I didn’t know what to expect as I drove up the long cobblestone-lined driveway in outer suburbia to my job interview that mid-summer afternoon three years ago. But I did know that after two years of being a social studies teacher at a metro area high school, it was time for a change. I
still wanted to teach, but was desperately seeking a different format…a more personalised format where I could better appreciate the progress that I was making with my students. So when I happened upon the classified ad requesting a private full-time teacher for the three daughters of Mr. Arthur Prescott at an ambiguously listed “impressive salary”, I thought it was worth a try.
As for
I adjusted my tie and wiped the bead of sweat from my brow and I stopped the car in front of the Prescott mansion’s garage that sweltering August day.
I walked up the sidewalk to the office attached to the house and knocked on the front door. In seconds, a powerful-looking middle-aged gentleman opened the door, welcomed me, and graciously shook my hand. His attractive middle-aged wife offered a warm greeting of her own, offered me a beverage, and instructed me to relax as this was not going to be a particularly intense interview. That helped put my mind at ease a bit, as I did a quick once-over
of the office and was struck by all the smoking memorabilia decorating the office. It soon struck me that this was the Arthur Prescott who owned and operated Prescott Tobacco, a chain of tobacco stores that covered the tri-state area.
The tone of the interview was very laid-back and the couple seemed to be comfortable with me as I responded to their various questions. I was stunned as they laid out the sweetheart pay and benefits package they were planning to offer me should I get hired…more than double the annual salary I was currently receiving teaching 10 times as many students as I would be responsible for here. Everything sounded great, but I had a growing suspicion that this was too good to be true, and listened hard for potential deal-breakers as the couple spelled out my job duties. It all seemed
legit…but then it came time for me to ask any questions I may have had. Conveniently omitted from the couple’s sales pitch was any information about the girls I would actually be teaching, so I immediately chimed in with questions about them.
“So what can you tell me about your daughters and what specifically you are looking from for me when it comes to teaching them?”
I immediately sensed a “I knew he’d ask this” tension in both of them, but wife Bonnie only skipped a beat before describing the daughters.
“Well, our daughters names are Whitney, Ashley, and Kayla. Whitney is 15 and our oldest and she’ll be starting 10th grade next month. Ashley is 13
and will be going into seventh grade. And Kayla is 11 and will be in fifth grade.” A nervous smile splashed alarmingly on her face as she added, “they are great girls and I really think you’ll like them. They’re pretty good
students, although Kayla needs a little more attention than the other two.” She talked on with basic biographical information on the girls, but it still seemed as though there was something they were hiding.
“What has the girls’ educational background been? Could I possibly speak to any of their former teachers for specific history?” I inquired, instantly sensing the tension deepening.
“Mr. Hogan, our daughters exhibit a rather unusual pastime for girls their age, and it’s possible that it will create an obstacle for you. We’re hoping it doesn’t, but frankly, it’s the reason this position is open and why we’re willing to pay you so much. The truth is we’ve gone through a number of teachers over the years who haven’t been able to handle the girls’ eccentricities. We went through three just last year in fact.”
I felt my heart pounding upon realizing the dream gig may end up falling apart, but was nonetheless intrigued by this development. “What do your daughters do that’s so difficult for these other teachers to deal with?” I asked.
The parents looked at each other with the realization that it was time for them to face the music.
“We really like you and hope you’re willing to keep an open mind about
this arrangement, but I think all of your questions will be answered if we just take you in to meet the girls.”
I shrugged favorably and flashed a nervous smile, following them out of
the office and towards the house, not even having a clue about what the elusive mystery surrounding these young girls might be. The second the door opened, a pungent odor grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go. I didn’t immediately recognize it, but it was so extreme that it almost knocked me
flat on my ass. It took a few seconds before I realized it was the stench of stale tobacco, but far more intense than any smoky bar I’d ever walked into. As we walked through the entryway, the growing sound of feminine giggles lightened the mood slightly, offering a strange but welcome contrast to the over-the-top stench that was making me a little nauseous. But the smell grew worse with each step forward until we all turned the corner into the large living room, giving me my first glimpse at the girls I would spend the next
few years teaching.
There the three girls sat, watching cartoons on a lazy August afternoon.
They were the most adorable young girls you could ever expect to see, with a mane of long natural blonde hair flowing past their shoulders and down their backs, skimpy halter tops and even tinier denim shorts…..and all smoking cigars. A haze of thick smoke surrounded them and spread throughout the room as I stood there with my jaw hanging open, unable to generate a coherent response, but biting my tongue to avoid bursting into hysterical laughter as
I looked at these sweet looking pubescent girls puffing on cigars. And not
only were they smoking cigars, they were smoking these huge Churchillian cigars that looked to be about seven inches long and had a circumference larger than a quarter.
Yet the girls were as sweet as could be introducing themselves to me and bantering with their parents about how the interview had gone. The parents were looking at me inquisitively as the mother sarcastically responded to the girls by saying, “It’s his job if he thinks he can put up with you brats.”
Still staring at the girls, my shock not completely worn off, but my body responded in a different way, I felt my crotch stiffen as I took in a smoking sighting that was too fanciful to have even existed in this lifelong
fetisher’s dreams. As though my mind and body were operating as two distinct entities, I turned away from the cigar-chomping girls and towards the
parents, smiling as I proclaimed, “I think you have yourselves a new
teacher.”
Relieved smiles lit up the faces of the parents as I heard the girls
cheering in the background. I shook the hands of both parents and hoped like hell they wouldn’t see my fast-expanding crotch. They didn’t…..and it
became abundantly clear I was about to embark on an adventure that would test the limits of the intense smoking fetish I had been harboring for nearly all
of my 26 years of living.
It was two long weeks before I returned to the Prescott home for my
official orientation day. I was nervous about how I would respond to these three girls, who were too young for me to have any romantic interest in, but
I nonetheless anticipated having a hard time hiding my physical arousal at the surreal sighting of these cigar-smoking girls. I had only had that brief five-minute encounter with the girls, but it quickly became clear that I had
no idea the quantity of tobacco these girls consumed every day once I started. As the girls showed me around the house, cigars in tow with every step they took, all of my attention was focused on the multiple large
ashtrays in every single room, including the bathrooms. Most of the ashtrays exhibited a literal pyramid of disgusting cigar butts stacked several inches high. The rest of the house was synthetically spotless, but it was all
undone by the sight of these smelly ashtrays overflowing with cigar butts. And if one looked closely enough, huge burnholes could be spotted on the furniture, carpet, and linoleum. Simply unearthing the story behind these girls’ youthful servitude to cigars would by itself more than justify me
quitting my secure public teaching gig.
That would come in time though. As the process of educating these girls began, it became quickly evident that these girls’ nasty addictions would be almost too intense than even I was prepared to handle. The small family room that was designated as the “teaching room” for the girls would fill up with noxious cigar smoke mere minutes after the day began, far worse than the smokiest bar I had ever been inside. After only an hour, the smoke in the windowless room became so dense that I practically needed a foghorn light to see the girls. My eyes were on fire and became very watery. By noon, I wasn’t sure if I could handle this working environment.
Making matters worse, the girls were completely unsympathetic to my silent cries for mercy. As sweet as they otherwise were, they oozed an unspoken arrogance about their entitlement to smoke whenever and wherever they wanted.
Even as I coughed, wiped the water from eyes, and waved my hand to misdirect the sidestream smoke flowing into my face, the girls didn’t so much as offer condolences let alone relief from the endless assault of cigar smoke. They were the most obnoxious smokers I had ever met……but as appalled as I was when they didn’t even move the cigar that they were holding inches from my face as I leaned over them in agony, I was also turned on by their abrasive defense of their smoking habit.
I became physically ill that first week, a mix of recurrent nausea and a
vicious cold that would morph into bronchitis. I had not anticipated these physical consequences…..nor the complete lack of understanding the strong-willed girls would show even as I became fiercely ill. I certainly understood why so many other teachers had already been shuttled in and out of the Prescott family home, and didn’t know if I would be able to get through
it after those first 10 days. But the worst of it would quickly pass….and I would come to appreciate the opportunity as I embarked on the most erotically satisfying three years of my life.
By mid-to-late September of 2004, my body had adjusted to the never-ending chemical fog it was forced to endure in the unventilated one-room “schoolhouse”, and the girls’ insatiable cigar consumption had gone full
circle from intensely hot to wretchingly disgusting and back to intensely
hot. The novelty of it still hasn’t worn off for me three years later, but
learning and observing these girls quickly became my main reason for getting up in the morning back then.
As I became more comfortable with the girls, I inquired about their
smoking, including their habits’ origin, their daily consumption level, and
how much their habits cost the Prescott family. The girls were only too
willing to share these details with me, passionately declaring their love for cigar smoking and their unbending allegiance to a lifestyle of daily cigar consumption. Fifteen-year-old Whitney said that despite her nonsmoking parents (apparently mom used to smoke cigarettes as a teenager and dad partook in the occasional cigar), the tobacco business gave her access to cigars at a young age. At the ripe old age of seven, a customer left a cigar
in the ashtray on the counter and Whitney sneaked a puff. For whatever reason, she instantly took a liking to it and would request her dad light her
up on a regular basis. The parents originally thought it was adorable to see their seven-year-old daughter enjoying cigars, but had no idea what a monster they were creating. A year later, Whitney was smoking several cigars a day
and was getting herself in big trouble when her third-grade teacher was smelling smoke on Whitney and finding humidors full of cigars in her bookbag.
Whitney’s younger sisters obviously found the habit disgusting at first,
but Whitney took it upon herself, one by one, to get Ashley and Kayla
addicted to cigars at the same age Whitney did. Before the Prescott family knew it, they had three cigar-smoking daughters all under the age of 12 and were forced to home-school them. Since the girls had access to all kinds of cigars at the family shops, they tried dozens of varieties over the years,
and finally settled upon their favorites. All three girls alternated between Ashton Churchills, a large but lighter-colored and smoother-flavored cigar,
and Ashton Aged Maduros, which were equally large, but a dark cocoa-colored brown with rich and intense flavor. To me, they both stunk equally bad, but
the price tag certainly reflected the girls’ fine taste, as each cigar cost
in the neighborhood of $18 wholesale. Since their father bought in bulk, the girls were able to get a discount on theirs, but nonetheless claimed that
their collective cigar habits were costing the family more than $500 per day! Doing the math in my head, I then had the opening to ask how many cigars the girls sucked down per day. All three said they averaged 16-18 per day.
At first I thought they were putting me on. These cigars were huge!
There was no way anybody, let alone three little girls, could put away that many in a day. But then I started paying attention….watching them closely as they tended to the work that I assigned them. It was strangely adorable
to watch them in action, observing their various styles at close range. Whitney (the 15-year-old) was the most stylish smoke of the three, holding the large cigar in her petite hand the same way a style-conscious young female cigarette smoker would, drawing from it with a feminine allure and exhaling the smoke in perfect cones in front of her adorable young face. She was the Audrey Hepburn of cigar smokers, looking like the perfect lady every step of the way with her elegant long blonde hair, perfectly feminine figure and stylish casual attire.
Middle daughter Ashley was the sweetest girl of the three, but also the grossest smoker. If Whitney smoked a cigar like a perfectly lady, Ashley smoked like a drunken slob. Apparently possessing surplus salivary glands, the end of Ashley’s cigars were soaking wet every time she removed them from her mouth, and proceeded to lean forward and spit into the overflowing
ashtray every couple minutes. She loved to hear the cigars extinguish themselves in her spit and would randomly roll the wet cigar butts around in
the spit inside the ashtray. Occasionally, she would catch me looking at
her, and even though I found it inexplicably sexy, I would always stick up
nose and say “That’s disgusting!” which would only encourage her more, always producing a mischievous smile and a cloudier-than-usual exhale to accompany the smile on the cute-as-a-button 13-year-old blonde who was just starting to show the early signs of womanhood physically.
Youngest daughter Kayla was the most amusing of the three to watch. Here was this small girl, even tinier than the average fifth-grade girl, sitting
in her chair, intently focusing on the schoolwork in front of her, and
constantly clutching a giant cigar in her mouth, despite the fact that it
looked as though it barely even fit in the small aperture under her nose. I eyeballed her for as long as 20 minutes at a time, not once seeing her
extract the cigar from her mouth. She would simply take a puff or inhale
(all three girls seemed to alternate between casual puffs and actual inhales) and either let the smoke spill from her nose or separate her lips and let the exhaled smoke slowly escape her mouth. The cigar never moved….ever. She even let the ashes fall in front of her, at which point she would gather them with her hands and drop them into the ashtray. When she talked, it was often very hard to understand her because, again, the cigar never left her mouth as she spoke her mind. Every time I watched this elementary boy’s dream girl with a big, fat cigar tightly clutched between her jaws like one would expect
to see on a 60-year-old oil baron, I couldn’t imagine anything cuter in the world.
All three of the girls were chain-smokers and all three definitely looked
like sisters, but had unique personalities, unique smoking styles, and unique looks that helped me to distinguish between the three at all times. The common denominator among all three regarding smoking style was the fact that they would smoke the cigar down to its final inch-to-inch-and-a-half, then
pull out a brand new cigar from the always-handy humidor, light it up, and THEN extinguish the existing cigar in the ashtray. Most cigar smokers simply wait for the flame to burn out on their cigars, but the girls were constantly concerned about the potential for fires, so they always squashed the butts of their cigars in the ashtray, clearly unconcerned about the heightened stench
of cigar butts crushed out rather than allowed to simply flame out. I
always found myself having to clean the girls’ ashtrays, which were always teeming with pyramids of nasty-smelling cigar butts, as the girls put a very
low priority on doing it themselves. I frequently complained about having to clean the ashtrays, but secretly loved it. My only hope was that I was able
to hide from the girls my growing obsession with their seemingly impossible abundance of tobacco consumption.
Through additional observations, it seemed as though the girls averaged about 45 minutes per cigar, and since they didn’t even go 10 seconds between cigars, I did the calculations and determined their original claim of 16-18 cigars per day was likely true.
As a teacher, I was impressed with the girls as well, at least two of
them. I was never much of an authority in the subjects of math and science, and often found Whitney and Ashley grasping the material before I did. Whitney spoke and acted with the same intangible level of feminine grace with which she smoked her cigars. Ashley was a little more down to earth, but
also very smart and very likeable. But 11-year-old Kayla was the one who infrequently proved challenging. She had a mild learning disability, and
could become cantankerous when unable to get the jest of a certain project. I’ll never forget the time that first fall when I responded in frustration
towards her worst hissy fit to date, and she proceeded to blow a massive stream of cigar smoke straight into my face. I didn’t know whether to laugh, scream, or head to the bathroom to jack off, but settled upon screaming, letting her know that that behavior would not be tolerated under any circumstance. She got the message, as she never did anything like that again, but probably still doesn’t realize how excited she got me by exhaling toxic pollution into my face straight from her youthful lungs.
I found myself really enjoying this gig by the time October 2004 came around. Being a very political person, I was highly engaged in the upcoming Presidential election, and definitely had a horse in the race. I avoided
raising the topic with the girls (or her parents, who I had very limited
contact with after the first couple of weeks) knowing that their connection with the tobacco business almost certainly meant they were of a different political persuasion than myself. But the omnipresence of the electoral contest was unavoidable even for three nonpolitical young girls in the final weeks of the campaign, and election talk eventually ensued. I ultimately made a wager with them. If Kerry won, they’d clean their own ashtrays at the end of every day for the next month. But if Bush won, I’d have to smoke one of their cigars with them. The friendly wager was on, and I obviously got
the short end of the stick…..no pun intended.
The girls were gloating as I expected they would the morning of Wednesday,
November 3, 2004, as I walked into the makeshift classroom. After a few rounds of good-natured ribbing, they handed me a cigar with a cute evil look in their eyes. I had smoked a couple smaller cigars before, but it had been
a while, and I honestly found the huge Churchill that Whitney handed me to be very intimidating. The girls excitedly told me they were cutting me a break
by giving me a lighter Ashton Churchill rather than the richer Aged Maduros they were smoking that morning. The girls gave me the necessary directions for smoking the cigar and Whitney leaned forward to light me up. Much as I was not looking forward to having this cigar for breakfast, I was turned on
by the idea of a 15-year-old cutie lighting me up and instructing me on the proper etiquette of cigar smoking.
While I certainly didn’t find the cigar enjoyable, the first several puffs
helped me believe I could handle it. So I kept puffing for the next hour or
so, finding the thing increasingly disgusting and beginning to dread each additional drag. But I promised the girls I would smoke it to the ring, and intended to make good on that promise. The girls gave me a standing ovation when I took my last puff and put the thing out, but I sensed they knew what was coming as the naughty smirk on their faces lingered. Within moments, I found myself feeling fiercely ill and heading to the bathroom to worship the porcelain gods. After a good 20 minutes of dry heaves, I finally started to
feel as though the worst was over. Never again would I smoke a cigar that large, and I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed as I returned to the
classroom knowing how badly I was outsmoked by three little girls.
The months went by and the intangible allure of this most unorthodox work environment never got tiring. I grew to really like the girls, both as
students and as people. And while there were times I wished they didn’t smoke quite as much as they did, I found myself racing home many afternoons to “relieve myself” of the sexual tension they generated. I often felt dirty
that I got turned on by these young girls as they smoked their cigars, but since I never had any difficulty separating my instinctive lust from my personal moral compass, I wasn’t anticipating a problem would ever arise.
Highlights from the second half of that first school year included Whitney’s sweet sixteen party in February, where a dozen of Whitney’s friends from the neighborhood were over, all acting like it was the most normal thing in the world that their young friend was never without a giant cigar throughout the entire party; teaching Whitney to drive and watching the young beauty unapologetically smoke cigar after cigar in my car with me in the passenger
seat; and the time at the end of the year where I took the girls out to
dinner at a nice restaurant to celebrate their successful first year of
schooling with me as their teacher. I felt an equal mix of embarrassment and excitement ushering these very obviously underage blonde girls into a nice restaurant where they would myopically proceed to stink up the entire place with their cigar smoke. The amazed glances of the restaurant patrons grew into annoyed daggers as the girls spewed mouthful after mouthful of thick smoke throughout the restaurant’s smoking section, before, after, and even during their meal. I was nervous that I would be accosted by a scolding restaurant patron about my allowing my “daughters/nieces” to smoke cigars at such a young age, but it never happened….and it made the experience one final satisfying moment in what had been the most exciting year of my life.
I went three long months without seeing the girls. In many ways, my senses needed the vacation after the merciless nine-month assault of cigar smoke, but for the first time ever, I actually found myself excited about returning
to “school” in the fall. Over the summer, I met a girl named a Chandice, a very attractive blonde grad student who lived in my apartment cluster. She was everything I could have hoped for in a girl…..intelligent, fun,
beautiful, shapely, and a heavy cigarette smoker. But it was also abundantly clear that I found myself attracted to an older version of the Prescott
girls, minus the cigars. I was perfectly comfortable with that as I
proceeded forward with Chandice.
I returned to teaching in September 2005. The girls all looked the same, but were tanned and a showed a little bit of physical maturity. They continued to smoke their cigars at the same blistering pace that they had the previous year, and were just as ruthless as before in forcing the collateral damage of their habit on their teacher. Just as had occurred the year before, my body initially rejected the endless barrage of intense secondhand smoke….and I became physically ill for the first couple weeks of the school year. Again,
I never complained about the health problems I endured, and the girls never so much as moved their cigars out of the way of my nasal passages.
While most things proceeded as expected that second year, I couldn’t help but notice the occasional lovey-dovey glance thrown my way from Whitney. I usually just smiled back casually, but the intensity and frequency of her flirtatious looks increased as the weeks went by. It didn’t hit me how far
this “schoolgirl crush” had gone until Chandice dropped by one October Friday afternoon. I had told her on several occasions about the cigar-smoking
schoolgirls who I had been teaching for the past year, and she just had to see for herself. In walks Chandice, brandishing a Marlboro Light 100 cigarette and wearing a blue sweater and a pair of tight black leather pants.
Ashley and Kayla were warm and courteous to Chandice over the hour that she stayed and conversed with them and me, but Whitney shot daggers out of her eyes into Chandice’s heart almost the entire time. Whitney rarely spoke, and when she did, you could pretty much feel the calculated whiplash snapping with the movement of her tongue. Looking jealously at the leather draping Chandice’s lower half, Whitney eventually asked her, “Where’d you get those pants? They’re very sexy.”
“Got them at the mall last month,” Chandice responded. “Special request for Mark. He’s got a thing for girls in leather,” she added, winking my
direction.
“Oh he does, huh?” Whitney said schemingly as the younger girls piled on with immature giggling, oohing, and aahing about the revelation of my fetish. Thankfully, Chandice didn’t spill the beans about my even more intense smoking fetish, or I would never have heard the end of it.
I walked into class the following Monday expecting just a regular day at the office….until Whitney paraded in five minutes late making the grandest entrance I’ve ever seen. Draped from head to toe in black leather with a cigar dangling from her mouth, I didn’t know whether to race to the bathroom to relieve myself or burst out laughing. From the black leather cowboy hat sitting atop her head….to the skimpy leather halter top covering barely
half of the upper body….to the short black leather mini-skirt cresting
several inches above her knees….to the black boots rising all the way up her shins, she was dressed the way just about every girl had been for years in my sexual fantasies. After a good 30 seconds of speechless silence, I finally chimed in with, “What on Earth are you wearing?”
With a naughty smile, Whitney responded, “I decided to go to the mall myself this weekend.”
I knew this was going to become a problem I was unprepared to deal with if I didn’t nip it in the bud immediately, so I fought back every natural instinct
of the male psyche and replied, “Why don’t you head on upstairs and change into something more appropriate for school.”
With a look of surprise and hurt on her adorable young face, Whitney followed the order, hanging her head low and exiting the classroom. She returned about five minutes later in an acceptably conservative T-shirt and jeans. I
got a cold reception from her the rest of the day, but it had to be
done….and I was hopeful the crush was over.
But it wasn’t. It only changed form for awhile. Within a couple of weeks, Whitney was bringing a boy her age into the house after the school day ended and while I was working on end-of-the-day work. She introduced me to “Adam”, a decent but generic looking young man who seemed to feel incredibly awkward in this otherworldly environment filled with hot young girls chain-smoking
cigars. He seemed intermittently repulsed by the incessant stench of inescapable cigar smoke congesting his respiratory system at all times, and sexually excited by the supermodel-hot blonde doting all over him.
Every move Whitney made and every word she spoke to Adam was directed towards
me, and her giggly sisters only further provoked Whitney’s over-the-top performance. Within a couple more weeks, she was bragging to her sisters
within earshot of me about her advancements sexually with this boy. I finally put my foot down, scolding her not to discuss anything so personal as her sex life in my presence, obviously playing right into her hands by doing so. I didn’t know whether she had really lost her virginity to this boy or
if it was a headfake designed to make me jealous, but it had done its job. I found myself lamenting the idea of this girl losing her innocence, and was struggling with the fact that I was upset about the fact that I would no
longer be able to.
It didn’t take long before the boyfriend was out of the picture, at which
point she stepped up her previous efforts to seduce me. She started out just brushing past me with subtle but obvious touching of my neck and shoulders, but she kept pushing the envelope from there. She would come to class in progressively sexier attire, never draping herself in the kind of
inappropriate all-leather getups that she wore that prior fall, but
sprinkling in low-cut blouses, see-through dresses, and painted-on leather pants. And every time she opened her mouth, she laid on the charm just a little bit thicker than she had the previous time. I was having all I could
do to resist her at this point, but was confident I could survive this phase
for as long as it lasted, counting down the weeks before summer break began.
But one morning in May 2006, I was afraid my number was up. Whitney walked into class and nervously passed on the message to me that her parents wanted to see me in their office. I was paralyzed with fear, as I virtually never
even spoke to the parents and couldn’t imagine that their message to me would be good news. When I asked Whitney if she knew what they wanted, she didn’t (or wouldn’t) say, but I could tell by the tone of her voice that it had
something to do with their daughter’s intensifying crush on me. I had not crossed any lines, but perhaps merely the revelation of her crush to her parents was justification enough for my dismissal in their eyes. I prepared myself to face the music as I walked to their office in a 30-second journey that seemed to last an eternity, but nothing could have prepared me for the message they were about to convey to me.
With smiles on their faces, Bonnie started talking first. “Mark, we are so impressed with what you have been doing for our girls. They have responded to you so much more than the previous teachers we’ve hired. And from what she tells us, Whitney has REALLY responded to you,” she added with a laugh.
“Mrs. Prescott, I’m so sorry about that. I assure you that I have done nothing to provoke this. I think it’s just a harmless schoolgirl crush that will go away over time-” I began before husband Arthur interrupted me mid-sentence.
“Actually, we would kind of like to see Whitney settle down with a guy like you.”
I paused in a breathtaking silence, not having a clue how to respond to what I was hearing. Bonnie added to her husband’s thought, “Whitney is a very special girl, and although she’s had a crush on boys before, neither she or us have felt as strongly about any of them as we do of you.”
“But I have a girlfriend….for starters. I also would feel unethical about the whole situation….with her being my student and all,” I added.
Bonnie continued smiling. “We’re not trying to force you on her and completely understand if you’re not interested at this point. Just know that if you ever do, you have our blessing.”
I continued to be flabbergasted, finally mustering out, “Well, thank you,
I’ll keep that in mind,” slowly exiting the office and trying to avoid sprinting away from this most awkward conversation of my life.
The last three weeks of the school year grew increasingly awkward. Whitney continued raising the stakes of flirting to the point of borderline sexual harassment, and I found myself becoming more receptive after getting her parents’ blessing. Making matters worse, Chandice had just finished grad school and was in the process of leaving the area for her job. She had never felt like “the one” to me, but it was nonetheless difficult to let her go,
and Whitney’s affections at least partially filled that void.
On the last day of school in May 2006, I invited the girls to take an extra long lunch period so I could finish grading the final tests I have given
them. They took the opportunity to lay out in the balmy late May sunshine. Whitney paraded past me in a skimpy pink bikini, making it very hard for me to focus on my work, but the girls remained absent for the next hour and I got lost in my tutorial duties during that time….at least until Whitney’s return.
I heard the door close in the empty classroom and see the beautiful Whitney, freshly tanned and lathered in suntan lotion, partially covered by the flattering pink bikini with the usual giant cigar in her right hand, staring
at me with the most irresistible come-hither look I had gotten from her yet.
“It’s okay, Mark”, she said softly as she proceeded closer to me. “Just run with the feeling. I know you feel the same as me….so let’s not let age get in the way.”
The monologue in my head was telling this Lolita seductress to step back, yet my mouth wasn’t moving as she sat her bikini-clad posterior on my lap, inadvertently exhaling a stream of cigar smoke almost directly into my face
as she laid the cigar in the nearby ashtray. I had never been this close to Whitney, and it was a double-edged sword. Her zealous feminine charm virtually oozed from her sweaty pores as she ground her soft backside into my increasingly bulging crotch, but so too did the stench ooze. I had to resist
my impulse to gag for a split second as the stale cigar odor from her hair, skin, and breath hit me like a punch in the face. But just as I was becoming comfortable, she pulled in for the kiss. If I thought her cigar odor was intense from just sitting on my lap, it intensified exponentially when her luscious young lips touched mine and her tongue entered my mouth. As
revolting as her breath was, I had never experienced a more sultry and exquisite kiss in my life…..at least for the brief 10 seconds in which I allowed it to go on. Finally, I pulled back.
“Whitney, blessing from your parents or not, you are still a minor and I am still your teacher. I could not live with myself if I allowed this to
continue,” I said.
Nearly in a state of tears, Whitney sprung up from my lap and was racing from the door when the addendum to my last comment stopped her dead in her tracks. “But if you can wait one more year, you’re mine!” I said with a passion that
let her know I was into her.
A massive smile emerged on her face as she knelt back over me to retrieve her cigar from the ashtray. As she relit it, she went on and on about her big
plans for me and how she would wait as long as I needed. As I listened to
this unimaginable sexpot droll on, I just kept thinking to myself what a long year it would be for both her and I.
And boy was it a long year! Over the summer of 2006, Whitney would come by to visit me at my apartment a few times, and we both had all we could do to avoid tearing each other’s clothes off. The sexual tension grew further in
the fall as I returned to teach for her senior year, at which point her
ruthless imposition of cigar smoke on my cleansed senses was once again a pleasurable sensory overload experience. I even made the mistake of telling her one day how unbearably sexy I found her cigar smoking to be. Ashley and Kayla knew exactly what was going on between the two of us, as did Whitney’s parents, and were constantly teasing and cheerleading for us to step up the agreed-upon schedule, but I held my ground, even refusing to cave in when she turned 18 in late February 2007. She was still my student, and I didn’t feel
as though it would be appropriate for a sexual relationship to develop until after the last test was administered.
With that said, I did cheat a little. For most of the month of May, Whitney
was parked on my lap most of the day when I taught her, often with my hand caressing her crotch. Call it the world’s longest act of foreplay leading up
to the grand moment in which I made official her high-school graduation and
in which we consummated our relationship with a passionate act of copulation.
The day finally came this past Sunday….on graduation day. Everybody that
attended the event knew that she and I had bigger goals for the day than the simple passing of a diploma, so they forgave us for proceeding through the ceremony with relative haste. Whitney puffed on a cigar through the whole speech I made, a speech that was tasteful and focused on her academic successes and my confidence in her ability to succeed in upcoming challenges, whether they included college or simply taking over some of her father’s tobacco shop empire. She was undecided on what to do that next year, but most importantly for me, she knew that the next year would include spending a lot more time with me in a much more intimate setting. As I handed her the diploma amidst the applause of her friends and family in attendance, a mischievous grin emerged on her face as she tossed her cap and tassle into the air and then looked to her sisters.
“Time to change hats,” Whitney said playfully, the cue for Ashley to approach her with a familiar-looking black leather cowboy hat. I didn’t fully unearth
her scheme until she placed the hat on her head and then proceeded to toss off her graduation robe, revealing her saucy attire underneath which included a skimpy black leather halter top, a short leather mini-skirt and high boots….the same outfit she surprised me with in class a year and a half earlier. “Am I dressed appropriately for school now, Mr. Teacher?” she added.
Listening to the delighted laughter of the small crowd behind me and the stunning sexiness of the stinky 18-year-old beauty queen in front of me, I couldn’t hold back even one more minute.
“You have no idea!” were my final words as I lifted her delicious leather-draped young body into my arms and carried into what had been our classroom for the last three years. Knowing the passion that she was in for, she dropped the remainder of her cigar in the first available ashtray as I
sat her down on the edge of the table, instantly hiking up her short skirt to reveal a pantiless promised land. Her adorable and freshly waxed young cunt sat there just waiting to be penetrated. I didn’t know if this was her first
time or not, and I really didn’t care and I dropped my pants to my knees and thrust myself inside. Her vaginal tightness felt so good, as it had been a
very long time since my last sexual encounter as well. Passionate moans ensued almost immediately, neither of us caring who heard. I thrust myself into her spread legs repeatedly and forcefully, penetrating her more fiercely with each movement of my hips.
I snuck plenty of kisses in as I mounted her, alternately tasting her nasty tobacco breath and caressing her perky young tits my mouth, amazed at how every square inch of her petite young body was exhaling the odor of the cigar smoke that she essentially bathed in around the clock. The passion never subsided, but as I became comfortable with the level of pleasure being delivered, thoughts of the future consumed my mind….thoughts of regular sex, regular smoky kisses, and regular interaction with this amazing and intelligent young girl who defied all expectations and charmed me into seducing her. After a lengthy buildup, I could feel my bodily fluids were
about to release just as she was beginning her own climax. I asked her if
she wanted me to cum inside of her, to which she screamed, “YES!” at the top of her lungs. My penis erupted like a volcano and launched a geyser of steaming hot semen into her tight young snatch, which slurped it up like a vacuum cleaner an instant before she screamed with pleasure.
It took us a few moments to wind down from our first exchange of bodily fluids, but we smiled at each other with great satisfaction and continued to hold each other’s bodies tightly. Whitney instinctively reached to her ashtray to retrieve the remainder of the cigar she entered the room with, but I stopped her.
“After that, I think you’re gonna want a fresh one,” I said
Whitney gave a glowing smile as I handed her a fresh Ashton Churchill from the closest humidor. She clipped off the end and inserted it in her mouth in conjunction with one of her vintage smokers’ coughs. I approached the end of her cigar with her torch lighter and brought it to life. It was the first
time I had ever lit one of her cigars, but just like so many things we had shared that day, it would not be the last.