Fun With a Fireman

Fun With A
Fireman

(Episode #7 of
Candid Confessions)

By
Daniella Divine

This
story includes sexual content, and is suitable for readers aged
over 18 only. All characters in the story practice safe sex at all
times, even if the details are not explicitly mentioned in specific
scenes. This work of fiction is for adult readers who love red-hot
romance books with sensual and exciting storylines.
Enjoy!

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This work of fiction is an origin
al romance by Daniella Divine.
Smashwords Edition.

Copyright © Daniella Divine
2013. Published by Red-Hot Romance
Books.

Well, I’ll say one
thing for British men. They know how to fuck. I can confirm this
with total confidence because in the two weeks I had spent in
London, I had done what American tourists are supposed to do. That
is, spending as much time as possible checking out the sights and
attractions. I don’t mean the castles and all that shit – I mean
the sights and attractions to be found in the male population. I
discovered that you don’t need to go to the Tower of London to
check out some crown jewels. I found plenty of guys packing
impressive jewels that were worth examining more closely. You may
have heard that English guys have a stiff upper lip. Well, in my
opinion, that’s bollocks – but they do tend to get stiff in other
parts of their anatomy.

So I liked London. A lot.

At the point where this story starts, I was getting
a good look at Big Ben. No silly, not the clock thing…this was Ben
Barratt, the photographer I was working with. The magazine I write
for in the States had sent me to the old country to cover the
latest upcoming nuptials at Buckingham Palace. I had been paired up
with Ben, a local freelancer, to produce a spread on the big event.
But we sneaked off work a couple of hours early and went back to
Ben’s place to produce our own spread – that is, my legs spread on
his bed. Forget the royal wedding – I was about to get a royal
humping. If all English guys are built like Ben, I can understand
why the royal wives are always smiling.

Anyway, there I was somewhere in Battersea on a
grey, rainy day in June. It was supposed to be the best time of the
year for sunshine, but the Brits don’t seem to go in for summer
much. I hear they tend to skip it and go straight from spring into
another winter. I guess that way they save money on buying bikinis
and sun tan lotion. Makes sense to me.

But I digress. Ben’s apartment - sorry, they call
them flats over there, right? Well, his flat wasn’t the biggest in
the world. If Ben took up swinging cats for a hobby, he wouldn’t
have much opportunity to indulge his passion at home…you know what
I’m saying? The double bed took up most of the main bedroom. The
flat was way up on the top floor, with a neat view across Battersea
Park to the city beyond. Looking out the window, I could see a
chimney stack from the old Battersea Power Station sticking up like
a giant phallus. However, I was much more interested in the giant
phallus that was approaching me across the squeaky bed.

‘Now I know why they call you Big Ben,’ I said,
admiring the view. ‘You’re looking pretty fit in the underpants
department.’ Ben was pretty fit all round, to be honest. He wasn’t
super muscular, but he was tall and in good shape – probably in his
early thirties or thereabouts.

‘I’m a professional photographer, darling,’ he
reminded me. And oh, that Cockney accent was such a turn on! I was
getting wetter with every sentence he spoke. ‘I know how to look
after my equipment. You know what I mean?’

‘Yes, I
see
what you mean. And you’re
certainly good with exposures.’

Ben grinned. ‘Actually, I was planning on taking a
closer look at your exposures…’

I was exposed all right. I was stark naked and
definitely ready for a little male-on-female action. And before you
start calling me rude names, let me get in there ahead of you. If
you haven’t met me before, my name is Angel deVries, and I’m a
shameless sexaholic. So if you’re thinking of words like ‘slut’ or
‘whore’ you can fuck off. Sex is the most natural thing in the
world – you wouldn’t be here without it – and I’m not ashamed to
enjoy it whenever it suits me. And it tends to suit me quite a
lot.

We had pretty much skipped the foreplay. Ben seemed
to be in a hurry to get down to the meat and potatoes of the whole
business. That was fine with me. I got the hots for him as soon as
we met the week before, and I was glad to find he felt the same way
about me.

‘I’ve never had sex with an American woman,’ he
said, working his dick firmly to attention with his right hand.
‘I’m looking forward to finding out what it feels like.’

I giggled. ‘I guess we’re pretty much the same as
British girls, except we scream in a funny accent.’

‘Oh boy, I can’t wait to hear that! It will be like
watching sex in a Hollywood movie, but it will be real life.’

Too much talking, not enough action. I reached up,
curled my hand around the back of Ben’s neck and pulled him on top
of me. ‘Much as I love to hear you talk in that cute voice of
yours, let’s get down to business.’

‘Love a duck…that sounds awesome!’

Love a duck? They sure talk weird over there. So I
clamped my lips against Ben’s to make him shut up. That did the
trick. He seemed to lose all interest in chatting, and I could feel
his dick straining upwards as his body lowered down onto mine.
Hmm...nice. My Mom always said it’s good to travel and get new
experiences. And I had a feeling that this experience would make
the long flight across the pond worthwhile.

Ben’s lean and hard body was on top of mine now, his
naked flesh pressing against mine. He moved his lips from my mouth
to my neck and shoulders, and then down to my breasts. I loved
every moment, but I was impatient for the main course. I arched my
back so that my body pressed tightly against his and whispered in
his ear.

‘I want you inside me, right now.’

‘That’s what I want, too,’ he replied. ‘I want that
more than anything.’

Ben shifted his position, making himself more
comfortable between my legs. Then I could feel him fumbling between
my thighs, seeking the right place to enter me. Another moment and
he was inside me, sliding deep and grunting as he buried his flesh
inside mine.

‘Oh yes!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes, yes!’

OK, I know. A bit of repetition there. But what do
you do when you’re having sex – recite Shakespeare? I didn’t think
so. My affirmative response certainly worked for Ben…he got into
his stride and started pushing into me deeper and harder. His
breath was hot in my ear, his male scent making me whimper like a
bitch on heat.

‘More Ben, give me more.’

‘I’ll give you as much as you like, darling. You are
so sexy I could do this all day.’

I felt pretty much the same way, but at that moment,
events took an unfortunate turn for the worse. We weren’t going to
be at it all day. In fact, we weren’t going to get another moment.
Ben suddenly froze in mid-fuck – his body poised over me while he
strained his head to listen like a rabbit that just heard a dog
bark.

‘Can you hear that?’ he said, a note of panic in his
voice.

I listened. All I could hear was the noise of
traffic in the distance, and the high-pitched whine of a
small-engined motorbike approaching.

‘Hear what?’ I asked, becoming somewhat
disillusioned. Ben’s dick was wilting like a banana in the sun, and
I suspected that my afternoon was about to go downhill fast.
‘What’s the problem?’

‘That engine…the moped. I know the sound…but it
can’t be. She’s not supposed to come home for another hour
yet.’

My heart sank. I’ve had this kind of conversation
before. ‘Who’s not supposed to come home yet?’

Ben didn’t answer. He was too busy scurrying across
the bed to the window. The sound of the moped was louder now. It
was clearly just outside the building, and the tone of the engine
told me it was slowing down. Ben took one look out the window and
then ducked down, swearing with surprising intensity.

‘Oh fuck, it’s her!’

‘Who?’ I demanded, although I was sure I knew the
answer to that question.

‘My wife. She’s not supposed to finish work for
another hour.’

I am embarrassed to admit this, but I may have found
myself in a similar position once or twice before. OK, three or
four times before.

Five, then.

Six or seven, tops. Definitely in the single
figures.

Well, the exact number isn’t important, but the
thing is I knew I needed to get out of there pretty damn quick. My
experience is that when a wife catches you in bed with her husband,
she tends to cross you off her Christmas card list pretty quick.
And then she is likely to come after you with a carving knife. So I
made a grab for my bra and panties and got them on in double quick
time. Ben was hopping around with one leg inside his pants, trying
to pull them on in a major league panic. But it was a case of more
haste and less speed. He tripped and fell flat on his face. He took
advantage of his horizontal position to get his pants on and zipped
up, and made a grab for his shirt.

‘Angel, you’ve got to get out of here before she
finds us.’

‘Yeah, Einstein. I’d worked that out already. How do
I get out of here? Is there a back door?’

Ben shook his head while he buttoned his shirt. ‘No
time for that. She will be coming up the stairs any second. You’ll
have to go out the window and down the fire escape.’

I tried to pick up my blouse, but Ben was quicker
and he scooped up all my clothes and shoved them to my chest,
together with my shoes. ‘You don’t have time to get dressed. You
have to go now before she comes upstairs.

‘Excuse me? Are you nuts? I’m not going down the
fire escape in my underwear!’

‘Listen Angel, if you don’t, she’ll throw you down.
My wife is not the kind of woman you want to cross. Do you
understand?’

‘I…I…I…oh, fuck! Just get me out of here.’

Ben peered cautiously out of the window and gave me
a running commentary. ‘She’s coming up the drive. Now she’s opening
the front door. She’s inside. That’s it. You need to go right now.
Quick! You’ve got about thirty seconds to make an exit.’

So that’s how I found myself crawling through a sash
window in my bra and panties onto the ricketiest fire escape I had
ever seen. Man, don’t they have fire regulations in England, or
what? The fire escape was a very old and rusty metal staircase with
short flights of steel steps that zigzagged down to the ground,
five floors below. I didn’t fancy going down it at all, but the
alternative was to crawl back through the window and face an angry
wife armed with a carving knife.

The rickety stairs won.

I clutched my clothes against my chest with one hand
and grabbed the guard rail with the other. Even though it was only
late afternoon, it was wet and cold. I could see goose pimples
rising on the flesh of my arms and legs. But that was the least of
my worries. I had to get safely out of sight in a hurry, and then
find somewhere where I could get dressed before I got arrested.

And that was when it happened.

Disaster.

I had tip-toed down one flight of steps and was
starting on the next when I heard an ominous groaning sound and the
whole fire escape staircase began to shake. I got the impression
that no-one had ventured out onto this structure anytime in the
last century, probably for very good safety reasons. But there was
no point in going back…I had to go on. I took another step
downwards…and then another. The sound of twisted and groaning metal
increased.

And then there was a ‘snap.’

I don’t know what snapped exactly, but I guess it
was the rivets or bolts that held the metal staircase to the wall.
What I
do
know for sure is that the fire escape suddenly
swung outwards, tearing away from the building and lurching several
yards away from the perpendicular. I was jolted against the guard
rail and my clothes and shoes were thrown out of my hand. I gripped
the rail for dear life, and watched my clothes tumble down to the
ground far below.

I was expecting the whole fire escape to collapse
and follow my clothes to the concrete. To my relief, however, it
jammed in mid-air, leaving me hanging several floors above the
ground. I’m scared of heights at the best of times. Right now, I
was absolutely terrified.