Fireman's Hose
soppingwetpanties
This story is dedicated to Scott.
He belongs to me.
He is my slut.
Warning:
This story contains watersports.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.
I like to think of myself as a "normal" person.
Actually, that was a lie. I'm a sex addict. I'm also a Domme. There is nothing "normal" about me or what I want.
For the casual observer, I'm just another forty something divorcee, long ash blonde hair typically clipped up in a French twist, held together with a distinctive heirloom barrette, You can't miss the barrette. It's encrusted with rubies, real ones. It used to belong to my great grandmother. It's probably worth a fair amount, but I don't care. I wear it every day.
Maybe that's not entirely true either. I don't wear it on days when I'm with my subs. I like to use my hair as part of the seduction. It's always been one of my better features, and it works best if it's down. Mmmm ... I'm picturing a sub naked and standing in front of me. I get on my knees and tilt my head and pull the long strands of straight blonde hair across his cock. It bobs in appreciation.
I digress.
I told you I was a sex addict.
I know you want to know more about me. I'm a bit taller than average, and curvy. By curvy, I mean that my tits are big enough to get a person to look twice and there's enough meat on my hips to get a decent grip when you're fucking me (dream on Scott -- it'll never happen). I'm not one of those skinny things that grace the cover of a fashion magazine. I look more like the woman you get when you pop "MILF sexy blonde femdom" into the search bar of your favorite porn site. That woman is me.
I want to tell you about Scott. How I met him and all that. He's a very bad boy and that's good for me. He is a willing participant in every deviant act I can dream up and we both end up happy ... very happy. He'll tell you what I'm telling you. He's a slut.
I own him now. He's my slut. He does anything I ask of him and accepts anything I want to do to him. We trust each other. I know his limits and I respect them. He's knows I'll never hurt him. Well at least not permanently. He's gotten a few welts and bruises, but it's all part of our gig.
We're not exclusive. I have another sub, Marta, who is a typical suburban housewife with some really fucked-up notions of good sex. We fit together like hand and glove. She's a submissive little minx that has a curvier body than mine. You'll hear about Marta because I "introduced" her to Scott. Although Scott will probably never fuck me, I did let him fuck Marta, and that made them (and me) very happy. Marta lives close, so she's my on call slut, particularly when Scott's unavailable.
So now the story of how I met Scott.
* * *
I was living in a typical suburban four bedroom house on a quiet cul-de-sac in an upscale neighborhood in the Queen City, an apt name for Charlotte, North Carolina, my hometown. I liked walking my dog, Brutus, a dappled black and white Great Dane, enjoying an occasional round of tennis on the weekends, and sharing drinks on Wednesday afternoons with my girlfriends. Who would have suspected that I had turned my little corner of the suburban dream into a hotbed of perversion and depravity?
I was recently retired. A woman of leisure. I left my job as the head of marketing for an international hotel chain, even though I was in the prime of my career. I was good at my job, and as glamourous as you might think it might be, it wasn't. My subordinates got to do all the fun stuff, like travelling to our overseas properties. I spent most of my time in budget meetings and dealing with major HR crises. After getting a seven figure divorce settlement from my scumbag investment banker (is that redundant?) ex-husband, I told my employer that I was leaving for good. I had enough money to live in the lifestyle you're about to hear about, so why ruin a perfectly good life with meaningless work?
I liked to walk Brutus. We would go out every day, even when it rained. Usually around mid-afternoon. He liked the bright sunshine and the heat. I would have preferred early morning for his daily walk, but he wouldn't have any of that and for dog owners, you know who wins that fight.
There was a fire station down the road from my house, not more than a few blocks away. Brutus liked to go that way. The bay door to the station house was often open, and the guys were always happy to offer tummy rubs and sometimes treats. In the summer, it wouldn't be uncommon to see the hunky firemen lounging in their beach chairs, sunning themselves during their downtime like lizards on a hot rock. I'd become friendly with a few, usually sharing gossip about the goings on in our neighborhood.
I flirted with them shamelessly, and they did nothing to discourage me. It was harmless entertainment -- until it wasn't.
On one particularly hot, sunny day last summer, I was walking Brutus, sashaying in a short white summer dress with red polka dots and high heeled sandals. Even though it was uncomfortably hot, I wore nylons with the seam that ran up the back -- old school and sexy. I was carrying a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, intending to give them to the boys at the fire house as my way of saying thank you for being there for the neighborhood -- and me.
Scott was one of my favorites, and he was outside finishing the rinse of their bright yellow Class A Pumper. I don't know a lot about fire fighting apparatus, and it was Scott who educated me on the types of equipment they had at the fire house. I just liked the name -- Class A Pumper. Sounded sexy to me.
Scott spotted me and put down his hose. I watched his eyes and caught him admiring my hose. I could swear I saw his pants bulge as he took a gander at my seamed stockings.
It always felt good to get male attention, and having a twenty something dark haired blue eyed stud giving me the once over gave me a charge.
"Cookies for me?" he asked playfully.
"For the entire crew," I corrected him.
"Why thank you."
His eyes met mine, but they again wandered lower, past my ample cleavage to my nylon encased legs.
"Eyes forward," I admonished him, not intending to but using the tone of voice I use when scolding my subs. Even though we didn't really know each other I already had an inkling what floated his boat. I handed him the plate of cookies, our eyes meeting each other again for an instant. His eyes lowered to the ground liked those of a whipped puppy. I suspected then that fireman Scott had a little submissive streak ... and a hosiery fetish.
"Wait here," he told me, sprinting to the safety of the fire house. He took a cookie off the plate and held it in his mouth as he rushed into the brick building. Brutus sat down, knowing we were settling there for a few minutes. I dropped his leash on the ground. He was well trained, and wouldn't go anywhere. I wondered how long Scott would keep me waiting in the hot sun.
Scott came back a minute later. I admired his toned pecs, on display through his wet t-shirt. I excused the indiscretion of leaving me untended.
"Gotta treat for my buddy," he said, breathless.
