smoking
- 3 years ago
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“I have your lab test back and everything seems normal. But…” Doctor Williams said giving that look while sitting behind his desk.
You know the look, it’s the one every doctor gives a patient when they want to get their point across. Arms folded on the table, eyeglasses slipped low on their nose, giving that look of parent to child, as scores of sheepskin diplomas proving their wisdom hang on the wall. I’ve always thought there must be some secret course in medical school, which teaches that doctor’s look and once they’ve learned it they’re swore to secrecy never to share it to any living soul. It’s probably the same look God gave Moses when he handed him the ten commandments on stone tablets and said, “Here do this… but”.
Suffering from a case of Dr. Williams medical look all I could quietly utter was, “But what?”
“But, you gotta stop smoking.”
That was the worst news I’ve could have gotten. Stop smoking? Me? Stop? After all these years?
I just nodded and said, “Okay.”
“No. I’m serious this time, John! For the past three years I’ve suggested. Now I’m telling, stop smoking! I know you’ve tried different things but there’s this new pill. Here, I wrote a script for you. Now take it and get it filled and stop smoking while you got your health.”
“Okay.” I said as I took the sheet of three by five paper and stuffed it in my pocket. “I will. You’re right, I’ll stop smoking.”
I wanted to believe my words but I felt like a liar. How could I give up something that’s been so much of my life? “Christ, what’s he thinking?” I wondered leaving his office on the warm Christmas Eve morning. “That I’m superman? The man of steel who can bend his will to do whatever’s right?” I’m a smoker and every one knows smokers are weak and we slink.
You see us standing in door ways outside all sorts of buildings, as the world passes us by disappointed at our weakness for not being able to stop that dirty, nasty habit. We sneak into restrooms to grab a smoke like we use to do in high school. We even do it at home as our non-smoking spouse ask, “How many cigarettes is that today?” and we lie, give some low ball number when you should really multiply it by two or three.
Yes, smokers, slink and so do I. But I recall a time, almost a half a century ago when there was no shame in smoke. Returning home to inform my wife of the pleasant news of good health and the dreadful news of the doctor’s orders to change my habits I recalled those events, when memories were shaped by blue shapeless cigarette smoke suspended in the air.
Christmas Eve back then, when Eisenhower was President and Elvis the king, was colder and the snow was measured in feet not inches. That Christmas, my buddies and me were as excited as any nine-year-olds could be because all of us bought a special present for our fathers. Our one and only gift to our Dads was a carton of smokes, something they’d never forget for at least for a week.
Since Thanksgiving, when the first real snow arrived we, on Saturday mornings, fanned out like an army of ants at a July picnic. With snow shovels slung over our shoulders, we knocked on stranger’s doors offering to shovel driveways, sidewalks, roofs, cars and patios. Hell, we’d shovel anything to earn fifty cents to reach the magic goal of three dollars and ninety-eight cents for a carton. Then, right before Christmas, all of us had enough saved to see Mr. Reese’s at his store.
Mr. Reese, knew we were buying them for our fathers so he’d saved those special boxes sold only during the holidays. They were fancy wrapped with green, red and white colors, some had ribbon on them while others had shinny silver or gold foil. Each carton had a place where each one of us could write some special words to our Dads expressing our joy at being their sons. Mr. Reese was glad to sell us those priceless gifts because in those innocent times with smoke in the air, men knew when a son was doing something good and right for his father. Back then cigarettes wouldn’t kill you and smokers never slinked. In fact a man was known by two things, the job he performed and the brand of cigarettes he smoked. Chuck’s father was a welder and was a Camel man. Jerry’s, father was a house painter and smoked Pal Malls. My father was a doctor and smoked Lucky Strikes.
Driving home along the lake almost fifty Christmas Eve’s later, I remembered my father wore white starched shirts. He always put his cigarettes in his shirt pocket, you could see the red bull’s eye of the pack through the pocket of his shirt and he kept his zippo lighter in his right pants pocket. Dad was a man of iron will. He’d smoke one pack a day, no more no less, and if he ran out before the day’s end he said he’d go without. At least that’s what he said but I think he lied, because sometimes I’d clean the office after closing and find his ashtray was full of butts, a lot more than one pack. I never said anything because even back then I think smokers sometimes lied. What I remembered most about him though, was how he opened a fresh new pack and lit the first smoke.
Christmas morning after he said, “Thank you son” and my mother said, “That was the nicest present you could give your Father.” I watched Dad carefully open the carton to draw out a new pack. After twisting off the wrapping he’d pound the pack on the flat on the table to settle the tobacco. Then, opening the final seal, he gently tapped it so the cigarettes appeared in neat standing order. Placing one to his lips he’d light his zippo lighter and draw on the cigarette until the end glowed red as the smoke from his lungs filled the air with the odor of sweet tobacco.
He always held his smoke in his right hand and he never dropped the ash on anything but the ashtray. The burning cigarette ash could be inches long and it wouldn’t budge, it’d never fall on the floor, his white shirt, the chair or anywhere else. Whereas, in my years of smoking, I’ve dropped ashes on every conceivable spot and generally made a mess of more cloths, shirts, ties, desks keyboards, chairs, cars and restaurant table cloths, causing more trouble than I was worth. I’ve always thought my Father’s command of his cigarette ash was because he gave his smokes that gaze, which doctor’s give their patient to get their point across. He must have been the star of his class while being taught that look, because in giving that stare Dad was an expert.
Driving home to help my wife wrap presents for our grown and gone children I began to wonder of the mysteries and idiosyncrasy parents bequeath their children. The biggest mystery which my Mother and Father bestowed to me was a simple one, it was television. Television back then, during the days of smoke was like our lives, black and white and didn’t stay on the air late at night. But Friday and Saturday nights were special. Friday was the Gillette Friday Night Fights, Saturday was Gunsmoke and the mystery was why my parents let me watch the fights but not Gunsmoke.
On Friday night my parents would happily let me watch as two men climbed in a twenty by twenty ring to beat each other to bloody pulps, and if the fight ended with a knock out, so much the better, it was a good fight. They’d let me watch all the carnage, live, as it happened, in black and white never thinking twice. But on Saturday night at ten I had to go to my room, denied watching Marshall Dillon, Doc, and Miss Kitty correct the evils of the old west, as written by some screenwriter. It was all fake, the blood, the conflict, the death, the life, it was all pretend. Yet it was too violent. I had the last laugh though, because the next day on Sunday morning, while standing outside of church, I’d overhear my Dad and his friends recounting in great detail last night’s adventures of Marshall Dillon, while smoking their last cigarette before mass.
Standing among
the grown men wearing their Sunday best, who towered above my nine year old frame, inhaling the cigarette smoke, I could almost see Marshall Dillon gunning down the bad guy and saving Dodge City from a terrible evil with Miss Kitty by his side. To this day, almost a half a century later, why I could watch one program and not the other remains a mystery shrouded in smoke. I didn’t much care for the Friday Night blood bath. I’d rather seen Gunsmoke, but it was where I watched the fight that held it’s value, it was going to Elmer’s that made fight night a highlight.
Elmer’s house was small and now we’d call it a doublewide trailer. His wife died before I was born and he lived with his daughter Mary Beth who was a high school girl’s gym teacher and was an old maid. Today, in the non-smoking days, where the air is clearer we’d call Mary Beth, a lesbian, gay, or alternative sexual choice, but back then, in the days of smoke, she was just an old maid. Besides my Grandparents, Elmer was the oldest person I’d ever encountered in my nine years and he smoked everything.
He was tobacco. He even looked like tobacco.
Elmer was tall, thin, skinny and his complexion was brown and wrinkled like a dried tobacco leaf. That wise old man was like a matured plant who’d seen the seasons come and go and took it’s lesson of growth and change to seed, ready to bequeath that knowledge to a new generation and his house was a veritable shrine to tobacco.
Elmer smoked anything, cigarettes, cigars, pipes and he even chewed the stuff. The appearance of his house proved his habit, tobacco stains marked the carpet while the walls, drapes and furniture smelled of smoke. Elmer’s chair in which he always sat was a throne to tobacco. Located in the corner of his living room, near the big television, that old leather chair was with complete with rips, tears and cigarette burns, and while at his house, I never saw Elmer rise from that chair. He didn’t need to because everything in life was within arm’s reach.
To one side was not one, but three ashtrays, and oh what ashtrays they were. Big as dinner plates they were made of glass, which was a golden rich dark, brown, they fit into a solid brass holder which elevated them off the floor to make them easy to reach. They must have weighed pounds, making them so stable an angry dog scratching couldn’t have knocked them over.
He had three of them, one for cigarettes, cigars and pipes. Elmer had one more thing by his chair, a solid brass spittoon, just like the ones used in Gunsmsoke at the Long Branch saloon. Not only did Elmer have ashtrays, tobacco, pipes, cigars and chew, but he also had reading material. All the past and present issues of Field and Stream, Outdoor Life and Fur Fish and Game were strewed around his throne, and there were even some of them True Crime magazines with the half naked girl on the cover. Best of all though, on bookshelves above his chair were books by Melville, Conrad, London and Twain. Hoards of stories of men gathered around the smoke of the campfire or the deadly smoke from the muzzle of the gun sat just inches above his head. Elmer didn’t like the Friday night fights either, so as he smoked, he’d read aloud, because at the ripe old age of nine I wasn’t a very smart kid or good reader.
Elmer would read to me as Dad and the other four of five men would cheer on the Colored Boy, the Irish Mick, the Spick or Whitey because back then those weren’t racial slurs. While the men drank Coca Cola from those tall slim green bottles and smoked cigarettes, Elmer rolled his own as he made up some outlandish tale of two ants who travel to save the Queen from the evil Baron. As Dad and his buddies were dividing the betting pool from the fight, which consisted or nickels dimes and quarters, Elmer tried to teach me how to roll cigarettes.
But I was terrible at rolling my own smokes. I’d drop tobacco all over the floor, get the paper too wet and crunch the whole thing together so at the end all I accomplished was making a wadded paper mess which might have held just the kernel of tobacco. Elmer would just smile and say, “Try it again John.” Elmer and I never watched the fights. I loved Elmer, he was my hero, he was smoke.
Funny, I thought as I drove home to my wife of thirty years, “I hadn’t thought of Elmer for years. Hell I must be going through withdrawal already and I hadn’t even stopped.” Since I hadn’t yet quit smoking, I pulled into the Convenient Store to buy another pack of cigarettes. Being Christmas Eve, the store was empty except for the clerk and a small man painting the walls who reminded me of another from the time of smoke.
Derk was a friend of Dad’s and in the fall they regularly hunted pheasants with their English setter dogs. He was a small man about five and half feet tall who always wore white pants and shirt when working. He was the only man of his occupation I ever remembering wearing a tie. Derk was a house painter and fixer-upper and he smoked Pall Malls.
Every year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Derk would spend a day or two at our home painting and fixing up, getting the house ready for the holidays. My Mother use to call it “freshening the place up”, and when he came, I would pretend to be sick, so I could watch him work. Looking back on it, I’m sure my parents knew I was lying about being sick, but I think they knew it wouldn’t hurt for me to spend some time with Derk.
When hunting or at the Friday night fights Derk smoked countless cigarettes, and when provoked, he’d spout more fine words than I ever knew existed, but he was different at our house. He’d hold his words and patiently answer all the dumb repetitive questions a nine-year-old kid could muster while teaching me about all things to do to “freshen up a house”. Things I never forgot and used at my own home. I’d help move (even though just a few hours previous I was almost dead with fever) and clean his equipment as he instructed me in the finer points of taking care of camel hair brushes. Derk taught me a lot, but while in our house, he never smoked without Mom’s permission.
Every couple of hours he’d say, “John, go ask your Mother if I can have a smoke.”
Mom always said, “Sure! Tell Derk, to come into the kitchen for a smoke.”
Derk put down his work and made his way to our kitchen while Mom poured him a fresh cup of coffee or in the afternoon a cold Coca Cola. Then all three of us would sit at the kitchen table while Derk smoked his Pall Malls. It was then Mom got creative.
She’d change this or that, as this color was a bit too bright, the other too dull, and things that worked yesterday, today were mysteriously broken and needed to be replaced. All the while Derk smoked his Pall Malls and nodded his head in agreement. It wasn’t that he was inflating the work, so he’d make more money, because he never charged much. Dad and he were buddies, friends from when they were nine years old, I think he probably only charged for materials and not time spent on the job. He just did what Mom asked with no fanfare or complaint as he said, “Anything you want Missus”.
Still, through the blue cigarette smoke, which hung low in the kitchen, I saw smoke rising from Derk, while he controlled his temper at Mom’s changes. When Derk and I were again alone he’d turn to me and say with genuine admiration. “John, you got one fine Mother there. Always treat her with respect and kindness. You’re damn lucky to have a Mother like her.”
I would nod my head and say, “Sure Derk, I will.”
I didn’t know what I was swearing allegiance to, after all every nine-year-old’s Mother is a saint to be worshipped and cherished. That short house painter, fixer-upper, who wore white clothes and a tie taught me to respect a person, no matter his status or position. He opened my mind to that value, one which we always are reminded of until the day we die, and Derk smoked Pal Malls.<
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The weather was warm for Christmas Eve and the lake wasn’t yet frozen. Before I turned off the road along the lake I stopped at the bluff parking lot, shut the car off, got out and lit another smoke. I promised my wife I wouldn’t smoke in the car, but I did. Smokers lie and they slink, not like when I was nine, and as I lit a cigarette, I remembered the first I ever lit. It was Mom’s.
It was different for women who smoked back then, they weren’t known by their choice of smokes and the unspoken rules were different for women back then. As my Mother use to say, “It’s only loose women who smoke alone on the street.”
It was perfectly acceptable for a man to light a smoke on the church steps just as mass let out, but it was absolutely taboo for a woman to have one until she got under the cover of home. And if she did? Well, she was loose. Women didn’t smoke straight cigarettes, the one without a filter, which was a man’s cigarette. Good women smoked filtered cigarettes and Mom smoked Kents. When I was nine, I never quite understood that label. I knew it wasn’t good, in fact, I knew it was bad. Still, I always wondered what it would be like to be with a loose woman just to watch her smoke. Little did I know in a few short years I’d desire to do more than just smoke with a loose woman.
Mom followed the other rules laid down for smoke. She never smoked on the street, in another person’s house or the car, and only in a restaurant, if Dad was at the same table. But in the privacy of her home Mom smoked vast quantities, especially when she drank.
Mornings found Mom with her pot of coffee and cigarette, reading the morning mail or newspaper. Afternoons would see her with another pot of coffee, smoking and watching her favorite soap opera or reading the afternoon mail, because back then mail came twice a day. After four, she’d have a scotch and soda with a Kent cigarette and evenings she’d smoke while reading a book.
What amazed me about Mom and her smoking was what she left behind in the ashtray. Every crushed and stomped out butt had a neat round, red circle around the part where she’d put in her lips. Mom always wore make-up, powder, rouge, eye shadow and lipstick, her medium length black hair usually had a good dose of hair spray. Sometimes when I smell a certain perfume she wore, I’d swear she’s in the same room even though she’s been dead thirty years last fall. More times than I ever realized Mom must have had to freshen up her makeup, because she said it was the duty of a good women to look like a good woman. Every so often she would retreat to her bedroom, sit at her night table and reapply countless layers so she’d be a good woman. My mother was a good woman, I knew she was. Dad knew it too and it was when I was nine that I realized just how good she was and why we both loved that woman till the day she died.
Once in awhile, usually on winter Saturday evenings Dad would announce that the whole family was going to the Pontiac Hotel for Sunday dinner, which we’d then await with breathless anticipation. At the appointed hour, usually around six on Sunday, dressed in our best we’d start our cold car to dine at the grand old hotel.
The Pontiac Hotel harkened back to the days fifty years before when my town was the home of numerous millionaires, who made their fortune in coal, lumber, manufacturing and shipping. One of my Grandmothers was the upstairs maid to a millionaire and my other Grandfather was almost rich before the Great Depression took it all away. Through it all, the Pontiac Hotel withstood the test of time to remain the premier restaurant and place to be for Sunday dinner. Years later my bride and I would have our wedding reception there, but when I returned some twenty years later the hotel was a parking lot.
Entering through the main street doors you’d walk up a small flight of polished marble steps to the lobby where the ceiling was two stories high. In the center of the lobby was a fountain with a marble statue surrounded by a shallow pool, which even during the cold of winter held gold fish. You stepped slow and deliberate when you walked on the marble floor because your shoes made that sound like a tap dancer did on the Ed Sullivan Show. We always spoke in hushed tones while in the lobby, so no one would overhear, your voice carried loud and clear under the vaulted two-story ceiling.
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Chapter 6 –Secrets of the tool shed The morning after our Sunday brunch at the Holmsteads, I wake late, aware that its late by the brightness of the sun through the venetians on the bedroom door to the pool. I lay contentedly, listening to Paul’s deep breathing, enjoying the fullness of his soft cock nestled snugly but comfortably in my ass. Yes, I know sometimes its my pussy, sometimes my ass, but it’s just one of the things I’m used to as a TG woman. I’m vaguely confused as to how we...
On the way home I was still thinking about M pissing and decided to drop a few heavy hints if opportunity arose. After we got in I put the kettle on and made some coffee while M put the swim things in the wash, we were both cold so the hot coffee went quickly and it wasn’t long before M got up of the sofa, “going Somewhere?” I asked innocently knowing full well that her bladder had little capacity at this stage in the pregnancy, “for a piss, why?” she replied, “the flowers outside could do...
I have always wanted a bi experience since I was about 20. There was just something about a cock pumping a pussy that made me want to be in the middle of it all. I put an ad online, with a pic of my 7" thick cock, along with some of my fantasies such as panties, hose and BBWs. It was soon after that I received a reply from a couple in Colorado Springs. The ad said it was from the female so I immediately had suspcions. She sent a pic of her in fantastic hot white lingerie, she was a smaller bbw...
As you approach the address your boss gave you, you are greeted by the sight of an old warehouse. You thought that you had to have the wrong location, but you open the front door and peak in anyway just to be sure. Surprisingly, this isn't only the correct address, but it looks like much of the town has gathered here. As you slowly took a seat, you groaned at the situation you got yourself into. You were a 33 year old male who had been languishing at a dead end job for years. You were 5" 9",...
I do follow up on the flirtations from time to time depending on my mood. Priscilla is about 5'2, dark shoulder length hair, with a nice figure and nice sexy squeaky voice, which is essential for a tv ad model, and always smartly dressed. I think she is about 23 or 24 as I have not had the pleasure of meeting her. I know she has been going out with the same boyfriend for a while. Priscilla occasionally wears smart black trousers that show off her cute ass delightfully, on other days she...
We both got onto the bed, and I got on top of her. We began making out. Our boobs pressed up against each other ever so nicely, and we both loved that. Neither one of us really said anything. Although, one thing was for sure, we were hot for each other. We both wrapped our arms around each other, and had our eyes closed. We rolled around a bit, and made some noise in the process. Obviously, our parents were still busy."Shit, we gotta be quiet," Jenna said."Our moms are fucking each other...
IncestThe room was warm and it really felt good. I had been standing out in the cold wearing just my running suit and the light parka for well over two hours. I made short work of stripping off the running suit and hanging it on racks to dry. After that little domestic chore, it was on to the hot shower. I also washed my new peach fuzz of course. I was dressed in a clean uniform and in the office well before nine. I didn't think that was too bad, since I had been waylaid for quite some time. "So...
Joseph sequestered himself in his study as the citizens debated their verdict. Anytime he recalled the events of the past, his stomach felt queasy and his head began to hurt. He had hoped that bringing Drell forward to face the citizens he’d harmed would bring a sense of peace. It hadn’t. Drell had been defiant and insulting throughout the day. It had taken all of Joseph’s resolve to keep from killing the man before the decision was rendered. The sound of running feet outside of his door...
WARNING– this is a story of forced sex, rape, and murder. It involves a married couple a minister and his wife. It contains graphic depictions of revenge including rape and murder. If this story is likely to offend you, it is best if you refrain from reading it. If you are curious but afraid, you will be offended, then, I would suggest you not read it – unless you are brave, are you brave? If you are brave, courageous or need to read such awful things to avoid doing them – well then maybe it is...
A Party Favor - part 1 - Decoration by strangefun WARNING: This story contains extremely graphical depictions of sexual abuse and humiliation. I am standing in my six-inch-heel stilettos with my shiny latex stockings-clad ankles, knees and thighs strapped to the thick metal pole, the bottom end of which is bolted to the wheeled platform, and the bulbous top end buried deep inside my ass, keeping me propped up like a popsicle on a stick. My waist is compressed by a heavy latex...
Hi this is Roshan back again with the second story of mine. For those who don’t know me this is roshan21, 5’9” height well-built hot stud from Hyderabad. My first story on ISS is fucking girlfriend leads fuck sister. For those who haven’t read my earlier story can find it at https://www.indiansexstories2.net/incest/fucking-girlfriend-leads-fuck-sister/ coming to the story. I and my cousin Reema are very close right from childhood as we are of same age group (I’m 2 months elder to her) out of...
IncestShe had been dabbing at her eyes throughout this recap of our last two weeks, I just put my available arm around her and told her that everything that has happened, was because of our love for the stage, our parents and most importantly, our love for each other. She put her hand in mine. I love this woman so damn much. “This part of our lives, we were destined to be together, Carol. Even if the Broadway thing falls through, I’ve never been more proud and in love with you, than I am right...
Monday had been a much better day than he had expected. The entire day, he did not have one episode where his rage threatened to ruin his day. His house was now livable, although he had worked late into the night cleaning the bathroom. The air conditioner had cooled the house down nicely and the futon was a far more comfortable bed than expected. The kids from next door had not visited him after work and he had thought that was strange. He had just finished dressing while eating a pop tart...
I was understandably excited at my first overseas opportunity. I'd always wanted to visit Canada and to get paid to go was a huge bonus. Being away from family and friends was definitely a price worth paying. My mood dipped, however, when I checked the temperature. It did not appeal in any way to my sun-loving European demeanor. It ranged from fifteen C, great, to minus twelve, holy shit!The flight was blissfully uneventful and the taxi ride to the rented accommodation a welcome, paid for,...
FemdomThere it was. Damn it, I thought. She had broken our deal. We were both supposed to sacrifice something for our relationship for each other. That was the agreement. She was supposed to quit smoking, which was a harmful, expensive habit, yet there was the evidence, staring me in the face. There was the ashtray, out in the open, with a cigarette butt still releasing smoke. In return, I had agreed to monogamy, to swearing off all other partners. Did she not think that she’d get caught, or was she...
It was like no graduation ever seen in the town. Everyone was very conscious of the fact that the students were setting forth to create a new world order. The media had flocked to the town. There wasn't a room to be had within 15 miles. They had to move graduation to the football field and set up extra bleachers. To be sure the weather was warm enough, they delayed it for three weeks. It was good because competition for proper dress had become fierce. The girls started vying with each other...
Dad thinks I'm Mom (PT 2)Part 1 is a must read so you can understand the story.Hi mom welcome back! How was your trip? How's Auntie Lisa & the baby? It's good to be back Amy, I missed you. I'll tell you both everything at dinner.Help me take the suitcase to the bedroom. Yes dear.What's the plan with Amy? I'll tell you, but first I haven't been fucked in a month, Donna said opening my belt. Close the door! No, leave it open enough for Amy to hear us & maybe peek her head in.Donna went...
My son came over to me and asked who I was talking to if it was daddy or not. I told him it was a woman I knew. I sure as hell wasn't going to tell him she was a friend of mine. I sent him back to watch TV and Brenda said, "Enough chit-chat. Go get a pen and some paper. I'll wait." I grabbed some that I keep near the phone. I said, "I'm ready." She said, "Write down this address: 3756 First Street. The place is a bar and it is called T&A. Be there at 10 a.m. sharp. Got that,...
From the Operations building Sarah, Siobhan, Keriann, Kathryn, Amy, and Maureen watched PBM02 and IBM04 cruisers land then move to a parking place on the adjacent ramp. As soon as the two ships parked, they stepped outside. When the door of PBM02 opened Carzekote said, “Aah, fresh air.” Those around her chuckled. “Well, it smells different.” “It should,” replied Gilconte. “It has allergens and fragrances that the ship’s air doesn’t contain and they are different than those of our home...
Wyoming Trucking, 4 By: Malissa Madison Tim and Missy have found another blessed spirit in need and find they have even more waiting at the end of the run. Their little Trucking Company is growing in leaps and bounds. Not a lot of thrills in this chapter, but it sets the stage for things to come. "Flower?" Caribou asked as they joined us in the changing room. He blushed. "I, look 'Bou', I-" He wasn't given a chance to finish before she hugged him. "Don't be so shy,...
Thank you to ok_by_me for the editing! Please leave comments and vote. It really gives us ‘authors’ some feeling that all the work is worth it. Thanks! ***** Phil pushed Jenny through the door of the sleazy bar and into the mid-afternoon sunlight. The brightness hurt her still weeping eyes as Phil waved over a taxi. They didn’t speak, Jenny just cried quietly as the taxi made its way through the crummy part of East Oakland, which was most of it. He’d slid close, one arm around her,...
The six weeks that followed from Terry moving in continued like their first week together. Terry had acquired two recumbent-cycles. She had tied a board under his left pedal to the right one on her cycle so that when she pedalled, it also moved his pedals. The stirrups held his feet in place, and he could hold the sidebars for balance. They did two, thirty-minute sessions a day on the cycles. She then gave him leg and hip massages to make sure he wasn’t knotting up. He tended to get a lot...
This one is compliments of salyers1932 Karl Marx never achieved the wit and humor of Groucho Marx. Here is a sampling of the funny Marx. Groucho Marx, may he rest in peace, processed the world with a quirky mind: Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read. All people are born alike ... except Republicans and Democrats. I must say I find television very educational. The minute somebody turns it on, I go to the library and read a good...
“Are you sure you are OK to work late tonight?” asked Jackie. It was 7pm already as I stood at my desk. Jackie was my manager and she was sitting at the desk opposite. I gave a sheepish look towards her. “Yeah sure….I wouldn’t have offered if it was going to be a problem.” I sat back down and started going through the accounts we were both trying to prepare before our monthly deadline. The problem was that with just the two of us in the office alone, I was finding it increasingly...
[All characters are age 19+ ; work of fiction] Having grown bored with how things were progressing with my sissy son, I have recently ventured into a new and fun project -filming and distributing video clips of our adventures together. Milking sessions, peggings, spankings, foot worship...over two dozen clips so far. All of them uploaded online for viewing. Did I mention how lucrative this new project is? I am amazed at what people are willing to pay for the clips and especially for...
Indian Sex stories padhne wale sabhi logo ka mere taraf se swagat hai. Maine is site ke lagbhag sare stories ko padha hai. Isse inspired hoke aaj mai apke liye ek aisi kahani likhne jaa raha hu jise padhne ke baad apko pata chalega ki kis tarah se ek ladaki itni majabur ho jati hai ki use apne sarir ke bhukh ko saant karne ke liye kisi dusre mard ke saath sona padata hai. Isse pahle ki mai apni ye kahahi suru karu mai sabase pahle apka parichay apne pariwar ke logo se kara du. Mere pariwar me...
Niece Beth Gets What She Asks ForBy billy69boy(Sequel to “Niece Beth Confesses”)By the time I got down to the basement, Beth was already fiddling around with a musty old length of thick, rough rope. “Find something you like?” I asked her. “Hmmm, it smells kind of funky, but it’s real scratchy,” my adorable niece replied, in all her naked splendor. She handed me the rope and presented her wrists to me. I spun her around, and bound her wrists behind her back, then threaded the rope down...
--------------------------------------------------------The Black Maid*** My name is Inice, I'm a 20 year old woman fromJamaica. My black ancestry mixed with Asian, and easternEuropean has been kind of a gift to me. All the girls inmy family have always been beautiful. It's been thatmixture of the races, that all came together some how -in a perfect harmony. At any rate, I think that's why Igot my current job, and at the price I was asking for. But I think I should have read the small print...
“The purpose of our lives is for us to give purpose to our lives.” —James Burt, The Wisdom of Rotary Flight “DID I WAKE YOU UP?” I finally asked. “No. I just finished getting ready for bed. It’s okay.” “Did you have a good date?” I really hoped she had something that made her happy when she was so good at comforting me. She sighed. “We had fun at the dance. I think I’m going to break up with Robbie, though. He just doesn’t do it for me?” “Is he being a jerk?” I demanded, bristling. I...
Mina stretched as she stepped out of the shower. Sam, her husband, had left ten minutes ago to take his parents to the airport. Thank God, she thought. She really loved his parents but was grateful to see them go after their weeklong visit. Between graduate school and entertaining them, she was exhausted! She had the house to herself until the afternoon and was grateful for the peace and quiet.Early morning light streamed through the bathroom window bringing out blue highlights in her shoulder...
My wife and I have been married for about seven years. We fell in love at the tender age of sixteen and were each other’s first sex experiences. Of course neither of us knew what we were doing but through good old trial and error we finally were able to satisfy each other’s sexual needs. What we didn’t know about were all the variations involved in sex. I mean what man really knows all about the many ways to satisfy a woman. I thought I did, boy was I surprised when I started to read and...
Chapter 26 Marcy was a nerve wreck walking out in public dressed as she was carrying the big pink bags stuffed to the brink. The street was relatively calm yet coming out of the outrageous store with those bags she instantly drew everyone's attention. The bus stop was right outside the store and yet those few steps towards it were the most embarrassing steps she had ever taken. Just standing at the bus stop drew less looks however much to Marcy's surprise. Most of the stares she...
This story is a sequel to my first story, “Dream Girl Heather”. I suggest reading that story before continuing with the post below. I was disappointed when I hadn’t heard from Heather after a few days. She was friendly at work, but made no mention of my visit to her home, or what had happened. I was worried that my premature ejaculation problem had ruined any chance of another encounter. I had decided that if another opportunity presented itself that I would jack off several times before...