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My new story is not gonna be everybody's cup of tea. It's a cigar story, and pretty over-the-top at points, so those seeking "gritty realism" in your smoking fetish stories will probably just as soon pass on this one. As for everybody else, I expect you'll find it satisfying. Educating the Prescott Girls by HagenMrk aol. But I did know that after two years of being a social studies teacher at a metro area high school, it was time for a change. I still wanted to teach, but was desperately seeking a different format So when I happened upon the classified ad requesting a private full-time teacher for the three daughters of Mr. Arthur Prescott at an ambiguously listed "impressive salary", I thought it was worth a try. I adjusted my tie and wiped the bead of sweat from my brow and I stopped the car in front of the Prescott mansion's garage that sweltering August day. I walked up the sidewalk to the office attached to the house and knocked on the front door. In seconds, a powerful-looking middle-aged gentleman opened the door, welcomed me, and graciously shook my hand. His attractive middle-aged wife offered a warm greeting of her own, offered me a beverage, and instructed me to relax as this was not going to be a particularly intense interview. That helped put my mind at ease a bit, as I did a quick once-over of the office and was struck by all the smoking memorabilia decorating the office. It soon struck me that this was the Arthur Prescott who owned and operated Prescott Tobacco, a chain of tobacco stores that covered the tri-state area. The tone of the interview was very laid-back and the couple seemed to be comfortable with me as I responded to their various questions. I was stunned as they laid out the sweetheart pay and benefits package they were planning to offer me should I get hired Everything sounded great, but I had a growing suspicion that this was too good to be true, and listened hard for potential dealbreakers as the couple spelled out my job duties. It all seemed legit Conveniently omitted from the couple's sales pitch was any information about the girls I would actually be teaching, so I immediately chimed in with questions about them. Whitney is 15 and our oldest and she'll be starting 10th grade next month. Ashley is 13 and will be going into seventh grade. And Kayla is 11 and will be in fifth grade. They're pretty good students, although Kayla needs a little more attention than the other two. Could I possibly speak to any of their former teachers for specific history? Hagen, our daughters exhibit a rather unusual pastime for girls their age, and it's possible that it will create an obstacle for you. We're hoping it doesn't, but frankly, it's the reason this position is open and why we're willing to pay you so much. The truth is we've gone through a number of teachers over the years who haven't been able to handle the girls' eccentricities. We went through three just last year in fact. The parents looked at each other with the realization that it was time for them to face the music. The second the door opened, a pungent odor grabbed me and wouldn't let me go. I didn't immediately recognize it, but it was so extreme that it almost knocked me flat on my ass. It took a few seconds before I realized it was the stench of stale tobacco, but far more intense than any smoky bar I'd ever walked into. As we walked through the entryway, the growing sound of feminine giggles lightened the mood slightly, offering a strange but welcome contrast to the over-the-top stench that was making me a little nauseous. But the smell grew worse with each step forward until we all turned the corner into the large living room, giving me my first glimpse at the girls I would spend the next few years teaching. There the three girls sat, watching cartoons on a lazy August afternoon. They were the most adorable young girls you could ever expect to see, with a mane of long natural blonde hair flowing past their shoulders and down their backs, skimpy halter tops and even tinier denim shorts A haze of thick smoke surrounded them and spread throughout the room as I stood there with my jaw hanging open, unable to generate a coherent response, but biting my tongue to avoid bursting into hysterical laughter as I looked at these sweet looking pubescent girls puffing on cigars. And not only were they smoking cigars, they were smoking these huge Churchillian cigars that looked to be about seven inches long and had a circumference larger than a quarter. Yet the girls were as sweet as could be introducing themselves to me and bantering with their parents about how the interview had gone. The parents were looking at me inquisitively as the mother sarcastically responded to the girls by saying, "It's his job if he thinks he can put up with you brats. As though my mind and body were operating as two distinct entities, I turned away from the cigar-chomping girls and towards the parents, smiling as I proclaimed, "I think you have yourselves a new teacher. I shook the hands of both parents and hoped like hell they wouldn't see my fast-expanding crotch. It was two long weeks before I returned to the Prescott home for my official orientation day. I was nervous about how I would respond to these three girls, who were too young for me to have any romantic interest in, but I nonetheless anticipated having a hard time hiding my physical arousal at the surreal sighting of these cigar-smoking girls. I had only had that brief five-minute encounter with the girls, but it quickly became clear that I had no idea the quantity of tobacco these girls consumed every day once I started. As the girls showed me around the house, cigars in tow with every step they took, all of my attention was focused on the multiple large ashtrays in every single room, including the bathrooms. Most of the ashtrays exhibited a literal pyramid of disgusting cigar butts stacked several inches high. The rest of the house was synthetically spotless, but it was all undone by the sight of these smelly ashtrays overflowing with cigar butts. And if one looked closely enough, huge burnholes could be spotted on the furniture, carpet, and linoleum. Simply unearthing the story behind these girls' youthful servitude to cigars would by itself more than justify me quitting my secure public teaching gig. That would come in time though. As the process of educating these girls began, it became quickly evident that these girls' nasty addictions would be almost too intense than even I was prepared to handle. The small family room that was designated as the "teaching room" for the girls would fill up with noxious cigar smoke mere minutes after the day began, far worse than the smokiest bar I had ever been inside. After only an hour, the smoke in the windowless room became so dense that I practically needed a foghorn light to see the girls. My eyes were on fire and became very watery. By noon, I wasn't sure if I could handle this working environment. Making matters worse, the girls were completely unsympathetic to my silent cries for mercy. As sweet as they otherwise were, they oozed an unspoken arrogance about their entitlement to smoke whenever and wherever they wanted. Even as I coughed, wiped the water from eyes, and waved my hand to misdirect the sidestream smoke flowing into my face, the girls didn't so much as offer condolences let alone relief from the endless assault of cigar smoke. They were the most obnoxious smokers I had ever met I became physically ill that first week, a mix of recurrent nausea and a vicious cold that would morph into bronchitis. I had not anticipated these physical consequences I certainly understood why so many other teachers had already been shuttled in and out of the Prescott family home, and didn't know if I would be able to get through it after those first 10 days. But the worst of it would quickly pass By mid-to-late September of , my body had adjusted to the never-ending chemical fog it was forced to endure in the unventilated one-room "schoolhouse", and the girls' insatiable cigar consumption had gone full circle from intensely hot to wretchingly disgusting and back to intensely hot. The novelty of it still hasn't worn off for me three years later, but learning and observing these girls quickly became my main reason for getting up in the morning back then. As I became more comfortable with the girls, I inquired about their smoking, including their habits' origin, their daily consumption level, and how much their habits cost the Prescott family. The girls were only too willing to share these details with me, passionately declaring their love for cigar smoking and their unbending allegiance to a lifestyle of daily cigar consumption. Fifteen-year-old Whitney said that despite her nonsmoking parents apparently mom used to smoke cigarettes as a teenager and dad partook in the occasional cigar , the tobacco business gave her access to cigars at a young age. At the ripe old age of seven, a customer left a cigar in the ashtray on the counter and Whitney sneaked a puff. For whatever reason, she instantly took a liking to it and would request her dad light her up on a regular basis. The parents originally thought it was adorable to see their seven-year-old daughter enjoying cigars, but had no idea what a monster they were creating. A year later, Whitney was smoking several cigars a day and was getting herself in big trouble when her third-grade teacher was smelling smoke on Whitney and finding humidors full of cigars in her bookbag. Whitney's younger sisters obviously found the habit disgusting at first, but Whitney took it upon herself, one by one, to get Ashley and Kayla addicted to cigars at the same age Whitney did. Before the Prescott family knew it, they had three cigar-smoking daughters all under the age of 12 and were forced to home-school them. Since the girls had access to all kinds of cigars at the family shops, they tried dozens of varieties over the years, and finally settled upon their favorites. All three girls alternated between Ashton Churchills, a large but lighter-colored and smoother-flavored cigar, and Ashton Aged Maduros, which were equally large, but a dark cocoa-colored brown with rich and intense flavor. Doing the math in my head, I then had the opening to ask how many cigars the girls sucked down per day. All three said they averaged per day. At first I thought they were putting me on. These cigars were huge! There was no way anybody, let alone three little girls, could put away that many in a day. But then I started paying attention It was strangely adorable to watch them in action, observing their various styles at close range. Whitney the year-old was the most stylish smoke of the three, holding the large cigar in her petite hand the same way a style-conscious young female cigarette smoker would, drawing from it with a feminine allure and exhaling the smoke in perfect cones in front of her adorable young face. She was the Audrey Hepburn of cigar smokers, looking like the perfect lady every step of the way with her elegant long blonde hair, perfectly feminine figure and stylish casual attire. Middle daughter Ashley was the sweetest girl of the three, but also the grossest smoker. If Whitney smoked a cigar like a perfectly lady, Ashley smoked like a drunken slob. Apparently possessing surplus salivary glands, the end of Ashley's cigars were soaking wet every time she removed them from her mouth, and proceeded to lean forward and spit into the overflowing ashtray every couple minutes. She loved to hear the cigars extinguish themselves in her spit and would randomly roll the wet cigar butts around in the spit inside the ashtray. Occasionally, she would catch me looking at her, and even though I found it inexplicably sexy, I would always stick up nose and say "That's disgusting! Youngest daughter Kayla was the most amusing of the three to watch. Here was this small girl, even tinier than the average fifth-grade girl, sitting in her chair, intently focusing on the schoolwork in front of her, and constantly clutching a giant cigar in her mouth, despite the fact that it looked as though it barely even fit in the small aperture under her nose. I eyeballed her for as long as 20 minutes at a time, not once seeing her extract the cigar from her mouth. She would simply take a puff or inhale all three girls seemed to alternate between casual puffs and actual inhales and either let the smoke spill from her nose or separate her lips and let the exhaled smoke slowly escape her mouth. The cigar never moved She even let the ashes fall in front of her, at which point she would gather them with her hands and drop them into the ashtray. When she talked, it was often very hard to understand her because, again, the cigar never left her mouth as she spoke her mind. Every time I watched this elementary boy's dream girl with a big, fat cigar tightly clutched between her jaws like one would expect to see on a year-old oil baron, I couldn't imagine anything cuter in the world. Prescott girls

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  1. I'll never forget the time that first fall when I responded in frustration towards her worst hissy fit to date, and she proceeded to blow a massive stream of cigar smoke straight into my face. They were the most obnoxious smokers I had ever met

  2. I found myself lamenting the idea of this girl losing her innocence, and was struggling with the fact that I was upset about the fact that I would no longer be able to.

  3. Within moments, I found myself feeling fiercely ill and heading to the bathroom to worship the porcelain gods.

  4. On the last day of school in May , I invited the girls to take an extra long lunch period so I could finish grading the final tests I have given them. I heard the door close in the empty classroom and see the beautiful Whitney, freshly tanned and lathered in suntan lotion, partially covered by the flattering pink bikini with the usual giant cigar in her right hand, staring at me with the most irresistible come-hither look I had gotten from her yet. I finally put my foot down, scolding her not to discuss anything so personal as her sex life in my presence, obviously playing right into her hands by doing so.

  5. If Kerry won, they'd clean their own ashtrays at the end of every day for the next month. These cigars were huge!

  6. She had never felt like "the one" to me, but it was nonetheless difficult to let her go, and Whitney's affections at least partially filled that void.

  7. Knowing the passion that she was in for, she dropped the remainder of her cigar in the first available ashtray as I sat her down on the edge of the table, instantly hiking up her short skirt to reveal a pantiless promised land. I heard the door close in the empty classroom and see the beautiful Whitney, freshly tanned and lathered in suntan lotion, partially covered by the flattering pink bikini with the usual giant cigar in her right hand, staring at me with the most irresistible come-hither look I had gotten from her yet.

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