining any “I told you so”-style satisfaction from this near-disaster once she got her nightly visions of Chloe’s actions with the camera. Eventually, Leslie cuddled against her, the woman burying her face in Chloe’s hair and sighing at the smell of smoke there, and Chloe found some measure of peace and rest.

Monday Quickie: Halloween Heat

OK, OK…so I’m a couple days late with a Halloween-related smoking erotica story. My holiday-related muse was slow in delivering.

________________________________________

Halloween Heat

By Smokedawg

Heading home from what had to have been the lamest Halloween party he had ever attended, Ben’s attention was captured by the vision of a beautiful woman in a nurse costume at a bus stop across the street. She was smoking, looking down the street impatiently for the bus, and he decided that all other things having been a bust tonight, he might as well have a pretty companion on the way home. So, he abandoned his plans for a cab, and crossed the street.

Waiting a few moments after he got there, he said, “Love the irony.”

“What?” the woman asked distractedly.

“The imagery a healthcare worker smoking,” he said. “Nice costume, by the way.”

She laughed, then took another drag, shaking her head. “No costume. I’m really a nurse.”

“Really,” Ben said. He had noticed how realistic it looked, and had been planning to comment on that. It wasn’t some tarted-up costume, he had noticed, but that had made her all the more sexy, with that elfin face of hers and that gorgeous body that the uniform couldn’t hide. And now to find out that it wasn’t a costume.

“A lot of us smoke, you know,” she said, capturing his eyes with her own deep blue ones. “Nurses, doctors, you name it. Stressful jobs. We aren’t immune to vices.”

“Makes sense,” Ben responded, though on many levels, it didn’t. And he realized that he was feeling a stirring in his pants. The dichotomy of it—a nurse smoking—wouldn’t let go of his thoughts. It was like finding out the goody-goody girl next door smoked or something. It made her seem more wicked somehow. No, more brazen. More indulgent. At a loss for words with a woman, something he wasn’t used to, he could only say, “You do it well.”

“I’ve been smoking for 14 years. I should hope I’d have it down by now,” she said with some amusement in her voice.

“I meant, you make it look really good. Nice. Pretty.” Realizing he was beginning to sound like an idiot, Ben pulled out a cigarette of his own and lit up. He shifted back and forth on his feet a bit, mostly to warm up, though he didn’t even realize he was shifting toward the nurse a little, moving closer into her space.

“That’s an interesting thing to say,” she said, smoking puffing out of her mouth with each word, along with the vapor of her breath in the mildly chill air. “Since we’re talking, I suppose I should introduce. Name’s Cassie.”

“Ben,” he said, shaking her hand and exhaling a stream of smoke off to the side.

“I wouldn’t want it straight in the eyes, Ben, but you don’t have to aim away from me so dramatically. I smoke, remember? I suppose you’re not really a zombie, though, eh?”

Ben chuckled. “Accident victim is the costume, actually. There’s a tire mark down my back. But the makeup is pretty zombie-like I guess.”

She drew more smoke, looked at him appraisingly, and exhaled casually in his direction. “Nicely done. Doesn’t quite blunt your looks, though.”

Ben blushed at the compliment, and moved just a bit closer, their smoke intertwining, and his heart beating faster. “Thanks.”

“Ben, do you know you are having erectile issues?” she asked, meeting his gaze squarely, and inhaling again, the cherry of her cigarette sizzling; a crimson beacon in the semi-darkness.

Caught off-guard, he looked down, realized his cock was straining noticeably against his pants. “Oh shit, you must think I’m some kind of perv. I don’t normally get like this. You’re just so…”

“Relax, Ben, I didn’t figure you really realized it. You seem distracted. Or maybe fixated. You keep looking at my cigarette,” she said, waving it around a bit, and laughing when his eyes followed its path.

“It’s just…I don’t know.”

“I’m thinking your brain is having some cognitive dissonance here. I seem to recall I got a little hot when I caught my handsome young English teacher in high school smoking near campus. Is my smoking making you hot, Ben?”

“I don’t know.”

Cassie took in a lungful of smoke, blew a stream straight into the air with her hip cocked way out. “Does a nurse with a dirty habit make you hot?”

“Yeah,” he admitted shakily, “I think it does. I mean, she does. I mean, you…”

Her hand reached out, cupped his balls gently, and she tickled him a little, then let her middle finger press up against his perineum, applying a little pressure in that area between his balls and his ass. She exhaled smoke against his chest, and let her finger make firm little spirals where it had been idly pressing just moments before.

He sighed. Gasped just a little. Took a drag of his own cigarette to steady himself.

“Well, sometimes, I get a little hot when I help out injured hotties,” Cassie said. “Do you need some medical attention, sir?”

She dropped her half-smoked cigarette on the ground and kissed him, her mouth full of smoke, her finger still teasing him and now his free hand cupping her ass.

“The bus is coming, Ben,” she said, her tongue sliding across his lips. “Let’s find a nice quiet seat in back so that I can do some triage. What do you think?”

“You’re the nurse,” he said. “You know best.”

She plucked his cigarette from his fingers, took a deep drag from it, and let her breath spill, thick and smoky, into what little space there was between him.

“Yes, yes I do. And I’ve never had such a sexy-looking set of injuries to examine. I think we both have some new things to discover about our desires tonight. We’ll be examining them in depth.”

She took one last drag on his smoke, put it to his lips so that he could take a puff as well, and she kissed him again, their smoky tongues dancing together quickly as the sounds of the bus came closer.

“In depth,” Cassie repeated, flicking the butt into the street. “Nurse’s orders.”

Aversions & Attractions, Part 6

For the entire list of Aversions & Attractions entries, click here.

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Aversions & Attractions Part 6: As Ashes in Thy Mouth

I think one of the all-time most popular ways to make smokers feel truly bad about their habit is to make them feel irredeemably filthy and disgusting. Because, you know, it’s socially acceptable to tell a smoker they’re filthy, but don’t tell an obese person they’re a gross tub of lard. I find that odd. I don’t try to make obese people feel like utter failures of humanity, because they often aren’t (and the reasons for overeating are many and varied) and so I don’t know why other people think it’s OK to treat smokers like pariahs in such an arrogant and obnoxious manner.

One of the popular refrains for making smokers think of themselves as disgustingly filthy, of course, is to say that “kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray.”

Most people who have used that phrase—in fact, probably every fucking person who ever has done so—have never licked an ashtray. So from that standpoint, anyone who thinks it through should find the veracity of this statement a little hard to swallow. Now, there are some smoke fetishists who will swallow the ashes of a smoker (it’s a dominance/submisssion-oriented fantasy with some masochistic overtones), and they can probably comment on how closely the taste of ashes correlate with kissing a smoker. I’ve never heard one compare/contrast the two things, but I suspect the answer would be that they taste a whole fucking lot different.

I can say this with some small amount of assurance, having once as a child picked up a mostly empty can of beer at a gathering of relatives, taking a swig, and discovered that someone had been using it to dispose of their cigarette ashes. The very disgusting taste of that, even with beer to dull it, sticks with me to this day. Needless to say, I’m not one of those smoke fetishists who is willing to swallow a woman’s ashes.

It’s kind of like maligning a brand of beer for tasting like piss, when you’ve never actually tasted piss. And I can say, from experience, that unless a cheap-ass light beer has been heated in a microwave for about 30 seconds and you’ve shaken a little salt into it, there is no comparison, and even then, it would only be in a similar ballpark, far from identical. (Look, don’t judge me. I had read enough golden shower erotica and seen some sexy videos of such activity to be curious what piss actually tasted like, and I tasted my own a couple times, knowing that urine is a relatively sterile fluid. Warm, salty…a little odd in flavor…not something I’d do on the regular, but if my wife asked me to swallow her piss because it was a kinky fantasy for her, I could do it, and without disgust…but I digress.)

Also, the whole “kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray” meme sort of flies in the face of the fact that lots of people kiss smokers, and many of them are not smokers themselves, and not even smoke fetishists, for that matter. Kind of hard to believe that smoking befouls a smoker’s mouth so much (unless he/she just has a problem with maintaining oral hygiene in general) and that so many other people who don’t smoke would still kiss them.

I can say that, generally, I like the taste of smoke on my wife’s tongue. Along with the scent of it on her breath. Granted, I’m a fetishist, and I think her smoke smells nice. So, I’m biased toward her smoky breath and tongue…and toward any other woman whom I might imagine kissing (or, perhaps, even kiss one day if the opportunity arises in a manner my wife would allow). But the thing is that it isn’t some overwhelming thing. In order for my wife’s smoky breath to taste particularly bad, her breath generally has to be bad in general, like she forgot to brush that morning or something.

If anything, smoking doesn’t ruin a smoker’s kissability; it simply alters the experience. For people who aren’t strongly anti-smoking, I imagine it’s hit or miss how many people think it makes kissing worse. For anti folks, of course, ANY hint of smoke, in taste or scent or even visually, is going to be a turn off.

So, in short, smoky breath for me is almost always going to be either a turn-on or something neutral. Rarely will it be an aversion thing for me.

Review – Hunger for My Ash

Ladies and gentlemen, after six months of doing this blog, I have lost my reviewer virginity. I’ve been threatening to review something…a smoking video most likely…but never have, despite repeated promises to do so. Thanks to SeducedByJane, though, I am properly broken in. And, with luck, perhaps I can crank out at least a review a week of some sort related to the smoking fetish.
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But, enough about me. This is about SeducedByJane. And the review today is of her photoset, titled originally “Breathe It In” when she and I first started trading messages several days ago, and now titled, much more provocatively: “Hunger for My Ash.”

Her Web site is at www.seducedbyjane.com and the photoset can be found on NiteFlirt at http://beta.niteflirt.com/listings/show/9409625. She’s offering two different “teaser” sets of three photos each, which are $8 for each such set, and then the big set, of 25 photos, for $25. You can do the math as well as I can; the big set is much more cost-effective on price-per-shot basis.

I know, I know. You’re wondering: Is it any good? Well, that’s a subjective thing, of course. But the short answer is “yes.” Whether it’s good enough for you to spend the money, only you and your wallet can say for sure, but they’re nice, big high-quality shots, and at a buck a piece, that doesn’t seem too bad to me for some smoky art.

You can see how Jane looks based on the photos below, and at her site, and at NiteFlirt. So I suppose it’s superfluous to talk about her looks, but I will anyway. One of the things I very much like about her is that she looks real. She’s not stick-thin. She isn’t air-brushed all to hell. And she isn’t swimming in cosmetics. It’s a nice look. I expect glossy in a magazine and I expect a certain degree of things being somewhat overdone in a magazine or a high-concept fetish shoot by someone like Suze Randall. But when the porn comes from the woman herself, I have to say that the more real and natural she looks, the better (usually). And Jane is an attractive woman.

But what I most like about this set is that it’s largely a point-of-view (POV) thing. That is, several shots are composed as if you, the viewer, were kneeling before Jane to be dominated by her. That’s not anything new, but what is new (for me at least) is that it’s  a human ashtray POV thing. Not the entire set, but a good chunk of it. And that makes it stand out. Myself, I cringe at the thought of actually eating anyone’s cigarette ashes in real life, but this is fantasy, and when it comes to shit in my head, anything can be sexy and arousing, and the way Jane’s shots are composed, I found the thought of eating her ashes very compelling

Not wishing to incur the wrath of SeducedByJane, I won’t give away views of any of the actual ashy shots here (you can pay for that pleasure), but she has graciously allowed me to share a couple photos from the set. But I can describe things for you. If I create a storyline that she didn’t intend for the shots to convey…well, what can I say? I’m a writer, and I’m a man. So I’m stimulated by imagery thanks to my gender, and my occupation drives me to tell stories.

We begin with Jane upon a stool in a short pink dress, at first with her cigarette unlit and a lighter in hand, and then next with a smoldering cig cocked elegantly upon on bare knee. Very quickly, you are at the base of her stool, gazing up at one luscious thigh, wishing you could glimpse the ass that lays tantalizingly just past the hem of her dress.

Her cigarette is held so close to her glistening pink lips that how could you resist rising up  in hopes of stealing a kiss? Of course you don’t resist the urge. But you also don’t get a kiss. You get an up-close view of her taking a drag, and then a small, taunting exhale into your unworthy face.

As you pull away a little, realizing you are not deserving of a kiss, she draws your attention to her cigarette, and then holds it tantalizingly close to your face, poised above you, the ash becoming longer. You draw away, though her exposed thigh still draws your attention when her smoldering cigarette isn’t.

Then you are close to her face again, drawn like a moth to the flame, as you hear the sizzle of her inhalation, and then you drop to the ground again to your knees, to gaze up past her own knees to the upheld cigarette and her intense gaze. She holds the burning cig above your face again, the ash ready almost to fall on its own, and she gets ready to tap it, and you don’t move away this time.

Most of the trembling ash is gone now, she shows you silently, pointing her cig at you directly, like an accusing finger. Did you swallow it? Did it bounce off your tender skin with a burning sting? Only you and she can know for sure.

She leans back slightly now on the stool and you pull back just a little, too, for now she has exposed her hot-pink panties, releasing them from the prison of her thighs. It is a gift to you, no doubt for being a good slave. But she is also pointing at you, and she shows you the ash of her smoke up close again, reminding you what your place is. What your duty is. That you must hunger for her ash. Perhaps devour it. Does she feed it to you? Only she…and you…can know for sure.

She inhales, then gazes down at you again imperiously. She continues to give you glimpses of her sex, but her precious moist pink treasure is still blocked from you by the pink of her panties, and by her clear and silent command to you that you mind your place.

A plume of smoke into the air, and then another inhale. She points the end of her cigarette toward you again. Perhaps to tease? Or is she about to feed you more ash? Only you and she know for sure.

Another exhale, and then she holds up her cigarette, almost as if it were her middle finger extended, to show you how little remains of it. How close you are to the end of your smoky, ashy worship.

Finally, she is off the stool…standing…and looming above you, pulling her dress down past her chest, but still covering her breasts with one arm, denying you both visual and physical access to them, no matter how much you want to lick them and smell her smoke upon them. Then her dress is almost all the way down, a pink ring of material around her thighs, just under her ass…and her ass is almost in your face now, and you envy the pink strip of her G-string panties nestled in between those cheeks. You want your own tongue there. She looks at you out of the corner of her eye from high above you, measuring your worth…or perhaps your lack thereof. Does she let you lick her ass? Only she…and you…can know for sure.

When she turns to face you and let you see her tits, her dress is gone, and her panties are clenched in her hands, held across her shaved pussy, but you can just see the lower portion of her labia, and you begin to smell strongly what you so desire now. And as she looks at you, naked but for a wadded hot-pink G-string blocking your tongue from worshiping at her pussy, she considers you with her eyes.

Will she let you worship her with your mouth and fingers? Will she deign to touch you or let you fuck her? Will she grace you with more smoke or more ash?

Only she…and you…can know for sure.

The links are back there at the top of this post. Get your ass over there and see if tempts you enough. SeducedByJane is waiting for you, slave.

Aunt Cindy’s Bizarre World

Well, if you need something to keep you busy while I slog through my pile of work and finish up my next few pieces of fiction, here is a totally perverse and fucked-up story called “Aunt Cindy’s Bizarre World” at: www.storysite.org/story/auntcindysbizarrewor~01.html

Had never been to Crystals StorySite before and will have to check it out more thoroughly. The story linked to above isn’t entirely my cup of tea and touches on a lot of kinky areas that are outside my comfort zone, but hey, sometimes freaky is fun, too, in fiction. And I try to push my own boundaries at times. The story does feature a fair bit of smoking fetish stuff in addition to all the other perversity.

Check it out, or not, as you wish, and I’ll be back with a new chapter of “Picture Perfect” within the next few days I’m sure.

Smoking vs. Drinking

So, I guess there won’t be any fiction today, because I’m in a rant mode all of a sudden.

I was perusing some news, and reminded that recently, our lovely federal government decided to go ahead and begin with the work of banning flavored cigarettes, which includes clove cigarettes apparently, too. Menthol isn’t on the hit list, but the FDA is dropping hints it may go after that eventually, too.

The notion is that if companies cannot make the cigarettes taste “good,” they won’t attract as many women and youth.

Ignoring, of course, that most people who picked up smoking while young probably didn’t start with a fruity or candy-flavored cigarette, since they were stealing them from parents or buying what they could afford with little cash.

But what really pisses me off is the fact that we have all these multi-flavored wine coolers, flavored malt beverages, flavored hard alcohol, fruit wines—and no one’s trying to ban those.

The height of hypocrisy.

Because alcohol, I will hazard to say, is more dangerous than smoking. Oh, if you’re one of the “anti” folks, don’t start in on me about lung cancer and emphysema and second-hand smoke. Because whatever deaths are caused by smoking, the overall damage (ill health, deaths, and more) is worse with alcohol.

Ever hear of someone plowing over a bunch of pedestrians because they were smoking too much and went out for a drive?

Ever heard of someone beating their dating partner, spouse or child because they were under the influence of nicotine?

Drunk people make bad decisions that lead to such things as: violence, self-harm, unwanted pregnancy and exposure to sexually transmitted disease.

Alcoholism damages the body in many ways, most notably the liver.

Alcohol contributes to obesity.

In terms of direct and indirect effects, alcohol reaches much farther than smoking, even if you start massaging statistics to make second-hand smoke look like a killer of non-smokers everywhere (c’mon, how many carcinogens are you getting from exhaust, effluents and products in your home?).

I’m not saying smoking isn’t hazardous, because it is. It does damage health. Second-hand smoke can adversely affect people who are constantly exposed to it (though it’s nowhere near the same as smoking yourself).

But targeting smoking is just an easy thing. Because fewer people smoke than drink. Because the alcohol industry doesn’t have to deal with as many frivolous lawsuits by individuals and states. Because people can pretend alcohol doesn’t affect their life if someone else is doing the drinking.

It pisses me off, and I don’t even smoke, for God’s sake. This is inane, and unfair, and hypocritical. It’s a waste of government effort, a waste of tax dollars, and a waste of time.

And I don’t believe for a second that banning flavored cigarettes is going to do much of anything to smoking rates.

And why are we mad at companies for wanting to make a product appealing with smells and flavors? Isn’t that why everyone loves those killer McDonald’s french fries that clog your arteries in no time flat? And again, all that flavored booze.

Yeah, shame on tobacco companies wanting their cigarettes to taste good. What’s the next step? Require them to introduce additives that will make cigarettes taste like dog shit? Or vomit? Or Madonna’s coochie?

Late Night

Have to do an interview for something I’m writing (work related, not erotica-related) late tonight on the phone, and I have a bunch of deadlines to meet this week, but I do plan to post something today. Just not sure it will be any time before the evening hours. And, if my fingers are spry enough today, it might even be a new chapter of Picture Perfect…