Free Fun With a Fireman by Daniella Divine

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