Smoking Stories

This story was submitted on April 10th 2026 by a visitor who whishes to remain anonymous (same author as You’re missing out,The Valedictorian, Rewired and Revenge: a dish best served with smoke stories). If you have a story to submit it’s right here !

“Did you know people used to pay for these?” Lisa said, holding up the tattered notebook with a smirk.

Her little brother barely glanced up from his phone. She flipped open the yellowed pages, expecting math homework or some kid’s doodles. Instead, neat cursive filled the first line: This is the Diary of Michelle Banister. The ink had faded to sepia, bleeding slightly into the paper. A corner tore off in her fingers when she turned the page.

June 12th, 1993

Summer break. Mrs. Carlisle says writing down my thoughts might “clarify” things. Whatever that means. All I know is Jenny Parker carries hers everywhere like it’s full of state secrets instead of which TJ Maxx lip gloss she bought.

Lisa exhaled through her nose. The diary smelled like her grandma’s attic—dried lavender and something vaguely chemical. She stretched out on her bedspread, one foot dangling off the edge. Lisa’s thumb hovered over the next entry, the paper thin as onion skin under her touch. She could see the indentations where Michelle’s pen had pressed hard on certain words, like she’d been chewing on her thoughts as much as writing them.

June 14th

I have to be honest that I have been thinking about smoking. I know what a dumb thing to think about. My mom sneaks out back. She thinks no one sees her, but I watch out of the back bathroom window. She smokes long white cigarettes, and she is so elegant the way she smokes. She pulls on the cigarette and opens her mouth, and you can see the smoke before it disappears. It looks so cool and honestly, it is somewhat of a turn on. Not that I am attracted to my mother (gross) but she looks good for her age. So, should i try smoking. Everyone does it in the movies. Some of my friends do. It isn’t as popular as it was in the 80s but there is something about it that turns me on. Lisa’s fingers twitched against the page. Virginia Slim 120 menthols. The brand name sounded like something out of an old commercial—the kind they’d show in history class with women in bell-bottoms laughing through a haze of smoke. She could almost taste the phantom menthol sting in the back of her throat. Lisa stops. What the hell is she thinking. Smoking. She starts reading again.

‘June 17th, I did it….. I stole a cigarette from where mom keeps hers. They are called Virginia Slim 120 menthols. That is a lot of name…. They are long. I got a book of matches out of the cupboard. Mom and dad are going out tomorrow. That is when I will try it. Additional entry… I stole another one just in case…..’ Lisa’s fingers traced the indented letters where Michelle had pressed down hard, like she was trying to anchor the memory into the paper.

June 18th.

The entry smelled faintly of something metallic under the lavender—thirty-year-old nicotine clinging to the fibers. Michelle’s handwriting slanted forward, hurried:’ Wow I don’t know how to describe it. Lisa could almost see her; knees tucked under her on a twin bed, matchbook trembling in one hand. The first drag tasted weird and minty—like chewing gum dipped in gasoline. Lisa snorted. I blew out without inhaling like an idiot. Then, lower down, the ink darkened: Second try, I sucked in fast. Felt like swallowing a hornet. Lisa’s own throat tightened reflexively. Coughed so hard I saw stars. But then— The pen strokes smoothed, deliberate. Third drag, I got it right. Lungs full of winter and lightning. Exhaled and the smoke curled like a question mark.’ Lisa flopped onto her stomach, kicking one heel against the headboard. “Jesus, Michelle,” she muttered. The diary didn’t mention the stink of burnt tobacco in hair, the way it clung to curtains. She knew—her dad still smoked cigars in the garage. But Michelle’s next line made her pause: Truthfully? I was a little turned on. The confession was underlined twice. ‘Fourth drag, deeper. Michelle’s letters shrank, cramped at the edges of the page. Held it until my vision pulsed. When I blew out, the room swam. Buzz hit like a rollercoaster drop— A splotch interrupted the sentence. Drool? Soda? —awesome until it wasn’t. Had to lie down before I puked.’ The entry ended abruptly, the last sentence trailing off the edge of the page. Lisa exhaled sharply through her nose—half-laugh, half-disbelief—as she read Michelle’s smug good, she deserved it line. The diary slipped from her fingers, landing spine-up on the quilt. She stared at it for a beat before snatching it back, pages fluttering to reveal a cramped addendum:’ Hey it’s me again, I know—two times in one day. ‘ The ink here was fresher, bluer, like Michelle had grabbed whatever pen was nearest in her hurry. Lisa’s thumb hovered over the next sentence.’ I feel a lot better and decided to smoke the other cigarette.’ She mouthed the words silently, then aloud: “What?” Her own voice sounded foreign in the quiet of her bedroom. The diary’s spine creaked as she turned it toward the window light, scanning the next lines faster, pulse thudding in her wrists. ‘The weird thing is I lit it and took the first drag and inhaled and it was no problem. Michelle’s handwriting here was almost smug, loops wide and lazy. I exhaled and again I looked into the mirror and it was wild seeing smoke come out of me. Frankly, it made me wet.’ The diary hit the comforter again with a soft thump. Lisa pressed both palms to her cheeks, fingertips cold against suddenly warm skin. “Holy shit, she what?” Her whisper cracked. She grabbed the book back, nearly tearing the page in her haste. The next paragraph was underlined messily, as if Michelle’s hand had shaken: ‘So I masturbated while I smoked.’ Lisa’s breath hitched. The words blurred for a second before she blinked them clear. Michelle’s description was clinical at first—’the more I smoked, the more I got turned on’—then devolved into breathless fragments. ‘Took a big drag and all of a sudden it hit—inhaled with everything I had—held the smoke as I came.’ The pen had dug into the paper here, leaving tiny furrows. ‘Most intense orgasm I’ve ever had.’ Lisa’s own thighs pressed together reflexively. She could almost see it: Michelle in some pastel 90s bedroom, knees splayed, one hand working between her legs while the other lifted a cigarette to her parted lips. The image flickered, then superimposed—Lisa’s own face in the mirror, smoke curling from her mouth as—

June 25th

The entry smelled sharper than the others—Lisa caught it the second she turned the page. Not just nicotine now, but something faintly floral beneath it, like Michelle had sprayed perfume to cover the scent. The handwriting sprawled across the paper in uneven lines, the ink blotted in places where the pen had lingered too long. ‘I know it’s been a week. Got busy stealing a whole pack from Mom’s purse. Lisa snorted. Michelle’s casual theft was almost charming in its audacity. Had to try it again. Smoking while touching myself.’ The next line was indented, as if Michelle had hesitated before committing the words to paper: ‘Second time was better. Smoked two cigarettes, came twice.’ Lisa’s breath hitched. The diary didn’t shy away from the details’—Michelle described the way she’d timed her drags to the rhythm of her fingers, how the burn in her lungs synced with the tightening in her stomach. ‘Long, hard drags’, Michelle wrote, ‘holding the smoke deep as I come.’ The words were underlined three times, the paper slightly torn from the pressure. ‘Most amazing feeling I’ve ever found.’ Lisa’s fingers trembled against the page. She could almost feel it—the heat of the cigarette between her own fingers, the way the smoke would curl from her lips as she exhaled, shaky and satisfied. Michelle’s confession was electric in its honesty: ‘Did it every day for six days’. The dates were scribbled in the margin, each one checked off like a tally. ‘Almost out now. Three left.’ The penmanship here was messier, rushed. ‘I’ll finish them tonight. But Christ, I’ll miss that feeling—lungs full of fire, pussy full of sparks. Lol’. The “lol” was jarring—a burst of levity in the middle of something so intimate. Lisa traced the letters with her thumb, imagining Michelle’s grin as she wrote it, maybe biting her lip to stifle a laugh. The diary didn’t mention the guilt, the fear of getting caught. Just the hunger. Last one tonight, Michelle promised herself. ‘Then I’m done’. But the next sentence betrayed her: ‘Unless I steal more’.

July 1st

Lisa’s fingertips tingled as she turned the page. Michelle’s handwriting here was jagged, the letters crammed together like she’d been writing too fast. I have a problem. The ink was darker, as if Michelle had pressed down hard enough to leave scars in the paper. ‘It’s been four days since I ran out. Four days of biting my nails raw, pacing my room, staring at Mom’s purse when she leaves it on the counter. A coffee ring stained the margin—old and brown, the edges feathering into the paper. Stole two cigarettes this morning. Hid one in my sock drawer, smoked the other behind the garage.’ Lisa’s throat went dry. She could see it: Michelle’s shaking hands cupping the flame, the way her chest must have heaved with that first forbidden drag. The diary didn’t mention the guilt. Just the hunger. ‘Yes I masturbated one more time. Knees up against the bathroom sink, watching myself in the mirror while I exhaled.’ The sentence ended abruptly, smudged—like Michelle had dropped the pen mid-thought.

July 3rd

Two days later, the entries got reckless. ‘ Stole a whole pack’, Michelle confessed, the words sprawling diagonally across the page. ‘Waited until Mom and Dad went to that stupid dinner party’. Lisa snorted. Michelle’s teenage disdain was almost charming in its predictability. ‘Smoked ten cigarettes. Had six orgasms’. The numbers were underlined three times; the pen digging grooves into the paper. ‘God it was fucking amazing.’ Lisa’s pulse thudded in her wrists. The details were graphic—Michelle describing how she’d timed each drag to the rhythm of her fingers, how the nicotine buzz synced with the tightening in her stomach. Lungs full of smoke, pussy full of sparks, Michelle wrote, then scribbled it out, only for the words to remain legible beneath the frantic crosshatching. I came so hard I saw stars. Twice in a row. The page smelled faintly of salt, like dried sweat or tears.

Lisa slammed the diary shut so hard the pages made a soft whump of displaced air. Her pulse hammered in her throat as she shoved it under the mattress; fingertips lingering on the frayed cover for half a second longer than necessary. The dream came in fragments that night—Michelle’s long-gone fingers trailing smoke across her collarbone, the hiss of a match catching; her own thighs pressing together as phantom menthol burned down her trachea. She woke up at 3:17 AM with her nails dug into her palms and the taste of wintergreen on her tongue. By Friday afternoon, her backpack held three crumpled dollar bills and a conviction that made her palms sweat. The convenience store clerk barely glanced up from his racing form when she tossed the pack of Virginia Slims Menthol 120s onto the counter. “Matches,” Lisa added, voice steady despite the way her knees trembled. The lighter’s plastic was cheap and warm from sitting under display lights. She pocketed it like contraband. Her parents’ dinner reservation glowed on the fridge calendar—7:30 PM, Nonna’s Trattoria—when she locked herself in the bathroom at 6:47. The cigarette felt absurdly long between her fingers, like something from a 1940s movie. She lights the lighter with a shaking hand in the mirror before she touched it to the tip. Inhale, Michelle’s voice whispered in her memory. The first drag tasted like licking a battery—chemical and sharp—but she held it anyway, eyes watering as her lungs convulsed. Lisa coughed so hard her vision spotted, bracing herself against the sink. The second drag went smoother, the menthol cooling the burn just enough for her to notice the buzz creeping up her spine. By the third, she exhaled a wavering plume at her reflection and watched her pupils dilate.

Watching herself smoke and thinking of Michelle makes her wet She starts to move her had down and then starts masterbatting while she watches her self smoke. She takes a 4th drag, longer deeper and holds it for 5 seconds as she watchs the smoke exit her mouth she brings the cigarette back up and starts to pull as the rest of the last drags smoke comes out of her nose. The turn on is crazy. All the sudden on the 5th drag an orgasm comes out of nowhere and she pulls hard on the cigarette and inhales with everything she has. The smoke slams into her lungs there is a massive burning cooling sensation, it over whelms her the orgasm explodes like nothing she has ever felt. After 10 seconds she screams, AhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhFuckkkkkk!!!!!! as smoke comes out of her mouth. Lisa looks in the mirror and takes another drag off the cigarette. It starts to make her wet again but then she starts feeling really dizzy and has to sit down on the floor. She puts the cigarette out in the toilet and lays back for a few min.

She eventually gets up and falls into bed and lays there for an hour and a half. The nausea had passed, but the memory of that last orgasm clung to Lisa like the ghost of nicotine in her hair. She stared at the ceiling fan, watching it wobbles in lazy circles, her thighs still tingling.

Three hours. That’s what the clock on her nightstand promised—three hours before her parents’ headlights would carve into the driveway. She sat up abruptly, the sheet sticking to her damp skin. The bathroom was still hazy with the acrid tang of her first cigarette, the air clinging to it like a secret. Lisa dragged a wooden chair from her desk, its legs scraping against the tile. She positioned it squarely in front of the mirror; the cigarette pack and lighter laid out like surgical tools. This time, she’d do it right—slow, deliberate, savoring the way Michelle had. The matchbook crackled when she tore one free. The first tentative drag was smoother now; the menthol almost sweet as it curled over her tongue. She held it this time, letting the smoke pool in her lungs before exhaling in a thin, steady stream. Her reflection blurred for a second—eyes half-lidded; lips parted—and then sharpened as the smoke dissipated. Something hot and heavy coiled low in her stomach. Again. She took another drag, deeper, watching her cheeks hollow in the mirror. This time, when the smoke left her lips, her free hand was already sliding under the waistband of her shorts. The cotton was damp. She didn’t look away from her own gaze as her fingers dipped lower; the cigarette perched between her knuckles like an afterthought. The tip glowed when she inhaled again; the heat of it syncopated with the press of her fingertips. Lisa froze mid-drag, cigarette dangling from her lips as the realization hit—vibrator.

Her mother’s dresser drawer, third from the top, always slightly sticky from too much lavender-scented hand lotion. She bolted from the bathroom so fast the cigarette ash scattered across the tile. The drawer resisted with a whine when she yanked it open. Fumbling past silk scarves and rolled-up pantyhose, her fingers brushed something hard beneath a tangle of lace panties. The vibrator was cheap and pink, the plastic slightly greasy from disuse. Lisa snatched it, pulse hammering in her ears as she sprinted back to the bathroom—just in time to catch the cigarette before it tumbled into the sink. She exhaled sharply through her nose, flicking ash into the toilet bowl. The vibrator’s ON button stuck for a second before humming to life, the sound absurdly loud in the cramped space. Lisa took a deliberate drag, holding the smoke as she pressed the buzzing plastic between her thighs. The dual sensations—burning lungs, electric pleasure—made her knees buckle against the sink cabinet. Inhale. The menthol seared her throat. Hold. The vibrator’s rhythm stuttered against her clit. The first orgasm ripped through her like the cigarette’s ember flaring bright—sudden, all-consuming. She choked on smoke as she came, coughing violently while her hips jerked against the sink’s edge. The second wave hit before she could catch her breath, her back arching as the vibrator’s insistent buzz synced with the nicotine buzz lighting up her spine. Lisa slumped against the bathroom door; the vibrator still buzzing weakly in her limp fingers. “Oh my god I had Six orgasms. Six incredible orgasms, I can’t wait to do this again”. The number echoed in her skull like the aftertaste of menthol on her tongue. Ash speckled the sink where she’d dropped the third cigarette; its ember dying in a puddle of tap water. She stared at the crumpled pack—three gone, seventeen left—and something hot and hungry uncoiled in her stomach. The mirror was fogged with smoke and breath; her reflection smeared into something primal: pupils blown, lips swollen, hair sticking to her damp neck. She wiped the glass with a trembling hand, watching her own face sharpen into focus. “Holy shit,” she whispered. Her voice was raspy and ruined. The words hung in the air like the last wisp of smoke curling from the ashtray. Cleaning up took twice as long as the act itself. Febreze hissed as she sprayed it at the ceiling; the artificial linen scent clashing violently with the lingering tobacco. She scrubbed the sink with a wad of toilet paper, erasing every ash smudge, every fleck of evidence. The vibrator went back exactly where she’d found it, nestled under her mother’s peach-colored satin panties. Lisa paused, fingertips hovering over the drawer. A thought flickered—next time, I’ll use lube—before she slammed it shut.

The diary waited under her mattress like a time bomb. She yanked it out, pages fluttering open, she turns to the next page. The page only had two lines, written in a cramped, hurried script: ‘You’re mine now. Another slave to smoking and masturbation.’ The ink was fresh—impossibly fresh—the blue-black letters glistening as if they’d been written seconds ago. Lisa recoiled, the diary slipping from her fingers and hitting the floor with a thud. The pages fluttered shut, but not before she caught a glimpse of Michelle’s familiar handwriting bleeding into something darker, messier, like the words had been scrawled in a frenzy. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she crouched to pick it up, her fingers brushing the spine like it might burn her. The diary fell open again to the same page, but now there was more—a third sentence materializing before her eyes. The ink spreading across the paper like spilled water: ‘You’ll keep going back to it. You know you will.’ Lisa’s pulse hammered in her throat. She blinked hard, but the words didn’t fade. If anything, they darkened, the letters thickening as if absorbing the humidity of her panic. Lisa’s fingers closed around empty air where the diary should have been. The carpet fibers scraped against her palm, utterly ordinary, as if the book had never existed at all. She froze mid-crouch, one knee digging into the shag pile; her other foot still twisted awkwardly from recoiling. The bathroom’s fluorescent light buzzed overhead, suddenly too bright, casting sharp shadows where the diary’s absence left a perfect rectangle of untouched carpet.