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All persons in this story are eighteen years of age or older. Names have randomly been chosen by the author. They do not represent real persons with the same name in real life.
I was supposed to be in my Social Studies class. Instead, I was sat outside the headteachers office, expecting to be expelled from school, or at least suspended.
That damn Mr. Horsham from the Biology department was a constant pain in my arse throughout school. Even now, as an eighteen-year-old sixth former, with only three months left before I finally left school forever, the busy body was out to get me, I was sure of it.
The headteachers door opened. "Miss Pippa Jenkins," Mr. Johnson called me, with that authoritarian tone of his, and that strict stare in his eyes.
Mr. Johnson was a tall, slim, grey-haired man with a grey moustache. He was close to retirement, and he had the openness of a prison. Nobody dared mess about in his presence. He rarely dealt with students, unless they were either promoting the school's image, or in deep, deep shit.
"Yes, Sir," I replied meekly.
Mr. Johnson sighed. "In you come."
All five foot five inches of me stood up. I was wearing the schools grey pleated skirt with the white blouse tucked in, and black shoes with knee length grey socks. I tightened the ponytail holding my long brown hair, then followed Mr Johnson into his office.
"Please close the door and take a seat."
With a deep breath I closed the door, smoothed down my skirt and took the seat in front of the headteachers desk.
As Mr. Johnson sat opposite me in his executive office chair, reading the report in his hand, behind his immaculately organised desk, despite having so many files, papers and personal belongings on it, I slid my hands nervously together in my lap, interlocking my fingers.
"Sit up properly, Miss Jenkins. Sixth formers don't slouch," he told me off, without breaking his attention from the report. This man didn't miss much, if anything at all.
I cleared my throat and pulled my shoulders back. Mr. Johnson dropped the report onto his desk and stared at the bulging bust at the front of my white school blouse.
"That's better. That's how a lady should sit," he said, straight faced as his gaze travelled slowly up to meet my eyes. "So, Pippa, it says in your report that you're a straight A student. An excellent listener and contributor in the classroom. Yet it seems you have a problem following our no smoking policy."
"I wasn't smoking on school grounds, Sir." I sounded so weak and guilty.
"You were seen smoking for the third time this term outside the school gates. In school uniform under the school sign. That is not the image I, my staff, or the board of school governors want portrayed by our students."
"I can only apologise and promise it will never happen again, Sir. I didn't realise smoking outside the school gates was still out of bounds."
"Mr. Horsham warned you the previous two times he caught you smoking. He promised me he had you under control. Now here you are, sat in front of me inside my office when we both have more important things to be getting on with."
I dropped my head, fearing the worst. Being expelled for smoking was a real possibility, even for a sixth former, legally old enough to smoke. The school policy was clear on that. It was my own fault. Although a suspension was the most likely outcome. Maybe a week or two. I hoped for the best.
To make matters worse, my mother was yet to discover I was smoking. That in itself didn't worry me too much, she was a smoker herself, but it would break her heart to find out this way. Plus, there was all the consequences that came with being expelled three months before my final exams.
"Sit up, Pippa! I said no slouching!" Mr. Johnson sounded frustrated. "Do you want to be suspended or expelled from this school with only three months until you sit your final exams?" He read my mind.
"Of course not, Sir," I swallowed hard, feeling uncomfortable as his gaze flickered between my eyes and bust.
"Lucky for you, Pippa, I understand why young people smoke. It's foolish, expensive and it will likely kill you in the end, but nonetheless, I understand."
Confused suddenly, trying to work out if I was going to be expelled, suspended or let off with a final warning, I sat up straight with my hands still locked together and listened intently.
Mr. Johnson rose slowly from his chair, like a powerful king rising from his throne seat, about to decide the fate of one of his peasant subjects. He walked towards his office door. I heard it lock. Then he walked round the back of me towards his office window. He opened it but tilted the blinds upwards, so we could see out, but nobody could see in.
"Unlike Mr. Horsham, and in spite of the no smoking policy I wrote and implemented here at the school, I do have a soft spot for smokers, particularly young, female smokers."
With my nose and forehead now scrunched up, as my brain tried to process what Mr. Johnson istanbul travesti was saying, he returned to his chair.
"I think with so much at stake for you, Pippa, I think we could come to some sort of arrangement."
"Forgive me, Sir, but I don't understand."
Mr. Johnson sat back in his chair, tapped the tips of his fingers together and sighed at the window.
"I'll let this go one last time, so long as you promise me you will not smoke in sight of this school again, and ..."
"You have my word, Sir!" I thrust forwards in my chair, hopeful of a final reprieve. I felt my boobs bounce and Mr. Johnson looked down at my chest.
"And I'd like you to do something for me," he finished what he started saying, before I had rudely interrupted him.
"I ... I ... ur ..."
"I want you to smoke a cigarette right here in my office. I want to watch you smoke a cigarette, Pippa."
My eyes widened like saucers and my heart started pounding as I fell back in the chair. The tone of his request was a serious as the tone since I walked into his office. Surely, he didn't just say that I thought.
"Or I can contact your mother for a meeting with the board of school governors to decide your fate."
"Are ... are you blackmailing me, Sir?" I muttered.
"Be very careful with your tongue, Miss Jenkins, you're on very thin ice here."
I gulped, clicked my stiff neck and exhaled an anxious breath.
"I just don't understand, Sir. You want me to light a cigarette in your office and smoke in front of you? I'm confused."
Mr. Johnson grinned, showing compassion perhaps. "Are you carrying cigarettes in your bag?"
"Yes, Sir," I nodded.
"Take them out."
Shocked and confused, I bent over in my chair, unintentionally giving my headteacher a view down my blouse as I unzipped my school bag. My hands began to tremble when I collected the green and white packet of Marlboro Menthol and the matching green lighter.
"Very nice, Pippa," he grinned again. I realised he was referring to whatever he managed to catch a glimpse of down my blouse. My white bra and a hint of cleavage most likely. Only the top button was undone on my blouse, I felt certain he couldn't have seen much. "I see that you smoke menthol cigarettes. A popular choice among young ladies." He sounded pleased.
Mr. Johnson unlocked and opened a drawer on the right side of his desk. "You'll need this of course," he said, taking out a clean, black marble ashtray and placing it down in front of me.
"Do you have any lipstick inside your school bag, Pippa?"
I frowned; this was getting weirder by the second. "No, Sir. Lipstick isn't allowed in school. Your rules." I spoke very mindful of my tone.
"Then you shall use this," he replied, producing a stick of Chanel rogue, red lipstick. "This was confiscated last week from another student," he smirked.
What the fuck? The headteacher was turning out to be a right weirdo.
"Put the lipstick on, Pippa. You can remove it in the girls toilets after this meeting."
A meeting? Is that what this was. He could have fooled me. But then so what if Mr. Johnson had just revealed himself to be a complete pervert. All I had to do was wear the lipstick and smoke a cigarette in his office, and then I was free to go about my business without repercussions.
I took the lipstick from his hand. I flinched and he grinned when our fingers touched. I then removed the lid and twisted the red stick upwards.
Focusing on the lipstick in my hand, my attention was drawn to the sudden shallow breathing coming at me from across the desk. I wondered if my headteacher had a hard on at this point. I smiled, holding back a giggle, then I bent over again and pulled my phone from my bag.
"A mirror," I told him.
"Of course," he tipped his head with another grin.
Turning my camera to selfie mode, I stared at my reflection for a moment before I pressed the red tip against the centre of my top lip. I then began to apply the lipstick, watching through my phone, my lips turning a bright, sexy red.
I could see out the corner of my eye that Mr. Johnson was enjoying this. His eyes were lit up and he was smiling wide. Despite appearing calm and in control of myself, my heart was racing.
I should have slyly turned my camera phone to record. What damming evidence that would have been for his precious school image.
I finished coating my soft lips and swapped the lipstick for one of the tissues poking out of the box of Kleenex on the desk. Mr. Johnson continued watching me, his smile turning into a deep grin when I gently squeezed my lips together over the tissue, removing any excess product.
Mr. Johnson then stopped grinning, his face turned tense with anticipation as I casually flicked open the Marlboro packet and pulled out a cigarette with my thumb and index finger pinching at the filter. I realised I did actually need one.
"All white," he murmured, a little creepy.
Weirdo, I thought again, then placed istanbul travestileri the filter between my lips and lit the cigarette.
Mr. Johnson's eyes were full of excitement. He seemed to capture every little detail, from the moment I took the first drag and inhaled, to the end of that moment when I exhaled and flicked the ash into the marble ashtray.
Every time I inhaled, he would glance at my chest, watching my bust rise. Every time I exhaled, he would study my lips and sigh aggressively.
It was the strangest experience of my life. I knew he was sexually aroused, especially with the lipstick staining the white filter. That seemed to capture his attention the most. But as he was the headteacher, and we were in his office doing something that would get him into more trouble than me, I began to relax slightly and concentrate on the calming effects I always got from smoking.
As Mr. Johnson's breathing increased, and he fought to keep it under control, I sat up in the chair, crossed my right leg over my left and tried to imitate how my mother smoked. She always made smoking look so natural and right.
I could see my efforts were exciting my headteacher. I glanced at the long school photo on the wall behind him when I drew on the cigarette, then my eyes would glance down at my crossed legs when I inhaled, before finally I would meet his gaze when I exhaled to the side of us and flicked the ash.
I knew I was performing for him, or rather he had coerced me into performing for him. I was doing my best, but I knew I wasn't smoking as elegantly as my mother. I tried not to think about it too much as I smoked the cigarette, because if I did, it made me feel anxious.
Mr. Johnson remained firmly seated opposite me. He didn't move, he just stared and breathed heavily through his nostrils. The only real change I detected, apart from his breathing, was the intention in his eyes.
It went from being in control at the start, to excitement when I agreed to smoke, then back to control again. But the control was as if he was fighting to control himself. And now, as I reached the second half of the cigarette, his eyes displayed very deep sexual intentions.
It was a look I'd seen before, leading up to sex. The same look I received from boys and men in the street who took a fancy to me, but not a look I'd ever noticed whilst smoking a cigarette.
Whilst I continued to smoke, Mr. Johnson finally broke the awkward tension in the room.
"How long have you been smoking, Pippa?"
"A couple of months I guess, Sir."
"It shows," he smiled.
"What do you mean, Sir?"
"Your inexperience is evident but pleasing all the same. "Do your parents smoke?"
"Yes, Sir, but I only live with my mother," I answered as I exhaled.
"But she wouldn't be too happy if I were to call and inform her that you breached the schools no smoking policy?"
"No, Sir," I gulped, before taking one of the few drags I had left. "She doesn't know I smoke." A lecherous, sinister grin appeared across his face.
"How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?" he questioned deeper, stealing another glance at my bust.
"Depends, Sir," I shrugged, then took a deep drag and inhaled, giving Mr. Johnson another moment to admire whatever aspect he was admiring. "Maximum of ten a day, Sir," I answered, as I exhaled.
"And how can you afford such sinful luxuries?"
I took another drag, really enjoying the cigarette in these strange and forbidden surroundings. The nicotine was pleasurably satisfying. The teasing of my headteacher was frighteningly arousing.
"From my part-time wages, Sir," I answered again.
"Does your mother smoke?"
"She does, Sir," I replied, taking another deep drag.
"I bet that is a pleasant sight indeed. Two beautiful women smoking together. Mother and daughter."
Wow, I thought. Imagine the board of school governors getting a load of this scene and conversation. I smiled, inhaled and then stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray.
"You're to report to me at the end of each day for a week. You will smoke a cigarette here before going home. Do you understand?"
"And if I don't?" I squirmed, wishing I hadn't tested him as I gathered my things.
"You will, Pippa. Now go and remove that lipstick and return to class. And do something about the smell of cigarettes on your uniform. That'll be all."
"I have perfume and chewing gum," I said, as he walked me to the door and unlocked it.
"Good girl," he nodded. "I'll see you on Monday. Ten past three sharp!"
"Yes, sir."
After school that evening I was laying on my bed, sexually frustrated and craving a cigarette. The two worst things imaginable for me. My hand was inside my pink shorts, resting on top of my pubic mound over my white knickers, while my mind relived the bizarrely exciting episode in Mr. Johnson's office.
At school I now had a kinky headmaster giving me permission to smoke in his office. Yet at home I had a mother who didn't travesti istanbul know I was smoking.
It was the start of the weekend, and I was skint. Not a penny to my name until I got paid the following week from the part-time job I had at the local supermarket.
I climbed grumpy, annoyed from my bed, and went to check on my mother, hoping she was ready to leave.
She was downstairs in the kitchen smoking a cigarette when I entered the room and sat opposite her. She looked beautiful as always.
She was wearing a red cocktail dress, ready for her dinner date with her boyfriend Bobby. Her long, wavy, brown hair and makeup were pristine. Her full red lips matched the dress. She also had the whole MILF cleavage thing going on, that my male friends often teased me about.
"Your mum is hot as fuck, Pippa!" They'd tell me. "She's a proper MILF!"
"Whatever," I'd say.
"Evening, love," my mother exhaled away from me. "Are you not going out with the girls tonight?" she asked, nodding at my loungewear t-shirt and shorts.
"No," I sulked. "I'm going to catch up on some school assignments. I don't get paid until next week."
I watched my mother, like the seasoned smoker she was, drawing languidly on her half-smoked cigarette. My gaze burnt as intently as Mr. Johnson's when she sucked on the cork filter. I continued to stare, fascinated, as she pulled her hand away from her mouth, flicked the ash into the tray on the kitchen table and exhaled a thick plume of smoke towards the open back door.
"The hard work will pay off on results day," she smiled. "And I don't mind lending you some money."
"It's ok," I shrugged, not actually too bothered about going out."
As my mother drew on her cigarette, my eyes were suddenly drawn to the silver packet of Lambert and Butler cigarettes on the table. They were open with the lid folded back, lifting the packet up slightly. A tingle shot up my spine and my back arched in the chair, just like the packet of cigarettes.
"Is everything ok, love?" she asked.
I bit down on my lower lip, anxiously. "Mum," I began, with my legs bouncing under the table, as an exciting idea popped into my head
"Yes, love,"
"You know you always say I can come to you with anything," I paused again, clutching my hands together on the table.
My mother glanced at my twitching hands and then back to meet my gaze. "Yeeeees," she responded slowly, dragging out the yes with suspicion that she wasn't going to like what I was about to say.
"Well, there's no real easy way to say this, but ..."
"You're pregnant!" my mother gasped in horror.
I immediately sat up; my eyes wide from my own shock. "No!" I exclaimed. "Bloody hell! What made you think that?"
"What else am I supposed to think! You coming in here all nervous. Twitching and fidgeting! You're taking that pill every day without fail, aren't you?"
"Yes! Now stop it. I'm not bloody pregnant! I promise you!"
My mother relaxed and drew the final drag from her cigarette. I waited for her to exhale and stub it out.
"Go on, Pippa, I'm all ears," she said. I knew she was wary now, using my name in that tone.
I cleared my throat. "I've started smoking." I waited for her response.
My mother chuckled. "You what?"
"What's so funny," I frowned.
"I wasn't expecting to have the smoking conversation like this. I already knew you were smoking, Pippa."
"You did? Since when?"
"Since I started smelling it on your school uniform. Since I found a lighter in your skirt pocket," she grinned, taking pleasure in having busted me weeks ago.
"Why didn't you say something? You mean to say I've been suffering in my bedroom all this time and you knew?"
"Don't get cross with me, young lady. I'm the one who is supposed to be angry here," my mother laughed. "But that would be very hypocritical of me sitting here smoking a cigarette."
"So, you're cool with me smoking then?"
"I didn't say that." My mother stopped laughing and raised her eyebrows at me.
"I'm serious, mum, I need to smoke openly now, and I want you to teach me how to do it properly. You know, smoke the way you do."
My mother blinked and shook her head, not quite believing what she was hearing.
"You want me to teach you how to smoke a cigarette properly?" She sought to confirm my request with her eyebrows raised again.
"Yeah. I'm eighteen. It's not illegal or anything," I stated, matter of fact.
"Yes, you are, but you're also my daughter, Pippa. I don't want you smoking, and what do you mean by learning to smoke properly? Is there a guy I don't know about?"
"No guy!" I froze for a moment, my mind cast back to the afternoon at school. "But yes, partly because my friends do. I've been smoking socially for about a month now. But you look so sophisticated when you smoke. So natural!" I ended by showing my frustration again.
"You'll regret it," she warned me. "I smoke the way I do through years of regrettable experience."
"So why don't you quit then?" I said, perplexed.
My mother chuckled. "Don't be so naïve, Pippa. As you continue to smoke your tolerance for it will increase. You think you'll be able to quit when you want to, but you'll never really want to."