Alec and Brianna (3 of 10) [MF] [Dark] [Smoking] [Imprisonment] [mast] [huml] [Roleplay]

BRIANNA

That afternoon you watch me pace nervously around our villa. I snack on olives and cheese, trying to ignore my desire to continue smoking. A part of me wishes that you would just make me, so then I would have no choice. But that thought triggers a flashback from the day before. My throat tightens painfully and my eyes tear up as I remember what you did to me. And then today – locking me in the library with that pack of smokes. I know you did that just to tempt me…and it worked.

My heart is heavy as I walk out on the balcony. I feel betrayed. I know you purposely hid all of this from me until after we were married. You knew I would never take up smoking voluntarily, and yet you courted me for a year, knowing that you would never take no for an answer. I start to cry. The balcony door is open, and you can hear me sobbing. But you stay inside, watching and listening from a distance.

After a few minutes, my tears dry. I take a seat and notice a pack of cigarettes sitting on the arm rest. (Not surprising. You have been leaving cigarettes all over the place…to tempt me, no doubt.) I slide the box into my hand and examine it closely. I read the words, even though I don’t know what they mean: “Nazionali filtro. fumo provoca cancro mortale ai polmoni.” I flip open the lid and see 5 cigarettes and a gray lighter packed neatly inside. My heart beats rapidly at the sight of those long, slender rods. I start to think, what harm would one do?

I reach in and draw out a single cigarette. I tell myself that I just want to look at it, but as I feel the filter resting between my fingers, the urge overwhelms me. I grab the lighter and bring the cigarette to my lips. You watch silently as I draw the lit cigarette away from my face and exhale a thick plume of smoke. Your genitals swell and pulse as I take drag after drag. You stare hungrily as the long tube burns away, getting smaller with each indulgence.

Even though I still hate to smoke, the nicotine calms me and takes away my negative feelings toward you. I am able to look out at the ocean and tell myself that I am lucky to be here. Lost in thought, I don’t hear you come up behind my chair. You grab my smoky hand and bring it to your lips. Then you tenderly kiss my sooty mouth. “I love to see you smoke, Brianna,” you are emphatic and sincere. “Your lips look gorgeous when you pucker them around the filter.” You kiss me again.

My pussy immediately starts to throb from the combined effects of your gentle touch, kind words, and deadly poison. Our lusty eyes meet. You pull me from the chair and guide me upstairs to the bed. We roll in the sheets, still clothed, feverishly groping one another. It is hard for you to resist, but you want this to be special for both of us.

You unbutton my shirt half way and tease my breasts through my bra. You kiss my collar bone and run your fingertip down my cleavage. I gasp and squirm, eager to feel your skin against my nipples, but you continue to tease. You remove my shirt and shorts, but leave my bra and panties, paying my most sensitive areas little attention. As you massage my feet and kiss my legs, I feel my arousal waning. Even as you kiss my bikini line, my body barely responds.

You sense the change, and pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the nightstand, ask me if I would like one. Just the sight of that little box sends blood rushing back into my genitals, and before I know what I’ve done, I am smoking again. You remove my panties and massage my clit with your fingers and tongue. You time your affection to my inhales, causing me to gasp and pull the tarry smoke deep down into my still-pink lungs. I have never been so aroused. You bring me so close, and then pull back, lightly licking my nipples instead of franticly sucking my clit. All the while, I bring more and more nicotine into my warped and perverted body.

As I finish my second cigarette in less than an hour, you find yourself unable to hold out any longer. You mount me and, in one motion, thrust your cock deep inside my welcoming hole. The abrupt penetration sends me over the edge. I dig my fingers into your back. My muscles clamp tight around your member, spasming for what seems like an eternity. An airy, “oh…yes,” escapes my lips with each contraction. The intensity of my orgasm sends you quickly into one of your own. You plunge deep and groan loudly as you expel your load.

We lay in each other’s arms for a long time. You stroke my hair and tell me how beautiful and innocent I am…all the while fantasizing about how dirty and diseased I am to become. I smoke three more cigarettes that evening, making eight for the day. That evening, you find it difficult to sleep. You stay up in eager anticipation. How many smokes will I have tomorrow?

ALEC

The next day for you is a blur of cigarettes and sex. Each time you think we are done for the day, I pull out a fag and light it for you and that starts things off again. For me, because it is arousing to see you defile yourself, for you because you have been conditioned to connect the sex with the smoke.

When I am pumping into you, I can only think of the foul tar going in and out of your lungs. They are not so pristine anymore are they? When I am licking you, I think of your tongue licking the filter end of a cigarette and more often than not, that's exactly what you are doing. You learn the trick of sensuously mouthing each rod to excite me and are rewarded by my extra zeal.

Toward evening we are both sore, but I will not let things come to an end. I light cigarettes for you, I blow smoke in your mouth, I run the foul rods under your nose, anything to get you up and ready again– for more sex and for more smokes.

That night we sleep very soundly. In the morning it is like a hangover. You have a nicotine headache and are irritable. When I offer you a cigarette, you refuse and swear off smoking. I try to make a joke of it, but you are adamant. By lunch time you have still not succumbed and I am getting worried. I can see you are hungry for it. I knew it would come to this at some point and I am prepared.

I get a bag out of my luggage and surprise you from behind. The next thing you know, there is a metal bracelet around your ankle and a chain running to the bed. The click of a lock tells you you are in serious jeopardy.

You are shocked and shout at me. You plead and cry. You will never be able to properly trust me again. My response is to force you into a kiss and then lay a cigarette pack on the nightstand. Without a word, I leave the villa.

BRIANNA

“You can’t do this to me!” I shout as you pull the door closed behind you. “Alec! Alec! Come back!” But you are gone. Aside from my cries, the cottage is quiet.

I bend over and pull at the shackle, but it is locked tight. I tug at the chain. It is securely affixed to the bedframe. My mind races… What has he done? How could he? How could I be so stupid? He was never like this until now. He was so nice. Now he is…evil. I don’t understand. How could anyone do this to someone they are supposed to love?

I glance nervously at the cigarettes on the nightstand. My mind flashes back to the day before. I remember us smiling and happy, sweaty and exhausted, naughty and playful. I remember the intense pleasure of orgasm after orgasm, nicotine and adrenaline rushing through my veins.

I want to smoke. My body craves it. But, as if on cue, my lungs spasm and I cough. I can’t. I won’t, I resolve. The high is not worth getting lung cancer and dying over. I grab the pack off the nightstand and throw it across the room, out of reach. With the temptation removed, I plop down moodily on the bed.

I can’t believe this. Held captive by my own husband…

30 minutes pass, and with nothing to distract me, it becomes impossible for me to ignore the symptoms of withdrawal. My head aches and every sound puts me on edge. I can’t stop fidgeting, my hands are clammy, and my stomach feels hollow. My mind constantly drifts back to thoughts of smoking. I can’t stop staring at the cigarettes, now scattered on the floor.

Maybe I can reach them after all, I think. I climb down from the bed and take several steps toward the precious smokes, but the shackle catches me before I can reach them. I am overcome with a mix of emotion. “Oh, I want to smoke so bad,” I mutter to myself.

My resolve is shattered, but I still can’t reach any of the cigarettes. I try to pull the bed with me, but it doesn’t budge. I look for a hook or a stick I can use to bring the delicate rods toward me, but there is nothing. I return to the bed and bury my aching head in the pillow.

On a whim, I roll over and open the drawer of the night stand. My heart leaps as I see your last Cuban cigar, complete with lighter and cutter. I grab the cigar and cutter from the drawer, hands trembling. I hesitate. I shouldn’t. I don’t want to be an addict. I still have control. I don’t have to smoke this.

But the addiction overwhelms my protest. I cut the cigar and reach for the lighter. My anxiety is unbearable as I puff, but don’t inhale, to get the cigar lit. Finally, I bring a breath of tarry smoke into my lungs and immediately cough it out. I’m not used to the strength of the cigar. Crushed that I have given in and am still unable to find relief, I begin to cry. I hold the Cuban away from my face and contemplate putting it out, but something stops me.

I bring the thick brown roll to my lips and inhale lightly. The smoke settles in my lungs, nicotine streaming into my blood. Without exhaling, I take another small puff. Unable to hold the smoke in any longer, I blow out a thick cloud of grey. I continue to drag on the cigar until my craving is satisfied.

I am surprised by how little of the Cuban I have smoked. Wow, this must be like 10 cigarettes, I think to myself. I rest the stogie in the ashtray, but with nothing to do, I find myself frequently returning to the ashtray for an occasional indulgence.

By the time you return, the cigar is half gone and the bedroom air is thick with foul smoke. My body is swimming in nicotine, and I have just started to finger myself…

ALEC

When I return, I am pleased with what I see. Not only have you been medicating yourself with nicotine, but the association to sex is clearly in place. One other thing I must associate– submission. You must gain a positive connection to being bent to my will if you are to be the chain smoker I desire. I have brought tools with me.

"Ah darling, I see you started without me."

You begin a string of curses and demands which I ignore, instead unwrapping the delicacies I bought in town.

"See? I've brought us dinner. You must be famished."

You grudgingly admit that you are. But I keep the food out of reach.

I get out the other thing I have brought– a powerful vibrator. I toss it onto the bed. "Well then, feel free to continue."

"What??", and another string of expletives from you. I seat myself across from you and begin to dine on prosciutto, mozzarella, heavy bread with pesto, a fine wine.

You are screaming at me now, "I can't believe that you–! How can you be so–!" It devolves into incoherency.

I smile at you kindly. "It's simple, just finish what you were doing and you can join me."

You realize I will not be moved. Finally you put your hands between your legs and put on a show, complete with several light puffs on my cigar. When you're done you are shocked to hear me laughing.

"I can tell the difference you know. No, you will have to do it for real."

You break down sobbing. "I can't do that now. Not after what you've done. How could you?"

"You can, you will. I have faith in you."

After more crying and pleading, you look at the food and my implacable expression. Something strange is happening inside you. The helplessness and humiliation are having an effect. Slowly your hand crawls toward the perverted instrument. You watch it wrap around the shaft and draw it down your body.

There are still tears in your eyes as you look straight at me and turn it on. The vibrations jolt you and another trill of humiliation runs down your spine. It feels very very good and you don't want it to. You begin to experiment, moving it around until it catches one particular spot. Suddenly you become shameless. But your arousal is incomplete. You grab the cigar with your hungry lips and inhale deeply.

The embarrassment and nicotine and sexual pleasure and hunger combine to make a witches brew that drives you on. Just before climax, you try to stop it all, but you can't help yourself and go over screaming.

Then I am holding you. You are sobbing. After you quiet down, I part your limp legs and mount you. As I do, I press a ball of mozzarella to your mouth and you gobble it ravenously. As I begin fucking you, I give you more things to eat and smoke until you cannot distinguish between the sex and the satiation. When we are about to come, I push a chocolate covered cherry into your mouth and you bite down tasting the exotic liqueur.

You drift off before you can make sense of it all. In the morning, you wake before me. As you watch me sleep you work at rationalizing all that has happened. Perhaps something can be salvaged? Were there misinterpretations? You are busy with this when you hear a metallic clink and look down. There is a cuff around your ankle.

I have not unchained you.

BRIANNA

You leave me chained to the bed for the next three days. The first day is the worst. I am scared, depressed, and undone. I try to reason with you, but it is no use. I threaten to tell the authorities and divorce you, but you just laugh. And all the while my addiction is quickly becoming undeniable.

I break down immediately on the first day, smoking four cigarettes before lunch. I hate that I am giving in to you, but my body is used to the nicotine now. Without it, I just don't feel right. I become antsy and uneasy. My chest feels tight and my heart beats nervously. My head starts to throb, and I can't concentrate on anything but my need for a cigarette. I know that I am poisoning myself, but I justify it by saying I will quit once I am free from you.

The first afternoon you pamper me for my weakness. You make a trip into town and come back with sweets, two bottles of fine wine, a beautiful dress, and matching accompaniments. You unlock me long enough to let me try on my new outfit. I consider bolting, but my vanity gets the better of me. I want to see how I look in my new dress.

As I twirl around in front of the mirror, you reach into one of your bags and pull out a long cigarette holder and matching case. They are both gold and incrusted with dazzling blue sapphires. I gasp at the sight of them. They are exquisite.

You calmly light a cigarette, place it in the holder, and pass the holder over to me. You watch with triumph as I continue to twirl around, exaggerating my lip pucker as I smoke. You notice that I am watching myself in the mirror, experimenting with different exhales and how they look. And for the first time, I smoke a cigarette without regret. I savor the high, and I start to acknowledge what you have already witnessed – I look sexy when I smoke.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

The following day you find that I am adapting well to my imprisonment. When you come back from your business meeting, I am puffing away tranquilly on my Eura, looking at the pictures in the latest edition of Donna Moderna.

“Hey, Babe. What did you get for me today?” I ask as you come in, a smile replacing yesterday’s tormented features.

You pull out more clothing, jewelry, shoes, a handbag, and a bottle of perfume. I am beside myself. I grab your hand excitedly and pull you toward the bed. “Alec, you are wonderful. This is all so beautiful!” You lightly kiss my cheek. “I’m glad you like it, Brie.”

For lunch you have ordered shrimp scampi and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. We picnic on the bedspread, chatting like we use to when we were dating. I have all but forgotten that I am still your prisoner. You encourage me to smoke two cigarettes with our meal, a request which I honor without protest. After we finish eating, you produce a violin and serenade me with beautiful love songs. I didn’t even know you could play.

That evening you tell me that, if I am good, you will let me go tomorrow. You say there is an opera you would like to take me to.

“Of course I will be good,” I promise. “Which opera are we seeing?”

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

The following evening you take me to Teatro Comunale to see Le nozze di Figaro. I don’t know it, but you have intentionally picked a four hour opera (there is no smoking in the theater). We settle into our seats several minutes before the show. This is only my second opera, and I am excited to see one preformed in Italian. There is an intermission two hours in, but you purposely detain me.

The minutes pass quickly, and soon we are into the final act. You notice me fidgeting in my seat. I’m having some trouble focusing on the show. "I should have gone out at intermission," I mutter.

"Why is that?" you ask.

I whisper my reply, "I'm just wishing I had a cigarette right now."

Your penis throbs, but you keep your cool. "I'm sorry, love. Glad you are starting to enjoy your smokes though. You know that makes me happy."

I'm not sure what to say in reply. I know I am getting addicted, but the nicotine is very persuasive. As I sit there craving, I think for the first time, I do like smoking. I love the way it makes me feel. Maybe I am glad I started after all.

The rest of the opera passes slowly. My need for nicotine increases. You watch me continue to sigh and fidget. You know the signs well, although strangely, watching me struggle with my craving helps you to control your own. You realize that you have hardly thought of smoking the whole time we have been in the theater.

As the show finishes and we make our way outside, you notice my hands are trembling slightly. For expediency, I bypass my beautiful holder and bring the cigarette directly to my supple lips. I take several deep drags in rapid succession, anxious to get the nicotine back into my system. I expect you to light up right behind me, but you just watch me in my newly-acquired desperation.

I am still irritable from the four hour deprivation. "Aren't you going to smoke?" I ask, pointedly. I bring the cigarette back to my lips as you answer.

"I'm okay, love. I may have one later."

Your answer startles and unsettles me. This whole trip, you have been the on smoking at every opportunity. Your calm makes me acutely aware of my own panic. I continue to drag heavily on the smoke until I reach the filter.

"We can go," I announce as I flick my butt into the bushes.

"Are you sure?" you ask. "We can stay another minute if you'd like to smoke a second."

"No, I'm fine," I reply, falsely. My craving is only half satiated, but I am too embarrassed to admit that I would like to smoke another.

Another night of passionate love-making follows – the last of our honeymoon. Tomorrow I will have to endure the repeated pangs of withdrawal as we fly from Italy back to the States. You are eager to begin the next stage of my training.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/2opgft/alec_and_brianna_3_of_10_mf_dark_smoking