Daisy Marie Powell Woodford. We’ve had a relationship for almost forty years, and it’s still going strong today. Daisy is a year older than I am, and as embarrassing as it is for her to admit that she was drunk at the time, she was the first girl to touch me sexually (a hand job.) She was also the second girl I ever fucked—after working really hard to set me up with my first. Although we’ve never really had a dating relationship, we’ve been fuck buddies off and on over the course of that relationship, even after I married. My friend is still beautiful, with her hair still golden-brown, and her womanly figure only slightly larger than it was when we first met.
She has one of those faces that ages slowly and when we’ve been out at a nightclub or restaurant, she still gets men, some of whom are young enough to be her son, to look, and the boldest ones approach, thinking she’s twenty years younger. She can be jeans-and-beer casual or east coast debutante designer-gown-and-champagne elegant with equal ease and comfort, although she definitely prefers the former.
We visited Giselle’s parents in Belgium at Christmastime. My father-in-law still hated me because he thought that Giselle’s maverick behavior had rubbed off on his second daughter, Angélique, who had taken up with a computer nerd working for some company named Microsoft. “Don’t worry, Will. The little princess won’t disappoint him,” Giselle said, referring to her youngest sister, Emelie, now a junior at finishing school, and daddy’s girl. Unlike her sisters, she was slim, without the roundness in the hips and butt, and flawlessly beautiful, carrying herself with the air of someone ten years older. “She takes being at finishing school way too seriously,” Giselle said. “I don’t think it’ll ever occur to her to even look at a guy who isn’t listed in some peerage.” Emmy, as she was called by the family, had further refined her smoking style and had switched from the More menthols she had smoked at the wedding to menthol Virginia Slims Light 120s that she had specially imported to school on a regular basis. Her signature style was a drag finished by a long, effortless french-inhale. She’d then give a little toss of her head and send a quick, silent, perfectly shaped, narrow, all-oral exhale into the air, looking very much the spoiled princess. I quickly deduced that Emmy was trying to provoke some sort of reaction from me. She would always ask me to light her cigarettes and then watch me as she smoked flirtatiously, complete with teasing intent in her eyes and body language. It was a little unsettling, so I asked my wife about it. “It’s not that she wants you,” said my wife. “She’s trying to figure out the sexiest way of smoking, and frankly, you’re great for that. While finishing school girls know how to turn heads from a distance, it’s a learned behavior, and it does take practice.”
Angie, on the other hand, didn’t care about the potential sensuality in smoking. You couldn’t tell that she had gone to the same finishing school as her sisters. She didn’t dress like it, she didn’t carry herself like it, and she definitely did not smoke like it. Angie smoked Marlboros, puffing her cheeks before swallowing the smoke, and then exhaling carelessly, sending barely shaped clouds into the air in a hurry. Save for the way she usually held her cigarette, Angie did nothing that I associated with graceful, elegant, feminine smoking. I liked her a lot, though, because she was smart, brilliantly so, and despite her lack of formal training in engineering, she understood a lot of it, allowing us to share some wonderfully nerdy discussions over the holiday. It was clear that Angélique was the rebellious one all on her own, and blaming me just gave her father some comfort.
My wife’s smoking habit diminished shortly after we got the news she was pregnant the following November. Giselle enjoyed smoking too much to quit completely until she started feeling guilty about exciting me so much without being able to do anything about it. Handjobs were unsatisfying because my excitement would start to turn her on. Unfortunately, she would quickly lose the mood for a variety of reasons, and solitary masturbation to smoky memories became the only way to deal with my still-potent libido. Our mutual frustration ended at four-thirty one morning when a sleepy eyed young lady named Renée Alice Brianne Redmond announced her presence to the world, and sex became unimportant.
It took Giselle five weeks after delivery to start smoking again. I came home from work to find her in bed, naked and seductively posed with a 164 in the wedding gift holder. “Been thinking about sexing you for the last four months,” she purred. “I’m yours all night… as long as you remember that we will have to take breaks.”
Giselle and I continued to remain in close contact with Daisy and the Woodfords. It seemed as if I spoke to her more now than when I was involved with her. Daisy would visit whenever she was in the area, sometimes with her husband, sometimes without, fawning over our new daughter while her parents were like a third set of grandparents to Renée. “Look at you,” she would gush, “you’re a daddy now and all that.” I could also hear a tinge of regret in her voice and see it in her eyes. There was a time when this could have been you.
Two months after Renée’s first birthday, we discovered that she would not be an only child. As before, Giselle smoked less, but this time she quit before her fifth month, apologetically leaving me high and day with only masturbation as an outlet. Giselle was late in her sixth month when we got the call. Daisy was in tears, babbling interchangeably between French and English. She had tried to get hold of her parents, but they were not home, and she was frightened, near-hysterical, and an ocean away. We managed to calm her down enough to get an idea of what was happening. François had finally shown his true colors.
“Go to her,” Giselle said as soon as we hung up. “She needs somebody now. Put some things in a bag and buy a ticket on the next flight to Paris.” I hesitated. “Well, I don’t really want to travel in my condition,” she pointed out. “You can get there before her parents and take her someplace safe. Daisy is your best friend in the world, and something is horribly wrong. Go take care of her,” urged my wife. When I didn’t move, Giselle said. “Do I have to start packing for you? Women have been having babies without men around for centuries. If it will make you feel any better, I’ll call your parents to come watch over me.”
“Giselle…” I hesitantly began.
“If you’re worried about sleeping with Daisy, don’t.” She took a deep breath. “I’m fully aware that it might happen, but she doesn’t need to feel any more alone than she does. Daisy needs you, and she may need the comfort and intimacy only you can give her.”
“But I’m happily married… it wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Married to a woman who might as well be frigid for another eight months or so,” grumbled Giselle. “I’m out of bounds, and you need to get laid. I feel bad when I know you’re masturbating and I can’t even think about helping or, god forbid, join in—” She stopped abruptly. “I’m carrying a soccer star, and the little shit just hates it when Mommy has sexy thoughts about Daddy. This one’s definitely going to be a boy.” She placed my hand on her tummy. “Your son is extremely rambunctious,” my wife exhaled. There was a pause. “Will, go comfort Daisy,” Giselle urged. “She needs the intimacy, you need the sex, and frankly, I would rather it be Daisy, because I trust her not to pursue an ongoing affair.” Less than four hours later, I was on a plane to Paris.
Daisy burst into tears when she saw me. I did too; she had a couple of obvious bruises on her face, so it didn’t take much to convince her that she shouldn’t stay home, and she didn’t want to be alone. When we had settled into a hotel room, Daisy cried in my arms for about an hour before she was coherent enough to tell me the details of what had happened. Her husband, now in an executive position, had apparently been exercising his “droit du seigneur,” using his position to bed every cute secretary within his chain of command. He had run into Daisy, who had been out with some friends, while he was out with a couple of his secretaries. “I told him we’d talk about it later!” Evidently, Daisy shouldn’t have even acknowledged him at all; this was apparently some breach of etiquette that had left François feeling publicly humiliated. He came home and yelled at her, and when she yelled back, he slapped her. “He told me that this wasn’t America, and that I needed to learn my place!”
As angry as I was at her husband, comforting Daisy took precedence. It took a while longer for her to calm down enough to smoke; nonetheless, Daisy was still shaking so much that I had to steady her hands for the light. She smoked without any style whatsoever while I tried to convince her to file charges, but she steadfastly refused. When I called my wife for reinforcement, she just told me that most, if not all, European men in positions of power had affairs. It was tacitly accepted behavior, and their wives were just expected to deal with it. “So yes,” Giselle sighed, “François would have expected Daisy to say nothing in public, and maybe not even in private. He certainly wouldn’t have expected a confrontation.”
I asked Giselle how the wives were supposed to deal with it. I had thought that the Bourgeots were an extreme exception. “Some take discreet lovers, some suffer in silence, and some don’t care because they are very aware that they have traded the trappings of the life they have for a lack of fidelity.” After a pause, she wryly added, “In case you’re wondering, I would fall into that first category.” Damn, she sounds so much like Marie that it’s scary. Did I just fall in love with and marry a more age-appropriate version? “Not that you’d do anything more than look if you were ever in that position—and then bring all that lust home to me,” Giselle accurately finished. On several occasions, my wife had pointed out other sexy smokers we encountered while we were out, knowing that she would be the beneficiary of any residual excitement. Giselle asked for Daisy, and the two women spoke for an hour, during which I did little other than to hand Daisy fresh tissues when she would cry.
Daisy and I dined in the room with little conversation. She was emotionally exhausted, and I was beat from traveling, so it was only nine in the evening when we shared a sibling hug, and climbed into opposite sides of the king-size bed.
A noise woke me up. Daisy was standing at the window. I could see smoke curling from a cigarette, and then she took a drag, revealing the holder. The smoke flowed from her lips, then her nose, rendered very visible by the lights from outside. I thickened. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she softly said as I climbed out of bed. I told her that I was jet lagged, so it wasn’t her fault. “Will… I want to thank you and Giselle for… coming to my rescue. I can’t believe you dropped everything for me—I’ll pay you back for the plane ticket and hotel.”
“I know I don’t act like it, Daisy, but I’m a rich nerd. It’s OK,” I replied.
She giggled in spite of herself. “I remember telling you something like that once.” Daisy took a long, relaxing drag from her cigarette, exhaling without a sound in her normal glamorous fashion. “You are the best friend in the universe,” she said, reaching to hug me. As I stepped back, I looked at her beautiful face and into her eyes. Her expression changed, her eyes became dewy, and slowly, Daisy leaned forward, mouth opening. Instinctively, I kissed Daisy, and it quickly went from tender to passionate to hungry. My ex-girlfriend was panting and flushed when we finally stopped kissing. “Will…” she sniffled, beginning to cry. I held her tightly, and then we kissed some more. “Will…” she whispered, “this isn’t about… our sexual history.”
I looked into her eyes and understood everything: Daisy’s need, Giselle’s permission, and why I was here. We fell to the bed, kissing occasionally, but Daisy seemed content just to lie there with my arms wrapped around her, cuddled in a loving embrace without words for a while. Finally, she rolled onto her back, spread her legs, and silently invited me to join with her. I felt the knot form quickly as I slowly glided in and out of her, but didn’t fight to hold it. I cried my wife’s name when it broke, cumming in torrents, a physical indicator of my pent-up frustration. Daisy only held me even closer until long after the blissful burn had stopped and I had slipped out of her, completely flaccid. “I’m… sorry, Daisy.”
She simply replied, “You love your wife,” and gave me a little kiss. “It’s OK, Will. Thank you.”
The next morning, I woke up with Daisy snuggled into my body, peacefully asleep. Gently disengaging myself to keep from waking her, I crept into the bathroom only to hear a loud noise. Daisy’s pager was going off, waking her. “François is trying to find me,” she unenthusiastically said. I asked her if she wanted to be found. After a moment of consideration, she shook her head. That afternoon, I called my wife to tell her that it had happened.
“Feel better?” she asked.
“Yes and no.”
“Does Daisy feel better?” I said that she’d stopped crying. “That’s good. Marie says thank you, and the Woodfords insist on paying for your trip. They’ll be there tomorrow morning.” I didn’t say anything, and the transatlantic silence began to get loud. “Will,” Giselle sighed in exasperation, “drop the self-flagellation. I don’t want it, and Daisy doesn’t need a guilty husband hanging around giving her the idea that she’s the one who’s done something wrong. She needs comfort, not self-recrimination. Make it all about her. Be her… best friend with benefits. Help her get back to being the woman you loved.”
Daisy chose that moment to go to the bathroom. In a hushed voice, I told Giselle that I didn’t want her to have a quid pro quo affair. I could almost hear her roll her eyes. “Are you still insecure after almost four years, a beautiful daughter, a son on the way, and all the times we’ve shared getting to this point? William Gerald Redmond, I chose you to be my happily ever after. Of the major reasons women have affairs, you fail on all accounts. Boring? Nope. Bad or not enough sex—why does this kid always kick when I think about sex? I never would have thought a nerdy professor could be such a stud. Wandering eye or taking wife for granted—none of this applies to you.” Giselle sighed. “If for no other reason than Daisy’s peace of mind, forget about the guilt until you get back. We can go to counseling then if it still bothers you.”
Daisy stepped out of the bathroom and lit her morning Virginia Slim 120. I watched her take a deep drag, exhale luxuriously with an almost-orgasmic expression on her face, and I felt stirrings of excitement mixed with embarrassment and shame. “Can I talk to Daisy? Is she awake?” Giselle asked.
Daisy took the phone with trepidation. “Giselle—I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for it to happen—” She started to cry again. “You did?” she sniffled. “Really?” My wife continued to talk on the other end, and Daisy gave a teary laugh. “Well… I guess you’re right about that.” She lit another cigarette as the conversation continued. Eventually, Daisy said, “You know he called your name?” I turned beet-red. “Yes, he is… Yes… Yes, it is… Are you sure?” She listened for a few seconds, her demeanor much livelier. “Definitely. Giselle, thank you again. For everything.” She hung up the phone. “Your wife is amazing,” Daisy slowly said after hanging up. “She said you two discussed the… possibilities before you left. She told me that she sent you anyway because I needed to be with someone who wasn’t one of François’ friends, and we all knew my parents weren’t going to be able to leave until today.” Her beeper went off again. “It’s my husband again. He knows that I have to keep it turned on for work,” she sighed. I discreetly noted the number.
Daisy said that she had to go out to pick up a few things, but assured me that she wasn’t going home, nor would she call her husband in response to his increasingly frequent pages. I waited a few minutes, and then went to Gare Montparnasse to call François, who began to rage at me. “Ta gueule, salaud!” I snapped angrily, silencing him. “Si tu frappes ta femme encore, je vais payer quelqu’un de te trouver, et de te tuer comme bête. Tu ne sauras pas où, ni quand, ni qui. Tu chercheras ton assassin à jamais—jusqu’à tu meurs. Au revoir.” I left it to him to figure out if I was serious about paying someone to hunt him down like an animal and kill him.
Daisy was still gone when I returned to the hotel. I began to worry, but her beeper was still in the room and going off every ten minutes, so it was evident that François hadn’t found her yet. She returned about an hour later with her arms full of shopping bags, saying, “Needed to pick up a few things since I can’t go home.” She pulled out a new evening dress for having a nice dinner with her parents, some lingerie, and a carton of Virginia Slim Light 120s. After tossing me a pack of M menthol, she pulled out a fresh pack of hers, put one into her cigarette holder, and lit it with a quick combination snap-french inhale before starting to undress. Her beeper went off yet again. Daisy shot it an annoyed glare and picked up the phone, preemptively waving fiercely at me to calm down. “This is Daisy Woodford. I’m going off-pager until Monday opening for a personal matter. Please route my calls to Harold Crane until then, and let him know that I’m unreachable. Yes, thank you.” She hung up, shut the pager off, and resumed undressing.
I was only paying peripheral attention to her nudity, having assumed that she was just changing clothes until she softly called my name. I focused on her, and Daisy took a long drag, posing elegantly for me while naked. She exhaled sexily, emanating “I-know-what-you-like” come-hither sensuality. My heart skipped a beat, my legs wobbled, my stomach did flips, and I gasped audibly on a rocket ride to arousal. “Your wife told me to take good care of you,” she enticingly purred before I could get any protest out. My ex-girlfriend took another gorgeous, lust-provoking drag, giving me a profile view as she exhaled slowly through her mouth with her back slightly arched, cigarette holder perfectly perpendicular to the floor. It had been several years since I’d seen her pose for me like this, and it had an even more powerful effect than when we had been younger.
Daisy performed a deliberate french-inhale after her next long, long drag, remaining in profile for me to watch. She raised her chin, and slowly exhaled through her nostrils. “All Giselle told me this morning was that I just have to send you back in one piece,” Daisy breathed, obviously excited. She drew on the holder, rolled a big ball of smoke out, then back into her mouth in slow-motion. A jet of smoke came from her nostrils as she swallowed with her inhale, and with a graceful half-turn of her head, Daisy sent a long plume of smoke angled towards the ceiling, adding, “She also said you’d probably enjoy it more if I seduced you.” She french-inhaled her next drag, and then let a picture-perfect combination exhale flow. Frozen in place, spellbound, I watched as she came close and gracefully sank to her knees. Clenching the holder in her teeth, she undid my jeans, returned to her feet to take her next drag, and I heard her suck the smoke deep into her lungs. She began to tease my cock with her fingers during her exhale, and sultrily whispered, “I know you. I know what you have for me now. And I want it in the worst way.”
Daisy maneuvered me the few steps to the bed, pushing me onto my back. She took one more massive drag, and engulfed my three-quarters erection, exhaling through her nose. I hardened almost instantly. She put the cigarette out and swung her leg gracefully over my body to settle on my cock, and I immediately rolled over and started pumping at her, slowly. “Ohhhhh…” she growled, and her eyes got that faraway look. I whispered, “I’m gonna make you cum, Daisy. I know what you like.” Long, steady strokes, fucking up at a slight angle causing the head of my cock to slide across the top of her pussy. Having already had my first cum of the day, I could give her that stimulation for a long time without pushing myself over the edge.
“Mmmmffff… mmmffff… mmmmmmm…” hummed Daisy, but her soft purrs quickly turned into moans of increasing passion, and her pussy began to get sloppy and creamy. “Uhh… Will… uhh… Will…” I continued my fluid, graceful pumping feeling all the physical thrill of sex, but not close to cumming, and her face reddened. “Uh… ogod!” Daisy grabbed me tightly, one arm around my back, the other on my ass, trying to merge our bodies while she shuddered and her pussy clenched around me. I rode out her brief orgasm, and was fucking her again as soon as her body relaxed. Her face reddened again, her eyes lost their focus, and she seized me yet again. Daisy relaxed her grip on me, panting softly, and wiggled her hips beneath me indicating that she wanted more. I obliged her until she came once more, moaning my name quietly while she quivered and hung on to me. “Ohhhh… Will,” she sighed, giving me the smile of a woman in glorious afterglow, the blush still on her neck and face, lying still beneath me with my cock still hard and embedded inside her. She gazed into my eyes, and I slowly pulled out of her in accordance with her silent, but mutually understood directive. Her back arched suddenly as she gasped from the stimulation. I was still hard and covered in Daisy’s cream, my groin a gooey, white mess.
Radiating contentment, Daisy cuddled against me as I shrank, and we lay there, lovers again for the first time in many years. At some point, she rolled over, gathered her smoking accessories from the nightstand, carefully assembled a smoke, and dragged on it. Only the slightest hint of a teasing smile was on her face as she exhaled slowly, silently towards the ceiling. She repeated the action, and my cock slowly responded. Daisy gently took me into her mouth, cleaning her still-drying cream off before taking one last drag from her holdered cigarette. Her head began to bob more quickly, easily, as she took me deeper into her mouth, and then into her throat. She pressed a hand firmly against my pelvis to keep me from thrusting at her as my dick got hot and started tingling. Her free hand wrapped around the base and she continued to work her oral magic, selflessly devoting herself to my pleasure. “Ohhhhh…. Daiiiiiiisyyyyy,” I sighed, rewarding her efforts with a burst, and then steady flow of cum. She nursed on my cock until it went soft, feeding on everything I had to give her. Daisy gave a quick toss of her head, kissed me deeply and burrowed into the contours of my body; my arms automatically wrapped around her to keep her as close as possible. Neither of us spoke. Her breathing became quiet and regular, and I let myself join her in a late afternoon nap.
“I don’t know if I could be that—generous if the situation were reversed,” Daisy said while we were dressing for dinner, having decided it was worth the risk of running into François or one of his friends. “But Giselle came right out and asked me if I needed—physical comfort—from you. She told me that if it happened, let it, and not to feel—guilty about it.” I relayed my wife’s statement about trust. Daisy considered that for a long time, and finally concurred. “She knows I love you too much to ruin your life with an affair that means something, just like you told me when I got married.” She paused at the door before we left the room. “I think Giselle knows that I wouldn’t betray a friend… and that I do consider her to be one of my best friends.”
We walked to a restaurant a couple of blocks away for an uneventful dinner, after which we returned to the hotel. “Can I ask you an—insensitive—question?” Daisy nodded without hesitation. “Why all the fuss about François’ infidelity? I mean, have you been…”
“No,” was her immediate, candid answer. “My libido and all that.” She took a deep breath. “It isn’t so much that he’s having extramarital sex. We spend a significant amount of time apart because of our jobs, and both of us have high sex drives, so we’ve been mostly faithful to each other by mutual agreement. That’s the practical, and it worked for me—for us.
“But ever since François got the directorship, it’s changed. Now he’s fucking every secretary in his chain of command, and he’s beginning to ignore me. That I could almost handle—except when he’s playing stud-around-town with two women everybody knows he’s going to fuck that night. I’m angry because lately, he hasn’t bothered to ask me if I’d be interested in a second woman in our bed, and he knows I’m bisexual. “He’d rather do his personal secretary plus one. He seems to prefer her to me, and that makes me mad.
“What pisses me off the most is his attitude about it being a perk of his position, and that because he’s a French male, I shouldn’t have feelings about it, and I shouldn’t argue with him about it. I’ve never been the suffer-in-silence type, and I’m not about to start. Not to mention the whole hitting thing. I’m sure he’ll apologize for that, and be very sincere, but if he did it once…”
“So why don’t you just… do your own thing?” I asked. “You certainly still turn heads.”
She smiled and thanked me for the flattering compliment. “There’s a difference between zipless fucks to relieve sexual tension and notches on a belt. He’s just racking up a count, because I guarantee you he could get everything at home that he’s getting from his secretaries,” Daisy replied. “Besides, I can only take the sex club so much, and that powder is incredibly expensive.” She grinned at my shocked gasp. “The Bourgeots do have their uses,” she nonchalantly continued. “If he wasn’t part of the deal, I might even do it more often. It’s a good way to get my ya-yas out without the risk of attachment.” I asked her if she had ever considered including François. “Not really,” Daisy admitted. “I go occasionally as the Bourgeots’ guest. I’m sure that François would want to join—more pussy to conquer—but the club dues are expensive, and it’s pretty much a lifetime commitment to pay them—that insures exclusivity and privacy. I always worried that he’d go nuts over it, and eventually end up bankrupting himself on the sex powder so he could perform. Don’t worry—we have separate accounts.”
She began to put on some of the lingerie she’d purchased earlier. “Not exactly standard bra and panties for everyday wear,” I drolly noted even as I appreciated her sexy outfit. She pulled a box from one of the bags, revealing a long cigarette holder.
“I also picked up a new holder while I was out,” she smiled before lighting a Virginia Slim Light 120 in it. Eyes on fire, she posed elegantly for me. “Will… please don’t hate me for taking advantage of Giselle’s generosity. My husband’s been ignoring me, and… well… I’m horny.” I told her she didn’t have to worry as my cock responded to her siren song. Daisy finished her seduction smoke with a quick snap-inhale, toss of the head, and a slightly careless oral exhale before our mouths met, tongues crashing, lust permeating the room.
We were able to air out the room before her parents arrived, releasing the aroma of smoke and sex that had filled it, hiding the evidence of our liaison. I also tipped housekeeping generously to change the bedding while we had breakfast. “Will, thank you for getting here so quickly,” her father said, pulling me aside while Daisy hugged her mother. “I have your bills, so of course I’ll pay for all your expenses.” He shook my hand with a father’s gratitude on his face. Mrs. Woodford broke into tears as she hugged me. I comforted her and told her that I would always be there for her daughter. The four of us sat in the hotel room discussing what would happen next; it was decided that the Woodfords would rent an apartment in Paris for the next year. Mrs. Woodford would stay there with Daisy for a while until her daughter figured out what she wanted to do about François. We went to lunch nearby, and as we were walking, Daisy’s mom slowed. I hung back to see if anything was wrong. “No, just a twisted strap on my shoe,” she smiled. Then she touched my arm. “Will… Did you and Daisy—?” I blushed and asked her how she knew. “I saw the lingerie in the bathroom.” Marie hesitated. “What about Giselle?”
“We discussed it before I left. She knows.”
“I’m so sorry if my daughter—”
“She hasn’t. My wife spoke to her, too. It’s—complicated, and I don’t quite believe all of it myself, but it’s between me and Giselle now. She told me that there won’t be any unpleasant repercussions.”
Mrs. Woodford carefully inspected my face with parental scrutiny, searching for the slightest sign of duplicity. I met her gaze with as much sincere transparency as I could muster. After a seeming eternity, she softly exclaimed, “You young people! I swear I’ll never understand this casual attitude towards marriage and sex!” She finished making a show of fiddling with her shoe, and we quickly caught up with her husband and daughter.
“Daddy!” Renée gleefully shouted as I walked through the door to our home the next day, running to me as fast as her little legs would carry her, and I dropped my bag to scoop her up in my arms. As I held my daughter, my wife slowly walked over to greet me and gave me a lingering kiss on the cheek. “Feeling any better?” asked Giselle. I nodded. “Good.”
That night, I lay next to my wife with my hand on her belly feeling the baby kick. “Daisy called to thank me,” Giselle calmly said. “We had a long discussion about you. She said that she never intended to make you break your wedding vows. It just—happened--and it won’t ever happen again.” I concurred. “She also said that even if she doesn’t understand why I let you, it was a good thing that you were there. She needed… to be with someone she was—close to.”
The room went silent. After about a minute or so of it, I softly asked, “So… Giselle… why did you let me?” I just can’t ignore a herd of elephants in the room.
“Because I knew it was probably going to happen whether or not I did,” she replied. “I knew—” Giselle took a deep, loud breath before calmly continuing, “—that you would do anything for her in a crisis, and sometimes, such a close friendship can turn physical—especially if it’s already been that way. I chose not to burden you with guilt over it, and I am choosing not to let it poison this wonderful life we have just because you went to the rescue of the closest of friends in serious trouble and something sexual happened. I made my peace with what you and Daisy had before we got married, because I know it’s something you no longer have—and something neither of you care to even try to regain.”
Again, we lay next to each other in silence for a while. “You’re amazing,” I finally said. She giggled, “I know,” in response. I hesitated, but knew that I had to ask the next question. “So… is there anybody like that for you?”
“Yes… but I don’t think you have to worry,” Giselle replied. “It’s never been sexual, and it won’t ever turn that way. My cousin Greg… the one who was in our wedding. He’s been my guy shoulder to cry on, even though we were an ocean apart for most of the time. He’s a lot like you.”
Greg had the size and physique of an NFL linebacker, but he was a gentle soul at heart, so I didn’t think it odd that her cousin had been the source of her emotional comfort and support when she was young. Nonetheless, I deadpanned, “Except for the muscles on muscles thing.”
My wife laughed. “You’re funny. That’s why I couldn’t ever leave or let you go.” Ten weeks later, Giselle proved herself psychic, and we welcomed Charles Gilbert Redmond into the world.
Daisy’s divorce became final on Charlie’s first birthday. We threw her a small party the next time she came to visit her parents. She and Giselle got extremely drunk, but the weekend rescue never came up; in fact, none of us have ever talked about it since it happened. Daisy moved to London, and when her boss retired, he named her as his successor. She visited us more often, explaining, “The view from almost the top is pretty cool. I understand why my former boss liked it so much. I work only as much as I want; I have an army of managers and staff to carry out my day-to-day stuff. I get the ‘face-of-the-company’ stuff, so I get to travel around the world and do the boring business dinner circuit while my team gets to do the heavy lifting.” Daisy pulled me aside and whispered, “I even got to take the Bourgeots out to dinner… and I wasn’t the one who had to go to the club afterwards—much to their disappointment.”
Charlie’s first real Christmas took place at the Carpenter family gathering in Maryland. Emmy gave me a big hug, filling my nose with expensive perfume and tobacco. No longer in finishing school, she radiated expensive class and beauty. “I’m interning as a buyer for one of the boutiques in Paris,” she smiled, looking at me with a fashion-savvy eye. “We could do something with you.” She turned to her sister. “It took me a while to appreciate how good-looking my brother-in-law really is.” Giselle laughed and said hands off. “But I can make him hot for you. The right suit…”
“Emmy, stop drooling,” I joked. “I’m flattered, but it’s a little embarrassing. In front of your sister and all.”
In response, she removed a long beige cigarette from a gold case, and asked me for a light. “Emmy, what are you smoking now?” Giselle asked. “You change brands every year!” She turned to me. “Emmy’s been the fashion-conscious smoker ever since she discovered that Marlboros weren’t the only cigarette in the world, just ubiquitous, and stopped smoking them at fifteen.”
Emmy shot back, “You smoked them until you were in college. I can’t help it if my taste developed earlier than yours.”
“Taste? This coming from a woman who went through a phase where she had to color-coordinate Sobranie Cocktails with her outfit,” needled Giselle. “Knowing you, it’s all about smoking à la mode.”
“I may like—distinctive—cigarettes, but at least I can be stylish without anachronisms like cigarette holders and overly bold statements like unfiltered six-inch brown cigarettes,” Emmy retorted with a smile. She broke the sisterly exchange by french-inhaling from the beige 120 for what seemed like forever, putting my mind on hold as I stared helplessly. Emmy smiled knowingly, for when the sisters got together with me around, they enjoyed the game of discreetly teasing me through my fetish. A little blood flowed south causing my wife to giggle while she moved to hide that she was patting the slowly developing bulge from everyone except her sister. “It’s a More Mild Menthol 120,” Emmy resumed. “They don’t sell them in the US.” She posed with the cigarette held daintily near the filter, wrist-cocked, looking high-class model gorgeous, and smoking fetish fantasy perfect. She had me enchanted, and both she and Giselle knew it. Emmy dragged again with her normal leisurely french-inhale, exhaling a long, oral cone into the air. She gave Giselle a knowing, mischievous smile and quietly said, “I brought a carton of the non-menthol ones with me. I figured Will might like to see you with them.” Emmy tossed her head. “You’re right. He is really cute when he blushes.”
With Renée and Charlie in the fawning hands of many relatives, Giselle took me Christmas shopping. Imagine my surprise when she pulled into the parking lot of a long-term stay hotel. I asked her about the shopping. “C’mon to the front desk. You’re moving boxes.” She had shipped some gifts to the hotel as well as her uncle’s home. I moved them to a room she had apparently booked and asked her the reason for such elaborate subterfuge. She made me open the boxes and count gifts first.
Satisfied that everything was accounted for with no signs of shipping damage, she pulled a beige 120 from her purse. “When was the last time we had five hours completely to ourselves?” Giselle lit the cigarette and inhaled noisily, holding the smoke for several seconds before her nasal exhale. Looking regal and sexy as she sat with her legs crossed, she drew again. After her second evaluatory puff, Giselle pronounced, “Not too bad, but it’s not a Nat Sherman. Maybe I’ll asked Emmy for a pack of hers and see what the menthols are like.” She stood up, dragged on the cigarette, and exhaled forcefully through her nose while she fiddled with her clothes. “Got a better idea,” Giselle mumbled, and turned to me. She drew hard on the beige cigarette, inhaled with a slow snap, lifted her chin, and exhaled for several silent seconds from her mouth and nose. She looked into my eyes and commanded, “Undress me, my love slave,” to which I jokingly replied, “Yes, mistress.”
Giselle rewarded me with an elegant-looking drag and slow combination exhale, noting the glazed, attentive stare I was giving her and the slow inflation of my cock. Her evaluating gaze slowly turned lustful. She said, “Fuck it,” put out her half-smoked cigarette, and pushed me backwards onto the bed, efficiently removing my pants and underwear. Giselle gave an excited moan and slurped my half-erection into her mouth, making me hard quickly with a frenzied, sloppy, wet blowjob.
When she came up for air, panting loudly, I moved behind her and slid my cock into her pussy as we lay on our sides. “Ohhh, là!” she girlishly breathed. It was one of Giselle’s favorite positions and allowed me easy access to her clit. She immediately began to roll her hips slowly, and the flush blossomed across her still-creamy complexion. Her moans became lighter and higher pitched, and Giselle sang soft, girlish, airy, loving endearments to me in French, something she did when she was really excited in bed. “Ahhhh! Je jouis!” she sighed, an octave above her normal voice, hips vibrating, and her upper body flushed and back arched. I gently wobbled her clit while she was locked around my cock. “Ahhh-aaaahhhh!” Giselle blissfully sighed, pitch rising on the second syllable. Her wave broke, she released me and leaned backwards for a passionate kiss. “You make me—ohhhhh—speak French…”
“And I’m gonna do it some more,” I excitedly breathed, pumping faster.
“Baise-moi cheri, baise-moi,” Giselle husked, and then I made her voice go up an octave, moaning endearments in French. “Comme tu baises biennnnnne…” she sighed in her breathy sex voice, spurring me on. “Ohhh… je… je vais… je vais… jouir encore!” she gasped, warning me of another impending orgasm. This time, her gripping, pulling slickness and hip gyrations brought on my own grunting, growling release. We rearranged ourselves, and Giselle lay on top of me, kissing my face and neck. “Nice without kids, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh,” I replied, still too sex-addled to speak coherently.
My wife pushed herself to her feet and retrieved a More from my coat. “Sometimes, I like a cigarette without going through the whole holder thing,” she sighed with her exhale. “I’ve been swiping your Mores and gotten to where I kinda like them.” Watching Giselle stand there smoking casually without explicitly catering to my fetish was exciting nonetheless. She snap-inhaled quickly, and after a few seconds, lifted her chin, producing gray trails from her lips, and then her nostrils as well, that snaked through the room in layers. “I can see you don’t mind that I’m not smoking a Sherman through a holder,” Giselle amusedly noted before her voice turned husky again. “I love making you hard—any way I can.” She put the More out, kissed me hungrily, and pulled me on top of her.
“More babies?” I panted, interrupting our passionate kissing.
“Let’s see what happens,” replied Giselle, smiling lustily as she positioned herself for me again.