I woke up this morning feeling that familiar itch, the one that starts in my gut and spreads like wildfire through my veins. It's not just the need for a smoke or a hit; it's the thrill of the game, the rush of knowing I'm pulling strings in this twisted world. North Gat Lake City was buzzing as usual, that fake prosperity masking all the rot underneath. I slipped into my usual daytime disguise—normal clothes, nothing flashy, just enough to blend in with the clueless masses. But underneath, I had my black satin gloves tucked away, a little secret reminder of who I really am.
First things first: the pickup. I drove out to the docks in the North River District, where the water laps against those rusty piers loaded with "confidential" cargo. The dealers know me well by now. I've got pull in this town, especially after I took over that gang a few years back. They don't mess with me. I pulled up in my sleek black sedan, the one with the tinted windows that screams "don't ask questions." The head guy, Marco—he's this greasy type with a scar across his cheek—greeted me with a nod. "Hailey," he said, keeping his voice low. "We got your order. Cost price, like always. Lookin' out for you."
They loaded up the truck I'd arranged—a nondescript van that looks like it belongs to some delivery service. Several tons of the good stuff: pure, uncut product straight from their overseas connections. Cocaine, heroin, whatever moves fast. I didn't haggle; my face alone gets me the deals. We shook on it, and I slipped him an envelope with a little extra incentive to keep quiet. Driving away, I lit up a cigarette right there in the car, inhaling deep. The smoke filled my lungs, that sharp nicotine bite mixing with the adrenaline. God, it felt good. Like armor against the world.
My first client of the day was this kid, maybe 22 or 23, named Ethan. I'd connected with him through one of my underground contacts—a whisper network that funnels addicts my way. He showed up at the abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city, the kind of place where the North Gat Lake's fog rolls in thick and hides everything. He was skinny, jittery, with that hollow-eyed look of someone who's been chasing the dragon too long. "I need a fix," he mumbled, avoiding my eyes. "But... I don't have the cash right now."
I smiled behind my silicon mask—the one that makes me look like some generic brunette, nothing like the real me. It fits like a second skin, changes my features just enough to throw off any cameras or witnesses. "No problem, sweetie," I purred, my voice modulated through a little device in my throat to sound deeper, sultrier. "We can work something out."
I led him to the back room, where I'd set up a makeshift spot: an old mattress on the floor, dim lighting from a single bulb. He hesitated, but the desperation won out. I peeled off my outer layers slowly, revealing the black JK uniform I'd worn underneath—short skirt, crisp blouse, thick black pantyhose hugging my legs like a lover's grip. My black mid-calf boots with the laces tied tight clicked against the concrete as I moved. And of course, the medical latex gloves, snapping them on with a satisfying pop. They feel so smooth, so clinical, heightening every touch.
Ethan's eyes widened, but he didn't back out. I pushed him down onto the mattress, straddling him, my hands—gloved and precise—unbuttoning his shirt. His skin was warm, clammy with sweat. I leaned in, my masked face inches from his, and lit a cigarette right there, dangling it from my black-lipsticked mouth. The first drag was heaven: smoke curling into my lungs, sharp and acrid, laced with a hint of marijuana I'd rolled in earlier. I'd crushed some weed into the tobacco, just enough to blur the edges. As I exhaled, the smoke billowed between us, that earthy, herbal scent mixing with his cheap cologne.
My heart raced as I ground against him, feeling him harden beneath me. The psychological shift hit me like a wave— from the cool, calculating dealer to this primal beast. I love this power, the way I can twist desire into submission. I unzipped his pants, my gloved fingers wrapping around him, stroking slowly at first, then faster. He groaned, his hands fumbling at my blouse, but I batted them away. "My rules," I whispered, taking another deep drag. The smoke filled my chest, the nicotine buzzing through my bloodstream, amplified by the THC. It started as a warm tingle in my fingertips, spreading up my arms, making every nerve ending spark. My head lightened, thoughts fragmenting into pure sensation—the way the latex slid against his skin, the friction of my pantyhose as I shifted.
I lowered myself onto him, inch by inch, feeling that stretch, that fullness. God, the rush. I rocked my hips, slow and deliberate, building the rhythm. Smoke trailed from my lips with each breath, the marijuana making colors sharper, sounds muffled yet intense. My body hummed, a electric current from my core outward. I could feel the high deepening: waves of euphoria crashing over me, loosening my inhibitions further. Ethan's hands gripped my thighs, but through the hose, it was distant, controlled. I sped up, thrusting harder, my breaths coming in gasps laced with smoke. The cigarette burned low; I stubbed it out on the floor and lit another immediately, inhaling greedily. The combo—nicotine's sharp kick and weed's mellow haze—sent shivers down my spine, heightening the build-up. Pressure mounted inside me, coiling tight, until it snapped: orgasm ripping through, muscles clenching around him, a flood of pleasure that made my vision blur.
He finished soon after, panting like a dog. I dismounted, composed myself, and adjusted my mask. No emotions, just business. "That'll cover it," I said, tossing him a bag—ten kilos, as promised. He grabbed it and bolted, not looking back. I felt satisfied, not just from the sex, but from the control. Another puppet danced to my tune.
Next, I headed far from home, out to the outskirts near the lake's eastern shore, where the North Gat Lake stretches out like a glassy mirror hiding depths of secrets. I switched vehicles midway, ditching the van for a rental truck to avoid tails. The spot was a rundown motel, the kind where no one asks for ID. Second clients: a group of girls, four of them, all in their early twenties, looking like college kids gone astray. They were huddled in room 207, nervous but eager. "We heard you have the best," one said, the leader, with bleached hair and too much eyeliner.
I kept the mask on, voice altered. We haggled briefly—they had cash, but wanted a bulk deal. I showed them samples, let them test a line. Their eyes lit up like Christmas. But one, a petite redhead named Sara, caught my eye. She was fidgety, biting her lip. "Can we... sweeten the deal?" she asked, glancing at her friends. Turned out they were willing to trade favors for a discount. I agreed, because why not? The thrill never gets old.
We piled onto the bed, a tangle of limbs. I directed them like a conductor: Sara on her knees first, her mouth warm and eager as I sat back, lighting up another smoke. The others stripped, touching each other, me. I inhaled deep, the cigarette's glow reflecting in their eyes. Mixed with weed again, the high wrapped around me like silk—euphoric warmth spreading, making every kiss, every caress electric. I fingered one while another sucked my nipples through my blouse, the latex gloves adding that sterile dominance. Psychological high: I'm the queen here, bending them to my will. We shifted positions—me on top of Sara, grinding, while the others watched and joined. Orgasms came in waves, mine building from the smoke's haze, THC loosening my mind, nicotine sharpening the edges. Details blurred into sensation: soft skin against my hose, moans echoing, the acrid smoke filling the room.
Deal done, they paid up—half cash, half "services"—and left with their stash. I pocketed the money, feeling the weight of it.
Third: a couple, mid-thirties, waiting in the next town over, a sleepy suburb called Lakeview Hollow. They were addicts trying to play it cool, but I saw the shakes. Mark and Lena, married but crumbling. They had some cash, but not enough for what they wanted. "We can make it work," Lena said, her eyes darting to Mark.
Again, the mask stayed on. We used their car in a deserted lot—backseat negotiations turning physical. I started with Lena, kissing her roughly while Mark watched. Lit a cigarette mid-kiss, blowing smoke into her mouth. She coughed but leaned in. The high kicked in: weed-laced tobacco making my skin tingle, thoughts drifting to that dark place where control reigns. I stripped her, gloved hands exploring, then turned to Mark. Sucked him while fingering her, the rhythm hypnotic. We fucked in turns—me riding Mark, then Lena straddling my face. Psychological shift: from dealer to dominatrix, their desperation fueling my power. The smoke enhanced it all—deep drags sending rushes of pleasure, THC melting boundaries, nicotine keeping me alert. Climax hit hard, multiple times, bodies slick with sweat.
They paid what they could, plus extras, and got their fix. Driving away, I laughed to myself. Today was gold.
Ah, man, today was insane—so many clients piling up, I could barely keep track. From dawn till dusk, deals flowing like the lake's currents. I must've moved hundreds of kilos, cash stacking up in bundles. Counting it later in a safe house, my fingers cramped from the bills. Easily enough for another luxury car—maybe that sleek convertible I've been eyeing. The power, the money... it's intoxicating, better than any high.
Night fell as I drove back to my villa in the North River District suburbs. The place is a fortress: bulletproof glass, concrete walls that could take a hit, full surveillance. I stripped down to my favorites—white JK uniform, white pantyhose so sheer they gleam, white sneakers for comfort. Gloved up with fresh latex, I headed to my bedroom.
The craving hit hard. I lit a cigarette first, then a joint for good measure. Inhaled deep, the smoke and weed mixing into a potent cocktail. Sat on the bed, legs spread, gloved hand slipping between my thighs. Started slow, circling, the latex cool at first then warming. Thoughts replayed the day: Ethan's submission, the girls' eagerness, the couple's desperation. Built the tension, another drag—nicotine buzzing, THC flooding me with warmth, every touch amplified. Fingers plunged deeper, faster, hips bucking. Added a toy from the drawer, vibrating against me. The high peaked: waves crashing, body arching, release exploding in shudders. Smoked through it all, exhaling moans with the haze.
Finally spent, I collapsed, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. Another day in paradise—or hell, depending on who you ask. But it's mine.