0 comments/ 14976 views/ 2 favorites Where There's Smoke, There's Fire By: Rescue325 Lunch was going on the table at the firehouse when the alarm went in for a motor vehicle accident. We left everything where it was and ran for the trucks. One of the cars were leaking radiator fluid and we were needed to clean up the mess and make sure it did not get into the sewer system. Nothing a little kitty litter wouldn’t fix. We gave the squad a hand with the patients then went back to the station to eat what was left of lunch. We were working on one of the trucks when a pretty blonde walked in the bay door and asked if we could help her. I joined the rest of the guys in falling over our feet to get across the bay area to her. She wore a short flowing sundress that hugged her every curve. “Can one of you help me out? I just moved in down the street and I don’t know if I have enough smoke detectors in my house.” The Captain smiled and asked her how many she had now and how many rooms in her home. “Well I have one by the main bedroom, one in the basement and one by the kitchen. Is that enough?” “You should have one outside every bedroom and at least one on each floor.” He said. “I’m sure I can arrange for one of the Fire Inspectors to come out and check it for you but if you just purchased the house, it was inspected for detectors before you bought it.” “Oh was it? I didn’t handle the sale. My lawyer did. I just told him what kind of house I wanted and he bought it for me.” “If you give me your address, I can forward it to one of the Inspectors and he can come out and check your house out for you.” Said the Captain. She gave him the address and she thanked him and left. She had legs that seemed to go on forever. The curves of the back of her legs mesmerized us as she walked out of the building. As soon as she was out of sight, we jumped the Captain for her information. We were wishing we were one of the Inspectors instead of plain old firefighters. When I got off duty, I had to drive past her place on my way home. I slowed down as I went by and she was standing outside trying to get a box out of her little black sports car. I stopped the car and asked her if she needed some help. “Yes please. The man at the hardware store out it in my car but I never thought I wouldn’t be able to lift it myself when I got it home. Didn’t I meet you yesterday when I stopped at the firehouse?” “Yes. We had a call early this morning and I got stuck staying until it was over. Normally we work 24 hour shifts starting at 6am but we stayed until 10 because of the house fire.” “Your job is so interesting and dangerous. I bet there’s a lot of muscle under that uniform.” “I have a lot of time between runs so I lift weights a lot. It helps pass the time.” I felt like a total idiot talking to her. She was so beautiful and nothing like any girl I ever met before. I helped her bring the box inside the large old Victorian house. I followed her through the hallway to the back of the house where the kitchen was. The kitchen was modern and big. There was a large island in the middle and she told me to put the box down on it. “My hero. Would you like some juice or something? Or while you’re here, could you check my smoke detectors?” “Sure” I said thinking like a schoolboy that maybe I’d get a glimpse of her bedroom. I followed her through the house as she showed me the detectors on each floor. I watched as her sweet firm ass swayed in her tailored linen shorts as she walked up the stairs. It took everything I had not to grab her. She showed me the detector in front of her open bedroom door. Her bed was king sized and covered in silk and dozens of pillows. A mosquito net hung from the ceiling and draped around the bed. It reminded me of a scene from an old movie. I suddenly felt like I needed to take her right then and there. I think she had the same idea because she was pulling my shirt out of my pants as she kissed me on the lips. I kissed her back and pulled her shirt over her head, tossed it on the ground and released her beautiful breasts from her bra. I kissed my way down to her fully erect nipples and licked them. They were like hard candy. Sweet, hard and delicious. I swirled my tongue around them and she moaned. I felt her removing my uniform pants as I slipped a hand up the loose leg of her shorts. I found her fold easily. My hand was a thermal imaging camera and her folds were my heat source. She was hot and wet and waiting for me. I rubbed the side of my hand between her folds. She clenched her thighs around my hand as I rubbed her slit. I could feel her getting wetter as I rolled her clit around with my thumb. She grabbed my cock as I stroked her clit and her soft warm hands felt wonderful. Her hand felt like butterfly wings against my skin. I pinned her against the wall of the hallway and slid two fingers in her waiting hole. I finger fucked her fast and furiously and I knew I was getting close to making her cum because she forgot she was jerking me off. She grasped at my shoulders and begged me to finish her off. I slipped a third finger into he r and she went off like a rocket. She screamed as her box grabbed my hand like a drowning man. I had to hold her up as she came down from her ecstasy. As she recovered, I carried her to the bed and helped her out of her shorts. She was still trying to catch her breath as I pulled her ass to the edge of the bed. I kneeled down and separated her folds with both hands, giving me access to her clit. My tongue set her off again as soon as I touched her. She was extremely sensitive and gentle touches were sending electric shocks through her body. I flicked my tongue over her clit and slid a finger inside her wetness. She was grabbing at the cover on the bed as she came again. I waited until she settled down then I got up and pulled her towards me. I rubbed my raging cock against her wet slit and she begged me to fuck her. I tried to slide into her but she was tight. I had to lean into it go get her to take my fireman’s hose. I thought she was going to rip her apart with each thrust. The aftershocks of her orgasm were crushing me as I pounded deep inside her. I told her to put her feet on my shoulders. I revved up my performance. She was begging me to fuck her harder as she loosened up and let me slide in and out of her easier. The way her body contracted against mine was driving me nuts. As soon as she started to scream that she was cumming again, I blew my load inside of her. I felt all the energy in my body flow out my dick as I erupted into her beautiful hole. I fell on top of her breathing heavy as she lay there doing the same thing as she prayed to God. We were both spent. I leaned over her and sucked on her nipple to help her finish her magic carpet ride. She looked at me and laughed. “The Fire Inspector is going to be here at one. Should I cancel him or do you think he’d be up for a three some?” I laughed and told her that he was about sixty and she’d probably kill him. I rolled over and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. I dialed work and asked the dispatcher for the Fire Prevention office to cancel her appointment. I had to ask her what her name was as the dispatcher transferred me to the office. When I hung up the phone, I asked her if she was ready for round two. She answered my question by going down on me. The Captain was never going to believe this one. Where There's Smoke, There's Fire Smoking is hot. There, I said it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for this view, I really am. I certainly mean no disrespect to those whose lives have been adversely affected by smoking; and believe me the sight of my sixty-year old aunt sucking back Merits in a housedress does absolutely nothing for me. Like poor Pavlov's dogs, I've acquired quite the reflex; the sight of an appealing man lighting up rings my bells in so many ways. Like wearing a tuxedo, smoking a cigarette (or, in the right hands in the right place, a cigar) makes a man look rakish, devil-may-care, just plain hotter than he ordinarily would. (As an aside I'm not a fan of the quasi-organic roll-your-own or "natural" cigarette smokers. And this has nothing to do with any illegal smoking in which anyone may participate. No, just plain Marlboros or Camels or maybe even an imported Dunhill are fuel enough for my fire.) My youth was spent high on the anti-tobacco horse, believe me. When I was a kid, I spent so much time flashing "stop smoking" brochures at my parents, threatening to trash their 'rettes and grumbling when Mom would send me to the local deli for a couple of packs of Kools. Even in high school, I'd gag the few times my best buddy and I stole a Kool menthol and gamely attempted to puff away on it, trying at fifteen to look like sexy women of the world and failing completely; fearing our imminent capture by a nosy neighbor or parent, we'd guiltily shred the butts and toss them into a neighbor's yard, scurrying to the bathroom to wash the nicotine smell off our guilty fingers. I blame my buddy Wayne's eighteenth birthday party. He got drunk and passed out, while I made out with his hot brother, Tommy, a horny college senior with a pack-a-day-Marlboro habit. I got my teenage self shit-faced on Seagrams 7 and 7 Up, letting Tommy take full advantage of me, right there on the suburban patio furniture. Of course, full advantage to me at sixteen was making out and getting felt up while I tried hard to push my teenage tongue into his aggressive mouth. So my first formative taste of tongue came with a hefty dose of whiskey and tobacco, thus sealing my fate and tastes at a relatively early age. During college, I didn't date the smoky but I took up the habit myself, much to my chagrin, partly due to easy access to cigarettes thoughtfully provided by my wealthy, long-smoking roommates (who cultivated the habit in private school). My steady boy disliked it, but, when drunk, even he would puff on a cigarette, holding it in his fist as if it were a professorial pipe. And it was STILL a bit sexy. I'd watch guys in the library (back in the 80s you could SMOKE indoors – even in the library), puffing away, bleary-eyed from studying but oh so sexy. I'd drape myself casually over the leather library armchairs, dreamily French inhaling a Dunhill and avoiding yet another anthropology paper, Part of the reason I've become a devotee of old movies, especially high-society and film noir types was the whiskey and smoke – but mostly the smoke. Black and white wonders of smart outfits, witty banter and a REAL lighter at the ready at all times – think Casablanca, The Thin Man, Double Indemnity – all shrouded in a classy cloud. That's another thing that spins my wheels – real lighters. Zippos. Not deli-issue matches or Bic disposables. The smell of true butane flame fires me up just a little more. Show me a guy in a denim jacket lighting a Marlboro with a Zippo; show me the same guy in an expensive suit and a Dunhill; as long as that lighter is vintage, refillable and preferably custom inscribed, and I may fall over on the spot. As a newly single lady, I've developed a fondness for Europeans. Oh, Europeans – Englishmen, Italians, Irishmen, Slavs – tall and rangy, uncircumcised and inordinately found of American cigarettes. All are a refreshing alternative to the boyish-men and pallid businessmen and smug yoga instructors I'm constantly running into in our fair city. Ironically I haven't had a serious tobacco habit in about five years; I rarely even sneak a smoke from my buddies and lovers who still indulge. But then there are times when I do indulge...when you're wearing four-inch heels, a black bustier, fishnets and a commanding tone of voice, sometimes a lit cigarette is an absolutely necessary accessory. (I am coveting a cigarette holder at the moment and scour flea markets incessantly for the right one – one that goes with my elbow-length satin gloves.) Believe me, I'd stop entirely...but guys tell me I look sexy when I do it.