Alec and Brianna (6 of 10) [MF] [Dark] [Smoking] [Running] [voy] [huml] [Roleplay]

BRIANNA

Your covert study of my every move has revealed a tantalizing little secret – I appear to have a crush on my personal trainer, Langston. And even better, I am hiding my smoking habit from him.

You watch with mild fascination the first time he comes over while you are away. You notice, an hour before my session, that I start to get ready – I shower, brush my teeth, dress, put up my hair, and apply light perfume and make-up. But contrary to my regular habits, I keep my cigarettes hidden and out of reach. Then, even though my training sessions with Langston are two hours long, I still refrain until after he has left our house.

While I am with Langston, you notice that I am cheerful and friendly. I often ask him to help me get into a particular pose or to show me which muscles I am working – both of which require him to touch and manipulate my body. For his part, Langston is cordial, but you cannot tell if he has any particular affection for me. If he does, his professionalism keeps his desires in check.

Soon, my workouts become a highlight of your secret observation. You love that I am embarrassed to admit I smoke, and you enjoy watching all the steps I take to hide any evidence of my habit. You zoom in on my radiant smile and persistent blush, remembering when our young love would elicit the same response. Although there is the slight pang of jealousy, the image of me and Langston together also excites and arouses you.

But nothing happens between me and Langston, and before long, you are bored with watching us merely flirt. You order Mrs. Jeong to start scrubbing the insides of my shoes on the days I have a training session. You want to watch me suffer the full effects of my desire to hide my smoking habit from Langston.

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By this time, I am very much under the impression that my smoking is under control. I have even toyed with the idea of quitting completely once the race is over. I am down to 10-15 cigarettes per day, and even those, I do not have strong cravings for. Of course, I don’t realize that you have been doping my shoes during the day and giving me Nicogel massages in the evening.

Consequently, I am very surprised when, 30 minutes into my training session, I start having intense cravings for a cigarette. I try to push them away and focus on my workout, but it is clear that I am not myself. My happy countenance is replaced with anxiety and distress. Also, without the stimulant effect of the nicotine, my performance is diminished.

“Brianna, are you feeling well? You seem to be off today.” Langston calmly observes.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” I reply, testily. I hate this. I need a cigarette.

Langston’s brow knits at my unusual behavior. He has never witnessed me angry or upset. “Why don’t you take a break?” he suggests. “We will pick back up in 15 minutes.”

I start to panic. I know if we stop my desire will just increase. But I can’t let Langston know I smoke. “No, I…I am fine,” I lie. God, I want a cigarette so bad. I can’t stand this feeling.

The rest of the session creeps by. I am in a terrible agony, caused by my shame and my addiction. Langston is also quiet, unsure how to respond to my foul mood. Finally, at 90 minutes, he decides to cut the session short.

“Brianna, you have done good work. I think we should call it a day.”

I am relieved, but still irritable. “Works for me,” I answer hotly. I watch anxiously as Langston packs up his gear and heads for the entry. I don’t wish him a good day or confirm our next appointment. All I can think about is running for my nearest pack of cigarettes.

As soon as I am sure Langston is gone, I fretfully light-up. You can’t help touching yourself as you watch me. A mere two and a half hours without nicotine have sent me into a state of uncontrollable desperation. I drag mercilessly…again and again…double and triple inhales. You start to fantasize about how much I will smoke once the race is over and all the crutches are removed. Maybe three packs a day?, you dream as I tear into a second cigarette. Your eyes start to roll back as you watch, but you contain yourself, knowing there is still a finale…

Without warning, Langston reappears, catching me in mid-inhale. I blow the smoke our quickly and try to hide the cigarette behind my back, but it is useless. “Hi…Langston,” I salute with a smile and a tone of perky embarrassment.

“You smoke?!” He scolds.

You watch as my smile falls and my lip begins to quiver. Before I can muster a reply, Langston continues…

“For how long, Brianna? You know this will cost you the race.” Langston’s tone is demanding and filled with disappointment.

I sigh, struggling to hold back tears. I compulsively bring the cigarette to my lips for a last drag before snuffing it out in the tray next to me. The inhale is my deepest yet – plagued with frantic need. My lips pucker and cheeks hollow as I fill my lungs with as much toxic smoke as they can handle. I hold the smoke in as I put out the cigarette. Still holding it, letting it coat and pollute my poor lungs, I move to a nearby stool. I sit, blot my teary eyes, and then tilt my head up to exhale a perfect cone of smoke. As I start to speak, some residual smoke, which had been trapped in my mucus-clogged air sacs, seeps out.

“Since I married Alec,” I answer solemnly, “…he makes me, but now I’m not sure I could quit anyway…” I pause to choke back tears. “I just get these cravings so bad sometimes, and I…” You watch from your camera as tears stream down my pretty little face. Langston hangs back, moved by my tears yet repulsed by the revelation that I am a smoker.

After a silence, Langston says, “You can call me to confirm your next appointment.” He then turns and exits. I sit for a moment, continuing to cry. With each sob, you pound yourself. She is so helpless. So trapped. And then, fulfilling your deepest wish, I rise, still sulking, and walk over to my pack of cigarettes. With trembling fingers, I tap one into my hand and bring it to my deliciously sad and pouty lips.

As I inhale, tears running down my cheeks anew, your body is gripped by a powerful orgasm. You expel your load as smoke trickles unenthusiastically from my mouth. Your cock throbs gently with each reluctant puff I take, and by the time I reach the filter, it is soft and lying contented between your thighs. With my craving satiated, I continue to weep at my own weakness, still feeling miserable and unfulfilled. You, on the other hand, quite satisfied with our mutual indulgence, nonchalantly turn off the camera and return to your day’s work.

ALEC

Your experience with Langston convinces you to try and quit. I decide to allow the illusion. I redouble the doses in your running shoes and nicotine rubs and by the day of the race you are down to five cigarettes a day. You resolve that on race day, you will not smoke and be a new woman. You have not met with Langston again, but you imagine his pride in you when you turn in a fine performance in the race and tell him you are nicotine free.

I am all smiles and support. I supply you with a fresh and unsullied pair of running shoes. At the starting line you feel a bit of a tug for a cigarette, but are proud to ignore it. Your nervousness leaves you at the starting shot and you happily join the lead pack of runners after a mile or so.

Your first five miles are stellar. Then you start to become distracted. Whatever can be the matter? You find your thoughts are drifting from the race. Can it be? You are thinking of smoking! You refocus on the task at hand, but it will not be denied. You imagine how delicious it would be to have a victory cigarette. Just one. You see a man smoking on the side lines and actually think of going over and asking him for one.

This is ridiculous! But the next mile is agony. You feel the growing, growing demand in your body for the poison and it will not be denied. Quit the race? Impossible. But you HAVE TO HAVE IT. Finally, you jump the race barrier and duck into a convenience store.

"Marlboros" you shout at the clerk. He looks you up and down, puzzles over your bib number.

"Got ID?"

You have no pockets of course. "Oh come on! I'm over 21!"

He will not be persuaded. You run back out to the course, searching for another store. Now you are desperate, not thinking clearly at all. The fellow in the third store is finally willing to sell them to you.

"Six dollars."

You have no money obviously. You start babbling "Can't I just– I need… please, I neeeed a cigarette. I–"

The pimply youth looks left and right. You are alone in the store. "Maybe we can work something out…"

You are shocked "What?!"

He holds up the box. "You want it?"

"What– what do you…"

He gestures lewdly at your tank top.

"You want me to…?"

He wiggles the box. You have to have it! Finally you grab the shirt and pull it up exposing your sweat soaked sports bra. He gestures again. You shamelessly flip up the bra to expose your beautiful breasts.

He leers at your exposure and you heedlessly lunge for the cigarettes, grabbing the box and pulling the material of your clothing back into place. Then you are headed out the door stopping only to steal a lighter.

You are not thinking clearly at all. You think– just a quick smoke and then I'll catch up with the leaders. You rip the pack open and light the cigarette as you are jogging. The first drag is heaven. You have never tasted anything sweeter. The nicotine rushes into your body fulfilling the craving and demanding you take another. You smoke that cigarette down in no time and light another from it without noticing.

You hear a girl from the sidelines.

"Mommy, that lady runner is smoking!" "Yes dear, don't be like her, it's disgusting."

Then someone else laughs. You are humiliated.

You keep running and you keep smoking. But you have been getting your doses through other modes lately and you are not used to all the smoke. It diminishes your lung capacity and makes it hard to keep pace. That and the time you spent obtaining your smokes has put you well behind the pack. You can not hope to catch up.

By the time you cross the finish line, much more than two hours have passed. You are wheezing desperately. You see me standing there with a huge bunch of flower and a concerned look on my face. My eyes go to the pack clutched in your hand. Only 12 cigarettes remain in it.

"Brianna! You were smoking! This is what you get for pretending you were strong enough to quit. You are a smoker Brianna! You will never get enough of it."

I throw the flowers on the ground. You burst into tears and clutch me around the legs. We do not speak on the ride home. Inside I am ecstatic.

BRIANNA

I am in a miserable state the rest of the weekend. When I am thinking clearly, I know that this is insanity – I have to quit. I remember Langston's scolding, the mother on the sidelines, and the stares I got from my fellow runners. I love running…and runners don't smoke. But as the nicotine filters from my body, I start to feel edgy, I get headaches, and I can't concentrate. I start to think that I am young, a half-marathon really is tough for any runner, and surely just one won't hurt.

So I light up. The immediate relief and calm that I feel validates my decision. I tell myself that I enjoy smoking, that my life would be incomplete without an occasional cigarette, and that smoking really isn’t as bad as everyone says. As the nicotine re-enters my system, I feel better – happy even. But just as quickly as the rush calms my craving, it begins to die away. I know that soon the restlessness will return, soon I will need another cigarette. And again, I begin to feel depressed.

You watch with delight as I repeatedly fight, and inevitably cave to, my desire to continue smoking. By now, it is clear that my brain has been completely rewired by the nicotine. I think that I need it in order to survive, and I feel that can never get enough. The act of smoking has infiltrated every aspect of my life. And you have cemented my need with your tricks and mind-games.

You also observe that my cough, which had all but disappeared in the days before the race, is back with a vengeance. I notice it too – the all too frequent reminder of what that tarry smoke is doing to my lungs. But, when I am craving, I tell myself, it is just a cough. Everyone coughs. It doesn’t mean my lungs are damaged. And then I think, actually, the fact that my cough was almost gone before the race shows that my lungs are just fine.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/2p3gms/alec_and_brianna_6_of_10_mf_dark_smoking_running