Chapter Fourteen:
Boléro
Wankminster Central Hall was dark and silent, its occupants waiting with bated breath for the start of the final performance of Smoke-'n'-Fuck 2050. Fuxmy Gopal and her cameraman had returned to their posts at the rear, and the three judges were seated back at their table in the centre of the auditorium. A single spotlight picked out Harriet's face, her blond hair swept back so that her broad jaw and full red lips shone with allure. As the music started, softly at first, just some slow plucked violas and cellos, and a quiet but driving rhythm on the snare drum, the spot widened to reveal Harriet in a pink bikini, her large breasts straining against her top, her body slowly writhing in cunt-dripping anticipation. Her legs were clothed in thigh-high pink latex boots, spread wide on her stool to allow the audience to descry a small rectangular shape concealed beneath her pink gusset. There was a gasp of admiration as people recognised the form of the unseen flip-top box pressed tight against Harriet's cunt.
"Oh fuck, that's hot," breathed Fuxmy, her fingers straying to her own crotch as she watched. "Don't you think that's hot, Bill?" she whispered to her cameraman, who was in down-time mode, reading his copy of
Viz
and largely ignoring both her and the show. Harriet reached downwards with one hand to stroke the unseen packet of cigarettes up and down her vulva, as she fixed the judges at their table with a luminous fuck-me stare. It was clearly working: Dr Taylor's fat cock was already poking, stiff and hard, above the edge of the judges' table. On his left Danica was already absent-mindedly kneading her tits, and gently squelching the tip of her dildo against her fuck-lips; on his right, Zara had pulled up her pencil skirt and was sliding one finger smoothly in and out of her bald cunt.
A solo flute had begun to play, its melody sinuous and sensual, winding its way slowly downwards over the mechanical fuck-beat of the snare. Harriet's hands echoed the melody, curling, stroking, squeezing her genetically modified tits through her bikini top, then releasing them so that her swollen nipples protruded proudly over the cups. "Oh fuck, look at those tits," moaned Fuxmy, as she moistened the fingers of one hand and began gently rubbing her clit. Bill the cameraman continued to ignore her.
"Slowly does it, Harriet," Miss Poussée had said. "You want them gagging for you -- like you gag for a cigarette. You want them addicted to you -- even those who don't smoke. You want them to need to see your cunt, need to see you release that packet of cigs from your gash. So keep stroking your body, keep it sensual, at least till the clarinet begins."
Soon, the clarinet line was winding itself around the clockwork pizzicato pulse of the strings.
"Oh Janey, that's so fucking sexy!" Harriet had exclaimed the first time Janey had played it to her, her body writhing, her lips and tongue caressing the sultry fuck-me tune out of her instrument. We gotta use this piece: it's so fucking hot!"
"It's a classic," Janey explained helpfully, "by a French composer called --"
"Did he write it for people to fuck to?" Harriet interrupted.
"I don't think people wrote fuck-music in those days -- or at least they didn't admit it..."
Now Harriet's right hand was between her legs, sliding that unseen packet of smokes up and down her cunt. She could feel the cellophane rubbing against her pussy-lips, feel her fuck-juices gradually coat her cigarette packet. Seated at the back of the auditorium, Polly Poussée and Abdul Ahss-Faqr were watching their protégée proudly: she had her left hand wrapped reassuringly around his cock while his fingers gently massaged her vulva. The audience was moaning with appreciation, desperate for the moment Harriet would reveal her flaring cunt-lips, light a cigarette, and jerk herself off. But --
"Slowly does it," Miss Poussée had said. "OK, the clarinet solo is coming to an end, so slip your thong off, but keeping rubbing your cunt with that cigarette packet. The fetishists will love seeing you get off that way, the non-fetishists will still be gagging to see your cunt. Either way, you're onto a winner..."
As Harriet slipped out of her thong, another gasp rose from the audience -- not just at the glorious sight of Harriet's bald pink cunt, already wet and dripping from her cigarette-packet pleasuring, but at her packet of cigarettes itself. "Cameltoe No. 9 Pink 100s!" was the exclamation circulating in enthusiastic whispers among the smoking cognoscenti in the audience. Harriet smiled.
"I've had these specially commissioned!" Nurse Coxucca had announced gleefully, brandishing a packet, as Harriet bounded into sick bay one afternoon. "A re-creation of a brand specially made for the female market around the turn of the century!"
"Ooh, hot pink, like fucked-out cunt!" Harriet had exclaimed, as she examined the packet and peeled off the cellophane.
Nurse Coxucca laughed. "I think they were originally called 'No. 9' because that was the cloud they put you on."
"Let's see if they do!" grinned Harriet as she extracted one long white cigarette. "Oh look, there's the cameltoe!" she exclaimed, as she caught sight of the pink cunt logo on the filter, lit up, and took a long, deep, double drag. "Fuck, they're good!" she sighed through an upwards exhale...
"Oh Jesus motherfuck," Fuxmy whispered, as her own hand parallelled Harriet's flip-top box -- sliding in and out of her dark trimmed cunt, as in the seat next to her Bill was still enraptured by his
Viz
. Harriet was fucking herself now, stretching her cunt wide with her cigarette packet, feeling the cellophane caress her inner walls, feeling her fuck-juices coat it and dribble down onto her fingers. The bassoon was holding the tune, its timbre rich and reedy, the melody bluesy and dissonant, almost dirty, as Harriet's fingers painted a smear of cunt-juice onto her puckered asshole. And when the ecstatic squeal of the E-flat clarinet took over, Harriet opened her mouth wide in imitation, to silently announce her own pleasure, as the tip of one finger slipped gently within the rim of her shithole, while her other hand was still fucking the slimy packet of Cameltoe Pinks in and out of her fuck-gash.
You like seeing my Pinks up my pink?
sounded a voice. But it was not Harriet's; it was a recorded voiceover, feminine, but echoing deep, breathy and reverberant, layered across the musical soundtrack, but whirling around the auditorium in quadrophonic sound.
You like seeing my slimy box in my box?
it continued.
Both my boxes are pink and slimy: you wanna taste them?
"Fuck yes," panted Fuxmy, her tongue drooling -- while Bill continued to ignore everything going on around him. All three judges were rubbing themselves off at their table, any semblance of professional restraint long abandoned. Harriet smiled again to herself.
Good call, using Janey as the voice-over
, she thought.
Even I admit it...
"No no, Harriet," Polly Poussée had insisted. much to Harriet's annoyance. "We can't use your voice: it's far too girly! We need a voice which is sultry, mature. Now who do I know...?"
"Can I try, Miss Poussée?" Janey ventured meekly.
"You?"
Miss Poussée looked aghast at the skinny girl in pigtails.
"Well, I do a lot of acting," replied Janey, "in my am-dram group, you know? Here, how about this?" Janey took a deep breath, before reciting in a deep breathy voice, "'You like watching me smoke, pervs? You like watching me drag on this cigarette, like I'm sucking your big dick? I need to smoke, fuckers -- as much as I need to be fucked...'"
Miss Poussée's jaw dropped -- for suddenly Janey's voice had turned rich and resonant: mature, sensual, voluptuous, seductive. "Ohhh..." remarked the teacher, nodding with satisfaction, "that's good... Not just a pretty cunt then, eh, Janey?"
"Thank you, Miss..."
As the oboe d'amore commenced the reprise of the original flute melody, Harriet slipped her cigarette packet from her cunt, and her finger out of her asshole. "Smoke... smoke!" she could hear the audience egging her on in desperate whispers -- but it was not quite time for that. Instead she extended her tongue, licking her cunt-slime off the flip-top box before slowly, seductively peeling off the damp pungent cellophane and casting it nonchalantly toward the audience. Flipping open the top, she held the packet up to her mouth, extracting one long white cigarette hands-free and dangling it between her lips. Unclasping her bikini top to display her proud, glorious tits, she retrieved her pink cigarette lighter from where it had been nestling, hitherto unseen, in the warm cleft between her breasts, and flicked it. A collective gasp of anticipation erupted from audience and judges alike -- but Harriet was still teasing.
