Girl on the Net

Just as there’s something exciting about hearing the letterbox go and seeing a handwritten card instead of some random spam from Sky Broadband, so my heart leaps when my inbox pings and instead of a boring press release it’s a guest blog pitch from Jenby! WOOOO! Today the fabulous @JenetalTorture is back with another gloriously fun, sexy account of a kink I’ve never tried myself: being a human ashtray.

Smokeshow – use me as your human ashtray

First, some important context: I’ve never smoked in my life. It seems incredible given all the other shit I’ve done, but I’ve never so much as held a lit cigarette between my lips.

Funnily enough as a kinky, poly, transfem adult baby, peer pressure never really worked on me. Conformity is less a lifeline and more a kink to be indulged as and when I feel like it (see also: twinning and bimbofication).

So given this fact you can be safe in the knowledge that I’m completely impartial when I say:

Smoking is fucking hot.

I’m not going to delve into all the reasons why because that’s not the main focus of this post, and the last thing I want is for anyone who’s successfully kicked the habit (least of all the proprietor of this blog, hi GotN!) to relapse. Suffice it to say while I’ve never shown an iota of interest in being a smoker, I have sought out, and been fascinated by, hours and hours of material related to being a human ashtray.

Forniphilia is a big thing for me. I love being functional. That wave of quiet euphoria that washes over you when you are kneeling, huddled, or stretched out fulfilling the role of an object, an appliance, or a piece of furniture, is nothing short of addictive to a subby bitch like me. The mind at once alive with excitement at being useful to your D-type, and blissfully serene at being relieved of all decisions, such as when to move, speak, and do anything beyond fulfilling your one gloriously simple purpose.

I’ve come to a lot of human ashtray porn in my time.

And yet, I’ve always been too apprehensive to try it in real life. I’d never known a smoker with whom I was intimate enough to entrust the responsibility of popping my cherry, and the kink itself filled me, as a non-smoker, with no small amount of fear. So I always imagined it would remain the stuff of fantasy.

That is until I met E.

E and I have been together for a year this week. We’re both primarily subs, so the most I’d ever indulged my ashtray kink with them is when they’d casually blow smoke in my face while enjoying a roll-up. I’d get pleasantly floaty from the fumes, but it never progressed as far as an actual scene. Until last night, when I let slip that a potential play partner had suggested it as part of a playdate.

I confessed I was nervous about the idea, and E offered to help allay this, by grabbing a bag of tobacco and leading me to the front door.

They perched on the stairs as I knelt before them, practically drooling with anticipation (which was just as well).

‘Lick,’ they said matter-of-factly, proffering a semi-rolled Rizla.

I hastily complied, running my tongue along the paper and wondering if the pleasant taste was real or whether it was my heightened, horny mind playing tricks on me.

Wasting no time I rushed to the door, my hand on the latch as I waited for E to grab their lighter and follow, but they just smiled up at me with all the nonchalance of a fellow sub who knew exactly how excited I was, and how best to take advantage.

‘I didn’t say you could stand up,’ they grinned.

Chaste, I sank back to the floor as they breezed past me and out into the front garden.

‘You’ll be punished for that.’

I let out a frightened mew, and followed, on my knees.

The front garden, while under the cover of night, was still in full view of several neighbouring houses, and the light flooding the tranquil scene from the kitchen windows definitely illuminated my kneeling figure, which only added to the frisson of excitement coursing through me.

As E began to cultivate a generous nub of ash, blowing plume after plume of smoke in my face and hastening my descent into subspace, I grew ever more frightened, and as they held the glowing mass mere millimetres from my face I felt the trepidation of years of wonder and curiosity hit critical mass.

Repeatedly, I felt my safeword bubble up behind my lips, and repeatedly, I let it fall.

It was time.

E leant forward and let a rivulet of spit ooze onto my tongue, coating it thoroughly to make sure my taste buds were protected from the encroaching onslaught. Then they tapped the ash into the waiting pool, and issued my favourite command.

‘Swallow.’

Unthinkingly, I did so, and was shocked to find how easily the flakes slipped down my throat.

‘Clearly you were always meant to be an ashtray,’ smiled E.

‘Out.’

I extended my tongue once more, now blackened and quivering, as E landed another globule of spit, and pressed the lit end of their butt to the soft flesh.

Instinctively, I reeled backwards, but with a jolt I realised there was almost no pain. Hot but not burning, the circle of ash tingled pleasantly as I curled my tongue in, shocked at how easy – and ultimately pleasurable – being a human ashtray had turned out to be.

‘Swallow,’ said E again, ‘and thank me.’

‘Thank you, my Lady,’ I breathed.

E smiled.

‘How was that?’

I beamed up at them, giddy with endorphins.

‘Well, I have a new thing,’ I said, ‘and Girl on the Net has a new guest blog.’