Aunt Carol – Smoking Fetish Story

Part 1 – Me and My Winstons It was summer, 1967. Many
called it the Summer of Love. For me it was more, much
more. I had just turned thirteen. That was a very special
birthday for me. It marked the one-year anniversary of my
having become a pack-a-day smoker. Between my twelfth
birthday and my thirteenth birthday I never failed to
average at least twenty cigarettes a day. Sure, there were
days, primarily school days, when I couldn’t quite reach
twenty. But I always made up for it on the weekends. Then
came summer, glorious summer. No more school to interfere
with my smoking. I could smoke all day long if I wanted to,
and there was nothing I wanted to do more. I made certain
that I always had to buy a new pack of cigarettes every
day. Few things up to that point in my life could match the
thrill of popping thirty-five cents into a vending machine,
pulling a knob, and receiving a fresh, smooth, shiny pack
of cigarettes. It was easy in those days. Cigarette vending
machines were everywhere. I knew all the best places and
times to get my cigarettes without being seen by an adult.
I was smoking Winstons at the time. Ah, Winstons–the first
real love of my life. I’m talking about the original
Winstons with all those wonderful additives they have seen
fit to remove from today’s Winstons. All those additives
that caused irreversible damage in my young lungs. Winston
was a great cigarette, a strong cigarette (for a filtered
cigarette, anyway), exactly the cigarette I needed in my
quest for blackened, badly damaged, smoker’s lungs. The
idea of ruining my own lungs with my own cigarette smoking
had been planted in my brain as a very young boy. I was
inexplicably turned on by the idea the first time it
occurred to me. Once that seed was planted, it took hold
and flourished. The older I got, the more thoughts of
blackened lungs began to monopolize my dreams and
fantasies. From my earliest memories I was always
fascinated by smoking women. That’s not surprising since
virtually every woman I knew or came in contact with was a
smoker. I came to associate smoking with sexiness. The more
a woman smoked, the sexier she seemed to me. At some point,
it occurred to me that the more a woman smokes, the blacker
her lungs must be and, therefore, the blacker a woman’s
lungs, the sexier she was to me. Long before I started
smoking I was fantasizing about women’s lungs. I would look
at women smokers and, based on how deeply they inhaled and
how long they held the smoke in their lungs, I would come
up with a mental rating for their lungs. A score of zero
would go to non-inhalers (few things turn me off as much as
a female smoker who doesn’t inhale), while a ten was
reserved for the coughing, wheezing, three-pack-a-day
goddesses who were looking lung cancer square in the eye.
This was years before the movie “10”, with Bo Derek, was
made. When that movie came out, I chuckled to myself and
couldn’t help thinking about what my own version of “10”
would be like. Basically, it would be the story of Sarah
(still unfinished), which has appeared on this board. Now,
if only I could find some producer willing to turn Sarah’s
story into a movie! I had been raised in a smoking
household. My parents smoked. My mother smoked before,
during, and after her pregnancy with me. I never knew her
to go more than ten or fifteen minutes without a cigarette.
She had been smoking since the age of twelve. She was a
chain-smoker and easily smoked over three packs of Newport
Kings per day for most of her life. She lit a cigarette as
soon as she woke up in the morning and took a last deep
drag just before turning off her light each night. She had
overflowing ashtrays in every room of our house, as well as
in her car. If ever there was a woman who truly loved
smoking, it was my mother. I can remember, at the age of
seven or eight, hearing a lecture from my teacher on the
dangers of smoking. I went home and told my mother about
it. I told her she should quit smoking or her lungs would
turn black. She laughed and said, “My lungs are so black
already, that it wouldn’t do any good for me to quit
smoking now. The damage has already been done. I may as
well keep smoking.” Upon hearing this, I felt a very
strange sensation in my groin. I didn’t know what it was at
the time, but I later came to realize that I had
experienced one of my first erections. I don’t know why the
thought of my mother having black lungs thrilled me so, but
it truly did. I didn’t understand what had happened, but I
knew I liked the feeling. I began to bug my mother about
quitting on a regular basis. Not because I really wanted
her to quit, but because I loved to hear what she would say
in response. She never failed to make a comment that would
give me a pre-pubescent boner. She would say things like,
“I love smoking too much to quit,” or “We didn’t know how
bad smoking was when I was a little girl, and now that I am
so addicted, it is too hard to quit.” Sometimes I would
really get on her nerves and she would say, “Leave me alone
and let me work on my lung cancer.” God! how I loved it
when she said stuff like that. I remember one time, after
receiving a bike for my birthday, I slyly asked my mother
if she wanted to ride around the block with me. I was
anticipating the erection before she even replied. She
chuckled, took a drag from her cigarette, inhaled deeply,
and said, “With my lungs? You’ve got to be kidding. I’d
never make it. Go ask your father.” Needless to say, I
could not ride my bike after that. I frequently thought of
my mother’s lungs and how black they must be. I figured if
my mother knows what is happening to her lungs, and she
still wants to keep smoking, cigarettes must be pretty damn
wonderful. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted
to experience the same feeling my mother got when she
smoked. More specifically, I wanted my lungs to be like
hers. I knew I would never be a real man until I had
smoker’s lungs. Eventually, it became an obsession with me.
I badly wanted fucked up lungs and I couldn’t wait to get
them. However black my mother’s lungs were, I wanted mine
to be blacker. However badly damaged her lungs were, I
wanted mine to be even more damaged. However close she was
to lung cancer, I wanted to be even closer. I knew, even at
that early age, I was destined to be a smoker. I couldn’t
wait to start. At first I was afraid to try it. I would get
right up close to my mother’s burning cigarette and try to
breathe in the smoke whenever she would leave a cigarette
in her ashtray. A few times, when I knew she would be out
of the room for a while, I would sneak a few puffs. Of
course, I didn’t inhale at first. Finally, at the age of
ten, I was ready to take the next step. Even though it is
apparent that my mother was the primary smoking influence
in my life, she was not the only influence. Far from it.
All of my parents’ friends were smokers and my mother
frequently had her friends over for card games and parties.
I spent endless hours pretending to watch TV while secretly
watching the smoking beauties gathered around my mother’s
card table. They were all wonderful smokers who inhaled
deeply. There was no such thing as a light cigarette in
those days. All of these women smoked full-flavored
filtered cigarettes or, in some cases, unfiltered
cigarettes. Unfiltered cigarettes were still fairly common
at that time, although filters were clearly in the
majority. I had a special fondness for women who smoked
unfiltered cigarettes. I could tell, even as a young boy,
that the smoke from unfiltered cigarettes was much thicker
than the smoke from filtered cigarettes. I knew that the
women who smoked unfiltered cigarettes had truly fucked up
lungs and I was truly envious of them. Still, I developed a
fondness for filtered cigarettes. I loved the look of the
firm filter between a woman’s lips. There was something
about watching a filter gradually turn from pure white to
dark brown that was very exciting to me. I frequently
imagined the same process of discoloration taking place
inside my mother’s lungs. I wanted the same thing to happen
inside my lungs. My fondness for filters was not a general
fondness. Specifically, I developed a strong preference for
cork filters. I just loved watching a woman pull a
cork-filtered cigarette from her lips and set it down in
her ashtray. I loved the contrast between the brown cork
paper and the white cigarette paper. I also loved the
contrast between the pure white filter, before the
cigarette was smoked, and the cork paper. I loved watching
the filter get darker and darker until it became almost the
same color as the cork paper. It may seem strange that I
did not develop a preference for all whites, considering
that my mother smoked Newports. Newports had white filters
in those days. It would not be until a few years later that
they would switch to corks. Still, as important an
influence as my mother was in the development of my fetish,
she was not the only one, not by a long shot. I haven’t yet
told you about the second major smoking influence in my
life. That would be Aunt Carol. Carol was my mother’s
sister and was like my mother in almost every way. She was
three years younger than my mother, but had been smoking
just as long. They had both started at the same time. This
meant that Carol had been smoking since the age of nine.
Aunt Carol’s attitudes about smoking were the same as my
mother’s. She would make the same arousing comments to me,
when I would try to talk her into quitting, as my mother
would. I loved watching Aunt Carol smoke. She always
inhaled deeply and frequently displayed the most amazing
drawn-out talking exhales that I have ever seen. To this
day, talking exhales are my favorite thing to watch in a
smoking woman. She also had the most incredible smoker’s
voice I have ever heard. It had a deep, rough quality,
enhanced by her many years of smoking. To this young boy,
Aunt Carol was the sexiest woman in the world. I always
felt a little weird getting excited over my mother’s
smoking, but I felt no such reservations when it came to
Aunt Carol’s smoking. I was completely in love with her and
wanted to be near her as much as possible. I wanted to
emulate her in every way. She smoked at least as much as my
mother, and probably a little more. Aunt Carol smoked
Winstons. I knew, when it was time for me to become a
smoker, I would smoke Winstons. I’ll never forget the day I
became a smoker. I was ten. I was visiting Aunt Carol’s
house. As I had done many times before, I started looking
through her hall closet where I knew she kept her
cigarettes. She usually had two or three cartons of
Winstons in there. I always loved to pick up the cartons
and hold them. I would always take a couple of fresh packs
out of her open carton and fondle them, imagining they were
mine. This day, I decided to make one of them mine. There
was an open carton of Winstons with six packs in it. The
way Aunt Carol went through her Winstons, I knew she would
never miss one pack. Feeling a great rush of excitement I
carefully slipped a pack of her Winstons into my pants
pocket. I kept putting my hand in my pocket, running my
fingers over the smooth cellophane. I was careful, when
riding home, not to crush the pack. As soon as I got home,
I rushed to my bedroom and carefully opened the pack. I
can’t describe the thrill I got when I saw those clean
white filters staring up at me. I took a cigarette out of
the pack and held it between my fingers. I tried to mimic
the mannerisms Aunt Carol used when she smoked. I couldn’t
wait to smoke. I couldn’t wait to start fucking up my
lungs. I took a book of matches from my mother’s supply and
went out into the woods behind our house. When I was sure
no one could see me, I placed the filter of my Winston
between my lips and struck a match. I held the flame to the
end of my cigarette and indented my cheeks. I felt my mouth
fill with smoke and I blew out a long steady exhale. I had
not inhaled, but I felt pretty damn excited just the same.
I knew I needed to inhale the smoke. It was obvious to me
that my first drag had only entered my mouth and had not
gone into my lungs. I didn’t know what it would feel like
to have the smoke enter my lungs, but I knew it was my
destiny to find out. I had picked up enough comments from
my mother and Aunt Carol over the years, that I knew a real
smoker had to inhale. They would actually comment on
smokers they saw on television. I can remember on several
occasions my mother or Aunt Carol saying something like,
“Oh, look at that. He’s not even inhaling. He must not be a
smoker in real life,” referring to some actor on TV. I knew
I had to inhale. I just wasn’t quite sure how to do it.
With my next drag, I removed the cigarette from my mouth
and just breathed in. Naturally, I coughed most of it out
and my eyes started watering, but I had passed the point of
no return. For the first time I had inhaled cigarette smoke
into my lungs. I was a smoker. I was ten years old and I
was a smoker. The elation I felt over reaching this
milestone was somehow enough to overcome the inevitable
feeling of sickness which soon followed. But, as with all
smokers, as soon as the sickness wore off, I felt a craving
for another cigarette. It didn’t take me long at all to get
the hang of inhaling. I learned to love it very quickly.
With each cigarette I smoked, I tried inhaling a little
more deeply than I had with the previous one. I took to
smoking like a duck takes to water. It must have been in my
genes. I guess I was born to be a smoker. With every
cigarette I smoked, I thought of Aunt Carol. I always tried
to emulate her smoking style. When I inhaled smoke into my
lungs, I imagined they were Carol’s lungs. I guess I pretty
much imagined I was Carol whenever I smoked. Shortly after
I started smoking, Carol got married and moved out of
state. I saw her less and less frequently after that. In
many ways I was crushed, but at least I had started
smoking. I could be close to Carol anytime I wanted by
simply lighting up a Winston and inhaling the smoke deep
into my lungs. I soon became obsessed with my smoking and
with trying to make my lungs as unhealthy as possible. I
tried to smoke at every opportunity, while making sure I
was never seen smoking by my parents. I knew they would
never approve. I learned how easily to obtain cigarettes. I
knew where all the nearby cigarette vending machines were.
There was one in a bowling alley I passed every day to and
from school. The machine was inside the doorway at one end
of the bowling alley. The counter where the cashier worked
was a good fifty yards away in the middle of the building.
I could easily buy cigarettes from this machine without
being seen. I did so nearly every day. As my smoking
progressed I learned to inhale more and more smoke into my
lungs. I longed to be a slave to my cigarettes. I wanted to
get so addicted that it would be impossible for me to quit.
I wanted my cigarettes to control me. I got into the habit
of inhaling every drag as deeply as possible and holding
the smoke in my lungs for as long as possible. I tried
never to exhale until I absolutely had to. I learned that
if I held the smoke in my lungs long enough, most of it
would get absorbed into my lung tissue and very little
smoke would come out when I finally exhaled. Eventually I
learned to double – and triple-pump, inhale every bit of
smoke, and exhale almost nothing. Jesus! what a thrill that
gave me. I knew that the tar I was inhaling was becoming a
permanent part of my lungs. I imagined my lungs eventually
becoming nothing but a thick layer of tar. I pictured all
of the original lung matter becoming so black and brittle
that it would just crumble and break away. Nothing would be
left but a thick, black, sticky layer of tar where once
there was fresh, pink, healthy lung tissue. I pictured
myself wheezing heavily and struggling to breathe with
these replacement lungs. I wanted my breathing to become so
difficult that I would be confined to a wheelchair and
forced to breathe with the aid of an oxygen tank. I
fantasized about becoming the youngest person ever to get
lung cancer. The more I fantasized about it, the more
deeply I would inhale. My knees would go weak as I pictured
my dead body being cut open and doctors gagging at the
sight of my lungs. How I would love to hear their comments
as they said, “I’ve never seen lungs as bad as these!” or
“He has no one to blame but himself–he knew exactly what
he was doing.” How right they would be! I started to set
goals for myself. My first major goal was to become a
pack-a-day smoker. That had such a nice sound to it. I
determined that I had to get to a pack-a-day before I could
be considered a real smoker, before I could be considered a
man. Almost from the start I was smoking half a pack per
day. That was easy, but I wanted to reach that magic pack
per day. I started developing regular smoking routines. At
first I would smoke three cigarettes on the way to school
and three on the way home. I always wore a button-down
shirt with a pocket in the front and I carried my
cigarettes in my shirt pocket. I got such an incredible
thrill looking down at the cigarettes in my pocket. I was
actually a smoker! I loved looking in a mirror and seeing
the red and white Winston logo staring back at me through
my shirt pocket. When I got to school I would hide my
cigarettes. But as soon as I got out of school, my Winstons
went back into my shirt pocket where they belonged. I made
sure I always put a fresh pack in my pocket each morning. I
didn’t want to run out of cigarettes before I got home from
school. I got a Zippo lighter and carried it with me at all
times. I loved the clicking and clanking sound it made as I
opened and shut it. I always carried a book of matches with
me, too, in case the Zippo ran out of fluid. Gradually, I
would take longer, more roundabout routes to school so I
could smoke more. Soon I was able to smoke five cigarettes
on the way to school and five on the way home. That took
care of ten cigarettes each day. I just had to squeeze in
ten more somewhere to reach my goal. It was convenient
having woods behind our house. I could always sneak back
there and smoke without being seen. It got pretty cold in
the winter, though, living in Michigan. Still, I was
determined. Shortly before I turned twelve I accomplished
the first major goal of my young life. I smoked an entire
pack of Winstons in one day. I felt incredibly proud and
excited. I wanted to make sure that I maintained that pace
throughout the next year. As my thirteenth birthday
approached, I was staying steady at a pack per day. I was
inhaling more and more deeply all the time, and, much to my
great delight, I was starting to feel the physical effects
of my smoking. When playing sports with my friends I would
become winded after a very short time. I noticed that I
could not run very far without getting out of breath. For
most people, this would be a concern. For me, it was the
most exciting thing that had ever happened. I finally had
physical proof of my own self-induced lung damage. My
Winstons were doing their job admirably. I actually started
to develop a smoker’s cough around this time. It was
nothing like my mother’s or Aunt Carol’s, but it was a real
smoker’s cough and it was mine. More and more frequently I
noticed that I would cough in the morning after waking up.
Sometimes it was more a clearing of the throat than a
cough. But always there was thick, yellowish phlegm to be
cleared out of my lungs. I noticed that sudden bursts of
physical activity would cause me to start coughing. Sudden
laughter would always be followed by a brief coughing
spell. I can’t even describe how wonderful it felt to be
thirteen with a smoker’s cough. I felt that I carried a
secret gift in my chest. It was a gift that nobody else
knew about. By outward appearances I was a normal, healthy,
thirteen year-old boy. But inside, I had black,
foul-smelling lungs which became a little bit unhealthier
each day. I was so excited. I didn’t think things could get
any better. How little I knew. I began to notice more and
more, when smoking, or when thinking about the state of my
lungs, my penis would get stiff. I had not yet learned
about masturbation. But, little did I know, all that was
about to change. My thirteenth birthday was a very special
day for me, but I couldn’t tell anyone about it. I had
averaged a full pack of Winstons per day for one entire
year. I had stored an entire pack-year’s worth of tar in my
lungs. It was a major milestone for me. That tar had become
a permanent part of my lungs. It had become a part of me. I
sensed that I had already done quite extensive damage to my
lungs for someone so young. None of my friends got out of
breath as easily as I did. None of my friends coughed as
often as I did. I knew that whatever damage I had done to
my lungs could never be undone. This thought made me
incredibly excited. I knew, from that day forward, my lungs
would never get healthier. They would only get worse. I was
more determined than ever to speed up their destruction. As
the summer of ’67 began, I set a new goal for myself. I was
determined to average three packs of Winstons per day for
the entire summer. Without school, I was sure I could do
it. Then when school started up, I would try to maintain at
least two packs per day. I would become bolder than I had
been in the past. I would be determined to smoke two packs
every school day and three packs a day on weekends. I would
start smoking in the boy’s restroom at every opportunity,
between classes, during classes, any old time. I would make
sure that my clothes, my hair, and my fingers always reeked
of nicotine. I wanted nicotine stains on my fingers. I
wanted to be known as a smoker. Even though I had never
been in trouble for anything, I actually looked forward to
getting kicked out of school for smoking. That would brand
me as a smoker. Then my parents would find out, and they
would have to let me start smoking around the house. I was
too chicken to just tell them I smoked, but if I got caught
smoking in school, that would do the trick. Besides, being
smokers themselves, they would understand. Surely they
would not force me to quit once they found out how addicted
I was. All sorts of thoughts were going through my head. I
actually considered trying out for the track team to see
just how much smoking had affected my physical
capabilities. I had always been a fast runner prior to
becoming a smoker. I fantasized about smoking a whole pack
of Winstons before a track meet and then being unable to
run even fifty yards in a hundred-yard dash. I got a huge
boner as I imagined the track coach kicking me off the team
and saying, “You can’t run track with those goddamn rotten
lungs of yours. Go back to the boy’s restroom where you
belong, with all the other smokers, you loser.” I was
actually looking forward to school starting. This was going
to be a great summer. I had no idea at that time how truly
great my summer would actually be. Shortly after my
birthday, I heard my mother talking on the phone to Aunt
Carol. She was whispering quite a bit, so I sensed
something was wrong. I later found out that Carol had
separated from her husband. Things had not worked out
between them. That was the bad news. Then came the good
news. My mother announced, “Aunt Carol is coming to stay
with us for the summer.” I don’t know if my mother sensed
my excitement, but no news could have made me happier. For
the entire summer I would be able to observe Aunt Carol, up
close, smoking her Winstons. With every drag she inhaled, I
would feel it in my own lungs. As she coughed up her dark
phlegm each morning, I would taste it in my own mouth. I
would sit next to her on our couch while watching TV and
listen to her labored breathing. I would inhale the smoke
exhaled from her lungs deeply into my own at every
opportunity. I would steal drags from Winstons that had
touched her lips whenever she left one burning in her
ashtray. I would get to listen to the morning coughing
contests between Carol and my mother. Which one would stop
coughing first? I immediately went out to the woods and lit
up a Winston. As I inhaled deeply I felt my dick turning to
wood. If I had known how to masturbate, I would have cum
like a motherfucker at that moment. Instead, I just sort of
rubbed my penis while trying to move it into a more
comfortable position, and inhaled drag after drag of fresh
tar-laden, additive-enhanced Winston smoke deep into my
young, already badly damaged smoker’s lungs. I just
couldn’t wait for Aunt Carol to arrive.

Part 2 – Aunt Carol and Her Winstons I was a child of
television. As a child growing up in the fifties and
sixties, television was my daily babysitter. It was the
Golden Age of television and I watched a lot of television.
My mother often complained that I watched too much
television. She told me I should spend more time outside in
the fresh air…as she chain-smoked her Newports. But I
preferred to watch television. Was it because of the
quality of the programming? Was it because I related so
well to the white bread world of Ozzie and Harriet, so
totally devoid of violence, sex, and profanity? Hardly. Oh,
sure, I had a few favorite shows that I actually liked to
watch. But, for the most part, the programming was pretty
bland. Why did I watch so much TV? I am sure you have
guessed by now. I had the privilege of growing up during
the Golden Age of smoking on television. Cigarette
commercials were on the air morning, noon, and night. There
was hardly a program that didn’t have a cigarette company
as one of its sponsors. Dozens of times, every day, I got
to witness some of the most gorgeous models in the world
smoking in commercials in which they were paid not only to
smoke, but to smoke in the sexiest and most provocative
manner possible. I was nearly seventeen when cigarette
commercials were finally banned from the airwaves. By that
time my fetish had been firmly established. By conservative
estimates, I must have seen over 100,000 cigarette
commercials during my childhood and adolescent years. I am
one-hundred percent certain these commercials played a
large role in the development of my fetish. My favorite
commercials, far and away, were for Winston. For one thing,
they were by far the most numerous. During most of my young
life, Winston was the top selling cigarette in the world.
But, not only were Winston commercials the most prolific,
they were the best in terms of quality female smoking. They
always used sexy women who really knew how to smoke. They
showed women lighting up, taking cheek-hollowing drags,
inhaling deeply, and exhaling nice, long streams of smoke.
They had it all. I became a big sports fan as a kid, but
not because I loved the games that much. It was because
televised sporting events had probably the highest rate of
cigarette commercials per hour of any type of programming.
I became a big fan of the Detroit Tigers, in particular,
because they were always sponsored by Winston. I could
watch a baseball game and see eight or nine Winston
commercials. They seemed to show one every inning. It was
the best possible time to grow up for someone like me. This
was a time before remote controls. I would literally stand
in front of the television, with my hand on the channel
dial, and flip channels (all four of them), looking for
cigarette commercials. I learned the best programs and the
best times to expect cigarette commercials. My only regret,
and the one thing I would change in my life if I could, is
that I never had a VCR until after cigarette commercials
were banned. Some are available on videotape today, but
there are so many more which are not. Specifically, there
are very few commercials available from the last two or
three years before the ban. This is when they were the
best. During the last couple of years of cigarette
commercials, Winston ran their “Me and My Winstons”
campaign. These were the sexiest commercials ever made, in
my opinion. By the time they were aired, I had started
masturbating. Late at night, when I was sure my parents
were asleep, I would stand in front of our TV waiting for
one of the sexy Winston girls to appear on my screen and
take a big drag from her Winston. As soon as I saw that
smoke disappear into her lungs, I would start pumping and
ejaculate in ecstasy. Every time I watched a Winston
commercial, I thought of Aunt Carol. Every time a Winston
girl inhaled smoke into her lungs, I pictured Aunt Carol’s
lungs getting blacker. Aunt Carol should have appeared in
Winston commercials. R. J. Reynolds could not have picked a
better spokesperson. Not only did she smoke more than three
packs of Winstons per day, in the sexiest manner possible,
she was also incredibly beautiful. Aunt Carol bore a
striking resemblance to Mary Tyler Moore. She had the same
hairstyle, the same wide mouth, and the same slim figure.
It’s no wonder that the “Dick Van Dyke Show” and the “Mary
Tyler Moore Show” were two of my favorite shows. Aunt
Carol’s voice was sort of a cross between Suzanne Pleshette
and Stevie Nicks with a slight southern accent. She had
been born in Texas, but had moved to Michigan as a young
girl. If you can picture Laura Petrie with Suzanne
Pleshette’s vocal cords and a trace of a Texas twang,
that’s Aunt Carol. I remember vividly the day Aunt Carol
came to stay with us for the summer. I heard a knock at the
door and answered it. There was Carol, exhaling a tight
cone of greenish-white smoke from the side of her mouth
with her ever-present Winston held between the fingers of
her right hand which was raised and propped next to her
cheek. As she leaned over to hug me, I got a good whiff of
the hot nicotine in her smoker’s breath. I buried my face
in her hair and inhaled. I felt that strange stiffening in
my pants as I smelled the smoke of which her hair reeked.
She was wearing a fur coat, which I offered to take from
her and hang up. I breathed in the Winston smoke emanating
from her coat all the way to the hall closet. I shook it
before hanging it up and watched a small cloud of Winston
ashes flutter to the floor. I suddenly craved a cigarette.
I resisted the urge for the time being and helped Aunt
Carol unload her luggage from her car. The stench in her
car was almost overwhelming. The ashtray was overflowing
with dark brown Winston filters. I wished I could take a
ride with her somewhere…anywhere. We had an extra room
which would be Carol’s room. I carried her luggage into the
room. The bags were rather heavy and, after I had finished,
I noticed my heart was racing. I was sweating and I started
coughing. It wasn’t a bad coughing spell, just a few rumbly
throat clearing hacks from deep within my lungs. Now I
really needed a cigarette. Aunt Carol heard me coughing,
stared at me briefly, then looked around the room. She said
to my mother, “Nancy, I’m going to need an ashtray. Have
you got one I can use?” “I’ll get it for you,” I eagerly
volunteered, clearing my throat one final time. “Oh, thank
you so much, Chrissy,” she said in her deep, sexy voice. My
name is Christopher, but Aunt Carol always called me
Chrissy. When anyone else called me that I became
infuriated. I even made my mother call me Chris. But when
Aunt Carol called me Chrissy, my knees turned to jelly. I
got one of my mother’s large ashtrays and took it to Carol.
“Will this do?” I asked. “That’s perfect, sweetie,” said
Carol as she lit up a fresh Winston. She set the ashtray on
her dresser, took another drag from her Winston, and set
her cigarette down in the ashtray. I stared at the
cigarette. I wanted to pick it up and put it between my
lips. “I hope my smoking won’t bother you too much,” she
said. “Between your mother and me, you could be smoked out
of the house.” “It won’t bother me at all. I’m used to it,”
I said. “That’s good. I remember how you used to try to
talk your mother and me into quitting.” She picked up her
Winston and took a long cheek-hollowing drag. “I don’t do
that anymore,” I said. “I know how much you and Mom love to
smoke.” I felt my face turning red. “I’m glad. This would
be the worst possible time to try to get me to quit
smoking.” She inhaled a deep lungful of smoke from her
Winston. “Since I split up with Bob, I’ve been smoking a
lot more. It’s the only thing that really helps me when I’m
feeling depressed.” “More?” I asked. My penis was sticking
straight out, creating a bulge in my pants. The thought of
Aunt Carol smoking more was too much to bear. I tried to
turn so she couldn’t see what was happening to me. “Yes. I
know I smoke too much, but I can’t help it. I love it. I
think I smoked seven packs yesterday. Some days it’s even
more. You must think I’m terrible.” She took a long drag
from her Winston and inhaled deeply. “It’s so easy to do. I
wake up each day and just start smoking. By the time I
finish breakfast and take my morning shower, I have usually
finished my first pack of the day. Then. I just keep
smoking one right after the other. I guess my cigarettes
are my best friend now,” she said, smiling at the cigarette
between her fingers. I was feeling quite a bit of
discomfort now. I wasn’t sure what was happening. I tried
nonchalantly to move my penis to a more comfortable
position. I watched as Aunt carol opened her big suitcase.
There, on top of her neatly folded underwear, were five
fresh cartons of Winstons, lined up in a row. My jaw
dropped. I said, “That’s a lot of cigarettes.” I wanted to
pick up one of the cartons and hold it. “That’s about a
week’s worth of cigarettes for me. Lately, I’ve been buying
five cartons every week. Me and my Winstons,” she said. She
took a long drag from her cigarette, inhaled deeply, then
laughed and completed the thought, “We’ve got a real good
thing.” “Yeah,” I chuckled, trying to think of something to
say. “Just like in the commercials.” Some quick math told
me that there were a thousand Winstons in Aunt Carol’s
suitcase. Aunt Carol smoked one thousand cigarettes per
week. How thick and dark the coat of tar in her lungs must
be. My knees felt weak and my stomach was churning. I
didn’t know what would happen if I stuck around any longer,
but I knew I had to leave. “Well, if you need anything
else, just let me know,” I said. “Thanks, Chrissy, I will.”
Aunt Carol finished off her Winston with a deeply inhaled
double-pump and crushed out the butt in her ashtray. All I
could think about was lighting up a cigarette and inhaling
Winston smoke deep into my lungs. I walked very gingerly to
my bedroom, got my cigarettes and lighter, and went out the
back door to the woods. I rapidly chain-smoked ten
cigarettes in about thirty minutes. I took one drag after
another, never waiting more than a few seconds between
drags. After each drag I inhaled as deeply as possible and
tried to hold every bit of smoke in my lungs. My exhales
were thin, barely visible, greenish wisps of smoke. I
imagined my lungs as a pair of pitchers, gradually filling
up with each drag I inhaled. I kept going until my lungs
felt full. The feeling in my chest was incredible. My lungs
hurt and it was becoming difficult to breathe. God, how I
loved Aunt Carol’s lungs! God, how I wanted my lungs to be
just like hers! I walked quietly back to the house and
opened the back door. I was startled to see Aunt Carol.
“Hi, Chrissy,” she said. “Hi, Aunt Carol,” I said, folding
my arms to hide the pack of Winstons in my shirt pocket.
“So tell me,” she said, looking me straight in the eye.
“How long have you been smoking?” My face turned beet red.
I didn’t know what to say. “What are you talking about?” I
said. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your mother. It will be
our little secret,” she said. “I thought I smelled smoke on
your breath when we hugged at the door. I also noticed the
nicotine stains on your fingers. And, if there were any
doubt in my mind, your coughing erased all of that. I know
a smoker’s cough when I hear it. After all, I am somewhat
of an expert on the subject.” She took a long drag from the
Winston between her fingers and inhaled deeply. “I…I have
a cold,” I protested. “You look pretty healthy to me,
Christopher.” She took another drag and stared at the bulge
which was suddenly reappearing in my pants. I quickly tried
to cover it, but then I remembered the cigarettes in my
pocket. I placed my right hand over my shirt pocket and my
left hand over my crotch. I was caught. But, in a strange
way, I was glad. I decided just to go with whatever
happened next. Aunt Carol reached out and gently took my
right hand. She pulled it toward her and leaned over and
sniffed my fingers. “Whew! Your fingers positively reek of
nicotine.” She could now see the pack of Winstons in my
shirt pocket. “My, my…you’re a Winston man. At least you
have good taste in cigarettes.” She placed her Winston
between her lips and took a long, slow drag. At that
moment, the bulge in my pants became more than just
uncomfortable. It felt like my penis was going to explode.
She had called me a Winston man. The most perfect Winston
woman had called me a Winston man. Nothing could have made
me prouder. My body and mind turned to mush. I would have
done anything she said at that moment. “Chrissy, I have a
personal question for you,” she said. “What is it?” I
asked. “Have you ever…masturbated?” “Well…I…I’m not
sure what you mean,” I stammered. “You don’t have to tell
me if you don’t want to,” she said. “This will be just
between you and me…just like your smoking. I am just
curious, that’s all. You’re at the age when most boys start
to experiment.” “Well, a friend of mine was telling me
about it,” I said. For some reason, I didn’t mind talking
to Aunt Carol. I could never talk to my parents about
anything so personal, but I didn’t mind talking to her. “He
told me what to do. I tried to do what he said. He let me
borrow some magazines with pictures of naked ladies he
found in his father’s closet. But, when I tried to do what
he said, nothing happened.” “Did you feel excited when you
looked at the pictures,” she asked. “Well, not really,” I
admitted. “A little bit, I guess, but it wasn’t that
great.” It was the truth. I had felt nothing special, aside
from knowing I was doing something naughty, when I had
looked at the nude pictures. “I’d like to help you out,
Chrissy,” said Aunt Carol. “I know life can be very
confusing for a boy your age. Things would be so much
easier if you had someone with experience in these matters
to sort of…guide you…educate you. Think of me as your
teacher, Chrissy. I want to help teach you some of
the…uh…facts of life. Would that be OK?” Aunt Carol
took a deep drag from her Winston. Then, with smoke pouring
from her nostrils, she took a second, deeper drag. Of
course, I would have agreed to anything at that point. I
said, “Yes, that would be OK, Aunt Carol.” “And, this will
have to be our secret,” she said. “You can’t tell anyone,
not even your mother. OK?” “OK,” I said. I didn’t know why
everything had to be kept secret. I didn’t even really
understand what she was talking about. I just knew I would
agree to anything she said. “Well, here’s what I have in
mind,” she said. “We’ll have our first lesson tonight. Your
mother and father are going out to dinner. Your mother
originally made reservations for four. She wanted all of us
to go out together. I told her I was tired from traveling
and would rather not go out tonight. I told her to change
the reservation to two so she and your father could have a
nice dinner alone. I told her I would stay home with you.
Is that OK with you?” I tried not to sound overly excited,
which I was, of course. I said, “Sure, that’s OK with me.”
“All right, Chrissy,” she said. “And remember, this will be
our little secret.” “OK, Aunt Carol,” I said. “Thanks.” I
didn’t even know what I was thanking her for. I would have
been perfectly happy to sit in the house with Aunt Carol
and watch her smoke her Winstons all night, but I sensed
something far more special was going to happen. The Winston
man and the Winston woman would be alone in the house for
an entire evening. I couldn’t wait for Mom and Dad to
leave.

Part 3 – Me and Aunt Carol’s Winstons I didn’t think my
parents would ever leave. Finally, as they were heading out
the door, my mother said, “Carol, there are some leftovers
in the refrigerator. Are you sure you don’t mind us going
out?” “Not at all,” said Aunt Carol. “You two have a great
time. Chrissy and I will be just fine.” “OK,” said my
mother. “We’ll probably be back late. We’re going to dinner
and then a movie. Bye, bye.” I watched my parents’ car back
down our driveway and drive off down our road. Aunt Carol
lit a fresh Winston and said, “Are you hungry, Chrissy?”
“I’m not hungry at all,” I said. I was pretty nervous. I
didn’t know what to expect. “How has your summer been so
far? Are you playing ball this year?” she asked.
“I…uh…had to quit baseball,” I said. “Why? I thought
you loved baseball,” Carol said with surprise. “I do,” I
said. “But…I just can’t run the bases anymore. I get out
of breath too easily.” I felt my penis getting hard. “You
mean…because of your smoking?” she asked. “Yes,” I said,
proudly. “I would have to quit smoking, or at least cut way
down, if I wanted to start playing baseball again.” “But
you’re only thirteen,” she said with a look of shock on her
face. “How much could you possibly smoke?” “Well, I’ve been
smoking three packs a day since school ended,” I said with
a shy grin. “You can’t be serious!” she said. “I’ve never
heard of a kid your age smoking that much.” She shook her
head slowly and took a deep drag from her Winston. “And
even during the school year I was smoking over a pack a
day,” I said. My penis was as hard as a rock. I knew Aunt
Carol was looking at it, but I didn’t care. “When did you
start smoking, Chrissy? I always thought you hated smoking.
You were always trying to get your mother and me to quit.”
“I guess I just changed when I got older. I started smoking
when I was ten,” I said. “Do your parents know?” she asked.
“No–I don’t think so,” I said. “I can’t tell them. I’m
afraid they would make me quit.” “My God, Chrissy. This is
all very surprising,” she said. “But, I guess I shouldn’t
be surprised. Living in this house with your mother all
these years, I’m sure you were bound to try it sooner or
later. I think I started even earlier, as a matter of
fact–when I was nine.” “Why did you start?” I asked. “It’s
all your mother’s fault,” she said, smiling. She took a
long cheek-hollowing drag from her Winston. “She wanted to
try smoking, but she was afraid to do it alone, so she
talked me into trying it with her. Oooo, did we ever make
ourselves sick. But, there was something about it that made
us want to try it again. It wasn’t long before we were both
hooked. So, I guess I can thank your mother for these dirty
old lungs of mine.” She smiled as she inhaled smoke deeply
into her lungs. “Are you mad that she got you to start
smoking?” I asked. I formed a mental image of my
twelve-year old mother coaxing my nine-year old aunt to
smoke. It gave me a funny feeling in my stomach. “Sweetie,
it’s the best thing your mother ever did for me,” she said.
“I love smoking. More than anything else, I guess. I could
never give it up.” “I know how you feel,” I said. My penis
felt like it was going to explode. “Hmm…it must be in
your genes,” she said, smiling. She finished off her
Winston with a double-pump. She inhaled the smoke down to
her toes and started talking. She talked out her smoke with
each syllable as she said, “Still, you’re only thirteen.
You say you’re smoking three packs per day, but that’s
probably more like a half pack per day for a normal smoker.
I mean, you probably don’t inhale very much…do you?”
After speaking, she released the rest of the smoke from her
lungs in a couple of long jet-stream nostril exhales.
“Well, I can show you,” I said. “Do you want me to get my
cigarettes?” I was practically floating, I was so excited.
“Here…have one of mine,” she said. She plucked a fresh
Winston from her pack and placed it between her full lips.
Her cheeks intended deeply as she touched the flame of her
lighter to the end of her cigarette. She inhaled, took
another drag, and removed the cigarette from her lips. She
handed it to me. “OK,” she said. “Let’s just see how much
you like Winstons.” My whole body was trembling. I took the
Winston and looked at it. Smoke from Aunt Carol’s drag was
still flowing through the end of the filter which was
already a light shade of brown. I placed the filter to my
lips. I could feel the moistness of her lips on the filter
paper. I took a very long drag. My cheeks intended deeply.
I momentarily removed the cigarette from my lips so Aunt
Carol could see the large ball of smoke in my mouth
disappear down into my lungs. Without exhaling a wisp of
smoke, I placed the cigarette between my lips again. I took
an even longer drag and, once again, showed Aunt Carol the
smoke for a second before it disappeared into my thirteen
year-old formerly pink lungs. I inhaled as deeply as I
possibly could. I held my breath until I knew that the
smoke had been permanently trapped in my lungs. I exhaled
gently. A thin stream of smoke exited my mouth. “Well, how
was that?” I asked. A few small bursts of smoke came out
with each of my words. Aunt Carol gasped. She looked sort
of uncomfortable. “Oh my God, Christopher. I have never
seen anyone inhale like that. I don’t even inhale like
that. That’s amazing. How did you learn to do that?” “I
practice a lot,” I said, grinning. I triple-pumped Aunt
Carol’s Winston and held the smoke as deep in my lungs as I
could. A thin wisp of smoke came out of my mouth when I
finally exhaled. Carol shook her head and said, “It may
seem fun now, but you’ve got to quit doing that. You’re
going to ruin you’re lungs before you’re grown up. You’re
going to smoke your whole future away.” No words could have
sounded more beautiful to my ears. How I hoped she was
right. I inhaled another lungful of smoke and said, “I
can’t quit. I don’t want to cut down. I want to smoke more,
in fact. I love smoking so much. It’s the only thing I
really care about. I don’t care about sports anymore. I
quit playing baseball because I would rather keep smoking.
I haven’t been able to play basketball since the sixth
grade. I don’t even ride my bike anymore unless I’m just
going down the street to my friend’s house. Even then, I
coast as much as possible.” “Chrissy, those are all reasons
you should quit smoking. You’re so young. I would just hate
to see you end up like me, or your mother. We are too
addicted ever to quit, even if we wanted to.” “But that’s
exactly what I want,” I insisted. “I want to get so
addicted that I can’t quit. This isn’t something that just
started. I’ve been thinking about it my whole life. I’ve
wanted to be a smoker for as long as I can remember, since
long before I ever tried smoking. All those things I gave
up are things I used to love. If I am willing to give them
up for smoking, I must love smoking more.” I couldn’t
believe I was telling her all these things. “Well, I guess
I’m the last person who should be telling you to quit
smoking,” she said. “I know how useless it is to try to
convince an addict to quit, so I won’t do it anymore.
Besides, there are far worse things you could be doing.”
“If you don’t bug me about quitting, I won’t bug you about
quitting,” I said. “It’s a deal,” she said. “So…tell me
something.” “OK,” I said as I finished off her Winston with
a deeply inhaled, unexhaled triple-pump. “Do you get
excited when you watch girls smoke?” Now I was feeling
really strange. “Uh…yes…I guess so.” “It’s OK. Don’t be
nervous,” she said. “Do you…um…get excited when you
watch me smoke?” I blushed deeply. “Sometimes,” I said. “I
thought so,” said Aunt Carol, pulling a fresh Winston from
her pack. “And that’s OK. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. As
I said earlier, I want to help…educate you. I would like
to show you what to do when you get these feelings of
excitement.” “Um…OK,” I said, meekly. “Now, don’t be
embarrassed,” she said. “But, would you mind pulling your
pants down in front of me?” “I…uh….guess not,” I said
with a gulp. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she
said. “But it’s perfectly all right. Nothing bad will
happen to you. Quite the opposite, in fact.” “It’s OK,” I
said. I unbuckled my belt, unzipped my jeans, and removed
them. My rock-solid hard penis was forming a large bulge in
my briefs. “You’d better remove those as well,” she said
with the unlit Winston dangling from her lips. Slowly, I
did as she said. I heard a slight gasp from Aunt Carol as
my rigid cock stood fully exposed. She said, “Christopher,
you really have grown up. Now, just relax. You’re going to
enjoy this.” She could have done anything to me at that
point and I would have been happy. She got her makeup bag
and removed a small jar of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly. She
opened the jar and dabbed some of the Vaseline on the
fingertips of her right hand. With her left hand she picked
up her lighter and lit the Winston between her lips. She
took a couple of deep drags, removed the cigarette, and
handed it to me. “Take a couple of drags and inhale
deeply,” she said. I gladly complied with her wishes. I
felt the smoke deep in my lungs and held my breath. “Now,
hold still. This may startle you a bit,” she said. She
placed her right hand gently on my penis and started
rubbing the Vaseline around. My body shuddered. I had never
felt anything so wonderful. I took another drag from the
Winston. She started rubbing Vaseline all over the tip of
my penis and started squeezing and massaging it. I was in
ecstasy. She wrapped her entire hand around my penis and
started stroking up and down, slowly. I thought I was in
heaven. “Oh, my! you’re just about ready,” she said. “Now,
take a big drag and inhale deeply.” I did. “Hold it in,”
she said, in a breathless husky voice. “Good. Now take
another drag and pull it deep into your lungs. Hold it in
for as long as you can.” As I inhaled, her hand gripped me
harder and started moving up and down my penis, faster and
faster. Something was happening to me. I had never felt
this way before. Suddenly, the most incredible feeling came
over my whole body. My knees started wobbling and I started
moaning quite loudly. A long stream of white fluid shot out
of my penis and hit Aunt Carol in the face. My whole body
was quivering. Aunt Carol kept pumping with her hand and a
few more shorter streams of liquid came out of me. I was
yelling and laughing and almost crying, it felt so good. I
could swear Aunt Carol stuck her tongue out and caught some
of the white stuff dripping down her face, but I was so
excited at that moment, it’s hard to say for sure. Carol’s
pumping motion gradually slowed down. She squeezed my penis
and shook it a few times to get the last few drops out of
me. I shuddered in ecstasy each time she squeezed. My penis
was no longer rock hard. It was getting softer. Finally,
Carol let go of me and sat down on a chair, exhausted. She
reached for her Winstons and shook one loose. She lit up
and inhaled more deeply than usual. She held the smoke in
her lungs as long as she could and inhaled another drag on
top of the first one. I just stood there, too stunned to
speak. I had never felt anything so wonderful. I never
imagined anything could feel so good. With a long, slow
exhale Carol said, “I guess you really are a Winston man,
now.” I was trying to savor the moment and take in all that
had just happened. I didn’t fully realize it at the time,
but my world would never be the same again. I lifted the
Winston to my lips and sucked long and hard on the filter.
I inhaled deeply and said, “Winston tastes good.” “Like a
cigarette should,” she said, and took a long
cheek-hollowing drag. She handed me a towel and said,
“You’d better clean yourself up.” With the Winston dangling
from my lips I wrapped the towel around my waist. I took
several dangling drags and exhaled through my nose as
naturally as if I were breathing. I knew I never wanted to
be without smoke in my lungs. I said, “Thank you, Aunt
Carol.” “You’re welcome, honey,” she said. “I think I am
going to rest for awhile now. I’m a little tired.” “OK,” I
said. Aunt Carol went to her room and shut the door. I
stood still and listened carefully. I heard the bedsprings
squeak as she got into her bed. This was followed by a few
deep, wet, chest-clearing coughs. The simple act of lying
down in bed had jarred the tar in her lungs enough to start
her coughing. I knew the feeling well. The next thing I
heard was the click of Aunt Carol’s lighter. As I imagined
the smoke filling her lungs, my penis started to stiffen.
As I continued to listen, I heard Aunt Carol’s bedsprings
start to squeak in a rhythmic pattern. I went to my bedroom
and got my Winstons.

I woke up the next morning and started coughing. Actually,
I had probably started coughing while I was still asleep.
The coughing had probably awakened me. This was normal. I
loved my morning coughing sessions. I had first started
developing a morning cough shortly after I turned twelve. I
was smoking a pack of Winstons per day at that time. Now
that I was up to three packs per day, my cough had become
noticeably worse. I loved the feeling of having no control
over my coughing. I couldn’t make it stop even if I wanted
to, which I didn’t. My coughing would normally start as
soon as I would wake up and take my first breath of fresh
air in the morning. It almost seemed that fresh air had
become a foreign substance to my lungs. They seemed to
reject fresh air and crave Winston smoke. I vowed that I
would do my best to minimize the amount of fresh air my
lungs would have to endure each day. I picked up an empty
soda can from the table next to my bed and hacked up
several mouthfuls of brown phlegm into it. I could taste
the rank stench of the sixty Winstons I had smoked the day
before. The stale ashtray-like smell was forced up from my
lungs which were now coated a deep brown with thick, sticky
Winston tar. My chest heaved with several more deep, wet
coughs as my outmanned cilia did their best to cleanse my
lungs of the tar I so desperately wanted to keep inside my
chest. No matter–I knew I would pack far more tar into my
lungs this day than I had coughed up. I knew I would add a
fresh layer of Winston tar on top of the tar that was
already there. I knew I would kill a few thousand more
cilia in my weakened, deteriorating lungs. Eventually, I
realized, all my cilia would be destroyed and my lungs
would have lost their only defense mechanism against the
constant barrage of my Winston smoke. There would be no way
to curb the daily buildup of tar in my lungs. My cigarettes
would finally, inevitably, be victorious in their war
against my lungs. I couldn’t wait for that day. I finally
stopped coughing and sat still on my bed. A dark smile
crossed my face as I realized there was still coughing
going on in the house. I could hear my mother coughing in
the room next to me. And, from the room down the hall, I
could hear Aunt Carol coughing. My coughing, as much as I
loved it, was no match for the coughing of those two
veteran hackers. They seemed to take turns. Aunt Carol had
a deep chest-clearing cough. She would cough three or four
times in a row with drawn-out coughs that seemed to come
from deep within her lungs. When she paused, my mother
would cough several shorter hacking coughs that sounded
raspier than Aunt Carol’s. She would then do a deep
throat-clearing cough which, I could tell, would force up a
large amount of phlegm. They went back and forth, sometimes
coughing together, for ten to fifteen minutes. As I
listened to the sound of the dueling hackers, I noticed my
dick getting hard. It suddenly occurred to me that I now
knew what to do when I felt this way. I was so aroused, I
decided to do something I had never done before. I would
light up a cigarette in my bedroom. I figured my parents
would never notice the smell–the house was constantly
filled with the smell of their smoke, anyway. Besides, they
hardly ever came into my bedroom. I got my Winstons from my
dresser drawer. I lit up a cigarette and took several long,
deep drags. I inhaled the smoke down to the bottom of my
lungs and felt my dick getting harder. With my cigarette
dangling from my lips, I continued dragging and inhaling
while I pulled down my shorts. I grabbed onto my rock-hard
penis and started stroking it. It felt so good, I was ready
to cum almost immediately. I lay down on my bed and
continued stroking myself as I listened to my mother and
Aunt Carol coughing. Their lungs tried in vain to cleanse
themselves of the thick filth that had been pumped into
them. I inhaled a deep lungful of smoke and shot a long
stream of hot semen all over myself. This would be only the
first of many, many such mornings for me. Thanks to Aunt
Carol I had discovered the wonderful world of smoking and
jacking off. I didn’t see how life could get any better. I
started smoking in my bedroom quite frequently. I no longer
cared if my parents found out about my smoking. I sort of
hoped they would, actually. I sincerely wanted to be known
as a smoker. I wanted my mother to lecture me on the
dangers of smoking while chain-smoking her Newports. I
wanted my friends to point me out as “that kid who smokes”
to their parents. I wanted my classmates to refuse to pick
me for a pickup basketball game and say, “We don’t want
him–he smokes.” How I would love to light up a cigarette
at that moment and stand there smoking, unpicked, watching
the other kids play basketball. I wanted adults to shake
their heads in disgust when they saw me smoking and then
point at me and say to their children, “Don’t start smoking
and end up like that kid. His lungs are all black and dirty
and he’ll probably die of lung cancer.” I so badly wanted
to prove them right and then hear them say, “Don’t feel
sorry for that kid with lung cancer. It’s his own fault.” I
masturbated as often as I could while smoking in my
bedroom. It didn’t take me long to recharge in those days.
While recharging I would go into the woods behind my house
and chain smoke Winstons. I was easily surpassing three
packs per day. It was easy because school was out and I was
home all day. I had nothing to do but smoke. My lungs ached
and I was starting to cough on a regular basis throughout
the day. I had an almost constant erection. I am sure Aunt
Carol knew what was going on. She would often grin at me
and take a cheek-hollowing drag from her Winston when she
saw me coming out of my bedroom. One morning she came out
of her bedroom after an especially long morning coughing
spell. She had a freshly lit Winston between her fingers
and was exhaling two long plumes of smoke through her
nostrils. She saw me and said, “You probably heard me
coughing up a lung in there. Pretty disgusting, huh?” “I
don’t mind it,” I said. “I’m used to hearing Mom every
morning. To tell you the truth, it makes me want to smoke a
cigarette.” She took a deep drag from her Winston and said,
“Yeah…me too. Funny, isn’t it? Coughing makes me crave a
cigarette.” She inhaled another lungful of smoke and said,
“Don’t think I haven’t heard you coughing in the morning. I
didn’t sound that bad when I was your age.” I was so proud,
I felt an erection coming on. I said, “I have the two best
teachers in the world.” She looked at me for a moment, took
another long drag from her Winston, and said, “Chrissy,
would you like to continue our ‘lessons?'” I couldn’t say
yes fast enough. From that moment on, whenever my mother
went out, or took a bath, or was otherwise occupied, Aunt
Carol would invite me into her room for another lesson. She
would always light up a Winston, hand it to me, light
another one for herself, watch me smoke for awhile, then
jack me off with her nicotine-stained fingers. As the weeks
went on, she would get her face closer to mine as she
administered her smoky hand jobs. I could hear the heavy
wheezing of her abused lungs with every labored breath she
took. I could smell her hot Winston breath. It made me cum
instantly whenever I breathed in the scent of her exhaled
lung waste. I think Aunt Carol liked to watch me smoke. I
noticed that her breathing became faster and she dragged
more deeply on her Winston as I got closer and closer to
climax. She always knew when I was getting close. She
always started moving her hand faster at just the right
time. Finally, one day, as I was about to ejaculate–I had
just inhaled an enormous drag from my Winston–Aunt Carol
put her mouth over mine and kissed me. She put her tongue
deep into my mouth and kept it there until I was forced to
exhale the smoke from my lungs. She took it all into her
own lungs, bent down, and took my throbbing cock into her
mouth. The suction from her smoky mouth felt incredible. I
felt her yellowed teeth gently scraping the tip of my penis
as her head went up and down. I shot my large hot load deep
into her mouth. I expected her to start gagging, but she
just kept bobbing her head up and down on my cock. I
squirted into her mouth a few more times. She lifted her
head, smiling, with white semen dripping down her chin. Her
mouth was full of it. She tilted her head back and
swallowed. She took a long deep drag from her Winston and
inhaled. Her hand was inside her panties and was moving
back and forth rapidly. She took another deep drag from her
Winston and started moaning. At first I thought she was in
pain, but I could tell from the look on her face she was in
ecstasy. I inhaled deeply from my Winston and felt my dick
getting hard again. Finally, she lay back on her bed with a
big smile on her face and said, “I hope I didn’t shock you,
Chrissy. Sometimes a woman needs pleasure, too.” I said,
“Please shock me some more,” and double-pumped my Winston.
Aunt Carol’s smoky blowjobs became a regular occurrence for
the rest of the summer. She was simply incredible. Our
kissing became longer, deeper, and more intense with each
session. Taking the cue from Aunt Carol, I learned to place
my mouth over hers immediately after she had inhaled
Winston smoke into her lungs. I would wait for her smoky
exhale and suck it all into my own lungs. We soon began
exchanging smoke back and forth, from one pair of fucked up
lungs to the other. As soon as I was good and hard, Aunt
Carol would suck me off while giving herself a handjob. The
Summer of Love just kept getting better and better. One day
I saw my mother and Aunt Carol sitting in the kitchen,
smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Aunt Carol had just
returned from a visit to her doctor. She was talking in a
hushed tone, so I stood quietly, out of sight. I was able
to hear the conversation. Carol said, “Nancy, the doctor
said I have to quit smoking. He showed me an x-ray of my
lungs and it was pretty scary. He said I am in the
beginning stages of emphysema. There are several dark areas
on my lungs. Any one of them could develop into cancer or
could already be cancer.” My penis immediately became erect
when I heard this. My mother took a deep drag from her
Newport and said, “Oh, my God! What are you going to do?”
Aunt Carol took a drag from her Winston, inhaled deeply,
and said, “Well, you know I can’t quit smoking. What the
hell good would it do anyway? The damage is already done.
If I have emphysema, it’s just going to keep progressing
anyway. There’s no cure for it. I might as well keep
smoking.” I wanted to jack off on the spot. “I know how you
feel,” my mother said. “If I die of lung cancer, at least
I’ll die happy.” She took another drag from her Newport and
asked, “Why did you go to the doctor, anyway?” “When I woke
up this morning, I couldn’t catch my breath. Do you know I
smoked nearly a full carton yesterday?” “My God, Carol,”
said my mother. “I don’t know how you do it. I can never
seem to smoke more then my regular four packs per day.”
“You keep yourself busier than I do, Nancy. Since I split
up with Bob, I haven’t really done anything. All I do is
sit around the house and smoke.” My cock was ready to
explode. Aunt Carol was living the life I dreamed of.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I couldn’t breathe this morning.
I thought I wasn’t going to make it out of bed. I finally
caught my breath and calmed down. Of course, I lit a
cigarette to help me relax.” I reached my hand into my
pants and started stroking myself slowly. “Why didn’t you
call for help,” asked my mother. “I didn’t want to worry
you needlessly,” said Aunt Carol. “I called the doctor and
made an appointment. He said I was killing myself with my
smoking. Of course, I knew he would say that. But, I must
tell you, seeing that x-ray of my lungs was quite a shock.”
I started stroking myself faster. “But, there’s no way I’m
going to quit smoking,” she said. “If it kills me…it
kills me. We all have to die sometime.” She took a long
drag from her Winston and pulled the smoke deep into her
emphysematic lungs. I couldn’t hold it any longer. I jacked
myself off in my pants and walked quietly to the bathroom
to clean myself up. I suddenly became obsessed with a new
idea. I wanted to see an x-ray of my own lungs. The next
day I told my mother I wanted to try out for the track
team. I told her that a physical exam was required before I
could join the team. I asked her if I could schedule an
exam with our family doctor. She seemed a little surprised
that I wanted to join the track team, knowing that I had
quit all the other sports I used to play. But, she agreed
and made an appointment for me. On the day of my
appointment my mother said she would drive me to the
doctor’s office. I told her I would rather ride my bike. I
told her it wasn’t that far and it would start to get me in
shape for the track team. Of course, I didn’t really want
to join the track team. I just wanted to get a chest x-ray.
I actually dreaded the thought of riding my bike the three
miles to the doctor’s office, but I didn’t want my mother
with me during the exam By the time I got to the doctor’s
office, I was completely out of breath. I felt as if I were
going to have a heart attack. I leaned my bike against the
building, pulled my cigarettes out of my shirt pocket, lit
up, and filled my lungs with the thick, tar-laden smoke
from my beloved Winston. I quickly finished that cigarette
and smoked another. I wanted to be sure my lungs were full
of smoke during my examination. In the doctor’s waiting
room I had to fill out an information form. One of the
questions was “Do you smoke cigarettes?” I circled the
“yes” several times, just so there would be no mistake. The
next question was, “If you answered yes to the previous
question, how many cigarettes do you smoke each day?” The
choices were: “less than half a pack per day”, “between
half a pack and one pack per day”, and “more than one pack
per day.” I was so proud to know that I was off the scale
at three packs per day. My dick got hard as wrote “three
packs per day” in the margin and circled it boldly. I
wanted to make certain the doctor would order a chest x-ray
for me. I looked down at the freshly opened pack of
Winstons in my shirt pocket and badly wanted to light a
cigarette. I resisted the urge. After thirty minutes, I was
still in the waiting room. I really needed a cigarette, but
the receptionist finally called my name. She told me to go
into the examining room, take my clothes off, and wait for
the doctor. I took of my clothes and sat down. I looked at
my skinny frame in the doctor’s mirror. I could see my
ribs. I looked almost malnourished, but I didn’t feel
hungry. I never felt hungry. All my body ever craved was
nicotine. It didn’t need or want anything else. The doctor
walked in a few minutes later. He looked over my forms and
started asking me questions. He said, “So, I see you’re a
smoker.” “Yes, I am,” I said. “Do you really smoke three
packs per day?” he asked incredulously. “Yes, I do,” I said
proudly. “That’s a lot of smoking for a thirteen-year old,”
said the doctor. “I can’t help it–I guess I’m addicted,” I
said. “And you want to run track?” asked the doctor, his
eyebrows raised. “Yes,” I lied. “Do you really think you
can run track and smoke three packs of cigarettes every
day?” “I feel fine. I’ll quit before I get too old,” I
said, lying again. “Smoking hasn’t affected me at all. I’m
still young.” I knew this was bullshit; I felt like I had
the lungs of a sixty year-old man. I couldn’t walk up the
stairs in our house without panting. The truth is, I
wouldn’t be satisfied until I was physically unable to
climb the stairs, but I knew my bullshit would have the
desired effect on my doctor. “Young man, you are sadly
mistaken,” said the doctor. “The fact is, smoking is
ruining your lungs, and it is ruining them much faster in
your young body than it would in an adult. Your lungs are
not fully developed yet. Your smoking is preventing them
from becoming fully developed. If you don’t stop smoking
right now, you are risking severe, permanent, irreparable
lung damage.” I felt like I was about to spring a boner,
but I tried my best to concentrate on something else. “I am
going to order a chest x-ray so we can see how much damage
you have already done to your lungs,” said the doctor.
“We’ll just see if you still want to keep smoking after you
see what your lungs look like.” My plan was working
perfectly. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing my
dick and jacking off. “First, let’s examine the rest of
your body,” he said. He put his stethoscope on my back and
told me to breathe in deeply and hold it. The wheezing as I
breathed in was quite noticeable. “Your lungs sound
terrible,” the doctor said. God, how I wanted to let myself
become aroused. He had me repeat the process several times
as he checked each lung, front and back. “I’ve never heard
lungs that sound this bad in a person your age,” he told
me. I heard the words but tried not to think about them. I
knew I would think about them later, alone in my bedroom.
He reached his fingers up under my balls and told me to
turn my head and cough. I was only too happy to do as he
said. I proudly let loose with a wet, rumbling, phlegmy
cough from deep down in my Winston tar-coated lungs. The
sound of the gooey debris in my obstructed air passages was
quite apparent. The doctor shook his head sadly and said,
“You’re so young, but you’re already a prime candidate for
emphysema. I just don’t understand it. You kids today have
an advantage your parents didn’t have. You know cigarettes
are killers. You have been educated about the dangers of
smoking. And yet, so many of you still take up the habit.
Why?” Of course, I didn’t want to get into my real
feelings. How could I tell him that the fact that
cigarettes are killers are a huge part of the attraction
for me? How could I possibly explain that ruining my lungs
was my ultimate goal? Again I lied and said, “It’s fun and
I like the taste. I’ll quit before it does any real
damage.” “You’d better hope you can,” he said. “Many
smokers become so addicted they can’t quit when they really
want to.” That’s exactly what I wanted. I wanted to have no
say in the matter. I wanted my cigarettes to be in complete
control of me. But I didn’t say anything. The doctor
finished the exam and had me put my pants on. He led me
down the hall to the x-ray room. “Now we’ll take some
pictures of your lungs,” he said. I stood still and held my
breath while the x-ray technician took several pictures of
my Winston lungs. I couldn’t wait to see them. I went back
to the examining room. After another long wait, the doctor
came back into the room. He was carrying a large envelope.
He pulled a couple of x-ray pictures out of the envelope
and placed one of them against a lighted screen. “Chris,”
he said. “This x-ray is a picture of a normal, healthy pair
of lungs. These lungs belong to a person who has never
smoked. See how clear the lungs are? There are no
obstructions, no dark spots. This is how healthy lungs
should look.” Then he put another x-ray picture up next to
the first one. He said, “This is a picture of your lungs.
Look at all the dark areas. This is pretty bad.” I felt an
immediate, intense erection form in my pants. I tried my
best to hide it. “Sad, is what it is,” said the doctor.
“It’s sad that a person so young could have made his lungs
so dirty in such a short time. I have seen chest x-rays of
people who have smoked for thirty or more years and they
didn’t look this bad.” I felt a churning, cramping
sensation in my stomach. “I’m going to do something for you
I don’t normally do, Chris,” the doctor said. “I’m going to
give you your own copies of these x-rays.” I couldn’t
believe my ears. I had planned to ask for them. I was all
prepared to make up a story about how I could use the
x-rays as a deterrent to my smoking. “I want you to take
these home and look at them carefully,” he said. “Every
time you feel like you want to light a cigarette, I want
you to look at these pictures. Remind yourself of what is
happening to your lungs.” Little did he know, that’s
exactly what I planned to do. However, the effect these
pictures would have on my smoking would be quite a bit
different than what the doctor was hoping for. “I hope they
will help you, Chris,” he said. “I’m sure they will,” I
said, not revealing the incredible irony of the situation.
“Good luck,” he said. “Quitting won’t be easy.” “I’ll do my
best,” I said. “Thanks.” When I got home, I taped the
x-rays to my bedroom window. That night I smoked a whole
pack of Winstons and jacked off over and over while
admiring the pictures of my beautiful, filthy lungs.

At Susan’s call, Hannah pulled to perspex box from behind
the sofa. It was an overambitious school DIY effort by
Michelle, the next oldest after Hayley, an opening
case-type contraption that was supposed to house a
miniature haunted house with moving parts including a
Dracula who swivelled round from behind a grandfather
clock. Of course the haunted house and moving parts
themselves were never built, Michelle’s enthusiasm waning
after construction of the clear outer shell. But her school
project failure would serve as a perfect smoke-box which
the girls could fasten around Hayleys face, completely
encasing her entire head and neck, the circular opening at
the base (intended for the ancient stone floor on which the
horrors could stand) sufficient to provide (with additional
padding) an adequate seal. The box was crudely hinged at
the back, and the resulting gaps together with several
small diameter holes (a very recent addition by one of the
sisters drilled into the sides of the casing) ensured that
the device was not completely airtight. “What are you
doing?” enquired the fraught Hayley, unsure as to exactly
what damage they were intending to inflict on her or her
throat and lungs next. Ignoring her request for information
the sisters set about placing the case about her head and
closed it, using clear tape to seal off the gaps around the
hinge area and any other areas through which air could
enter, bar the small holes. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she
bellowed louder as she began to comprehend their
intentions. “Shut up or we’ll tape your mouth shut too”
said Hannah. Each of the holes were drilled at the correct
diameter to hold a cigarette of course, and this is what
the girls set about doing, each sister lighting two
cigarettes at once, inhaling deeply and inserting the
filter ends into the holes in the box as they exhaled
sparse but steady blue grey plumes of the poisonous smoke
into the air. There was one hole left for airflow, and when
Susan held her thumb over this Hayleys frantic breathing
started to draw smoke from each of the cigarettes into the
box. It was a simple routine – every time Hayley breathed
in, she helplessly pulled a lungful of smoke from the
cigarettes into the box encasing her head. Every time she
breathed out, Susan would lift her thumb from the hole and
allow Hayley’s outbreaths to purge the box of clean air,
little by little. Now she said nothing as the clear box
encasing her head slowly filled with smoke. Her breathing,
less frantic now, was becoming slightly laboured as it
struggled to pull clean air through each of the tar filled
white burning tubes wedged in the sides of the box. With
each breath the tips of the cigarettes glowed slightly as
Hayley helplessly pulled more and more smoke into her case.
By the time the cigarettes were burned halfway down there
was a clearly visible fog in the box which was starting to
emerge from the hole at Susan’s thumb at every exhale.
Hayley herself knew she had no option but to stand it for
as long as she could. Her box was filling with smoke and it
had already started entering her lungs with every breath
she took, causing her to cough slightly. Fortunately the
first cigarette had primed her body for this experience, at
least to this stage anyway, and although it was slowly
becoming harder for her body to draw in clean air she was
still able to bear it. By the time the cigarettes were
three quarters finished the smoke was becoming denser. The
sisters looked on fascinated and so far quite impressed
with Hayley’s ability to cope with the lack of clean air.
Apart from the occasional cough (about every three breaths)
her face seemed to be full of concentration rather than
desperation, as her lungs tried hard to find proper air. Of
course the contraption was designed so that there was only
smoke going in, and by the time the cigarettes were
finished the smoky fog of the box was starting to obscure
Hayley’s features. By now every single breath for her was
beginning to be the equivalent of taking a drag from a very
mild cigarette. But the fact that the girls could still see
her face at all was a sure sign that their experiment was
nowhere near over – so they each lit more cigarettes,
removed the hot glowing butts from the box, and inserted
the new smokes into the casing. They could see her mouth
opening wider in a futile attempt to extract more clean air
from the box, and with each new breath they saw huge clouds
of the thick smog rush into her mouth as she unwittingly
inhaled more and more smoke, deeper and deeper. The routine
continued for the time it took for these cigarettes to burn
down to near the butts. At this point, it was not possible
to see her features at all, the only indication that there
was a head inside the box being when she pulled another
lungful down into her mouth – at these points the smoke
around her lower face billowed inward, but was immediately
replaced by another fresh load of the dense smoke. The
girls, delighted by the experiment thus far, thought best
to remove the casing from her head in case she fainted
through lack of oxygen (by now she couldn’t have been
receiving hardly any air at all and they didn’t want to
risk her fainting and spoiling the fun). But before they
could rescue Hayley from her situation, they heard their
front door open.

I know why I smoke. I don’t smoke a brand to be like
everybody else. I smoke because I want to ruin my lungs.
That means Winston. Winston won’t give you a new image. All
Winston will ever give me is tar. A lung coating of rich,
black tar that’s very real. If a cigarette isn’t real, it
isn’t anything. Winston is for real. My young lungs were
wasting away. Winston was the reason. I kept my chest x-ray
hidden in my closet when I was out of the house. Whenever I
was alone in my room I would get the x-ray out and tape it
to my bedroom window. I would then light up a Winston,
inhale deeply, and masturbate. It was amazing how aroused I
could get just looking at all the dark areas on my lungs. I
knew these areas represented thick Winston tar residue from
the massive volumes of Winston smoke I had sucked deep into
my lungs. How I wished I could see Aunt Carol’s x-ray. My
goal was for my chest x-ray to be as dark as hers. It
didn’t seem possible, given the fact that she had
emphysema, was now smoking a full carton of Winstons per
day, and had been smoking heavily for nearly thirty years.
To me, Aunt Carol was the sexiest woman on the planet. She
was my smoking idol and I would do my best to make my lungs
just as fucked up as hers. The amount of tar I had built up
in my lungs at the young age of thirteen was truly
incredible. The feeling was so overwhelming, my knees went
weak each time I looked at my beautiful x-rays. The lower
portion of each lung looked especially dark and ominous.
This is the area of my lungs that concerned my doctor the
most (and which made my dick the hardest). He said it was
highly unusual to see such damage in the deepest part of a
smoker’s lungs. He said only a heavy smoker who had
consistently inhaled very deeply for many years would
display such lung damage. He could not believe that a boy
of thirteen could do what I had done to my lungs. He seemed
genuinely worried about me and said that if I didn’t quit
smoking immediately, I would be almost a sure bet to
develop emphysema or lung cancer at a young age. I got an
instant boner when he said this; it’s exactly what I wanted
to hear. It was a testament to how deeply I inhaled and to
how long I held my precious Winston smoke in my lungs. It
was like telling me my lungs were just like Aunt Carol’s.
Nothing my doctor could have told me could have made me
happier—except maybe: “I regret to tell you…you have
inoperable lung cancer.” My unique, lung-ravaging style of
smoking was beginning to pay off handsomely. The effects on
my physical health were very noticeable to me, even though
I looked completely healthy to the casual observer. I had
been smoking a little more than three years, but I felt as
if I had been smoking for thirty years. My Winstons were
doing their job admirably. I had no endurance. I could
hardly play sports of any kind. I could only ride my bike
short distances. I had difficulty climbing stairs,
especially if it was more than one flight. I woke up each
day to a prolonged coughing spell. I spit up dark phlegm
each morning. It was just what I wanted. I just prayed that
I didn’t die from a heart attack before I could experience
emphysema or lung cancer. I knew that if I continued
smoking the way I was, I would be a prime candidate for a
heart attack. I loved testing the limits of my own physical
endurance. With each failure I knew I was closer to my
ultimate goal. I would often try some activity which
required stamina, just to prove to myself that I could no
longer do it. I would get highly aroused by the fact that
my own smoking was causing my body to fail. One day, after
sneaking out back to suck down a few Winstons, I noticed
some of my friends playing basketball down the street. My
neighbor, Greg, had just had a basketball hoop installed in
his driveway. All the kids in the neighborhood had taken to
playing basketball at Greg’s house. All except me, that is.
Greg saw me and yelled, “Hey, Chris, come on down and join
us. We need one more for a game of two on two.” I saw the
other kids turn and laugh at Greg when he said this. I knew
they didn’t really want me to play. They had all seen my
pathetic attempts at athleticism in gym class. They knew
that physical exercise was now my enemy. Much to my extreme
gratification, I had acquired a reputation as a “smoker”
among the other kids. Still, they were desperate. They
needed a fourth. I am sure they expected me to decline the
invitation, but the thought of running out of breath while
trying to play basketball aroused me. It would be another
major victory for my cigarettes over my body. Being around
Aunt Carol all summer had made me bolder. I wanted to do
it. I pulled my pack of Winstons out of my shirt pocket and
shook one loose. I lit up, inhaled deeply, and yelled,
“Sure, I’ll play!” I jogged down to Greg’s house, three
houses from my own, with my Winston dangling from my lips.
I inhaled deep drag after deep drag, exhaling through my
nostrils as I jogged. I was wheezing and panting heavily by
the time I reached Greg’s house. I could feel my heart
racing. I inhaled a lungful of Winston smoke, removed the
cigarette from my lips and said, “Hi, guys,” and
immediately started coughing. It was a deep, rib-rattling
cough. A puff of smoke escaped my lungs with each cough.
Greg looked at my Winston and said, “What an asshole you
are, Chris. Why do you smoke so much?” “I can’t help it,” I
said. “I’m addicted.” I took a long drag and inhaled
deeply. My breathing was labored. I was wheezing
noticeably. I coughed up a large ball of phlegm and spit it
out on the ground. Greg shook his head and said, “OK, it’ll
be me and Chris against Randy and Tim.” Randy and Tim
smiled at each other. They knew they were going to kick our
asses with me on Greg’s team. I took a cheek-hollowing drag
from my Winston, inhaled deeply, and dropped my
still-burning cigarette on the grass, near the driveway. I
wanted it to be handy so I could take a few quick drags
whenever there was a break in the action. Greg inbounded
the ball to me to start the game. I caught the ball and
started dribbling. I felt a tightness in my chest. I tried
to drive in close to the basket, but Randy and Tim easily
blocked me. They forced me outside and pretty much gave me
an open shot. I was about ten feet from the basket, wide
open. It took everything I had to shoot the ball and, as I
did so, a large cloud of Winston smoke was forced out of my
lungs. I admired the smoke and clutched at my chest as the
ball fell well short of the basket. Randy laughed as he
caught the air-ball right under the basket. He passed the
ball back to his teammate, Tim, whom I was supposedly
covering. Tim was an excellent athlete who hated smokers.
He dribbled circles around me and forced me to run back and
forth across the court several times before lining up for a
shot. As he shot the ball, I jumped as high as I could to
try to block the shot. I could barely get off the ground
and, as I landed, I started coughing. The ball hit nothing
but net. Tim pointed at me and said, “In your face,
smoker.” I walked over to my Winston, picked it up, and
took a long drag. I couldn’t help coughing as I inhaled my
smoke. I inhaled another drag and held the smoke deep in my
lungs. I was sweating profusely as Greg inbounded the ball
to me again. I wanted to pass the ball back to Greg, but
Randy and Tim had him double-teamed. They let me dribble
right to the basket. As I dribbled in for an easy lay-up, I
stumbled and lost the ball. I went into a long coughing
spell as Randy put up an uncontested two points. I was
clutching my chest as I picked up my Winston. Between wet,
rumbly coughs, I tried to inhale smoke deep into my lungs.
My chest hurt badly. My lungs were starved for oxygen and I
fed them a steady diet of tar and nicotine. Greg had me
switch with him so I was now covering Randy. Randy wasn’t
nearly as fast as Tim, but he ran me ragged. After just a
few minutes I was huffing and puffing. I couldn’t keep up
with the others. I didn’t have enough wind to shoot a
basket, even though they were giving me uncontested shots.
After each score I had to go down on one knee and clutch my
chest. My heart felt is if it were ready to explode, but I
chain-smoked one Winston after another, depriving my body
of much-needed oxygen. The game went on like this for maybe
ten minutes. I was so winded, I could hardly stand up. I
was bent over, hands on knees, coughing uncontrollably, but
still smoking my Winstons. Finally, Greg said, “That’s it.
This is ridiculous. Jesus, Chris! You used to be a good
basketball player. What the hell is wrong with you? Do you
WANT to die of lung cancer?” I felt an erection coming on
as Greg said this. There was nothing I wanted more. Tim
said, “The only way you can play basketball is to join one
of those handicapped leagues, where they play in
wheelchairs. What an asshole!” My erection became more
intense as I pictured myself confined to a wheelchair,
unable to walk because my ruined lungs could not supply
enough oxygen to my nicotine-addicted body. I longed for
the day I would be unable to breathe without the aid of an
oxygen tank. I would alternate hits of oxygen with deeply
inhaled hits from my Winstons. It was the most incredible
feeling to know that my own smoking was causing me to
become physically unable to do things I used to be able to
do. My life was being controlled by my cigarettes. That’s
exactly what I wanted. How could I possibly explain to them
that I DID what lung cancer. How could they possibly
understand that my quest to ruin my lungs controlled my
every action, dominated my every waking thought? I could
hardly breathe, my lungs hurt so badly. I lit up a fresh
Winston and inhaled more deeply than ever. With my body so
starved for oxygen, I knew my lungs’ air sacs would be
opened to their maximum capacity. I knew that by inhaling
smoke more deeply than usual into my lungs, and holding it,
I could do maximum lung damage. I could clog more air sacs
than usual. I wanted to plug every tiny air sac with thick,
gooey Winston tar. I wanted to make it impossible for them
to pass oxygen into my bloodstream. I wanted to kill as
many lung cells as possible. I smiled a dark smile as I
realized all the damage I was doing to my lungs was
completely irreversible. Every lung cell I killed was gone
forever. I knew, at times like this, I was greatly
increasing my chances of getting both emphysema and lung
cancer. I tried to stand up, but felt like I wouldn’t make
it. My heart was still racing. I stayed down on one knee
and calmly finished my Winston as my “friends” taunted me
with jokes about black lungs, yellow fingers, and ashtray
breath. They had no idea how much they were turning me on,
and I did my best not to show them. I carefully shifted
myself until my rock-hard dick was in such a position that
I could stand up. I finished my Winston, threw the burning
butt at Tim’s feet, and stood up. I felt a tightness in my
chest and clutched at it. My erection intensified as I
realized a smoking-induced heart attack at the age of
thirteen would be incredibly cool, after all. I tried to
say something, but just started coughing again. My chest
had never hurt so much. I reached into my shirt pocket and
pulled out my beloved Winstons. I ran my fingers over the
smooth cellophane on the pack. To me it felt as good as if
I were running my fingers over Aunt Carol’s wet pussy. I
had to leave before they noticed the boner I was trying to
hide. Before I left, I lit up a fresh Winston, inhaled
deeply, and coughed all of my smoke into Greg’s face. Greg
turned away in disgust and said, “Get out of here, asshole.
Go fuck up your rotten, black lungs all you want. Just
don’t do it around me.” That’s exactly what I had in mind.
I walked away, sucking fresh Winston smoke deep into my
lungs. After inhaling I held my breath as long as I
possibly could, trying not to exhale any smoke. All of that
glorious Winston tar became a permanent part of my lungs,
my wonderful, black Winston lungs. Never before had my
physical performance been so affected by my smoking. I knew
I would probably never play basketball again. I was only
thirteen and I came to the sobering realization that
athletics were a thing of the past for me. I felt as if I
had reached a major milestone. I had passed a symbolic
point of no return. If there had ever been any doubt, I was
now officially a smoker. My life had been handed over to my
cigarettes. I would not look back. My lungs were in
horrible shape and they would never get any healthier than
they were at that moment. Instead, they would get
consistently and progressively worse. I celebrated by
locking myself in my bedroom with a fresh pack of Winstons
and masturbating all through the night.

Not only did I want to become so addicted to smoking that I
could never quit, but I also wanted my lungs to reach the
point that I could never make them healthy again, even if I
wanted to. I wanted lung damage that was extensive,
progressive, debilitating, and irreversible. I was afraid
that I might, somehow, change my mind when I got older, and
try to quit smoking. I wanted to be sure that, if that ever
happened, my lung damage would already be so advanced that
quitting would not make a difference. I wanted to feel the
effects of my lung damage on a constant daily basis. I
wanted gradually to lose the ability to do normal things
because of my smoking. I wanted to have no say in the
matter. I wanted to be a slave to my cigarettes. I wanted
to set my lungs down a one-way path from which they could
never return, with lung cancer being the ultimate
destination. Actually, the ultimate scenario for me would
be to develop emphysema at a young age and suffer with it
for several years as it got progressively worse. Then, by
the time I was bedridden, unable to walk, and able to
breathe only with the aid of an oxygen tank, I would
develop terminal cancer in each of my lungs. I would
happily chain-smoke my Winstons, feeding the tumors in my
lungs, waiting to be snuffed out like a spent Winston butt.
I pictured myself taking one final deep drag, inhaling, and
holding the smoke forever in my lungs as I turned into a
dead smoker. Needless to say, these were pretty bizarre
thoughts for a thirteen year-old to be having. I realized
this, even as I jacked off while fantasizing about them.
But, I couldn’t help it. No matter how bizarre my fantasies
were, they genuinely aroused me. I didn’t know why I had
such feelings, but I was determined to make the most of
them. Since I had learned to masturbate, my life had become
an endless cycle of smoking and masturbating, with Aunt
Carol thrown in once in a while for a change of pace. The
only thing that aroused me nearly as much as damaging my
own lungs, was a woman who was willingly damaging her own
lungs. I knew it was too much to expect any woman to have
the same dark fantasies I had, but it wasn’t necessary for
a woman to actually want lung cancer in order for her to be
sexy to me. As long as she was a heavily addicted smoker,
who loved smoking, and who would never quit, despite
knowing the dangers of smoking, she was sexy to me. She
would have to inhale every drag down to her toes, of
course. She would dread the prospect of a long, healthy
life without cigarettes far more than the prospect of a
cigarette-filled life cut short by lung cancer. The more
damaged her lungs were, the better. The more signs of lung
damage she displayed, the more she would turn me on. A
constant, nagging smoker’s cough would be a must. A
prolonged, deep, chesty morning coughing spell would be
heaven. A minimum of five packs per day of high-tar,
cork-filtered cigarettes would be a requirement for my
dream lady. To my way of thinking, Aunt Carol was the
sexiest woman in the world. Carol had been living with us
for about two months and was smoking nearly a carton of
Winstons per day. I know, because I was keeping track.
Those five cartons she had with her when she arrived were
gone in less than a week. She was going out to buy a carton
or two nearly every day. I don’t think Aunt Carol had a
smoking fetish–at least, not the way I did. But she was
definitely turned on by my smoking. Perhaps it would be
more accurate to say she was turned on by how much I was
turned on by her smoking. I think she was lonely from being
without a man for so long, so that made her extra horny.
Once she realized how her smoking affected me, she knew she
could have her way with me by simply doing what she loved
the most–smoking. One morning, as I was enjoying my
morning coughing spell, I lit up a Winston and heard a
knock on my door. “Who is it?” I asked. “It’s Aunt Carol.
May I come in? I have something for you.” I was still in
bed. I was wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. I took a
deep drag from my Winston and said, “Come in.” “Good
morning, Chrissy,” said Aunt Carol. She was wearing a
bathrobe. Her hair was wet. She had just stepped out of the
shower. She lifted a freshly lit Winston to her lips and
took a cheek-hollowing drag. “Your mother just left for a
hair appointment. She’ll be gone for a couple of hours.” I
knew a smoky blow job would soon be mine. I felt my dick
getting hard. I inhaled Winston smoke deep into my lungs.
“I wanted to give you something,” she said. From behind her
back she pulled a fresh, new, unopened carton of Winstons.
She tossed it onto my bed. “Wow! Thanks, Aunt Carol,” I
said. “I’ve never had my own carton.” I had always bought
my cigarettes a pack at a time, usually from vending
machines when no adults were looking. “The way you go
through those Winstons, I figured you should start getting
them by the carton,” she said. She inhaled deeply from her
own Winston. With my Winston dangling from my lips, I
picked up the carton. It felt so good in my hands. I loved
the weight of the two-hundred fresh Winstons. I ran my hand
across the smooth, cool surface of the carton. I placed it
on my chest and started sliding it back and forth. Slowly,
I moved the carton down until it touched the tip of my hard
penis. I tingled with excitement. I took three drags in
rapid succession from my dangling Winston and inhaled
deeply. I moved the carton down and slid it between my
legs. I started sliding it back and forth against my balls.
I tilted it so that it rubbed against my balls and my penis
simultaneously. It felt so good. I started sliding it
faster and faster. I felt as if I would cum at any moment.
I could tell Aunt Carol was getting excited watching me.
She walked over beside my bed, took a deep drag from her
Winston, and set her cigarette down in the ashtray beside
my bed. She reached down and took the carton from me.
“Christopher, there’s no reason this carton of Winstons
should have all the fun.” My heart started racing. Aunt
Carol opened up her bathrobe and let it drop to the floor.
She was wearing nothing underneath. Her large, round
breasts glistened, still moist from her shower. Her pussy
was hairy and pink. She picked up her Winston and took a
long drag. She inhaled deeply, then leaned down and placed
her mouth over mine. She exhaled the contents of her
wheezy, tar-coated lungs into my mouth. I inhaled it all
and held it deep in my own lungs. I could taste the essence
of her black lungs in my mouth. I wanted to grab my dick
and whack off, but I held back. “Christopher,” she said,
“it’s time for your final lesson. Today is graduation day.
Today you are going to learn how to satisfy a woman. Today
you will become a real man.” I was trembling all over. Aunt
Carol plucked a fresh Winston from the pack beside my bed.
She took a final deep drag from the cigarette she had been
smoking and placed the fresh Winston between her full,
moist lips. She lit the new cigarette from the old one and
dropped the smoked butt into my ashtray. With the freshly
lit Winston dangling from her lips she leaned over me and
slid my shorts down. My rock-hard penis sprang to attention
as she removed my pants. I double-pumped what was left of
my Winston and dropped the butt in the ashtray. I started
to reach for a fresh Winston when Carol took the cigarette
from her mouth and placed it into mine. “We’ll share,” she
said. I trembled more as I dragged on Aunt Carol’s Winston.
I could taste her mouth on the moist filter. She placed her
right knee on the bed beside me. She swung her left leg
over my body and set her other knee down on my other side.
She was on her knees, straddling me. She took the Winston
from my mouth, took a long drag, inhaled, and placed the
cigarette back in my mouth. She took my hands and placed
them on her breasts. I started rubbing Aunt Carol’s
breasts. Her nipples were hard. “Pinch them gently,” she
said. I did as instructed. Aunt Carol began to moan. She
placed her hand in her crotch and started to rub. She
rubbed until her fingers slid easily in and out of her
vagina. With her wet fingers she grabbed my penis. I
shuddered. She guided my hard dick slowly into her moist,
pink pussy. As the tip of my penis entered Aunt Carol I
squealed with joy. I felt her warmth surround me. I felt
her tight vaginal muscles clamp tightly onto my enlarged
penis. She started moving her hips up and down. I shuddered
with ecstasy as I felt the friction of her tight pussy
against my sensitive young dick. She moaned and took the
Winston from my lips. She took a long drag, inhaled and
placed her mouth on mine. She exhaled all of her Winston
breath into me and I inhaled deeply. She asked for it right
back and I exhaled into her mouth. She began to move her
hips faster and faster. She was bouncing up and down on her
knees. The bedsprings were squeaking loudly. She took
another drag from her Winston and inhaled. She took two
more deep drags and inhaled. Her lungs were filled with a
Winston triple-pump. I pulled her head down and put my
mouth over hers. As she exhaled, I inhaled as deeply as I
could. As I felt my lungs filling with Aunt Carol’s Winston
smoke I shot my hot semen deep into her. She screamed with
joy as her orgasm began. She came over and over as I kept
thrusting my dick into her, even as my erection began to
disappear. When my penis became limp, she lit a fresh
Winston and placed it between my lips. She told me to
inhale smoke deeply into my lungs, over and over, as she
sucked my dick. Within a minute or so I was rock hard
again. I wasn’t yet ready to ejaculate, but I could stay
hard. Aunt Carol slid her wet pussy over my dick and
brought herself to orgasm over and over, all the while
inhaling Winston smoke deep into her sexy, black,
tar-coated lungs. Eventually, I recharged and shot another
load of my hot, white love-fluid deep into Aunt Carol. I
fucked her over and over again until we were both
physically exhausted. I grabbed two fresh Winstons and lit
them simultaneously. I handed one to Aunt Carol. With the
most satisfied look I had ever seen she inhaled from her
Winston and held the smoke deep in her wonderful, sexy,
Winston lungs. God, how I loved her lungs. Aunt Carol
turned her head and smiled at me. “You’re a man, now,
Chrissy.” Fresh Winston smoke came out of her mouth with
each syllable she spoke. God, how I loved her talking
exhales. God, how I loved everything about her. I picked up
my new carton of Winstons and rubbed it on my chest. God,
how I loved my Winstons! I was in love. At least, I think I
was in love. I had no way of comparing this feeling to how
a “normal” person feels when he’s in love. But, in my own
unique way, it was as close to being in love as I could
get. I just wasn’t certain with whom or with what I was in
love. Was it Aunt Carol? Was it her lungs? Was it her
Winstons? Maybe it was my own lungs and what I was doing to
them. Most likely, it was some combination of all those
things. These were pretty heavy questions for a thirteen
year-old boy to be pondering. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t
feel anything for Aunt Carol if she were a non-smoker. I
also knew that I could get rock hard just holding a fresh
pack of Winstons. I jacked off multiple times every day,
smoking in my bedroom alone and thinking about what I was
doing to my lungs. On the other hand, every time I smoked,
I imagined I was Aunt Carol and that I was fucking up her
incredible lungs. What did it all mean? Was I in love with
Aunt Carol? Was I in love with her Winstons? I didn’t know
and, at that moment, I didn’t really care. Aunt Carol was
lying next to me, naked, in my bed, taking a deep drag from
her Winston. I was sliding a fresh carton of Winstons back
and forth in my crotch as I felt my penis once again
becoming stiff. I was inhaling Winston smoke deep into my
own rotting lungs. It was a pretty safe bet that, whatever
it was that I was in love with, it was right there in my
bed with me at that moment. I was a man. I was a Winston
man. I wished that everything could remain just as it was.
I wanted to freeze time. How could it get any better? If
this wasn’t heaven, I didn’t ever want to die.