She’s standing next to a navy blue car, knee up with the pointed toe of her stiletto boot resting on the front bumper. The boot hugs her ankle like a second skin, black leather rising up her toned calf and over the knee. The tight fabric pinches her thigh the slightest bit, biting into flesh softly, playfully, the way I want to nip at her creamy skin.
Her tantalizing leg disappears underneath an impossibly short denim skirt, the kind that only party girls wear. It flares just enough to draw my eyes, but not enough that I can tell what colour panties she’s wearing. If she’s wearing any at all.
The waist of the skirt isn’t that far up from the ruffled bottom, revealing a lion tattoo on her lower back. It’s prowling, stalking, snarling, staring at me with accusing eyes. As if she knows that I’m there, watching her, and the cat is her protector.
Or perhaps the cat is stalking me right back.
My eyes trace the curve of her spine, up and up a long and lean torso to a dangling bow of red fabric. She’s wearing a bandana as a shirt, folded into a triangle and tied around her pert tits. The knot in the back is a perfect ball, the fabric tips sticking proudly out of both sides like petals to a twisted, speckled flower.
Her shoulders are back in proud posture, thrusting her tits out at the world like they were meant to be. Her slender neck rises gracefully from a prominent collarbone, and as she turns her head, I can see the smooth line of her jaw and it is glorious.
She exhales then, cherry lips puckering, blue smoke billowing from between them like an explosion. It goes on seemingly for forever, almost in slow motion, the tendrils curling up towards the sky and framing her head in a perfect cloud.
Need bubbles up inside my belly, threatening to spill out of my mouth in the form of a moan. I adjust my sunglasses on my face, stifling any noise. I don’t want to startle her. I don’t want her to go anywhere. I just want her to be her, continue to lean and smoke and blow and just exist for my eyes to feast on.
Her chocolate brown curls bob around her shoulders as she tilts her head back, closing her eyes to the sun. It beats down on her flawless cheekbones happily, lighting up her features so much it’s almost blinding. Her eyelashes are long and thick, reaching so far down her cheeks I don’t know if they’re fake or real and I don’t care.
All I care about is the white stick she’s raising to her mouth again.
Her fingernails are painted boxcar red, just like her lips, those lips that have left a perfect lip stain on the snow white filter of her cigarette.
My lips part in reckless abandon and I lean against the back of the bench I’m standing behind. I’m not even worrying about how conspicuous I am at this point. She’s going to do this, in a side tableau just for me…
Her plump crimson lips close around the filter with effortless grace, and as she inhales, the cords in her neck vibrate. Is she moaning at the feeling of the smoke entering her lungs? Does her sweet little pussy get wet at the nicotine racing through her veins and back to her brain?
I swallow, hard, forcing my mouth closed, as she drags deep and slow.
Time seems to stop as she changes the position of her fingers, releasing the pincer grip of the pointer and middle. For a moment the cigarette hangs from her lips, tilting elegantly downward as she tightens her mouth around it to keep it from falling.
A brief tiny plume of smoke poofs out around it at the motion, and then the moment is done as she grips the filter with the thumb and forefinger of her opposite hand. Holding it this way is a little tougher, a little more powerful, a little more intense.
She finally lowers her hand, and tilts her chin down a touch, the smoke dribbling up over the cleft of her upper lip. It’s thick and white and she inhales through her nose at the same time and oh fuck she’s breathing her exhaled smoke in through her nostrils and I’m holding my breath I can’t believe this she’s putting on the best show of my life just for me…
Her perfect lips curl into a heart-shaped smile as she imbibes the last of her secondhand smoke, and then it all just shoots out of her like a waterfall. She doesn’t cough, doesn’t look uncomfortable in the least, just expels it from her with a deep sigh.
She suddenly twists and plants the wonderfully thin heel of a sexy black boot on the bumper to launch her ass onto the hood of the car. She keeps that knee bent, the other straight, and finally, at this vantage point, I catch a glimpse of her panties. She quickly reaches down and pushes the tiny denim skirt into just the right position, but before she does I see a flash of red.
Red lips, red fingernails, red bandana shirt, red lace panties.
Red smudge on a white filtered cigarette.
She’s my cherry girl.
She’s got the cigarette back in a scissor grip, and her thumbnail rises to flick the filter once, twice. The ash dislodges in a cylindrical clump and flutters to the ground like a fallen angel. White and grey speckled death, becoming nothingness in the summer breeze.
She leans back on her elbows, tall enough that they’re resting on the windshield. Her cigarette hand points straight up in the air, and she stares down her nose at passersby with dark eyes. They’re such a deep brown they’re almost black, and I imagine that even up close I wouldn’t be able to see the difference between iris and pupil.
From the front, I notice that she has a belly button piercing, a sparkly little dewdrop dangling and dancing in the afternoon sun. It’s eye-catching, but not as eye-catching as my vixen reaching up to haul on her dirty habit once again.
Her throat constricts on the inhale, the hollow becoming concave with the pressure. I can’t imagine how hard she’s breathing in to cause that to happen. The orange glow heats up to a bright yellow ball on the end, the tobacco sizzling beneath the force of the breath being sucked through it.
I’m clutching the bench seat like it’s my only lifeline in a sea of smoking hot women.
Her arms flop down and she lays right back against the windshield, arching her back and thrusting the beautiful globes of her breasts to the heavens. With her head tilted back, her lips form a perfect O and she blows the smoke up into a dreamy mushroom cloud. It’s like nuclear war erupting from her luscious mouth, and I’m at ground zero.
There might be a nuclear explosion in my aching loins soon if I’m not careful.
When the smoke is gone, she smiles a crooked little smile at the sky, and I wonder what she’s smiling about. The warmth and beauty of the day? How wonderful it is to be such a sexy creature on this earth? The delicious thrum of nicotine in her body?
I know our time was almost done, with each flick of her thumbnail, the cigarette growing shorter and hotter and shorter still. I rake my eyes down her body once again, taking in cream and denim and leather and accents the colour of a blushing virgin.
My cherry girl is definitely no virgin, with that attitude. I imagine what it must have been like for her the first time she partook in smoking. Was she sneaking a puff behind the bleachers in a school uniform, giggling and coughing and worrying about getting caught? Or had she just been fucked for the first time, and the guy who’d stolen her maidenhead handed her a lit one for an after sex treat? Or maybe she was leaning over a bar to flirt with some punk she’d just met, alcohol addling her brains, and she decided that she might as well spark one up since the air was so thick with the shit, to begin with.
In any case, my cherry girl is having her final soiree with this ciggie, the white filtered beast covered in blood red lip stains. It looks like a soldier addled with wounds from battle, battered from bullets and being tossed away to die.
She rolls the butt between thumb and middle finger, and I have to bite my lower lip to keep from groaning as she flicks it into the air. It sails clean across the street and thwacks off of the bench I’m standing at.
It rolls along the wood and I stare down at it, ever so slightly gyrating my hips against the seat back, the aftermath of my orgasm sending mini shockwaves across my skin. It stops directly in front of me, the curve of the lipstick a satin rainbow on the white paper.
I’m white knuckling the bench and I raise my gaze to my cherry queen, to thank her for this gift, but she is gone. Moved on to bestow more people with her enthralling presence, no doubt.
I reach down and gingerly grasp the still slightly smouldering butt between my thumb and forefinger.
I slide it into my pocket and stroll off into the afternoon sun.
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