Casino Camille

I went to the casino with 3 of my buddies one Friday night. It was something different to do than the usual bar-hopping and skirt chasing. I took fifty bucks, figuring that on some Fridays, I spent more than that on drinks, food, and drinks for women who never seemed to be home after that. When we got there, my pals headed straight for the poker table, leaving me wondering what I was going to do for the night. I have neither the face for poker, nor did I have the stomach for a five-dollar minimum bet. I got a drink and headed for the slots, figuring that fifty dollars in quarters and nickels should keep me entertained for a while.

After an hour, I had a little over forty dollars left, and my friends were still at the poker table. Apparently, they had brought considerably more money than I did. Since it looked like it would be while before they gave up on poker, I went looking for another slot machine to play. I found one that looked sort of fun. I asked the woman sitting next to it if she was playing both machines. She shook her head without a word, absorbed in her own machine. My ninth quarter got me twenty back. Number eleven spit out forty. Cool. I liked this machine. I opened a fresh pack of cigarettes and lit one.

The woman sitting next to me turned to look at me for a moment with an odd expression on her face. She looked to be in her late twenties, or so, a moderate amount of blonde hair that came to her neck, and she was a little better than average-looking. I smiled, she turned away and resumed playing her slot. From time to time she’d glance back at me. I wondered if the smoke was bothering her, but she didn’t say anything, so we continued playing side by side for another few minutes. My machine had cooled off a little, but I was still about ten bucks ahead. Hers was ice-cold, and she kept putting money in.

The exasperation had started to show on her face. Abruptly, she turned to me and said, “Excuse me, but may I have one of your cigarettes? I ran out, and I’m dying for one, but I have a feeling about this machine, and I don’t want to leave it.” “Sure,” I replied. “If you don’t mind More menthol.” I reached for the pack, waiting for her to say no thanks. Most women who asked me for a smoke quickly reconsidered, disagreeing with the More or the menthol.

“Menthol?” she asked, and I nodded. “Wonderful,” she finished, eagerly taking one of the long, slim, brown cigarettes. I lit it, trying to hide my surprise. And my excitement–I love women who smoke Mores. She took a long, easy draw, then tilted her head to the opposite side and exhaled. “I used to smoke these all the time,” she smiled, and took another drag. “It’s been a while. Thanks.”

She turned back to her machine without any sign of the frustration she’d displayed earlier. I would watch her as she held the More between pressed lips while she put the quarter in and pressed the button. While the slots spun, she’d drag, and pull it from her mouth. She held the smoke open-mouthed, enjoying it, her eyes slightly lidded, exhaling without pursing her lips. I played my machine a while longer, ensuring that I would see her finish the cigarette, but it went cold. I took the ten bucks I was ahead, told the woman, “Good Luck,” and went in search of another, warmer machine.

I wandered around, taking the opportunity to look at some of the female smokers; there were a few well- dressed younger women, and the brand of the house seemed to be Marlboro Lights. I saw a couple of Salem Slim Light smokers, and a few Virginia Slim Light smokers. One was sitting at the video poker bar, taking deep, long draws. There would be a pause, then she’d tilt her head upwards, purse her lips, and exhale. The smoke was a thick, fluffy stream, and the red lipstick ring around the filter seemed to glow.

I ordered a drink just so I could watch her finish her cigarette in that leisurely, sensuous manner of hers. However, the large diamond ring on her finger insured my silence; even if she hadn’t been attached, she was definitely out of my price bracket. My wanderings brought me back over to where I had been. The same blonde woman was there, on the same machine. As before, I sat down at the machine next to her. “Having any luck?” I asked.

“A little. But I got this feeling,” she replied as she dumped three more quarters in.

“Need another cigarette?” I halfway joked.

“Sure!” she replied, smiling. “Thanks for the last one, too. I was going nuts.”

She was smoking the More, dropping quarters, and I watched, occasionally playing my old machine. I spent five bucks while watching, and another five wondering how to further our communication. Suddenly, her machine freaked out. It beeped loudly, continuously and a siren went off. My “gambling partner” jumped up and down, screaming, her eyes wide in disbelief. I looked; on the window, it said, “THE BIG ONE.”

She reached out and grabbed me, hugging me tightly, crying in her joy. Security and several casino suits arrived within a minute, and the casino guy took one look and said, “Congratulations, you’ve just won our progressive jackpot!” She hugged me even tighter, and I felt her breasts press into me. Her body was soft. They shut the machine off, and finally calmed her down enough to take her to a back room. I waved goodbye.

After checking in with my buddies and explaining what had just happened, I went back upstairs. The elegant woman I had seen earlier was sitting at my old machine, smoking another Virginia Slim Light. So I sat a couple of machines away. I dropped two bucks, spending more time discreetly watching than playing, then felt a tap on my shoulder. “Hi!” It was the lucky blonde. “I’m glad I found you! The casino’s buying me and a friend dinner. Wanna join me?” I asked her why me, and she said, “If you hadn’t given me that cigarette, I was going to leave and buy a pack, because I was dying for a smoke. Then I would have lost the machine and the jackpot. The least I can do is get you dinner,” she smiled. “By the way, I’m Camille.”

“I’m Dennis. Nice to meet you, Camille,” I said, shaking her hand. “I would love to join you for dinner.” I stuck my tongue out at my friends downstairs. They didn’t see me, still absorbed in poker. Camille and I went to the fancy restaurant on the upper level of the casino. No buffet here–this was the steak-and-lobster place. And the prices on the menu said it was good steak and lobster. A bottle of champagne arrived without having to order it. “Order anything you want,” Camille said. “It’s on them.” She pulled out a cigar and inspected it. “They gave me this,” she grinned. “They give one to all the big winners. I have no idea what to do with it.” I looked at it; about a forty-six or forty-eight ring, about six inches long, and definitely hand-rolled. Easily six or seven bucks in a store. I called the maitre’d over to clip it.

“First thing, don’t inhale,” I advised as I handed the cigar back to her. I explained how to light it, and how to taste test a cigar. Camille giggled, but followed the instructions, oblivious to the odd looks she got from some of the other patrons. She sent streams through her nose. She held the smoke in her open mouth, then blew it through a very tight pucker.

After a few drags, she looked at me and said, “I’ll trade. I’ll give you this for a More menthol.” That was OK by me. Her smoking style was a little different in the relaxed surroundings of the posh restaurant. She liked leaning back in her seat, dragging, still holding the smoke in open-mouthed. Before the exhale, she turned her head to the side. It all seemed so–natural. “Thanks again, Dennis.” We talked about the night; I explained that I was just here to have some fun with friends, but had been abandoned for poker. “Well, I’m here to celebrate. My divorce got finalized today,” she brightly said. “My ex-husband finally paid his settlement. Been here since five o’clock, playing on his money.” Camille ordered another bottle of champagne. Imported. She had good taste.

“I’ve been divorced for four months, but today was the day I got paid. I didn’t ask for much, but he fought it. Said he wanted to give him and his new fiancee a head start,” she continued. I nodded in between bites of prime rib. “Now I’ve got a head start. It’s not so much that I can quit my job, but if I’m smart, I won’t have to worry. I’m a clerk for an import company. The extra twenty grand a year will be nice.” I told her what I did while we ate and drank. “That’s a nice job working in computers, I bet. I always wanted one at home. One of my girlfriends has one. Do you know much about the Internet? She says she likes talking to people on it. Maybe I’ll go out and buy one with the money I won,” she said. We talked some more about computers, and I offered to go with her when she went to buy one; that way she wouldn’t be at the mercy of the salesperson.

After dessert, coffee and the cigar box arrived. I checked my watch. It was almost eleven. Wow. Time flies. Camille demurred on the cigar, asking me for another More, so I gave her the pack. We talked some more as we smoked. Finally, the champagne was gone, and we hit the inevitable lull in the conversation.

Camille looked at me. “It’s getting late. I’ve been on this boat for almost–seven hours now.” I looked at my watch in disbelief; was it midnight already??? “Y’know something, Dennis?” I said no. “You’re cute. You want to–” Her voice dropped. “–celebrate some more?”

Since I hadn’t driven, I told her I needed to find my friends, who were probably wondering where I’d disappeared to. That was fine with her. As we got up from the table, Camille sidled up next to me, a little unsteady. When she regained her balance, she still stood awful close. I debated internally for a second, then put my arm around her hip. She put hers around my waist without hesitation. We returned to the casino, and my friends were still at the poker table. Camille lit another cigarette, and stood, posed fetchingly, her arm around my shoulder.

She took a drag, turned her head to the side, and exhaled a stream through her lips. She held the More down by her hips, almost horizontal to the floor. Her fingers were close to the filter end, accenting its length. She looked great. And she was with me. “Hey guys, I’m leaving,” I said, trying to keep the gloat out of my voice. The woman with me caused a few eyes to roll. It was obvious which one of our casino-going group of bachelors had really hit the jackpot.

“So where to now, Camille?” I asked as we left, heading for her car. “Clubs are still open.”

“I’ve had enough to drink tonight,” she answered. “I was thinking more along the lines of–my place.” She swung herself in front of me and put her other arm around my neck. She looked into my eyes. I kissed her, very wet, very hot.

“Mmmmm,” she purred. “Definitely my place.” We kissed again in her car, long and deep. “I haven’t had sex in a long time–the divorce,” she panted. “I want to be fucked again.” I didn’t have any problems with that. We got to her place, and freshened up separately. When I got to the bedroom, she was lying on her back, exhaling slowly from a fresh More. The smoke drifted skyward, and she was watching the twisting pattern she created, altering it after a few seconds by changing the part of her lips. I was hard. “Hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“It’s been a while since I’ve smoked Mores, and I’ve been enjoying it.” She took another lazy drag and exhale. My cock twitched. She sat up on her side, looking at me, and drew again, exhaling slowly into the air. My cock grew a little more.

Camille noticed. “Dennis–are you one of those–smoking fetish guys?” I was so shocked that my erection shrank quite a bit. I blushed. “Really? Wow! My girlfriend told me about guys who get turned on watching women smoke, but I thought it was just people saying weird stuff on the computer that they could get away with.” Camille patted the bed. “C’mere,” she smiled, taking a quick drag. “Tell me about it. I really want to know. Do you like–buy videos of women smoking like some guys buy dirty movies?” I had had nightmares like this: being naked, in someone else’s home, with no easy way out, horny as all hell, and being questioned by the woman I picked up about my private fantasies.

Unfortunately, I was not going to be able to wake up and say this one was just a bad dream. She studied me a moment while I stood there, frozen, erection all but gone. “Dennis,” she began, her voice soft and gentle, “I’m not judging you. I really am curious, and I really do like you.” She took another drag, and throatily said, “And I really, really want to fuck you.”

I looked at the expression on her face. She was worried. The fear of being exposed to the world-at-large as a smoking fetisher began to lose its hold on me. Camille lay there, with a burning More between her fingers, and I decided that a woman who enjoyed smoking Mores couldn’t be all bad. I made the biggest decision of my life in less than five seconds. I sat down on the bed. She scrambled to a sitting position next to me. “Well… I like to watch women who smoke long cigarettes. I don’t know exactly why it turns me on, but if a woman smokes a certain brand in a certain way, it makes me really hot.” I took a deep breath.

Camille was still regarding me with interest. “Both the brand and the how it’s smoked–the style, I guess–are important, though. If either of them aren’t attractive, I don’t find it attractive.”

“So Mores, and the way I smoke them make you hot, huh?” she concluded. “Would Salem Slim Lights have made you hot?”

I said yes, but that the Mores looked more–elegant and did something extra for me. Camille nodded, and reached onto the night stand for another cigarette. She smiled. “Then it’s a good thing that I ran out completely.” She lit it, and began to smoke in the fashion she had been earlier, with slow, lazy, intricately sculpted exhales. She occasionally teased her breasts between puffs. I could see how turned on she was getting by smoking and turning me on. This was going to be a very interesting night.

We lay next to each other, our breathing having returned to normal. Camille reached for a More, but I tapped her gently. “No. Wait twenty minutes or so,” I said, looking at her purposefully.

“You mean–” I nodded. “In that case, hell, I can wait, Dennis. Eight months is an awful long time without any sex, let alone good sex. If I have to wait twenty minutes to smoke so you can get hard again tonight–” I saw her shiver. “I like this,” she said, eyes shining. “And I like you.” Camille leaned over and kissed me, hot, wet, and deep, leaving no doubt to her intentions.

The following Saturday, Camille and I went to buy her computer. We had talked on the phone daily during the week; it was evident to me that she wasn’t thinking of me as just a celebration fuck, and that she had a little more on her mind than that. Strangely enough, that didn’t scare me. She was a little disappointed that she’d have to wait a couple of days to get on the Internet herself, but I showed her some things through my account. She asked me about smoking on the net, and was very surprised at the amount of smoking-related things on the net listed by Yahoo. “I can order my cigarettes over the net???” Camille had smoked her normal brand, Salem Slim Lights, all day. I noticed that I had had an impact on her style, however. Her exhales were almost always leisurely and careful. She was paying a lot more attention to the act of smoking.

I cooked. After dinner, she was having a cigarette, looking at me in a very predatory fashion. “So, Dennis,” she said, taking a drag, and exhaling slowly, “tell me more about this fetish. What else other than long cigarettes gets you hot?” I told Camille that long cigarettes were far and away the most common ones I encountered. I mentioned holders, smoking stories, and the occasional cigar smoking woman. She came and sat on my lap. “Find me a holder, and I’ll smoke with it for you,” she purred, squirming a little, sending blood to my dick.

Camille smiled, hopped off my lap, and headed for the bedroom. It was barely dark outside. “But I don’t know about the cigars,” she called from the hallway. After we had finished round one, she sat next to me. “Just lie down there, Dennis. I want you to use your imagination for a minute.”

Curious, and spent, I agreed. “You like smoking stories, right? I’m going to tell you one about a little girl who liked smoking. And now that she’s a big girl, she’s just found a whole new appreciation for it.” Camille left the bedroom, and returned with cigarettes. She took one of the Mores out, and lit it. “I started smoking when I was twelve; my older sister was sixteen, and she was smoking behind our parents’ back. I caught her one day while my folks were gone overnight. She said she’d teach me how if I wouldn’t tell.”

“She smoked Salem Lights then. So I got used to menthol right away. I smoked whatever she smoked. Salems, Benson and Hedges Menthol, Merit Menthol, Virginia Slims menthol… she wasn’t that picky, so neither was I. When she left for college though, I was up shit’s creek, because she was my supplier. My mom’s Virginia Slims Lights went faster than they had been, and I got caught. I kept sneaking puffs from her butts, and any of my friends who smoked.” “When I was finally ungrounded, I went and bought my very first pack–Virginia Slims Lights menthol.

In school, a bunch of us smoked those–whoever had the money bought at the corner store–they never bothered with checking your age. One of my friends came back from summer vacation smoking Mores. I thought they looked so cool, brown and everything. I got my mom smoking them when I was seventeen. She gave up on making me stop.

I smoked them for a long time, about four years. I switched to More Lights for a little while, but they didn’t feel right, and looked too funny. I switched to Salem Slims Lights because one of my friends was smoking them kinda back-and-forth along with the More Lights. She said they were sorta like the More Lights, but a little smoother. I smoked Salem Slim Lights until I got free Virginia Slims Superslims menthol one night at a bar. I smoked a carton, but went back to my Salem Slim Lights.”

Camille looked at my growing erection. “I’d never thought about smoking anything extra long again–until I met you.” She had another More for the effect it had on me. Round two commenced immediately thereafter. “I’ll smoke whatever the hell you want whenever you want,” she moaned in my ear as she neared her climax.

That was a little over a year ago; we’re married now. I told you I made the biggest decision of my life in five seconds. Camille only smokes 120’s now, her favorites are Capri menthol and More White Lights menthol, but she switches occasionally “for a change of pace.” She sat at our reception table smoking a More menthol in a six-inch holder, while fondling my bulge discreetly under the table. Camille likes to excite me with the fetish; it also excites her. She smoked Capris and Mores on our wedding night, keeping me able well into the next afternoon. She thinks that any woman who smokes needs to understand the fetish– “you can smoke, or you can smoke,” she says. Camille learned how to french-inhale during our courtship, snap-inhales regularly now, and is a regular visitor to the fetish newsgroups.

She and I taught her shy, slightly overweight girlfriend Carol, the one who originally told Camille about finding the fetish on the net, how to smoke sexily. Carol smokes Virginia Slims Lights 120’s in a very intoxicating manner now, and she’s not shy any more. She’s also gotten a lot more popular. As for my wife, she prefers to keep it private, between us. But if you use your imagination, you can see her, dressed in black lingerie, a fresh, long cigarette between her fingers, exhaling with a lifted chin, and a dreamy, sultry expression on her face.