Coach Johnson's Cigars (mm hypno smoking)

They say you never forget your first time.

But in my case, I can only barely remember it. But yes, I do remember. I was just a kid I think, in college probably, but still living at home with my mom and my dad and my big brother.

It was so long ago, and it was summer. It was definitely summer.

Confession time: I admit I had already smoked a friend’s pipe a couple of times by then, sure; I guess that I’d been just a little curious to try, and it was sort of fun. But cigars? No. You would have to be kidding. They didn’t interest me at all; they were for older men, bigger men, hairier men. Not for me. I was really quite a skinny, scrawny college kid back then, and cigars just didn’t seem right for guys like me.

Besides, they kind of smelled bad.

Now, Coach Johnson, he smoked cigars. Real manly cigars.

He was our parent’s neighbor, and he was often seen outside, or on his screened-in porch, sitting in his shade, ensconced in his chair, puffing on some great big smoke, and he looked ok with one, looked sort of natural with one of those fat, long stogies in his hand. But he was bigger, and muscular. Hairier. He was a tall, broad shouldered man and the sight of a giant cigar in his lips looked almost good. For him, it seemed alright.

When he wasn’t teaching, or training, or leading our school’s team, the coach used to like to sit on his porch and smoke quietly, and watch my brother and me when we were out back tossing a ball around. And the smell of his smoke used to drift across our yard.

And my brother sometimes made fun of Coach Johnson and his habit.

See, my brother was the same as me. In fact, maybe he was a little more so. When he had found out that I’d smoked my friend’s pipe, even so few times, he had laughed at me, and had given me a hard time – and told me it was a stupid thing to do, and then he had boxed my ears, the way older brothers will. That’s the way he was.

And my brother didn’t think much of Coach Johnson or his cigars. He sometimes called Mr. Johnson ‘Mr. Stogieman’ behind his back, but no harm was done.

Then one morning, everything began to change.

One bright summer Saturday morning when our folks were away, I caught my brother actually smoking a cigar. I couldn’t believe it, really, not the way he had always carried on. But there he was sitting in our back yard in the lounge chair, feet up, in nothing but his gym shorts, facing away from me, and I could see he was smoking slowly on some fat log of leaf, and apparently enjoying it.

He didn’t notice me behind him so I watched incredulously. He put that goliath cigar to his lips, it was so big around, and he pulled, and I watched the smoke ease out, and he smiled happily, and I saw his eyes flutter closed a second. He just looked so very relaxed, almost as though in a trance or something, as he took the cigar and held it under his nose and inhaled the scent. Then he exhaled a deep sigh of content.

Should have jumped at him and scared him? Or shouted some teasing name at him? Sure. That’s what brothers are supposed to do. And the way he had boxed my ears over the pipe incident, well, he sure would have deserved it.

But I was so taken aback by the sight. This caught me so off guard. I guess you would have to have known my brother to understand.

He was just laying there in our chaise lounge under the bright blue sky, no shirt, no shoes nor socks, just his skimpy gym shorts on, and a thick blanket of his smoke surrounding him. And he placed that immense stogie back between his teeth, let his eyes close, and blew out another huge cloud of smoke, and then settled back still deeper into the cushions. Then – I definitely couldn’t believe this – he eased his hand down his shorts, and began to play with himself.

In full daylight. In full view. It was like he didn’t care at all who might see, and though by now I was close enough behind for him to have sensed me, he didn’t, and he just continued to smoke and stroke – a little faster now. And then I watched him pull his dick right out of his shorts, and it was full length and hard and he began to masturbate it in front of me. For real. Right in front of me. I stopped breathing.

I swear, catching my own brother in this most humiliating act, I should have done something. After all, a couple years earlier, he had caught me with my hand down my pants and had never let me live it down. I should have grabbed this one chance to get back at him but I couldn’t. I was almost embarrassed for him. Here was my big brother, so naked in the bright sunshine, so complacent, almost in a trance, smiling vacantly, his hand running up and down his shaft faster and faster, not a care in the world while he smoked his cigar still harder and harder.

And his smoke grew thicker around him as he beat.

I didn’t stay to watch him shoot. It’s not easy to say why but I just didn’t want him to know that I’d seen. I stole away into the safe quiet of the house.

There was something too strange going on here. Masturbating in front of me; he had to have known I was there. And that monster of a cigar? He hated those things; he always said so, but something was changed. I decided to put it out of my mind but I couldn’t completely.

One more thing: I was pretty sure that Coach Johnson had been on his porch watching the whole time.

Anyway, all day long, I knew something was happening, or had happened, yet I couldn’t figure out what. But obviously that had to have been one of the coach’s stogies that my brother had been smoking. Perhaps my brother had just gotten interested and had decided to try it. Mr. Johnson was a nice man; he would have offered a cigar to anyone who might ask. Perhaps that was it. But still, masturbating in the yard. And that happy, relaxed expression on my brother’s face – it was like he had been drugged, or mesmerized, or something. I couldn’t give it a rest.

While I agonized, the bright sunny morning turned into a bright sunny afternoon – and still I wondered.

Curiosity got the better of me later that same day. I found myself on the side of the yard facing Mr. Johnson’s place and saw him behind the screen in the shade, smoking again and watching me, and finally, knowing he was somehow involved in the mystery and being too curious for my own good, I went up the steps – just to say hello.

I don’t know exactly what compelled me to do this.

But the coach invited me into his porch with a warm smile, and he even offered me a Coke, and his most comfortable chair.

And so I entered the dark confines of his private lair and found myself surrounded by the heavy smell of his cigar. It was an enormous and manly looking stick, but as I said at the start, I’d never really liked them much, and the smoke hung in the air around me. It was awfully strong, sure, but it also smelled rich and sweet like incense, and I was forced to breathe it in, and it filled me and began to have an effect, a very strange effect indeed. It felt a little like I was getting high, and it felt a little confusing, but I ignored the sensation.

It was such a fine warm day outside, and his porch was cool and inviting, and somewhere off in some distant yard, there was the relaxing, steady buzzing sound of a lawnmower.

I can remember that Coach was not wearing a shirt that afternoon. His firm pecks and nipples and broad shoulders were bare, and his body was strong and muscular. He was a well built man. He looked good. And even though the smell of his smoke was heavy, I could also smell him and smell his muscle, and he smelled athletic. He smelled good.

Anyway, I accepted the Coke, and sat down on the edge of the chair, and stammered a moment. Suddenly I didn’t know what to say. How could I start asking about my brother? I must have looked pretty green, glancing about nervously, some dumb kid out of place and acting kind of stupid, but Mr. Johnson helped put me at ease. He started the conversation by asking me about college, my classes, and about my hobbies and stuff, familiar subjects I didn’t mind discussing.

And he placed his big, masculine, smoky cigar back between his full lips, and paused, and smiled at me pleasantly and let me talk – and he seemed to be eyeing me intently but I didn’t pay much attention; I was feeling more relaxed. The smoke was definitely getting to me, and I finally slid back comfortably into the chair and we continued our conversation, and the soft, reassuring sounds of summer continued around us.

The hum of the lawnmower was more distant now, but it was still there, just beyond reach, tickling my subconscious, coaxing me to relax deeper, the way a low droning sound can.

And it was becoming so easy for me to just sit there and watch the coach flourishing his great cigar while I responded to his questions; it was all so very friendly and I guess I lowered my guard a little, and I think I must have forgotten why I was there. He was speaking to me in a slow monotone about what a wonderful, peaceful day it was and how easy it was to relax, and I began to follow his words as though they were all I knew.

I was slipping into a daze, a warm, sunny, late summer afternoon kind of daze when you feel like drifting off to sleep, and as I found my ability to think becoming clouded, my eyes seemed drawn to his beautifully smoky cigar. I don’t know why, I just couldn’t take my eyes away, and he smoked on it so slowly, confidently, as he spoke to me, until I was unaware of much else, and he told me my arms and legs had became so very heavy, as though surrounded in quicksand, and I felt the warm weight of the sand bury me.

Off in the distance, the lawnmower had stopped. The afternoon had become so still, so motionless, breathless waiting. Everything was so restful, nothing would disturb us. Nothing could disturb me from the trance I was sinking into.

And then he smiled at me again, and he rose and stood before me, above me, and as the smoky haze of my mind became thicker, he began to wave his cigar right in front of my eyes, back and forth.

And I relaxed a little deeper.

I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to move; I didn’t feel like budging from my spot; I just remained there motionless, my eyes pulled from side to side in the grip of his cigar, aware only of his voice inside me.

How can I describe it? I was there yet I wasn’t there. I don’t remember being scared or anything; all I felt was a sense of peace, and a nice full, pleasant desire to relax and let go. It was really so very hypnotic, and the further I slipped into this heavy, smoky quicksand, the harder it became to think, and soon I was a mere spectator to this world, an unconcerned passenger on someone else’s travels.

In time, he paused and watched me a moment, and then he raised me up to my feet, and I followed and stood with my arms loose and head bowed, unable to move and not wanting to move, and all I could do was listen and stare vacantly at his cigar.

And I relaxed a little deeper.

He held it just above my eyes and intoned: “You like my cigar, don’t you, boy. You want my cigar, don’t you. You’d like to have my cigar, wouldn’t you.”

Now you have to remember that I honestly had never been interested in cigars, never tempted even once, so there was conflict somewhere deep down in my thickened mind. Somehow, some kind of awareness stirred inside me: what was he doing to me? No, I felt, not this, not for me, yet yes, if he said so, yes. And then again: no. I was barely conscious of what he intended and somehow I knew that I must resist – but feared I would not be able to resist.

His voice was so low and enticing and it was becoming so very hard to resist.

“Relax,” he commanded again, chasing away my concerns with a single word, “you like cigars. You want to try my cigar, don’t you boy.” The air was so still, so warm, so filled with his smoke; my awareness fading, I was hanging on his next command.

And he stood so close to me, his tall muscular frame surrounding me, his scent overwhelming me, and he continued waving his cigar right in front of my gaze, waiting for my answer. My eyes continued to follow it back and forth and I felt the beginning of a hint of desire. Yet I resisted a little longer. When no response came from my lips, he smiled, knowing I could not evade him nor escape him now. Aware that my resistance was wavering, he merely reached down inside my shorts and placed his warm hand around my cock.

I know he did it. I remember it. And yet I could not move. I could not run. My cock willingly became hard in his hand with the sensuous power of his touch, and though I could not see myself, I could feel myself, and my cock was erect and reaching out to him. My cock was under his control now, and it felt so good. Then he tugged gently on it and the pleasure shook me to the bone and my resistance became still weaker.

Yet again he spoke: “You like my cigar, don’t you. You want my cigar, don’t you. You’d like to have my cigar, wouldn’t you boy.”

My mind was losing to him. It would feel so good to say yes. No, but yes, really yes, so much. Yes.

Surrender. . .

“Yes sir,” I exhaled in a soft, slurred voice, and the surrender brought a flood of relief. It felt so good to give in to his command.

And he held his great cigar up for me to see, and then he slowly put it to my lips – and they opened – and he slid his cigar between my teeth, and it was so big around and heavy and it felt so right, and I pulled in the smoke, and it tasted so rich. Then I let the cigar smoke out and saw it rise around me. It was my first time. And I wanted more.

He had won.

I was totally defeated, standing so limp, nearly naked, my body held up only by the strength of his voice, yet so content with that big cigar held so comfortably in my mouth, smoking in and out so complacently, lost in the pleasure of his commands. There was no fight left in me. And Coach Johnson stood beside me, his hand gently rewarding my shaft, rewarding my surrender, and repeating over and over again the seductive suggestions that were changing me for ever.

And his softly spoken words became ingrained in my mind: “Don’t try to fight it; don’t try to resist. Relax with a cigar and it makes you feel good; you become aroused. The cigar makes your cock hard, and your cock makes you want a cigar.” I nodded ever so slightly in agreement and he continued: “You know what I am saying is the truth: cigars make your cock hard – and your cock makes you need a cigar. They are one and the same. You must have both.” I could feel the change happening. I felt what he told me become the truth. He was right, there was no denying it. Standing there with that magnificent cigar between my lips, I couldn’t help but believe it. I gave in and accepted it.

“You like cigars, don’t you.” Long pause: “I like cigars,” I muffled around the smoky maduro between my teeth, and my cock shuddered immediately. Oh, what a feeling of reward.

There I stood, so relaxed, so content, so at peace, responding to this master’s suggestions, agreeing to his commands, no longer fighting it, letting him in, letting him in so deep, letting him change me. And it felt so right, and I felt my cock under the firm control of his hand.

And I relaxed a little deeper.

But he did not make me cum. Coach Johnson would not let me shoot.

No, the coach left me hard, still in my aroused stupor as he pulled my shorts back over my cock, so erect that the shorts barely covered, and he gave me one final command: Walk to the tobacco shop in town, and pick up more cigars for us, and then return.

Though still in my unthinking state, somewhere down inside I was aware of a sense of dread. Ordered to go out in public like this, so helpless in a totally mind fucked trance, this fat stogie fixed in my mouth, my dick as visible as a flagpole beneath my thin shorts, having to walk into town and to be seen, I hesitated. But I was completely in His power now and had to obey His command.

So he led me to his door and left me outside, and with his final order reverberating through my emptied mind, I began to walk.

It was a small town and the local tobacco shop was not far – on the square just a few blocks away – but I had to walk in my hypnotized stupor with that big smoking log gripped between my teeth and my cock pushing and rubbing against my shorts. There were people on the streets, people that knew me though I’m not sure I knew them that afternoon. One neighbor, bent over his lawnmower and trying to restart it, looked up and gaped at me, a skinny kid in sandals puffing on a way-too-large, real man’s cigar, and I blushed, but I couldn’t stop, and I couldn’t turn, and I couldn’t run. Programmed to obey His command, my legs moved, and I had to follow, floating like a zombie as I went, creating a small commotion behind me.

It was just a few blocks and I came to the little shop on the square, and without pausing, I floated up the steps, pushed open the door, and for the first time in my life, I entered a tobacco store.

Dark quiet, heavy wood paneling, glass cases, soft lights; the smoke shop was a holy place and I stood blinking in the dim. A big strong bearded man behind the counter turned to me and saw that the cigar clenched in my mouth was getting low, and he could see my obvious protruding crotch, and he gave me a welcoming smile, and nodded to me a good afternoon, and motioned me back to the humidor without a word so as not to break the spell I was under.

And I followed his gesture wordlessly, unthinkingly to the back and entered the inner sanctuary.

The silence of the humidor enveloped me and I was staring at those shelves full of cigars hypnotized. I was in heaven here, and found myself stroking my cock as I focused on those endless boxes of leaf. Brown leaf, light leaf, dark leaf, long leaf, rich leaf, it all looked so good. And I puffed on my fat, now-short stick and the humidor became thick with my smoke, so very thick with my own smoke. I swear I was in rapture.

And although the change in me had occurred such a short time earlier, I couldn’t remember ever having felt any other way.

Then my eyes came to rest on the largest, longest, finest cigars I had ever seen; a box full, lined up side be side, calling to me, calling me to reach out and touch. And touch them I did, and my knees became weak and my cock told me that I wanted these and that I must have these. I reached for one and it was heavy and it felt so right in my hand, I took as many as I could carry and then turned, still in my hypnotized euphoria, and left the sanctuary.

I think I must have stood there in my trance in the middle of the store for a while, I don’t know for sure, while the big bearded man watched me. He watched me holding my coveted treasure and watched me absently stroking my shorts, and he laughed: “you must be Coach Johnson’s other neighbor boy.” And I muffled a quiet “yes sir,” again exhaling the slurred admission around my cigar.

“Here,” the nice man offered, “that maduro he gave you is just about finished; perhaps you’d like to fire up a new one for the walk back?” I didn’t answer; I couldn’t answer; I couldn’t move. He removed the old one from my mouth and helped me light a fresh smoke, and I focused my gaze on the tall dancing flame as it took light.

And I relaxed a little deeper.

And then he said so kindly: “Boy, you might want to cover that up before you leave the store.” He was pointing down to my crotch and my eyes followed. Here I was standing right in front of his counter, oblivious that I had pulled out my cock and was beating it without conscious concern. And I still had no concern. The smoke just kept getting thicker and thicker in my head and I didn’t care that this stranger was seeing me with my shaft in my hand. It felt so right in my hand and I didn’t care about anything at all. I just muttered a “thank you sir” and made a half hearted attempt to tuck it back inside.

I don’t remember him asking me to pay for my treasure.

And I don’t remember him closing and locking the shop behind me. Nor did I know that he was following me home.

But I can sort of recall the walk. It was evening now and the air was cooler, but I didn’t notice. I was a mere traveler in my own happy dream, all remaining sense of embarrassment erased from me, smoking prominently on my huge cigar, my rich smoke filling the twilight streets, my erect cock strutting proudly against my shorts for all the world to see. And so many people did see me – but I didn’t care, it felt so good to obey His command.

Let the whole world see that I was obediently returning to Him.

And He met me at the door, and took me in, and the big bearded man followed too, nodding to the coach, and they both smiled and winked and leered. The door closed quietly behind.

Inside the darkened room, across from me, stood my brother, all naked. He was standing in the shadows, silently smoking on his own cigar, so very relaxed. He had removed his clothes and his dick was hard in his hand, and he stood vacantly puffing on his goliath maduro held firmly between his lips. He was content, deep in an obedient trance of his own, and we stood facing each other, my brother and me, me and him, he and I, silently gazing at each other, both swimming in our thick smoke.

And we both relaxed a little deeper.

And while I stood there motionless at my Master’s command, He removed my shorts and sandals, leaving me at last completely naked.

And so, well, you know what happened next, the four of us enjoyed a long, smoky, sex filled night together. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was hot, it was wild, and it was incredible. And, I confess, it was my very first time.

So yes, that was my first time for so many things, as much as I can remember of it. My brother and I spent much of the summer together next door and we’ve never been closer. He never ever boxed my ears again. And I also remember that by the end of the season, Coach Johnson had introduced many of the players on his team, at least his select favorites, to the relaxing, hypnotic pleasure of cigars.

Yes, it was a very good summer.