Fire Hose

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.

"Hey boys ... here's some cookies for you to enjoy." The man sitting on the left of me stood up and accepted the foil wrapped paper plate.

"Thank you Miss ..."

"Franny."

"I'm Cub1 and he's Cub2," he said, pointing to his mate who was still seated. Cub2 raised his can of Coke as a salute to me.

"Interesting names ..." Cub1 was cute and Cub2 was cuter. They were both sporting buzz cuts and hard ons.

"We're not allowed to use our real names. We're probies," Cub1 said proudly.

"Probies?"

"Probationary firemen. We'll get our real names when we've finished our probationary period."

"Ahhh," I said, welcoming the clarification. "Now can one of you cubs get Scott for me?"

Cub2 got up out of his seat. Cub1 was busy eating a cookie. "Yes ma'am."

He walked smartly into the fire house. About a minute later he came back with Scott in tow.

"Looking for me?" Scott asked. He was wearing a white t-shirt, flimsy gym shorts and flip flops. His dark wavy hair was wet.

"Just get out of the shower?" I asked, demonstrating my superior powers of perception.

"Yes ma'am."

"Well I have a little something for you." I handed him a thin paper bag with something in it that was about the size of a sheet of paper. "You open it up inside when you get a free moment."

I winked.

I think the two cubs were too busy staring at my tits to notice the wink.

* * *

I'm sure Scott took a private moment, maybe sitting on the can, to open my present. I wish I could have seen his eyes when he took the thin plastic wrapped package out of the bag. It was a pair of Victoria's Secret Angelwear Very Fine Fishnet Tights. I guessed at his size. I taped a 3 by 5 card to the package.

Scott, I'd love to see you model them for me. Text me.

Mistress Franny

I wrote my cell phone number on the bottom of the card and put a lipstick kiss on it so as to leave no doubt as to my intentions.

It brought a smile to my face when I pictured the raging boner he had when he opened the package and tried them on.

* * *

I dropped off the fishnet hose for the sissy fireman in the late afternoon. It was the cocktail hour by the time I got home. My throat was parched. I let Brutus off the lead in the back yard, and he was immediately off chasing a squirrel that had been tormenting him for months. I watched the squirrel run across the top railing of the wooden fence, taunting Brutus and driving him wild. If I wasn't mistaken, I think Brutus had a hard-on. I chuckled to myself. The squirrel. That was me. Brutus was that hunk of a man at the fire station -- eager, excited, and ultimately frustrated.

Scott ... Scott. He was a stereotype, but a good one. Masculine name. Macho profession. A man's body. That's why it was so delicious to think about him on his knees, with me fucking him up the ass while he was sucking a fake cock. Mmm . . . maybe I'd substitute a real cock for a fake one.

I fixed a Manhattan to smooth out my emerging horniness. I backed off the vermouth. I loved the taste of whiskey, and a well made Manhattan was the closest thing I'd come up to emulate the taste of sex. Liquid sex. I finished my drink and then used my fingers to retrieve the cherry from the bottom.

It was delicious in its own right, but a cherry soaked the finest booze? Nirvana. I pinched that cherry between my teeth like a woman's nipple, and let the juice trickle into my mouth, thinking about the taste of a woman's pussy.

I was thinking about my boy toy fireman, wearing his sexy stockings, sporting a massive hard on, and fantasizing that it me with my slender fingers around his cock. I was fixing a second Manhattan when my phone chirped. Whoever it was, I'd make them wait.

The phone dinged again and it was starting to piss me off. I didn't hold the vermouth bottle steady and splashed too much into my drink. I cursed out loud, which I don't like to do in my private moments. I added another measure of whiskey to balance out the extra vermouth and rewarded myself for my dirty thoughts about Scott with two cherries.

I sat down in my favorite dark brown leather club chair to enjoy my second drink. The chair had the proper patina of age. Its cowhide was supple, but mottled, with each variation in color a contribution from the body oils that came in contact with it. It was a living historical document for furniture. The chair hugged me as I took another long draw off my drink.

Scott ... fucking sissy fireman slut Scott. What kind of fucking name was that? It was like "Barbie" for a girl's name. I'm sure he never had a hair out of place and had a system for folding and storing his socks and underwear in his dresser drawer. I was determined to break him of those anal retentive habits.

I scrunched down lower in the chair, cradling my drink. My chair was part of history. My ex-husband's family history. This chair was an heirloom, having been in his family for over a hundred years. It was passed down from my ex's great grandfather to grandfather to father and then to him. He pampered it, using the "right" leather cleaners and polishes to keeping the chair looking perfect

You know where I'm going with this. I caught my husband cheating on me with his best friend's wife. In the ensuing divorce, I got the house and the money and he basically got nothing. He only wanted the chair. But I got the chair too. I watched him cry the last time he saw it.

I was getting in good mood. The drinks were making me glow. It gave me pleasure to think about the chair. It gave me even more pleasure to know that I was fucking his best friend at the same time as he was fucking his best friend's wife. My ex never found out. Then the image of Scott's bare pecs floated through my mind. Would he let me squat over him and pee on those gorgeous pecs? Mmm. I'd even consider licking it off him. I was also a very naughty girl.

Fucking Scott. Fucking needy Scott. I could see it in his eyes. Scott's eyes looked like a puppy dog's when I gave him his present. I saw the bulge in his pants when he was with me. I think I had a harder time reading Brutus. I was looking forward to his text. I was sure it was one of the two messages that hit my phone. Sure of it.

When I finished the second cherry, it was time to check my messages. The first message was from Marta. Talk about a needy bitch. She sent me a picture of her finger. She cut it on a knife and there were two stiches in it. She sent a heartfelt apology that she had hurt the body that belonged to me. I sent her back a reply that said "5." That meant that I was going to lash her bottom five times (each cheek of course) for the infraction. She needed to be more careful. My guess was she was intentionally careless because she liked it when I whipped her butt. We both knew it made her cum harder after I striped her ass.

Ummm ... Marta. I loved her ass.

I checked the second message. Bingo. From Scott. I checked the timestamp. I left that station around 3:30. It was 5:30. It took him two hours to open his present, beat off wearing the stockings, and then get the courage to text me. I bet it took a lot of his man courage to send that text, knowing I would make him do things that were degrading and worse, and that he would enjoy it and I would too.

He must have spent a good part of the two hours trying to figure out the exact right thing to say to me. He knew I would analyze each word. He was right.

Scott: Should I call you Mistress? I was so honored by your gift. I feel I know you. Your humble servant, Scott

Me: Yes.

I hit send. He'd be tied up in knots wondering if he should text me again. He wouldn't. He'd be too afraid to. I fixed a third drink. I wanted to be feeling no pain when I texted Scott again. That was part of the fun. Being chased, but knowing the person chasing you was really the prey.

I snuggled deeper into the chair. It took me about twenty minutes to take down my third and last drink for the night. It took me forever to type a message on my iPhone. I hated the fucking keyboard as it was, and I was a bit tipsy when I composed the message.

Me: You mentioned that your shift ends at 5 p.m. tomorrow. I want you standing at my door at precisely 5:10 p.m. You will wear gym shorts, your gift, and your fireman boots and nothing else.

I added my address.

I bet he wouldn't sleep that night. He would be thinking that it would take a miracle for him to sign out at 5:00 and be standing on my porch at 5:10. I was thinking about him with that bare chest and the flimsy shorts so I could see his erect cock, those stockings to tell me he was my slut, and those boots to tell me he was my fireman stud.

The alcohol was making me feel good. I sent Marta a text. I told her to be at my place in fifteen minutes. She lived down the block, so it was easy trip for her. My youngest (who's now in college) was best friends with Marta's daughter. We got to know each other that way, and even better since. Marta was going to be my fill in slut until Scott showed up.

Precisely fifteen minutes later Marta rang the doorbell. She always followed my standing instructions -- she was wearing a studded dog collar and holding a matching leather leash in her hand. She was about my age, a short brunette with an oversized ass and tits. She was practically busting out of her white tube top. Her skirt was so short I could see the tops of her black thigh highs. She was sexy and horny, an unbeatable combination.