Mrs Gillet-Rosseau and Smokey J’s untimely demise

SmokeyJ was no novice to the pleasures a woman could offer. By his seventeenth birthday he had had eight.... and each experience so different, so sweet, so empowering, it became a secret obsession of his. A cat and mouse game that fuelled him with purpose.

His persona, however, was one of a man who would never be so driven by the opposite sex, the outcome being that sex came to him. 

Complacency: the easiest way to get the girl.

As a result he punched well above his weight and left them bewildered, wet and broken - wondering how had this happened to them by him - yet ready to dart back to him at the snap of a finger; nipples hard and backs poised.

Returning from a day spent with Smokey J, blushing and ripe, they would rush to the bathroom, scrub the mud off and pick the leaves from their hair. At dinner they would sit with their families, the normal discussions wafting past them and they tingled all over and replayed the day over and over in their heads. 

Smokey would enjoy their adoration, play up to it. He would notice the effort they made with their hair, their clothes, he lapped up their wide-eyed curiosity as he regaled them with stories of himself. Yes he enjoyed it immensely, until they became a threat to his independence. An invitation to dinner, a rebuke for not being in contact for too long, a whispered I miss you. Tears were the tipping point, replaced by mews and moans as he fucked them away but she’d know the damage was done, they both did. He would politely and subtly drift away.  

Smokey J broke hearts, but could never be accused of mistreatment - he walked a fine line nonchalantly and, in later years, women would smile to themselves as they remembered him fondly. He had opened their eager young eyes, and thighs, and they had blossomed into the sensual little nymphs they had always suspected they might be.

Oh, Smokey.

He’d lost it to his father’s bosses wife, Mrs Gillet-Rousseau, when he was fifteen. He was tasked with driving her home from a dinner and her breath had smelt of champagne and caviar when she ordered him to stop the car and park up on the side of the narrow country road.

He remembers the smudged lipstick on her thin, upturned lips and the predatory nature of her glinting eyes sparkling in unison with her earrings.

She slipped one leg serenely across him, lifted her silky dress above her thighs and whispered in his ear, sit still. He didn’t need the command - all but one part of him was utterly paralysed in anticipation. The deep silence was interrupted only by the clinking of his belt buckle, hands pulling at fabric... he held his breath. Her lace knickers were deftly moved aside before she lifted herself onto him, and he sank into an unfamiliar warmth that he had spent so much time imagining. As she moved her hips forward and up, then back again, finding her rhythm, he found his hands sliding up her slim waist and upper back, the silken fabric enabling his fingers a smooth journey upwards until he was cupping her small breasts in his hands as she lent back against the steering wheel. Her dress began to stick to his palms as they both perspired in the night’s heat. He remembered the dense air in the car smelling sweet, like honeysuckle.

As her breathing broke out into cries of exultation, he experienced a familiar surge in his body, but with increased intensity at sharing it with another. In one deep thrust coupled with an unexpected yelp, it was all over. She lay across his chest, breathing heavily. For too short a time though, before he could absorb the moment she was back in the passenger seat, dress arranged neatly back across her thighs. She expertly lit two camels balanced in her mouth, and passed one to him. They sat in silence, inhaling and exhaling. He felt the new sensation of smoke entering his lungs and filling his body gradually, head rush replacing the previous intensity between his legs and calming his beating heart.

She wasn’t to know that in that car on that summer’s night in 1963, she would contribute to - maybe even be solely responsible for - Smokey J’s early demise at the hands of an insidious cancer born in his lungs and quick to invade his entire, captivating, body.

He hadn’t gone a day since that night without a packet of camels in his top-right shirt pocket, to which he regularly turned to fuel an addiction, fuelled by an experience, fuelled by Mrs Gillet-Rousseau.