Queen of the Pipes
She’s my silk-robed Opium Goddess, the one who marks my hours with a soft, low “Time to smoke” cooed into my ear at the appointed time. When she says those words, there’s really nothing else to it. It’s time to smoke. First opium; then tobacco. She takes my hand, leads me to the mat where the layout awaits us. We never put it away anymore. Tonight’s pipe is ready and waiting, a thick, beastly length of root wood impregnated with the residue of countless pipes of chandu.
She was always small, but the addiction has winnowed her down, distilled her into her most perfect form. She lives for opium. Just as she was always meant to. She lights the lamp, lifts the pipe. Fondles it lightly for a moment because she can’t help herself. She cooks the pill over the flame, her hands dancing before my eager eyes as she works the needles with aplomb. She knows what it does to me when she plunges the needle into the damper’s hole. I can smell her desire as I take the pipe from her and hold it to my lips, vaporizing the pill in one draw. You’re a serious smoker, she always likes to say to me in a tone of aroused approval.
The tobacco pipe, an antique calabash, is also ready and waiting, of course. She assumes the aspect of a high priestess of the Fire God as she pushes me onto my back then mounts me, clenching the pipe between her rosebud lips and lighting it with a single match. Tendrils of thick, heady smoke trail out from her perfect mouth as she strokes my beard with one hand and teases my cock with the other, her robe falling from her shoulders and exposing her breasts. Yes, she is my queen, the Queen of the Pipes.