It’s that time of the evening again. The hour when the rest of the smokers have left, and I alone am left to practice my art. I am always the last to leave; many nights, I never leave, lifting myself from the mat only to rush home and take a shower before returning to work at the university. It was obscenely easy for me to find employment as a teacher, given my education and command of the English language. I am inclined to dislike the advantage I receive simply for being a westerner, but in this case it serves me well. There is one reason that I’m here though, and it isn’t to teach the pampered children of Laos’ small upper class. It is opium.
Tonight, just like every other night, I am in my real home, the small, unassuming opium den off of a dark alleyway where most American visitors never venture. I found it shortly after I arrived when I was taking one of my daily strolls through random parts of town looking for, you guessed it, an opium den. I recognized the smell of opium immediately from my experiments with it back home, and I knew I had found what I came for- a real, honest-to-god, public opium den. Yes, there are still opium dens in Laos. Not legal ones, but that’s just a technicality, I suppose. It isn’t fancy, but it doesn’t need to be. After a few pipes, the threadbare mat in my corner of the room becomes a mound of plush velvet pillows; the water stains on the ceiling, an intricate web of dazzling geometry.
By mid-day, every day, I am already craving the black, sticky goo. Both my mind and my body cry out for it, just as I always knew they would. I am bound to the pipe, not just psychologically as I once was, but now physically as well. I enter the den every night, night after night, to perform my sacrament. Nominally, the proprietor of the den is an elderly, hunched crone whom the patrons call “Madame L,” but the place really belongs to me. I am the queen of the den. I take my place in the same spot every night, and Madame L unlocks the cabinet where she keeps my pipe and my chandu. The good stuff.
The pipe she brings me is stunning, a work of art. I had it made by a local artisan not long after I arrived. By now, the bamboo has become seasoned, impregnated with the residue of countless pipes of chandu. I take the pipe in my hands, run my fingers along the shaft, savoring its rich aroma and warmth. I could practically have an orgasm just handling this pipe. The bumps and crevasses of the repousse designs on the saddle titillate the nerve endings on my fingers as I hold the pipe, balancing its weight in my hands as I prepare it for smoking. Unlike the other patrons, I roll my own pills, delighting in every step of the process. It is late, and I have already smoked half a dozen pipes tonight, but I am just getting started.
I hear them before I see them. How unusual, I think to myself, that someone else should show up at this hour. It must be two in the morning by now. I look up, curious to see who has intruded on my evening calm. He is standing next to Madame L, looking rather sheepish. Immediately, I can tell he is American, and that he is different from most of the Americans who come here to try opium. He is quite a bit older than they are, perhaps even a few years older than I am. He’s dressed in a lightweight summer suit, his hair combed neatly. Not the typical American clientele. Something about him interests me, and I tell Madame L in clipped Lao that I’ll take care of him, then cock my head in the direction of the door, shooting her a look that says in no uncertain terms that she should leave.
He looks a little confused, unsure what to do. “Come, sit,” I beckon, pointing to a spot on the mat across from the tray. He approaches slowly, almost reverently, as if he can’t quite believe the scene before his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me how you ended up in Laos,” I ask, genuinely curious. As I lift the pipe to prepare it once more, I notice him lose his composure a bit. “Um, this is going to sound weird,” he stutters, “but I came here for this.” “For what,” I coo, already knowing the answer, just toying with him for the fun of it now. “For opium,” he says quietly, riveted to my hands as I cook and roll the chandu against the pipe’s damper. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place,” I respond before ceremoniously lifting the jade mouthpiece to my lips and inhaling the fragrant vapor. I can see the wheels turning inside his head as I gracefully exhale through my nose, smoke filling the air between us. I can sense what this is doing to him, how it’s turning him on to watch me smoke this pipe.
“Would you like to come over here and let me show you how to smoke,” I ask coyly, holding his rapt gaze. He scoots to my side of the mat, positioning himself behind me. I set down the pipe, then slowly remove his jacket, then his shirt, then his slacks. He offers no resistance. I shrug off the loose, sheer dress I’ve been wearing, and I can hear him gasp a little as he catches sight of my tiny, rose-colored nipples.
I lay down on my side facing the lamp once more and command him to do the same. I mold my tiny body to his, and as I press my buttocks against him, I feel him harden. “Now, it’s really not that difficult,” I explain. “Here, I’ll roll the pill for you, and you just watch me.” I lift the pipe, this grand pipe that, at over two feet long, is almost half the length of my body, and I skewer a pill of chandu on the needle. I cook it over the flame, roll it carefully so that he can see how to do it, and finally plunge the needle into the damper’s hole, removing it with a twist of my hand. “There you go,” I say reassuringly, “you’re ready to smoke now.”
I lay on my back now, and look up to face him. I can see it on his face. The anticipation, the excitement, and a little bit of fear as well. I reach one arm out to balance the pipe’s damper over the flame and he takes the other end of the pipe in his hands. I can hear the opium starting to bubble, and I coach him, “Now put it to your lips and draw slowly so you don’t cough.” As he inhales, I swear I can see him quiver and as he exhales the smoke onto my breasts, he moans quietly, as if embarrassed. He’s mine now, helpless to resist me as I take the pipe from his hands and gently push him onto his back. His eyes become those of some beast of prey; mine, those of a ravenous jaguar. We are the yin and the yang; the opium makes him weaker, and me stronger. He’s hard as a rock now, and I can feel my insides becoming slippery.
I climb on top of him and impale myself on his cock as I hold his gaze all the while. I get the feeling that he can’t quite believe this is really happening, that it’s just a dream. As I thrust my hips, riding waves of pleasure, I can hear his breathing become ragged. I pick up the pipe from where it’s been laying on the mat and begin to rub the saddle against his nipples, first one, then the other. I hear him gasp as the cool metal makes contact with his skin and moan as I rub his chest with the bamboo shaft. Seeing me on top of him with that pipe is too much; he explodes inside of me as he emits a groan that could rend the earth and his entire body shudders beneath mine. I fall back onto the mat, next to the tray and the lamp.
I’m not done smoking, and neither is he. I pick up the pipe again, turning back to look at him, and ask, “Now my dear, are you ready for another?”