Alec and Brianna (2 of 10) [MF] [Dark] [Smoking] [Imprisonment] [NC] [Roleplay]

BRIANNA

It is 10am before I rouse myself the next morning. I wake slowly, snuggling up to my pillow and breathing in the fresh ocean air. I feel relaxed and refreshed as I gently transition to wakefulness. You watch intently from the balcony. My eyes flutter open, a look of tranquility on my face. I smile warmly as I catch your gaze.

You continue watching as I make my way to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my hair. You start to fantasize about how my morning routine will soon be forever changed…forever corrupted. You imagine me waking each morning in a mild panic, desperate to fill my lungs with toxic smoke. You see the mirror filled with my smoky reflection as I brush my hair, a cigarette burning between my lips.

Moved by this image, you come in from the balcony and grab the Nicogel off the night stand. You come up from behind and begin rubbing the oil on my bare shoulders. I am instantly reminded of the night before. I close my eyes, lean my head back against your chest, and let out a contented sigh. You continue to press your fingertips deep into my muscles. After several minutes, my scalp starts to tingle slightly. “Mmmm. That feels so good,” I utter, eyes still closed.

“Why don’t you lie on the bed, and I’ll be back in a minute,” you whisper into my ear. I twist my body to face you and lovingly kiss your lips. You walk me to the bed and instruct me to make myself comfortable. Then you run downstairs and grab one of your nicely scented cigarillos. I roll onto my stomach and sink into the soft, pillowy mattress.

After a few minutes, I feel your strong hands press into my back. As you massage more nicotine into my skin, my fading buzz returns. “Mind if I smoke,” you ask. But before I have a chance to reply, I hear the crinkle of burning tobacco. You continue to rub my back, exhaling a cloud of smoke around my head.

“Would you like to try my cigar?” you ask, lathering up your hands with more Nicogel.

“No,” I mumble, shaking my head.

You massage for a few more minutes, blowing more smoke in my direction, then suggest that we get up and begin our day. My scalp and shoulders continue to tingle as I dress. But by the time I make my way downstairs, I notice that the sensation has diminished.

You give me the option of going out for breakfast or trying one of the pasties we picked up the day before. Without much thought, I find myself gravitating toward the pasties. What I don’t know is that my body has already started to make the association between those sweets and the calming high of the nicotine. As I eat my breakfast, I notice my heart beating faster. Then I start to feel a little buzzed again. I figure it is just the sugar.

You watch with delight as I unknowingly hasten my addiction and dependency.

ALEC

We pack our towels and whatnot and head down toward the beaches. It is a steep climb along a small corsia to the ocean frontage. The sunbathers, mostly patrons of the nearby hotels, are scattered here and there and we put down our beach towels and go to try the water. It is warm and invigorating. I swim up to you and kiss you in the surf. You respond passionately.

Afterwards, we lie on our towels and I apply the doctored lotion. I slather you until your skin is shinning, but still not satisfied, I know where it will be absorbed better. I move closer and closer to the base of your bikini, then suddenly press underneath. The other beach-goers are not quite close enough to see what is occurring. You resist from modesty but I hold you down only partly in play. You must learn to be passive so that I may have my way with your body's chemistry.

Eventually you respond, and applying more lotion I work my hand up over your mound. You are blushing and making only the smallest noises. I press up next to you and we kiss as I lazily give you pleasure and poison.

We both drowse for a couple of hours in the sun and then feeling hungry, walk up to a small trattoria with a lovely glassed-in ocean view. The food is much to your liking. The atmosphere, not so much. It is the smokiest place you have ever been. Patrons at every table enjoy they meal with cigarettes of many kinds. You despair as I pull out one of the italian cigarettes to join them. After a bit, however, you find that you are growing used to it. The associations have been planted and the affects of are battling down your displeasure.

After lunch, we head back to the market and buy cheese, bread, fruit, prosciutto, and wine. You see me buy more of the brown cigarettes as well. For the afternoon we take a long walking tour of the Maratean countryside. Even in this I have a purpose. I intend to tire you out for the night to come. We make a picnic dinner of it and then head back to our villa.

You seem to have a headache again and I fetch the tablets. This time though, they are sleeping pills and I enjoy a smoke while I wait for them to take effect. You fall asleep on the couch and I carry your limp body to bed. Then, lighting up, I gently lean down and again blow smoke into your mouth.

My plan is that, although you have a positive association with nicotine, you have no experience with smoking itself– the taste, the feel. Your first lesson is to be a helpless one. Over and over I breath your new habit into your lungs, knowing that you will awake with the taste and a vague memory. As I light up another, I find myself powerfully aroused at the perfidy of what I am doing. As I kiss you more poison, I climb on top of your unconscious body and enter you suddenly.

I match my thrusts to the smoky breaths, making a long slow climb finally culminating in a shuddery climax that rattles us both. Again I whisper in your ear "no escape". And fall asleep with that thought.

BRIANNA

Our days continue to pass in a similar fashion. We stroll through town, laze around on the beach, and make love in our cottage. You continue to drug me with nicotine in my shoes, laced massage oils and lotions, and faux medications. And I fill in the gaps by partaking in tainted treats. We frequently visit smoky bars and restaurants, with you smoking (and offering smokes to me) at every opportunity.

My body not only adjusts and adapts to the nicotine, but starts to actively crave it. I no longer drift calmly into consciousness in the morning. Instead, I immediately start to feel restless, although I don't know why. And intermittently throughout the day, I will start to feel anxious, sometimes to the point of getting a head or stomach ache. But I continue to object to your smoking and refuse to smoke myself, unaware of the pleasure and satisfaction it would bring to my addicted brain and body.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," I comment as you enjoy an after-lunch smoke.

"Why? Does it bother you?" you ask, innocently.

"It doesn't smell good," I complain. "And you've been smoking so much since we came here. Aren't you worried you won't be able to stop?"

You smile at my naivety. I have no idea that you are already quite addicted, although you've always prided yourself on being able to hide your habit from family and business associates. Your parents don't even know you smoke. Then you quickly think back to when you have dosed me today: Massage in the morning, breakfast pastry, and nicotine in her shoes. Here it is nearly 1pm, and she is testy about my smoking. I bet she is craving. Your smile turns slightly devious as you answer…

"Darling, it's just for a few weeks while we are in Italy," you lie. "Everyone here likes to enjoy an occasional smoke." You give me a chance to look around and observe that you are correct. Then you continue, "You know, if you tried it, you might like it." You take an exaggerated drag off your cigarette and wait for my reply.

I scoff and shake my head, "It's disgusting. And bad for you. And don't you remember how much I coughed when you made me try that cigar?" I continue to shake my head.

You notice that I am nervously twisting my napkin in my hands. Again you smile, "I don't think this one will make you cough," you reassure, passing your Nazionali Black to me.

I release the napkin and take the cigarette delicately between my fingers. I roll my hand around and examine the burning cigarette from each angle. I purse my lips and furrow my brow. You take note of my skepticism, but say nothing.

I bring the small cylinder slowly to my lips, taking the lightest little inhale you have ever seen. But thanks to the smoky cafes and your nighttime lessons, I don't cough or choke. I quickly exhale, although the smoke is barely detectable, and attempt to give the cigarette back to you. You wave your hand, refusing to take it.

"Try again. You barely got any," you instruct.

I hesitate only briefly before inhaling again, this time more substantially. You watch in anticipation, imagining the smoke filling my near-virgin lungs. I exhale the smoke somewhat awkwardly, but I don't cough. As I go to rest the cigarette in the ashtray, I feel a calming wave as the nicotine enters my needy system. I hover my hand above the ashtray, and without any prompting, bring the cigarette back to my lips for another taste.

You are in ecstasy as you watch me succumb to my cravings. You savor the moment, only slightly regretting that we are in public and you can't enjoy it more fully. You plan to reward me greatly this evening.

"It's not so bad," I admit, taking my fourth inhale in less than a minute. Again, a wave of calm sweeps over me. I feel my muscles start to relax. Particularly, my head and stomach, which were starting to feel achy, are soothed. I hold the smoke in my lungs as long as I can before exhaling.

"You look like you are enjoying it," you remark, trying to hide your excitement.

"I can see why people like it," I reply, trying to understate my own satisfaction.

And after a few more minutes, I am taking my last drag. Although my body has acclimated to the nicotine, it is not accustomed to receiving it in such a quick burst. As I crush the cigarette out, I feel an intense and satisfying high. I lean over and give you a kiss with my tarnished mouth. You hold back your urge to attack me right there in the restaurant.

By the time we pay our bill, my high has totally faded. My body absorbs the nicotine more quickly now and in just a few short hours will become anxious for more.

ALEC

In the days that follow I am able to get you to smoke two more cigarettes from tip to base while we are out having meals. I can see how you savor them, but you will not give in at any other time. To reinforce the behavior, I start to taper off your external supply. It becomes a ritual– you will have exactly one cigarette after lunch each day. While I am thrilled to watch your lips wrapped around the sleek white shafts, I am also impatient. My plans call for you to be a fully operational smoker by the time we return home. I decide that harsher means are called for.

I cut you off cold turkey. No more nicotine delivered by skin or mouth. A day, then two, I watch you devolve into a nervous wreck without knowing why. You are a junkie without a clue. You try to hide it and make up for it in other ways. You overeat the rich food which only gives you a stomach ache. You attack me in bed which I certainly do not mind, especially as I light up a post fuck fag as you half greedily watch.

The final trick: I schedule us for a sumptuous Prix Fixe banquet with a catch– it is a cigar dinner. Three of Cuba's finest come with the meal (they are legal here) which I will certainly enjoy. I do not inform you of this detail until we are through the door. You are livid (your nerves are still a wreck) and nearly leave; until you get a whiff of that lovely aroma and its soothing effects. You grudgingly consent to stay. I watch you carefully– the contact high entices you, but is not sufficient to satisfy the cravings you have built up. Certainly you will not try the cigars. I wait through the first glass of wine, the second, then…

Hands almost trembling, cock hard, I extend my pack of Lidos and watch as you hesitate on the razor's edge, and finally take the smooth shaft in your fingers. I am ready with the lighter and as you take your first deliberate drag, I feel myself expel forcefully in my underwear. I leave the pack on the table and watch as you draw out three more during the meal and smoke them through. I am in ecstasy. That night, I give you pleasure as you have never experienced it.

I push you to the edge of climax and then withhold it, withhold it, and bring you crashing down, only to repeat the process again and again. In the end, you are an exhausted, sweat shined mess, and when I light up two cigarettes afterwards, you take one without thinking.

As we drift off, I hold you in gratitude almost real and think– a week remaining and now the real work begins.

BRIANNA

I wake up the next morning paying for the previous night's indulgence. I am sore, hung over, and antsy. I sigh and groan as I roll toward your side of the bed. You are out on the balcony, but you come inside once you hear me stir. I shade my eyes from the light. "Baby, I think I had too much fun last night," I lament as you approach. My voice is quiet and raspy.

You feel sorry for me. It would be nice to rub me down with Nicogel – to glide your hands over my tortured body, to watch as it is slowly soothed and calmed, and to overdose it to the point of ecstasy. But you hold back. My suffering is a necessary part of the process. You walk to the bathroom and come back with a glass of water.

"Can you get me some Aspirin?" I ask. My head throbs as I sit up in bed. My arms are weak and shaky.

You go back to the bathroom and return with actual Aspirin, not the doctored stuff I have grown accustomed to. You also fetch a wet rag for my head and offer to get breakfast for your "sick little darling".

While you are away, I lie back in bed but continue to toss and turn. My stomach is unsettled, my chest feels tight, and my muscles are achy. Did I really smoke 4 cigarettes last night? And how many glasses of wine did I have? No wonder I feel terrible.

You return quickly, although my misery makes it feel longer. I hear you rush around downstairs for a few minutes before bringing up a tray of cappuccino, cheese, figs, and brioche. It looks delicious. I smile faintly as you place the tray in my lap and kiss my achy forehead.

I feel somewhat better after eating, and you suggest that we take a walk on the beach. You have gotten me a new pair of shoes, just to make sure I don't receive any residual nicotine that may have been left in the others. Again, you make a production of putting them on me – massaging my feet and pointing out that you purchased them in the exact same color as my nail polish.

As we reach the beach you draw out two smokes and light them. You pass one over to me. My heart races with fear and desire. I don't want to keep smoking, yet I know I would feel better if I had just a few drags. I also want to please you, but I am resentful that you are pressuring me to smoke.

"Alec, no…" I stop, unsure what to say next.

You knit your brow. I am not yielding the way you would like. "You will learn to enjoy smoking," you warn. Your harsh tone startles me. I reach to take the Lido from your hand – I don't want you to be mad at me, but it's too late…

There is a man fishing on a rocky ledge about seven feet above us. You shout up to him: “Ciao. Può prendere questa donna per me? Posso pagare.” You grab my arm and hold me while the man jumps down from the outcropping. I am too scared to break free or run. I don’t understand what is going on. As the man approaches, you exchange more words with him – all in Italian. He grabs my other arm and together you escort me to a sheltered area between two large rocks. My heart beats rapidly. “What are you doing?” I ask, panicked. You don’t answer.

We stop walking and the man pins my arms behind my back. You hold my nose closed with one hand and force both cigarettes into my mouth with the other. “You will learn to enjoy smoking,” you repeat. Shocked and surprised, I gasp for air, drawing nothing but smoke into my lungs. I cough violently and try to push the cigarettes out with my tongue, but you hold them tight against my face. I am forced to bring more deadly smoke into my lungs with each breath. I shake my head and try to break free.

“Keep that up and I will make you smoke two more,” you scold. There is an evil look in your eye that I have never seen before. Terrified, I relent. I choke down both cigarettes, smoke continually pouring out from between my lips and hovering thick in the air around us. My eyes water and my throat burns. I don’t understand why you are doing this. Tears stream down my face, but you are unmoved. With both cigarettes smoked, the man releases me, and I collapse to the sand below. My body trembles. I cough several times and then begin to sob uncontrollably.

You pay the man his money for assisting you, then drop down to the ground and take me in your arms. I continue to cry, too weak to fight you off. You stroke my hair and whisper, “I love you, Brianna. I want you to be my perfect wife. Will you? Will you be perfect for me?”

Still crying, I nod my head up and down against your chest. I want you to love me. I want to be perfect for you. I don’t want you to be mad at me.

“From now on, will you smoke…every time I ask?”

I continue nodding. It seems a small price to pay, if it will really make you happy. We sit together for several more minutes. As my crying subsides, you lift me up. Seeing how frail I am, you call the same man back to carry me to our villa. “He won’t hurt you,” you reassure me as you instruct the man to take me in his arms.

ALEC

When we arrive at the villa I have you deposited on the bed. I pay the man again and pretend not to notice that he takes a bit of his own payment– copes a feel of my lovely helpless bride.

You are fatigued and do not wake until dinner. I go easy on you this evening. Running hot and cold is a good way to knock you off balance. I am kind to you and wait for you to ask for a cigarette, knowing that you want it. But I am disappointed. You have been too shaken by my earlier outburst. I make a plan for a different take the next day.

In the morning, we have breakfast in the library and I inform you that I have some business to attend to and will be gone til after lunch. I suggest you head to the beach. On my way out of the room, I very quietly and carefully turn the key in the lock and pocket it. The library has no windows. You will be a prisoner. But no fear– you will have all those books to keep you company. And the pack of Euras I have conveniently left on the sideboard.

I head to the kitchen and pour myself some wine. Soon I hear sounds that rend my heart. You are rattling the door and shouting "Is there anyone there?" You pace and then it begins again. I am truly affected, but I hold fast to my purpose. After a while there is silence. I remove my shoes and steal back to the door. I can just glimpse you through the keyhole. Your eyes are red– you have been crying poor dear. Now you are trying to make the best of it and are scanning the shelves for something to read. Sadly, I have removed any book that was in English and you must make due with picture books. You are nervous and fretting.

I watch for a bit and then head down to the beach myself and dally for an hour. On my return I find you much as before, but the worse for wear. And next to you something glorious– an ash try with a burnt stub in it. I picture the scene greedily– so very bored and the relief of those fags so near. And that was the first time you reached for a cigarette entirely on your own. I feel I have deflowered you in a very special way.

I wander into town and have a long lunch. I imagine you in your cell, fighting temptation all the way. At last I return and turn the key ever so quietly. When I throw open the door you nearly attack me, but not in gratitude.

"How could you have done that??"

"Done what?" I am the soul of innocence.

"You locked me in!"

We examine the door together. The key is safely in my pocket and there is no explaining it.

"The door must have latched on my way out. Oh my poor sweetness, you must have had such a trial!"

It is at this point you notice the immense bouquet I am carrying. You break and fall into my arms sobbing. As I comfort you I see with great satisfaction that two more stubs have joined the previous one in the ashtray. I think to myself– five days left and we are on our way.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/2opef3/alec_and_brianna_2_of_10_mf_dark_smoking