He meets my gaze, and I know. That intensity that tells me, "It's time to smoke." He takes my hand, leads me to the mat. He knows how to strike the match just so, making an elegant show of it. He knows the Pavlovian response this elicits, the way that my panties begin to dampen as he begins his ritual. He takes the pipe in his hands, stroking it slowly before placing a fresh damper in the saddle. He cooks the chandu over the lamp, the dark, fragrant liquid sizzling in the tiny wok.
Minute by minute, second by second, he watches me succumb. He knows the power he wields over me as he forms the opium into a perfect little cone and plunges the needle into the damper's hole, just as he'll plunge his tongue and cock inside of me later. He lifts the pipe, that grand hunk of bamboo, as I watch, riveted to him. I melt; I become as the chandu: warm, liquid, redolent with the aroma of sex, as he places the pipe to his lips and inhales, then exhales, the fragrant vapor. He has me where he wants me, and he knows it. He might be ordinary to the outside world, but here, in this room, on this mat, in the glow of the lamp, he is my king.