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.
That June, Nathalie and I spent the week together in Paris. Colette was out of town, but had left the Paris apartment to her niece for the week. Daisy had obviously kept in touch with my French amazon, because Nathalie had switched to M menthols and unveiled a cigarette holder shortly after meeting me in my hotel room. She looked a lot more comfortable with smoking now, producing long, flowing oral exhales without effort. I could see other men look at her when we went out, and instinctively knew that this was going to be my last fling with her. Her size would no longer be an issue—even the intimidated boys back home would be interested in her now. Nonetheless, Nathalie’s penchant for me fucking her in her round, firm, athletic ass remained unabated. In fact, she seemed to cum more quickly from anal sex, if not as hard.
She begged me to take a “tiny” bit of the aphrodisiac that her aunt had left for us. “I’d like you to be hard all the time,” Nathalie seductively cooed. “How I love it when you are in my ass!” She stripped, lit a cigarette in the holder, and climbed onto the sofa on her hands and knees, with her smoke clenched between her teeth. “I want you again and again and the sex powder would make it so!” She puffed away, sending smoke pouring from around the holder and her nose, giving me her best seductive look. I took a few grains of the sex powder, and answered Nathalie’s siren song—two, sometimes three times a day for the remainder of my vacation—which I extended for a couple of days until the physical effect wore off. Nathalie was pleased.
Erica’s temporary Chicago assignment ended just before school started. To celebrate, I flew us to London for a few days. We attended plays in the West End, went to expensive restaurants for dinner, and had lots of sex. “I didn’t think I would say this… but I missed you, Will,” she said, her red hair rendered extremely messy after I’d given her head for a long time. “But don’t think that I’ve been a nun, because I haven’t,” she quickly added.
“Didn’t expect you to,” I said, lighting her after-sex More.
“I think that’s why—” She audibly sucked in air with her drag. “—I like you so much. You’re cool when it comes to possession. A lot of guys aren’t, so with them, it’s one and done.” I told her that I had experience at it. Erica took a long drag and tossed her hair, exhaling quickly with raised chin. “Dated flight attendants before?” I shook my head. “Wanna talk about it or should I leave this alone?” she asked, bouncing onto the bed next to me. I thanked her for her concern and willingness to be whatever I needed. “Well, speaking selfishly, it doesn’t hurt that you’re really good in bed. So, as long as you keep getting hard for me quickly,” grinned Erica, giving me a More-scented kiss on the cheek—and then a longer kiss on my neck after her next drag. She took a final drag, grinning devilishly, and my lap disappeared in a cloud of smoke and auburn hair.
We returned to the hotel after breakfast the next morning, and I dragged her back to bed because her post-meal cigarette had made me hard under the table. “Missed me much? You’ve been more—enthusiastic than usual. Not that I’m complaining, but—” Erica lit two Mores and handed me one. “—I need a break. So what’s going on in your life? How’s the knowledge transfer biz, professor?”
“Like pouring water into rocks. Seriously, not bad. Most of them are in it for the grade, so they walk away with some knowledge whether they want to or not.” We talked for a couple of minutes, with me becoming increasingly distracted by her smoking. Erica dragged easily on her More, exhaling skyward in a long, narrow stream. “You are soooo sexy,” I breathed.
“Let me let you in on a little secret,” she purred. “You are, too.” Erica extinguished her cigarette after a long final drag, wrapped her arms around me, and exhaled into my mouth as we kissed.
The two of us lay sprawled on the bed, panting for breath, sweat-soaked and orgasm-addled after a very intense session of fucking. We had not done any sightseeing that day. “I want a whole pack of cigarettes after that… but I can’t move,” groaned Erica. “Besides,” she gasped, “I really don’t want to start you up again.”
It was the first time that she’d made an overt mention of my fetish, although I was certain that she knew, and I told her that. “I’m a little slow,” smiled Erica. “It took a little while to be certain, but I figured it out just before the wedding. I’m used to the double takes I get with a More, and the increasingly snide comments from non-smokers and Neanderthals, but you kept—noticing—and getting hard.” I asked her how she felt about it. “I’ve had kinkier lovers,” Erica offered after a pause, “guys who have—interesting—”on” switches, but you, I don’t have to think about doing something unusual to turn you on.”
“I started smoking Mores shortly after I left home—switched from Salem 100s because I thought they looked super-classy, and they’d make me seem more—cosmopolitan, and less of a farmgirl from Indiana.” She grinned. “It took a while for the girl to catch up with the image, but there is a cachet associated with them, and frankly, I’ve always encouraged the extra attention. With you, it’s just a little more intense. Smoking Mores isn’t the only thing that gets you going—that would get to be a turn-off—it just makes you ready sooner. There’s also a sense of being irresistibly sexy when I get you to stand up and salute me without being touched.” She rolled over to face me. “It makes me feel like a seductress and that adds to your attractiveness. You’re cute, good in bed, and relatively easy to seduce, which is a lethal combination for a lot of women. Even I’m affected, as much as I like to play the field. You went from a stress relief quickie to ‘come-and-see-me-again’ real quick. It just took me a while to figure out why.” Erica gave me a wry smile. “But I’d really like a cigarette now. The question is, can I have one without starting anything? Honestly, Will, I’m fucked out.”
I assured her that I could leave her to recover, saying, “After that, I don’t think I have anything left myself.” Erica lit a More and halfway through her cigarette, her deep drags and easy exhales were working their usual magic, proving me wrong.
“Will a hand job tide you over?” Erica smiled. “I might be ready after the theater.” She exhaled long and silent, and her hand wrapped around my almost-rigid cock. Erica lit a second More as she stroked, verbally encouraging me to watch her smoke. A few moments later, I groaned her name, and a small surge washed over her hand. “You’re welcome,” whispered Erica, brushing my cheek with her lips. “And yes, I’m excited now. Rest up, ‘cause you’re gonna need it.” I quickly fell asleep.
I started my second year of teaching with a teacher of the year award, the dean of engineering off my back, and feeling a little more equipped to handle being a professor. I had templates for exams and friends in the French department who gave me a social life. I was hanging out in the Romance Languages lounge for a cigarette and coffee with Kevin and his crew after my first freshman engineering lecture of the semester, held on a walk through campus with my teaching assistants while I pointed out everything that was engineering-related. He asked me if I wanted to go to the horny divorcée bar this upcoming weekend. “Nah, that’s OK. I’m good,” I replied, showing them a picture of Erica in her uniform, making Kevin drool. “She’s a—friend.” The conversation quickly turned to the incoming freshmen and how obvious they were about currying favor.
Suddenly, just from behind me, I heard a sweet, melodic voice coquettishly ask, “Qui a une cigarette pour moi?” I spun to see where it came from, because it sounded almost exactly like a memory… “It is you!” softly exclaimed a familiar-looking blonde woman. She had a creamy complexion and thick blonde hair that spilled, quite intentionally, to just below her shoulders. “This is so amazing!” I gaped stupidly at her until it occurred to me that the entire table was watching intently, holding their breath. “Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, blushing. “We’ve kind of met, but we haven’t ever been introduced.” She extended her hand. “Giselle Carpenter.”
“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” Kevin said. She glanced at him briefly, giving him a friendly, but not encouraging smile, and quickly returned her focus to me.
“Will Redmond,” I managed, standing up, still stunned by seeing her again.
“I’m a graduate student in the International Affairs program. I just started,” returned Giselle as we shook hands. “Are you a student here, too?”
Kevin laughed, “Actually, you’re talking to the university’s undergraduate teacher of the year, Doctor William Gerald Redmond, Ph.D.”
Giselle’s bluish-gray eyes widened. “Really?” I blushed, and she smiled. “Well, I hope you won’t get into too much trouble this time, with me being a student.”
Kevin looked at me with a stupid, “you-could-get-laid” grin. “Trouble? Will? Do tell.”
She shot him a “shrivel-up-and-die, peon” glance, leaving no doubt that this was the finishing school beauty whose similar glance had not intimidated me nine years ago. “I have class in five minutes, but we should get together for lunch,” she said. “Even after all this time, I still feel bad about the first time we met—so it’ll be my treat.”
We had our lunch in the romance languages lounge three days later. I’d cleared it with Dean Wilcox first, so I could sit down and enjoy my lunch. She was a little taller than I remembered, and wasn’t as round, yet firmer. Her creamy complexion hadn’t changed, but I noticed her eyes for the first time, a striking blue-gray. She had a roundness of shape without being fat, and exuded confidence. “Like I said, I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble for talking to me,” she smiled. I replied that I wasn’t still in jail in France, so it was all good. Her eyes sparkled as she laughed musically. “I’m happy to hear that.” I noted that Giselle sounded American.
“That’s probably because I am,” she smiled. “I was actually born here, just outside DC, but I spent most of my pre-college life in Europe. Finest finishing school money could buy. My dad’s a VP for European affairs with a large company. He got the job right after I was born, so I was raised European, but my household is more or less American, and I came to the States for college. My younger sisters are still over there. Angélique is in college at the Sorbonne, and Emelie is at the same finishing school I went to.” Giselle pulled out a silver cigarette case, removing a brown cigarette, shorter and wider than a More, and lit it with a matching cylindrical silver lighter. “I didn’t think you’d mind, do you?” she rhetorically asked, having noticed that I was watching her. “It’s a Nat Sherman’s Virginia Circle, not a little cigar,” Giselle continued, misinterpreting my attentive look. “My favorite cigarette. I like them because they’re sweet and tangy, just tobacco and paper, and the finest cigarettes available. Would you like one—but I should warn you, they’re not menthol.” I accepted and asked her how she could have possibly remembered me from a fifteen-second interaction nine years prior. “I couldn’t intimidate you, and neither could our chaperone. You’re the only guy I can ever remember whose bravado didn’t just fall apart at the haughty-princess look.”
I replied that was because it wasn’t bravado, and that I had no ulterior motive at the time. “Besides, I went to a fancy private school as a scholarship student, so I’ve seen that look before—a lot. It stopped working on me back in ninth grade.”
Giselle nodded with understanding after a moment’s consideration. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch, but at finishing school, they constantly reminded us not to interact with people of—lesser means. Or boys of any socioeconomic stratum.”
“Well, since you’re not at finishing school any more, would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?” I couldn’t believe that the words had jumped out of my mouth, but a beautiful woman who smoked classy, expensive brown cigarettes as her normal brand was interesting—even if they weren’t 120s. Damn fetish.
Giselle’s eyes lit up. “Sure! I have no social life here yet… too new to town and school.” She gave me her phone number. “Better do it quick, though. I have a funny feeling that I won’t have much free time once school gets rolling. Formal, causal, or in between?” I asked her which she preferred. “Probably… in between.” At those words, I knew that my pending one o’clock class would not be getting one of my better lectures.
We went to a semi-fancy Italian restaurant for dinner, where she conversed with the maitre’d, and waiter in what sounded like fluent Italian. Judging by their reactions, she spoke their language well. “How many languages do you speak?” I asked, only aware of her French and English.
“Let’s see… English, French, Spanish, Italian, German, and Portuguese,” replied Giselle. “Benefits of being in a multi-lingual school and house where a conversation may be taking place in any of those languages. So what’s it like being a college professor?” She was very easy to talk to… as long as she wasn’t smoking. Every so often, Giselle would take what I can only refer to as a “dreamy” puff, eyes half-lidded, usually accompanied by a big, natural-looking snap-inhale. She would hold the smoke, and then after smoothly, gracefully, tilting her head upwards by just a few degrees, Giselle would slowly release a flowing combination exhale, without any noise whatsoever, and make it look as sexy as Daisy’s mom did, similarly without obvious effort or intent. I hoped that my fetish wouldn’t make itself obvious, because I did not want to make her feel uncomfortable around me.
Giselle quickly replaced the French graduate students as my favorite between-classes companion. One day, she was sitting at the table smoking her distinctive brown cigarette with a cigarette holder—just a short black one, about three inches long, nothing fancy. “Hey! I thought you’d left the finishing school glamour girl behind,” I kidded as I sat down. My mind quickly turned to mush as she took one of her dreamy drags from the holder. I belatedly started thinking about reaction rates near the end of her combination exhale and sat quickly, hoping that she hadn’t noticed the pulse in my jeans.
Giselle replied, “My tobacco shop ran out of the filtered Virginia Circles, so I bought the unfiltered ones. I use a cigarette holder with them because I dislike tobacco crumbs in my mouth. How was class?” She always had the social grace to ask about me, something I chalked up to her training in etiquette. Giselle took another puff, handling her holdered cigarette with glamorous ease. I know I stared, but she did not seem to notice the sexual component of my look, smiling, “Don’t worry, I’m not going finishing school snobby on you.”
Whew, that was close. “The usual, a room full of blank, glazed faces,” I replied. “I’ve stopped being the cool, fun teacher for most of them. Now they’re all worried about what the first exam will be like.” Our companionship quickly expanded beyond the romance languages lounge to attending foreign films at the art theater and going out to dinners where we discussed foreign affairs and the like. It was also fun to spend evenings speaking French with a beautiful woman. The more time I spent with Giselle, the easier it was to ignore her beauty, if not her smoking. One night, I noted that she seemed to be using her cigarette holder a lot more of late. “Actually,” she blushed, “I like the unfiltered Virginia Circles better. But it’s not… politically correct.”
“So? You like them. Who cares what anybody else thinks?” Giselle smiled, and took a dreamy drag, accompanied by a lazy french-inhale, causing my insides to quiver, and something else to get firmer. At twenty-five, Giselle possessed the smoking poise and grace of women from a bygone era; women her age just did not smoke with such natural elegance. I felt myself blush from the thought.
Daisy called me from New York a few days later. “I just wanted to check in. I’m going to be home Saturday, and my parents are inviting a few friends. Wanna come? Hubby will be with, so it’ll be safe. We’d all love to see you.”
I declined, telling her that I was going to an Italian film festival with a friend. “She speaks the language, I’m reading the subtitles, and we’re grabbing a late dinner.”
“Oh, a date!” exclaimed Daisy. “Congratulations!” I downplayed the implication, explaining that Giselle and I were just friends. “Have you ever asked her out on a date? I mean, it sounds like you enjoy each other’s company. I think you should. I’d love to meet her.”
Giselle hadn’t given me any sign that she considered us as anything other than friends. European greetings were as close as we got to intimacy, and neither of us knew where the other lived since we had always met at school, the theater, or a restaurant. At any rate, I didn’t think taking Giselle to a dinner party at the Woodfords’ was appropriate. After talking to Daisy for a little while longer, we hung up, and my brain immediately started working on Daisy’s suggestion. Why don’t you ask Giselle out on a date instead of just meeting her somewhere? What’s the worst she can do? Tell you you’re not worthy?
- Yes. And then not see me anymore. I’ll miss her companionship.
- So you like her, right?
- Yes.
- Then ask her out, dummy! At least you’ll know.
I asked Giselle if we could go out on a date sometime over dinner that Saturday after the movies. She seemed quite surprised that I was asking her on a date. “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” I fumbled around trying to avoid sounding as if my only motivation was sexual. She smiled, clearly amused by my sudden lack of eloquence. “I get it, Will,” interrupted Giselle with a small giggle. “You’re a traditionalist. Pick me up, we go out, you pay, and then take me home.” I nodded stupidly. “How about two weeks from tonight? You pick the place, you pick the activity, and I’ll be ready. Just let me know how I should dress, and it’s a date.”
Wanting to impress her, I selected an upscale French restaurant for dinner. Giselle took my breath away when I greeted her at her door, looking fantastic in a form-fitting black dress. As we waited at the bar, she placed a Virginia Circle into a white cigarette holder about five inches long, decorated with a beautiful, intricate, woven floral pattern that was sealed by glass or crystal. I complimented her on it. “Thank you! This is a gift from a close friend—a classmate,” she explained, pleased that I had noticed. “She had this custom-made for my seventeenth birthday, with my favorite flowers in cloisonné.” Slightly longer and more ornate than the black one she normally used, it added to her aura of haute couture, portrayed without the slightest hint of self-consciousness or pretention. Her elegant demeanor, no doubt a product of her finishing school upbringing, gained her respectful attention from staff and patrons alike. Giselle smoked with deliberation and grace, casually performing a french- or open-mouth inhale on occasion. By the end of the night, I was desperately trying to hide my extreme attraction and excited horniness from her, unable to focus on reaction rates in the presence of this holder-smoking goddess. Nonetheless, Giselle seemed not to notice how attentively I watched each limp-wristed, graceful trip the cigarette holder would make to her lips, or the fascination the smoke leaving her mouth and nose would cause.
After dinner, I took her ballroom dancing at a non-smoking venue, giving me a chance to regain my composure. We stepped outside for a smoke, and I was immediately reminded of how devastatingly elegant and sexy Giselle rendered the art of smoking. “Don’t take this wrong, Will, because I’m having fun,” she said, “but can you take me home now? My feet are killing me.”
Our conversation had been more or less normal all night so I thought that I had successfully hidden my fetish and arousal from her. Gonna be a long night of jacking off tonight, I thought, remembering her most recent cigarette as I walked her to the door of her townhouse. We went to give each other the usual parting kisses on both cheeks after saying goodnight, but the image of a well-lit, slow snap-inhale from ten minutes ago flashed brilliantly in my mind, and I moved to kiss Giselle. It was bold and out-of-character, but gentle, not aggressive. She gave a jerk of surprise, but parted her lips and returned the kiss. I opened my eyes, frightened that my brief loss of self-control had just messed up a promising friendship. “Mmmm… that was nice, Will,” she quietly said before I could apologize. “Would you like to come in?”
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever take the hint as much as I’ve been flirting with you.” Giselle said as we sat in her living room. She took a draw from the holder and slowly released a creamy ball of smoke before tilting her head all the way back and exhaling quickly. Her eyes twinkled as she smiled. Well, I’ll be damned. A girl after Marie’s own heart. “I know you got it—especially when I started to use the cigarette holder,” she finished. “I just didn’t know what you were going to do with it. I was beginning to wonder about you.”
I said that I wasn’t sure if somebody like her would be attracted to me, and blushed. She regarded me crossly, back slightly arched, holder held perfectly perpendicular to the floor. “Will, hasn’t any girl ever told you how cute you are when you blush—like right now?” I got redder. “I mean, it makes you sexy cute.” Giselle leaned forward, eyes closing, lips parting. Shortly thereafter, I was kissing my way down her body, firm, yet plush, stopping near her knees before reversing course. “Oh!” exhaled Giselle when I playfully nipped her inner thigh, only to sigh, “Ohhhh… myyyyyy…” dreamily when I finally settled in at my destination.
The clock read two-thirty. Giselle slept, nestled peacefully into the contours of my body. I was wide-awake, reflecting on how I hadn’t felt this content in years. I looked at her, clinically noticing her physical flaws for the first time. Giselle’s nose was a little too big, her cheeks a little chubby, her legs too thick for her to be considered a classic beauty—but it hadn’t mattered. Now, even as I noticed them, they faded into insignificance, and, suddenly drowsy, I fell asleep.
A gentle brush of lips and the scent of really good coffee woke me up. “Good morning, Will,” Giselle whispered tenderly, presenting me with a mug. She sat with her legs on my lap after breakfast, wearing only a robe, holding a long red box in one hand, and her short black holder in the other. “Remember when I told you about my favorite cigarettes?” Giselle shyly began. “Well…” She removed an extremely long brown… something from the box. “These are my favorites, but they’re hardly practical for every day… and a little too distinctive. Nat Sherman 164s, no filter, but the smoothest, sweetest smoke ever. And yes, it is a cigarette. I know the difference.” Giselle giggled. “I had to do the whole ‘Gigi’ thing in finishing school.” She lit it and took an enchanting drag, holding the smoke in her lungs, and then exhaling regally through her nose, purring, “Mmmmmm…” with a beatific smile before offering me the holder. “Want some?”
I hesitated for the briefest instant, but took a tentative drag. It was smooth… and sweet. I inhaled the next puff fully, savoring the taste. This was not an affectation; this was a cigarette for a connoisseur. “See?” Giselle reached for the cigarette. Her next drag was one of her “dreamy” ones.
There was something about the way she looked with the super-long cigarette in the holder and the smoke flowing from her mouth and nose that sent a rush of blood to my cock. It started to rise so quickly that Giselle couldn’t help but notice. “Goodness!” she quietly exclaimed, looking surprised. Then Giselle drew on the holder once more, dreamily, while watching my visceral reaction continue. I started to blush, but she merely rearranged herself and wrapped her hand around my dick and began to stroke me. “Don’t worry, Will… I’ve seen it before,” she smiled. My head was spinning too much to ask what she meant by that, and she took another erotic puff. My hips started bobbing, I started moaning, and it wasn’t long before I came—hard, with a loud cry. Giselle kissed me as I lay panting. “Finishing school does not mean naïve and prissy,” she whispered with an amused grin.
I introduced her to my family at Thanksgiving, where she met my extended family. After dinner, I carried the dishes into the kitchen where my mother was taking a momentary respite from her brother’s jovial, but constant needling. “European finishing school!” softly declared Mom. “Honestly, William Redmond, can’t you ever bring a normal girl home?” I opened my mouth to defend Giselle, but my mother smiled and gently added, “I see the way she looks at you. All the fancy schooling and money in the world can’t fake that.”
New Year’s Eve was different. The Woodfords were in France visiting Daisy and Giselle was in Maryland, so I had nothing to do, and was spending it alone in my apartment. Erica called shortly before midnight, wanting to know if I could meet her the following morning. It didn’t take more than a second for me to tell her that I was involved. The line went quiet for a moment. “Well,” she finally said, “I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Thanks for the fun times, Will. She’s a very lucky lady. I mean that.” I apologized, but Erica shrugged it off. “Ten or fifteen years from now, I might wonder what if… but I’m not ready for that. But you’ve been ready for the right girl ever since I’ve known you, and it sounds like you may have found her.” Strangely, I didn’t regret ending it with Erica without one last fling, although Giselle and I weren’t “official.”
Giselle was hanging out at my place about two months later, but had seemed subdued and pensive during the evening. The only cigarette she’d had all night was one of my Mores, to which she had grown accustomed during Mardi Gras in New Orleans, three days of almost non-stop drinking, partying, and sex. After dinner, we sat at opposite ends of the sofa, and she made no movement towards an after-dinner smoke, both unusual. “So… Will,” she quietly began, “I’ve had exactly one date with someone other than you since I started graduate school. He was… a fix-up over the holiday.” She sighed and continued, “He’s the kind of guy I usually date. Gorgeous, great pedigree, money, education… I’d have an easy life squarely in the social circles for which finishing school prepares you. And I found him… dull and self-centered.” I looked at her oddly. “My point is, six months ago, he would have been charming and engaging.”
“I think you just said that you would like this to be an exclusive relationship,” I slowly said. “Am I wrong?”
Giselle took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and after a long silence, said, “No, you’re not.” Although quiet, her voice did not quaver. She didn’t look at me.
“Giselle, I haven’t dated anyone else in the last six months. Furthermore, I haven’t even thought about dating anyone else since our first official date.” I walked over to her, knelt, and took her hand. “Miss Carpenter, I want to see where this goes.”
“So do I, Doctor Redmond,” she smiled, finally opening her eyes. “So do I.”
Our first official function as a “couple” was a university reception. Giselle was amazing in the way she worked the room full of enormous egos, navigating awkward conversations with practiced aplomb. Dean Wilcox pulled me aside as my date deftly moderated a scientific disagreement between two renowned physicists, preventing it from elevating into an argument. “I approve, Doctor Redmond,” she smiled. I thanked her, and a few minutes later, Giselle and I stepped out onto the tented, heated patio for a smoke.
She dragged on the Max 120 she had chosen as her brand for the night and regarded it, commenting, “Been a long time since I smoked a white cigarette. I didn’t want to seem ostentatious with the holder, and I wasn’t sure how… traditional the crowd would be.” She drew again, exciting me. “Not too bad, although nothing like a Sherman,” noted Giselle. “At least it’s got a decent kick.” Seeing the expression on my face, and that I had forgotten about my More, she took my hand, drew close, and, eyes twinkling, whispered, “Down, boy. If you’re good for the rest of the night, it’ll be 164s and holders after we get home.”
Any budding relationship has its obstacles to overcome: ours was Giselle’s father. Her parents came to visit her in late spring, and she had arranged for us to have dinner together. I was running late because one of my graders had the flu, and I remember that her mother had a neutral expression on her face until she saw Giselle react to my arrival, and then she smiled. Her father didn’t scowl, but his lack of enthusiasm was evident. “Mom, Dad, I’d like you to meet Dr. Will Redmond.”
“That’s a Ph.D., not an MD, correct?” were the first words he spoke to me. Ahhh, crap. A lifetime of being the boy parents wish for their daughters and this is the one that has to be difficult. It quickly became clear that he hadn’t sent his daughter to the finest European finishing school and Princeton just to end up with some poor academic. Tread carefully, Redmond. He’s just looking for an excuse, and mom is undecided. “So what’s your area of research, Dr. Redmond?”
“I don’t have one. I just teach five classes each semester.” Giselle added that I was the undergraduate teacher of the year.
That didn’t seem to register. His face fell even more. “So I take it that you’re not on the tenure track, then?”
“Actually, I am fully tenured, just… better at teaching than research.” I explained how I got my job.
“Ah. I see,” he flatly said, clearly unimpressed by a surfboard stabilizer. Dinner devolved into a rehash of Giselle’s previous dating life. There was a prince, a president’s grandson, kids of ambassadors, business magnates… If his intent was to make me feel small, it succeeded. What in the hell made me think I could compete for this woman? Dinner ended with a not-so-subtle reference to the last date she went on. “…His father mentioned that he would be happy to send the jet for you if you wanted a weekend getaway,” he said to his daughter as if I wasn’t there. Giselle brightly thanked him for the message and said to send her regards.
When I got home, I poured myself an extremely pale rum and coke and sat heavily on my sofa. Send the jet for a weekend getaway, I depressedly thought. If Daisy was a reach, Giselle’s in another galaxy altogether. One where I definitely don’t belong, and her dad wasn’t shy about letting me know it. My thoughts turned darker and more despairing as I worked my way through the slightly cut rum.
Giselle came through the door about ninety minutes later, using her key. “Oh. I was afraid you’d have this reaction. So, that’s my dad.” I glumly said that he didn’t seem to like me. “He likes you just fine. Just not as my boyfriend,” she giggled. “Young lady,” she resumed in an artificially deep voice, “you’ve had every advantage I could give you. The finest schooling, and exposure to the highest levels of world society. What’s wrong with any of the young gentlemen you’ve already met? This isn’t some misguided effort at rebellion, is it? Have I done anything for you to rebel against?” Giselle rolled her eyes and lit her own 164 without bothering to use a holder. “That’s why it took me so long to get here.”
“So what about the private jet?” My foul mood made me add, “You sure seemed happy to get the news.”
“Oooh, jealousy!” Giselle giggled, and kissed me on the forehead. “Thank you for caring so much, but the first rule of diplomacy is to smile and be pleasant, especially when you’re annoyed. As for the private jet, I’ve been on enough of them to not be impressed. It’s a limousine rental for the filthy rich,” she casually replied. “Frankly, I have more fun walking to Superburger’s with you for beer and burgers.” She took a long drag on the cigarillo-like 164. Smoke began to stream from her nose before she finished her draw, stopping briefly as she raised her chin for a relaxed, silent exhale. “You’re still my boyfriend,” she calmly declared. “There’s a lot more than just you to recommend you. No snobby relatives, no pedigree checking, no financial statements to present… I can just be Giselle Carpenter. Not the budding diplomat, not the prime candidate for charity-immersed trophy wife whose brain atrophies day by day from lack of use… just me. And you’re still sexy cute when you blush.”
“And the smoking—”
“Not new,” Giselle interrupted. “Let’s just say yours was not the first smoking-related sexual encounter I’ve had.” At my raised eyebrow, she elaborated, “As much as the administrators and chaperones and alumni would like to have you believe, upper-class etiquette, a lady’s comportment, and a solid academic education aren’t the only things one learns at finishing school. For starters, there’s smoking. Everyone in my class started at school. We practiced in front of each other, figuring out how to use it to flirt and tease, since access to boys was extremely limited. But that’s not all… I could tell you stories that would curl your toes—and more. But you’re too much of a gentleman to ask.”
That drew a smile from me, and I understood that particular part of her past would remain closed to me. “As far as you and smoking goes,” she continued, answering the question on my mind, “I used it to flirt… bait for the hook, so to speak,” grinned Giselle. “Never would have gotten any further if you had turned out to be an asshole. I outgrew the petty pleasure of making a guy cum over me years ago. It’s fun to play with your fetish on occasion, but I can’t say that it adds much for me. I also can’t help if it makes me that much more sexy to you. As long as you don’t drool in public—preferably not in private, either. Next question?”
Her candor was both shocking and refreshing. “So… your dad doesn’t strike me as the kind who quits before he gets what he wants,” I said. She may have looked incredibly hot sitting there with the 164 between her manicured fingers, but I was more interested in her thoughts. Sex was unimportant.
“Neither is his daughter,” Giselle smiled.
It was inevitable that my past and future would meet each other. Although I had stopped having my monthly lunches with Mrs. Woodford due to my schedule never allowing for a long lunch, we had continued to keep in touch. She was dying to meet Giselle. The Woodfords were having their annual Fourth of July party, and had included Giselle by name on my invitation. I had explained Daisy as best I could to my present girlfriend in the interest of full disclosure, since Daisy and François would be there as well. Giselle seemed remarkably unaffected, saying, “Other than the sex and the near-engagement, you talk about her like a sister.” She seemed more worried over whether we needed to buy some Max 120s for the party so she wouldn’t seem out-of-place.
I assured her that this was definitely one occasion where she wouldn’t be out-of-place with brown cigarettes and cigarette holders. “I can guarantee that you won’t be the only lady with a cigarette holder at the party,” I replied. She then asked about the 164s, and I told her only if she brought an extra box for the hostess.
“Will!” exclaimed Daisy, hurrying across the patio to throw herself into my arms as soon as we walked into the yard at the summer house. “It’s so good to see you!” She stepped back and gave me a traditional European greeting while her husband edged closer with an evil glare. “And you must be Giselle.” My past and present kissed each other in the European way without the least hint of jealous rivalry. “I’m Daisy.”
Giselle lightly took my arm and said she’d heard a lot about her. Daisy introduced François, who put on his charming, exotic Frenchman act, probably thinking that Giselle was some stupid American chick who he could easily seduce. My girlfriend quickly disabused him of that notion by speaking to him in his native language and drawing closer to me.
Daisy’s parents showed up. “Will, darling! We’re so glad you could come!” Daisy’s mom smiled, looking elegant and sexy as usual with her signature More in the long holder. “And this must be Giselle. Will has told me so much about you!” If Giselle was bothered by the prospective daughter-in-law treatment, it didn’t show. She complimented Mrs. Woodford on her outfit and fashion accessory. “Why thank you, dear! It’s an affectation of an old lady at this point.” Giselle told her she wasn’t old, and that she used one herself, taking the opportunity to unveil her cloisonné holder. “Oh Daisy, isn’t that a beautiful cigarette holder?” Marie earnestly said. François gallantly lit Giselle’s Virginia Circle, and then his wife’s Virginia Slim 120 in the familiar mother-of-pearl holder. Giselle took a dreamy drag accented with a slow snap-inhale, making Daisy clandestinely glance downward at me. Mrs. Woodford exhaled leisurely through her nose. Both Mr. Woodford and I were spellbound by being in the middle of such smoking elegance, while the ladies continued to chat.
Once again, Giselle worked the party with amazing grace and ease, quickly losing her “stranger” status within minutes of meeting someone, flowing from group to group on my arm. “C’mon,” she said as we finished eating, “let’s go talk to Mr. and Mrs. Woodford—after all, you’re like a son to them.” Mrs. Woodford was thrilled with the box of 164s, and when Marie and Giselle each started smoking one, so were Mr. Woodford and I. Before all of us rejoined the party, my girlfriend and Marie had arranged for the four of us to have dinner, and for the two of them to have a girls’ day together. “I’d love to see your cigarette holder collection, Marie,” Giselle said in parting.
Late in the party, Daisy managed to catch me alone for a moment. Her husband was watching a rugby match inside, while Giselle was about twenty feet away, smoking a holdered 164 while speaking with my intellectual property lawyer. “My god, Will. She’s perfect for you. I’m happy for you.” She choked back a quiet sob. “I just didn’t think… it would affect me this way…” Suddenly, she launched herself at me and then kissed me intimately, making the rest of the world vanish before quickly turning and walking away. I didn’t know how long we had kissed, or if Giselle had seen any part of our exchange.
I found out when I drove her home. I turned the car off but she didn’t move. “I saw Daisy kissing you,” Giselle softly said without belying any of her thoughts. She’s going to be an incredible diplomat. “I think she just figured out the mistake she made.”
“Giselle, I’m sorry—”
“—I know you are. But not about Daisy, or the kiss. You’re feeling bad for her because she just realized that it’s over.” Giselle turned to face me. “You’ve moved on, and you’re not going to be available for her—she’s lost her intimate safety net. You still love her—a little more than just a sister, if that kiss was any indication. No, I’m not going to break up with you over that. You have fifteen years of complicated history and intimacy between you. Daisy and her family are a big part of your life, Will. It would be really bitchy—and useless to demand that you forget all of that.” She patted my leg. “Let’s go inside. It’s getting hot out here.”
That night, Giselle and I lay snuggled together after prolonged and tender lovemaking. My girlfriend hadn’t smoked one cigarette since the party, but that hadn’t kept me from being ready and excited for her. “‘Zelle, can I ask you a question?” She purred yes without moving. “Why doesn’t Daisy worry you?”
“Because I don’t have to smoke to get your attention,” she candidly replied. “My turn?” I told her to go ahead. “So I know that Mr. Woodford likes ladies who smoke with cigarette holders. I caught him watching me. I also know that Mrs. Woodford knows about you. Is there something going on between—?” How the fuck did she figure that out? At my silence, Giselle said, “Why, Will Redmond! I had no idea you were so perverse! Don’t worry, I won’t ask you for details, and I sure as hell won’t tell.” She climbed on top of me. “So, do I remind you of Marie? I won’t be at all offended if you say yes.” She looked away for a moment, and added, “I can only hope that when I’m her age, I’ll be able to work what I’ve got half as well as she does.”
“You sound almost jealous.”
“Envious,” corrected Giselle. “And impressed. She treats you like a son, except when she’s smoking around you. Then she looks at you like she’s apologizing to you for being sexy.” I felt my face turn red. “You’re blushing.” Giselle hopped out of bed, scampered into the living room and after a bit of rustling, I heard the muted click of her lighter. She reappeared in the doorway, naked, her cloisonné holder with a Virginia Circle in it next to and parallel with her face, leaning seductively against the doorframe. “But I’ll never apologize to you for that,” my girlfriend husked. Giselle performed a natural-looking french-inhale, exhaling silently with narrowed eyes. “And you are still sexy cute when you blush.” A month later, we went shopping for her engagement ring.
I proposed to Giselle at my family’s house the following Thanksgiving. Pending final exams allowed Giselle to postpone the inevitable confrontation, which took place at her uncle’s sprawling home in a very upscale neighborhood outside of Washington on Christmas Eve. My future father-in-law was furious that I hadn’t asked him for his eldest daughter’s hand in marriage—not that he would have consented. “Dr. Redmond, my daughter’s friends include the highest levels of royalty. Surely you would admit that you do not belong in such elevated circles.” He belittled me like that for an hour concluding with, “I will not allow this marriage to take place. For my daughter’s sake. This is exactly why I sent my girls to the finest girls’ schools in Europe, so they could grow accustomed to their place in society.”
I walked over to him and countered, “I know you’ve made inquiries about my financial affairs.” He paled, clearly surprised that his efforts at pulling my fiscal records had been detected, but Woodford and Family were a tough vault to crack. “If you must know, Giselle’s ring represents a small portion of my royalties from that ‘stupid surfboard doodad,’ as you called it at our first meeting.”
“I don’t have to listen to this! GET OUT!” His outburst brought running feet, and the doorway filled with anxious faces.
“Sir, you will listen,” I quietly declared. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll have Woodford and Family release the information you’re looking for so you can be assured that I’m not in it for the money. But you did not raise your daughter to be a snob, and it’s far too late to expect her to turn into one.”
Red-faced, Giselle’s father ordered his brother and nephews to throw me out. They surrounded me, but my lack of aggression defused the possibility of violence. I shrugged and calmly walked towards the door through the nervous crowd. “It’s his confrontation. I never yelled once,” I said as I passed a brawny kid who sympathetically responded, “Yeah, I get that, but you still gotta leave.” As I left, I smiled at Giselle, who couldn’t get to me through all her relatives.
By that time, I was unable to get a seat on any mode of transportation back home until Christmas day. I spent Christmas Eve by myself in a DC hotel, not surprised that every effort I made to contact Giselle failed. Strangely, I wasn’t worried about my fiancée, or that our plans were over. We finally managed to catch up with each other the day after Christmas. “Hey, Will,” Giselle said. “Are you OK? I assume that was you calling my uncle’s house multiple times.” There was a pause. “Are we OK?” she anxiously asked. I assured her that I hadn’t been intimidated, and was more worried about her. “I’m fine,” she sighed. “I couldn’t call you from the house. Mom and my sisters have been running interference. Mom’s working on Daddy. She said it takes a strong man to face down my father with such quiet resolve. She wants to meet your parents.”
“What does she think?”
“She likes you. So do my sisters. Angie thinks Daddy’s just pissed that he couldn’t intimidate you,” Giselle said. “I know he didn’t expect you to be so forthcoming with your fiscals—he also didn’t expect to have such a difficult time getting them on his own. Guess your other parents are pretty protective, too.” I could hear the smile. “He’s scared that the ring is real… because then he’ll have to admit that he’s just being snobbish. It’ll work out.”
I didn’t quite have that much faith, and decided to take the fight to the opponent, flying to Belgium to have dinner with her parents by myself before school started. Giselle’s mom helped set up the ambush, allowing me to join them at their table. Mr. Carpenter wasn’t happy, but it was far too public to make a scene. I handed him an official Woodford and Family envelope. “These are the documents you’ve been trying to get, and then some. I can assure you that I’m not in it for the money.”
“I know what your salary is, so don’t think that I won’t have these documents fully vetted,” he challenged. When I didn’t react, he told me how reckless it was to incur the amount of debt at the rate I was going.
I sighed, “Can we just assume that I can actually buy everything I do without accumulating stupid amounts of debt? It’s getting tedious.”
“Fine,” he sourly said. “Even if you aren’t some profligate rogue, I’m worried about my daughter. Can you give her the life she would have otherwise—access to the highest levels of society, only the finest things in life?” he asked.
“No, I can’t,” I admitted. “But I can swear to both of you that I will give her the life she’s asking me for.” At that, her mother jumped in on my side, and I realized that I had mistaken her previous silences: Mrs. Carpenter had been evaluating me for herself, and not merely following her husband’s lead. That’s when I knew why Giselle had been so confident.
Giselle’s father capitulated before leaving the restaurant, accepting our pending nuptials with grumpy resignation. While it wasn’t exactly the blessing I was looking for, Mrs. Carpenter told me not to worry, and that her husband would “fulfill his fatherly obligations. He’s just used to people doing what he tells them to. I’m happy you didn’t.”
My first lesson in my fiancée’s self-confidence came when we discussed the wedding party. She wanted a cousin to be a groomsman, and suggested Daisy as a bridesmaid. “I like her, and she’s your best female friend. As long as she doesn’t try to steal you away from your honeymoon, I’m good.”
About a month later, Daisy was in town visiting her parents without her husband before a business trip, and Giselle invited her to dinner on Saturday. I joked that it was a case of keeping one’s enemies closer, but the two women got along famously, talking as if they were the old friends, and I more or less wound up being ignored. Not that bridesmaid’s dresses and wedding minutiae were interesting. I just tried not to think about the fact that two beautiful women, with both of whom I’d been very intimate, were smoking with cigarette holders in my apartment—and looking incredibly sexy. The most awkward moment came when Daisy was leaving, and she got that “kiss me—now” expression on her face. I almost fell for it, before we both quickly recovered and kissed each other on the cheeks.
“I want you to know that I don’t want you to feel that you ever have to hide your relationship with Daisy from me,” Giselle said as we lay in bed that night. “She told me that she offered you an affair and you refused just because she was married. You’re a wonderful friend to have broken off such a long-standing affair that you desperately wanted. Daisy promised me that she wouldn’t try to get you to go back on it. Be right back, cheri.” She left the bedroom and returned with the Vaseline. “Daisy also told me something else you like, and that you’re gentle and patient with beginners.”
We had a relatively small wedding that September, about 150 friends and family… along with a small cadre of paparazzi. Several well-connected people were there from Giselle’s days at finishing school along with her father’s associates, and one of my wife’s bridesmaids was an honest-to-goodness princess. It was she who had given Giselle the cloisonné holder, and used a similar one of her own, making a total of four beautiful women using cigarette holders at the reception, five if I counted Emelie, Giselle’s youngest sister, who was smoking More menthols and borrowed Mrs. Woodford’s holder for one. The two of them spoke quite a bit.
I noticed Daisy and Giselle speaking to each other in the corner at the reception, and went to see what the loves of my life were plotting. “I’ve been trying to tell your wife all about you,” Daisy gently joked, “but she already knows the important stuff.” She handed Giselle a small, festively wrapped box. “This is a private gift from me to both of you. Don’t open it until you’re alone tonight.”
That night, as my wife prepared her wedding night seduction, she opened the case. Inside was a five-inch long, violet, mother-of-pearl cigarette holder. She placed her 164 into it and posed for me. Taking a long drag, Giselle lazily raised her chin, and smoke flowed in thick gray streams from her nose and mouth. Her eyes sparkled with each drag, and I got hard as she playfully excited me with her incredibly sensual way of smoking the entire six-plus-inch cigarette. She stroked my cock with her last exhale, a slow combination one with lidded eyes, ensuring that I was rock-hard. “Now, let’s make some babies,” Giselle cooed.