Page 10 of Service Included

I wasn’t ready to stop, and I didn’t have to when I squeezed my breasts as high as I could and dipped my chin to watch my mouth move closer to my nipples. I bowed my shoulders and lifted more and discovered that yes, my tongue reached one of my nipples. It was amazing. I could lick it, twirl the dampness with my fingers, and then guide the tip back between my teeth. Closer to the mirror, my breath left foggy ovals on the glass as I watched my fingers stretch my own nipples. Then I rolled those two nubs right up on the flat, cool expanse as firmly as I could. I’d never pressed so hard against a surface that didn’t yield back. Even a man’s chest gives a little when you rub on him, but my body had to surrender to the mirror. Cold glass wasn’t even close to what I wanted. I could see myself, I could touch myself, but I craved more. I craved a man who would see me, touch me.

Readers, have you ever performed for your own reflection? I had the idea to lift one foot onto an empty chair. Raising my leg, which naturally spread my thighs far apart, made me feel sexy. I watched the way my jeans tightened across the inner thighs, I watched my hands cupping my breasts, and I definitely watched my tongue stretch to lick my own tit. Anyone who is jealous of the fashions smaller-chested women wear, try that!

Then a loudclang-clang-clangstartled me. I thought somebody was watching and ringing the bell as a warning to behave, but then I recognized it was a fire alarm. The noise was so blaring, I wondered if I should put on my shirt and leave.Then a voice announced through a crackly intercom that there was nothing to worry about; this was only a test.

I pictured firemen. They have such strong thighs from climbing ladders and carrying those long hoses. And don’t firehouses always have weight equipment so the men can spend a lot of time pumping iron? Not to mention, they have the most delicious mustaches, just like Mr. Magnum, P.I.

Firemen stayed on my mind while I tried the second bra, which was too tight across my back. Such a relief to quickly unsnap the clasp and let my tits pop free. I had to tweak my ladies to give them a reward for enduring that binding, but by this point, playing with my nipples wasn’t enough. You know that spot between the legs of your jeans where the stitching doubles the denim into a stiff ridge? That feels nice pushed hard against the top of your pussy.

The third bra was a lace-trimmed front fastener, which I hadn’t intended to select because that style doesn’t give me enough support. Still, I figured I might as well try it. Am I glad I did!

As I hooked the tab between my breasts, I heard voices. Nervous shivers ran up my spine, but I wasn’t sure if that was because I was alone in the dressing rooms or because those voices were masculine, and I was as horny as I’d ever been in my life.

A man called, “Anyone in here?”

“Just me.” My voice sounded husky, like I’d smoked a pack last night.

Even though the fitting area had carpet, I could hear the thud of his tread coming closer. Polished black boots stopped at the bottom of my dressing room door. “Ma’am?” His voice was deep and slow. “No reason to worry. It’s not a fire, only a drill.”

There was a fireman a few feet away. My hands flew to the fabric over my breasts and I twisted my nipples again, almost brutally.

I suppose I failed to contain my moan.

“Ma’am? Everything all right in there?” he asked.

Would he knock if I didn’t answer? No bra could conceal that my nipples were as hard as Madonna’s platinum records. Part of me fluttered because he was a stranger and I was half-dressed, but a larger part of me trembled from the thought looping in my core:fireman.

What should I have done?

Readers, I opened the door as I was, shirtless and with my tippy-pointed breasts tucked behind flimsy black lace.

He was a fine-looking man. His brown hair was wavy, but not curly, like David Hasselhoff in the talking car show.Vroom, vroom, I almost purred, because I’d volunteer to be a Knight Rider if I could sink my hands into his hair. My fireman had a mustache as wide and thick as everything else promised to be, and under it, his lower lip was full and pink. His black jacket dangled open, the yellow horizontal stripes making him appear broader than the dressing room’s doorway. Normally, the way he stared at my chest instead of my face would have annoyed me, because I’m a liberated woman, but I’d been trying on bras long enough that my breasts had become very, very greedy for attention. Then I noticed his hands, so large that his wrists looked like stacked two-by-fours. No question about it, this man’s hands would engulf even my breasts.

After he cleared his throat, he stuttered a few words along the lines of, “Ma’am, do you need…” but a blush overtook him, and he didn’t finish his question.

I blurted something so silly, I can’t believe it came out of my mouth. I said, “I’m stuck.”

The way his lower lip dropped told me that he didn’t understand. If I was in for a penny, I might as well dive for the whole silver Susan B. Anthony dollar. I threw my shoulders back and pointed to the clasp hidden between my breasts and said, “I can’t undo it.”

Of course he asked if he could help, because the fire academy mints exemplary citizens. And of course I said yes, because getting his hands on my body was the perfect birthday present to give myself. I don’t know how a man with fingers that big can undo a tiny bra clasp without ripping the fabric, but he succeeded. The cups sprang apart, and my breasts tumbled free before he could get out of the way. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he tried.

His hands were strong and calloused, befitting a man who works with heavy equipment. He rubbed his thumbs across my nipples, and someone moaned. Me. I’d spent a lot of time looking in the mirror. I can tell you that normally, my nipples are somewhat apricot-jam colored and as fulsome as the rest of my chest, but for him, those big circles had engorged so totally, he might be risking an eye if he bent down.

I wanted him to bend down so that mustache could tickle my skin.

“Is this better?” He looked into my eyes. His were warm brown under dark eyebrows.

“Ab-so-lute-ly.” I can’t lie when I say being touched by this stranger was the hottest thing that had happened to me in all my twenty-three years. I laid my hands over his, to hold him in place. “You saved me from losing circulation.” I didn’t have to pull him back into the dressing room. All I had to do was shuffle backward, and he came right along. The door swung closed on its own, shutting us in a private box. I watched him watching me, and watched both of us in the mirrors, so many visuals that my head felt wobbly on my neck. “But I think I need more help.”

This time, he understood immediately. My fireman shed his jacket and sat on the empty chair with his legs spread. “We’re there when you need us. Department motto.”

I’ll never forget how time seemed to slow while I checked him out, starting from his work boots, so large that I knew he could break down doors. His wide-apart thighs, covered with black protective pants, filled the dressing room space and his suspenders made his shoulders look like a shelf I could balance against. I felt tiny and feminine. The open collar of his light blue uniform shirt revealed the hollow of his throat, where enough dark hair emerged from the neckline of his white undershirt that I knew he’d be furry in all the best places.

When I stepped closer, he reached for my hips, guiding me to stand between his legs, and then stroked slowly up my ribs. I didn’t do anything but wait and watch as his big fireman’s hands glided upward to reach my breasts. His size left even my bodacious self looking like nothing but a handful. His parted lips revealed the edges of his teeth, making me imagine how they’d feel when they scraped my bare skin. It should have been impossible, but my breasts seemed to expand toward him. Then he finally,finally, pressed his mouth to my nipple. I had expected rough, befitting a man who battled emergencies, but my fireman was so tender. His soft mustache caressed my skin, his wet tongue flicked at me, and his calloused hands woke every nerve connection in my body.

Even now, writing this days later, my knees are wobbly and my pussy swells with the memory of how he supported me when I swayed. Every tug from his teeth, every pull from his lips, reverberated deep inside me until I felt taller, tighter. I felt likemore.And when he blew across my budded nipples, it was like all the air left my own body, and I gasped. He smelled like spices, cedar, smoke, machinery, and man things that made me want to splay my body across the hood of a big red truck while hekept playing with my breasts. I reached for his head, to balance myself as much as to pull him closer.

Between my fingers, his hair was as thick and masculine as every other part of him. I was careful not to pull too much, but I needed something to grip, some way to express all the clenching my body felt like it had to do. So maybe I tugged a little.

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