Copyright 2021 by Limnophile
Permission granted to print or repost for non-commercial use if the author is credited.
I only offer this to entertain. If at least a few people get their feelings tugged around, I consider my mission accomplished. If I can give somebody a few laughs or inspire an orgasm, that’s even better. Thanks to the editors and authors who have helped me improve my writing from ‘Painfully Godawful’ to ‘Average’. I hope at least one of them will look at this and smile.
CAUTION – If you don’t like vaping or cigarette smoking, please leave now, this is not meant for you.
If you have a smoke fetish like I do, please continue, and I hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think, either way. I have more chapters almost ready if people like this.
There’s some sex, all 18-plus; but well over half the story involves fully clothed females puffing on cigarettes while a fully clothed man talks to them.
I’m Dr. Craig Townsend. Well, soon to be ‘Doctor Townsend’. I woke with a smile on my birthday, knowing I was extremely lucky. There were ups and downs in life, like everyone experienced, but generally my family and I were quite happy.
The biggest ‘down’ we went through was the loss of my wife’s mother, may she rest in peace. My wedding had been in her hospital room. Right after the official kiss, my new wife and I signed papers to adopt her younger sister, so their mother would know her girls would be okay after she was gone. The cancer took her a week later. I still miss her and remember her fondly.
That had been a difficult month, but things had been going great since then. I’d been an ABD, or ‘All But Dissertation’ PhD candidate for a long time. I’d finally submitted and defended my dissertation, and the envelope on my dresser held an invitation to the ceremony where I’d finally become a Doctor of Psychology in a week.
The gorgeous blonde 20-year-old drooling on my arm in her sleep was my wife Carrie. One of my testicles was being squeezed uncomfortably by her thighs, but I didn’t want to move much and wake her. I’m still astounded she’s with me, considering our age discrepancy. My last college exam was before she was born. We had married a week after she turned 18, only partly so that we could adopt her sister Sherry, who was 16 at the time. I was totally smitten, and Carrie at least had a crush on me.
I gently felt her small baby belly with my free hand and marveled in joyous wonder. Our love had created a new life, and our son was due on Valentine’s day. We had plenty of space, with our old but recently remodeled eight-bedroom house. Shortly before she conceived, Carrie had joked about it taking a dozen kids to fill the place up. I had squeezed her butt and said, “That could take a while. We better get started!”
I lightly stroked her long blonde hair and her eyes opened. She reached to the bedside table for her vape, releasing my squashed nut as she rolled away from me a moment. I watched her lips and cheeks move as she puffed. As she exhaled I smelled the aroma of her strawberry-flavored cloud, then watched her lips move and her cheeks hollow as she sucked on it again. I kissed her ear and said, “You’re beautiful, so very beautiful. I love you.”
She blew out another large plume of white vapor saying, “I love you too.” I recalled some of the great blowjobs she’d given me as she inhaled again. She put the vape down after only three puffs and defensively said, “This is 6 milligram, they weakest vape juice they had. I’ve been cutting way down.”
“I know you’ll do what’s best. I didn’t say anything.”
I understood that pregnancy hormones were likely part of it, when she jealously replied, “I bet you said plenty when you hired that new housekeeper, Nina, Tina, or whatever her name is. I saw you and Sherry staring at her chest when she took off her coat yesterday. I bet you just hired her because you want to screw her.” Sherry had stared quite a while, but I only glanced a couple of times.
“Her name is Netanya. You know I’d never cheat on you. I love you far too much.”
“Well, I…” She was interrupted by a loud screech from the bedroom next door, as her younger sister screamed, “REEEEEEEEE!”
I jumped up and ran there naked. When I flung the door open, I saw Sherry laying on her back with a pained look on her face. Her arms were outstretched to each side, and she was squirming violently. From the shape of the comforter, I could tell somebody else was under it. Sherry thrashed around a moment, then started panting for air as Carrie arrived a few seconds behind me.
Netanya pulled the comforter off and sat up. Some of her red hair stuck to her face, which glistened with vaginal fluid. The nude and very attractive Georgian immigrant asked with a strong Russian accent, “Why you stare? He say job like extra wife.” She turned to Sherry and asked, “Wife job good, dah?”
Sherry was able to speak a little between rapid gasps for air. PANT kıbrıs escort PANT “So good!” PANT PANT “So FUCKING good!” PANT
Netanya smiled as she put a hand on my naked wife’s hip and asked, “Want wife job too?”
Carrie blushed as she looked in her eyes. Her face slowly changed to a bright red smile. She urgently said, “Talk later! PEE! I gotta pee!” She practically flew to the bathroom. The three of us who remained giggled and smiled.
Sherry took a deep drag on her vape before saying, “I was right.” She expelled a dense cloud of lemony fog. “She would never admit it before, but she likes girls too.” She passed Netanya the vape and kissed her cheek. “I love chesty redheads.” She squeezed one of Netanya’s breasts, then stared at my bare crotch a moment. As I covered myself with a pillow, she said, “I like guys too, and I’m 18 now.” She winked and licked her lips flirtatiously.
I anxiously strode out saying, “Talk later, I need to pee too.”
Despite my current situation, I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 22. Until then, I was content watching movies and masturbating. Not even masturbating to porn, but with old Hollywood movies from the 60’s and 70’s, when a lot of women still smoked in films. The motions of a woman’s mouth and face as she sucks is absurdly attractive to me. Watching a pretty girl drinking something with a straw excites me nearly as much as seeing her topless. To me, watching one smoke is even hotter. I’d rather watch a woman dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt puff on a cigarette or vape than see her in just a bikini. Seeing the white smoke or vapor leave her mouth reminds me of semen travelling in the opposite direction.
My first sexual experience with another person was when a female friend let me have sex with her during my senior year of college. Afterward, I kept wondering how much better it would have been if she smoked, instead of enjoying the afterglow or trying for a second round. Instead of asking her to stay the night or go out again later, I just gave her a ride home. I didn’t call her and didn’t answer when she called me. I ignored her, since I craved having a girlfriend who smoked. When I saw another guy’s engagement ring on her finger a few months later, I realized I would have eagerly married her if she were a smoker. At last, I finally understood there was something seriously wrong with me.
I’d grown up in a small and somewhat wealthy family, but my life wasn’t constant happiness. I got a terrible phone call a week after I got my bachelor’s and was about to start Medical School. I can see the extreme irony now, I wanted to be a doctor but loved watching women smoke. I picked up the phone and cried from overwhelming grief as an uncle told me my parents and only sister had died in a traffic accident.
I inherited several million and my parents’ cars and house, but that did nothing to bring them back or relieve my pain. The kind help I’d gotten from a therapist inspired me to switch from medicine to psychology. I had a strong desire to help others, but I wanted to understand and fix myself first. Thankfully, I didn’t need to worry about loans or grants to fund my education and research.
Years later, when the last of my classes were underway, I typed up the title as I started my dissertation. I saved it and made a backup to be sure. “Capnolagnia or Smoking Fetish: The effect on heterosexual male minds of viewing female tobacco smokers.”
I was very dedicated to my work, spending at least 8 hours a day on it, and more commonly 11 or 12 hours. I figured that I should get to know some females who smoked, before I started investigating other men and their reactions. Before I knew it, I had spent months recording video of women smoking, and barely asked them any questions. When I was alone, I watched the recordings again and again. They were part of my research, and shamefully, fuel for self-gratification. I knew I had to focus and get the information I needed. I wrote myself a list of questions to ask and returned to my ‘work’.
Most of the interviews were similar. As an example, one morning I saw an attractive brunette sitting at a table outside a café. She was drinking coffee and puffing on a cigarette. I asked, “I’m doing research about smoking. Do you mind if I record you and ask some questions?”
“How old are you?”
I zoomed the camera in on her mouth and watched her take a puff. “When did you start smoking?”
“I was 16.”
I zoomed out, to get a good shot that included her legs as she exhaled. “And uh…” I struggled to remember my list of questions. “And did you like smoking the first time?”
“No, it tasted bad.” The motion as she tapped the ash off the end reminded me of a hand job, with feminine fingers shaking my shaft.
I zoomed in as she sucked in another drag and felt a movement in my boxers. “Do your parents smoke?”
She exhaled a cloud as she said, “My Dad does, and Mom used to.”
She uncrossed her legs then kıbrıs escort bayan crossed them again, giving me a glance at her thighs as she held her lips close together and exhaled a thin white stream. She put the cigarette out in an ashtray and lit another, exciting me further.
I moved to my left, trying to get a better angle on her moderate cleavage as she inhaled again. “Do your siblings smoke?”
She nodded and took another puff. “I have two sisters and they do.”
I had a full erection demanding relief, so I said, “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.” Watching women smoke excited me but talking to them and recording as they did it… was nearly overwhelming. I was upset that I didn’t know why. I briskly walked to the café’s Men’s room and made the iron rod in my boxers go down in a toilet stall. When I finished, I realized I had at least ten more questions for her. I walked back out and saw her a block away, leaving the area.
I interviewed another lady smoker each morning and each afternoon for the next week and had the same issues. I got very excited and needed to pause the interviews after only ten or fifteen minutes. Usually, my subjects went on their way before I returned.
I thought maybe I could pay some ladies for a full interview at my place. I’d run to the bathroom halfway through to fix my problem, then ask the rest of my questions. I put an add on the college bulletin board. After five days, there were no responses. I asked one of my friends why.
He looked at the ad and laughed. “Think about your wording, ‘Young smoking ladies, earn $50 for an hour at my apartment. Call 646 — —-“
I said, “What’s wrong with it?”
“It sounds like you want cheap hookers!” He laughed and walked off saying, “Good luck!”
I was barely started with my thesis and realized that I would be out of time to submit for the current term. I did a little brainstorming about how I could finish it for the next semester. I should go to an area with a lot of female smokers and evaluate the reactions of the young men there. I did some investigation and found what I thought would be a good place, a small town in a southeastern state where many people smoked. If I needed to talk to somebody more than once, I would be able to find them again in a small town. I wanted information about the young smokers too, since I first noticed my fetish in high school.
I rented an apartment there and had the same problems. Young ladies were nervous about meeting a strange man at his home. I did many interviews in a park and at the homes of lady smokers. I got hundreds more hours of footage, but nearly all of them were 20 or older. Younger girls who still lived with their parents usually weren’t allowed to smoke at home.
I spent a month each in three towns in South Carolina, Tennessee, and Alabama. Everywhere I went, I had the same trouble, they didn’t trust strangers enough to be interviewed at my place, and the teenagers couldn’t smoke or talk about it at their parents’ house.
I devoted a week to formulating a new plan. I found a trio of towns only a mile or so each from the border where three states met. The states had different legal ages for alcohol and tobacco, so I reasoned a lot of young people would be crossing into another state to buy beer or cigarettes. I also decided I should observe high school girls when they were away from home, so I would know which ones smoked. I would go to their homes and offer money to interview them a few times to get them to trust me, then record them at my place. Instead of renting, I bought a small house. I had plenty of money, more than I really knew what to do with. I left most of it in safe investments, only buying what I needed. I was focused on my research, not fun.
I needed information for my thesis, and I had a strong desire to watch the pretty ones smoking. I reviewed the state and local laws, to make sure I wouldn’t be breaking any. I had no intention to touch the girls or do anything romantic or sexual with them. I bought copies of the local high school yearbooks, to help me identify my subjects. Several times I felt like I was being creepy and nefarious, like a stalker, but I never harmed anyone and never wanted to.
At lunch time I would stand on a corner near a high school and watch which girls left to smoke. I’d do the same after school, enjoying the sight of dozens of young ladies smoking as they walked home. I made notes of their names, and was a little surprised there were so many, nearly half of the seniors and a third of the juniors. Even with the sophomore class, a quarter of them smoked already.
One of the most important parts of my plan was how I first approached the young ladies and their families. I wanted to appear formal and non-threatening, so I always carried a clipboard and wore old suits with bowties. I also wore my glasses instead of contacts, and left part of my hair messy on purpose. I tried hard to look like what I was, a harmless nerdy researcher.
I escort kıbrıs visited each girl’s home and paid twenty dollars to interview her about mundane things for a half hour while one of their parents was nearby. I asked which classes she was taking in school, what music she liked, was she into any sports, and so on. I’d return a few weeks later and paid another twenty to get a basic family history. I asked if they had moved to town or if the parents grow up there, how many siblings did the girl have, et cetera.
On my third visit, I offered them fifty dollars to interview them on camera at my home. I invited the parent or parents to come sit across the room and supervise with the girl seated at the table. A few mothers escorted their daughters the first time, but most of the parents trusted me.
I had setup a studio in my basement. There was a kitchen table with chairs next to a bookshelf. One of the shelves always held ashtrays, matches, lighters, and a variety of cigarettes. The wall behind the table was flat black. Can lights pointed down above the chairs, and spotlights to each side illuminated my subject’s faces without bothering their eyes much. There were two exhaust fans I’d turn on to clear the air when I wasn’t recording. It was a great setup to film people smoking.
I decided I should watch some video and expend part of my arousal in the bathroom before each girl arrived, to help control my excitement. Once the young lady and I were alone in the basement, I’d tell them they could smoke there, and that if they stole some of the cigarettes from the shelf I’d try not to catch them. I felt a little uneasy about it, but it was a way for them to avoid the tobacco purchase age laws, and for me to avoid any charge of ‘contributing to delinquency’, at least in theory.
All of them were happy to be able to smoke and get free cigarettes. I needed to encourage a few nervous ones, but they all smoked for me in my basement studio. Between the three small towns, I recorded over 200 young ladies smoking in the first year. I even remembered to ask them my list of questions about half the time.
I obeyed the letter of the law and had at least some morals. I wouldn’t give cigarettes to anyone unless I’d seen them smoke before. During my many years of research, I never touched anybody under 21 other than shaking their hands to greet them. I didn’t want to be the cause of anybody starting to smoke or do anything inappropriate and get in trouble.
Sometimes they asked if their boyfriend or their brother or sister could be interviewed and get paid too. I filmed around a dozen sibling interviews and several with dating couples. It was extra arousing when I talked with Jenna and Pam, a college-aged lesbian couple. I invited them back five times instead of once or twice. I’m a little ashamed that I didn’t stop them when they kissed. I kept watching and recording as they smoked, kissed, and fondled each other through their clothing.
When one would take a puff, kiss the other girl, and blow the smoke in her mouth, it did something very special to my groin. I finally stopped them when one started to pull up her shirt during their sixth time in the basement. In the video the only skin you could see was their faces and arms, but to me it was hotter than most porn movies.
One afternoon I noticed a new family moving in across the alley behind my house. It started a new phase of my life, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. A week later I saw a young girl standing by their back door in the rain. She wore jeans and a black t-shirt. She was smoking and trying to keep her cigarette from getting wet.
I went to my garage and waved to her. “Hi. You can stand in here if you want.”
“Thanks!” She ran through the rain and took a big puff when she reached the shelter of my garage.
She had natural blonde hair down to the middle of her back and blue-green eyes. I thought she was kind of cute, but far too young to be sexy. I made sure to stand at least two steps away and kept the garage door open, so that nobody could accuse me of anything. She was chilly, drenched, and a little pathetic. As she smoked and shivered, I said, “I have a spare jacket, if you need one.”
“I have one at home. It’s not that cold.”
At the time, the minimum wage was only $3.25 per hour. I offered, “I’m a scientist doing some research. Would you like to do an interview with me when your parents are home? I’ll pay twenty dollars to ask you questions for half an hour. Are you interested?”
“Twenty bucks! Sure.” As she tossed her cigarette butt into a puddle in the alley, she said, “Thanks again.”
I did the usual two interviews at her house with her mother in the next room. She didn’t say anything that stuck in my mind as unusual. I lost several months’ worth of my notes when I moved years later, including anything I wrote during her first two interviews.
I still have all the original video recordings, including more than thirty with Cassie. I only recorded my next-most-frequent subjects, the lesbian couple, six times. The original video tapes are in boxes in a storage room near my office. I have a digital copy of them in a cloud archive, and another set on my work computer.