The Second Husband

This short story can be determined to be slightly on "dark side" of the smoking fetish.

Some will enjoy, others won't.

As ever feed back is appreciated, but not expected.

The Second Husband

I can't help it I smoke, and I like to smoke. It is totally Angie Johns fault, which was in turn was all her two-year older brother Graham's fault. Anyway, long story shortened somewhat is that she via him learnt to smoke at the weekends, which meant that after school during the week, I then learnt to smoke.

As I slowly understood how to smoke, I then over time I learned to love to smoke. As such for my delight in smoking, I guess I now smoke too much.

This brings me to Simon who has just attempted to quietly cough as he rolled over to talk to me as I have lit my needed second cigarette of the morning.

"How can you smoke so much Liz?" he asks me with admiration whilst leaning on his arm against the pillow. He has asked me before, it's a normal conversation for us. Its 7 am and I have been awake for ages as I am already smoking my second cigarette of the day. We've now been together two years and he so loves me. And I do so love him, honestly, I do love Simon. The way he looks at me when I fill my lungs with smoke it's almost like if I'm smoking just for him. He is in awe of what I do. The truth is I'm smoking because I need to. Not for him.

Because of Angie and her 'evil' brother now over ten years later I am helplessly and truly addicted. Back then Angie persuaded me that it was its sexy to walk down the street with cigarette between our fingers, wiggle our hips and get the boys to look at us as we bathed them in our exhaled smoke.

Now I don't know what to think. I need to stop and smoke rather than keep walking down the street. The men probably look at me now because I have stopped to sit on the planter to have a smoke.

Almost every morning I cough violently, spitting up and quickly swallowing what must be almost a swimming pool worth of phlegm. This morning it was no different. He tells me I'm so sexy when I do. I know I am not. I've seen myself cough in the mirror. I look awful. I don't understand. I'm annoyed by my smoking. I know it's disgusting, and my lungs almost hurt me until I hurriedly get my cigarette lit. If he were a smoker, he would understand the pain. But he doesn't. He just gets very turned on.

I just wake up and then need to smoke a cigarette as fast as I can. I know I smell disgusting, and my mouth taste like shit, but for some twisted reason he still loves me. No sooner have I lit a cigarette in bed is he moving my hand out the way so that he can passionately kiss my soft body and mouth, and I don't understand why. I really need my cigarette, not a kiss.

Last night after a bottle of wine and maybe too much vodka he asked, and I tried to do a sexy dance for him in my newest underwear. I had bought it for the occasion. How embarrassing. I dangled my cigarette and even after all these years the smoke still kept burning my eyes. But I held on. I danced for him. I can't imagine what kind of face I must have been making.

But to me it wasn't a sexy smile. It could have been pain. It wasn't a fast dance, I tried to be sultry. Flicked off my red bra and let my breasts flop out for him. As I danced, they swayed, swung, bounced and jiggled.

But my lungs and fitness levels are such that before I could romantically slide my knickers down my thighs I started coughing violently. My cigarette dropped to the floor. I only went and burnt the carpet. Again. By my bed the floor is awful. I bent over coughing. I coughed so much. I could taste disgusting ball of phlegm and fresh tar into my mouth and just had to swallow. I had nowhere to spit.

And when it was done, and my lungs had settled I desperately reached over to light a new cigarette. But before I could light it, he then kissed me. And he said he loved me. I could easily see how turned on he was.

It didn't take long with his help and encouragement for my matching large red mesh knickers to finally reach the floor this time. For a bit we had great sex but again I couldn't come. We had to stop well before he or I could. My lungs couldn't take it the action. It was too much like exercise. I rolled off him wheezing. Simon kindly lit me a new cigarette and handed it to me, I lay there hauling smoke in till I calmed down. No sooner than I was breathing properly again had he jumped up and straddled me and whilst I smoked, he sat there looking at my eyes whilst he tugged his large member above my breasts as focused on repetitively pulling smoke into my lungs, I just had to chain lit another cigarette and kept smoking until he finally came over me his cream sprawling over my white sagging breasts. We mopped up, stubbed out my cigarette, kissed, and then rolled over and soon both went to sleep.

Last night had also been our two-year anniversary. Simon planned a perfect night out. He surprised me by taking me to the restaurant where we had our first date.

In the two years since we had visited it had become much fancier and as such much more expensive whilst I had certainly got cheaper. He had made a reservation and saved up enough money to take me. Somehow, he spent months planning it without telling me.

But when we got there, and he asked for the outside smoking section they told her there didn't have one anymore. I could tell Simon was crushed. He looked at me, her eyes were watering. I was heartbroken but since leaving the taxi I was needing a cigarette. He had put so much effort into making such a special night he had forgotten to ask the important question. I wanted to tell him it was fine and to take the table. That I would hold on and just take a couple of smoke breaks between courses and to make it through the meal.

But the words couldn't come out of my mouth. I was too devoted to my addiction, even if I hated it.

So, we went to a burger place around the corner that had an outside seating. It was cold out. I could tell Simon was uncomfortable, he was shivering. But I didn't care, I needed to smoke.

"I'm so sorry about this, honey." I told him as smoke poured out my mouth.

"Don't worry Liz. You need to smoke." He spoke. "I certainly don't want you to have to go without your cigarettes any more than you do."

Oh he had no idea what he was saying. He didn't understand.

"But you put so much planning into our night, and I ruined it." I said.

"Baby, I love the fact that you smoke. It's part of who you are. I don't want to see you without a cigarette." He said, "It's really simple. It's my fault. I should have checked about the smoking section before making the reservation. I'm so sorry I made you feel that way."

Just two weeks ago we went to the beach. It was a beautiful sunny day, and we went to a peaceful secluded spot. Simon did all the heavy lifting while I sat in the beach chair and of course smoked. But the wind was so strong. It was a struggle to light each cigarette and they just wouldn't stay lit.

Unfortunately, I eventually threw a huge nicotine fit and swore at him. I could tell he was hurt. He almost cried. We had to leave an hour later. Finally, in the car, and I could relax, I could easily light a cigarette and once I had calmed my cravings I apologized. But eventually he turned to me and said-

"Don't ever apologize to me. It's my fault. I got in between you and your addiction, and I should have known better." He was practically sobbing. "You didn't deserve to be put through that. You needed your cigarettes, and you couldn't smoke there. And it's my entire fault. I'm so sorry."

This morning the idiot wants to go hiking. But with all the wine and vodka, I can't even think about walking that much. My lungs certainly won't allow it. And I have obligation to them, before him. My addiction comes first. It always does. It's a blessing, but also a curse. But I've given in completely to it. I need to smoke. I will at least attempt to walk, but I know once we set off, I will soon stop and sit on a wall and rest my legs and feed my lungs and give them what they really need.

He once asked me how I started smoking. The truth is I can't remember. I know it happened one afternoon with Angie, but I can't remember the how and the why since then I've always smoked. I now really can't remember not smoking.

Another time as we bought another carton of cigarettes at the supermarket, he again asked me how much I smoked. And I answered that I didn't know. He said she would find out. That day he sat down with a notebook and marked down every cigarette I smoked. But somewhere around me opening my second pack he got rather so aroused we went into the bedroom and didn't really come out, so from then on, he lost count. So, all I know is I can safely say I smoke more than two packs a day.

So today, I am still laying here in bed, now chaining into my fourth cigarette, while Simon looks at me with admiration, his hands just cupping, the best he can, my breast, they make his fingers look pathetic and small, even as he tweaks and plays with my equally large nipples as he is waiting patiently until I am ready to finally get up. He then looks at me in the eyes and says.

"If you had to choose between me and your cigarettes, who would you choose?"

I don't answer. I can't. I want to say I choose Simon. But I'm lying. I love my cigarettes too much. I would never choose anything over them. I can't answer that question. I just take a deep drag and blow another cloud of nicotine depleted smoke into the air.

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear." Simon says smiling. "I love that devotion. You're married to your cigarettes."

I look at him with curiosity and before I have finished exhaling, I have to just drag on my filter again.

"Will you marry me?" he says. "Can I be your second husband?"