Cigar (Vignette)

Cigar (Vignette)

My Mistress smokes cigars. One of these days it will be the death of me.

Mistress Leanne is very stylish. She dresses like a certain type of woman from the 1920s. She has short, wavy black hair, and wears black and white three piece suits with black and white spats.

I am her cigar bitch. I do not ape her masculine style of dress. She wouldn’t like that. I am usually naked when I am in her house, my cunt and breasts on display for her to caress – or abuse – whenever she desires. I get no say in the matter. I am only to speak when spoken to. This is her command and I obey.

At the moment I am kneeling submissively at her feet. We are in her study, with its mahogany desk and her leather-bound books and her jazz 78s and her old-fashioned phonogram. She is relaxing in an armchair with a fine Cuban cigar and a glass of Laophraig whisky. Ice clinks in the glass as she takes a sip. The scent of the cigar permeates the air. I have never liked cigars. I like them even less now.

She puts the whisky on an occasional table next to her chair, and picks up the cigar cutter. She places it over my nipple, my nipple where you would normally place the end of the cigar. My nipple hardens. She doesn’t say anything, but stares into my eyes. All that she would have to do is squeeze and my nipple would be gone. Sometimes she places her cigar cutter over my clit. My clit hardens then, too. I know that it is only a matter of time until she squeezes. But not today, for she places the cigar cutter back on the occasional table, next to the open box of Cuban cigars.

“Mouth.” she says. I open my mouth. She flicks the ash off the end of the cigar onto my tongue. It burns my tongue, as it has burnt my tongue many times before. I swallow the hot ash. Did I mention that I hate cigars?

She picks up her whisky and takes another sip. She raises one spat-covered foot to my face. I do not need a command to lick the sole. When I have cleaned one shoe I get to clean the other one.

“Mouth.” More hot ash is flicked into my mouth. She doesn’t need an ashtray when I am around. I swallow all of her ash, naked at her feet, nothing but an object.

The cigar is almost finished. She leans forward, and holds the cigarette about an inch away from my left nipple.

“Present.” she says. I put my hands behind my neck, my fingers clasped together. Then I lean into the cigarette. I stub it out with my nipple. She doesn’t move it. I have to do the action. I scream in pain. When I draw back the cigar is extinguished, and my nipple proudly wears a grey burn.

She puts the dead cigar into an ashtray on the table, one she never uses. She takes another sip of her whisky, before putting the glass down. Then she takes a second cigar out of the open box. I have a second nipple, after all.