Smokygluvs' Week

A little of Smoky's darker side

[smokygluvsweek]

The Shooting Party

I arrive (because I feel I have to look the part) in a long wheel-base Land Rover I've stolen for the occasion and that I've fitted with false plates. The venue is a large farmhouse, almost a small stately home, in the Scottish Lowlands. I give a false name on arrival that matches the booking, show a false ID that matches the false name, sign a false signature and tell a false tale about my background and circumstances. I'm shown to my room by the lady of the house (as it were) and I flirt a bit and she giggles a little. Supper's at seven, she tells me, and everyone's meeting in the hallway to set off towards the moorland at eight tomorrow morning, following breakfast.

I meet the host, a man by the name of Callum Scott, a stocky bald man who smokes cigar after cigar, stopping only to eat and sleep. After dinner he offers me one but I decline, preferring my pipe. We step outside and smoke and enjoy each other's company. I take time to compliment him on his choice of wife - who appears about twenty years younger than him. He smiles and winks and says: "She often keeps me up all night."

Next morning, after breakfast, I'm dressed and in the hallway ready to leave. We're five in the party: Callum Scott, his beater, Sean, me and two other paying guests. Americans. One (like me) is in his sixties, the other in his forties. They have a lot to say for themselves (loudly) and a lot of money and very little class. It's clear to me they've never been out grouse shooting before. I exchange a few polite words with them but it's Sean I'm attracted to.

He's a fifty-something pipe smoker with a neat moustache and wearing a tweed suit. I spot his pocket watch on a chain. I comment on the watch and he explains it's solid gold and was his grandfather's. Then Callum Scott announces that we're off. We have a walk of about two miles up through woodland to get to the open ground where the shooting will take place. With my shotgun broken over my arm and my pipe in my mouth, I take up the rear with Sean. We carry on talking and he explains a bit about the terrain and what we can expect. I ask him a bit about Callum Scott and, reading between the lines, I gather he's not Sean's favourite person.

About a mile in I stumble, drop my shotgun and call out. I'm on the floor and Sean steps over with concern. "Went over on my ankle", I say. "Give me two minutes and I'll be OK." I get up and gingerly test my foot. I limp a bit. Apart from Sean, who's standing next to me, the others are about twenty feet away: Callum Scott with his cigar in his mouth and the two Americans, none of whom are paying me any attention.

Without a word I reach a leather gloved hand inside my tweed jacket. I pull out my automatic, which I've already fitted with a silencer. In a swift movement, I raise the gun and fire off three suppressed shots, one for each of Callum Scott and the Americans. I hit each one in the head (at twenty feet, I don't find that difficult) and they drop to the floor. I turn to Sean, who is standing there with a look of shocked amazement and incomprehension on his face. I hold the pistol up and point the silencer at his face.

"Drop the shotgun," I say quietly. He does as he's told. "Let's check Callum Scott and the Yanks," I add and I take him over to where the three bodies are stretched out in the leaves and twigs. I poke each one with my foot but I already know they're dead.

I turn to Sean. "I'm sorry. I'm paid to kill Callum Scott. The Americans are just collateral damage but I enjoyed wasting all of them... You, on the other hand. Well, I like you so believe me I'm not going to take any pleasure in this."

Sean opens his mouth to speak but I don't want to prolong his agony and I shoot my fourth bullet into his face. He goes down, still with that look of shock on his face. I look around at the four dead bodies, fill my pipe and light it, sending large plumes of smoke into the air around me. I bend down and lift the gold watch out of Sean's pocket and slip it into my own. And I look down at his dead body and say, "Sorry about that, really I am."

With my pipe in the corner of my mouth I pick up the shotgun I dropped when I "fell" and walk back to the farmhouse. On the way back I stop and take a moment to think, perched on the fence dividing the farmhouse garden from the woodland. Eventually, with regret, I make a decision and walk up to the farmhouse. Callum Scott's wife is alone in the hallway and I approach, my leather gloved hands behind my back.

"Oh, you've come back!" she says, as if it wasn't obvious. I say nothing, bring the silenced automatic round from behind my back and drop her with a shot to the face. I make my way up to my room and pick up my bag.

My husband warns me about getting attached to people I know I'm going to have to waste. He's right, of course, but I can't help it. In Sean's case, I was really getting to like him. I'm soppy like that.

I refill my pipe and light it, fire up the engine and drive the Land Rover down the lane to the highway. They probably won't be found for hours, possibly not until the next day. By that time I will be back home, entwined in the arms of my husband. He'll ask me how it went. I'll give him the pocket watch as a present. The more I tell him about the hit, the more turned on we both get and, when fluids have been exchanged, we'll both light out pipes and settle back for a good smoke before we go to sleep.

[smokygluvsweek]

Patience, Patience

The job, on the face of it, is pretty simple: the mark is a businessman in late middle age with a wife and adult kids. He and his wife live in a five-bedroom house set in an acre of land near a village outside of Dorking. Only one problem: within that acre of land he has a couple of vicious Alsatians roaming. And me? Well, I'm allergic to dogs. Especially big ones that bite. Apart from that, they have a habit of waking people up with their barking. So no, my preferred operational method of up-close-and-personal goes out the window.

I drive out to scout round the area. It's a warm early autumn evening: I have the soft-top down and the wind would be blowing through my hair, if I had any on top. Instead, it blows across the wool of my flat cap.

It doesn't take me long to realise two things: first, the house is set way back from the front gate, about two-thirds of the way to the rear boundary. Second, the rear boundary has a quiet lane running past and the boundary fence cuts through a run of trees and undergrowth next to that lane.

I check the view from the boundary fence to the house. There's a clear view of the patio across the lawn, about 75 yards away, double doors giving out onto the patio. The kind of place people like to sit on a warm early autumn evening and share a bottle of wine.

A couple of days later, I drive back out, park up about half a mile away and head down the lane. This time, I'm dressed for a bit of country strolling in my padded gilet, corduroy trousers and brown brogues, my cap and a pair of shooting gloves. In addition to my usual equipment (high-powered rifle with telescopic sight and .45 automatic pistol, just in case anyone gets too close), I have my binoculars round my neck. I'm playing the waiting game. The patio has its garden table and chairs out but there's no-one there. Not yet, anyway. So I stand in the trees, binoculars up to my face. Watching.

By the time I give up for the evening, night is falling and I shrug my shoulders, break the rifle down into its parts and put it in my rucksack and walk back to the car. The weather forecast says tomorrow will be just as warm so I guess tomorrow will have to do.

The next day I'm back in position with my binoculars. Judging the wind is in the right direction, I smoke a few pipe-fulls as I wait and I'm thinking the same is going to happen again. Then, I see the patio doors open and a dumpy woman emerge with a bottle of wine and two glasses. A few seconds later, she's followed by my mark, just as he appeared in the photo I was given when the hit was set up and dressed almost the same. He has a cigar in the corner of his mouth and a magazine in his hand. He sits down, pulls on his cigar and opens the magazine. I watch the blue-grey smoke drift upwards.

I take my pipe out of my mouth and stuff it into the pocket of my gilet. I put the binoculars away and lift the rifle from where it was propped against a tree. I raise it to my shoulder.

Fifteen seconds or so have passed. He's still in his seat, his face partially covered by the magazine. I wait. I'm good at waiting. Waiting pays dividends. The dumpy woman pours a glass of wine for each of them. He lowers the magazine and lifts the glass: they toast. He drinks. He puts the glass down and raises the cigar to his mouth and that's my cue. Using the red glow from the cigar as my target, I ease back on the trigger and the bullet releases with a sharp crack.

I know I've hit my target without looking to check: I could feel it. Sometimes you just know. The rifle is already broken down and in the rucksack, the rucksack is on my shoulders. I lift the binoculars to check. I can hear the woman's screams and the dogs barking and growling, even at a distance. She's on her knees next to the dead body of her husband lying on the patio where he fell from his chair. I wonder what happened to the cigar. No matter. I lower the binoculars, pull my pipe from my gilet pocket and re-light it. Then, in the failing light, a grey-bearded, mature country gentleman, out for a stroll and a little bird watching, plods his way back up the lane, puffing pipe smoke as he goes.

[smokygluvsweek]

The Arrangement - Part 2

"I've brought you this, Mr Verhoeven," I say as I remove my light tan leather driving gloves and drop them on the table between us. I reach under my armpit and pull out this morning's local paper. I unfold it and hand it to him.

The headline is all he needs to read: 'Local Businessman Dies Fall.' Even so, Mr Verhoeven scans the first paragraph of the article while I light my cigar. Then he looks up. A grim smile spreads across his face.

"Bravo, Mr Baxter," he says. But then he looks at me with a serious stare through his round, horn-rimmed glasses. "There's no possibility that the police might investigate further?"

I chuckle. "Well, there's always a possibility but they'll find nothing. It's a clear-cut suicide. Just as we suggested. He even left behind a suicide note."

"A suicide note, you say? How...?"

"I dictated it, of course, but it's in his own hand. A little shaky, but then the sedative I made him take was already taking effect."

I sit back, a broad smile on my face. "He'd also downed half a bottle of whisky. By that stage, he'd have written anything."

He pulls on his cigar. " I don't understand..."

I sigh, streaming jets of my own cigar smoke from my nostrils. "I can see you need to know all the gory details. Well, since you're paying for the whole drama, I might as well give you a summary. You see, the key to being a successful hitman is to do your homework. After I collected your hundred thousand downpayment, I made a visit to Mr Flanders' apartment block, just to see what we were dealing with. It's a nice building, full of mature, retired ladies and gentlemen. Landscaped gardens and underground parking. You need a fair amount of money behind you just to rent there. But then you know that already."

"Did anyone see you?"

"Oh, yes. One or two. But that's the advantage of being a dapper, mature gentleman. No-one assumes you're up to no good. I nod and smile and make a comment about the weather and they forget all about me. It's a big block. They simply assume I'm a resident.

"So I check the entrances, which are all code-access but, d'you know what? Not the stairwell to the underground parking. I counted that as a bonus."

"But the block has cameras. I've seen them."

I pull on my cigar and laugh out loud. "Only in the foyer, and I didn't use that way in. And the system is ancient: you could walk a wild animal through there and no-one could tell if it was an elephant or a goat. Still, I suppose it reassures the residents."

I reach forward and pick up my driving gloves and finger them, Turing them over in my hands like they were some kind of precious artefact. "I decided to use these tan gloves. They go with my light suit and the hat, don't you think?"

I must admit, I'm not keen on improvising, but when I got down to the parking area, Mr Flanders' car was missing from it's spot, so I decided to wait in the shadows until he showed up, hoping, of course he wasn't out for the whole evening. And that he was alone when he got back.

"What would you have done if he was with someone, Mr Baxter?"

"What do you think I am? An amateur? A madman?" I shake my head. "If there'd been someone with him I'd have called the hit off and come back another day. I could have made it look like some kind of suicide pact, but that's less convincing." Another pull on my cigar. The more I savoured my memory of my visit, the better that cigar tasted.

I didn't have long to wait before he pulls up in his Mercedes. I slip out of the shadows and follow him as if I'd parked up my own car. We get to the lift together. He looks at me. I nod and smile. He smiles back and we get into the lift. The door closes. He chooses the 13th floor. I choose the 16th.

'Mr Flanders,' I say. He turns around. I'm standing there, silenced automatic in one hand, black leather Gladstone bag in the other. 'Please don't be stupid, or I'll shoot your balls off.'

He opens his mouth in shock, but nothing comes out.

We ride the lift up to the 13th floor. I say, 'If we see anyone, you nod and smile and walk on. Otherwise, you're dead and so is whoever we meet. Understood?'

But we don't see anyone. The corridor is deserted. We get to his front door and I growl: 'In.'

The flat is modern and spacious and minimal. There's a balcony accessed through a sliding glass door. I gesture with my gun for him to get a dining room chair and place it by the glass door.

'Undress.'

'What is this?' He's trying to sound calm but his voice is shaking. 'Are you robbing me? Listen, I've got money. I've got a safe in my study. You can have the money. Just don't hurt me.'

'Yeah, I'm interested in the safe. Take me there.'

I make him take the rest of his clothes off until he's naked. Not a big man: slim, 5'10", balding, with a flabby face and dark, piggy eyes. I reach out a gloved hand and fondle his balls. 'You ever have a gunman play with your balls before?' He looks at me, shocked and helpless. I run the barrel of my gun around his scrotum. 'Just imagine if I took these off you. Lot of mess... Lot of pain, too.'

He leads me into the study. The safe is large and free-standing and opens with a key. 'Open up.'

I stand, cigar in mouth as he fishes out the key from his desk and opens the safe. It squeals. 'You should get that looked at,' I say, taking my chewed cigar out of my mouth. 'Hand it over'.

There's about fifty grand in there. He takes it out and puts it in my outstretched gloved hand with a look of resentment. I hold it up to my nose, give it a sniff. 'I love the smell of money,' I laugh. 'Other people's money.'

I gesture with my gun for him to go back to the living room and get him sitting down on the dining chair. I drop the cash into the Gladstone bag and retrieve a small flask of liquid.

"Now, Mr Verhoeven, I'm sure you don't want me to bore you with the rest of my evening with Mr Flanders. Suffice to say, I spent a little while with him. He asked what was going to happen to him but why spoil the surprise? I said I wasn't counting on shooting him, if that's what he was worried about."

"So you gave him a sedative and made him wash it down with Whisky?"

"That's right. The sedative makes him compliant and the Whisky masks the sedative. And then I got him to write the note and I left it on his dining table and by that stage he was almost slipping off the chair."

I crush what's left of my cigar out in the ash tray and light another. "So there you are. I lifted him off the chair before he slid onto the floor. Well, I didn't want to do my back in picking him up from there, a man of my age. I dragged him through the balcony door and leant him against the railing. Then it was just a quick bend-down to grab his ankles and lift them above my head and away he slid."

"As easy as that?" Mr Verhoeven says, with a slight look of fear in his eyes.

I pull my gloves back on slowly, stretching the leather tight over my knuckles and I stand up. "Killing comes easy to me, Mr Verhoeven," I say flatly. 'And the nice thing is, as sedated as he was, he stayed conscious the whole time. All 13 floors down until... splat!" I pull on my cigar again and look at the smouldering end between my gloved fingers. I'm trying not to look smug or self-satisfied but it's not easy.

"Now," I add with a growl, breathing out a cloud of cigar smoke and showing a darker look in my eyes. "You owe me the rest of my fee, Mr Verhoeven. I'll take it now if you don't mind."

[smokygluvsweek]

The Arrangement - Part One

"I've heard you're one of the best there is," Mr Verhoeven says. I let him lean forward and light my cigar. I puff it alight, remove it from my mouth and release the smoke through my nostrils.

I smile, pull again on my Cohiba. More nose-jets. "Then I'm sorry to disabuse you. I'm not one of the best... I'm the best." I raise my eyebrows and stare into the old man's face.

"You seem very sure of yourself. How on earth can you be so certain, Mr Baxter?"

"Because I make it my business to eliminate the competition, Mr Verhoeven." I knock the ash off the end of my cigar into the ashtray without looking at him. "It's pretty simple capitalist economics: the demand remains as high as ever, but the supply is restricted and I hold a virtual monopoly. Anyone new on the scene doesn't get a chance to advance his career very far."

"Ah, I see. A kind of survival of the fittest. Very Darwinian of you, Mr Baxter!" He removes his glasses and waves his cigar around expansively as he speaks.

I chuckle. "You know, Mr Verhoeven, I provide a high-quality service in a very restricted market. As a result, I charge a premium for what I provide."

So now we're down to brass tacks. "How much?" he asks.

"Well, that somewhat depends on what you require. Let's say for a simple removal, we'd be looking at no less than two hundred thousand. Of course, if you want anything more elaborate, the price will be higher. The more complex, the higher the risk, the greater the fee." Mr Verhoeven puts his cigar back in the corner of his mouth and pulls on it. He streams smoke from his nostrils and the cloud envelops his face.

"I see."

"Plus expenses."

I watch him think for a moment, weighing everything up. "Very well, Mr Baxter."

On the table there's a large buff envelope. Mr Verhoeven picks it up and hands it to me. Inside, there's a typed sheet of information, a potted biography of sorts, and a few photographs. "Michael Flanders started our import/export business with me forty years ago."

"But now it's time for him to retire?" I check my watch. It's two thirty. "The question is how."

"I would have thought that was your department, Mr Baxter. You are the hitman, after all." He frowns. I pull on my cigar. A long, deep pull and send my smoke in a jet over his head.

"How do you want him to be disposed of, Mr Verhoeven?" I look at him like a weary headmaster trying to correct a slow child. "Do you want a simple bullet through the head? A bomb under his car? An accident, perhaps? Or I could make it look like a suicide. I mean, are you looking to send a message or quietly dispose of him and avoid the police making too many enquiries. I need to know, Mr Verhoeven." I put my cigar back in my mouth and give it a bit of a chew, as I do when I'm feeling impatient. I've already been at Mr Verhoeven's club for 45 minutes. Way too long to be seen with a client. I put the envelope in my soft black leather briefcase. Apart from his envelope, it contains one of my own and a Browning automatic, just in case I need to make a swift and urgent exit.

Eventually, he says quietly: "A suicide. If you could make it look like a suicide, that would be best."

I stand up and reach for my overcoat. "Price: Two-fifty. Suicides take a lot of work and planning to look convincing. More complexity, higher price."

To my surprise, Mr Verhoeven simply nods. "Yes," he says. "Two fifty."

"Plus expenses."

He nods again.

"And I require a hundred thousand down first, the rest on completion." Mr Verhoeven looks a little confused, so I clarify. "When I say first, I shall need it before I make any move on our Mr Flanders. You can get the money to me by phoning this number..." I fish in my pocket and pull out a business card and I pass it to him.

"Oh, and you get this, Mr Verhoeven." I pull my own envelope out of my briefcase and hand it to him. I raise my cigar to my mouth to free both hands so I can pull on my leather gloves. I look at Mr Verhoeven as he examines the contents of the envelope, the colour draining from his face.

"I don't understand. What is this?"

I point to the photos with my leather-gloved index finger. "An insurance policy, Mr Verhoeven. Your home, your wife, your son and daughter-in-law with their baby. How old is he? Four months, now?" I let my face drop to a scowl, my eyes darken. My voice becomes a growl, "I don't want you getting any ideas, Henk. You do anything silly, like talking to anyone about our arrangement or failing to settle my fee when it falls due, I'll take them all away from you. Including your grandson. I hope I've made myself clear."

Mr Verhoeven is visibly trembling, which amuses me. "You are playing with fire in calling on my services, Mr Verhoeven. I kill as second nature: men, women, kiddies. All the same to me. Do you understand?"

He nods, fear in his eyes. I smile at him. "But you won't need to worry about that, will you, Mr Verhoeven? You're going to be a good boy."

I turn and leave, what's left of my cigar poking out from my beard, the smoke swirling over my shoulder. Life feels good right now. Very good indeed.

[smokygluvsweek]

Out and About in London

I have cause to be in London when I come across this beautiful dad travelling through the big city. So I take a few pictures, just for my own amusement, you understand.

Trouble is, I'm not as discreet as I should be. He looks up, puts his mobile down and stares at me with what I take to be a belligerent scowl. "You like taking pictures of grown men, pal?"" he growls, deep and gravelly. I shift awkwardly in my seat. "Well, I..." He breaks into a wry smile. "Don't worry, pal. Take a few more if you like what you see." I smile back. "You're a very handsome man," I say. "I bet you get told that a lot." He chuckles. "Well, Maybe now and then." The train stops at the next station and he gets up and walks to the door. As it slides open, he turns round. "Aren't you coming with me?"

Outside in the busy street, he pulls out a large cigar and lights it, blowing the smoke into my face. Then he puts on a tight pair of black leather gloves, even though the weather's quite mild. I look at the cigar in his gloved hand and feel my balls start to tingle. He catches my look, smiles, raises his cigar to his mouth and pulled on it, the end glowing bright red against the shiny black leather of his glove. He lets the smoke out of his nostrils, keeping his cigar up to his mouth. We walk a few minutes in silence, then he stops by the ornate wood and glass door to an imposing apartment building. "This is my apartment block. I use it when I'm in town. You coming in?"

In the lift he says, "My cock's not seen action for a couple of days. I wouldn't mind stretching your arse a little." Inside his flat, he adds, "I like to dominate. I like to cause a bit of pain. You OK with that?"

Before I can reply, he's already got me in a choke hold. He pulls me down onto the bed and he's stripping me off. He's strong and expert and I'm naked before I know it. Then he stretches out my arms and secures me to the bed frame with leather straps, face down. "Fuck," he says, "I don't care if you like it rough or not: it's what you're going to get."

I try to protest, but he's already stuffing a large rag into my mouth from behind and securing it with gaffer tape so all I can do is grunt. Next, I feel his gloved fingers pushing into my anus, lubricating me. One finger, then two. It fucking hurts and I struggle and he laughs out loud. Then I feel his hefty bulk lowering down onto me and my arse gets stretched further. How long? Ten minutes? Fifteen? With him grinding and pushing his fat penis into me until he lets out a deep, guttural roar and I feel a warm liquid erupt inside me and he stops and finally gets up off me.

And that's how it's been for the last three weeks. I'm left tied to the bed. Naked. He gives me food and water when he feels like it and I get to piss and shit in a bucket when he lets me. He keeps my anus clean for his pleasure and now and then he gives me a painful beating or burns me with his cigar. It makes him laugh to see me in pain, to hear me try and cry out. And whenever he wants, he lubricates my arse with petroleum jelly on the fingers of his leather "fuck gloves" and pushes his fat cock up me. And I've started to like it. And I miss him when he's not there. The smell of his cigar smoke and his sweaty body pushing into mine. And his voice: that deep, gravelly "daddy" voice. Oh, and he made me give him my card numbers, so now he's slowly emptying my bank accounts. He spends my money on cigars and pipes and pipe tobacco.

He tells me that, when he gets bored of me, he'll use a piano-wire garrotte on me and dispose of my body. Of course, I don't want that to happen but what can I do? I'm completely under his control. And one day, when he decides, it'll be over. My friends and family won't know what's happened to me and I'll disappear like a puff of his cigar smoke in the wind.

And I don't even know his name.

[smokygluvsweek]

Harvest

I am entirely indebted to @dagdabear for the images and some of the ideas in this story and I very much hope he appreciates my modest efforts. If you haven't already done so, check out his posts for some expertly put together photos of leather gloved, masked crime. Intimate, threatening and bound to get your penis throbbing if, indeed, you are as perverted as we are. This is dedicated to you, my good friend.

Here we are, Vic. Sorry it's a bit damp but we're in the cellar. There's no carpet. It makes it easier to clean up the blood. So, let's get you sitting down. Now, I'm going to secure you to the chair, make sure you don't go anywhere. Don't struggle or I'll have to give you another slap. You didn't like it when I hit you last time, did you? If you make me do it again, I'll have to use my set of knuckle dusters and spoil your face. You understand, Vic? As far as I'm concerned, you're just a piece of meat. Remember that if you think you might make me feel sorry for you. See, I get off on hurting people, so don't give Pitbull the excuse.

Now, let's get that hood off. There, you can see me now. Take a long look. Handsome bugger, old Pitbull. Don't you think? I was masked when I held you up, remember? With my little gun and its little silencer in my tight little leather gloved hand. You thought I wanted to take your wallet? Or your car? And all along it was you I was after. Of course, I lifted a fair amount of cash off your bank and credit cards, but that's just a bonus. My paymasters pay me very handsomely just for delivering a bit if new flesh. But, for the time being, you're all mine. For the time being.

So we'll get your eyes covered up again. A bit more rope, just to make sure you're secure. What's that? A bit too tight? Well, that's just too fucking bad, Vic... You know, I like you, Vic. Nice looking young man with a bit of money, nice car. I bet you've got a nice house, as well, with you working in the City, eh? Or a flat. One of those flash new places down in the Docklands. Or both. Why not both, Vic? A flat for when you're working and a nice place in the country for the weekends. Take your pretty little girls there, that right? Well, you won't be doing that again.

You tired, Vic? You know how long ago I stanched you? Let's think back - you came out of the pub at 11. I followed you all the way to your car in the underground car park by your office. That took about 15 minutes. You didn't notice me behind you in my black clothes, my black leather jacket, my black leather gloves, did you? But then you'd had a bit to drink. I know: I was watching you and your other rich friends from across the bar with your champagne and your brandy by the bottle. You shouldn't drink, Vic. Not if you're going to drive. Still, you didn't get the chance to drive your nice Mercedes, did you? No. I took your keys off you. You remember? I put my gun to your scrotum and said I'd blow your balls off if you didn't hand the keys over. And your wallet. And your Rolex for that matter. You flash cunt. And you did. You handed it all over and you thought I'd go away. But I didn't. Instead I put you in the boot of your car and we went for a little drive, you and me. So, anyway, it's nine in the morning now. I drove you around for 10 hours, just so you'd have time to get really scared, all hunched up in the boot of your car, secured with those thick, tight cable ties I put on your wrists and ankles. They must hurt after 10 hours. They must be cutting into your skin. And now with the rope around your arms and your legs and your torso, you're strung up nice and tight to this wooden chair. You must be quite uncomfortable, Vic. Well, you're not the first. You won't be the last.

What you trying to say, Vic? I can't understand you. You need to loo? I tell you what, you just piss where you are. You can shit in your pants as well, you filthy little cunt. Go on. And I'll light another cigar to cover the smell. There, that's better. I smoke too many of these babies but, man, I love the taste of a good, fat cigar. All that grey smoke swirling round your head. can you smell it, Vic? Here, let me take a long pull and I'll blow the smoke up your nose. How's that, Vic? You smell that? That's what a dominant man smells like. A dominant, callous, sadistic criminal. He smells of cigars and leather. And the grease of a gun. I've got my gun on the table right here. Just on the table. I could pick it up and just blow your brains out. Right now. All over. You want me to do that? I've shot a lot of men. A lot. It's fun. A real turn on... Stop squirming, Vic. Stop panicking. Calm down. Just my little joke. No, you're going to be with me for a lot longer yet.

At least another three days. What's that? I can't understand you, Vic. You want to know where you're going to sleep? Well, there's no bed. You'll have to step where you are, secured to the chair. Maybe I'll push you over so you can lay on the floor. Maybe while you're down there I'll take a piss on you. Or squat down and take a shit. Then I'll make you eat it, along with my cigar butts. That's the only kind of cuisine I'll be serving up. What's that? What's going to happen to you? Is that what you're trying to say? Well, in the next room I've got a wooden frame that I'm going to strap you to later on, and I'm going to take my stiff penis and I'm going to slowly push it up inside your arse. And I'm going to keep pushing, back and fore, until I squirt my warm, salty cream into you. I won't even need to bend down. My mouth's watering just thinking about it. I'll do it a few times over the next few days, eh? You like the idea of that, Vic? I love fucking arse, Vic... No, that's not true. What I really love is taking a straight cunt like you and raping his arse and doing it again and again. Heh, heh... You're not laughing, Vic. Oh, you mean in the long term. Well, in three days or so my paymasters are coming to collect you. Then they're going to take you off to their little medical centre and they'll put you under so they can remove your organs... That's right: liver, kidneys, heart, eyes. Anything that rich sick people need. People are desperate for organs. They pay a lot of money for fresh meat. A lot of money. And you'll be fresh. You won't be dead until the very end. Then anything left over they feed to their dogs. No waste, see. Are you screaming, Vic? Are you trying to scream? Are you trying to get free? Well, I suppose I would in your position but I can hardly hear what you're saying. In fact, you've been quite difficult to understand ever since I stuffed your own leather gloves into that fat mouth of yours. But it's business, Vic. Just business. You understand that, of all people. Eh, Vic? Now, excuse me a minute while I go and prepare that fuck-frame I've got next door. My cock's crying out for some exercise.

[smokygluvsweek]

What's in Grandpa's Mouth?

This handsome grandpa, with his balding head, grey moustache and chubby cheeks, was asked to taste test for the BBC.

He popped a few things into his mouth, including a cube from a £115 melon.

Check out the BBC News website today if you want to know what this beautiful grandpa sounds like (which is lovely).

In fact, if you want me to taste test anything, it would have to be the inside of his mouth.

It's just a shame he didn't get to taste the emissions from my cock. I'm sure that would have been his taste favourite.

Ah, well.

[smokygluvsweek]

A Conversation

"You know, Heinrich, these last few weeks since we met have been quite a revelation to me. Apart from the pleasure of cognac and cigars in your company, I didn't realise how much I enjoyed the friendship of a like-minded man."

"Oh, I agree, my dear Karl. I was finding life terminally boring until I caught sight of you at the gentlemen's club. We have so much in common, you and I: apart from the intense pleasure of good cigars and fine brandy, there's also the pure joy of getting to know our way around each other's bodies."

"However, I wonder, Karl, if you ever feel life could be a touch more exciting."

"In what way?"

"There's a jewellers I've taken a shine to recently. High end: bespoke gold and platinum items, custom watches and the like. I estimate they must be carrying at least a million in stock at any given time, probably more. I wondered if you might care to take a visit with me some time."

"For what purpose, Heinrich?"

"Hmm. These are good cigars, are they not? Nothing like a good smoke with an attractive man... Well, Karl, I wondered if you would be interested in relieving them of that stock. By force, of course."

"You're asking if I would be interested in robbing them, Heinrich?"

"That is what I had in mind. I've done some research. It doesn't have much in the way of security: one rather antiquated camera linked to an equally antiquated video recorder. There's the owner and two members of staff. I have a collection of handguns that we can use as persuasion. I can't imagine we would need more than ten minutes or so to subdue the three of them and remove the 'booty'. Any thoughts?"

"Ah, you're right about the cigars, Heinrich. Remind me to pick up a box or two before we see each other again. The brandy, as well, tastes particularly fine. Of course, Heinrich, we're both rich men, so I cannot imagine your real interest would be to acquire the value involved."

"No, evidently not."

"So I imagine this 'caper' of yours would be for the adventure. The thrill, as it were."

"Of course. We're both dominant men. I think we would both appreciate the enjoyment of forcing these gentlemen to hand over their choicest items. A sexual enjoyment, I think, Karl."

"Absolutely, Heinrich... I think you can count me in. Do you have a plan?"

"But of course. To begin with, we pay a visit to the owner's home the night before and take his wife hostage."

"An insurance policy of sorts, Heinrich. I see."

"In the morning, we take our friend to the jewellers. It will be a simple matter to pass as business associates if anyone is watching. Once the staff members arrive, we hold them at gunpoint, secure them with packing tape and our friend can then assist in filling our bags with whatever we wish to remove."

"And all the while, we can each enjoy one of these marvellous cigars whilst we direct him to lift the most exclusive and expensive items."

"I think you're getting the picture, Karl."

"What do we do with the 'goodies' once we've completed our robbery, Heinrich?"

"I already have a buyer arranged. I have negotiated 75% of market value on the understanding that this endeavour will be the first of many such transactions."

"You have already given this matter a lot of thought, my good friend. But what if I had not been keen to participate?"

"Then I would have let the matter drop... However, I was almost entirely certain that you were going to agree."

"And what about the police? There's the camera and surely the staff will also be able to give quite detailed descriptions of us."

'I would propose, Karl, that we do not leave witnesses. You can dispose of the lady wife upstairs at our friend's home before we leave for the jewellers. I would suggest a garrotte to avoid unnecessary blood and noise. Once we have filled our bags, we can force everyone into the storeroom and execute them one by one. As for the camera, we simply remove the tape once he have completed our game and keep it. No doubt we can watch the whole thing over again later, whilst we make love."

"Well, Heinrich, I think this could be enormous fun. Not to mention lucrative. When do you plan on carrying this robbery out?"

"I think we shall pay our friend and his wife a visit on Sunday evening. By mid-morning on Monday we shall have goods of an eye-watering value and leave four dead souls. Agreed?"

"Agreed, Heinrich."

"So let's re-fill our brandy balloons and raise a toast to a most exciting adventure."

"The first of many, I hope! To violent robbery!"

"Now, Karl, shall we retire upstairs? All this talk of violent mayhem has made me quite in need of exchanging some gentlemen's fluids with you."

"I thought you'd never ask."

[smokygluvsweek]

A Five-Day Week

My heartfelt thanks to @williamspsny for posting the video these stills are drawn from. I invite you to check out his blog, full of fantastic stills and videos of the stunningly handsome fellow and his equally attractive friends. You won't be disappointed.

Anyway, after watching the video, Brian and I were inspired to invent our own tale:

Early Monday Morning

Fat Max's boys, Teddy and Joey, turn up at a semi in west London off the M4. Teddy shows a fake Met Police warrant card to a middle aged woman and tells her to call her husband.

Keith Bale comes downstairs in a dressing gown and slippers.

Teddy: Sorry, Sir. It's about the depot. We need to show you this...

He reaches inside his jacket and, when his gloved hand comes out, he's holding a Glock automatic.

Teddy, growling: Do as we say or we'll kill your wife.

Teddy and Joey push their way in. They make the Bales undress so they're naked. He sits Mr Bale on a dining chair and attaches him to the wooden arms with heavy duty cable ties. Teddy pulls out a couple of cigars and lights one.

Want a cigar, Joey?

Yeah. I like cigars, Teddy.

Joey's none too bright but he's a violent thug and he's got a knife under Mrs Bale's chin. Teddy hands him the lit cigar and lights one for himself.

Teddy, smiling: Joey's going to take your wife away. You'll get her back if you co-operate. You going to co-operate, Mr Bale?

Mr Bale nods, wide eyed. Teddy nods at Joey.

Off you go.

Joey leads her out of the house. Teddy hears the Transit fire up and drive away. Silence.

Eventually, Teddy fixes a drink, sits in an armchair, winks at Mr Bale, takes a long pull on his cigar.

When Joey gets back, we're going to take you down the depot and you're going to help us rob it. This is how it's going to happen.

Teddy gives him all the details. He gets up and strokes the top of Mr Bale's head with his gloved hand knocks some cigar ash onto Mr Bale's face. He says: Open wide.

Teddy kisses Mr Bale, pushes his tongue inside. He tastes of cigar and brandy.

Teddy, drooling: You're nice, Keith. I could rape you. He takes another long pull on his cigar and breathes the smoke slowly into Mr Bale's face. He kisses Mr Bale again, holding his chin. Mr Bale tries to look away, avoid their mouths touching. He doesn't want a man kissing him.

Teddy unzips his trousers and reaches his gloved hand inside to pull out his penis.

Teddy, feeling excited: Your going to such me off. Ever tasted a robber's juice before?

He picks up his Glock and puts it against Mr Bale's head: Open your mouth and let me in. Use your tongue to make my cock feel nice. No biting, though, or my little friend here will bark and blow your brains out.

Teddy pushes inside, upright against Mr Bale's face. His cigar is jammed into the corner of his mouth. His gun is jammed against Mr Bale's temple. Slowly, rhythmically, Teddy massages himself against the inside of Mr Bale's head until, with a sudden grunt, his salty liquid shoots out.

Teddy, grunting: Swallow it, baby! Swallow it!

Teddy pulls back, wipes off some of his juice with his gloved hand and stuffs his penis back into his trousers.

Teddy, patting Mr Bale on the face, leaning forward: Who's a good boy then?

Joey comes back.

Sorted?

Joey giggles like a school kid. Yeah, sorted.

Teddy looks at his watch. It's three in the morning: Come on. Let's get on with it.

There's a black Mercedes parked outside the depot at the far end of a trading estate. Fat Max is at the wheel. Tweed three-piece suit, bow tie, tight black-and tan leather driving gloves, large cigar. Cigar smoke curls around the leather fingers. He gets out, walks to the gate control. There's a security guard inside who slides the glass window open.

I wonder if you can help me, Fat Max says. The young guard isn't alarmed, even at four a.m. Where's the threat in a fat old man asking directions?

Fat Max raises his .45 revolver: Open the gate or I'll blow your fucking face off.

Blood drains from the guard's face. He does as he's told. The gate swings open.

Thanks, son, Fat Max says and pulls the trigger. The bullet smashes through the guard's face. He's dead before the body topples onto the floor.

Fat Max waves the Transit through and fetches the Mercedes. They pull up outside the shutter door.

Teddy slides the Transit door back. Mr Bale is tied up on the floor. Joey drags Mr Bale out. He cuts the cable ties with his knife. Fat Max says: Morning, Mr Bale. My name's Max. You've already met my thugs. We're armed robbers.

He prods Mr Bale with his revolver: Get us inside.

There are cameras so they're wearing rubber piggy masks that leave their mouths free so they can smoke. They light fresh cigars and get to work. Mr Bale opens the shutter door. Teddy pushes him inside. Fat Max follows. Joey's back in the Transit, reversing it inside.

Mr Bale leads them down a corridor to the guards' room, just as he's told.

Fat Max, laughing: I don't mind telling you, I've got such a hard-on I could come in my fucking pants.

The door erupts open. Three guards look up. Mr Bale is pushed in and falls on the floor. Teddy follows, holding his automatic. Fat Max strolls in, cigar in mouth, revolver in gloved right hand.

Teddy: Don't fucking move or you lose your fucking balls.

The men look at each other terrified.

Fat Max, jovial: I'm sure you've been held up before, boys, but just in case you're not sure who you're dealing with... He nods at Teddy.

Teddy doesn't even raise his gun. He shoots from the hip into a guards scrotum. A loud crack, the guard falls on the floor screaming and holding his crutch.

Fat Max: Finish him, Teddy.

Teddy puts a bullet in the guard's head. Silence.

Fat Max to the two remaining guards: Clear this fucking mess out the way.

They pull their workmate to the side of the room, shaking almost uncontrollably. One of them looks like he's going to vomit. The other has already pissed himself. The body leaves a thick smear of blood and brain across the floor.

Teddy: Drop your trousers, lads, and your underpants. Let's see your tackle. You, too, Mr Bale. Then you can take us to the money.

Down in the cash room boxes of notes are stacked waiting for shipment. Random numbers. Untraceable.

Mr Bale and the guards waddle in, hands on heads, trousers and pants dragging on the floor, Fat Max and Teddy prodding them on with their weapons.

Fat Max: get these fucking boxes into the loading bay. Jump to it, boys.

Boxes get placed on trolleys and wheeled out of the cash room to the Transit, where masked and gloved Joey waits, smoking his cigar.

Joey, giggling: Look! I can see their cocks!

Three round trips and the money is in the back of the Transit. Teddy and Joey use cable ties on wrists and ankles to secure Mr Bale and the guards.

Fat Max: Joey, why don't you tell Mr Bale what you did to his wife.

Joey, laughing: I raped her, Mr Bale. Then I stuck my knife in her throat. She made a funny gurgling sound, then it stopped.

Fat Max pulls on his cigar and gives Joey a pat on the shoulder.

Joey, looking happy: it was fun.

Joey goes to the Transit.

Mr Bale, crying out, despairing: No! Please! You said if I helped you...

Teddy, shrugging: We lied.

Joey comes back with a large plastic can. He unscrews the top.

Fat Max: Time to say night, night, boys. We're off now.

Fat Max nods at Joey and Teddy. Joey pours all the liquid from the can over the three men. Teddy takes a pull, tosses his cigar as he breathes the smoke out through his nostrils and the petrol catches light.

Fax Max and his boys stand watching the burning men for a few moments, then Teddy and Joey get into the van. Fat Max pulls the shutter in place after the Transit is out and walks back to the Mercedes, past the cabin where he wasted the first of the guards.

They torch the Transit and the Mercedes after they've transferred the cash to three separate cars in a deserted car park near Oxford. Monday evening they drive the cars onto a ferry at Plymouth, bound for Santander.

Wednesday morning, they drive off the ferry and head down in convoy through northern Spain and down the coast of Portugal to their villa in the Algarve. They unload the boxes of cash into the garage and go to bed. Fat Max and Teddy share a bed and some naked fun and some fluids. Joey has his own room: he prefers cunt.

So here they are now: Friday, late morning, splashing in the Atlantic near their villa: Fat Max is lounging in his boat, smoking another of his large cigars. Teddy and Joey spin him gently round. Teddy pulls Fat Max close and they kiss. Joey stands to the side, laughing and smiling like the child he is, inside a grown man's body. Teddy takes the cigar from Fat Max's mouth and takes a pull and the ash falls into the water. He plants a smoky kiss on Fat Max's mouth and they both laugh.

Fat Max: This is the life, eh, boys? This is the fucking life!

[smokygluvsweek]

Don't Invite me Home (Part 2)

I always carry a backpack filled with equipment, just in case. I fish out lengths of nylon rope - not too thick but nice and strong. Nylon works well: the rope is hard to cut and I can melt the knots in place with my lighter. I get my mobile phone out and send a quick message while I pull on my cigar. I tap the ash out onto your face.

Then I make you undress and force you to lie, face down, across the dining table. It saves me the effort of bending to get to you on the floor. You won't be happy, obviously, but the Stanley knife is very persuasive. Rope goes round your ankles and knees, painfully tight, then hands behind your back and the wrists are secured. I use the lighter to melt the knots so they can't be undone. "There," I chuckle, "That wasn't so hard was it?"

You'll say something like: "Please! Why are you doing this?" and I shrug and say: "Because I can, Vic, and because it makes my cock hard." I pull on my cigar and drop more ash onto the back of your head. "Now, stop whining or I'll have to tape your mouth up."

Then there's a knock on the door. "Don't go away, now" I say with a smile. I go to the entrance and there he is, the man I call my Papa.

He's in his favourite black deer-skin leather jacket, black leather driving gloves and his flat cap. He's carrying a large black leather hold-all. He takes his pipe out of his mouth as he walks in, pulls me towards him and we kiss - a long, smoky kiss.

He says: How's our friend?

Co-operating, I say with a chuckle. Then there's a thud and, when we walk into your living room, you're on the floor. So I frown and say: What's this. You trying to escape, Vic?

I aim a hard kick straight into your crotch and you yelp in pain. What did I tell you? I growl. Do that again and Stanley'll slice your balls off, isn't that right, Papa?

He puffs on his pipe and we look down on you. Done it before, he says with a smile. My LG has got a real sadistic streak.

D'you want to help me get him back up?

Papa smiles. No, he says. Leave the fucking cunt there.

Papa moves around the room. He has an expert eye: his gloved hand picks up an ornate gold clock on the mantlepiece: This is a proper antique, LG. We'll get something decent for this. He picks up a few more nice pieces, puts them into his holdall. The air in the room is filling with pipe and cigar smoke, the way we like it.

I'm hard as a rock, I tell Papa. What about a robbery fuck?

All in good time, LG. First, fish his wallet out and you can go down and take money out of his accounts.

Nice. I grab Vic by the ear and give him a cigar burn on the face. He flinches. Numbers for each card, Vic, or I'll cut you.

He does as he's told. I note them down. I leave Vic and Papa to play together.

The cash point's not far. They all have cameras, so I pull my scarf up round my face. He's got a few gold cards, so I can take more than the usual maximum on each. By the time I've used all the cards, I've pocketed five grand. I light a fresh cigar (can't smoke through the scarf, it was a present from Papa) and take a stroll back.

Inside the flat, I see Papa's had lots of fun. Your face is swollen and bloody and your mouth is duct taped (to stop the noise). There's bruising and cuts all over your torso. Papa's standing over you, pipe in mouth, claw hammer in his leather gloved hand. He explains: the cunt would't tell me where the safe was, so I beat it out of him. Look.

On the table, he's laid out some expensive watches, probably worth about ten grand each, plus some gold jewellery and a roll of notes: sterling, Euros and US dollars. Obviously likes his foreign travel, he observes. It all goes into the holdall.

You've got a nice, expensive leather jacket in the wardrobe, which will fit Papa and which we lift.

That it, Papa? I ask.

That'll do, he smiles. It's not all about the swag, he adds. It's the fucking fun of it.

What now? I ask, knowing full well what he's going to say.

The thing is, he sighs, pipe smoke jetting out of his nostrils, he knows what we look like. He can describe us. We can't leave him like this. He'll only go to the police.

You try and speak, shaking your head wildly. I guess you're trying to say you wouldn't tell, but all that comes out are muffled grunts and you start crying, your face going redder with the effort. You're breathing heavily through your nose.

What, then? I ask.

Entertain me, LG. He hands me a tube of fast-acting glue. Waste him for me.

I nod. I'll do anything for Papa. I've done it many times before. Hold his head, Papa.

Papa kneels down and grabs your head in a firm grip. You know what's coming. You've seen the glue tube. Your eyes open wider in a mounting panic. You struggle, but Pap's strong and I squirt the glue up each nostril and hold your nose firmly for a count of ten in my leather gloved fingers. When I release, the nostrils stay clamped shut. You carry on struggling, but you know it's pointless. We stand, smoking, arms around each other , looking calmly down at you and, gradually, the struggling subsides. Your eyes stay wide open, fixed in terror.

Back at the hotel, we empty the holdall and take out the swag (Papa loves his old-fashioned terms). I tell him how I love my Papa and he tells me he's devoted to his LG. We talk about what we've done, getting harder and more excited until, unable to control ourselves, we fall onto the bed and make love and it's fucking amazing (and messy).

So there you are and don't say we didn't warn you. This is the kind of fantasy Brian and I love coming up with (and more besides). This isn't something we have ever carried out in reality, but they say the thought is father of the act and I often wonder, if our lives had taken a different turn, could we have gone this far? Brian and I really don't know. He's 90 now and slow on his feet (although still a sexual monster), so I suppose we won't get the chance to find out.

If this is a turn-on and you want more of this kind of extreme sexual fantasy, don't forget to leave us a message and let us know where you would like us to go next. We'll try and accommodate you.

If, on the other hand, you're so outraged that you want to message us about how sick and degrading we are, then we can't stop you but you're probably wasting your time: we already know (and I, for one, have known for the last 42 years, Brian for much, much longer). And, by the way, no-one got hurt in the making of this post (not even emotionally).

Finally, on a personal note, what outrages me - since we're talking about outrage - is the behaviour of the likes of Trump, Putin, Hamas and Netanyahu. Nothing we can come up with even comes close to the violent, murderous output of their twisted, warped minds and they don't really care who gets hurt. Now, that's worth getting outraged about.

P.S. I am indebted to dagdabear for some of the pictures in this story. If you have not already done so, please check out his blog. If you like these offerings, you are bound to love his photographs of dominance, crime and other nefarious activities in leather gloves, using weapons and mask work. All the things I know you men who appreciate these perverted stories are bound to love.

[smokygluvsweek]

How to Make a Friend, ctd.

So, welcome over to smokygluvsweek, gentlemen. Where was I? Oh, yes: I don't see Brinley until the 6th February at the café and he seems a bit off: to start with he doesn't shake hands or offer me a coffee, so I buy him one. He does smoke the pipe he bought me and that I've loaned to him but after about half an hour he suddenly says he has to go. I wonder if I've said something to annoy him.

Then it's radio silence until last Monday, the 10th. I get a text: "Smoky, I really need your help. Can we meet?" It's three in the afternoon. I show Brian the text and he says: A friend in need is a friend indeed, so you'd better go.

It's cold but dry, so I pull on my leathers and helmet. I text: "Where are you?" and almost immediately I get an address back which is a hotel on the outskirts of the city. It's large, part of a chain but quite high-end and half an hour away.

I'm shaking as I ride across town. Three thoughts come to mind: 1. Remembering his episodes of suicidal thoughts, he's sitting in a hotel room having taken an overdose of paracetamol or some such; 2. His wife has thrown him out and he's looking for somewhere to stay; 3. He's killed somebody.

On this last point, an old saying comes to mind: "A friend will help you move; a good friend will help you move... a body." Crisis or no crisis, it still brings a smile to my face.

I pull up in front of the hotel. His bike is already parked up and he's standing outside the entrance, furiously pulling on his pipe and I'm feeling a bit queasy. I walk up the steps and he just says: thank you.

"What's wrong?"

He opens his mouth to speak but only the remains of pipe smoke come out, so I repeat: "Brinley, tell me what's wrong. I can't help you if I don't know what I'm meant to do."

He takes out his phone and opens up his texts and shows me the latest that he's composed but not yet sent: Smoky. Plz come to me. I need to be with U. I'm sorry." I look at it for a few seconds and then the penny drops. I say: send it. He looks at me for a few seconds and I say it again, so he does.

A moment later the text arrives. I read it on my phone for a moment then I put the phone away in my pocket and pull out my pipe and tobacco. I pack my pipe and light it slowly, puffing increasingly large clouds of smoke into the air. All the while I say nothing. I know what I'm doing is cruel, but I'm fucking angry with all the worry I've just had riding over. I pull out my phone and compose a text, which I send straight away: "All this panic because you want to sleep with me? WTF? You could have just called and asked me on a date."

I don't bother to wait for a reply. I point the stem of my pipe towards the tables near the hotel café, which are far enough away from the entrance that we shouldn't be overheard. I say - a little harshly: I'm going to sit there and smoke my pipe. You're going to get me a coffee, Brinley.

So I'm sitting smoking my pipe when Brinley comes back with two Americanos in take-away cups and I say: what do you want to do now?

I can only describe the look he gives me as abject terror, like a rabbit caught in headlights, and he blurts out: I've booked a room! And at that point, this absurd situation gets the better of me and I start laughing and I laugh so hard I knock my coffee over and onto my legs but they're covered in leather so I don't get scalded though they'll smell a bit. I nearly fall off my chair and my eyes are watering and snot is running out of my nose and down my moustache and beard and I wave for him to give me a napkin before it drips onto my jacket and I manage to wipe it out of my moustache and beard hairs in time but I'm still laughing and I can hardly get my breath back and then I slowly calm down and he hands me another napkin (luckily he picked up two at the coffee bar) and I wipe my eyes.

I say: I was shitting myself thinking you'd done something stupid and I was going to have to get an ambulance or... well, it doesn't matter what I thought.

I'm sorry, Smoky.

Don't apologise, Brinley. Where's this room you booked, then?

He takes me to a double-room, which has gaudy multicoloured striped paper on one wall (I think they call it an accent wall) and a matching bed cover. He says: what do we do? I've never been with a man before.

I pull him towards me. Well, I say, you could start by letting me put my tongue in your mouth. So our mouths meet and my tongue goes in and starts searching around a bit and his tongue starts to move, tentatively at first, then with more assurance. That's nice, I say. I put my arms around him and rub my beard across his until I reach his ear and I put my tongue inside and he shudders and gasps. Brian likes that as well, I whisper.

I stand back. Now, peel me out of my leather. Gloves first. He's clumsy, trying to unzip my jacket but is smoother when it comes to my boots and leather trousers.

Smells of coffee, he says with a nervous laugh. I say, lick the leather and see if it tastes of coffee as well. Then I'm standing there in tee shirt and underpants: if I'd known, I would have been naked underneath - except for socks. I couldn't ride without socks.

To help matters along, I remove my tee shirt and pants and socks (which I have to sit on the bed for as I'm not the youngster I used to be). You're hard, he says and he rubs his hands through my chest hairs, then down my stomach until he's touching my penis.

What did you fucking expect? I'm anticipating making love to a very good looking man.

You think I'm good looking?

Course.

He starts undressing and then we're both naked and we roll onto the bed together.

What sticks in my mind is that feeling - all you sexually active perverts know what I mean - when two naked men hold each other for the first time. We both smell of pipe smoke and sweat and he smells a little of the coffee that he got to drink and I didn't and I smell of leather. We do a lot of things, folding our arms and legs around each other, mouth against mouth. I stroke his balls - do it to me like this, I growl gently - and he does and it feels fantastic. I love to be stroked under the balls so lightly the fingers are hardly touching. Once I've shown him, he takes to it like an expert (like Brian) and I do the same back and he says: Oh fucking hell!

I only know how long we've explored when I look at my watch when we've finished and it's just after seven. The finish was perfect and unexpected: I slowly lower my mouth over his penis, run my tongue around and move up and down the shaft while I massage his testicles and then, almost without warning, he lets out an involuntary loud grunt and squirts into my throat. I swallow the sharp, salty jelly and eventually I lie back and let his penis, already starting to become flaccid, fall down onto the top of his leg.

I expect that to be an end to it but he says: would you like me to do the same for you?

We men all know this is very rare indeed: once we've squirted it's usually goodnight Vienna but he offers and I accept and he does the same to me and I ejaculate into his mouth and I direct him to swallow, not spit it out, and he does and he rolls onto his back and we're done.

We spend the night together (as The Rolling Stones sang). He's told his wife he is away working. Brian knew there was a chance he wouldn't see me until the morning, but I text anyway. During the early hours, we explore each other a little more.

In the morning, as we're leaving, he says: Smoky, I...

I hold my gloved hand over his mouth: Do not use a sentence with the word "love". It's not true and I won't allow it anyway. Let's just say we enjoy each other's company. He smiles and nods.

And, for the time being, we leave it at that. I know Brian will want a blow-by-blow account when I get home and he'll get hard and want me to suck him, but that's fine. In the meantime, all I can think of as I ride through the cold morning mist is how I'm going to get the coffee smell out of my leather trousers.

We met for our usual coffee yesterday, of course. He's booked the room for a week tomorrow. I'll make sure I'm naked under my leathers.

[smokygluvsweek]

Don't Invite me Home (Part 1)

If you're of a nervous disposition, or you have a solid moral compass and strongly believe in right and wrong, if you're squeamish and don't like descriptions of extreme violence, robbery, torture and murder then, my friend, DON'T read on. Leave this post and this blog and don't come back. Pretend it doesn't exist. We won't judge you or hold it against you: it just means you're one of the good men of this world and we salute you and are grateful you exist. Go about your business and carry on making this world a better place, like the hero you are.

This is a sick, twisted, dark fantasy (and that's all). It's the kind of thing my Brian and I like to come up with to get us both hard and we make no apologies. But it's destined for men with a similar twisted and warped sexual imagination. Brian and I wrote this together. In fact, everything in smokygluvsweek is what we have come up with together. Usually, once we're done and before we post, we read it back through and, if it passes muster, we screw each other, then we post.

If you like taking men home from bars and clubs where gentlemen's gentlemen like to meet, you may run into me, and that would be bad news (for you, anyway).

We go back to your place. You're a good-looking, middle-class, middle-aged, affluent businessman. You have a nice flat in town - maybe Paddington, maybe Kensington - and I admire your taste and the décor. We kiss and I feel your body under your suit. I ask you to fix me a drink. Armagnac's my preference, if you're asking. While your back's turned, I pull out a cigar (Oliva Double-Toro - always), cut and light it and, when you turn around again, there I am, cigar in a leather gloved hand or jammed into the corner of my mouth.

You say something along the lines of: I'd rather you didn't smoke.

I reply: You don't like the smell of my cigar? I take a step towards you, all amiable, a smile on my face. Tell you what I'll do... The cigar goes back into the corner of my mouth and I swing my leather gloved fist hard into your stomach.

You let out a loud grunt and double over in pain. You drop the glasses you've just poured and I push you onto the floor. Now look what you made me do," I say. "And you've spilled my drink.

I take a firm hold of your ear, twist it and lift your head up. No-one tells Leather Gloves if he can smoke his cigar, I growl. D'you understand, Vic?

I twist your ear harder and you squeal with pain. My name's not Vic..., you gasp.

I chuckle. It is now. Vic as in 'victim'. I reach into my pocket and pull out a box-cutter knife. I push the blade open and hold it up to your neck. This is my mate, Stanley. You do as I tell you or Stanley's going to fuck your handsome face up.

[smokygluvsweek]

Hi there, this is the sort of blog I've needed for a long time.

Men. Gars. Pipes. Dominance. Smoke. Gloves. Submission.

Go for it! And thank you!

You know what, there are a lot of us perverted men out there. Thanks for the comment. I hope you enjoy what I'm going to be posting.

[smokygluvsweek]

Home from work

He gets in about midnight. "That was a long drive," he says, pulling off his gloves. I help him out of his jacket.

"How did it go?"

"He won't be giving evidence."

We move into the living room and he pours himself a brandy. I cut him a cigar. He puts it between his teeth and I light it for him. He puffs a couple of times then inhales deeply and sighs out a large cloud of smoke. He drinks some of his brandy. He watches me intently.

"His plane was delayed. I had to sit in the car for half an hour. I fitted a silencer to the automatic and put it on my lap. Then I lit my pipe and smoked it while I waited."

"He was taller than I was expecting. I saw him walk over from Enterprise. He'd rented a black Mercedes. Brand new. Very nice motor."

I pull him towards me, put my arms around his waist. Our bodies touch and we kiss for a few seconds. He knows I like to hear every detail of his work. He knows it gets me aroused. It works for both of us. He smells good. He pulls on his cigar and exhales the smoke into my mouth and I breathe it in.

His voice lowers: "I pulled my driving gloves back on, got out and walked over behind him. When I was a few feet away, I took my pipe out of my mouth and cleared my throat. 'Excuse me, sir,' I said and he turned around. He was wearing glasses so I shot him just below his left eye."

He drinks some more brandy, pulls on his cigar again. "Then I put my pipe back in my mouth and strolled back to the car. No-one was close enough to see. No fuss. All very straightforward."

"Why did you get him to turn around?"

He looks at me, surprised and a little offended.

"What? Shoot him in the back of the head? I'm not a monster!"

"No," I concede. "What did you do with the gun?"

"I wiped it down and tossed it in a river," he says. "Shame to lose a good piece of kit. It won't be found."

"I should imagine not." I stroke his face, looking him deep in the eyes, and kiss him again. "Still, seventy-five grand'll buy you another and a few tins of tobacco. Maybe even a cigar or two..."

He smiles. I loosen my dressing gown and let him glimpse a little of my hairy flesh underneath. He finishes his brandy, inhales on his cigar. He touches my face and growls a little. He doesn't take his eyes off mine. He lets the smoke out of his nostrils and starts to undo his belt. We both know what we want. He's been thinking about it all the way home.

"You know, I might even buy myself a new pipe."

[smokygluvsweek]

Tips on enjoying a good cigar

These are stills from a video that's been knocking around on the internet for many years now and it's one that Brian and I love and regularly re-enact. It has led us to agree our four steps for a mature pervert to get the most out of a good cigar. Before I start, however, let me tell you that these are not the full pictures I originally tried to post. These are cut down: the originals showed the man's slave providing him with intimate service whilst he enjoyed his cigar but Tumblr decided they were too explicit and might corrupt the minds of my already depraved and perverted followers - as if that were remotely possible. So I give you the anodyne version, but please check out the original video on YT: it's a thing of beauty.

Step 1: choose the individual who will share your experience. This is important: he must be mature, as experienced as possible and fit enough to keep going for a good while. If he is reluctant to co-operate, he may need some persuasion. This can get messy, so you may wish to prepare him a few days in advance.

Step 2: choose your cigar. Brian and I both love an Oliva Double Toro: it has a decent ring gauge, a nice length and a smooth draw.

Step 3: cut and light your cigar. You may wish to force him to light your cigar for you, just to underline who's in control here. You may wish to use your gentleman as an ash-tray for the cut-off end of your cigar as well as the ash as you go along. In that case, make sure he takes a good gulp of water after each use to clean the inside of his mouth.

Step 4: sit back in your warm leather armchair and enjoy your smoke while your gentleman goes to work. You may find that you squirt well before you finish smoking your cigar. No matter: if he has been a good boy, you might let him finish it while you cut and light a fresh cigar. If not, he can eat the unfinished cigar while you light a new one. Then, of course, you can settle down to a film (we would recommend "The League of Gentlemen" or "The Friends of Eddie Coyle", for example) or an old re-run of The Sweeney.

If the mood takes you, you may wish to do the same with your pipe. In that case, you should ensure that you have your leather pouch to hand, fully loaded with your favourite tobacco (Peterson's Old Dublin is a particular favourite of ours) as you are likely to require a good few bowls for the evening. You might want to have a few pre-filled pipes to hand to avoid unnecessary delays to your smoking pleasure.

We can, from our own experience, highly recommend following the above steps regularly for a very fulfilling, smoke-filled evening.

[smokygluvsweek]

Welcome men

So, it might have taken you a while to locate my new secondary blog but, since you're now here, you'd better know what it's about. To begin with, I'll still be posting my usual pictures of...

leather gloves (including armed robbers and other such criminals, fictional or real)...

handsome, cigar-smoking, mature men (preferably bald and bearded, but not always)...

and handsome, mature, pipe-smoking men (in this case, the wonderful Urk, who has't posted for a long time but check out his blog anyway).

However, in addition, I'll also be giving you a bit more of a look behind the curtain that is my and my Brian's life together as two mature, filthy, pipe- and cigar-smoking perverts and posting some more explicit content (and even a few short tales from my twisted mind), when I get the time.

I won't be posting on this blog as often as on my main one but I'd say it's worth dropping in now and then to see just how filthy and perverted my sick little mind can actually be.

Buckle up and enjoy!