She found this one in the Mark Russell lounge of the Omni Shoreham. Kennedy had held his Inauguration Ball here. Clinton, too, that old horndog. It was a nice, old, dignified place, a tidy distance from the White House.
Mark Russell, the placard said, was a musician who'd come to play piano for a two week stand. He'd been so popular and well-liked he'd stayed twenty years and had the lounge named in his honor following his death.
But she wasn't looking for Mark Russell's ghost.
The man in her sights was at the opposite end of the bar. Alone, nursing a drink, and smoking.
She ordered a glass of Chardonnay from the handsome young waiter and watched the man in the mirror. Her nipples stiffened when he drew on the filtered end of his cigarette, held the smoke momentarily between his parted lips, then allowed it to drift outward, only to suck it back in like a whip lashing a bared ass.
In seconds, he expelled the smoke in a thin stream. It coiled above him, a dark and threatening cloud.
She crossed her legs and bit her lower lip. Her panties were already damp. She felt flushed and hot and dreamy with it, her hands sweaty and icy at the same time.
The man was neither young, nor good looking, his hair thinning at the crown, his eyes burdened by folds of flesh beneath. He was shorter and pudgier than her husband, but he smoked beautifully.
She waggled a finger at the bartender and nodded toward the end of the bar. He poured another glass of wine for her, another drink for the gentleman, and moved her tab. She slid off the barstool and sauntered across the lounge. Even though she was on the other side of forty, the line of her long, lean legs, the roll of her firm buttocks moving beneath sheer fabric was enough to catch more than one man's attention.
Maybe one of them recognized her, or thought he did, but she doubted it. She wore her hair shorter, almost as short as a boy's, than it appeared in photos or on TV. She wore glasses, a tasteful black dress that stopped just short of bare knees, and five-inch Manolo Blahnik heels.
She reserved a more demure appearance for the cameras.
The man gave her a surprised smile when she sat next to him and introduced herself as Emily Carter. He thanked her for the drink and fished another cigarette from his pocket. She was quick to light it for him.
He was Bob, or Jim, or Bill. Never an Andrew, a Pierre, or Ethan.
She asked where he was from.
Iowa, or Nebraska, or Bumblefuck. Never McLean, or Alexandria, or The District.
She said she was here on business.
He said he was leaving tomorrow.
There was always this small talk to get past.
* * *
Her first boy smoked, although smoking was forbidden at the Baptist church camp where he served as counselor. Bobby McCord was a preacher's son, tall and lean, the baddest, sneakiest of all the preacher's sons she'd known over the years. He held the cigarette in the corner of his mouth the entire time, not even losing it when she redeemed him, white and sticky, in the palm of her hand. She wiped it on her skirt before skipping off to prayer service.
When it came time to date, the young men her parents and teachers approved of were clean cut. Often, they were athletes or academics or goodie-goodie two shoes, church ushers and the like. They didn't drink, smoke, or swear. They asked permission before kissing her goodnight.
Then she discovered another kind of young man in the cross-town bars she sneaked off to, first in high school, later in college.
These were young men with long hair and dirty nails.Young men who worked the line, swilled beer, and fought in the parking lot. They squeezed her tits when she brushed past on the dance floor, grabbed her ass while she waited in line for beer, pushed her knees apart in the back seat of muscle cars with the top down on hot Texas nights.
And after she fucked them, rode and spurred them like a cowboy on a bucking steed, they lay back on the naugahyde and lit up. With her head resting on their substantial chests she indulged herself in the smoke leaking from churlish lips.
When they could, she fucked them again, slick and hot, legs splayed across their corded bellies, until she cried out. She looked down on them, smoke gathering about their beautiful faces like a wreath.
Yes, yes, fucking yes.
Before they married, her first husband held the reputation of a party boy. But, God bless him, he gave it up-the cigars, the Scotch, the partying-for her and Jesus. He was the perfect choice for a woman of her status, but not her needs. Back home, she had no problem finding discreet, accommodating men who understood, even appreciated, a woman like her. Here in Washington, under the media glare, and given security considerations, it required more than discretion and accommodation to achieve a smoky tryst.
Those first few years, she lived on memories and fantasy. More recently, she found a way.
Strangers in hotel bars, men on the move in town for only a night or two.
Men who smoked.
* * *
He was reluctant, but she assured him it would be worth it.
He grinned and shook his head. "You're not some kind of freak are you?"
"I'm a little freaky. It's not necessarily a bad thing."
"We're adults. We could go upstairs to my room."
She stood, flipped a fifty on the bar, and pushed her bar stool in. "Meet me in the bathroom first. And bring your cigarettes."
* * *
"Okay," he said, a little breathy now.
"Nice and slow," she told him while stroking his cock through his trousers.
A flicker of a smile. "You like that? The smoke?"
She watched it trickle from between his lips, watched him draw it back in a flash. She pressed her thighs together, just like in Daddy's car.
"What do you think? Yeah, I like it."
She unzipped, reached inside, and took his cock in her hand. She drizzled saliva over it, her eyes never leaving his. He dragged deeply, exhaling smoke through flared nostrils.
He hardened and she took him in her mouth. They were always primed, these men, overworked and deprived of sex at home. That's why she did this here, first. To take the edge off, but also to test them, to determine if they understood and were willing to comply, before taking them upstairs and fucking them hard and true.
She peered up at him, tongue flicking, one hand stroking, the other inside her dress pinching a nipple.
"Suck it," he whispered, spewing smoke.
The cigarette dangled at the corner of his mouth. She bobbed and jacked. Nursed him between soft, red lips. Suddenly, his hips bucked and he grunted. She withdrew and semen squirted onto the bathroom floor and wall.
"Shit. Goddamn," he said. "Motherfucker."
She stood, took the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He took the hint and kissed her, accepting her smoke as it passed between them. His hands slid down the back of her dress and cupped her ass.
She nibbled his ear. "You up for this, Jim?"
"I think so."
She dropped the butt to the floor and ground it out with the toe of her shoe. "Come on," she said. "I'm in 308."
* * *
"That's it," she directed him in the near darkness, "just like that."
He dragged on the cigarette, then licked her slit, suckled her clit, the smoke engulfing her cunt. She reached low and rubbed herself, while he blew deep inside her, sweet man.
When he was hard, she squatted, fit the condom, then lowered herself onto him. Their eyes locked and he French-inhaled. She milked her nipples with her hands. She bounced and moaned. He lasted and lasted and lasted, smoking and looking up at her through the trails and wisps. It hit hard and fast, like a storm off the Gulf, She spasmed, belly clinching, thighs shuddering.
As a courtesy, she allowed him to finish, pumping and thrusting, while she lay atop. Before she left, they shared a final smoke, standing naked, side by side, at the window. Snow flakes showed in the lights of passing cars,
He knew enough not to ask questions.
* * *
Downstairs, one of the men who'd eyed her in the lounge, held the limousine door open. The beefy fellow she and "Jim" had encountered as they exited the Men's Room was now behind the wheel.
A middle-aged woman in the familiar dark suit sat across from her, legs crossed primly, a look of disgust playing across her face. "You smell awful," the woman said.
"Just get me back," she answered.
The driver checked traffic over his shoulder and pulled onto the snow-slick street. "I'm on my way," he said into his microphone.
When they made the familiar turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue and the large white house surrounded by the wrought-iron fence loomed in front of them, the middle-aged woman spoke up again. "At least use the Employee entrance. You can clean up there."
"Emily" pressed her nose against the window, her breath causing fog to form. "Mind your own damn business."
It really wasn't that difficult. At first, she'd thought they didn't know. After a while, she'd decided they didn't care. She supposed her husband and his cronies had enough on their plate.
The car pulled to a stop.
Life, or something like it, began anew.
Copyright 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
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