“W/we aren’t smokers. it could feel more performative and roleplay-y than if He was already big into cigars and it was a lived-in kind of service.”
“I do not care about stealing smokers’ valour. I will be wearing motorcycle leathers and she will be dressed as a sex doll, the performance is part of the fun. Something something Judith Butler.”
the scene idea starts as many do. He gathers His doll’s thoughts and fears, far enough in advance that her comfort and opinion aren’t an obvious factor by the time it’s happening. but there is one difference. now she has an active role.
she’ll pick out and prepare Maker a cigar for the high protocol night. she’ll research and select to His tastes. she’ll practice poise. all of her eager energy can be directed into a tangible act of devotion. a chance to impress and show off.
her quiet obsession is channelled through this service over the coming weeks. when the thought of His leathers pops into her head, she scours blogs for writings on cigar service. she asks more experienced subs for their advice. she watches videos on cutting and prepping. she asks questions at a cigar shop, and makes the selections.
“I hope your boyfriend enjoys the camping trip!”, the shop attendant says with a bright smile. her world gets a little bigger through His influence, even if she is getting smaller.
—
before the club, the usual fixations. her body in the mirror. double-checking the bag for everything she needs. scrutinising as she zips herself into the latex. He squeezes her split focus to a single hard point when His arms are around her.
He lays her down on the hotel room bed, pulling out the slip of temporary tattoos He has been teasing her with for the last few days - some reminders for the evening to add to her thighs. He has her point at the most suitable selections. Which ones feel particularly apt to her?
use me.
fuck me.
cum slut.
Owned.
one by one, they decorate her.
she is returned to the mirror, now looking with a stupid grin, vanishing to simple dollhood as she’s held there. He whirls her onto her knees, and takes a photograph showing off the accessories, with her mouth hung open, eyes blank and wanting. still woozy as she makes it back to her feet, she is given directions for the night.
she won’t be speaking unless asked a direct question.
Even then, she must ask for permission to speak.
she will look to the floor unless I direct her eyes upwards with My hand.
When she is kneeling, her arms are in ‘wait’ position with hands placed behind her head.
When she is standing, she will interlace her arms behind her back.
she will always wait for a command or permission before doing anything.
—
Him, in His leathers. her, sealed in purple latex. the doll believes it. she believes what He says eventually. He fixes the plastic cuffs around her latex mitts in the changing rooms, and stares at her until her brain quiets.
she follows, eyes fixed to His boots. downstairs in the bar, He directs her back onto all fours. it is so easy to lower herself now. she feels the cold of His glass on her butt cheek, hearing the ice clink as she settles into stillness and clarity, around other subs settling into their own roles. below another couch, a pup lying on his back. at the bar, a slave curled up by its owner’s feet. He picks up the glass and takes a sip. He brings her upwards. Then, He lets her place her head on the soft leather of His kneepads. sniffing and nuzzling in, she melts into blissful thoughtlessness until she is next needed.
—
in the courtyard, she admires two muzzled subs already deep in service at their dominant’s feet, as he enjoys a smoke. one maintains position while holding an ashtray. the other methodically works on his boots, first placing her tools neatly at his feet. then, unlacing them gracefully before cleaning. as she does, she pays careful attention to each new section: the soles, the eyelets, the tongue, and even the stitching. the competence is sexy. the doll feels a drive to impress as He takes a seat, and directs her to the floor across from them.
it is just a garden smoking area in a club, but the space has become sacred in the heightened air of high protocol. every movement is rich and alive. He unzips His jacket and removes the cigars.
Tell me what she has selected.
she talks through the decision. pleased, He opts for the cuban, and reaches into the inside pocket for the lighter.
looking down at her, knelt on the cold ground, He has her fetch a mat from inside - an unplanned break away from His eyes. walking away, she breathes deeply, thankful for the attention to her discomfort, thankful to be with Him. more breaths on the walk back, seeing the scene about to unfold as she approaches Him sat waiting.
—
cigar play has its own pace. it lasts for as long as the cigar is lit. there is nothing to do but focus on Him. W/we are good at focusing on each other. since O/our first day together, W/we have talked through body language. and here, knelt in front of Him, an opportunity to figure out a new dance together. two non-smokers, fiddling with the lighter, finding out what feels good.
He brings the light up, curling the cigar around as the flame catches. burning embers and smoke forming. she waits and watches, seeing in silence where she might be needed. He lets her hold the tray with her latex mitts, leans back, and watches her too. Him watching doll. Doll watching him.
she begins to well up as the moment undulates. the cool air on her exposed thighs. the scratchy dirt caught on her fishnets. the ache of stillness. all so visible in this state.
He smiles and takes a drag, blowing out smoke. she leans in, inhaling deep, pressing her chest into the cloud enveloping her. He is pleased.
a speck of ash falls to His leather trousers, and slowly, she brings herself down without breaking eye contact to lick it off. as seconds become minutes, she is down to His boots, eagerly worshipping. and then, back up to breathe in more of His air. a bead of ash is waiting to fall, and she catches it in the tray before resetting back to waiting. the cycle repeats. more watching and waiting. the world goes warm and soft watching His cigar and the wisps of smoke. behind it, a glint in His eye. He moves the cigar from side to side, trapping her in a cozy trance.
Held between My fingers…Smoked down…Carried away on the breeze…Reduced until she is gone…Every time I breathe in… and out… she disappears… more and more… Not to worry though. If all that’s left of her is a butt, I’ll still find a way to use it.
she lets out a slow, intoxicated giggle, as He blows another round of smoke in her face.
time escaping.
—-
the cigar is all used up. He puts it out in the waiting tray, before smearing the butt on His boot. she lowers herself down to clean the mess. as she returns to her knelt position, He opens her mouth with a gentle grip on her hood, and places the dead cigar end on her tongue. savoury. acrid. a little heat. endurable.
Good doll. He places the lighter back in His pocket, and offers a place on His lap.
later that evening, she will sob for Him during another familiar dance figured out through O/our bodies. here, in a puff of smoke, a new one is added to the repertoire.