The Game of Smoke and Desire

My journey traverses backward in time, spanning over five years ago. Those were the days when I was a fresh graduate from college, and yet, jobs seemed to elude me as much as the shadow does from the sun. The monotonous daily routine wrapped me in its heavy cloak, where I found profound boredom and difficulty.

One day, I directed my heavy steps toward the nearby tobacco vendor. I purchased from him only two cigars, as if they were the breath that could illuminate the darkness I lived in. I mustered courage and directed myself to the roof of our house, where I would secretly indulge, there on the roof, the moments of clandestine smoking took on a sense of sanctity.

My father was a strict man, adhering to his principles, he listed smoking under the prohibitions within the boundaries of our home. Not just that, but he detested the thought of his son, whom he always saw as an embodiment of his dreams, becoming a passenger of cigarettes.

In that moment, as I was immersed in the sea of smoke ignited by the first cigar, my sister Salma appeared unexpectedly like a sudden shadow. She saw me and I suspect she sniffed the scent of the smoke that permeated the air. As quick as lightning, I hid the cigar behind my back, painting a hollow smile on my face, puzzled by her sudden presence on the rooftop.

My sister Salma, four years my junior. She shares a brotherly relationship with me like any siblings in the world, fluctuating between love and conflict, laughter and arguments. That day, she was donned in her long nightgown, which flowed over her slender frame like white silk, adorned with drawings of turquoise flowers dancing against the white fabric backdrop, giving her an innocent appearance yet reflecting a simple elegance.

Salma looked at me with eyes ablaze with suspicion, and asked the anticipated question: "Have you been smoking?!" My response was swift, sharp as an arrow: "No". But she countered firmly: "No, you were smoking, the scent of the smoke is clear."

I continued to deny it, but she insisted, certain that I had engaged in that minor transgression. Then she asked for something unexpected, she wanted to smell my breath, and then I knew she would undoubtedly sense the smell of smoke. Terror swept over me, fearful that she would uncover my secret and relay it to our father.

I gathered my courage and confessed: "Honestly, yes, I was smoking. I was feeling down and thought of trying smoking, and this is my first time." Salma responded with understanding: "Okay, if it was just an experiment, try not to get used to this and become an addict." I promised her that I would not get addicted to smoking, but she surprised me with an unexpected reaction. She declared: "I also want to try it with you!"

She released those words simply, as if she was asking to share a cup of tea, and without any hesitation, she settled next to me, casting herself on the cool rooftop tiles, expressing her solid presence in this difficult situation.

I told her innocently, trying to warn her: "First, your clothes will get dirty from the ground and you'll be scolded by our mother, and secondly, luckily for you, I have a second cigarette."

As I was attempting to light the second cigarette for her, Salma had lifted her long dress so it wouldn't touch the ground, revealing up to her waist. Through this simple movement, her smooth legs and her white underwear became visible.

I gave her a brotherly piece of advice, saying: "Salma, there's a saying: 'She wanted to darken her eyes with kohl but ended up blinding them'". Salma didn't understand the hint, so I clarified with a laugh: "We were worried about your white dress getting dirty from the tiles, but even your white underwear can get soiled quickly from the dust."

Salma's face turned red with anger, but she responded indifferently: "Give me my cigarette and don't worry about my clothes, or else I'll take off my pants."

Salma took hold of her cigarette, drawing her first breath from it with an ease that spoke of familiarity. The puffs followed one after another with an air of professionalism. I remarked, rather astounded, "You little rascal, it's clear this isn't your first time."

Salma admitted candidly, "Indeed, it's not my first time. Sometimes I smoke with some of my girlfriends."

I was utterly taken aback, imagining myself to be the sole transgressor in this household! We conversed on various topics until her cigarette was no more, deciding then to head home before our absence became conspicuous.

As Salma rose to her feet, a patch of dust clung to her white panties. I playfully swatted it away, telling her, "I told you the dust would cling, but don't worry, my hand has taken care of it."

Salma laughed, and I was filled with a delightful sensation. Today, I felt, my sister had become more a friend than a kin. A part of me wished to lay my hand on her panties again - her bottom was soft.

I pulled a pack of gum from my pocket and handed her a piece, "So that the smell doesn't linger in our mouths, Salma."

Salma responded, "But the smell might have clung to our clothes."

I moved closer to Salma to ascertain whether the scent of smoke had clung to her clothes. Instead, I was enveloped in her sweet perfume intermingled with the natural scent of her body. It was a sensation unfamiliar to me, yet it intoxicated me, stirring a desire to linger in its embrace.

Salma noticed my deep and prolonged inhales, prompting her to ask, "What's wrong?"

I told her, "I'm just making sure there's no smell of smoke on you. I do detect a faint whiff, but it's subtle."

In turn, she leaned in to sniff me, starting with my face. Her hair brushed against me, its fragrance wrapping around me, intensifying my arousal.

Suddenly, a voice calling for us from inside the house broke through our intimate bubble.

We sneaked back into the house from the rooftop, careful and swift, ensuring no one discovered our secret hideaway. Our paths then diverged, as I silently made my way to the bathroom.

There, I washed my face with cold water, attempting to cleanse any trace of the intrusive smoke from my skin. The droplets streamed down my cheeks, carrying with them the thrill and secrets we shared on the rooftop.

Afterwards, I headed to my room and sprayed a mist of perfume onto my clothes. A feeling of exhilaration overcame me, a desire to savor the moment despite the fear of being discovered. I knew the perfume wouldn't completely mask the smell of smoke, but it would be enough to reduce suspicion.

As for Salma, she had directly retreated to her room. I didn't know what transpired within, but I imagined she might have been following the same routine that I had. Those moments were filled with a sense of familiarity and discovery, as we were both part of a shared secret.

-

On the following day, as I was engrossed in a book offering advice on job interviews, Salma approached me. Her question, direct and candid, cut through the silence like a knife: "Do you have any cigarettes?"

Before responding, I took a moment to observe her. Her features were as precise and flawless as a marble statue. Soft, blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her blue eyes sparkled with an enchanting allure. A coy smile graced her lips, its mere presence capable of kindling joy in hearts. She wore a simple white shirt, its buttons straining against her prominent chest, and a pair of short and tight pants that accentuated the slender contours of her long body. She was the embodiment of life and vitality.

With a calm demeanor and lingering gaze, I replied, "No, I didn't buy anything today."

"Alright," Salma said, "I have one cigarette. Let's go up to the rooftop and share it."

Upon agreeing, she told me she would keep an eye on the stairway leading to the rooftop to ensure we weren't seen. I waited for her signal.

As we ascended the stairs, she was ahead of me, drawing my gaze. I was captivated by her retreating figure, recalling the scene from yesterday when I had playfully swatted the dust off her pants. She was a body enchantress, and it was as if I was just now recognizing her as a woman. Her perfume, the scent of her skin, her curves, her tight shirt and pants - they all seemed to weave a poetic ode to her beauty.

Upon reaching the pinnacle of the building, I stood behind her, her hands occupying my view. As she fiddled with the buttons of her shirt, my heart was intoxicated with anticipation, and I was enveloped by immense curiosity. "Is Salma really this bold? Will she just simply reveal a part of her sensual secret to me?"

Salma interrupted my musings. When she turned around, only two of her shirt's buttons were undone. However, her hand emerged, presenting a cigarette. I didn't anticipate that she had been hiding it amidst the fabrics encircling her body.

I chuckled and said, "Hand over the cigarette, I'll light it for you." My eyes were targeted towards the small opening that revealed a bit of her chest, and my imaginations were sketching the rest of it.

I took the cigarette, sniffed it first, then showered it with comments: "You mischief-maker, why would you choose such a hiding place? Do you know that your body's scent has clung to the cigarette?"

Salma laughed and said, "Did that really happen?"

I answered her in a deeper voice, "Yes, this cigarette now has a special flavor, the flavor of Salma, let's try it."

I gently placed the cigarette between my lips, and ignited it. The taste was distinct and tantalizing, and I began to exhale the smoke over Salma's face, her hair, and her chest, as she protested, "Enough, give me the cigarette, it's my turn!"

I told Salma, "This cigarette is tastier than yesterday's."

She asked me, "Why?"

I replied, "Perhaps because it's infused with the essence of your body."

"You're incorrigible," she laughed, snatching the cigarette from my mouth.

As Salma lost herself in the tendrils of smoke spiraling from her lips, I was lost in the sight of the distinct line separating her breasts. Salma had a knack for releasing the smoke in perfect rings, adding a touch of artistry to her exhales. Occasionally, she would blow the smoke close to my face with a playful laugh, her face radiating joy and exhilaration.

I requested her to exhale the smoke into my mouth so we could savor the remnants of the cigarette together. As I opened my mouth inviting her, she leaned in, her lips inches from mine. Our chests brushed against each other as we both inhaled the same cigarette smoke. A palpable energy enveloped us, the boundaries blurring, our senses intertwined with the shared experience. The lingering taste of the smoke, now fused with our collective essence, painted a vivid tableau of our intimate encounter.

I confessed to Salma that the taste of the smoke was now, indisputably, the sweetest. In a voice that was a mere whisper, she agreed, "Yes."

We remained standing, our faces pressed against each other, her chest brushing against mine with each puff of smoke. My arousal betrayed my emotions in that moment. It was evident, almost tearing through the confines of my shorts. She must have undoubtedly felt it pressing against her with each proximity. In that moment, I yearned to fuse with her, to claim her in the most primal way. Yet, I concealed this desire, even though I perceived the same longing mirrored in her.

The shared cigarette had become a conduit of our unspoken desires, the tendrils of smoke dancing around us, almost tangible in their portrayal of our escalating passions. The scent of the smoke, laced with her essence, was intoxicating--a sensory testament to our simmering tension. The proximity of our bodies, the brush of her chest against mine, the shared breaths--all painted a vivid tableau of this intimate dance we were lost in, a dance delicately balanced on the precipice of desire and restraint.

We were in a private dance, dominated by the cigar, smoke, and longing. My mouth was cradling the cigar, and hers was receiving the smoke that I released. Lips exchanged their touches between each inhale and exhale, each time the pleasure was amplified.

With the last puff from the cigar, I allowed the smoke the freedom to roam her skin, from her neck down to her chest. Salma cautioned with insistence, "This will expose us, the scent will cling to me."

I answered her with a reassuring smile, "The scent of smoke cannot overpower your fragrance that resembles fresh flowers, Salma."

She asked me in surprise, "How did you know I wore perfume?" I moved closer to her, placed my face on her neck and inhaled deeply. Salma stood still, while I moved closer, my breath brushing against her soft, delicate skin.

She turned her neck towards me, allowing me to experience every side of her. I breathed in her aromatic scent until my lips touched her enchanting skin, and placed a first kiss, light but filled with passion. Salma moaned with desire, then playfully hit my cheek and said with a light laugh, "You're mischievous, what are you doing?!"

I answered in a calm and playful tone, "Salma, the fragrance of your neck was too enticing, I couldn't resist the urge to taste it." Salma laughed and responded, "That's inappropriate."

"Salma, what truly defines propriety?" I voiced this, my gaze lingering on the exquisite sight of her beautifully prominent, ivory chest. Salma noticed the direction of my eyes, attempting to shield the visible gap in her shirt at her chest with her hands. I spoke to her, "Dear Salma, it is incumbent upon me to inhale the scent of your chest to ensure no trace of smoke lingers."

She countered, "No, there is no scent."

Yet, I insisted firmly, "We must be certain." I saw a glint of desire in her eyes. She knew what would follow, understood that beyond this step, there could be no retreat, and I was not one to let the opportunity slip through my fingers. As I gently moved her hands away from the opening of her shirt, I told her, "You are the most beautiful nymph ever created by God."

-

"Does the story deserve a second part? Or is it better to leave the details to your imagination, dear reader?"