Mom and I Against the World

All persons described having sex are over the age of 18.

Special thanks to Ciguardian, who commissioned this tale, provided me with great inspiration and details, helped me edit and tweak the story.

From a young age I'd been fascinated by women smoking. The ones that dominated my mind were the glamorous women dressed to the nines: stockings, heels, coiffed hair, deep red lipstick and pearls. White tendrils of smoke, wrapping around their moist tongues before they inhaled enchanted me, their sexuality inextricably entwined with the oral-centric habit.

I grew up in a different time, mind you. Cigarettes were not readily advertised as being unhealthy as they are now. I still remember a vague commercial or two about which brands doctors smoked. Every actress on television and in the movies smoked; it was a part of everyday life. So it is no wonder I became enamored of my mother, who also smoked.

I remember looking forward to watching her smoke her after-dinner cigarette. She'd come into the living room and sit down on the couch while I was sprawled on the floor watching the television, pull out her pack and light up while she set her ashtray on the coffee table. I don't remember what show came on during that hour, but I never watched a minute of it, my eyes were riveted to her as she pulled on that cigarette, the end burning brightly as she drew smoke into her mouth.

She'd exhale, that sweet sound of relaxation as her foot bounced lazily below her knee where her legs were crossed. From my vantage point on the floor I tried to look up her skirts, even at that young age, though I could never see anything of consequence. I'd seen a pinup or two, and even caught glimpse of an issue of Playboy once, so I had an idea what things might look like underneath, but I was hungry for first-hand knowledge.

Mom was a looker, a real head turner, if I do say so myself. Her shiny blond hair, waves of golden silk carefully prepared each day along with her meticulous makeup, made her seem as beautiful and glamorous as the women in the movies. She wore curve-hugging clothes, neatly tailored at home by the light of a bare bulb on an ancient sewing machine she worked at tirelessly to keep herself stylish. I can still remember the day I became aware of the flare of her hips and the mouth-watering shape of her derriere, I think it was the first time I popped an insta-boner. Not that I didn't notice her well-formed, pear shaped breasts, especially when she wore those soft, fuzzy sweaters. I swear I think I spent more time imagining the shape of her nipples, willing them to appear by staring holes into her tops, than looking at her face. Whenever I'd look up, caught ogling once again, she'd just smile, a wistful, almost pained look.

Finished with her smoke, she'd ruffle my hair and head off to whatever chore needed doing next. I'd watch her until she turned a corner, my adolescent heart pounding, counting silently the minutes until the next night when the routine would repeat itself.

It wasn't all hazy daydreams and unrequited longing. Mom ran a tight ship, and I, as the only crewman of that ship, had a lot of weight to pull. She worked long, hard hours at a real estate firm, working her way up from receptionist and finally to junior agent after studying for the exam at home. I remember the small celebration we had, a couple of cupcakes topped with candles to mark the occasion.

She made sure I was current on all my school work, drilling me with facts whenever a large test loomed, or I'd come home with a substandard grade. By the time high school came around Mom had me so accustomed to working hard I was acing all of my classes and amazing my teachers.

Mom was almost as fanatical about working out. She was ever conscious of her figure, knowing full well it was part of her success as a real estate agent, and she never let me slack in that area, as well. To this day I can't pass by a gym and see women working out in tights and not feel my heart tugged by memories of working out with mom. It was during these sessions I got to see more of her shapely body, though it was still within propriety, Mom was a stickler for that as well.

Despite the prime physical shape she whipped me into, I never excelled at sports. Mom blamed my lack of a father figure. The sperm donor, as she referred to my unknown father, had bolted at the news of her pregnancy, leaving behind yet another unwed, teenage mother to bring shame upon her family. She'd recount the events whenever I asked, a vague recollection of a handsome boy who appeared suddenly and left the same way. In the beginning I remember a misty sadness in her eyes, in time they dried completely, as if the pain had never existed. She always told me I was the only man she ever needed, and I guess I never questioned why she didn't date. Later, when I grew up and understood more, I guessed I was the reason why she didn't have many suitors. It was still an age where our situation brought down a certain amount of shame. Sure there were men who would have loved to take Mom to bed, but she kept them at arm's length, occasionally seeming to welcome their advances to further her career, but never letting them close the deal.

My smoking fascination was not limited to just watching others do it, I wanted to smoke as well. I played with Mom's cigarettes on occasion, holding them up to my mouth and pretending to suck in a lung full. She caught me once, when I was twelve, holding a lipstick stained butt from her ashtray up to my lips as my fingers tried to work the lighter.

"Danny! What are you doing?" she said in her motherly tone, though I wouldn't have called it yelling. She barely had to raise her voice and I was already sorry.

"I just wanted to try," I answered after whipping the cigarette out of my mouth and holding it behind my back. Her face softened and she held out her hands until I placed the pilfered items in her palms.

"You are still too young," she said softly. "Maybe when you are older you can try."

"When?" I asked quickly, my heart filling with hope.

"Sixteen," she said after a moment's thought, "but you have to promise me you won't ever sneak one until then." I readily agreed with her demand. Remember, this was back even before the Surgeon General issued any warnings about smoking, stores didn't even really question kids who bought cigarettes if their parents smoked. So her decision, while still a few years off, gave me something concrete to look forward to.

Between school, odd jobs to help make ends meet, and the hundred other things that mom found to keep me busy, I never found much time for girls. I knew they were out there, a vast other species full of wonder and mystery, and completely unapproachable. Perhaps if I'd had more of a male role model I would have learned to be a bit more self-assured and made more of an attempt to connect with the opposite sex. But as it was, I had Mom completely to myself, all of her affection, her soft words, all those curves and bumps to gaze upon without worry. I didn't have a father to compete with in any way and who could blame me if no girl my own age could tear my eyes away from her.

Most boys my age had at least kissed a girl by their sophomore year in high school, with a lot of tall tales about what else they got up to. A couple of my friends had cars and I listened intently to their stories of what went on at the drive-in. I remember taking mental notes of their 'secret' moves, like the yawning to cover the arm being slipped around a gal's shoulder. Sure, TV and movies make big fun of this, but only because it was the kind of idiotic thing we actually did!

I remember the days leading up to my sixteenth birthday vividly. From about a week out I was hanging around at every moment Mom lit up. The image of her painted fingers pulling out the cigarette, the soft whisper of paper sliding against paper all indelibly etched in my mind. The way her moistened lips parted, the sound of the lighter-top being flipped open with a ringing echo that faded slowly into thin air, all part of a ritual I'd observed since I could remember, but suddenly becoming larger than life. I'd stare as she moved the tip of the cigarette to the flame, the crackling sound of the tobacco catching fire, the acrid smell of the smoke mixed with the scent of lighter-fluid, all of it was burned into my sense memory. To this day, when I hear or smell someone lighting up, I'm right back there again.

I watched with unexplained excitement as she held the smoke in her mouth, the puffy white cloud resting in the oval of her painted lips, before she'd suck in air and then exhale a steady stream, like a dragon breathing steam. Her long eyelashes would bat in seemingly slow motion, the beauty of her flawless skin once again making every other woman in the world pale in comparison. When it was the day before my birthday I remember she winked at me, giving me an urgent need to leave the room quickly before she caught sight of my obvious arousal.

On my birthday we celebrated quietly, as we did all occasions. Though Mom was doing well at work, we were still not well off. Our small apartment was neat, but tiny and we didn't have a lot of room for extras. After a scrumptious meal, Mom produced two slices of tiramisu, a coffee flavored cake I never had before. She carried them from our dining table to the living room where she set them upon the coffee table and pulled out her pack of cigarettes from her purse.

"Are you ready?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye. If my excitement hadn't already told her the answer, the week of hanging on to every exhaled cloud of smoke surely had. "Take a bite of cake first."

I did as she asked and then accepted the cigarette she handed me. I remember it felt light in my fingers, fragile even. I had taken her condition of refraining from smoking so seriously I hadn't as much as touched one since that day. I turned it about in different directions, admiring the way it felt between my fingers, trying out the varying styles of holding one's smoke. Bringing it to my lips, holding it steady with my hand as Mom brought the lighter close, the flame wavering slightly from my heavy breathing.

Pulling on the cigarette, I was delighted by the bright redness at the tip, suddenly feeling myself to be much more mature instantly. I fancied myself James Dean, who my mother had seemed to be very fond of. Although I'd seen her smoke thousands of times, I couldn't get the hang of inhaling. I held the ephemeral ball of lightness in my mouth, could taste it on my tongue and teeth, but that was as far as I could get. I exhaled and noticed right away that my smoke looked much different than hers.

"It's okay baby," Mom said, noticing my concern. "It takes a little time to get it down. Here let me show you a trick." She took my cigarette from my hand, her soft fingers entwining with mine for a moment until she got a hold of it properly. The contact, while nothing unusual, sparked something in me that I had never felt quite as strongly.

"I want you to breathe in through your mouth," she said, laughing when I opened my mouth and sucked in a lungful of air right away. "Silly goose, let me finish," she laughed, which sounded different than any laugh I had ever heard her use. The soft lilting sound, almost a sigh, combined with the way she cocked her head, exposing her soft, supple neck all had me thinking the room was spinning.

"I'm going to inhale and then place my mouth close to yours, when I push the smoke out you take a breath in, okay?"

I nodded, though I was still confused as to what we were doing. She scooted closer to me, my eyes darting down to try and sneak a peek down her blouse that was suddenly almost directly beneath my nose. Mom took a drag off the cig, the sound of burning tobacco loud in my ears as the heat of the cherry warmed my cheek, and then she was sucking in air through pursed lips. I waited and then she opened her mouth and I quickly followed suit, leaning in close so that there was less than an inch between us. I felt the hot smoke on my lips as she exhaled, though I completely forgot to breathe in, I was so caught up in almost kissing her.

"Once more, mister. Remember to breathe in, okay?" she laughed again, that same sound that somehow sent signals all through my body.

Another pull on the cigarette, her mouth open as though she was ready to kiss her lover, the red painted lips looming large in my mind, every crease and crack suddenly delectable to me, and then I felt the warmth again. I surged forward and inhaled deeply. My lips were pressed lightly against hers, I could feel her lipstick coming off and coating mine and then there was the sweet burn I'll never forget. The smoke entered my throat, blunted from having been through my mother's lungs already, I can still recall the euphoric feeling washing over my mind.

She finished exhaling, though our lips were still touching and I knew I never wanted to move again. My heart was pounding so hard, I feared she could hear it, was afraid it might burst from my chest. I held still, exhaling the smoke back across her lips, my hot breath on her face. I didn't know it then, but something changed in Mom that night. She offered to do the whole thing again, pulling on the cigarette and then blowing the smoke into my mouth, our lips always on the verge of a kiss, but never quite enough pressure to make it so. A dozen or more times I stared into her clear blue eyes, peering into her soul as she filtered the smoke for me, breathing in and out for both of us.

"Are you ready to try one on your own?" she asked, but I declined. Somehow the thought of smoking the normal way was abhorrent to me, I only wanted to smoke the way she had taught me. She gave me a curious look, cocking her head once again. When did her neck begin to look so good? I wondered.

"Maybe tomorrow night," I croaked.

Mom stared at me a long time, pulling out another cigarette, this time exhaling the smoke directly into my face as we sat close together on the couch eating bites of the cake. I closed my eyes with each breeze of cloudy sweetness, enjoying this new found intimacy with my mother. She would give me long looks between drags, appraising me carefully, her eyes scanning up and down my body when she thought my attention was turned. I had done so much surreptitious admiring of her over the years; her amateurish attempt was almost amusing. It suddenly made me feel very good though, in a way I'd never experienced.

The days between my sixteenth and eighteenth birthdays were filled with subtle changes. Nothing anyone would point to in the moment and say 'This is inappropriate' but looking back on the whole of the following two years, there was a definite shift that would make anyone ask some serious questions.

Mom's nightly after dinner smoke turned into 'smoke kisses', as I came to call it, where we would repeat our special method of smoking. The first night after my birthday she was hesitant to do it again, that pained, wistful look coming over her eyes. My gentle pleading won her over though and soon I was once again a hair's breadth from kissing her open mouthed. I took to wearing either very loose shorts, or conveniently piling a blanket over our laps to hide my growing arousal.

Our closeness was becoming comfortable, familiar, more so than ever before. It had always been us against the world, as Mom was fond of saying, but now it seemed we shared a secret that we kept hidden from that cold, cruel place outside our door. As much as I looked forward to our nightly ritual, cursing those rare occasions where we were prevented, I think Mom coveted those moments as much as I, if not more. Her hand would lie gently on my shoulder, holding me steady or keeping herself from leaning that last fraction of an inch, I'll never know, but I loved the feel of her touch on my body. I came to crave it as much as the smoke, my body burning up wherever she laid her fingers on me.

She was not alone in the furtive touching. My hands frequently held on to her slender waist, resting on the flare of her hip, sending the undeniable signals to my brain, triggering all of the expected responses from a horny teenaged boy in close contact with a woman who was less than his age when she bore him. Her sweet perfume filled my nostrils until the smoking started, and then it was all I could do not to kiss the exposed flesh of her neck. Still a neophyte in the ways of love and seduction, I did not understand the spell that had been woven around me, though I don't believe that it was intentional on my mother's part.

The changes were not confined to the living room. After our 'smoke kisses' Mom would retire and take a hot shower. She would emerge wrapped in a towel around her hair, another about her body, tucked snugly just under her arms. Her vibrant, steaming flesh, seemed to call out to me as she crossed my line of sight, grabbing some forgotten item from her purse in the kitchen. My eyes would follow her form, never varying as I studied the shapely form of her exposed legs and the roundness of her firm bosom beneath the terry cloth.

Other times she would paint her finger and toe nails, blobs of cotton tucked between them as she waited for them to dry. All the while I would be sneaking glances at her, as terribly un-sneaky as she was, I'm certain now, though back then I thought I had her fooled.

It was near Christmas when I was seventeen, when one of the most important moments occurred between us. She was in the bathroom, the mirror steamed over from her recent shower, the scent of her soap strong in the air as she used some dark pencil to apply a thin line under her eye.

"Danny!" she called to me, breaking me from the spell of my homework. "Come light me a smoke."

Mom was the last person to still call me Danny. From anyone else the childish name grated on my nerves, but I never tired of hearing it come from her lips. By this time I smoked normally, though I never turned down the opportunity for our 'smoke kisses'.

I happily complied, though I trudged along like it was torture. She shot me an annoyed look, knowing full well that my act was exactly that. I pulled the cigarette from her case, flicking the lighter and pulling hard on the filter. The cherry burned brightly, and still I continued to pull on it, the ash growing long in a few short seconds.

"You shit!" she cried, swatting my arm playfully. It was the first time I'd heard her curse and my eyes opened wide in amazement. She reached for the cigarette when I removed it from my lips, but I pulled it away from her, instead offering my mouth with tendrils of smoke drifting out lazily. Her face softened, that mischievous look I'd seen on occasion replacing her ire.

Mom came closer, her mouth opened as if she we were going in for a kiss, her eyes closed lightly and then I was feeding her the smoke the way she had done for me so many times before. I could hear her draw it in, the sucking of air through her lips so close to mine.

"Oh Robbie," she whispered at last and my eyes flew open. Mom was lost in some dreamland and somebody named Robbie was there with her. I pulled away, a pain in my chest I had never felt before and a sudden urge to run and hide.

I dropped the cigarette into the sink, the running water quickly putting it out in a hiss. Mom looked up, her spell broken as I was walking away.

"Danny? What's wrong? Where are you going?" she called after me, but I refused to answer. I shut myself in my room and, for the first time in years, I cried.

Mom pounded on my door, imploring me to let her in, but I just sobbed through her cries. Finally she let me be, realizing that I'd come out sooner or later, I guessed. A couple hours later I got up from my bed and went to open the door, Mom fell back, her head landing on my feet instead of the worn carpet.