Attention: Your Smoking Goddess Has Arrived! (HD)
I sit on the stairs in this stretch of midnight-black lycra, the fabric painted so tight over my heavy breasts that every slow breath makes them lift and swell against the deep neckline. The dress ends high on my thighs, clinging like a second skin to the curve of my ass, while my heels rest on the step below, ankles crossed, calves tight and glossy. Beside me the ashtray waits as I bring the cigarette to my lips and draw deep; the tip flares, heat blooming in my chest before I let the smoke curl out in a thick ribbon that drifts across my collarbones and between the tops of my tits. Smoking has always undone me. That first drag is pure heat and nicotine, a sharp little sting that travels straight down my spine and settles between my legs until I’m pressing my thighs together. I love the way the smoke tastes on my tongue, the way it makes my nipples tighten under the lycra until the fabric shows every hard point, the way it leaves my mouth slightly open and wet.
I take another slow pull, watching the way the dress rides when I arch, the way the material clings to the underside of my breasts. The smoke spills from my lips in a thick stream, and I catch some of it again before blowing it out in a deliberate cloud that hangs in the air in front of me. My skin feels warmer already, flushed from the nicotine and the pure, filthy pleasure of the act. I know how it looks—me in this painted-on dress, tits spilling, heels locked on the stairs, cigarette glowing while I breathe smoke like it’s something I need. The lycra has grown damp where it presses against my pussy; every drag makes the ache sharper, makes me shift so the seam rides against my clit. I love the contrast: the cool stair under me, the hot smoke filling my lungs, the tight fabric rubbing every time I move. Smoking doesn’t just look hot on me. It makes me wet. It makes me want to be watched while I do it, while the dress clings and my breasts rise and fall and the smoke keeps pouring from my mouth.
I finish the drag with cheeks hollowing, eyes half-lidded as the nicotine hits and my whole body softens into the sensation. The smoke leaves me in a thick, lingering exhale that drifts down over my cleavage, and I let the last of it curl from my lips while I grind my hips once, slow and deliberate, against the step. My breasts feel heavier, fuller, the fabric stretched and shiny where it’s stuck to my skin. The heels keep me arched, ass pushed out, thighs tensed. I rest the cigarette in the ashtray for a moment, then run my tongue over my bottom lip, tasting the last of the smoke. I’m flushed and damp and aching, the dress molded to every curve, my body still humming from the heat of it. Sitting here like this, smoking until I’m soaked through the lycra, heels locked and tits out, is exactly how I like to be seen.
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