Alec and Brianna (4 of 10) [MF] [Dark] [Smoking] [Coughing] [Running] [huml] [Roleplay]

ALEC

I am overjoyed with the progress that I made with you during our honeymoon. I have changed you from a pure sweetie to a nicotine jonsing addict in the space of a month. And I am excited by the possibilities yet to come. For it is not enough for me that you have given in to my coercion. You must love smoking. You must crave it.

For the next several months I undertake a simple course of Pavlovian conditioning. On those days you smoke heavily, I reward you with gifts, approval, and passionate lovemaking. On other days, I act moody, speak little, and turn away from you in bed. The technique has its effects. Gradually, without meaning to, you increase your intake day by day, week by week. You go from ten cigarettes to twenty. The day you smoke thirty for the first time I keep you up half the night with torrid romance. I even love it that you interrupt our play twice to get another fix.

Besides the addiction, I can see that you are working the act of smoking into your default behaviors. It is part of all your daily habits and there are now ashtrays everywhere. I love watching you take a drag, brush your teeth and then take another drag quickly. I especially enjoy seeing you light one cigarette from the end of another. We rarely go places now that do not permit smoking, though I do love seeing you in an antsy desperate state when we're anywhere you can't light up.

Gone are the arguments we had during the honeymoon. You no longer cross me. One of my favorite tricks is to light up a cigarette and press it on you when you did not expect to have one.

I implement the first of several tests for you. I plan a trip to my parents' house several hours away. I tell you to pack for the weekend, but I don't say where. I surprise you with it when we are already in the limousine. Your eyes dart to your purse and I know what you are thinking. My parents are quite patrician and do not abide by vices like smoking. And that is how you now think of yourself: a smoker. Delicious.

By the time we get there, you are already desperate. You could not smoke in the car or they would smell it on you. We have an endless evening in the drawing room and when you are released you say you would like to go for a walk. I accompany you and watch you chain smoke one after another, me becoming more and more aroused as I see the clear evidence of your addiction. You cannot stay mad at me– you are too busy feeding your hunger.

When we return, you have to shower and then I take you savagely. You are strangely detached from the sex– busy planning your weekend survival tactics. The first of these: a post sex smoke out on the veranda. I can see your naked body silhouetted against the moon.

The next morning– another long walk. You are so practical in your self drugging it is charming. Then we go on a day trip to a bucolic local village. During lunch you excuse yourself. When you return, my mother sniffs the air and furrows her brow but says nothing. During dinner that evening you are gone somewhat longer. Mother excuses herself to see if you are alright. She returns with you by the wrist.

"Do you know what this girl has been doing!? I caught her sneaking cigarettes in the ladies' room like a schoolgirl! What do you have to say for your wife?"

I act amazed. I have been using nicotine patches for the weekend so am unassailable. You are stunned by this betrayal on my part. You sputter as my mother throws you into my arms.

"What were you thinking?" I tell you gravely putting on a good show. You start hitting my chest in rage– classic movie heroine stuff. I tell them I will take you back to the house. They should finish their dinner and follow after.

We take a cab. You demand an explanation. I do the one thing that can still surprise you– I light up a pair and hand you one. You are so shocked you simply take it and inhale, savoring the sweetness of the smoke.

"You are a naughty girl" I say as you suck at it. "A naughty naughty girl."

My hand finds its way to the buttons on your bodice and lays you open. All the ride home I keep you smoking and aroused.

The next day is hellish for you. Mother keeps you under lockdown and even goes so far as to suggest I divorce you for disobedience. Yet, she keeps catching you with another cigarette. She cannot figure out how you do it. Of course I am supplying you and you are too desperate to refuse. When she catches you, she takes the pack and shouts at you to put the one you are smoking out. You just sit there shamefaced and inhale. Then the cycle begins again when I slip you another pack.

By the time we go home, your nerves are shot, but a clear association has been created in your mind– smoking is an act of self-will and bravery. You will fight to keep your smokes and no one will take them away from you ever.

To reinforce this I give you a lovely diamond necklace as if you make up for the unreasonableness of my parents.

The next morning I hear a sound I have longed for– sweeter than birdsong– your first cigarette cough.

BRIANNA

The cough is shallow and only slightly wet – little more than a throat clearing really. But it is a sign of what’s to come if I keep up my 1.5 pack a day habit. I don’t know it, but on the days you stay home with me, you keep a mental tally of my coughs. When we returned from our honeymoon, I coughed two or three times per day. Now, six months later, the average is eight. To me, the change is barely noticeable, but that is how tobacco works its deadly magic.

I return from the bathroom and grab a smoke from the night stand. Even at 30 cigarettes per day, I still don’t light up before getting out of bed. This is something you are desperate to remedy. You watch me puff away while changing into my running attire. I let the cigarette dangle from my lips as I pull my hair back into a pony tail. Each drag calms me as I anxiously replenish my dwindled nicotine levels.

The paradox of smoking and running is not lost on either of us. You enjoy immensely that I have let my new habit encroach on one of my favorite recreations. For my part, I tell myself that as long as I can still run a 10K in less than an hour, I don’t have to worry that I smoke. I crush out my cigarette in the kitchen. You have followed me downstairs, still adorned in your bathrobe. I give you a smoky kiss and head out the door for a seven mile jog.

The air is crisp and cool as it enters my lungs. I love running in the winter time. I start off slow, and as my body warms up, I increase my pace. Every few weeks, I change my course a bit, sometimes staying entirely within the walls of our estate, and other times venturing out into the semi-private upscale neighborhood that surrounds us. I love to take in the smells of each season and to listen to the birds sing their various melodies. But, as I finish my fifth or sixth mile, I start to feel a little tug, an itch for more nicotine.

By the time I get home, I am always jonesing for a cigarette. I jog to the kitchen, grab a bottled water from the refrigerator, and take a cigarette from the pack on the table. I am slightly out of breath as I light-up. I assume you have gone to work already and don’t notice that you are watching me. My inhales are quick and shallow as I pant from my run. I cough twice as I eagerly bring the smoke into my already taxed lungs (coughs two and three for the day). The combined rush from running and smoking is something I look forward to each day. I close my eyes in satisfaction as the nicotine courses quickly though my veins.

You make your presence known by lighting a cigarette of your own. The click of your lighter startles me from my blissful enjoyment. “Oh…I uh…didn’t know you were still here,” I exclaim, somewhat embarrassed to be caught indulging so fully in my cigarette. You just smile. You’ve noticed how greedily I smoke after my morning runs, and you have another test in mind for me…

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/2p36sc/alec_and_brianna_4_of_10_mf_dark_smoking_coughing