I went to the casino with 3 of my buddies one Friday
night. It was something different to do than the usual
bar-hopping and skirt chasing. I took fifty bucks,
figuring that on some Fridays, I spent more than that on
drinks, food, and drinks for women who never seemed to
be home after that. When we got there, my pals headed
straight for the poker table, leaving me wondering what
I was going to do for the night. I have neither the face
for poker, nor did I have the stomach for a five-dollar
minimum bet. I got a drink and headed for the slots,
figuring that fifty dollars in quarters and nickels
should keep me entertained for a while.

After an hour, I had a little over forty dollars left,
and my friends were still at the poker table.
Apparently, they had brought considerably more money
than I did. Since it looked like it would be while
before they gave up on poker, I went looking for another
slot machine to play. I found one that looked sort of
fun. I asked the woman sitting next to it if she was
playing both machines. She shook her head without a
word, absorbed in her own machine. My ninth quarter got
me twenty back. Number eleven spit out forty. Cool. I
liked this machine. I opened a fresh pack of cigarettes
and lit one.

The woman sitting next to me turned to look at me for a
moment with an odd expression on her face. She looked to
be in her late twenties, or so, a moderate amount of
blonde hair that came to her neck, and she was a little
better than average-looking. I smiled, she turned away
and resumed playing her slot. From time to time she’d
glance back at me. I wondered if the smoke was bothering
her, but she didn’t say anything, so we continued
playing side by side for another few minutes. My machine
had cooled off a little, but I was still about ten bucks
ahead. Hers was ice-cold, and she kept putting money in.

The exasperation had started to show on her face.
Abruptly, she turned to me and said, “Excuse me, but may
I have one of your cigarettes? I ran out, and I’m dying
for one, but I have a feeling about this machine, and I
don’t want to leave it.” “Sure,” I replied. “If you
don’t mind More menthol.” I reached for the pack,
waiting for her to say no thanks. Most women who asked
me for a smoke quickly reconsidered, disagreeing with
the More or the menthol.

“Menthol?” she asked, and I nodded. “Wonderful,” she
finished, eagerly taking one of the long, slim, brown
cigarettes. I lit it, trying to hide my surprise. And my
excitement–I love women who smoke Mores. She took a
long, easy draw, then tilted her head to the opposite
side and exhaled. “I used to smoke these all the time,”
she smiled, and took another drag. “It’s been a while.
Thanks.”

She turned back to her machine without any sign of the
frustration she’d displayed earlier. I would watch her
as she held the More between pressed lips while she put
the quarter in and pressed the button. While the slots
spun, she’d drag, and pull it from her mouth. She held
the smoke open-mouthed, enjoying it, her eyes slightly
lidded, exhaling without pursing her lips. I played my
machine a while longer, ensuring that I would see her
finish the cigarette, but it went cold. I took the ten
bucks I was ahead, told the woman, “Good Luck,” and went
in search of another, warmer machine.

I wandered around, taking the opportunity to look at
some of the female smokers; there were a few well-
dressed younger women, and the brand of the house seemed
to be Marlboro Lights. I saw a couple of Salem Slim
Light smokers, and a few Virginia Slim Light smokers.
One was sitting at the video poker bar, taking deep,
long draws. There would be a pause, then she’d tilt her
head upwards, purse her lips, and exhale. The smoke was
a thick, fluffy stream, and the red lipstick ring around
the filter seemed to glow.

I ordered a drink just so I could watch her finish her
cigarette in that leisurely, sensuous manner of hers.
However, the large diamond ring on her finger insured my
silence; even if she hadn’t been attached, she was
definitely out of my price bracket. My wanderings
brought me back over to where I had been. The same
blonde woman was there, on the same machine. As before,
I sat down at the machine next to her. “Having any
luck?” I asked.

“A little. But I got this feeling,” she replied as she
dumped three more quarters in.

“Need another cigarette?” I halfway joked.

“Sure!” she replied, smiling. “Thanks for the last one,
too. I was going nuts.”

She was smoking the More, dropping quarters, and I
watched, occasionally playing my old machine. I spent
five bucks while watching, and another five wondering
how to further our communication. Suddenly, her machine
freaked out. It beeped loudly, continuously and a siren
went off. My “gambling partner” jumped up and down,
screaming, her eyes wide in disbelief. I looked; on the
window, it said, “THE BIG ONE.”

She reached out and grabbed me, hugging me tightly,
crying in her joy. Security and several casino suits
arrived within a minute, and the casino guy took one
look and said, “Congratulations, you’ve just won our
progressive jackpot!” She hugged me even tighter, and I
felt her breasts press into me. Her body was soft. They
shut the machine off, and finally calmed her down enough
to take her to a back room. I waved goodbye.

After checking in with my buddies and explaining what
had just happened, I went back upstairs. The elegant
woman I had seen earlier was sitting at my old machine,
smoking another Virginia Slim Light. So I sat a couple
of machines away. I dropped two bucks, spending more
time discreetly watching than playing, then felt a tap
on my shoulder. “Hi!” It was the lucky blonde. “I’m glad
I found you! The casino’s buying me and a friend dinner.
Wanna join me?” I asked her why me, and she said, “If
you hadn’t given me that cigarette, I was going to leave
and buy a pack, because I was dying for a smoke. Then I
would have lost the machine and the jackpot. The least I
can do is get you dinner,” she smiled. “By the way, I’m
Camille.”

“I’m Dennis. Nice to meet you, Camille,” I said, shaking
her hand. “I would love to join you for dinner.” I stuck
my tongue out at my friends downstairs. They didn’t see
me, still absorbed in poker. Camille and I went to the
fancy restaurant on the upper level of the casino. No
buffet here–this was the steak-and-lobster place. And
the prices on the menu said it was good steak and
lobster. A bottle of champagne arrived without having to
order it. “Order anything you want,” Camille said. “It’s
on them.” She pulled out a cigar and inspected it. “They
gave me this,” she grinned. “They give one to all the
big winners. I have no idea what to do with it.” I
looked at it; about a forty-six or forty-eight ring,
about six inches long, and definitely hand-rolled.
Easily six or seven bucks in a store. I called the
maitre’d over to clip it.

“First thing, don’t inhale,” I advised as I handed the
cigar back to her. I explained how to light it, and how
to taste test a cigar. Camille giggled, but followed the
instructions, oblivious to the odd looks she got from
some of the other patrons. She sent streams through her
nose. She held the smoke in her open mouth, then blew it
through a very tight pucker.

After a few drags, she looked at me and said, “I’ll
trade. I’ll give you this for a More menthol.” That was
OK by me. Her smoking style was a little different in
the relaxed surroundings of the posh restaurant. She
liked leaning back in her seat, dragging, still holding
the smoke in open-mouthed. Before the exhale, she turned
her head to the side. It all seemed so–natural. “Thanks
again, Dennis.” We talked about the night; I explained
that I was just here to have some fun with friends, but
had been abandoned for poker. “Well, I’m here to
celebrate. My divorce got finalized today,” she brightly
said. “My ex-husband finally paid his settlement. Been
here since five o’clock, playing on his money.” Camille
ordered another bottle of champagne. Imported. She had
good taste.

“I’ve been divorced for four months, but today was the
day I got paid. I didn’t ask for much, but he fought it.
Said he wanted to give him and his new fiancee a head
start,” she continued. I nodded in between bites of
prime rib. “Now I’ve got a head start. It’s not so much
that I can quit my job, but if I’m smart, I won’t have
to worry. I’m a clerk for an import company. The extra
twenty grand a year will be nice.” I told her what I did
while we ate and drank. “That’s a nice job working in
computers, I bet. I always wanted one at home. One of my
girlfriends has one. Do you know much about the
Internet? She says she likes talking to people on it.
Maybe I’ll go out and buy one with the money I won,” she
said. We talked some more about computers, and I offered
to go with her when she went to buy one; that way she
wouldn’t be at the mercy of the salesperson.

After dessert, coffee and the cigar box arrived. I
checked my watch. It was almost eleven. Wow. Time flies.
Camille demurred on the cigar, asking me for another
More, so I gave her the pack. We talked some more as we
smoked. Finally, the champagne was gone, and we hit the
inevitable lull in the conversation.

Camille looked at me. “It’s getting late. I’ve been on
this boat for almost–seven hours now.” I looked at my
watch in disbelief; was it midnight already??? “Y’know
something, Dennis?” I said no. “You’re cute. You want
to–” Her voice dropped. “–celebrate some more?”

Since I hadn’t driven, I told her I needed to find my
friends, who were probably wondering where I’d
disappeared to. That was fine with her. As we got up
from the table, Camille sidled up next to me, a little
unsteady. When she regained her balance, she still stood
awful close. I debated internally for a second, then put
my arm around her hip. She put hers around my waist
without hesitation. We returned to the casino, and my
friends were still at the poker table. Camille lit
another cigarette, and stood, posed fetchingly, her arm
around my shoulder.

She took a drag, turned her head to the side, and
exhaled a stream through her lips. She held the More
down by her hips, almost horizontal to the floor. Her
fingers were close to the filter end, accenting its
length. She looked great. And she was with me. “Hey
guys, I’m leaving,” I said, trying to keep the gloat out
of my voice. The woman with me caused a few eyes to
roll. It was obvious which one of our casino-going group
of bachelors had really hit the jackpot.

“So where to now, Camille?” I asked as we left, heading
for her car. “Clubs are still open.”

“I’ve had enough to drink tonight,” she answered. “I was
thinking more along the lines of–my place.” She swung
herself in front of me and put her other arm around my
neck. She looked into my eyes. I kissed her, very wet,
very hot.

“Mmmmm,” she purred. “Definitely my place.” We kissed
again in her car, long and deep. “I haven’t had sex in a
long time–the divorce,” she panted. “I want to be
fucked again.” I didn’t have any problems with that. We
got to her place, and freshened up separately. When I
got to the bedroom, she was lying on her back, exhaling
slowly from a fresh More. The smoke drifted skyward, and
she was watching the twisting pattern she created,
altering it after a few seconds by changing the part of
her lips. I was hard. “Hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“It’s been a while since I’ve smoked Mores, and I’ve
been enjoying it.” She took another lazy drag and
exhale. My cock twitched. She sat up on her side,
looking at me, and drew again, exhaling slowly into the
air. My cock grew a little more.

Camille noticed. “Dennis–are you one of those–smoking
fetish guys?” I was so shocked that my erection shrank
quite a bit. I blushed. “Really? Wow! My girlfriend told
me about guys who get turned on watching women smoke,
but I thought it was just people saying weird stuff on
the computer that they could get away with.” Camille
patted the bed. “C’mere,” she smiled, taking a quick
drag. “Tell me about it. I really want to know. Do you
like–buy videos of women smoking like some guys buy
dirty movies?” I had had nightmares like this: being
naked, in someone else’s home, with no easy way out,
horny as all hell, and being questioned by the woman I
picked up about my private fantasies.

Unfortunately, I was not going to be able to wake up and
say this one was just a bad dream. She studied me a
moment while I stood there, frozen, erection all but
gone. “Dennis,” she began, her voice soft and gentle,
“I’m not judging you. I really am curious, and I really
do like you.” She took another drag, and throatily said,
“And I really, really want to fuck you.”

I looked at the expression on her face. She was worried.
The fear of being exposed to the world-at-large as a
smoking fetisher began to lose its hold on me. Camille
lay there, with a burning More between her fingers, and
I decided that a woman who enjoyed smoking Mores
couldn’t be all bad. I made the biggest decision of my
life in less than five seconds. I sat down on the bed.
She scrambled to a sitting position next to me. “Well…
I like to watch women who smoke long cigarettes. I don’t
know exactly why it turns me on, but if a woman smokes a
certain brand in a certain way, it makes me really hot.”
I took a deep breath.

Camille was still regarding me with interest. “Both the
brand and the how it’s smoked–the style, I guess–are
important, though. If either of them aren’t attractive,
I don’t find it attractive.”

“So Mores, and the way I smoke them make you hot, huh?”
she concluded. “Would Salem Slim Lights have made you
hot?”

I said yes, but that the Mores looked more–elegant and
did something extra for me. Camille nodded, and reached
onto the night stand for another cigarette. She smiled.
“Then it’s a good thing that I ran out completely.” She
lit it, and began to smoke in the fashion she had been
earlier, with slow, lazy, intricately sculpted exhales.
She occasionally teased her breasts between puffs. I
could see how turned on she was getting by smoking and
turning me on. This was going to be a very interesting
night.

We lay next to each other, our breathing having returned
to normal. Camille reached for a More, but I tapped her
gently. “No. Wait twenty minutes or so,” I said, looking
at her purposefully.

“You mean–” I nodded. “In that case, hell, I can wait,
Dennis. Eight months is an awful long time without any
sex, let alone good sex. If I have to wait twenty
minutes to smoke so you can get hard again tonight–” I
saw her shiver. “I like this,” she said, eyes shining.
“And I like you.” Camille leaned over and kissed me,
hot, wet, and deep, leaving no doubt to her intentions.

The following Saturday, Camille and I went to buy her
computer. We had talked on the phone daily during the
week; it was evident to me that she wasn’t thinking of
me as just a celebration fuck, and that she had a little
more on her mind than that. Strangely enough, that
didn’t scare me. She was a little disappointed that
she’d have to wait a couple of days to get on the
Internet herself, but I showed her some things through
my account. She asked me about smoking on the net, and
was very surprised at the amount of smoking-related
things on the net listed by Yahoo. “I can order my
cigarettes over the net???” Camille had smoked her
normal brand, Salem Slim Lights, all day. I noticed that
I had had an impact on her style, however. Her exhales
were almost always leisurely and careful. She was paying
a lot more attention to the act of smoking.

I cooked. After dinner, she was having a cigarette,
looking at me in a very predatory fashion. “So, Dennis,”
she said, taking a drag, and exhaling slowly, “tell me
more about this fetish. What else other than long
cigarettes gets you hot?” I told Camille that long
cigarettes were far and away the most common ones I
encountered. I mentioned holders, smoking stories, and
the occasional cigar smoking woman. She came and sat on
my lap. “Find me a holder, and I’ll smoke with it for
you,” she purred, squirming a little, sending blood to
my dick.

Camille smiled, hopped off my lap, and headed for the
bedroom. It was barely dark outside. “But I don’t know
about the cigars,” she called from the hallway. After we
had finished round one, she sat next to me. “Just lie
down there, Dennis. I want you to use your imagination
for a minute.”

Curious, and spent, I agreed. “You like smoking stories,
right? I’m going to tell you one about a little girl who
liked smoking. And now that she’s a big girl, she’s just
found a whole new appreciation for it.” Camille left the
bedroom, and returned with cigarettes. She took one of
the Mores out, and lit it. “I started smoking when I was
twelve; my older sister was sixteen, and she was smoking
behind our parents’ back. I caught her one day while my
folks were gone overnight. She said she’d teach me how
if I wouldn’t tell.”

“She smoked Salem Lights then. So I got used to menthol
right away. I smoked whatever she smoked. Salems, Benson
and Hedges Menthol, Merit Menthol, Virginia Slims
menthol… she wasn’t that picky, so neither was I. When
she left for college though, I was up shit’s creek,
because she was my supplier. My mom’s Virginia Slims
Lights went faster than they had been, and I got caught.
I kept sneaking puffs from her butts, and any of my
friends who smoked.” “When I was finally ungrounded, I
went and bought my very first pack–Virginia Slims
Lights menthol.

In school, a bunch of us smoked those–whoever had the
money bought at the corner store–they never bothered
with checking your age. One of my friends came back from
summer vacation smoking Mores. I thought they looked so
cool, brown and everything. I got my mom smoking them
when I was seventeen. She gave up on making me stop.

I smoked them for a long time, about four years. I
switched to More Lights for a little while, but they
didn’t feel right, and looked too funny. I switched to
Salem Slims Lights because one of my friends was smoking
them kinda back-and-forth along with the More Lights.
She said they were sorta like the More Lights, but a
little smoother. I smoked Salem Slim Lights until I got
free Virginia Slims Superslims menthol one night at a
bar. I smoked a carton, but went back to my Salem Slim
Lights.”

Camille looked at my growing erection. “I’d never
thought about smoking anything extra long again–until I
met you.” She had another More for the effect it had on
me. Round two commenced immediately thereafter. “I’ll
smoke whatever the hell you want whenever you want,” she
moaned in my ear as she neared her climax.

That was a little over a year ago; we’re married now. I
told you I made the biggest decision of my life in five
seconds. Camille only smokes 120’s now, her favorites
are Capri menthol and More White Lights menthol, but she
switches occasionally “for a change of pace.” She sat at
our reception table smoking a More menthol in a six-inch
holder, while fondling my bulge discreetly under the
table. Camille likes to excite me with the fetish; it
also excites her. She smoked Capris and Mores on our
wedding night, keeping me able well into the next
afternoon. She thinks that any woman who smokes needs to
understand the fetish– “you can smoke, or you can
smoke,” she says. Camille learned how to french-inhale
during our courtship, snap-inhales regularly now, and
is a regular visitor to the fetish newsgroups.

She and I taught her shy, slightly overweight girlfriend
Carol, the one who originally told Camille about finding
the fetish on the net, how to smoke sexily. Carol smokes
Virginia Slims Lights 120’s in a very intoxicating
manner now, and she’s not shy any more. She’s also
gotten a lot more popular. As for my wife, she prefers
to keep it private, between us. But if you use your
imagination, you can see her, dressed in black lingerie,
a fresh, long cigarette between her fingers, exhaling
with a lifted chin, and a dreamy, sultry expression on
her face.