As part of my occasional series, A Secret, a Confession and a Guilty Pleasure , today I'm thrilled that my guest post is from author Isabella Johns, author of My Hot Fireman.
A lot of people think that my stories are based on my personal experience. But I live a rather moderate, sedate life. Fact is, very often I’m inspired by things that happen to my younger sister. She is lot more impulsive. Crazy things always seems to happen to her. I’m not saying MY HOT FIREMAN is based on her true life activities, but she does live right next to a firehouse in New York City!
Sometimes I wish I could be my younger sister. My life is so predictable, especially since getting married. She is still single and lives a very unencumbered existence. I often wonder what it would be like to meet someone new and have open the possibility that we might get together, that some fresh sparks could actually fly. Of course sometimes my sister envies the stability in my life. But I wouldn’t mind one of those hall passes for a day that allowed me to do anything I want. Fireman Paul, watch out!
A Guilty Pleasure:
Like so many others, my guilty pleasure is watching the cable series Homeland with complete passion and loyalty. For me it was extra intense, because we only recently signed up for the Showtime channel on cable. Then to find out you can click on the series and see the past episodes anytime you want. Well, that did it. I started watching one after the other. It was so much more thrilling to see all of the action unfurl at once and not have to wait a whole week to find out what happens next. I’m obsessed! I could have done all three seasons continuously, but managed to space them out over four exhausting days. Unfortunately, now I’m all caught up and have to wait for each Sunday. If only Carrie would stop tearing up on a dime and lose the lip quiver. No matter, it’s a great show!
EXCERPT FROM MY HOT FIREMAN
by Isabella Johns
Or perhaps he knows I’ve undressed him from my window while fingering myself into profound dirty ecstasy.
Who the fuck cares?
I literally rip off his shirt, scattering a few buttons, because I’m so eager to see and touch his masculine fineness.
It’s exactly like I envisioned from my window, imagined in my bed.
So completely smooth and hairless, it’s for sure he has done some waxing of his own. And those nipples, perfectly brown and large, jutting with muscled strength.
But this is really not like my bedroom fantasies where I lay back and allowed him to have his way.
I’m a tigress set free as I break away from his mouth and attack his chest with my tongue, licking a set of wet stripes all over that sweet body.
I take the brownish nipples into my mouth and suck and his head goes back and he lets out a deep moan.
How invigorating that I can still make a man react like this.
How different his body feels compared to what I’m used to.
My ex was never fat, but his chest and stomach always had a sort of looseness, never toned.
Give toned a Google search and you’ll see Fireman Paul’s picture.
He’s a lot gentler with my blouse, which I’m grateful for, considering what I paid for it, but the results are the same and my blouse and bra soon join his shirt to form a pile on the floor.
He wants to return the favor with my nipples, but I just can’t get enough of this man. I manage to reverse our positions and soon have him pinned against the wall as I lightly rake my nails over his upper body, causing lines of full blush wherever I wander.
I lean real close to lick the peaks and valleys of his muscled abs, then trail up his chest along his left side until I come to rest by his armpit where I notice a small, short, discreetly manscaped thatch of soft brownish blond hair. I breathe as deeply as I can…as if I’ve been trapped underwater for ages and I’m finally allowed a beautiful earthly scent.
Again he makes an attempt to reciprocate—and my nipples do ache for his rough callused fingers to make them twitch—but I just can’t stop myself.
I’m on my knees, not caring if I shred my stockings, unbuckling his pants.
His head goes back, body goes limp, and I hear him say, “You’re so fucking amazing!”
I sometimes believe I am.
I can remember in college having boyfriends who thought I was a good lover and seemed to want me with an insatiable appetite.
At least that’s what I thought.
What about marriage turned me into such a dud?
The pants are soon down, off, along with his boxers and boots.
I want him completely naked, as I envisioned.
The legs are like those of a stallion. Perhaps he works out in the basement gym we heard about on the tour, or maybe all of the grunt work from his training and probie duties have sculpted this Adonis. I let my fingers cascade down the thickness of his flesh, the hairless feel of his legs causing my heart to hammer against my ribcage and my pussy to melt against the black lace.
I can’t stop kissing his robust thighs and powerful calves.
Kisses of lust. Kisses of gratefulness.
Thank you, Fireman Paul! I want to shout. For helping me remember this kind of living. For helping me know that all of this is still possible.
And finally I take the time to stare at his bull’s eye.
More curved than I imagined, but not one iota less beautiful.
The sight of it so rigid and hard without it even being touched—simply because of my presence, my ministrations everywhere else on his body—leaves me breathless.
It seems even more powerful and magnificent because—unlike what I had envisioned when I welcomed him into my bed—and clearly not a practice from my generation—there is not a follicle of hair anywhere, the full shaft revealed along with every curvy detail of his prized balls.
The smooth skin of his cock flowing seamlessly onto his hard creamy stomach makes it that much more princely and grand.
I kiss him there.
I kiss his cock all over.
I kiss it like it’s my long lost lover and I’m just so happy we’re in the same room again.
Is it possible to fall instantly in love with a cock?
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