Train Station, Part 2

(by multiple, 22 June 1996)


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Article 11595 of alt.sex.fetish.smoking:
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From: fh23@dial.pipex.com (magnificat)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.fetish.smoking
Subject: STORY: THE TRAIN STATION. PART TWO
Date: Sat, 22 Jun 1996 20:45:39 GMT
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Eric gathered his excited thoughts together, and jumped on the next 
train to his school. Boy was he gonna have fun later, phoning this 
chick with the really sexy "in yer face" smoking style. That gave him 
one real turn-on. Pity I'm just fifteen and she looks about 23, he 
thought ruefully. But still...he was big for his age, and ..ah what
the heck. He resolved to do it. Phone her. Straight after school.
	It was one of those schooldays just determined to rub his nose 
in cigarettes. English was "The role of the cigarette in modern 
American Literature". History was "The introduction of tobacco to 
Britain". Biology...the action of tobacco tar on the cilia of the 
lungs...geography, Virginia and its crops, Soc Ed, addictions and how 
to overcome them,...shees!! Just made a guy gasp even harder for a 
Marlboro 100. 
	Eric didn't smoke a lot...he'd really just started smoking to be 
more like his elder brother Jack, but some days the habit seemed to 
be taking hold a bit. Straight after school he headed for the nearest 
phone booth, and with slightly anxious fingers, dialled the number 
Carol had so carelessly dropped.
	"Royal Infirmary, Department of Genito-Urinary Medicine," a 
voice intoned, bored.
	"C-C-Carol??" Eric stuttered, his young voice rising half an 
octave.
	"Ah, Carol...thanks so much for phoning back so promptly," the 
voice on the other end beamed. "Doctor Goldstein here, as usual." 
Eric was dumbstruck.
	"But I'm afraid the news isn't all good, my dear," the voice purred 
on mechanically.
	"Ga-ga-ga ...."
	"Now, calm down dear...it's only a slight touch of gonorrhoea," 
the voice went on, positively smiling now. "Let's face it...nothing
you haven't had before, is it?" Again Eric was shocked to silence.
That gorgeous girl...surely not? All clapped out??
	"You just drop by for some penicillin, Carol dear," the doctor 
instructed,  "and we'll have you back on the streets in a couple of 
weeks. Right as rain. Ready for a construction site on a Friday 
afternoon."
	Eric dropped the receiver in blind horror. 
	"Carol!! That is you dear, isn't it...." he heard as he fled across 
the busy street, narrowly escaping his own demise.
	"Mom was right!" he intoned, over and over again. "Women who 
smoke are little more than tramps and....street-walkers!" How cruelly 
does youth suffer such let-downs. And yet how often they rear their 
gloating heads. 
	At dinner he was silent, while his brother Jack and his dad 
chatted about women, apparently quite oblivious to the presence of 
his dear mother sitting there. 
	"Whadya reckon, pa?" Jack was saying. "Should I take the ugly 
broad with the loot, or the one I love on benefit cheques?"
	"Take the money, son," his dad sagely advised. "Don't make my 
mistake, and marry for love. Never works out." Dad vigorously cut up a

slice of beef. "Ya don't need money to be young, but ya sure as hell 
need it to be old!" Eric smiled, remembering Elizabeth Taylor saying 
that line in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." He loved Elizabeth Taylor. And 
Tennessee Williams.
	Eric glanced nervously at his mother, but she appeared not to be 
listening, as usual. In fact she was engrossed in an Oprah Winfrey 
show..."I married a misogynist." So he turned his gaze to his brother.

He was a fine figure of a man. Twenty-two now, tall, broad, tanned, he

was wearing army trousers and khaki sleeveless vest, showing his 
brawny arms and fresh tattoos. 
	"Death before Dishonour!" it said on his left bicep. ""God hates 
Queers!" it said on his right. The letters LOVE were inked on the 
fingers of his right hand, and HATE on his left. Bluebirds perched 
between his thumbs and forefingers. Clearly not a man to mess with, 
was his brother Jack.
	Eric envied him. Envied his easy way with women. The way he 
would nonchalantly light a cigarette, then walk straight up to the
chick, cigarette hanging from his mouth, while he stuck his cigarette
packet out at her. He got his girl. Always. Eric looked now at the
pack of Marlboro and battered zippo resting beside Jack's plate, ready
for action as soon as his bro had eaten his fill. Eric was too nervous
to smoke in front of his parents. One day he'd be tough like his
brother.
	
After dinner Eric disappeared straight to his bedroom to enjoy an 
overdue smoke himself. Sitting there amongst his action-man posters, 
he lovingly chose one of the Marlboro 100's from the sexy pack, 
placed it between his lips, and sat watching himself in the mirror. He

saw the fluffy dark hair of his upper lip almost reaching the brown of

the filter, he turned sideways to enjoy the full length of the
man-smoke as it hung from his teen-lips. Clicking his lighter in a
well-rehearsed action, he touched the flame tenderly to the end, and
watched it glow in perfect ignition. Taking a deep draw, he gently and
slowly released the comforting smoke over and around the sexy white
shaft, before inhaling deep for a second one.
	"That's better!" he thought, relaxing for the first time for hours. 
His mind darted back to poor Carol and her dose of clap. "Real pity 
that," he mused. "Maybe I'll see her again some time, though. It's 
amazing what they can do with penicillin  these days." He flicked the 
radio on, as he dug out his scrap book of film-star cuttings and pics.
It was an oldie...Madonna singing "Like a Virgin."
	He found the book with the stills from that great old movie 
Platoon. Yes! There was a great photo of Kevin Dillon...stripped to
the waist, bullet belt over his shoulder...Marlboro in his surly pink
lips. Yes, one day he'd be tough like Kevin Dillon. Smoke the cigs,
shoot the enemy, fuck the girls. But at the moment, he too was
unfortunately still a virgin.
	After the song an ad floated halfway into his reverie...."Hey there 
smoke-fetishers!" a woman husked, her voice one bottle of cough 
medicine above bronchitis. "Get a load of our new web-site at
Lifestyle Smoke Signals! No Ads, no Spams, no Gays, no Scams! You just

gotta see this site! All cards accepted!"
	Eric's mind drifted lazily on. He hadn't a clue what the woman 
was talking about, really. Smoke fetisher? Spam? He had heard of 
gay...something his brother had clearly warned him about, but he 
knew he wasn't one of them. They wore aftershave and dyed their 
hair.
	His eye fell on Christian Slater now, smoking a Kent 100 in 
"Pump up the Volume." He played a real cool dude in that film. And he 
got the girl. Thinking about it made his dick start to move about in
his jeans. He looked at the clock. Was it that time already?
	Methodically yet mechanically he pulled out his plonker, and 
started his routine, the way his brother had taught him, years ago in 
their tree house. Jack had showed him how lighting a smoke and 
keeping it in your mouth while you jerk off increases the pleasure. 
Feels sensuous in the mouth. Heavy, warm, comforting. Now he 
always did it that way. In fact, sometimes Jack and he did it for each

other, when his older bro was in that sort of funny mood.
	Smoking and stroking he came to a speedy teen climax. He 
noticed a bit of semen had landed on Kev-Boy's left tit, so he gently 
and affectionately wiped it off.	
	Eric definitely wanted to be a real tough he-man when he got 
older. That way he'd never be a dirty lousy fag like his brother had 
warned. 

Two years passed. Eric worked out every day. He increased his 
smoking. But he remained resolutely virgin. Somehow he just couldn't 
find a girl he wanted to get that close to. "Some day she'll come
along, son," his mother always comforted. "You'll know her when you
meet her." He hoped so.
	He wanted his first love to be young, fresh, pure and chaste...the 
exact opposite of that old crone he could see sitting on the station
seat this morning. Suddenly the old woman caught sight of him, and, 
swaying unsteadily she started towards him. "Cripes! Oh no!" he 
thought. "Spare me, please!"
	"Ya got a spare smoke, sonny?" the woman croaked. Eric 
looked at her. She wasn't really all that old, after all. Just really
let herself go. She stuck out a nicotine-stained finger and thumb to
grasp the cigarette he offered, and smiled showing teeth like the keys
on his old granny's piano. Yellow and gappy. Her breath stank of gin,
even at this time of the morning, and in fact he noticed a bottle
poking out the corner of her white leather purse. "Carol," it had
written on the side in brass letters.
	"Yer looking for a good time, sonny?" the woman went on, after 
she'd devoured half the cigarette in one draw. "I know a good place 
right under the station platform...there's cardboard boxes there..."
	Eric staggered back, as the realisation dawned. "OH NO!!!" his 
brain screamed. This crone...this hag....this prostitute wreck...was 
Carol, that woman of two years ago. As the awful truth sank in, he 
staggered down the platform, anywhere to get away from her....
	"Gents" a doorsign said, and he gratefully tumbled in, and lit a 
smoke with shaking hands. Taking his place at a stall, he pulled out 
his cock for a badly-needed pee, and only then noticed a huge barn 
door of a man just two stalls away. The man was wearing torn jeans, 
filthy white shredded T-shirt, and there was a 10 inch Havana clamped 
in his mouth. 
	The man was grinning down at him. "Had a bit of a fright, son?" 
he leered.






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