Sit and smoke with the Queen

You walk up to the base of the pile of pillows on which the Queen is reclining.

"I would be honored," you say, climbing onto the pile on your hands and knees, "to sit and smoke with you."

"Mmmm," the Queen replies, "let me scoot over a bit."

A few pillows shift and topple down the pile as she scoots herself closer to the pink glass hookah and makes room for you to sit next to her. When you look back down you see that Priya has taken Sara to the side and they are settling down on their own pile of pillows with glasses of a dark liquid.

"Don't worry," the Queen consoles you, "she's not going to forget about you."

The queen hands you a hookah hose with a wooden mouthpiece and explains how to suck smoke from the water-filled central chamber. The smoke she is puffing as she demonstrates smells intoxicating and sweet.

"Just like that," she says and exhales a cloud of gray-blue smoke.

You first inhalation of the heavy smoke makes you **** and gasp. The Queen laughs, but she isn't cruel about it. Soon you are puffing away as easily as her, the smoke suffusing your body with an electric warmth, a contented smile fixed on your face, and a sort of drunken easiness to your conversation.

The Queen asks you about your plans for college, what you like to do for fun, you chat about the sort of music she likes (surprisingly hip) and her politics (not-surprisingly as lefty as they come). You stop noticing how she stares at your breasts or how she touches your thigh as she explains socialism. You just feel warm and happy and relaxed.

"Sara and Priya seem to be getting along," the Queen observes.

Sara and Priya have snuggled up to one another on their pillows and Priya seems to be whispering in Sara's ear and stroking her arm. You feel a pang of jealousy, but it's momentary. After all, you're at a swinger's party.

You resume chatting with the Queen and, almost without noticing, she begins touching you more and more. First she brushes a strand of hair from your face, then her arm brushes against your nipple when she reaches for the hookah. Soon her hand is resting on your thigh, stroking gently up and down over the strap of your garter.

"I have an idea," she confides. "Why don't you lay down on your stomach and let me give you a nice massage."

She reaches for a bottle of oil resting beside the pile of pillows.

"What do you say?"