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Re: Story: ALL IN THE FAMILY- Part 4
 Author: slimv July 25, 2001 at 20:07:35 
in reply to: Story: ALL IN THE FAMILY- Part 3 posted by slimv on July 25, 2001 at 20:06:47
    Part 4

Barbara placed the Virginia Slim between her lips and hallowed her cheeks. She pulled it away, lowering her jaw and exposing a thick white cloud of smoke that disappeared down her throat. Her huge implants expanded with her inhale and sank with her exhale. The look of peace in her eyes was unmistakable as smoke billowed from her parted lips and hung in the air above us.

She looked at me with those soft wonderful eyes and said,
“You must think I’m some awful cliché smoking in bed after
we’ve made love.”

The woman could read my mind. No, I told her. Not at all, I said. I told her that she really looked like she was enjoying it.
She smiled as she took another deep puff and dumped her ash. “I am”, she said. “I know this must sound awful, you being a non-smoker and every thing, but it really does feel good. I wish I could describe it to you but I can’t. It would be like trying to describe the way an orgasm feels to a virgin. You know when you feel it, but you can’t find the words to describe it.”
I nodded knowingly. “I know what you mean,” I said as I cracked my closet door and peeked out.
“You do?” she asked with raised eyebrows as she took another puff.
Her question exposed my vulnerability. My closet door was open. I could step out and take my chances or I could slam the door shut. My head raced with thoughts for my next words. I honestly don’t think I knew what I was going to say until I heard my self say it.

“I smoke too,” I said.

The closet door slammed shut and I was locked outside.

What did you say, asked Barbara?

The look on her face told me that she heard me the first time. She just didn’t believe she heard it and neither did I.

“I said I smoke too.”

Barbara clutched her chest and coughed. Her huge implants jiggled like Jello as her lungs erupted. Through it all, she never dropped an ash. I put a plastered hand on her shoulder, helpless to assist, but wanting to all the same. The magnitude of what I said was beginning to sink in. I couldn’t take it back. I felt a pit in my stomach. If I couldn’t go back in the closet, maybe I could hide under the sheets.

When did you start smoking, asked Barbara?

It was then that I noticed how stiff and erect my penis had become. My skin crawled with excitement. Shiver pangs spiked through my groin as I told her about starting at 15. My breathing became shallow and rapid. My lungs screamed for smoke.
Apparently she wasn’t satisfied with my answer because she asked how much I smoked. I wanted to tell her. I’d tell her any thing she wanted to hear, but I wanted the smoke from her cigarette right then. “Please Barbara,” I begged, holding my casts to her face. “I haven’t had a cigarette since the accident. I can’t even work a lighter.” I pleaded with her to give me a puff from her cigarette.
Perhaps she saw the pain in my eyes and reacted out of sympathy. Or perhaps she was still confused and didn’t know what she should do. Regardless of why she did it, Barbara held her cigarette to my lips and I sucked on that filter for all I was worth. The smoke felt hot and flavorful on my tongue, as I pulled away and inhaled. Colors of red and black slammed against my eyes as the rich thick smoke filtered through my lungs, firing off the neurons and endorphins in my brain before proceeding back up my throat. I took another puff before she could pull it away or say something. The second puff was as good as the first and left me wanting more.
Regret spilled over as I realized what I had said and more importantly what I had done. I had allowed emotion and excitement to get the better of me. My secret was no longer a secret. I studied Barbara’s face for signs of disgust but saw none. Where there should have been anger, I saw curiosity and amazement. She was still reeling from the sight of me smoking from her hand.

I thanked her.

She told me I was welcome and added that I looked like I had needed it. She wanted to know if Tammy knew I smoked.

I told her that Tammy never knew but that I wanted to tell
her but I was afraid she wouldn’t understand.

Barbara chortled and coughed as she put out her cigarette and lit another one. It was always like that. As soon as she put out one cigarette she would light another one, never allowing her lungs an opportunity to recover.
She told me I was wise to keep my smoking a secret from Tammy. She told me that Tammy hated smoking and probably would have divorced me if she had found out. “What about your mother,” she asked? “Does your mother know you smoke?”
I told Barbara about Lisa, the girl in 10th grade. I told her about the safe that looked like a book and about my mother finding the cigarettes. I told her about Short Fred and the way my mother made me to feel worthless.
She gasped as I told her about the horror stories regarding my mother and her fear of my smoking. I told her about the conditional love I experienced at her hand. I was surprised by her reaction but ate it up all the same. I had always known my mother was on the passionate side of her causes, but I didn’t think others would see her as such a nazi.
Barbara took another puff. Without my asking, she put the cigarette to my lips and allowed me to nurse as she passed judgment on my mother. She called my mother a zealot and criticized her for being too severe. According to Barbara, my mother’s heart was in the right place but her words and actions crossed the line.
What Barbara said next, or rather the way she said it gave me Goosebumps. Using a mother’s tone of voice normally reserved for babies and small children, she asked if I wanted another puff from her cigarette. I had never heard Barbara use baby talk before. For that matter, I can’t remember the last time someone used baby talk when they had something to say to me. I’m sure it was a subconscious slip, probably triggered by the act of hand feeding me smoke the way a mother gives a bottle to her baby. Regardless of the reason, I liked it.
She coughed as I sucked on the filter from her hand. How much do you smoke, she asked in her baby talk voice?
“Not much,” I said casually. “Usually one or two a day.”
“What do you mean? One or two what” she asked? “Packs or cigarettes?”
I could have kicked my self for being so careless, but it was too late to take it back. How could I be so stupid? Here I was, lying in bed naked with my mother in-law. We just had sex. She’s hand feeding me cigarettes and genuinely feeling sorry for me because she can’t imagine the personal horror of going two days without a cigarette and having to hide it from my parents and wife. She was imagining my pain on her level and in the time it takes to sneeze, I lowered the level from four packs a day to one or two cigarettes a day.

End of Part 4 		   
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