My kid – if I ever have one- will grow up the same way I did, surrounded by the sounds I make as I actively destroy my lungs. Sarah’s mother, Lori, has just died of lung cancer, after thirty-two years of heavy-duty smoking. Sarah has requested, and received,a transplant of one of her mother’s lungs into her own chest. Sarahhas a hole in her neck from an emergency tracheotomy.

• My chest heaving, sagging tits shifting over my flabby belly.
• Thecigarette in her neck was nearing its end.
• She was starting to make short gasping sounds with each breath.
• Panties with an incontinence liner, my 48K bra, and then an old worn house dress.
• We were naked from the waist down and experimenting with each other’s body.

The Yellowed Girls Chapter 7 – Just another morning

The woman was smoking and was apparently overweight although she’d carefully picked her makeup and clothing to make her look as attractive as possible. A low cut blouse emphasizing her cleavage, leggings that emphasized her butt while attempting to compensate for the fat in her thighs and the droop of her belly. She finishes the cigarette and stubs it out into the overflowing ashtray next to the bed. Dead butts and old ash lie on the bedside table.

Every deep, painful, and heavy drag reminds me of what I’ve been doing to my lungs for years.It’s precisely this destructive feeling in my lungs when I inhale that I live for. The thought of what I’ve done to my underdeveloped lungs over the past 18 years is driving me crazy. My lungs are heavy, sticky, clogged, tight, stinging, and feel so sick. My lungs struggle to bring anything up anymore; my cough is deep and wet, but when something does come up, I always have to spit out the mucus because there’s so much of it.

I take it out, use the dying butt of the one in my hand to light it, and then, tossing the butt and empty pack in the trash, force myself to stand. It’s late at night, and I’m sitting in my room at the back of the house, dizzy, cold, and chain-smoking again. I love the pleasure of all these endless cigarettes, vapes, and joints that I smoke daily.

A site devoted to the Dark Side of the Smoking Fetish

I collapse onto the toilet with a wheeze, my lungs still haven’t properly recovered from that night with Rich. I reward myself with a cigarette while I empty my bladder. I can feel the congestion in my lungs, the phlegm that wants to come out, loosened by my coughing, but too thick for my narrowed airways – even after my inhaler. I ash the cigarette onto the floor, and grind the butt out against the side of the toilet.

I’m No Quitter

How truly beautiful to see a woman sodedicated to her cigarettes. Shefelt the same way about her own cigarettes, her partners for life,Marlboro 100s. How arousing to see another woman who, like Sarah,cared more about smoking than life itself. Sarah thought Mitzi mightbe dying, but envied her in every way.

I kiss her, forcing my tongue inside her mouth. It’s the menthol, it’s the sensation of the smoke hitting the back of my throat, it’s… all the rest of the chemicals in each cigarette. I raise the cigarette to my lips and drag on it, expanding what’s left of my tumor riddled lungs.

alt.smokers.glamour

She had pretty much keptup with Sarah, drag for drag. And, if the increased physical activityof masturbation would not have taxed her overburdened lungs so much,she would have joined Sarah. But she was afraid that she would forceher lungs to use too much of the precious oxygen prematurely. She wascertainly aroused enough to masturbate and was rubbing her pussy. ButMitzi preferred to reserve what little lung capacity she had left forsmoking.

Smoker’s Cough Appreciation

“Long enough to know that I like it,” said Sarah in her own huskywheeze. There was now a definite gurgly effect witheach breath Sarah took. “Oh, God! That sounds wonderful!” said Mitzi, now getting moistherself, as she lit up another Kool and turned off the valve on heroxygen tank. “I was having a little trouble breathing just now. I hadto take some oxygen. I think my lungs are pretty close to giving outthemselves. I can hardly even walk across the room anymore.” Outside Alice sat in her car and reached for one of the Marlboros in her open pack and then stopped.

It takes me 10 minutes, not counting a break to catch my breath and enjoy a quick soothing cigarette; a reward for all my hard work, to get things ready. I keep a coffee maker by the front door for when the girls come by and it’s starting to dribble coffee into the https://p1nup.in/ pot. I’ve got my inhaler and two tanks – enough oxygen to last me for 5 hours – the ashtray is empty, but most importantly, a carton of my cigarettes is next to me. I light one of them and sit back on my plus sized lawn chair to wait for Cynthia. Naked, I waddle to the bathroom, clutching my cigarettes in one hand, leaning on the furniture with the other, my breathing an unhealthy irregular pant.

She was a violent drunk, and Dad had divorced her when I was 2. To me she was this woman I saw for about a year when I was 7, every for a couple hours every other weekend. She tried to relate to me, we’d color, and play games, all the time supervised by a lady from the County. Mom was a pale faced, bitter looking fat woman, her face, arms, ass and belly, all puffy from years of alcohol abuse. It stopped when I was 8 and she went to prison for an OWI. Dad had tried to give me affection, and be both parents.

• As if to prove something, I feel the scratchiness in my throat, and the congestion in my chest.
• I know I’ll end up like my mother, hooked up to an oxygen tank or concentrator 24/7.
• “I suppose I’d better get inside and change.” She said, and started to get her feet under her.
• “Long enough to know that I like it,” said Sarah in her own huskywheeze.

Not surprising I suppose, since his mom smoked, but it still creeps me out a little. I badly need this cigarette, badly need this nicotine. The only think I need more is the desire to feel beautiful. I manage the nasal exhale, smoke escaping around the cannula, but the hold makes my demolished lungs rebel and I have to take the cigarette out of my mouth to cough.

He cleans up after me, and after helping me urinate in the urinal while lying in bed one final time he kisses me goodnight. First the cheek, then the mouth, then, he tells me he wants to french me. His tongue probes my mouth, I know he wants to taste the cigarettes on my breath, but I don’t care.