She still had you on her face. Thick ropes across her cheek, her chin, one strand catching the light as it stretched toward her collarbone. She didn't wipe it away. Let it sit there, cooling, claiming her skin while she looked at you and smiled.

The pack was fresh. American Spirits, the bl*e and yellow still crisp, the cellophane only recently torn. She worked one free with her mouth, still coming down from the effort of draining you. The cigarette came out perfect, unbent.

The lighter flared. She inhaled, the tip glowing, and her chest rose beneath the hot pink micro bikini top. The color matched her hair-exactly, deliberately, the same saturated magenta pulled up in pigtails that had bounced while she worked you. The same pink as her hoop earrings, swinging now as she turned her head to exhale.

She let the smoke drift. Watched you through it.

Now that she had extracted every last drop, now that your c*ck lay spent and twitching against your stomach, it was her turn.

Her free hand found the vibrator beside her. She turned it on and the sound filled the room, that familiar high b*zz, and she didn't tease herself with it. Pressed it directly to her clit, already swollen, already wet from her own effort and arousal.

The reaction was immediate. Her head dropped back, the pigtails swinging, and she moaned around the cigarette still held in her lips. The sound was real, unperformed, the vibration h*tting her where she needed it after all that focused work on you.

She adjusted the bikini top with her free hand. The triangles were small, barely covering her nipples, and she massaged one breast through the glossy fabric while the vibrator worked her below. Her hips rolled, seeking pressure, and she gasped. Smoke escaped with the sound, drifting upward.

She brought her head back up. Made eye contact through the haze. The c*m on her face had begun to dry, tightening her skin, and she didn't care. Held your gaze while she worked herself, the vibrator pressing hard, her fingers kneading her own breast.

The vibrator never leaving her clit, her movements jerky with the sensation. When she was inches from your face she stopped, positioned herself above you, and exhaled deliberately. The smoke h*t your face, thick and sweet, American Spirit tobacco and her breath mixed together.

She did it again. Inhaled deeply, the cigarette b*rning down fast now, and bl*w the cloud directly at you. Her eyes watered slightly-from the smoke, from the *rgasm building, from both-and still she held your gaze. Still she worked herself.

The first *rgasm h*t her without warning. Her body seized, the vibrator pressed hard against her, and she cried out around the cigarette. Her hips bucked, pressing into her own hand, and she didn't stop. Kept the vibration going, rode the wave into the next one, her moans coming faster now, desperate, greedy.

She was having them consecutive. Real ones, you could tell, the way she lost control of the smoke and it leaked from her nose and mouth in uncontrolled streams. She gasped for air between them, the cigarette forgotten for moments, then remembered, dragged on hard, exhaled in your face again.

The bikini top had slipped. One triangle barely covered her n*pple now, most of her breast exposed, and she massaged it harder, fingers finding her own n*pple, rolling it while the vibrator worked below. The pink of her hair had fallen across her face, stuck slightly where your c*m had dried, and she looked wrecked. Beautiful. Finished and still finishing herself.

She smoked like that for minutes. The cigarette b*rned down to the filter, and she lit another from the fresh pack without stopping the vibration, without stopping the roll of her hips. Each exhale directed at you, each moan escaping around the filter, each *rgasm making her body j*rk and shudder while she held your eyes and dared you to look away.

When she was finally done-when her clit was too sensitive and she had to pull the vibrator away, when her breasts were tender from her own hands, when the second cigarette had b*rned to nothing-she smiled at you.

The c*m on her face had dried in patterns. Her mascara had run slightly. The pink bikini top was askew, one n*pple peeking above the triangle, and her hair was a mess of pigtails and stickiness.

She held the cigarette between two fingers. Looked at it, then at you. The smile widened, something sharp in it now, something that had been absent during the performance.

She pressed the ember to your cheek.

The p*in was brief, shocking, and she held it there just long enough to mark you. Then the screen went bl*ck.

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