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.
Brutus reacted well to the word "treat." He was still sitting, but now on full alert with his tail swishing across the pavement. Scott held out a Milk Bone, which was gratefully received by my puppy. It was gone in two bites.
"Love your outfit Franny," he told me.
My eyes wandered down to his crotch. "I can see that."
He smiled, and the dimples on his cheeks appeared. Adorable.
"Maybe it's the stockings," I teased him.
"More than you know."
I was generally a quick study, and he signaled his fetish with red flares. He was staring at my legs and he had a raging boner. Go figure.
I was always looking for new talent, and I never thought a fire house would be a likely hunting ground, but here he was, practically begging me to exploit his fetish. Who was I to refuse such a generous offer, especially from a stud like him? I'd never pegged a fireman, even in my dreams.
Brutus had decided to go into full attention mode, rolling on his back and allowing Scott to give him a satisfying rub of his adorable mottled pink and white belly. I took the opportunity to open a dialog with him to confirm my suspicions. He was on one knee so he could see the tops of my nylons. I made sure I was close enough so he had a clear view.
"What do you do in your spare time Scott?"
There was sex dripping from my voice. He made some sort of croaking noise before he attempted to speak.
"Oh ... a little of this ... a little of that."
I knew he was being coy with me. He was probably too embarrassed to come right out and tell me that he wanted to worship my stocking clad legs. He wasn't ready quite yet to admit his jones to himself or to me. I was willing to be patient.
"Enjoy the cookies Scott."
I made sure when I walked away that I gave him a perfect view of the back of my long legs. That would certainly straighten up his fire hose.
* * *
It must have been a few weeks later when I decided to give the fire house a visit, hoping to see Scott. This time it was oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, my favorite. The cookies were still warm when I leashed Brutus and went out the door. I had a little something for Scott as well.
It was the height of summer weather, hot and muggy. Brutus didn't care. He was in his element sniffing the sidewalk and every telephone pole and fire hydrant along the way. We strolled by typical suburban houses that lined our way to the fire house -- well manicured lawns, late model cars in the driveway, and barking dogs behind high fences.
When I arrived at the station, there were two men sitting on their low rise beach chairs enjoying a soft drink and ogling me as I approached. I recognized them, but didn't know their names. Even though I was wearing nylons with a dot pattern on them, their eyes were trained higher, to the cleavage I casually displayed in the deep V-shaped gap in my sheer white blouse.
