This chapter was a little easier to write, since I wrote it from the perspective of the female character. It's a little, uh, kinkier than the first part, so you've been warned.
The Pipe Boy: Part 2
From the outside looking in, we look normal. Boring, even. No one, not even our families, knows our secret. I believe that Robert already told you the story of how met, didn’t he? When we first started talking to each other, there was a certain air of resignation, hopelessness, even, to everything he said. As if he knew that every effort at happiness was doomed from the start and that the best he could hope for was a momentary release of sexual tension. I recognized it in him because I had long felt the same way. No one I knew could quite understand my pessimistic attitude toward relationships. I was, I am, after all, a young-ish woman, attractive by most people’s standards. I shouldn’t have had any problem finding someone.
But, you see, I had the same problem as Robert. An opium smoking fetish. Who the hell smokes opium anymore? I’m the same as he, I probably couldn’t tell you exactly when I began to feel this way, just that those pipes had always turned me on. The long, thick ones, specifically. I remember the first pipe I ever bought, a utilitarian model. Just a deliciously smooth, long bamboo tube adorned only by a simple paktong saddle and plain ivory end caps. But I fell in love with it instantly, just as much as I fell in love with the drug. I still use it on occasion when I’m feeling particularly nostalgic. Where do I, where do we, get opium? Well, let’s just say we’ve become adept indoor gardeners and leave it at that.
Anyway, it had never really been hard for me to find people to smoke with, not like it was for Robert. You see, men will do just about anything to accommodate a woman sexually. When I first started smoking, I thought these encounters might satisfy me, at least enough. Men were always a little surprised when I brought it up, always a little confused. None of them even thought opium existed anymore, that’s how culturally obsolete it’s become. In the end, it was never enough, never satisfying. They were bumbling idiots, all of them. A few of them couldn’t even figure out which end of the pipe they were supposed to smoke from. Most of them seemed to dispatch with smoking rather quickly, like it was only some impediment to them getting what they really wanted from me. Many times, I couldn’t go through with it after the spectacle of their apathy, and I sent them home unsatisfied. I had all but given up hope when I came across Robert’s profile on that site.
He may have told you this already, how I knew. How I had spotted poppies in one of his pictures. How I had noticed his taste in literature. I think that’s what he was hoping for, that someone, anyone, would pick up on these cues. I can’t even articulate properly how grateful he seemed at first for the fact that I accepted, even shared, this fetish with him. How much it meant to him that he could finally accept this part of his sexuality and identity now that I was there to encourage him to do so. It didn’t take long for us to realize that we belonged together. In fact, I think we both knew it the first night. We started spending every weekend together, smoking and fucking on the mat in his office until we collapsed next to each other eventually. We spent so much time this way that we both began to develop burns on our skin from the friction of rubbing against the tatami. Over the weeks, the months, we transformed that room into a warm cocoon, a chamber of pleasure, where the impossible became possible for both of us.
However, I still hadn’t shared my deepest fantasy with him, one that I had only imagined indulging with someone. This desire had crossed my mind many, many times, but I had never imagined I would find someone to share it with, even a fellow opium smoker. It was, it is, after all, a bit unconventional. The night started out like many others had, with that look that passed between me and him like electricity. The look that meant we were smoking that night. Me, rising from my chair, and him, following me to the office, which was just the smoking room now. We never bothered to put the tray away or roll up the mat anymore. There would have been no point. The only task that remained each time was to choose the pipe, one which we always took great delight in. Tonight, it was my turn.
I approached the wooden rack where they were on display, competing for my attention. All lined up so nicely, a surfeit of beauty. After hesitating a bit, I chose the smoothest, thickest one we had, dark with years of use. Seasoned to perfection. Silently, I carried it to the mat, running my hands along its length. This part of the evening always went the same. We had settled into a routine where I smoked first, he second, before making love. He is my pipe boy, after all. He prepared the lamp, lit it, and wrapped a gee-rag around one of the dampers’ collars, inserting it into the saddle quickly. He knew I didn’t like to be kept waiting for my first pipe of the evening. I never failed to be entranced by the adeptness with which he cooked and rolled the opium, or his matter-of-fact manner as he handed me the end of the pipe and guided the damper over the lamp for me. Yes, he was, he is, an excellent pipe boy. I am a very lucky woman indeed.
After smoking a couple more pipes, I knew it was time. Instead of handing the pipe back to him for another pill of opium, as he expected, I pulled the end of it from his hands and untied my robe. He always seemed to melt at the sight of my naked body in the soft glow of the lamp’s light. I shrugged off the satiny robe and spread my legs, languidly teasing him with my eyes. His eyes began to grow as wide as saucers as he saw me start to rub the pipe’s mouthpiece against my clitoris, unable to control my desire any longer. At this point, I no longer cared how crazy I must have looked, how outlandish this logical end-point of my pipe fetish must have seemed to him. I swore I could have heard him gasp in astonishment as I inserted the pipe in myself slowly, inch by smooth inch. In and out, I plunged it, the ivory and bamboo quickly warming to match the heat of my insides. I felt him surrender to me more and more with each gasp, each moan that escaped my lips as I pleasured myself.
“Finish me off, pipe boy,” I commanded, locking eyes with him, loathe to remove the instrument of my pleasure but aching for him.
In an instant, he had removed his own robe and was on my side of the mat, pressing down on top of me. With an urgency I had never felt before, he thrust himself into my slippery wetness, moving in time to my own frenzied rhythm. In truth, I was, and still am, as addicted to him as I am to opium. The color of his skin, his hair, and most especially the smell of his semen. I’ve always loved the feeling of holding him in his weakest moment, when he releases his essence inside of me, filling my sex with himself. I believe he thought I was going to let him rest afterwards this time, like I usually did. Instead I lifted the pipe from where it had been lying on the mat. The mouthpiece glistening with my juice in the lamp light, I began to chef a new pill over the lamp, heating it just so, methodically rolling it against the surface of the damper until it was ready. As usual, I plunged the pill into the damper’s hole with the needle, an inescapably erotic metaphor for what we had just done. His eyes followed me as I turned to hand him the end, and he put it to his mouth, seeming to savor my taste on the pipe.
“Smoke,” I bid him, and he inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nostrils, my scent surely mixing with the fragrant perfume of the opium. He was mine, just as I was his, just as we both belonged to opium and always would.
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