Smoking Stories

This story was submitted on March 6th 2026 by a visitor who whishes to remain anonymous (same author as You’re missing out, Rewired and Revenge: a dish best served with smoke stories). If you have a story to submit it’s right here !

The yearbook lay open on the coffee table; its pages slightly warped from humidity. Someone had circled her face in red ink—not that she recognized the girl in the photo. “Sean,” she said, the name slipping out before she could question it. The man on the couch exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the tip of his cigarette glowing like a dying ember. He didn’t look up. “You are up, finally,” he said. “How do you feel?” Her fingers brushed the edge of the yearbook, tracing the red circle as if it might burn her. The girl in the photo smiled back—a stranger with her own face.

“Where am I?” She asked, the words thick in her throat. Sean finally looked up, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Safe,” he said, flicking ash into a chipped saucer on the coffee table. The word hung between them, heavy with implications she couldn’t grasp. Safe from what? The cigarette between his fingers drew her attention again. The smell was familiar in a way that made her chest ache, like a song she’d forgotten the words to. Without thinking, she reached for the pack beside him. Her hands moved with muscle memory she didn’t remember learning—peeling the foil, tapping one out, balancing it between her lips.

“Go on,” Sean murmured, nudging the lighter toward her.

The flame trembled in her grip, but the cigarette caught, and the first drag hit her lungs like a punch. She doubled over coughing, eyes watering, but his voice cut through the haze: “Small drag. Hold it.”

She obeyed, and this time, the nicotine curled into her bloodstream like an old friend. The nicotine settled into her veins, a warm, buzzing current that sharpened the edges of the room. She stared at the yearbook again, the red circle around her face pulsing in her vision like a warning. “Why don’t I remember this?” She asked, tapping the page. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—too calm, too detached, like she was commenting on someone else’s life.

Sean took a long drag, studying her through the smoke. “Memory’s a funny thing,” he said. “Sometimes it needs a little… jumpstart.” He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a small, crumpled photograph, sliding it across the table toward her. The edges were singed, as if it had been rescued from a fire. “Recognize him?” The man in the photo was older, his face lined with wear, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—sent a jolt through her. She blinked hard, as if the motion could force the memory to surface. “I… don’t know.” But her fingers trembled against the paper.

Sean leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Dr. Kolk. He ran the program. You were one of his favorites.” The way he said it—”favorites”—made her skin prickle. Not pride. Not envy. Something darker. She took another drag, the cigarette trembling between her fingers. The smoke hit her lungs like a serrated blade—sharp, wrong, necessary. She coughed, doubling over, but the warmth spreading low in her belly kept her reaching for it again. Why does it hurt so good? The thought flickered and died as she obeyed Sean’s unspoken command, inhaling slower this time, letting the nicotine seep into her like a slow poison. A shudder ran through her, and between her thighs, a pulse of heat answered. She exhaled with a soft, involuntary moan. Sean watched her, his gaze steady as a sniper’s. “What day is it?” He asked, his voice casual, almost bored. The question hooked into her brain like a fishbone. Her breath hitched. The room blurred at the edges. Day? The word dissolved into static. Her fingers went slack, the cigarette dangling precariously as her mind emptied, leaving only his voice echoing in the hollow space behind her eyes.

“Rebecca,” he murmured, and the name settled over her like a shroud. “You’re doing so well. You’ve followed the instructions.” His praise curled around her, warm and suffocating. “Tell me, “He said, tapping ash into the saucer, “what did that first cigarette feel like?” Her answer came in a monotone, distant, as if someone else were speaking through her: “It burned. Hurt at first. But you said…” A pause. Her throat worked. “You said it would make me feel good. So, I kept trying. Until I could hold it.” Her fingers twitched toward the yearbook, the red circle swimming in her vision. “Then it felt… full. Nice.” Her voice dipped, almost shy. “It made me a little horny.” Sean’s smile was a knife-slash in the dim light. “Very good.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette dangling between his fingers. “You’ll do whatever I tell you, because you know it’s good for you.” Not a question. A fact. She nodded, slow and dreamlike. “I’ll do everything you tell me. Because it’s good for me.” “Is smoking good for you?” Conflict flickered across her face—a shadow passing over water. Somewhere deep, buried under layers of fog, a voice screamed. Lung cancer. Yellow teeth. Death in slow motion. But his voice was louder. Closer. It pressed against her eardrums until the protest died. “You say it is,” she murmured. “So it must be.” The words tasted like ash. Sean leaned back, satisfied. “Anytime you smoke, you’ll get horny.” His fingers tapped the cigarette pack absently. “The hornier you get, the more you smoke. Do you understand? Her breath hitched. A flush crept up her neck. Between her thighs, warmth pooled—thick and insistent. She shifted on the couch, thighs pressing together, but the friction only made it worse. The cigarette trembled in her fingers as she brought it to her lips again. This time, she didn’t cough. The smoke curled inside her, and the heat between her legs pulsed in answer. A whimper escaped her. Sean watched, eyes half-lidded. “Good girl,” he purred. “You’re learning so fast.” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered near her temple, tracing the shell of her ear. “Tell me, Rebecca—what else do you remember?”

Her brow furrowed. The yearbook swam in her vision, the red circle throbbing. “I—” The words tangled in her throat. Something flickered at the edges of her mind—a classroom, white walls, the sting of antiseptics. A man in a lab coat. Needles. The memory slipped like smoke through her fingers. Sean exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching her through the haze with an unsettling patience. “It’s okay,” he murmured, reaching out to tap ash into the ashtray, a practiced motion that made her fingers twitch in response. “We’ll come back to that later.” His voice was smooth, hypnotic, the kind of tone that made her shoulders relax even as her stomach knotted. Rebecca blinked, the yearbook’s red circle pulsing in her peripheral vision like a distant alarm. She didn’t remember leaning forward, but suddenly she was closer to him, the cigarette dangling from her lips. His hand settled on her knee—warm, heavy, possessive. “You were in danger,” he said, fingers flexing slightly against her skin. “I saved you from the lab. The one you worked at.” A pause. A drag. “You’re so grateful, Rebecca. Aren’t you?” The words slithered into her ears, curling around her thoughts like smoke. Her lungs burned, but the heat felt good—right. “Yes,” she whispered; the answer pulled from her like a splinter. “Thank you for saving me.” The gratitude pooled in her chest, thick and syrupy, drowning out the static at the edges of her mind. “I’ll do anything for you.” Sean’s smile was a slow, satisfied thing. He lifted his cigarette to his lips, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke trickle from his nose in two thin streams. “Good,” he said, his free hand brushing her cheek. “I’m going to bring you out of the trance now.” His thumb traced her bottom lip, lingering just a moment too long. “When I tell you, take a drag. As you exhale…” His voice dropped, conspiratorial. “You’ll forget this conversation. But you’ll still feel it. Understood? She nodded, the motion automatic, her body thrumming with a dull, electric anticipation. The room tilted slightly, the yearbook’s pages blurring. Sean’s fingers tightened on her knee. “Now.” The cigarette was already at her lips. She inhaled—sharp, deep—and for a heartbeat, the world sharpened into painful clarity: the chipped saucer of ashes, the frayed edge of the rug beneath her bare feet, the flecks of gold in Sean’s otherwise dark eyes. Then she exhaled, and the memory unraveled like a spool of thread dropped down a stairwell. Rebecca blinked, disoriented. The cigarette between her fingers was half-gone, the ashtray overflowing. She frowned, rubbing her temple. Had she—had they been talking? The thought slithered away before she could grasp it. “You spaced out for a second there,” Sean said, stretching his arms behind his head. The movement pulled his shirt taut across his shoulders. “Long day?” She swallowed, her throat dry. “Yeah, I guess.” The words felt hollow, but the warmth pooling low in her belly didn’t. She took another drag, suppressing the cough this time. The nicotine buzzed through her, sharpening the edges of the room. “What were we talking about?” Sean watched her hands—steady now—as she tapped out another cigarette from the pack. The paper crinkled between her fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “We were talking about Dr. Kolk,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “And the experiments he was doing. How he captured you forced you to work for him.” Rebecca paused, the lighter hovering just below the cigarette tip. A flicker of something crossed her face—fear? Recognition?—but it was gone before it could settle. “I remember Dr. Kolk,” she murmured, the flame catching, casting shadows under her eyes. “The lab. The white walls.” She inhaled, the ember flaring. “But I can’t remember what he did to me. Or what he was even studying.” The smoke curled from her lips as she exhaled, her free hand absently tracing the red circle in the yearbook again. Sean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze locked onto hers. “It’s okay, Rebecca,” he said, his voice softening in a way that made her shoulders relax. “We’ll keep working on your memory.” His fingers brushed hers as he took the lighter back, the contact lingering just a heartbeat too long. “Little by little.” She nodded, but her attention was already drifting back to the cigarette between her fingers. The second drag came easier—no cough this time—and as the nicotine hit her bloodstream, warmth spread through her chest, then lower. A slow, insistent pulse between her thighs made her shift on the couch, pressing her legs together. The sensation was sudden, undeniable. She blinked, disoriented by the intensity of it. She held the smoke in her lungs, letting it seep into her bloodstream before exhaling slowly through her nose. The warmth spread through her chest, down her arms, pooling low in her belly. Her eyelids fluttered shut. “How did I get here?” she murmured, the words slurring slightly as if spoken through honey. Sean watched the way her fingers curled around the cigarette, the way her thighs pressed together when the nicotine hit. “I rescued you,” he said, tapping ash into the saucer. “From the prison he had you in.” His voice was smooth, practiced. The lie settled between them like a third person in the room. Her brow furrowed. Eyes still closed, she saw flashes—white tiles, fluorescent lights, the cold bite of metal against her wrists. But the images dissolved before she could grasp them. “I… I can’t remember.” Her voice was small, childlike. “How do I know you?” The couch dipped as Sean shifted closer. She felt the heat of his body before his fingers brushed her wrist, tracing the faint scar there. “What day is it?” he asked, his breath warm against her ear. Rebecca’s fingers trembled around the cigarette as Sean’s voice curled around her, low and hypnotic. “Feel the heat in your pussy,” he murmured, watching the way her thighs pressed together involuntarily. She took a drag—deep, desperate—and held the smoke until her lungs burned. The nicotine hit her bloodstream like a live wire, sparking a pulse between her legs that made her gasp. As she exhaled, the words tumbled out unbidden: “I want you. I’m so horny.” Her own voice sounded foreign to her, raw with need. She didn’t hesitate before taking another drag, counting the seconds in her head—one, two, three, four—as Sean’s words wove through her thoughts like smoke. “You’ll remember that I rescued you,” he said, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her knee. “You were chained in a cell. I snuck in. Got you out.” The image flickered behind her eyelids—dark concrete, cold metal, his hand reaching for hers in the shadows. It felt real. It felt right. “We met in high school,” he continued, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “You’ve always had a thing for me. Do you understand?” She nodded, her breath shallow. “Yes.” The word was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough. Sean smiled, and something in her chest tightened. Her free hand drifted between her legs, fingers pressing against the fabric of her jeans as she took another drag. The cigarette was half-gone now, the ash trembling at the tip. She didn’t care. The heat pooling low in her belly was all that mattered. Sean watched her, his gaze dark and unreadable, as she lost herself in the rhythm of it—drag, hold, exhale, moan. Her hips rocked subtly against her own touch, the friction just enough to tease. The room smelled like smoke and something else, something musky and electric. Chain-smoking, dizzy, she barely noticed when he finally spoke again. “I’m going to bring you out now,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “You’ll still be horny. Still want me. But you’ll worry I don’t feel the same.” You will want to go to bed and when you do you will go in your room and play with yourself while you are smoking. You will take a large drag and hold it as you come. You will do this until you have 3 orgasms. Rebecca stumbled to her room on unsteady legs, the cigarette still clutched between her fingers. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment, she just stood there, swaying slightly, the nicotine buzzing in her veins like a live wire. The urge was sudden, overwhelming—her free hand slipping beneath the waistband of her jeans before she could question it. Across the apartment, Sean settled into the worn leather chair in the study, the desk lamp casting long shadows as he flipped open a notebook. The page was already filled with neat, precise script—dates, times, dosages. Day 3: Subject R exhibits accelerated conditioning. Smoking triggers heightened sexual response as predicted. His pen hovered over the paper, then added: Resistance to memory retrieval remains strong. Proceed with caution. He glanced at the closed door down the hall, listening to the faint creak of bedsprings. The first orgasm hit her like a train. Rebecca arched off the bed, cigarette clamped between her teeth as her fingers worked furiously. The smoke burned her lungs, but the pain only sharpened the pleasure—bright and electric, lighting up every nerve ending. She held the drag until her vision blurred, until the climax ripped through her with a force that left her gasping. Smoke poured from her lips in a ragged scream, the taste of ash and something darker on her tongue. Sean’s pen scratched across the page. Physical response exceeds projections. Suggest increasing nicotine dosage tomorrow. He paused, tapping the pen against his temple. The formula was buried deep in her mind, locked behind layers of conditioned obedience and fabricated memories. But the cracks were starting to show—in the way her hips stuttered when he spoke, in the way she’d whimpered his name without realizing it. He smirked, jotting down another note: Prepare hypnosis session for tomorrow. Focus on lab access codes. The second cigarette was already lit by the time Rebecca came down from the first high. Her hands shook as she brought it to her lips, the ember glowing in the dim room. This time, she dragged slower, deeper, letting the heat pool in her chest before exhaling through her nose. The buzz hit faster now, sharper, curling low in her belly like a live wire. Her fingers slipped lower, pressing against slick heat, and she choked back a moan. Sean’s hands should be here, the thought surfaced unbidden, followed by a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with nicotine. In the study, Sean leaned back, listening to the muffled sounds through the wall. The rhythmic creak of the bed, the hitched breaths—he didn’t need to see her to know exactly how she looked right now: flushed, trembling, his. His fingers tightened around the pen. Subject’s dependence on nicotine now paired with sexual gratification. Conditioning successful. He underlined the last word twice. Rebecca’s third orgasm built like a storm, slow and inevitable. She dragged hard on the cigarette, holding the smoke as her back bowed off the mattress. The world narrowed to the pulse between her legs, the burn in her lungs, the voice in her head that sounded like his: Good girl. Just like that. She came with a shuddering cry, smoke erupting from her lips in a cloud as her body convulsed. The cigarette tumbled from her fingers, scorching the sheets, but she barely noticed—already reaching for the next one. Sean closed the notebook with a quiet snap. The formula would be his soon enough. But for now, he had other plans. Rising from the desk, he loosened the collar of his shirt and headed for her door. She’d be pliant now, eager. Perfect. His hand hovered over the knob, listening to the rasp of her breath inside. The smell of coffee hit Rebecca first—rich and bitter, cutting through the lingering haze of last night’s cigarettes. She blinked against the morning light filtering through the curtains, her bare feet padding across the cool hardwood floor. The apartment was quiet, save for the distant sizzle of bacon and the low hum of a radio tuned to some forgotten station. Normal. Safe. The words settled over her like a well-worn blanket. Sean stood at the stove, his back to her, spatula in hand. The sight of him—broad shoulders, the familiar slope of his neck—sent a flicker of warmth through her chest. Mine, some primal part of her whispered, though she couldn’t remember why. He turned, catching her stare, and offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sleep okay?” he asked, nudging a plate of eggs toward the empty spot at the table. Rebecca slid into the chair, her fingers curling around the steaming mug he’d left for her. The ceramic was chipped at the rim, the ghost of some past life. “Yeah,” she murmured, though the dreams—if they were dreams—still clung to the edges of her mind. White walls. Needles. A man in a lab coat whose face dissolved like smoke every time she reached for it. She took a sip of coffee, the heat searing her tongue. “Why are we doing this?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. Sean smiles and says, “What day is it?” She says, “ddddaaay” and she is under. Sean stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, the motion deliberate. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and fixed Rebecca with a gaze that made the room shrink around them. “Listen,” he said, voice smooth as silk over gravel. “What we’re doing—it’s bigger than us. I work for people who can make sure what happened to you never happens to anyone else. But I need you to remember something.” Rebecca’s fingers twitched toward the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. She didn’t remember picking it up, but suddenly it was in her hands, the cellophane crinkling under her fingertips. “Bigger than us,” she echoed, the words tasting foreign. Her tongue felt heavy, her thoughts syrupy. “Dr. Kolk’s office,” Sean continued, watching the way her pupils dilated at the name. “There was a computer. Do you remember?” The memory surfaced like a bubble in tar—blurry, distorted, but there. White walls. The hum of fluorescent lights. A sleek monitor reflecting the glow of a screensaver. “Yes,” she whispered, the word escaping before she could question it. “Good girl.” Sean leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. His fingers brushed hers as he guided the lighter into her palm. “You’re sitting at his desk. You log into the computer.” The lighter clicked, the flame casting shadows under his eyes. “Tell me exactly what you do.” The smoke hit her lungs before she realized she’d taken a drag. The nicotine coiled around her thoughts, sharpening the image in her mind: fingers on a keyboard, the glow of the monitor, the faint smell of antiseptic. “Rjohnson,” she murmured, exhaling smoke through her nose. “Then 440698231rj6.” Sean’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on her wrist. “What happens next?” The question hooked into her brain like a fishbone. Rebecca’s breath hitched. The memory fragmented—static, white noise, the taste of copper in her mouth. “I—I don’t—” Her free hand flew to her temple, nails digging into skin. He recognizes the agitation and needs to get her away from that feeling, her barriers are bending but not fully breaking. He says, “Take a big drag off your cigarette.” She does and holds the smoke and the agitation goes away and she is horny. “He says, you will not remember this conversation. What you will remember is while you were his prisoner he made you work for him becuase of your skills.” You will take a drag of your cigarette and inhale deeply as you exhale you will forget the converation, but will do as i have told. Whne you wake up you will remember the user name and password. You will be so excited and horny that you will kissme. She comes out of it and it hits her. “I remember, the user name is rjohnson and the password is 440698231rj6. She Jumps up excited and thanks him and kisses him hard, they engage in the kiss for a few seconds Her lips brushed his—warm, tentative, tasting of nicotine and something desperate. Then she recoiled, cheeks flushing crimson as if she’d just realized what she’d done. Sean watched, silent, as Rebecca fumbled for her cigarette with trembling fingers, the ember trembling at its tip like a second heartbeat. The drag she took was deep enough to make her eyes water. She held it—one, two, three seconds—before exhaling through her nose in twin streams. The effect was immediate: her pupils dilated, her thighs pressed together, and a soft, involuntary noise escaped her throat. “I—I need to—” she stammered, already halfway off the couch before finishing the sentence. The bathroom door clicked shut behind her. Sean listened to the rustle of fabric, the sharp inhale, the muffled moan that followed. He didn’t need to see her to know exactly how she looked—knees spread, back arched, cigarette clamped between her teeth as her fingers worked furiously between her thighs. He leaned back against the couch, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. The apartment smelled like sex and nicotine, thick enough to taste. Rebecca’s fingers trembled as she took another drag, the smoke curling around her flushed face. The nicotine hit her bloodstream like a live wire, sparking another wave of heat between her legs. She didn’t remember stripping, but her jeans were pooled around her ankles now, her shirt rucked up under her breasts. The mirror above the sink fogged with her breath as she came with a choked gasp, her back slamming against the tiles. The second orgasm built slower, deeper. She dragged hard on the cigarette, holding the smoke until her vision blurred at the edges. Sean’s voice echoed in her skull—good girl, just like that—as her fingers circled faster. When it hit, she bit down on the filter to stifle her scream, the ember flaring bright in the dim light. Ash scattered across her bare stomach like fallen stars. Outside, Sean stubbed out his cigarette and checked his watch. Seven minutes. Right on schedule. He stood, stretching his arms overhead, and listened to the soft whimper that escaped under the bathroom door. His lips curled. She’d be pliant now. Perfect. The shower water hit Rebecca’s skin like needles—sharp, stinging, just shy of too hot. She stood under the spray, eyes closed, fingers tracing the cigarette burn on her thigh without realizing she was doing it. The steam curled around her, thick with the scent of cheap soap and something darker, something metallic clinging to the back of her throat. When she stepped out, the mirror was fogged except for two handprints where she’d braced herself, fingers splayed like starfish. Sean was waiting by the bed, the bong on the nightstand glinting under the lamplight. It wasn’t glass—too utilitarian for that—but some kind of military-grade plastic with a chamber that swirled faintly blue. He watched her drip onto the tiles, a cigarette already lit between his fingers. “Can you remember anything else?” he asked, exhaling smoke through his nose. “We need to know what files we’re looking for.” Rebecca toweled her hair absently, water trickling down her spine. “It’s right there,” she muttered, pressing her palm to her forehead like she could physically push the memory out. “But I can’t—I can’t pull it out.” Her voice cracked on the last word. Sean smiled. Not the warm one from breakfast. This was all teeth. “I have an idea.” She froze, the towel slipping from her fingers. “What?” “What day is it?” The room tilted. The question hooked behind her ribs and yanked. Her knees hit the mattress before she realized she’d fallen, her vision tunneling to the cigarette he held out—an anchor in the sudden storm. She took it mechanically, the paper sticking to her wet lips. Sean’s fingers traced her jaw. “You’re going to make love to me,” he murmured, thumb pressing into the hinge of her mouth until she inhaled. “It’s what you’ve always wanted.” The smoke curled down her throat, thicker than before, sweetened with something chemical. “You’ll smoke while you fuck me. Chain-smoke cigarettes.” He nudged the bong toward her with his knee. “And you’ll smoke this. Do you understand?” Rebecca blinked, slow as syrup. “Yes.” The word tasted like copper. Her fingers twitched toward the bong. “What’s in it?” He stopped and smiles, “It is what you always have, a mixture of Herion and Meth, it will help open your mind and the orgasms you have from it are the most powerfull ever.” She smiles. “Yes powerful.” The orgasms will make you remember the files. The towel slipped from Rebecca’s fingers before she even registered his command, pooling at her feet like a discarded second skin. Sean stood, stripping off his shirt with the same practiced ease he’d used to light her cigarettes—no hesitation, no wasted movement. His belt buckle clinked against the hardwood as it fell, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Naked now, he guided her backward with a palm between her shoulder blades until her calves hit the mattress. She sat abruptly, the springs groaning under her weight, the cigarette still dangling from her lips. “Keep smoking,” he murmured, nudging her thighs apart with his knee. The ember flared as she inhaled obediently, holding the smoke in lungs already burning with nicotine. His tongue dragged up her slit before she could exhale—slow, deliberate—and her back arched off the bed with a choked gasp. Smoke leaked from her nostrils in thin streams as he worked her, alternating between broad, wet strokes and sharp flicks that made her thighs tremble. The cigarette trembled between her fingers, ash scattering across her stomach like gray snow. Five minutes. She counted them in the pulse between her legs, in the way her vision blurred from lack of oxygen each time she took another drag without exhaling properly. By the fourth cigarette, her clit throbbed under his tongue, oversensitive and electric, every nerve ending screaming for relief. When he finally pulled away, her thighs were slick with spit and arousal, her breath coming in ragged pants around the filter clamped between her teeth. Sean loomed over her, pupils blown wide, his own arousal pressed against her thigh. “On top,” he ordered, flipping her onto him with a grip that left fingerprints. She straddled his hips, the bong materializing in her hands before she could question it—cold, heavy, the water inside sloshing ominously. “Hit it while you ride me.” His hands guided her hips down onto him, the stretch making her whimper around the cigarette. The glass mouthpiece was cool against her lips, smoother than the cigarettes’ rough paper. Rebecca inhaled slowly, deeply, her lungs expanding as the milky smoke curled up the chamber. “Keep pulling,” Sean murmured beneath her, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. The seconds stretched—five, ten, the water bubbling ominously—until his voice cut through the haze: “Hold it.” She froze, the smoke trapped in her lungs like a live current. Her thighs trembled as she ground down on him, the dual sensations of fullness and asphyxiation making her vision pulse at the edges. The orgasm built like a pressure cooker, her muscles locking as Sean thrust upward, his fingers digging into her flesh. At twenty-three seconds, it detonated—her back arching violently as the smoke erupted from her mouth in a ragged scream. “FuuuuuUUUUUCK—” The word shattered into incoherence, her nails raking down Sean’s chest as white-hot pleasure seared through her nervous system. The bong was in her hands again before she’d caught her breath, her movements automatic. Another hit—deeper this time—the chemical sweetness coating her tongue as Sean flipped her onto her back. Her legs hooked around his waist as he drove into her, the pace punishing. “What were in the files?” he demanded, his voice guttural. Rebecca’s answer dissolved into a moan as another orgasm ripped through her, smoke pouring from her nostrils in twin streams. He shoved a cigarette between her teeth. She inhaled reflexively, the nicotine sharpening the meth-heroin cocktail already scorching through her veins. “Project—ah!—Project Pandora,” she gasped, her hips stuttering against his. “Human—nngh—human neural mapping.” Sean pistoned into her harder, his thumb circling her clit as she took another bong hit. The words tumbled out between spasms: “They—fuck!—they found a way to—OH GOD—to imprint skills. Languages. Combat. Through—through synaptic override—” “Rebecca,” Sean murmured against her sweat-slick neck, his hips snapping into her with calculated precision. “You’ve been wonderful.” Her moan vibrated through his chest as she took another shuddering drag from the bong, her pupils blown wide under the dim bedroom light. “You’re going to come out of the trance in a few minutes,” he continued, watching the way her thighs clenched around his waist. “And when you do—” He thrust deeper, grinning when her breath hitched. “—you’ll remember everything.” Her fingernails scored his back as she held the smoke, her body trembling on the edge of another climax. Sean slowed his pace just enough to make her whimper. “How I kidnapped you,” he whispered, tracing the shell of her ear with his tongue. “Drugged you. Turned you into this.” He tapped the bong still clutched in her hands. “You’ll still want me.” Her hips jerked desperately, chasing friction. “You’ll wake up mid-orgasm. Understand?” She nodded frantically, smoke leaking from her nostrils. “Good girl. Now—” He slammed into her, his voice dropping to a growl. “Hit it again and hold the smoke as you come.” The bong gurgled as Rebecca inhaled, the milky swirl of drugs flooding her lungs. Sean pistoned into her without mercy, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. Her back arched off the mattress, the scream trapped behind clenched teeth as the orgasm detonated—wave after wave of white-hot pleasure short-circuiting her nervous system. Smoke poured from her lips in a continuous stream, her vision fracturing at the edges as consciousness crashed over her like ice water. Hands yanking her into a van. Needle pricks. Chained to a wall. The lights the loud noise constant. The taste of cigarettes forced between her lips. Memories unspooled behind her eyelids, vivid and nauseating. Rebecca’s eyes flew open; her climax still ripping through her as the truth settled like a stone in her gut. Sean watched her with detached amusement, his thrusts unrelenting. “There she is,” he crooned, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “Miss me?” Her scream tore through the apartment, raw and ragged, the cloud of heroin-meth smoke erupting from her lungs like a fucking exorcism. “AHHHHHHH Fuckkkkk!!!!!—you bastard—!” The orgasm dies. Rebecca’s fists flailed against his chest, but her limbs were liquid, her muscles slack from the cocktail of drugs and orgasms. Sean caught her wrists effortlessly, pinning them to the mattress as he kept fucking her, his rhythm unbroken. Her hips stuttered between resistance and surrender; her body betraying her with every twitch of pleasure. “I hate you—” she gasped, right as he angled deeper, and her back arched off the bed. “—oh God, I hate—” Another thrust cut her off, her moan dissolving into a sob. Sean watched her unravel with clinical detachment, his fingers tightening around her wrists. “What day is it?” he asked, his voice calm amidst the storm of her hyperventilating breaths.