An ashtray is nothing but an object. A receptacle for my ash, the waste from my cigarettes. Ashtrays don't get to have emotions or thoughts or feel pain. When I flick my hot ashes in to the open mouth of my human ashtray he had better not flinch or cry out.

This slave wants my smoke and he loves my ash but he thinks he can squirm and move when I am trying to relax and smoke. He loves watching the thick white puffs pour from my lips but can't quite handle the sizzle as I put out my long cingarette on his tongue.

You're Welcome,
Elena De Luca

An ashtray is nothing but an object. A receptacle for my ash, the waste from my cigarettes. Ashtrays don't get to have emotions or thoughts or feel pain. When I flick my hot ashes in to the open mouth of my human ashtray he had better not flinch or cry out.

This slave wants my smoke and he loves my ash but he thinks he can squirm and move when I am trying to relax and smoke. He loves watching the thick white puffs pour from my lips but can't quite handle the sizzle as I put out my long cingarette on his tongue.

You're Welcome,
Elena De Luca