Although I have some of my own personal memories of getting disciplined while my mother smoked I was never very vocal about objecting to my mother's smoking, probably because my own fetish had started at a very early age from a variety of sources. I had a friend however who was not very smart when it came to knowing when to keep his mouth shut about his own mother's smoking. She was good friends with my mother and often times we would either be at his house with his mother or vice versa. It was one of those visits to his home playing with him that I remember well. We were both somewhere around the age of 8 or 9, and by then my own fetish and fascination along with the awe of watching women smoke was in full development although it had yet to be fully realized by puberty or any reason to hide that awe due to my own naivette and innocence. He however, hated being around smoke and his mother was at least a ppd smoker. We were in the kitchen and his mother had made us both sandwiches. She had sat down on the stool between us with her coffee while we ate and proceeded to light up a marlboro red. She was a great smoker, and her signature exhale was either through both nostrils or a combination mouth and nostril exhale. I never objected and always watched with a fascination and subtle underlying excitment that I had yet to fully understand. Of course my friend immediately couldn't sit there and simply eat in silence. He had to move his stool away from his mom, and make a comment about why she had to smoke right then. I guess her patience was on a short leash that day, because she exploded at him. Told him "I am tired of hearing you whine" or something to that effect and got up, went to the wall and pulled down a wire flyswatter. Back then those things were made to handle some abuse, and were not the least bit flimsy. He knew what was coming and started begging and whining, apologising for his behavior, but it was far to late. Dangling her cigarette she undid his pants with a practiced precision of a mother who had disciplined this way before, so that they dropped to his ankles exposing his pale legs leaving his shorts up on his waist. Holding him by one arm she proceeded to whip him good on his legs while he yanked around whooping and screaming like she was beating him sensless (which wasn't the case, although I am sure it stung but good). His legs were good and red by the time she finished with him and he tried to run to his room only to be told to get his butt on the stool and finish eating. What finally struck me years later was the comment she made as she took that last drag on her marlboro, exhaling it out hard from the exertion of disciplining him. "Why can't you be more like Chris about smoking, he doesn't mind when I smoke around him." I didn't realize at the time that to a woman who smokes, being the way I was about it could be such a blessing!
