Doing Charlotte, day 3

Wednesday

Charlotte grunted on her way to the bathroom, and that was all of her ‘Good morning’. When she came at the table, I could see that her hair was somewhat different, like the gold in it was beginning to tarnish. There was a grim set of her unsmiling lips. She skipped her cereals and orange juice, and just poured herself a large cup of coffee. I could see that she was sneaking glances at my cigarette above the rim of her cup. I made a show of my next inhale, opening my mouth and then snapping the warm smoke in my lungs.
“Mom, that’s just gross…”
Were her fingernails a little longer, too?
“It’s just a little game, dear,” I replied. “Part of the pleasure, you know.”
I kept smoking, making each gesture as slow and sensual as possible, having fun at the idea that the poor child was getting wet watching her conservative mommy double-pump on Newport Slims. Charlotte kept glancing at me.
“Another bad dream?” I asked.
She grunted, pouring more coffee.
“More smoking women?” I asked. ”Is that why…?”
I just waved my cigarette in the hair.
“I always hated your cigarettes,” she said.
Well, I thought, judging by the way you look at me, child, I think you are changing your mind.
“Yes, we talked about it in the past. But you were never so harsh.”
She shrugged. “It’s that I have trouble sleeping,” she said.
“You know,” I said innocently, “I was thinking, could it be the job is getting at you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I guess it’s stressful, and frustrating. You said so yourself last night.”
“I didn’t mean…”
In the next half hour, she made a weak attempt at defending the value of her social work while I pushed some more on her frustration and restlessness. Soon her defenses collapsed, and she was agreeing with my views, a morose scowl on her sad good girl face. She did not care at all that throughout most of our conversation I had been blowing smoke in her face. She was only building up a nice head of self-directed pent up anger.
She left for work slamming the door, and I considered it a personal success, to be celebrated under the shower, with my oversize black dildo.



My self-gratification over, I stood naked in front of my full-length mirror and I started chewing on my nicotine gum. Then I lit one of the magic cigarettes and took a very deep drag.
It was like being hit in the head with a brick. I staggered and multicolored bubbles danced in front of my eyes, and when my head cleared, I just spent one minute staring at the mirror.
Oh, it was still basically me, in my gray-haired, bland, old tired secretary mode. Only, I was neither tired  nor bland. My gray hair was shaped in a short, aggressive cut, with black highlights that gave it a salt-and-pepper look. The short hair framed a perfectly made-up face, my lips a dark maroon and my eyelids painted in shades of gold and chocolate. I was wearing a black skirt and cream blouse ensemble, but the skirt was pretty tight and underscored nicely my thighs and ass, while the blouse gave much more than a hint at my cleavage, and let the black lace push up bra show. A pair of cat’s eye glasses rested on my boobs, hanging from a silver chain around my neck. Black seamed stockings and kitten pumps, and a fine golden anklet, completed the sexy librarian look.
I started laughing, turning around and inspecting myself. Things were getting more interesting by the day.

#

I spent the afternoon in my new skin. I did a quick review of my wardrobe, and decided at least one third of the stuff could be given away to charity. Already my rocker goth selection occupied half my wardrobe, now it would be nice to have two or three classy whore outfits for when I was pulling my gum and cig trick.
I filled two big bags with stupid sweaters, sad blouses and nondescript skirts. I added a few pairs of shoes and most of my so called lingerie.
I left on my way to the bus station, and then I thought I just couldn’t. Apart from the big bags, I was too fucking classy for the bus. I flagged a cab and asked the driver to take me to a thrift shop.
“Which one, miss?” the guy asked.
His eyes were reflected in the rear view mirror, but he soon twisted it to get a better view of my tits.
“The farthest away you know,” I told him, shifting position and squaring my shoulders. I cupped my left boob in my hand. “Let’s make this ride last a while. Mind if I smoke?”
He grinned. “You’re welcome, miss!” he said.
The ride took twenty minutes.
“Wait here,” I told him, leaning in the side window, and offering him a closer look at my rack.
I walked into Kenny’s Trading Post carrying my two bags.
A middle aged guy behind the counter, probably Kenny, greeted me genially. Madam,” he said.
I lifted both bags on top of the counter. “I’m cleaning house,” I told him, “and I have these old clothes that have been in an old closet for ages.”
“You’re in the right place, madam. What would it be?”
“Pardon?”
“Cash or a trade? Trading, you get more value.”
I looked around. The place was a mess, with all sorts of junk arranged in no particular order, and the walls covered with clothes racks and shelves loaded with books and CDs.
“Trade,” I said.
He looked at the bags. “Getting you a price on this stuff will take time…”
“I’ll be looking around.”
I spent over two hours browsing the wares, and finally came to the counter with a big stack of X-rated DVDs, a dozen heavy metal CDs and a nice pile of old dirty books. Pure lesbian smut paperbacks. I threw in also two big fat books about Wicca. Kenny did a double take, and eyed me with open curiosity.
“We all need a hobby, don’t we?”
“I guess so.”
In the end, the balance turned out to be in my favor, and so I also got enough money to pay for the cab.
“I thought you had done a runner from the back door, miss,” the cabbie said.
“Really?”
He laughed. “No, Kenny doesn’t have a back door. Where to, now?”
I smiled in the mirror. “What about a nice quiet place where you can actually squeeze’em?” I said.
He turned. “Are you pulling my leg?”
I wet my lips. “I’m pretty sure there’s something better to pull from your trousers.”
With a low whistle, he started the engine.

#

Being fucked in the back of a cab was a new experience, and pretty dirt fun all things considered. We parked in a back alley, and the cabbie radioed his company he was taking a break. Then he climbed in the back.
“My name’s…”
“I want to fuck you, not write you a letter,” I growled, putting his hands on my tits. From that moment on, he needed very little encouragement.
I sat astride him and put my hands on the car top, pushing down as he thrust up. It was now normal for me to have somebody’s head between my tits while screwing, and the guy’s unshaven cheeks on my sensitive skin sent shivers down my spine. The suspensions were squealing and very soon I started squealing too as I rocked and bucked in response to his increasingly violent thrusts. The idea of somebody passing by and catching us rutting made me feel incredible. Finally he came with a strange gurgle, and close after him I orgasmed with a loud obscene moan.
“Shit, I needed it!” I said, pushing my sweat soaken salt-and-pepper bangs from my brow. I sat by him and he offered me one of his Camels.
The smoldering cigarette hanging from his lower lip, the cabbie stretched forward through the sliding division glass, and pushed a button on his taximeter.
“What are you doing?” I asked. He looked silly, stretched like that, his hairy bum wiggling in front of my face.
He sat back with a sigh. “Miss, you gave me such a wonderful ride, the least I can do is offer you a ride myself.”
I smiled, throwing the cigarette stub out of the window.
“A true gentleman,” I said.
He placed a hand on my thigh. “You are such a great screw, babe…”
He was stiffening again. I gave him a peg on his unshaven chin. “You’re sweet. Why don’t you fondle my tits while you fuck me in the ass, now?”

#

That evening I spent another two hours talking my increasingly cynical and disillusioned housemate further down the path to the Dark Side.
Charlotte had come home in a bad mood. She had walked into her room, and soon she had started slamming her closet’s doors. I had found her piling her clothes on her bed, but when I had asked her what the matter was, she had just told me she’d rather be alone.
Then came dinner.
“Are you putting up weight, dear?”
“What? No, I don’t think so…”
I dismissed the thought with a hand-wave. “Just an impression, then, like you’re getting into the family pear shape.”
She looked down at her plate. I had served a double portion of quiche.
“I’m not,” she said. “I thought you were checking which clothes still fit,” I said absentmindedly.
“I’m not growing fat!”
“It wouldn’t be anything wrong with that, of course,” I hastened to add, sounding false at my own ears. “And a more voluptuous figure would certainly make you look sexier.”
She was so eager to change the subject, that she told me about her problems at the office.
“It’s all just so empty!” she said. “And when you try and talk it out with the guys…”
She just shrugged in frustration. “Most people are assholes.”
She did not finish her quiche, and after dinner I put some New Order on the stereo, real low, and we sat on the couch and talked about the sad cases she saw every day at work. I started sneaking more darkness in the conversation and very soon Charlotte was working up a muted rage against the System, and what we had started to call ‘the lame-ass losers’ that had bought the idea that life was beautiful. I let her vent her anger, offering her suggestions, and painting her a very dark picture about life from the height of my middle-aged experience. I talked about lost opportunities, regrets and the shackles of conformity.
“It’s all so safe and bland, don’t you think? Like a lot of people were not really living…” I said.
“Yeah, going through the motions and playing happy.”
All the while I chained cigarettes and blew smoke in her direction. I was just great, playing my part, and she drank all my words up, and breathed my second hand smoke in without complaint. Later I watched her walk to her room, her spirit broken. I was so excited I went to my room for a very thorough masturbatory session, after which I sorted out my catches of the day. I placed the books and the DVDs at the bottom of my closet, and I put the CDs on the shelf behind the stereo, with the others.
Then, I sneaked again upon the sleeping girl and I administered her again my Nicotine Fairy Vampire medicine. She was again sleeping with her tits out, one hand cupping her left boob, the other tucked between her legs. Well well well…
I leaned in real close, this time, blowing a concentrated flume of smoke in her face. She drank it up, but soon she was stirring in her sleep, so I decided to limit the dose to one cigarette, and after setting her alarm clock two hours later than usual, I went to bed.