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This story is a predominantly smoking fetish. So sorry. However the female protagonist is clearly quite chunky! Some may enjoy, but I guess many won't! The Second Husband You will never guess, but I said yes! Also, it will not escape you to know, I can’t help it that I smoke, and yes, I like to smoke. It is all totally Angie Johns fault, which was in turn was all her two-year older brother Graham’s fault. Anyway, long story shortened somewhat is that she via him learnt to smoke at the weekends. Which meant that as she practiced if that what you want to call it after school during the week, and as I was hanging out with her because she was such a cool friend, I also learnt to smoke. As together we slowly let call it “practiced” and understood how to smoke, making ourselves look as stylish and the coolest girl out there as possible. Nicotine and its talented evil hooks made a life for itself in my body, almost like a parasite, as it made itself very much noticeable. As such I then over time I learned to love to smoke. I had to. So, for my delight in the process of continuously and repetitively filling my lungs with that rather wonderful stuff – the nicotine rich smoke, I now smoke too much. This brings me to Simon who has just attempted to quietly cough as he rolled over to talk to me as I have just lit my very much needed second cigarette of the morning. "Just how can you smoke so much Liz?" he asks me with admiration whilst resting his head on his hand as his elbow is wedged against the pillow. He has asked me before, several times in fact. It’s a normal conversation for us. Its 7 am and I have been awake for what seems like ages, we were out late, we should still be sleeping, but my needs must, and I am already smoking my second cigarette of the day. We've now been together two years and he so loves me. At least I know he loves me smoking. And I do so love him, honestly, I do love Simon. I try and sometimes, if I remember to keep my eyes open, watch the way he looks at me as I fill my lungs with smoke. It’s almost like if I'm smoking just for him. He is in awe of what I do. I love that I can do that for him. But the truth is I'm smoking because I need to. I really do. Not for him. For me. I really do need to smoke. All because of Angie and her ‘evil’ brother, having a bit of fun, now I am here, over ten years later and I am helplessly and truly addicted to my cigarettes. Back then Angie persuaded me that it was its sexy on a Saturday morning to walk down the street together with cigarette between our fingers, wiggling our hips and getting the boys to look at us as we bathed them in our exhaled smoke. It was fun, as they did stand there and watch us. We were so cool! Now I don’t know what to think. As I need to stop after walking halfway down the high street and have sit down on the bench to have a quick rest whilst I enjoy my smoke rather than keep walking. The men probably look at me now because some fat sexy girl has stopped to sit on the planter to have a smoke. It’s not fun, it’s not a show, it’s a necessity. But as I sit, I get to watch the latest generation of girls giggling as they are sauntering down the street with no care in the world. I did that once. Almost every morning I cough violently, spitting up and quickly swallowing what must be almost a swimming pool worth of phlegm. Granted it’s not every morning, honestly. This morning it was no different. He tells me I'm so sexy when I do. I know I am not. He is lying. I’ve seen myself cough in the mirror. I look awful. I screw my face up, my chin disappears, and my wrinkles deepen, I look real shit. I know I do. I don't understand him sometimes. Even I’m annoyed by my smoking. I know it’s disgusting, and my lungs almost hurt me until I hurriedly get my cigarette lit. If he were a smoker, he would understand the pain. But he doesn't. He just gets very turned on with me smoking. I just wake up and then need to smoke a cigarette as fast as I can. I know I smell disgusting, and my mouth taste like shit, but for some twisted reason he still loves me. No sooner have I lit a cigarette in bed is he moving my hand and filter out the way so that he can passionately kiss my soft body and mouth, and I don’t understand why. I really wish he would wait for three minutes as I need my cigarette, not a kiss and a grope, however nice they actually are. Last night after a bottle of wine and yes maybe way too much vodka afterwards he kindly asked me, and I agree to try and to do a sexy dance for him in just my newest sexy underwear. I had bought the set just for the evening. I knew it would not stay on me for long, but hey, I wanted to be as sexy girlfriend as possible for him. How embarrassing. I dangled my cigarette and even after all the drink the smoke still kept burning my eyes. But I held on. I danced for him the best I could. I wiggled my large hips and stroked by large overhanging belly and of course squeezed breasts for him. He likes me doing that. He loves me. All of me. I can't imagine what kind of face I must have been making. As to me it wasn't a sexy smile. It could have been pain. It wasn’t a fast dance; I can’t do that anymore. I tried to be sultry. I even flicked off my red bra and enjoyed the moment as I let my breasts flop out for him. As I danced, they swayed, swung, bounced on top of my belly, I jiggled them around for him. The smoke from my cigarette swirled around me too. But my lungs and my non-existent fitness levels are such that before I could even contemplate romantically trying to slide my knickers down my thighs I started coughing violently. My cigarette dropped to the floor. I only went and burnt the carpet. Again. By my bedroom the floor is awful. I need a new carpet. I bent over coughing. I coughed so much. I could taste disgusting ball of phlegm and fresh tar into my mouth and just had to swallow. I had nowhere to spit. And when it was done, and my lungs had settled I desperately reached over to light a new cigarette. But before I could light it, he then kissed me. And he said he loved me. I could easily see how turned on he was. It didn’t take long with his help and encouragement for my matching enormous red mesh knickers to finally reach the floor this time. For a bit we had great sex but again I couldn’t come. We had to stop well before he or I could. My lungs couldn't take it the action. It was too much like exercise, all that bouncing. I rolled off him wheezing. Simon kindly lit me a new cigarette and handed it to me, I lay there hauling smoke in till I calmed down. No sooner than I was breathing, and inhaling smoke properly again had he jumped up and straddled me and whilst I smoked, he sat there looking at my eyes whilst he tugged his large member above my belly and breasts as I focused on repetitively pulling smoke into my lungs, I just had to chain lit another cigarette and kept smoking as he kept tugging. I guess I should have given him a blow job, but hey I needed my cigarette first. Before I had finished the second cigarette, he finally came over me his salty cream sprawling over my white sagging breasts. We soon mopped up, stubbed out my cigarette, kissed, and then rolled over and soon both went to sleep. Last night had also been our two-year anniversary. Simon planned a perfect night out. He surprised me by taking me to the restaurant where we had our first date. In the two years since we had visited it had become much fancier and as such much more expensive whilst I had certainly got cheaper. He had made a reservation and saved up enough money to take me. Somehow, he spent months planning it without telling me. But when we got there, and he asked for the outside smoking section they told her there didn't have one anymore. I could tell Simon was crushed. He looked at me, her eyes were watering. I was heartbroken but since leaving the taxi I was needing a cigarette. He had put so much effort into making such a special night he had forgotten to ask the important question. I wanted to tell him it was fine and to take the table. That I would hold on and just take a couple of smoke breaks between courses and to make it through the meal. But the words couldn't come out of my mouth. I was too devoted to my addiction, even if I hated it. So, we went to a burger place around the corner that had an outside seating. It was cold out. I could tell Simon was uncomfortable, he was shivering. But I didn’t care, I needed to smoke. Plus, I got to eat extra onion rings and importantly extra-large fries. It was a win-win. "I'm so sorry about this, honey." I told him as smoke poured out my mouth. "Don't worry Liz. You need to smoke." He spoke. "I certainly don’t want you to have to go without your cigarettes any more than you do." Oh he had no idea what he was saying. He didn't understand. "But you put so much planning into our night, and I ruined it." I said. "Baby, I love the fact that you smoke. It’s part of who you are. I don't want to see you without a cigarette." He said, "It’s really simple. It’s my fault. I should have checked about the smoking section before making the reservation. I'm so sorry I made you feel that way." Just two weeks ago we went to the beach. It was a beautiful sunny day, and we went to a peaceful secluded spot. It was hot, and I was too hot too. Simon did all the heavy lifting while I sat in the beach chair and eat and of course smoked. But the wind was so strong. It was a struggle to light each cigarette and they just wouldn't stay lit. Unfortunately, I eventually threw a huge shouting fit and swore at him. I needed to sit there, smoke and take in some rays. It was too stressful. I could tell he was hurt. I think he almost cried. He took the wind being too strong personally. He should have brought with him the windbreak he told me he had. We had to leave an hour later. Only finally, in the car, and I could relax, I could easily light a cigarette and once I had calmed my cravings I apologized. But eventually he turned to me and said- "Don’t ever apologize to me. It’s my fault. I got in between you and your addiction, and I should have known better." He was practically sobbing. "You didn't deserve to be put through that. You needed your cigarettes, and you couldn't smoke there. And it’s my entire fault. I'm so sorry." This morning the idiot wants to go hiking. But with all the wine and vodka, I can’t even think about walking that much. I really don’t want to go anywhere. My lungs certainly won’t allow it. And I have obligation to them, before him. I do. My addiction comes first. It always does. It’s a blessing, but also a curse. But I've given in completely to it. I need to smoke. I will at least attempt to walk, but I know once we set off, I will soon stop and sit on a nearby wall and rest my legs and feed my lungs and give them what they really need. He once asked me how I started smoking. The truth is I really can't remember. I know it happened one afternoon with Angie, but I can’t remember the how and the why since then I've always smoked. I now really can’t remember not smoking. Another time as we bought another carton of cigarettes at the supermarket, he again asked me how much I smoked. And I answered that I didn't know. He said she would find out. That day he sat down with a notebook and marked down every cigarette I smoked. But somewhere around me opening my second pack he got rather so aroused we went into the bedroom and didn’t really come out, so from then on, he lost count. So, all I know is I can safely say I smoke more than one pack a day, maybe two. So today, I am still laying here in bed, about chaining into my third cigarette, while Simon looks at me with admiration, his hand just cupping the best he can my breast, they make his fingers look tiny and pathetic, as he tweaks and plays with my equally large, and now due to his twiddling, rather erect nipples as he is waiting patiently until I am ready to finally get up. I will do after this cigarette. He then looks at me in the eyes as the smoke drifts between us and asks. "If you had to choose between me and your cigarettes, who would you choose?" I pause, I stare at him and don't answer. I can’t. My mouth moves, I want my lips to say that I choose Simon. But I'm lying. I love my cigarettes too much. I would never choose anything over them. I can't answer that question. To fill the time and space, my hand moves and the filter reaches the safety of my lips, I just take a deep drag and fill my lungs. It feels so much better. I blow another cloud of nicotine depleted smoke into the void between us. With that he grinned "That's exactly what I wanted to hear." Simon says still smiling. "I love that devotion. You're actually already married...” he paused and as confusion scrawled across my face he looked at me then smiled “…to your cigarettes." I chuckled at that statement, and I looked at him with curiosity and before I have finished exhaling there is already a thick fog of smoke between us, but I have to just urgently drag on my filter again. "Will you marry me?" he says reaching behind him and producing a little black velvet covered box. "Liz, can I be your second husband?" The End

Welcome to the Fat Loving Stoners thread! I just wanted to make a thread where we can all hang out and talk about one of my favorite things: **! I'm a daily medicinal smoker and I love it all. Smoking, dabbing, vaping, and especially edibles. It helps me so much... the munchies help my gain, and then the happy, pain relief effects help me push through when I'm way too full 🤤 Here's my favorite bowl, his name is Henri! Here's some gifs of me toking 💚 come smoke with me!