a Fantasy Come True
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Once a fetish has been imprinted on—some might say infected—your brain, its grip is unrelenting. You will have as much success willing it away as willing your eye color to change. And if an opportunity, no matter from where, presents itself to exercise your fetish, then it will be irresistible.
For a long time I’ve had intense fantasies about women who smoke with holders. Still, I was startled—or maybe shocked is a better word when reality confronts a fantasy—when, the summer before I entered my final year of college, my mother began to smoke with a holder. Maybe it was because her divorce had been finally settled and she wanted to try something new and maybe it was because she wanted to try to escape post-menstrual depression. I was to find out later. She was now living alone in the house where I grew up—I was an only child—but I knew from when I’d call her from school that she occasionally dated.
Except when she was stressed, mother smoked only occasionally, perhaps after a meal or at a party. I once asked her why she smoked,
“I smoke only for pleasure, a little bit like eating a chocolate-covered cherry now and then.”
And then, smiling, she added, “and because of the erotic effect it has on some men. Of course, other men think it’s a nasty habit.”
“Put me squarely in the former camp,” I almost said out loud.
Mother was small, about five-foot two, and probably weighted hardly more than 100 pounds. She had a light olive skin, dark hair, small breasts, and, apparently about the same time she started to smoke with a holder, had her hair done in a blunt cut. At 47, she was still a very attractive woman.
Although I loved both my parents, I could hardly say that about how they treated one another. As I grew older, their fights increased, typically occurring after a party when Dad would begin by accusing mom of flirting and she would reply that she did so because he always ignored her. And there were money issues. Poor mother never learned—or, more likely, never wanted– to balance a checkbook and Dad would accuse Mom of spending extravagantly. I was pretty sure however that he had a very good salary as an insurance executive and he never seemed to think twice about the dues to his exclusive country club or the “business” trips he and his buddies would take on short notice.
Once I was back in school that fall, my fantasies began to involve my mother more and more. At first I tried to suppress these thoughts with their hint of incest, but they were so insistent and arousing that I soon just let them go wherever my imagination took them.
The plan over my Christmas vacation was to spend the first few days with my father, stay with mother from the 23rd until New Year’s day, and then go back to my father’s for the rest of my vacation. (Ah, those long school vacations. What luxury!)
By the time I finally stepped into my old home on the morning of December 23, I was obsessed with thoughts of my mother and her provocative smoking.
The first day with mother was devoted largely to last minute shopping (we’re both procrastinators). We picked out a not-too-tall Christmas tree and I bought a 12-pound turkey, cranberry sauce, potatoes, and string beans to cook on Christmas Day. (Although not great, I’m a better cook than Mom.) After that, we split up to look for presents for one another. I got mother, who liked to splurge on presents for me, to promise me that she’d buy only two and I said I’d do likewise. Actually, earlier, I had gone online to buy her a silver cigarette case for her unfiltered Pall Mall 100s. The second gift, I bought that afternoon: a bottle of the perfume “Obsession,” both appropriate gifts I thought given my fantasies.
Too tired to cook, we ate dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant. After two glasses of Chianti mother was frisky and kept probing me for details of my romantic life—meager as it was—at college. Finally she asked,
“I’m curious, Sweetie, just what kind of girls do you like?”
“Well, to be truthful, Mom, I prefer small women, just like you. I suppose that’s all very Freudian.”
“Ah, my darling Oedipus. His mother is his secret love.” I blushed. If she only knew!
As soon as we got home I set up the tree, leaving it to be decorated on Christmas Eve, a tradition at our house. Mother said she was tired and was going to bed early.
“Would you like a nice back rub to put you to sleep,” I asked, delighted when she answered, “That would be lovely.”
She told me where to find some massage oil and pleaded, “Please warm it up with your hands. I hate the shock of cold oil on my skin.”
I did as she asked, and gently began to rub and kneed her shoulders. She sighed, “Oh darling, that feels so good, so good.” But by the time I had worked down to the small of her back she was asleep. I covered her with a sheet and then her comforter, kissed the back of her neck, and went to my old room to sleep.
Mother slept in Christmas Eve morning, canlı bahis but finally came downstairs in her nightgown, cigarettes, lighter, and holder in hand, aroused by the smell of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon. I poured her a cup of coffee and announced that I was making scrambled eggs with a bit of cheddar cheese and chives. “Yummy,” mother murmured.
As she finished her eggs and toast, I was praying that she’d light up and I wasn’t disappointed. To a hard-core fetishist like myself, every gesture mother made with her cigarette, holder, and lighter was riveting: how she carefully inserted her unfiltered Pall Mall into her holder so as not to wrinkle the paper; how her fingers curled around the holder as she raised it to her lips, and how—what an unexpected touch—she handed me her lighter and said. “Can you give me a light?”
It took me two tries to produce a flame and as I moved as I moved it toward the tip of her cigarette, my hand began to tremble.
“You’re not nervous, Sweetheart, are you?” mother laughed. I’m sure you’ve lit a woman’s cigarette before.”
“Actually, Mom,” I answered, “not many of the girls I know smoke.”
“Well, I obviously do and I love it when a man lights my cigarette.”
The next few minutes watching mother smoke languorously with her holder were an unmitigated erotic experience. After each deep drag, mother would hold the smoke in her mouth and then open her lips slightly before exhaling a thick white stream. I especially loved it when she would sometimes clench the holder between her teeth to free her hands to pour a bit more cream or sugar into her coffee after I had refilled her cup. Her holder was one I had seen on the web: a black and silver 5″ Lady Denicotea with a built-in filter, elegant and practical.
I was hoping that mother might light up a second time, but no such luck. Instead, she said,
“Let me get dressed and then we can decorate the tree. You can build a fire and put on some Christmassy songs. You’ll find a couple of albums by the CD player.”
I did as I was told, mother finally came down stairs, and we began to decorate the tree. Although the tree was hardly taller than mother, she was a perfectionist when it came to decorating and scrutinized the placement of each icicle and each light. When we finally finished, I suggested that I make sandwiches and we go for a long hike in a wooded park about a mile away.
“But Sweetie, it’s cold outside,” she protested.
“Don’t worry Mom, I’ll make a thermos of hot coffee and I’ll hold you close as we walk.”
Actually, it wasn’t that bad outside, but by the time we got to the edge of the park we were ready to sit down and eat lunch. During our walk and over lunch mother did most of the talking. She told me about her crazy mother and father, her wild escapades in high school and college, how she met my dad, why they fought and why the finally got a divorce. She also told me how lonely she sometimes got now that she lived alone and how much she loved having me around to help her and to fix things that were broken or didn’t seem to work properly.
“And just think, Baby, just one more semester of college and you’ll be out in the real world. I so hope you can get a job near here so I can see you more often. I can’t tell you how much that would mean. I think you must be the only person in the world who really loves me.”
Because it was getting colder, we decided to bag the walk in the woods and head back home. Once we got there and I had revived the fire to warm us up, I told mother that I had a few errands to run and that I wouldn’t be gone for long. I knew where there was a high-end food market with a good selection of wines. I picked out four bottles of a 2000 red Bordeaux, a chèvre for an appetizer, and a good bottle of domestic Champagne to drink while we opened our presents in front of the fire.
Mother’s dinner was not so great: the steaks were over done, the baked potatoes under done, and the broccoli soggy. Mother was simply not into cooking, as I well knew from experience. But she tried and that made me love her all the more. Fortunately, the Bordeaux smoothed over everything, so by the time we had finished the bottle and were on to desert—it’s hard to ruin vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce—we were feeling pretty good, but not drunk by a long shot.
“Look Mom, let me quick put the dishes in the dish washer while you get the pillows off my bed and yours. After I stoke up the fire we can put the pillows in front of the fire along with some of the cushions off the couch.”
When mother came down with the pillows under her arms, she had changed to her silk pajamas. She looked stunning and I told her so. As I put a couple of big logs on the fire and prodded them with a poker so that the embers came to life, mother went back to her room to get an ashtray and her cigarettes, holder, and lighter. I knew she adored Frank Sinatra so I put on a two-CD set called, “Music to bahis siteleri Make Love By.” After mother arranged the pillows and cushions to her liking she carefully inserted a Pall Mall into her holder and, with out asking, simple passed her lighter to me. I think my hand must have been trembling as much as before because she reached out with her free hand to steady it as she dipped her cigarette to the flame.
“I love to watch you smoke with your holder, Mom. You’re such an elegant smoker.”
“Oh, I know because I saw the way you looked at me while I was having a cigarette after breakfast. But, I have to confess; I’m not surprised because when I was cleaning out your old room a few months ago I found a wooden box with a flimsy lock that I easily picked. You know, of course, what I found.”
I blushed, “Yes I do. Those were pictures of beautiful models smoking with holders that I cut out over the years from those old Vogue and New Yorker magazines from the 50s and 60s that Aunt Helen had left in the attic. I never thought that you or anybody else would ever find them.”
“Here I thought I’d find Playboy centerfolds, but instead I found ads featuring sophisticated models, all smoking with holders. You, my darling, have a serious fetish, but it’s a fetish that shows excellent taste. I think it’s endearing and I’m so happy that I can make your fantasy come to life.”
“Well, believe me, Mom, I’ll stack you up against any of these models any day. I mean it: When you smoke with your holder you are irresistible. And as long as you now know a little bit about some of my fantasies, I must confess that another one I have is that you let me taste what you taste when you smoke.”
With that, mother turned the tip of the holder toward me so that I could have a drag.
“No Mom, I don’t want to taste the smoke second hand. I want you to blow it straight into my mouth so I can taste exactly what the smoke tastes like when it comes from your lungs.”
Mother smiled, took an extra deep drag, and blew a jet of creamy white smoke into my expectant mouth.
“God, that was wonderful, Mom. Please do it again.” I was quite hard by now and I think mother noticed the bulge in my pants although she said nothing.
“Why don’t you open the bottle of champagne, Sweetie, while I go get some glasses.
Mother heard the load “pop” as she was returning from the kitchen. “Ouuu, I just love that sound, don’t you. It fits this occasion so well. Lounging before a roaring fire with my handsome son, listening to Frank Sinatra, opening presents, talking about our deepest desires, and showing how much we love and appreciate one another. What more could I ask for?”
“OK, Mom, even or odd? Even I open my presents first, odd you open yours.”
“Odd,” Mom said. “Sorry, Mom, it’s even, I get to go first.”
Mother’s two presents were simple, tasteful, and much needed: fur-lined gloves and a wool scarf.
“Thanks you so much, Mom, I really can use these.” I leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. “Now it’s your turn.”
Mother was nothing if not expressive. “Oh, I love this cigarette case. You’ve such good taste. You certainly didn’t get it from your father. I’m going to put my Pall Malls in it right now.”
As soon as mother had opened my second present far enough to see that it was “Obsession” she clamped it to her chest. “You are psychic my son. This is absolutely my all time, favorite perfume. I’m going to put some of it on right now so you can smell what a wonderful gift this is.”
Mother dabbed a bit behind her ears, and then on the back of her neck. “Come smell, Sweetie.” And I did, giving her a little kiss at each place.
“Mom, I’ve always been curious. Exactly on what part of her body does a woman put perfume?”
“Well, my naïve son, it depends on what she plans to do. If it’s an ordinary date, she puts her perfume just where I just did. If it’s a very serious date, she also puts it in other places.”
“Like where, Mom?”
“Why don’t you try to guess, Sweetie.”
“Well, I suppose she puts it everywhere she’d like to be kissed.”
“That’s right, and where do you suppose that would be?” mother said with a taunting smile.
“OK, I guess on her nipples, on her belly, and on the inside of her thighs.”
“And anywhere else?”
“And I guess if she and her date were really involved, she’d put a dab of perfume on her vagina.”
“You mean, on her pussy, don’t you? Your mother wasn’t born yesterday: Pussy, bush, beaver, snatch, cunt. I’ve heard them all. And for a man it’s his dick, cock, rod, baton, prick, and so on. For me, I love the soft fuzzy sound of “pussy.” Besides, you know what a real pussy does if it’s stroked. And “cock” makes me think of a strutting roster. Believe me, it doesn’t offend me if you use either of those terms. The others I really don’t care for.”
“Mom, since we’ve broken the ice about sex, I’ve got to ask you. Did Dad ever kiss your pussy?”
“He bahis şirketleri didn’t like to, Sweet Pea, and he thought my breasts were too small.”
“That’s a shame, Mom, because I think your breasts are perfect. I guess that my tastes in women are a little unusual with my holder fetish and all, but women with balloon breasts just don’t appeal to me.”
“So now you must tell me, son, did you ever kiss one of your girlfriend’s pussy?”
“No I never did, but I fantasized about it a lot because I guess to me a women’s pussy is the essence of her womanhood. It’d like a mystical cave you’ve got enter if you want to worship the goddess who it belongs to. I know what I’m saying may sound a bit over the top, but that’s how I feel.”
“Tell me, my Baby, have you ever fantasized about kissing my breasts or pussy?”
“Yes I have, all the time. You discovered my long-standing holder fetish when you found my stash of pictures. Well, after I first saw you smoking with a holder last summer, you started to appear in my fantasies. I suppose because of the strong incest taboo I tried to resist these intrusions so that at first all I would try to think only of lighting your cigarettes. But I couldn’t keep the floodgates closed for long. I began to fantasize about kissing every part of your body while you lounged on your bed, languorously smoking with your holder.”
As I finished my latest confession, mother took a deep drag on her cigarette, brought my mouth close to hers, and filled it with smoke.
“I would love for you to fulfill your fantasy.”
With those electric words, I almost creamed on the spot. Opening the jacket of her pajama top, I began to gently nibble on her beautifully erect nipples and then to suck and kiss them. Mother had laid out a path for my mouth from her breasts, to her tummy, and–once I slid down her silken pants–to her inner thighs and, finally, to those irresistible second set of lips. Anyone who has had the thrill of tasting pussy knows that that there is no other taste like it. It is primitive, elemental, intoxicating. I couldn’t get enough of that sacred cave that I began to savor in every way I could with my tongue. This was total ecstasy. Time had stopped.
At last I was aware of mother’s fingers in my hair, gently lifting my face toward hers.
“Oh, Sweetheart, I am in seventh heaven. The fire, Sinatra’s voice, drinking champagne, and smoking while you ravish my pussy. You are the lover I’ve always dreamed of.”
My engorged cock was between mother’s legs, ready to enter her, when she whispered, “Please, Sweetie, no penetration. I want to save that for later. Right now I just want to savor the way you’re making love to me. I know this may sound silly, but I feel like you’ve taken me to a famous restaurant, renown for its appetizers. The problem is that they are so yummy I want to have two of them and then skip to the dessert. The main course is for another night. But instead of “appetizer” I think the French word “entrée” works better. My pussy is an entrée to my body and your tongue is making also making its entrée. The wonderful thing about this entrée is that we both can enjoy it at the same time. Now, with all this talk, I ready for the second entrée, are you my love?”
Once is never enough and I approached mother wet pussy with renewed awe, reverence, and lust. It was pure joy to hear her low moans the way she would suddenly catch her breath.
When mother raised my head a second time and I straddled her hips she could see that my foreskin was so pulled back by my engorged cock that it was hard to tell that I was not circumcised
“God, I love this restaurant’s menu,” mother laughed, “and it’s the only one I know of where they encourage you to smoke at the same time you’re enjoying the meal. I don’t know about you, my darling, but I’m ready for dessert. I want to try the specialty of the house where the chef peels a banana, reams out a hole along its center, and fills it with a heavenly cream. I can’t wait to try it. It’s especially delicious if eaten with a lot of smoke I’m told.”
Mother asked me to change places with her, inserted another cigarette in her holder, and had me give her a light. She then began to devour her dessert. I’d never had a blowjob before, much less a smoky one from my mother!
“Oh Mom, you are unbelievable,” I cried out.
While she moved her mouth and tongue back and forth over the enflamed head of my cock, she stroked the shaft with her holder.
“I want to light your roman candle my baby.”
“Oh Mom,” I cried when I could stand it no longer, “You’re bringing me off. I’m going to cum into your mouth.”
“Cum to mommy, my love, cum, cum. I want to suck out every last drop of your wonderful cream.”
And I indeed exploded like a roman candle, again and again, as deep as I dare go without choking my mother.
Finally, we collapsed, totally spent. I pulled mother up until her breasts were against my chest. I caressed her hair and whispered in her ear she had given me a priceless Christmas present. I told her how much I loved her and worshipped her and how much I wanted to take care of her and protect her.
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