This is the last and final part of this series, hope you enjoyed and let us know your feedback !
- The smoking machine (part 1)
- The smoking machine (part 2)
- The smoking machine (part 3)
- The smoking machine (part 4)
- The smoking machine (part 5)
- The smoking machine (part 6)
- The smoking machine (part 7)
Emma’s raspy voice wrapped around Allisson like warm smoke. The girl stepped into the bedroom, cigarette still burning between her trembling fingers, and sat on the edge of the bed. Emma reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out the spare machine — the same one they had used on her secretly for weeks. She fitted the soft silicone mask gently over Allisson’s mouth and nose, sealing it with careful fingers. The hum started. Thick, warm smoke poured straight into her lungs.
Allisson’s eyes fluttered shut. A long, shaky exhale leaked from the edges of the mask as the nicotine flooded her system again. The relief was immediate and deep. She took one last drag on the Marlboro Menthol 100 still in her hand, then stubbed it out and leaned back against the headboard, letting the machine do its work.
Emma and Leslie watched her with matching soft smiles. Leslie climbed onto the bed beside her sister and slipped her own mask back on. Emma did the same. For the first time all three of them sat together — mother and daughters — each with a machine humming, each breathing steady clouds of smoke while the room filled with the sweet menthol haze.
The reconciliation happened quietly in the weeks that followed. Allisson stopped fighting. The shame was still there, a constant ache in her chest, but the pleasure was stronger. She started lifting her mask the same way her mother and sister did — just enough to slide a fresh Marlboro Menthol 100 between her lips, take three or four enormous drags, then seal the mask again so the machine could keep filling her lungs without pause. The ritual became automatic. Lift, drag hard, hold the smoke deep, exhale thick plumes through her nose, mask back on. The yellow stain on her fingers darkened quickly. Her cough started soft and grew wetter. She felt herself sinking into the lifestyle she had once despised, and every time the guilt rose she pushed it down with another long pull on the cigarette or another hour under the mask.
By the end of the school year, with Allisson turned into a smoker, the three of them had become a perfect addicted unit. They spent long evenings on the couch, all masked, all chain-smoking, passing lighters and ashtrays between them. Allisson would lift her mask, light a fresh Marlboro Menthol 100 from the glowing end of her mother’s, inhale until her cheeks hollowed, then seal the mask again while the machine poured more smoke into her already full lungs. The pleasure was overwhelming — warm, constant, never-ending. She felt remorse every morning when she looked in the mirror and saw the faint yellow on her teeth, but by afternoon she was lost in the ritual again, moaning softly each time the nicotine rush hit.
As graduation approached, choices had to be made.
Leslie’s grades were terrible. She had skipped so many days that the school barely noticed when she stopped showing up altogether. She didn’t even pretend to care about college. “I’m staying local,” she told them one evening, mask on, cigarette burning between drags. “Found a job at the outdoor plant nursery. I can smoke all day outside, no one bothering me.” Emma nodded proudly, raspy voice warm. “That’s my girl. You’ll be happy there.”
Allisson had straight A’s and scholarship offers. She could have gone anywhere. But the fear and shame held her back. She pictured herself in a college dorm, trying to hide her machine, sneaking outside every hour to smoke, explaining the constant smell to roommates. The thought made her stomach twist. She hesitated for weeks, chain-smoking more than ever while she wrestled with it.
Then she met Paul.
He worked at his parents’ convenience store two blocks from the house. Allisson stopped in one afternoon for a pack of gum she didn’t really need, mask hanging around her neck, a fresh Marlboro Menthol 100 still burning between her fingers. Paul looked up from behind the counter and smiled — not the usual polite smile, but a real one, eyes lighting up at the sight of her yellow fingers and the haze of smoke that followed her in.
“You smell like home,” he said simply.
They talked for twenty minutes while she pretended to browse the candy aisle. Paul was twenty, kind-eyed, and completely honest. “I’ve always liked girls who smoke,” he admitted quietly. “The way you do it… it’s beautiful. Real. I don’t want you to hide it.” He asked her out that same day. Within a week they were together. He never asked her to cut back. He loved watching her lift her mask to light another Marlboro Menthol 100, loved the way she moaned softly when the machine kicked in after a long drag.
One evening Paul invited her behind the counter at the store. “My parents need help. You could work here with me. No pressure to go to college if you don’t want to. You can smoke on your breaks, keep your machine in the back room. No one will care.” Allisson felt the last piece of resistance crumble. She accepted the job the next day.
Emma’s health had been sliding for months. Her cough was constant now, deep and rattling. She needed the full mask almost twenty-four hours a day just to breathe normally. One afternoon she came home from a doctor’s appointment and sat down heavily on the couch, mask sealed tight. Leslie and Allisson were already there, both masked and smoking. Emma pulled her mask down just long enough to speak.
“The doctor gave me a big warning today. Said my lungs are shot — emphysema, chronic bronchitis, the works. He told me if I don’t stop completely I won’t see fifty.” She paused, lit a fresh Marlboro Menthol 100 with shaking yellow fingers, and took three long drags before sealing the mask again. “I told him I’m not stopping. I’d rather enjoy every drag until the end than live a few more years without this.”
Allison and Leslie looked at their mother with the same dark understanding. No one argued. The three of them simply lifted their masks together, lit fresh cigarettes, and inhaled deeply in unison. Thick plumes rolled from their lips as they sealed the masks back on. The machines hummed steadily around them.
The haze in the house had never been thicker. Ashtrays overflowed on every surface. The smell of Marlboro Menthol 100s and warm machine smoke had soaked into the walls forever. Allisson still felt the remorse sometimes — a quiet ache when she thought about the straight-A girl she used to be, the future she could have chased. But the pleasure was louder. Every time she lifted her mask, took those massive greedy drags, and let the machine fill her lungs again, the remorse faded under wave after wave of nicotine bliss.
She was home now. With her mother, with her sister, with Paul who loved her exactly as the addicted wreck she had become.
The three women sat together on the couch that final evening of the school year, masks sealed, cigarettes burning between drags, machines humming their constant song. Smoke curled around them in thick, sweet clouds. Allisson exhaled slowly through her nose, eyes half-closed with pleasure, and felt the dark, beautiful pull wrap tighter around all of them.
She had fought. She had lost. And she had never been happier.
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