Five Alarm Forever: A Reverse Harem Holiday Romance

by Dizzy Hooper

  Until finally I'm done. Between groceries, general apartment stuff, and finds from Goodwill, the back of my pickup is full of crap. It takes me half a dozen trips to haul it all upstairs. By the time I'm done, I just want to collapse and fire up Netflix on my laptop, but I force myself to keep moving. I get everything unloaded, then fix a sandwich for dinner and get back to work.

  I crash early and wake up earlier, and that's fine. Firefighter schedules get your nights and your days all confused. My internal clock has survived bigger upsets.

  I spend my second day off much the way I did the first, only with the added fun of a trip to the DMV to get my address changed and my voter registration updated.

  Then, before I know it, I'm standing in the middle of my apartment, and it's…done. Well, as done as I'm going to get it. All the basics are covered. The walls might still be stark white and bare, but who cares?

  I drop down into the papasan chair in the corner by the window. Late afternoon light spills in, making this the perfect reading nook, and I could do that. My e-reader is all loaded up and charged. I reach for it and open the cover.

  But I can't pick a title. The list blurs on the screen.

  Fucking hell. I've been relaxing for a total of about three seconds, and already an itch is forming just beneath my skin.

  I get to go to work tomorrow, but then it'll be another two days off. What the hell am I going to do with them?

  Back in Chicago, even after all the shit hit the fan, at least I had a routine. I volunteered at a school and waited tables at this crappy bar. I had my crew, and they were my friends.

  Right up until they weren't.

  I slam the cover of my e-reader closed and suck in a breath that singes my lungs.

  Shit. I'm not going to think about that. I'm not.

  I just have to find some things to do. Right. Perfect. I can look for another job and find someplace to pitch in—maybe at another school or an old folks home. Somewhere. Anywhere.

  I reach for my laptop instead and open up a browser.

  Only to have a screaming pop-up for a porn website splash itself across my screen.

  Frantically, I try to close the window. Fuck. Did I get a virus or something? Is that even a thing anymore? The sounds of moans and wet, sloppy sex fill the room, and I fumble with the volume control. Thank God the mute button works. My neighbors are going to think I'm some kind of freak.

  In desperation, I close the laptop.

  But that only removes the images from my sight.

  In my mind, I can't seem to look away.

  Goddamn. The video that was playing in the ad was of a girl on her hands and knees, one big cock thrusting into her open mouth while another filled her pussy from behind, and holy hell. I swear to God I haven't been researching threesomes or anything in my downtime—no matter how consumed I've been by fantasies of being taken by multiple men.

  How did my laptop know? Could it read my mind?

  I stand up, my hands shaking and my breath too fast.

  I'm going to have to fix my computer later, but I can't face the onslaught of filthy images right now. Not when it's been three days since I had an orgasm and the better part of a year since I've gotten fucked. Not when my face is flushed, my nipples tight. My pussy swollen and dripping…

  Shit.

  Clearly, I have to take care of this. I've been avoiding thinking about sex as much as possible, because every time I do, my thoughts automatically go to my co-workers. It feels dirty, wrong—and not in a good way. I don't want to objectify them.

  I want to be able to look them in the eye tomorrow.

  And that's the deciding factor, really. If I don't do something to quiet the heat in my blood, I'm going to be a sopping mess of need tomorrow when I go into the station, and I can't do that again. I can't furtively masturbate in the bunks, thinking about those men. I can't risk being that touch-starved and aroused around them, turning every glancing touch and look into something sexual.

  Okay. Fuck.

  Taking care to check the curtains are closed, I strip down to my skin and dive under the covers. On second thought, I sit up again and dig into the plastic set of drawers that serves as my bedside table. I come up with a medium-sized vibrator—hard plastic and about the length and girth of a decently sized cock. It's not the fanciest item in my small collection, but it does the trick. I pop in a fresh set of batteries, because I am not going to be able to deal with the frustration of it dying on me just as I'm getting going today.

  With my prize in hand, I pull the covers up once more. For a second, I'm tempted to go grab my stupid laptop and let the filthy videos that have possessed the thing have their run, but no. That's not what I need.

  In smutty romance novels, the hero and heroine always end up going to bed together with some insane idea of fucking each other out of their systems. But I've read enough of the things to know it never works out. Sex only complicates things. If it's bad, sure, maybe you get over the guy. But if it's good, all you want is more, more, more. You get attached instead of getting free, and that's not something I can afford.

  Fucking myself, though, and letting the fantasy play out? Yeah—that might do the trick.

  Closing my eyes, I run my hands along my body. It feels just as good as it did yesterday morning, but with an extra note of ripeness in my flesh. I'm ready. Piqued and hot.

  This was definitely the right decision.

  Tempted as I am to rush, I take my time. Tomorrow, I have to be professional. But for these few minutes? I'm going to indulge every fantasy that's been brewing in my mind since the moment I walked into the station.

  God, how would those men touch me? I cup my breasts, massaging my nipples with my thumbs and imagine Jaquan's hands on me. He seems like a boob guy, and mine aren't half bad if I do say so myself. How would his full lips feel? Would he use his teeth? His tongue?

  I pinch my nipples hard, and sparks of sensation cascade along my spine. My pussy goes wetter. I spread my legs, digging my heels into the sheets.

  And what about Sal? He's a big guy. Could he throw me up against a wall and take me like that? My hips pinned by his? Shit—I bet his cock is huge.

  Keeping one hand on my breast, I trail the other lower. I envision Sal's naked body, and I gently slip my fingertips through my own slickness. My pussy radiates heat. I take one slow circle around my clit, and my toes curl.

  I haven't gotten fucked in ages, but there other things I've been missing. Stroking all along the soaked lips of my cunt, I imagine Sal's broad shoulders holding my thighs open, his hot breath on my most sensitive parts. What would it feel like to get my fingers in his silky hair? To drag him in…

  A soft moan escapes me as I slip a fingertip inside. I'm all soft and wet inside. The emptiness is a hollow ache, and I'm yearning to fill it, but I'm still pacing myself.

  My thoughts drift to Corey. He's so eager as a probie. Would he be just as eager in bed? I'm still dying to find out if he's a virgin. Fuck, I bet it would feel so good to sink down onto his hot cock. I bet he'd be nice and long, maybe a little slim, but good. I'd love to watch his face as I take him in. I want to eat his pleasure, to kiss it off his lips.

  A sharper pang of need echoes through me.

  I whine.

  Fantasizing about sex is one thing, but dreaming of a kiss? Shit. I really am hard up.

  But that's what I want—almost more than those hot hands and mouths on my body. Almost more than those thick cocks.

  How would Walker kiss?

  Street?

  Shit. My eyes fly open as a bright burst of pleasure flashes across my vision.

  All the guys get my engine going, but Street's allure is something unique. His isolation is palpable. It calls to a matching loneliness inside my bones, and I want to soothe it. I want to know him. I want to kiss him.

  And hot damn, do I even want to fuck him.

  My pussy clenches down inside, and the slow foreplay with myself is over. Releasing my breast, I fumble to the side
for my little battery-operated friend.

  I groan as I rub the hard plastic up and down my slit, gathering my wetness on the toy and spreading it around. I circle my clit a couple of times, then close my eyes once more.

  A hundred filthy images flicker through my mind. Street above me, his huge body between my thighs, his cock poised at my entrance. Corey below me—or—Jesus—

  Jaquan and Sal to either side of me. One in my mouth and one in my pussy—or—

  I've only had anal once. It hurt, but it felt so good, too. It was achingly intimate, allowing myself to be opened up like that.

  I bite my lip.

  I don't know if I could go there again. Not unless it was with someone I really trusted.

  Someone like Walker.

  A starved, pained noise breaks through my lips as I slide the vibrator into my cunt. Dear God.

  Walker—he would take good care of me, wouldn't he? He'd be so patient, never taking more than he could give. He'd make it so good, and I would let him. I would.

  Arching my back, I start working myself over with the toy. I thrust the plastic in and out, angling it. The fullness is so good, and yet it's still not what I need. I try turning it on, and yeah. That helps.

  Clenching down around the thick plastic buried in my pussy, I rub at my clit with my fingers. Hot waves of pleasure build deep inside. I move faster, fuck myself harder.

  I think of Street looking into my eyes as he pounds into my cunt. Of Walker's mouth on my neck and his cock deep in my ass.

  I think of Jaquan and Sal, spit-roasting me good.

  Corey staring at me with all that need in his eyes as he strips his cock with his hand. As he comes on my face—

  My orgasm crashes over me out of nowhere. My whole body spasms, hot curls of pleasure lifting me up and away to oblivion, and it's good. Jesus—it's so good.

  But as my pussy squeezes down around hard plastic, true satisfaction remains just beyond my reach.

  I whimper, turning my head to the side as the last shivers of climax shake through me. After fighting to turn off the vibrator, I slump back. I keep a little pressure on my clit, just to help ease myself down.

  But it's over.

  I flutter my eyes open. My empty apartment stares back at me. I may have just filled my pussy and worked off the worst of my desperation. But I didn't really change anything.

  I pull the vibrator out and stagger to the bathroom to clean up after myself.

  As the water runs, I meet my own reflection in the mirror. What I see isn't exactly pretty. The rings beneath my eyes are dark. I didn't earn the sex flush that colors my cheeks.

  Swallowing, I avert my gaze.

  Fantasizing about my new shift-mates rocketed me to orgasm faster than I can remember anything getting me off in years. It was still an asshole thing to do.

  I just have to hope it did the trick.

  Tomorrow I have to be able to look them in the eyes. I have to work with them like a professional.

  And I have to do it without trying to jump on any of their dicks.

  10

  Turns out, the romance novels were right. You can't fuck a guy out of your system, and I now have concrete evidence that you can't furiously masturbate him out of your system, either.

  For my first shift, they told me to show up mid-morning so I wouldn't be in the way during the hand-off. No such luxury today. I arrive at a quarter to eight. The last shift is finishing up their morning routine. Walker is out front, because of course he is; when would he show up except more than fifteen minutes early?

  His gaze connects with mine, and he smiles slow and easy, and it doesn't matter that I fucked myself silly last night. Just the gleam of those clear blue eyes and the sight of that broad frame under his jacket and jeans has me squirming inside, my pussy warming.

  I nod at him and keep walking. At least I have the locker room to myself. I stash my shit and head off to find the guy I'm relieving, a middle-aged guy named Bob who at least confirms that not everyone in this freaking town is an underwear model.

  We complete our hand-off quickly enough. The engine answered two calls last night. The crew did their job getting it cleaned up and checked over after each, though, so I shouldn't have much more to do than the usual morning inspection.

  With that sorted out, I hit the head and then report to the garage just in time for morning meeting with the crew, and shit.

  Shit damn motherfucker damn.

  They're all assembled already. Walker is clearly fully in command, standing in front of the engine, spine straight, blond hair perfect, eyes sparkling. Jaquan and Sal and Corey are arranged around him, each looking better than the last, and my pussy flares again at the vision of them together like that. Corey waves, Sal nods. Jaquan lets his gaze rake over my body before shooting me his panty-dropping grin, and my clit throbs.

  Then I spot Street, perched on the side of the engine, long hair tied back out of his face, that permanent five o'clock shadow sharpening his features, his ink on display beneath the rolled up sleeves of his jacket.

  And yeah, indulging my fantasies didn't take any of the wind out of them. If anything, it made them stronger. My resolution not to try to jump on any of their dicks falters as my skin prickles, my nipples going tight.

  And then everything gets worse.

  "Thought we'd start the day with a little fun," Walker says. He nods behind me.

  He must have moved it while I was doing my hand off with last night's crew, because the ladder truck was not outside the station when I got here.

  Its ladder wasn't raised eighty feet in the air.

  Walker's smile is edging closer to a smirk by the time I turn back to him. My heart pounds, but I refuse to let that show.

  He thinks he's got me.

  It's a mistake a lot of dudes make—thinking I don't have the strength to keep up with the rest of my crew. Walker's expression isn't mean or challenging, mind you. I don't think he's trying to put me in place or make me feel inadequate. But I do think he's setting me up for a little slice of humble pie.

  We'll see who ends up getting served.

  Jaquan laughs and claps his hands as Walker and I size each other up. "Ooooh," he calls. "She wasn't expecting that."

  "Were you?" Walker asks, rounding on him.

  Jaquan's laughter cuts short, but he doesn't seem caught of guard. "Any time, any place."

  "Right now, then. Right here." Walker points toward the turn out room. "Two minutes. All of you. Full gear. Loser's scrubbing toilets during chores."

  Street sits up, his casual pose abandoned. Corey and Sal straighten up, too, now they know they're on the spot.

  "And…go!" Walker shouts. Just like that, we're off.

  I have an advantage, still standing closest to the door, and I use every bit of it. Before the rest of them can so much as get inside, I've got my equipment down off the rack. I know this routine; I can do it in my sleep.

  That clarity of focus I get when I'm on a job steals over me. I shove on my boots and hood, then step into the heavy, protective pants, shoving the suspenders into place over my shoulders. The coat comes next. As I'm slinging the pack with my tank on, the sounds of movement around me key me into my crewmates doing likewise all around me, but I don't have time to look at them or compare. We take care of each other, we help each other, but we know. You have to get your own business settled first.

  And this isn't a fire. It's a drill. It's a competition.

  It's an open invitation for me in specific to prove myself, and when have I ever let one of those slip past?

  I slip my respirator into place and grab my helmet. I head toward the door, putting the headgear on as I go. A body collides into mine as I move, and even through all those layers of protective equipment, I feel the surge of heat. Refusing to cede any ground, I glance to the side to find Sal there. Corey is right behind us, with Jaquan cursing in the background. I don't know where Street is at all, but that doesn't matter.

  Sal and I make it back
to Walker at a dead heat, followed seconds later by Corey. Street is next, with Jaquan bringing up the rear, his helmet still in hand and one of the straps of his pack all twisted. Sal claps as he joins us, laughing through his respirator.

  "Shove it," Jaquan mutters. "Give me a hand, will you?"

  Sal reaches to do just that, but I'm closer. I reach up without even thinking, fixing the misbehaving strap. Instinctively, I slap him on the back, just like I would have with any other member of my old crew.

  It takes a second for it to catch up with me, what I've done.

  On the surface, it's nothing, but look a little deeper and…

  It's contact. Intentional physical contact, only that's not all.

  Treating him like one of the old members of my team…

  After what they did…

  I stagger back, the weight of my pack overbalancing me, but I manage to right myself before I can end up flat on my ass. A hand lands on my shoulder, and I whip around the best I can to find Street there, of all people, trying to steady me.

  Turning, I tear the mask from my face. I'm this close to hyperventilating, but I can't let that show. My gaze swings around wildly until it lands on Walker. His eyes are narrowed, his stance wary. I straighten up and shake it off.

  Putting on my best bravado, I square my shoulders. Walker told us the loser of that little competition was going to be cleaning toilets. I sure wasn't that. I'm not going to rub Jaquan's status in his face. But I will take a bit of the glory I figure I deserve for coming in first. "So what does the winner get?"

  "Winners, you mean?" Sal asks.

  "Whatever."

  Some of the stiffness to Walker's posture fades. He teases back, "I'll give it to Chapman, since you've only done it about three hundred times already."

  "Ooh, burn," Corey says.

  Jaquan shoves Sal playfully—they way I did to him three seconds ago. Only without the tiny panic attack, so that's an improvement over my performance, I guess.

  Sal bats him away. Street watches the whole interaction from a couple of feet away.

  Walker pulls us all back to attention. "So you want to hear your prize?"

  Uh-oh. Already I can tell I should be careful what I wish for. I wait, one brow raised.