Erotic Smoking Stories & More

@gaysmokefetish

The most exquisite gay smoking fetish blog ever? Or just the ravings of some horny dude on the internet? You decide. Sometimes I post stories. Sometimes I just reblog the smokers. And sometimes, I post nothing at all. 🤷‍♂️ All stories are fiction and completely unrelated to the men in the photos. 🔞

225 posts

marlboroandharddick

I had just finished my glass of wine, leaving a tiny sip unfinished at the bottom for decorum's sake. The nice thing about visiting Europe is that they're happy to serve you alcohol at 18. Back home, I'd have to wait another couple of years before I was 21 to drink. But the waiter here, who'd been standing at the door lazily smoking a cigarette when I walked in, hadn't even asked for my ID. He'd simply taken his time finishing his cigarette, walked up, given a quick nod after I'd nervously ordered, and brought it over without a word before hurrying back to his spot by the door to light another one.

In fact, as I looked around, almost everyone except me in the little osteria seemed to be smoking. At every single table a thin tendril of smoke rose from the ashtray in the middle or from a cigarette in one of the patrons' fingers. That would never be allowed back home, I thought to myself. I was glad mom wasn't there. She would've wrinkled her nose and marched straight back out the second she saw the waiter at the door, who was currently greeting what must've been a regular customer by talking loudly and exhaling a lungful of smoke in his face in the process.

Personally though, I was enjoying the vibe of the place - the chatter from the other tables, the faint buzz the wine was now giving me, and the haze and smell of the second-hand smoke hanging in the air - it all felt very Italian to me somehow, and the perfect way to end the vacation. We'd done the Vatican and the Colosseum and all the touristy things already, and today my parents had a bunch of museums planned. I didn't have much of an eye for art so had decided to give it a miss, and told them I'd spend the day at the hotel. Around noon I'd gotten hungry, but picturing my dad wide-eyed and yelling, "you spent HOW MUCH on room service?!" I figured it would be better, and cheaper, to get a bite somewhere else. I walked the streets around the hotel for a few minutes, but the afternoon sun was growing hot, and I soon sauntered into the first restaurant I saw. Half an hour later there I was, pasta finished, glass empty, and debating whether I should get another glass or the bill instead.

Telling myself one drink was probably enough, I looked over to try and get the waiter's attention, only to see that both he and the customer he was talking to at the door were looking directly at me. As I watched, the waiter said something to the other guy, then laughed and clapped him on the back, while he in turn grinned slightly before bringing his cigarette to his mouth and taking a drag. The clap on the back seemed to signal the end of their conversation, because the newcomer then stepped forward, continuing to look at me, and to my surprise, made his way in my direction.

Troy shivered slightly as he held his arm out to take a photo on his phone. It wasn't really that cold, but his wet skin meant that even the slow breeze as he stood next to the rooftop pool felt icy against his bare nipples. He dragged hard on the cigarette that now dangled from his lips, watching on the screen as the cherry glowed bright orange and raced upwards. Then he inhaled, holding the smoke in his lungs as he steadied himself and clicked the snap.

A minute earlier he had been in the water swimming laps, his powerful, muscular frame cutting back and forth with surprising swiftness for someone his size. He'd lost track of how many he'd done - maybe 15, maybe 20, maybe more - trying to tire himself out so he could go to sleep after. But while his muscles had grown sore, his brain had remained awake and alert, the same thought circling over and over in his head.

Finally he'd stopped, breathless and panting from the exertion. There was no denying it - all those years of smoking had definitely had an effect. While he'd kept in great shape, his lungs were no longer in the same condition they had once been back when he'd been on the college swim team. Already then he'd been smoking a handful of cigarettes a day for some years, but that hadn't stopped him from being a champion athlete.

Of course, Troy had been forced to keep it under the radar. As a teen he'd hidden it from his parents by telling them he was going for a quick jog around the neighborhood, only to duck into an alley as soon as he turned the corner before eagerly lighting up. They had often commented how proud they were of his commitment to sport, rewarding him with ample pocket money that had in turn helped keep his commitment to nicotine amply fed.

When he got into college on an athletic scholarship, Troy knew better than to risk the ire of his coaches and sponsors. His smoking habit had become entrenched by then, but so too had the habit of looking over his shoulder to make sure he was alone before lighting up. No one questioned why he was always in a hurry to leave after class or practice, simply assuming he had more studying or swimming drills to do.

By the time he was working a regular job, keeping his secret hidden had become second nature to him. His addiction had slowly grown over the years, though not as much as it might have if he'd given it free rein. There were signs - the tasteful but strong cologne he always wore, the mints he always seemed to be chewing, or his insistence on always eating alone in his car during lunch. But taken on their own, only other smokers might have had the intuition to put two and two together.

So far, he had gotten away with it. But increasingly these days he was chafing at the bit. His addiction was demanding more, and he desperately wanted to give it what it wanted. He remembered the sweet thrill of each cigarette he had smoked as a teen in that alley, how it would elevate his pleasure above baseline every time. These days the hours at work or social gatherings when he couldn't escape from others dragged on for so long that the cigarette afterwards barely returned him to that same baseline.

Troy knew that if only he allowed himself to simply light up whenever he wanted, he could have that same thrill and pleasure from each one again. His cigarettes could always do that for him, he knew, no matter how much he smoked, as long as he worked with them and not against.

But that would mean dropping the veil. After all, there was no reason to maintain the pretense. There were other smokers at the office who took smoke breaks with tempting regularity. And his family too would come around eventually. His mind was made up.

Troy took another drag, and the smoke he drew in was suddenly hotter and harsher. He realized he had smoked all the way down to the filter. He took the cigarette out of his lips for the first time since putting it there, stubbed it out, and collapsed onto the deck chair. He'd been in such a frenzy that he'd jumped out of the water, run right past his towel to his pack of cigarettes, and been hauling so hard while staring at the photo he'd just taken that he'd made himself breathless again, not from the exercise this time but from relentlessly inhaling the smoke without pause.

Now the nicotine coursed through him, reminding him what was on offer, and he decided this was the moment to do it. With a few quick taps, he posted the photo he'd just taken to his social media. There were plenty of photos of his smooth, muscular body on his profile - at the beach, at the pool, or even just the backyard. But not a single one of him smoking or even holding a cigarette. That had changed now. His secret was out, and the whole world would soon know. No more denying it or hiding it from others.

As soon as the photo was uploaded, he heaved a sigh of relief. It was done. He put his phone down and reached for another cigarette and his lighter. Tonight was to be the beginning of a new and exciting chapter, and Troy knew the cigarette he was about to light was going to taste and feel better than any he had smoked.

#Hunkyman

He’s been smoking since he was 14 and he’s never going to quit feeding his greedy hungry lungs the poisonous smoke he made them crave

It's a shame so many men out there fail to see a smoking addiction as the badge of honor it really is. Every time that craving calls your name, every time your fingers subconsciously itch to reach for the pack, it's a reminder of the journey you've come so far on. You did that, yes, you. Not to yourself, but for yourself.

All those cigarettes smoked over all those years - they didn't jump out of the pack and light themselves, now did they? No, you pulled each one carefully out, sparked the lighter deliberately, and coaxed the smoke and pleasure out of each one. Think of the ones where you were really focused on the cigarette between your lips, during a quiet moment, taking slow drags, feeling the smoke gently enter your lungs as you inhaled. Or perhaps the ones smoked more ardently and earnestly stick out in your memory, the ones where it felt like nothing else really mattered in that moment.

Every time you lit up, you gave yourself, and your brain, permission to experience what true relief and satisfaction really are. Every time you inhaled deep, you taught yourself, and your lungs, what it means to embrace one of life's simplest, greatest pleasures. The truth is, getting addicted didn't happen overnight or by accident. You engineered it with patience and precision.

Any other triumph that took this much time and effort to achieve would be celebrated openly. Isn't it time you allowed yourself to do the same for smoking?

redsmokerboi-deactivated2018120

Marlboro reds and lungfucking triples before bed. My lungs feel soaked in nic and tar tonight. Who’s smoking with me? 🚬🚬🚬😉

When one cig feels like plain air and two feel like just one, it's time to up your game and go for three at once instead. After all, just one cigarette between your lips can at times feel so meager and feeble. You wrap your lips tight around it and suck as hard as you can, cheeks hollowed, and yet when you inhale the smoke is so thin and impotent, barely noticeable when it's inside your lungs and barely visible when you exhale in disappointment. All that optimism, all that anticipation, followed by nothing but a frustrating anticlimax. Your lungs still await, hungry and expectant. Sometimes, it's a burden too heavy for one lonesome cigarette.

Two is a little better, at least at first. It's a little awkward juggling them in your fingers at moments, but nothing a smoker comfortable with his smokes can't handle. Drag and inhale with the same intensity, and the smoke is thicker, richer, more flavorful. You rediscover just how pleasurable smoking can be as you feel that satisfying fullness in your lungs once again. But they soon adapt, and doubles go from being a special treat to a matter of routine.

But by now you're a committed smoker, and when your lungs inevitably ask for more, you know what needs to be done. You know it must be done. After all, there's no reason to hold back now. The first time you put three cigarettes in your lips you realize there's nothing strange, nothing forbidden about what you're about to do. It's only a natural progression of a habit you've indulged in countless times before. And so you light up, the three firm filters giving your lips something sturdy to keep a hold of. A triad supplying you with its contents in unison, more abundant and more concentrated than anything you've had the privilege of experiencing before. It floods your lungs without effort, feeling simultaneously familiar and rejuvenating. As you exhale that first lungful your body automatically goes back for a second, without being told to. It's used to drips and dribbles of tar and nicotine, leaving you constantly yearning for the next dose. Here at last is the answer to that, and once you try it I can promise you you'll be doing it again.

So, when are you going to?

seeking-for-marlboro-cowboys

I got home from school that day tired and itching for a smoke as usual. The last period had been math, which always dragged on forever, and the only thing on my mind during the bus ride home had been the pack of cigarettes which I knew would be waiting patiently for me in my room, ready to help me relax and unwind.

I reached home, hurried up the stairs and threw open the door to my room, ready to swing my bookbag in the corner and pounce on the cigarettes under my pillow. But instead I got a jolt of surprise when the door swung open and I saw my dad, sitting quite still and motionless at my desk, staring at my computer screen.

He was sitting with his arms crossed, a freshly lit cigarette dangling from his lips. I could smell the smoldering tobacco from where I stood, and I could sense his smoldering displeasure. Questions filled my mind. What was he doing in my room? And why was he smoking in here? Though he was a moderately heavy smoker and had been for many years, until recently he rarely used to smoke indoors - maybe once or twice a day. He usually preferred to go to the garage or backyard instead. These days he had admittedly been lighting up more frequently without bothering to step out, but still, he never came into my room to smoke. Then again, he almost never came in here anyway, which is why finding him like this was so unexpected.

"Jeez, dad! Made me jump," I said, recovering. "Aren't you at work?"

He said nothing in reply. The cigarette in his lips was sending up a thin tendril of smoke towards the ceiling, which broke off abruptly as he took a rather long drag on it instead. After holding the smoke in for a few moments, he pointed to the bed and said gruffly, "sit down."

The words had come in the middle of the slow exhale, which was as long and dense as I'd guessed it would be. I'd always been intrigued by his smoking style, even before I got into the habit myself. He often dangled his smoke continuously, from the time he lit it until it was finished, taking it away from his lips only to ash it now and then. Perhaps watching him smoke as I was growing up is what had given rise to my fascination with smokers and smoking in the first place. All I knew was that by the time I was a teen I couldn't get enough of watching men smoke, both online and in real life. By the time I was in high school, I knew I was ready to be a smoker myself.

Teaching myself to smoke had been easy enough. Dad always had several packs going at once, lying here and there around the house. Nicking one for myself whenever I needed it was not a problem. And having watched my dad and other smokers intently countless times, learning to do it right myself hadn't taken long either.

As the addiction had grown and taken hold however, keeping it in check had been a challenge at first. I'm not entirely sure what dad would have said if he'd found out. He was a fairly chill guy most of the time, and usually had too much on his plate anyway to make a spectacle of anything. Maybe he'd have given me the obligatory lecture on the dangers. But then with him smoking as much as he did and having the cough to prove it, the hypocrisy of doing much else to discourage or discipline me would not have been lost on him. Even so, I didn't want to find out for certain and had done my best to hide my smoking.

As luck would have it, the growth of my addiction seemed to coincide with the intensification of dad's own habit. The smell of cigarette smoke was commonplace in our house, especially in the mornings when dad didn't have the time or was too desperate for his nicotine fix to run outside before lighting up. Slowly I had gotten used to hearing the familiar click of his lighter indoors in the evenings as well, and then in the afternoons too the past several weekends.

Confident that my own, relatively meager contributions to the secondhand smoke in our house would go unnoticed, I had allowed myself to yield to my cravings with increasing abandon. I was recently 18, and with only a few months of school left and college on the horizon, my cigarettes and I were quickly becoming inseparable.

Now, as I let my bag drop from my shoulder and walked over uncertainly to my bed, I wondered if all that was about to come crashing down. I sat down, trying not to think of my cigarettes just inches away under the pillow. The smell of dad's fresh smoke had reawakened the nicotine receptors in my brain, and combined with my nervousness, I wanted more than ever to light up right then and steady myself.

Dad, for his part, seemed to be asking the same thing of his cigarette as he took another long, hard drag before speaking.

"What's this?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and gesturing at my computer behind him.

Until then I hadn't actually looked at what was on it, but what I saw now made me freeze and brought my stomach to my throat in panic.

Open on the screen was the folder containing the dozens of videos of men smoking I had downloaded for my own viewing pleasure. Twinky teens like myself smoking cigarettes to pumped-up hunks furiously hauling on gars, it was all there. Some were suggestive at best, others were incriminatingly explicit.

I sat in idiotic silence, not knowing what to do or say to diffuse the situation. Dad jetted another exhale out his nostrils, the wheeze of his lungs ever so faintly audible in the silence between us.

In the end it was he who spoke first again. "Why do you have these videos, son?" he asked, this time in a more disarming tone.

I could tell I wasn't in as much trouble as I thought I was, but still had difficulty finding my voice. Another tense silence followed. Dad dragged hard on his cigarette again, the ash drooping dangerously and threatening to fall onto his white t-shirt. But innumerable cigarettes smoked had given him an intuition for when to ash his cigarettes, and he did so in one smooth motion into an ashtray which sat on my desk next to him, but which I recognized normally lived on the dining table. I noticed it contained a dozen spent butts already.

I pictured my father coming into my room for something or the other after lunch, noticing the sleazy folder I must've carelessly left open on my computer which was always on, and him spending the rest of the afternoon chainsmoking in my chair, trying to make sense of it all before I got home. Had he clicked on and watched any of the videos? Surely he must have. But which ones? Please, let it not be any of the ones with the naked dudes!

This train of thought was interrupted again as dad spoke once more, exhaling a fresh cloud as he did. "Do you smoke, son?"

This time I finally managed to answer him. "Yeah dad, I have been for a while."

"And these videos?" he inquired.

"Just to... kinda, y'know... learn how to do it," I invented on the spot, managing to look him in the eye to try and make it convincing.

He looked back at me, inscrutable. I had hinted to him once or twice that I wasn't straight, when he'd had a few beers and decided to try and talk to me about girls. His responses had always been positive and supportive, though I had never been sure if that had just been the beer talking. But even if he was genuinely ok with it, I wasn't about to admit to watching one of these videos every night before bed, cigarette clenched between my teeth and manhood clenched in my fist. And certainly not while he was still dangling a cig himself. A man's fetishes are his private business, and if dad wasn't going to ask, then I wasn't going to tell.

Dad continued to fix me with his impassive look for another few seconds before letting his gaze drop. I had a feeling my own guilty expression had not exactly been a match, and that he had read my thoughts quite transparently.

"Well," he said at last. "Why didn't you come and ask your old man first, kiddo?"

"Say it again, I dare you," he growled menacingly before returning the cigarette to his lips. The cherry glowed brightly as he sucked hard.

I did my best to diffuse the situation and calm him down. But with a meathead like my stepbrother, that's easier said than done. He had a hair trigger temper, and I'd made the mistake of asking him not to smoke in my room.

A couple of days ago he'd woken up and looked at the calendar on his phone - three whole weeks without smoking. They had been the longest three weeks of his life.

Three weeks of morning routines, stresses at work, meals and coffees, and even a hookup, all without a single cigarette to accompany them. He was told it would get easier with time, but strangely with every passing day the temptation to smoke again only grew stronger. It was more than the physical sensation he missed - it was the psychological comfort his cigarettes provided as well.

Distracted and on the verge of faltering on his commitment, he'd been looking for something else when he suddenly spotted his emergency pack at the back of a drawer - that one pack every sensible smoker keeps hidden away somewhere safe for just such a situation.

He knew it was a sign. The decision to quit had been foolish, and the discovery of this pack was his past self giving him permission to end this needless farce and just light up.

He'd pounced on that pack with a vengeance, inhaling that first cigarette with a desperate hunger he hadn't realized his lungs had had in them. The nicotine rush had been intense and thrilling, making him lightheaded for a second like those first few times as a teenager. His lungs, though well used to plenty of smoke, had nevertheless thrown up a quick cough in protest. Not that it, or anything else for that matter, could stop him now.

That was two days ago. Tonight, as he lights his third cig in a row and exhales in a pair of well formed nose jets, it's as if that three week interlude never happened. His lungs and brain relaxed and settled back into their old familiar routine.

He found his old habits had not been forgotten, the way he instinctively reached for his pack when stepping out of a building, for instance. And the old pathways of pleasure in his brain were only too happy to be stimulated again. The same dose of nicotine that had given him that acute rush now gave him the pleasant mellow satisfaction he had grown so accustomed to over the years.

As he'd bounced back to his nearly 2 ppd ways almost overnight, his lungs were overwhelmed on the first day. But tonight, as he finished his third cig and got ready to light a fourth, they were open and welcoming, and he found it easy to fill them right up with as much rich, flavorful smoke as he wanted.

In his mind there was no doubt that those three weeks had been an ill-advised mistake. The next three weeks on the other hand...

Anyone who’s a real smoker knows what’s going on here. Maybe he’s at a stressful work event. Maybe he’s at a family gathering. Regardless, it’s clear that he’s having to placate the anti’s in his life as his nicotine levels drop to dangerously low levels. He’s becoming snippy with those around him. His chest tightens and he can hear his heart pounding behind his ears. There’s only one thing that can set the situation right. He excuses himself, makes sure the coast is clear, and l, hands shaking with anticipation, pulls one of those cylinders of joy from its red carton and introduces the fire. The first drag sends his eyes rolling backwards as the nicotine rushes through his body, tar depositing in his black lungs, feeding them what they demand. Immediately another drag, followed by another. He pulls hard, sucking every milogram of tar and nicotine deep down. A double pump at the end, where the tar has concentrated toward the filter, to tide him over for now. He rejoins the event fortified with tar and nic. He’s all good and can handle situation. But how long will he last until his addiction pulls him back? Not long, I recon.

What’s happening in our bodies?

When we begin to smoke, we use our lungs to absorb the smoke from our cigarettes. The smoke is rich in nicotine and tar which is absorbed through our lungs and carried to our brains first. Here the nicotine unlocks a Receptor, which is like a little lock, when it’s opened it creates a flow of natures pleasure chemical dopamine.

We are all born with nicotine receptors but each time we smoke we grow more and more receptors. At the start, we don’t have enough receptors to use all the nicotine available and this sometimes makes us feel a little bit dizzy. But as we smoke more, and grow more receptors, we can unlock more pleasure for our bodies. This is the cycle of addiction that helps us to feel and enjoy more pleasure everyday.

For many of us, the pleasure doesn’t stop here. It sets off a cascade of pleasure signals throughout the body which affects other organs too. Our bodies then use the nicotine and tar to produce Smoker cum when we smoke and stroke. Stroking also causes the release of a wave of dopamine which doubles our pleasure and produces a very powerful orgasm. We become locked in a cycle of increasing pleasure and addiction, which leads to further pleasure. It’s a beautiful process to experience and to observe in others ☺️

Want to feel more pleasure? The answer is simple - start smoking, grow your addiction, smoke and stroke as often as you can and learn to love smoking 🥰

He’s not supposed to smoke in his customers’ cars but he does it anyway. “Who they gonna get to fix their cars?”

Jackson knew exactly what he was doing too, each time he lit up on the job - there was a method to his rulebreaking madness. He knew precisely which customers to target. The workshop had a large glass window which looked onto the office in front, and like a predator stalking its prey, he carefully studied each person who made their way in through the door to drop their keys off at the desk.

As one of the senior mechanics on his shift, he wasn't assigned just a single vehicle to work on. Instead his job was to supervise the rest of the boys as they worked, offering advice and lending a hand wherever needed. But Jackson had his own way of deciding which customers' cars needed some extra attention.

Years of experience allowed him to recognize his victims as soon as he saw them. The naïve, nerdy dude in his early twenties who tried his best to pretend he hadn't been staring at Jackson smoking, for instance. Or the haggard middle aged man from this morning who looked like he was barely keeping up his resolution to quit. These customers were low hanging fruit, ripe for the picking. The faintest whiff of secondhand smoke was enough, Jackson knew, to send them over the edge and trigger their entry (or re-entry) into the happy, pleasant world of nicotine addiction.

Jackson knew how good it felt to inhabit that world, to embrace the addiction and to bask in its comforting warmth with each cigarette he smoked. And above all, he enjoyed helping others find their way into that world as well, knowing it would only be a matter of time before each one of the men he'd singled out would invariably be driving their cars to the nearest gas station and sheepishly asking the clerk for a pack of cigs and a lighter.

He'd even recognize his old converts sometimes, when they brought their cars in to be worked on. The once pristine car interiors now smelled and looked like their owners smoked an entire pack in them daily. And the thrill of knowing that he was the one responsible for that, for introducing yet another pair of lungs to the joys of tobacco, was all the motivation Jackson needed to stay on the hunt for his next victim. One thing was for certain - he hadn't received any complaints about his smoking in his customers' cars yet.

Mike often contemplated how he'd become a slave to nicotine. First there was the occasional vape from mates. Then he discovered the extra buzz you could get from a real cigarette. Just the occasional one or two when out socialising, which eventually led to almost continual chaining when out. Then the one in the morning as a pick-me-up, followed by a sneaky one at lunchtime, but before he knew it, he was smoking a pack per day, continually chasing that buzz.

marlborolovefrance

There are some smokers who smoke their cigarettes almost to the filter, and having gotten their nic fix, are content to toss it away at that point. And then there are the others, the ones who know the truth, and who make sure they smoke each cigarette right down to the very end, until the filter itself is almost burning. The ones who make sure that every last shred of tobacco that's been tightly packed into the cigarette has a chance to ignite and play its part, releasing the nicotine, tar, and other wonderful substances that are the very reason we smoke. The ones who know that it's a shameful waste not to inhale those ending few drags that offer so much - indeed, that offer all the cigarette has to give before it dies. It's been said that those last couple of drags on a cigarette, once the filter has been mostly saturated, contain up to twice as much tar as the initial drags, and as a result twice as much flavor, and twice as much satisfaction for you and your lungs. If that's not what you want for yourself out of each cigarette, then why even smoke? To toss a cigarette before it's finished is to stop playing music right as it reaches its crescendo, to close a book right as the story reaches its climax, or to stop having sex right as you're about to orgasm. If you wouldn't do any of those things, then why would you do it to a cigarette? No, if you're in the habit of cutting a cigarette's already short life even shorter, you're missing out on the very best part. When you've already put in the hard yards hauling the cigarette down to where the thickness and concentration of the smoke are at their peak, it's only right you should get to enjoy the reward and inhale the best of the cigarette. Once you try it, once you feel what a cigarette really has to offer when it's burning at its hottest and you realize the rest of the cigarette pales in comparison, perhaps then you'll understand why those of us who already know make it a point to do this with each cigarette we smoke, and why you should too.

smknhd-deactivated20220908

Love that Smoke

As soon as the company lunch break began at 12, Rob was always the first one outside in the courtyard. He didn't really eat an actual lunch most days. Instead he just preferred a bottle of soda or an energy drink to go with the up to half a pack or more he chainsmoked every day in those 45 minutes, by himself in the corner. Following a well rehearsed ritual, he started with a double that he'd always haul the fastest, to try and satisfy the almost unbearable craving that had been building for hours. Sometimes, and increasingly so recently, a second double smoke would follow, continuing the momentum he'd built during the first. Only then, after the screaming, urgent need for nicotine in his system had subsided to a more gentle, mellow desire, did he settle into a more steady pace. Even then, he still continued to suck down each cigarette faster than most others would, hardly stopping for a plain breath between drags and wasting no time at all in following up one cig with the next.

By then, with the minutes passing, other smokers started streaming into the courtyard one by one, having finished eating their meals. They all congregated in the middle, chatting about work, their girlfriends, or the football game last night, as they each casually smoked a single cigarette or two at most. Rob, who watched on from the sidelines, had often considered joining the group in the past. After all, they were all smoking. But he soon realized that the act of smoking to them did not mean the same thing that it did to him. To them, smoking was an afterthought, something they did simply because they'd gotten into the habit of it. To them, a cigarette was something to be lit and then puffed on infrequently between sentences, spending most of its short life just being held in their fingers not being put to any use. And to them, the consequences of smoking - the cough that occasionally interrupted their speech or the thought of the tar slowly accumulating in their lungs - were things they simply preferred not to think about.

For Rob, the exact opposite was true. Smoking was one of the most important things in his life, and given the chance he'd spend every minute of every day with a lit cigarette or two, or more, in between his lips. And when he was smoking, it was his primary focus, not just something you did in addition to whatever else you were doing. Joining the others would mean getting drawn into their conversations, a distraction that would waste valuable time as his cigarettes burned away unsmoked. And as for the results his zealous consumption of smoke and tar had already had, and would continue to have, on his health - these only excited him and spurred him on to smoke even more. No, he most certainly was not like the others. With every inhale of smoke he took, he knew he was sending a toxic cocktail of destructive chemicals into the depths of his lungs, full of delicate and easily damaged tissue. And the thought of this only made him inhale even deeper and harder.

As he fished yet another cigarette out of his pack and lit it with the remnants of the last one, he glanced down at his watch. The lunch break was nearly over. The other workers had already started making their way back into the building, their half smoked cigarette butts already cold in the ashtray. Rob himself only had time for one more smoke before he was late. 'Better make it a double,' he thought to himself, reaching for his pack again.

maxtarred-deactivated20240503

You started smoking at an early age. Your lungs were still developing. The tar has settled in your lungs. The tar has eaten deep into your lungs and left black marks. You haven’t noticed anything about it for years. Little by little your lungs were being damaged by the tar. Your addiction to tar and nicotine started in your brain early on and just kept growing. In the beginning it was enough for you to smoke five or six cigarettes a day, after a few months it was already ten. After two years you were smoking a pack a day. Your addiction needed more and more cigarettes to be satisfied. At the same time, you kept the tarry smoke in your lungs longer and deeper. For you, smoking has become an integral part of your life. Your everyday life is designed so that you can smoke every hour. Every time the toxic smoke of the cigarette flows into your delicate lungs and leaves its mark there. Your lungs were pink, then eventually they were brown, and then parts of your lungs got even darker. They turned black and had little to complain about against the tar. You tried coughing. The cough was very rare at first. It became more common over time. Today it is daily. You quickly run out of air. You used to be very athletic. Today you prefer to lie down and smoke. It makes you happy when you feel the tar inside you. You smoke more and more. You’re finding it difficult to breathe when you’re lying down. Because then mucus collects in your lungs, where your lungs fight against the tar. But the tar is stronger. It sticks together your bronchi and alveoli more and more. New tar settles on old tar. You continue to smoke with pleasure. You can’t help it.

Mike had been working extra hard this whole week, and the resulting stress meant that his lungs had been working extra hard too in order to deal with the additional cigarettes he had been smoking to try and cope. Today was no different. He'd already had three meetings with clients this morning, and after the third one he'd decided to take an early lunch break and walk to the park down the street to smoke a few cigarettes and clear his mind. He had more meetings lined up that afternoon, and just the thought of them had him constantly reaching for his pack again and again, lighting up each subsequent cigarette as soon as the previous one was done. He looked at his phone to check the time and cursed out loud - his thirty minute lunch break was almost over. He had just enough time for one more cigarette. His meal would have to wait. Maybe he could eat a Snickers bar at his desk in between meetings, since he wasn't that hungry anyway. That was the other advantage of chainsmoking - the nicotine helped him get through the workday without eating if he had to, in addition to helping him relax. He knew he'd probably reek of smoke when he got back to the office, but at this point he couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. The first set of clients he was meeting that afternoon were both smokers anyway, so he knew they wouldn't mind even if they noticed. What he was concerned about was how he was going to make it to 5 pm without at least a dozen more smoke breaks. Maybe he could convince his first two clients to have the meeting outside, over a pack of cigarettes...

It was near freezing outside, and Rob was getting colder by the minute. His fingertips were numb, his toes felt like ice cubes inside his shoes, and he was starting to shiver. Yet, he knew what his lungs needed, so he tossed the butt of his previous cigarette aside and pulled out a fresh one from the pack. It was so cold that he struggled to spark the lighter to life, but once he managed to do so, he quickly lit his new cigarette and dragged hard and fast on it to try and make quick work of it. It had been a long journey up to his parents' house in the mountains, and he needed to chainsmoke a few before bed to get his nicotine fix. He felt slightly annoyed - annoyed that he had forgotten how cold it gets up at this altitude and forgotten to bring a thicker jacket, and annoyed that even after all these years his parents still didn't let him smoke inside their house.

Suddenly he heard the door open and saw his father stepping out. His dad instinctively crossed his arms and braced in the cold. "Thought I might find you out here," his dad said. "Still haven't given it up, huh?" he asked, pointing at the cigarette in his son's hand.

Rob said nothing, but continued hauling, not moving the cigarette from his lips but rather inhaling continuously and letting the exhales spill out of his nose.

"Damn, it's cold out here!" his dad said, as a slight icy breeze made him shiver quickly. "I figured with it being this cold outside you might decide it wasn't worth it stepping outside to smoke every time, at least for the few days you're here."

Rob still said nothing, but shot his dad a resentful, sidelong stare as he continued to diligently smoke his cigarette. Did his parents really think he was going to play these games with them? They'd tried every trick in the book to try and get him to quit, and had failed every time. It was starting to get a little ridiculous that they wouldn't just accept defeat and let him smoke in peace. Even though this last cigarette had given him the nicotine buzz he had been craving, he was tempted to smoke another one, just to be stubborn and prove a point.

As his rapid hauling finished off the last of his cigarette, he tossed it aside and said, "there could be a blizzard or hurricane raging outside for all I care, dad, and I'd still be out here smoking. Just deal with it."

His father sighed as he watched Rob exhale the residual smoke that had accumulated at the bottom of his lungs from all that relentless inhaling before reaching for his pack and pulling out another one. Rob's dad was wearing nothing but pajamas, bedroom slippers and a woolen dressing robe, and now his teeth were starting to chatter.

As Rob struggled to flick the lighter again with his numb fingers, his dad finally said, "fine."

Rob looked up at him questioningly, one eyebrow raised. "Fine what?"

His dad sighed again before replying. "Fine, you can smoke inside."

Rob stopped fumbling with the lighter. "Really?"

His dad shrugged. "Well, you're obviously not going to stop no matter what your mom and I do, and you're not a kid any more - if you really want to do it, then that's on you," his dad said with an air of resignation. "Besides, it's cold as fuck out here. I can't even feel my balls any more."

Rob smiled slightly at his dad's attempt at humor in this situation as he gathered up his pack of cigarettes and lighter, the one he'd been trying to fire up still dangling from his lips.

"Finally! It's about fucking time you guys let me smoke in the house," he said, getting up and walking towards the door which his father was already opening.

"Hey, don't be rude! Just be thankful," his dad said with an affectionate pat on the back as he followed Rob back inside and shut the door behind him. "Just try to keep it to your room as much as possible and for God's sake don't ash all over the house!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Rob said as he reached for his lighter again. "What about mom? Won't she lose her shit?"

"Don't worry about her," his dad replied. "I'll talk to her. You may not know this, but I used to smoke too, before you were born. If she could put up with it back then, she can learn to put up with it now."

It was the last day of our weeklong trip down to the Gulf Coast. Just me and my best friend Luke, whom I've known since middle school. We'd ended up going to the same college two years ago, so we decided to share an apartment fifteen minutes from campus. And whether it was driving to class together every morning or just hanging out at the apartment, we spent a lot of time in each other's company. Having known each other for so long growing up, we'd done just about everything under the sun together, including some pretty wild sexual stuff like sucking each other off and having threesomes with other dudes and chicks. Through it all, he remained like a brother to me. So when spring break rolled around this year and I suggested we come down here for the week, he naturally agreed at once.

It had been an amazing six days. The sun shone every day, and it was warm but not yet swelteringly hot. We got a cheap motel right by the beach and spent most of our time on the sand or just driving around aimlessly. We ate burgers and nachos at tacky diners and when the sun went down we hit the club and partied like there was no tomorrow. It was an idyllic, lazy beachside vacation, and I could tell Luke was enjoying it as much as I was.

A large part of his enjoyment of this trip, I suspected, was no doubt nicotine-fueled, whether Luke realized that or not. Despite us knowing each other for around 10 years and me being a smoker for most of those 10 years, I had only this week finally convinced Luke to become a smoker himself. I had always been more of a rebel than him, usually being the one who pushed him to try new things, but it still seemed crazy to me that it took less persuasion to get him to stick his dick inside me than to get him to try smoking. Maybe a good chunk of that sexual freehandedness was due to testosterone and being constantly horny, but somehow he had always remained resolute in not smoking.

Admittedly though, he was never a pain in the ass or supercilious about my own smoking. I carried a pack with me wherever I went and sparked up whenever I wanted - in the car with him, in the apartment sitting right next to him, and sometimes even during sex with him. He genuinely didn't seem to mind, which I appreciated, since at this point I don't think I could go more than a few hours without smoking. I'd tried countless times to get him to try just one cigarette, or even just one inhale, but no luck.

He didn't seem too bothered by the health aspect of it, so that couldn't have been the reason. We even joked that since he lived with me now and was constantly inhaling my secondhand smoke, he was already half the smoker I was, with his lungs probably half as black as mine. Even the nasty cough I got for a month last winter from bronchitis (and probably exacerbated by smoking) didn't elicit so much as a disapproving look from him. He'd just return from the store with my carton of cigarettes and offer to warm up some soup for me while I lay curled up under the blankets, coughing while chainsmoking to pass the time in front of the TV.

I had a feeling that the real reason he'd held out for so long was that he was afraid of what others would think or say if he smoked. He'd always cared more about that sort of thing than me. But, to his credit, he'd loosened up a lot since starting college. And sensing an opportunity, I'd decided to try one more time on the drive down here, using every cliché in the book:

"Come on, Lukey boy! It's spring break, man, you're on holiday! Just try it for this one week, and if you don't like it, I won't bring it up again. What're you worried about? We're not even going to see anyone we know on this trip! Literally nobody else is going to find out. Come on, now!"

And at last, though I could scarcely believe it after all these years, he finally caved and agreed. Of course, he barely needed any coaching from me on technique, having watched me smoke thousands of cigarettes over the years. He took to it like a fish to water, helped along by the fact that his lungs were already used to smoke, again thanks to me. Within no time he was able to match my pace, though of course I knew he was enjoying that incredible nicotine rush that all first-time smokers do.

By day 3 of the trip, he was smoking like an old hand who'd been at it for years. I taught him how to smoke in the shower without getting the cigarette wet, how to smoke in bed without dropping ash all over the sheets, and how to smoke while thrusting his cock balls deep in someone else without accidentally burning them. Whatever we did, whether it was on the sand, in the club or in the sheets, I made sure both of us were lighting up frequently. We were just two bros hanging out together and having a great time, without a care in the world.

On our last day there, I woke up earlier than usual to get a head start on packing our stuff up and loading the car for the drive back home. I rolled over and saw that Luke was already up, since his side of the bed was empty. 'Probably jerking off in the bathroom or something,' I thought to myself with a smile, as I noticed my own morning wood under the blanket.

I lay there for a few minutes as I lit and smoked my first cigarette of the day, and then rolled out of bed and began picking up clothes off the floor to start packing. We'd made a bit of a mess over the past week by not cleaning up after ourselves, and I found myself picking up an assortment of tank-tops, shorts, t-shirts, jeans, swimming trunks and underwear off the floor before stuffing it all into the bag. It didn't really matter what was mine and what was his - we both shared most of our stuff anyway. As I finished packing the last of the clothes and sat back down on the bed, I realized I needed three things: to take a piss, another cigarette, and a cup of coffee - preferably in that order.

I walked over to the bathroom and listened carefully to see if I could hear any furious stroking or gentle moaning coming from inside. Luke was a habitual moaner, and couldn't stop himself from releasing those soft, erotic sounds any time someone touched or played with his dick - including himself. It was probably the reason he'd decided to go inside the bathroom to jerk off instead of doing it in bed next to me, so as to not wake me up. But after listening for a few seconds and not hearing anything, I wondered if he'd already finished busting a load all over himself or the toilet seat and then fallen back asleep. I opened the door and poked my head inside to take a look, but to my surprise the lights were off and the bathroom was empty.

I went inside, pulled my pants down and began to piss. My cock was still semi-hard from the morning wood I’d woken up with earlier, and I was tempted to jerk off myself to get the day started, but decided to leave it for later. After I finished in the bathroom, I lit another cigarette and wondered where Luke had gone off to. I decided to head down to the front lobby and grab a cup of coffee and to look for him.

I threw on the first shirt I could find, which was one of Luke’s, without really bothering to button it up. I opened the door to head downstairs – and there he was! Luke was leaning over the railing of the second floor porch, wearing a pair of checkered boxers and the same t-shirt he’d passed out in last night when we got back, and somewhat absently taking a drag off a freshly lit cigarette. He looked strangely sad and forlorn, staring silently at the waves crashing onto the sand a hundred feet away. I knew him well enough to know that he didn’t usually let worry show on his face, so whatever it was that was bothering him must’ve been something he really cared about.

“There you are, bro! I was wondering where you were,” I greeted him. “Couldn’t wait to have that first smoke of the day, huh?”

“Yeah, feels pretty good,” Luke answered with a smile, before taking another, more focused drag and a deep inhale to accompany it.

“What’s up? You look all serious,” I said.

“Ah, nothing really. Just kinda sad this trip’s almost over, I guess,” he replied. He finished exhaling the rest of the smoke in his lungs in a long stream before continuing. “And also thinking about how I’m gonna miss smoking.”

My eyes widened. “You can’t be serious! You’re giving it up when we get back? Why?!”

Luke sighed. “I’m not like you, man. People don’t know me as a smoker. They’re all gonna ask questions about why I’m doing it and they’re gonna bitch at me about how bad it is and all that.”

“So?” I said. “People take up smoking all the time, dude. Nobody’s gonna say anything. All of our friends already know that I’m a smoker, and nobody gives me shit for it. Half of them vape anyway, and you already smell like smoke whenever you hang out with me so I bet most people won’t even notice or think twice about it.”

Luke considered for a moment. “Well, my parents will definitely freak out if they find out,” he said feebly.

“Aww, is little Lukey afwaid of upsetting his pawents?” I teased, pretending to frown and cry.

He laughed and playfully shoved me with his elbow. “Shut up!”

“Seriously, bro. You’re an adult in college, what are they even going to do?” I said. “I know you’ve enjoyed smoking the whole time we’ve been down here. You’re really going to stop just because your parents might find out? They never even come to visit us and you only go back for a few days at Christmas anyway.”

Again, I saw Luke falter as he considered what I’d said. I could see I was winning the argument, and decided to finish it off before he could come up with any more lame excuses. “Trust me, you’ll be fine, man. You’re a smoker now, so own it with pride! You're not quitting, and that's that. End of conversation. Come on now, let’s go downstairs. I really need a coffee.”

I wasn’t sure yet whether or not Luke would actually continue to smoke when we got back, but one thing I was sure of – Luke was like a brother to me, and I was going to do everything I could to make sure he was happy. If that meant keeping him smoking, then that’s what I was going to do. The hard part was over anyway - he'd already tasted the pleasures of smoking for himself. All that was left was to make sure he kept on doing it with me.

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