THE STORY (This set-up is pretty long and has not much smoking or talk of smoking. I like realism in my smoking fetish stories and I think a long or detailed set-up adds to that. I want you to read this and think it really did, or could, happen. The smoking stuff comes in Part II) Out of all of my mom’s friends, Staci was the sexiest. I’m not good at describing woman. Don’t ask me why. The best way for you to get a mental picture of her is to go to Southern Charms website and look up “Bliss”. She is the spitting image of Staci in 1980. I turned 13 in the spring of 1980. I was an only child living with my divorced mom. Staci had worked with my mom for years at some insurance company. Although they were friends at work, they never really hanged out until Staci got divorced in 1978. Mom and her would go out a lot on weekends and at least once a week she’d hang out with mom at our house. Unlike most of Mom’s friends, who had known me since I was a baby, Staci always talked to me like an adult. She was the only adult who would use swear-words when talking to me. Mainly just “sh*t” or (when discussing her ex-husband) “asshole,” but in my mind that was like her treating me like an equal. Sometimes I would watch TV with them or play cards, but mostly they would sit at the kitchen table with a bottle of wine and talk while I was off doing my own thing. And whenever Staci was leaving and I was in my room or something, she would always look for me to say good-bye. None of Mom’s other friends ever did that. She was also the only one of Mom’s friends that I didn’t refer to as a Mrs. She was always just Staci. Needless to say, I had a huge crush on Staci. And she wasn’t even a smoker. Well, not really. A few times, after having 3 or 4 glasses of wine, she would bum one of Mom’s Kent’s (yuck) and smoke with her. A side note: Mom smoked, and I’m sure that deep down it is the root of my fetish. But Mom’s smoking was not a turn-on in any way. I suppose that is why I never even thought of swiping one of her Kent’s to try while masturbating. Staci smoking, however, was quite a turn on, even though it was a Kent. She never had more than one on a given night, but when she did it was fantastic. Like the models in the magazines, Staci didn’t look like a smoker. Whenever Staci showed up with one of those jugs of Ernest and Julio Gallo Rosé, I made sure to stay near-by. Around the beginning of 1980 we started to see a lot less of Staci. She had gotten her real estate license, quit the insurance company and opened her own small real estate office. Mom and her would still go out on weekends a couple of times a month, but she didn’t hang out at the house too much any more. I missed seeing her, but there were still a few smoking ladies that I saw from time to time that were subjects of my fetish. Friend’s mothers and our neighbor Linda (she smoked More 120s and her husband’s Cigarillos.) As summer approached in 1980 I expressed interest to my mom about getting a job. I tried a few places but no one wanted to hire a 13-year-old boy for anything other than mowing lawns. I hate mowing lawns. One morning after she had gone out with Staci, mom asked me how the job hunt was going. “Not good,” I said. “I told Staci about you wanting to work this summer and she said she might have something for you.” I was about to say I wasn’t interested in mowing her lawn, then thought that might not be so bad. “Yeah?” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “Yeah,” Mom answered before lighting a Kent, “She said to call her today to talk about it.” “Uh-huh,” I answered, still feigning disinterest. “Her number’s in the book,” mom said while exhaling, “It won’t hurt to call and see about it.” “We’ll see.” We left it at that. For some reason I wanted to wait for Mom to go to the store before I called Staci. At around 2 Mom left to do her shopping and as soon as her car was out of the drive-way I got our little phone directory and called Staci. “Hi Staci,” I said when she answered on the other end. “Carole?” Staci asked. Carole is Mom’s name. I almost hung up. It wasn’t the first time one of Mom’s friends had mistaken me for her on the phone. “Uh- no. It’s Joey-“ I was about to say Carole’s son when she interrupted. “Of course. I’m sorry. I just washed my hair and I still have some water in my ears.” I knew she was just saying that to keep from embarrassing me, but it fealt good to know she cared. “That’s okay,” I said, enjoying her voice again. “Your mom says you’re looking for a job this summer,” she chirped, “And as it turns out I could really use some help.” I was fully expecting her to ask me to mow her lawn once a week, and was totally shocked when she didn’t mention yard work at all. “You know I opened a real estate agency a few months ago?” she asked. “Uh-huh,” I replied, not sure where this was going. “Well,” she continued, “I’m just getting on my feet so it’s just been a one-woman operation so far. It’s a little overwhelming” She made an attempt to sort of laugh, then paused for a while. I wasn’t sure, but it kind of sounded like she was crying. I was about to say something when she broke the awkward silence. “Oh Joey,” she sighed. “Yes Staci,” I said, trying to sound as reassuring as a 13-year-old boy can. “I’m gonna be honest with you,” she said, regaining her composure, “More honest than I was with your mother last night when I told her my new career was going great. I hate to ask you to lie to your mom, Hon, but-“ “You can trust me,” I interrupted, feeling a little guilty that her confiding a problem to me built up my ego, “and Mom’s at the store.” “I know I can trust you, Honey,” I could almost hear her smile. Her calling me ‘Hon’ and ‘Honey’ sounded pretty nice. “I told your mom I’d sold 3 houses already and was about to close on a fourth. I don’t know why I lied. I guess I didn’t want her pity. Also…” “Yeah?” I asked. “Oh, nothing. It’s just…” “Anything you ever say to me will always be just between us,” I proclaimed, “Sometimes we build up things inside us and they just eat at you until you say them out loud to someone.” “You’re pretty smart for a twelve year old,” “I’m thirteen now,” I reminded her. “That’s right,” she said, “You are. Thirteen going on thirty. You’re very bright. That’s why I thought of you when your mom told me you needed a job.” I had forgotten all about the job at this point. “The main reason I lied to your mom last night about doing so well is because I didn’t need to hear another ‘I told you so.’” “What do you mean?” I asked. “When I decided to quit my job at State Farm your mom really tried to talk me out of it. Everyone did. My parents. My co-workers.” “Your ex-husband,” I added. “The Asshole? No, he didn’t try to talk me out of it. He just mocked me when I told him. He said I wouldn’t last six months. As a matter of fact your mother said the same thing.” “I’m sorry,” I said meekly. “Honey, you don’t have to be sorry for anything your mom said. Besides, she wasn’t saying it to be mean, like the Asshole. She was just trying to look out for me.” “Anyway,” she said, as I was again wondering about the job, “You’re probably wondering about the job I want to offer you.” “Uh- yeah,” I chuckled, “I actually was.” “Well like I said, I’ve been doing everything myself. The expense of starting up a business with no business coming in has made it impossible for me to hire a secretary. At least secretary who needs to support herself.” “You want me to be your secretary?” “Well,” she sounded a little embarrassed,” Yes.” I couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed for me, a 13-year-old boy, being asked to do a job traditionally done by women, or for her, a grown woman, having to ask a kid to be her secretary. I didn’t care. “Sure,” I said quickly, in case she wanted to take it back, “I’ll do it.” “Hold on,” she laughed, “Don’t you want to know what it pays?” “You don’t need to pay me. I want to help you.” “That’s very sweet Honey, but it’s not a job unless you get paid.” “But you said you couldn’t afford to pay someone,” I reminded her. “No,” she corrected, “I said I couldn’t afford to pay someone who needed to support themselves. I can pay you minimum wage. Under the table, too” “What’s that mean?” I asked. “It means you get it all and Uncle Sam gets nothing.” “Oh,” I said, pretending to fully understand, “When do I start?” “You sure are eager,” she laughed, “When do you get out of school?” “Next Thursday.” “Then how about the Monday after that?” “Sounds great,” I was beaming now, “What time?” “Nine sound good?” “Sure,” I replied, “Until when?” “Well, that’s the tough part. Usually until five, but sometimes later. Just Monday through Friday. I’ll be okay by myself on Saturdays. And then, hopefully, by the time summer ends I’ll have sold some houses and I’ll be able to hire someone.” “I don’t mind working Saturdays,” I said, not minding six days a week with Staci.” “I don’t want to take your whole summer,” she answered. “I don’t mind. Really.” “Well, we’ll see, Hon.” I could think of a lot worse thing than spending my summer with Staci calling me ‘Hon’ all day long. “Does my mom know what this job is?” Staci than went on to tell me that she had explained the whole thing to Mom the night before. She also told me that she had lied to Mom and said that her secretary was having a baby and that she didn’t want to get a temp for just three months and let her go. I agreed to go along with the lie and Staci apologized for that. As soon as Mom got home I told her that I was going to work for Staci. They talked on the phone that night and arranged my transportation. Mom would drop me off in the morning on her way to work, and Staci would bring me home. For that next week all I could think about was me and Staci working together all day long for the whole summer. On my first day I would find out that it would be better than I ever imagined.
