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Isaac
The fire alarm rings as I stand at the fire station urinal with my dick in my hands, and I put my hand on the wall and sigh at the timing.
With the control of someone who aces physical assessments regularly, I stop myself mid-stream, shake twice, stick it back in my pants, and barely miss it as I quickly zip myself up.
As I race out with the other firefighters, I can’t help but focus on how badly I need to pee.
I mentally trace our route while on the firetruck, noticing that we pass up the common residential areas and keep going a bit farther.
The dark smoke clouds give away our destination first, followed closely by the large crowd of people. It still amazes me that people gather around instead of realizing the best thing they can do is get out of the way. However, I digress…
A sense of surprise fills me when the crowds separate to expose a solitary burning single-story home with nothing around it. I get the sense the building was condemned far before the fire today.
Flames spread from the wood roof to the tree before my eyes, and I stop thinking and act.
Similar to an orgasm, the more you let a fire build up, the more intense the climax, and both climaxes get messy. However, you want to deny the buildup in the case of a fire, where you can tease and build it up all you want during sex.
I realize I need to stop thinking about sex right now. At this very moment, I also remember how badly I need to pee.
Despite mental and physical hindrances, we put out the fire quickly with no fatalities. However, starting a fire in this remote location near dry leaves and trees indicates the arsonist is building up to a larger climax himself. I already dread cleaning up that mess.
With so little information about the arsonist, I reluctantly turn to the crowd for help out of desperation.
I stand in front of them, showing off the burn marks in my uniform for the news cameras, and address the crowd like a leader deserving of a promotion.
“I want to thank my fellow first responders for putting out this fire so promptly with minimal damage. Unfortunately, as you read in the news, we suspect an arsonist. Please come forward with any information by calling the non-emergency police department number or speaking to a fireman on site. Please only come forward if you have credible information. Thank you, and don’t forget to check your smoke detectors,” I speak confidently.
The entire crowd appears to storm forward at once.
“You hear that he burns cats alive?”
“Why can’t the arsonist be a she? I think I saw a blond lady right before the fire started,”
“She probably burns down places to get back at ex-boyfriends,”
“I smell cigarette smoke. Smoking kills! Ban cigarettes throughout town!”
“Homeless people came to town last week. I saw them at the gas station with cigarettes. They must have slept here!”
“Maybe teenagers did it. The Johnson boy and his hoodlum friends like to drink in the woods out here!”
The baseless tips and suggestions keep coming in, and I need to treat each one earnestly, or we face possible litigation if it turns out to be true. I take each and every unfounded report while secretly just hoping I can sneak away to the bushes and relieve my bladder.
Among the vastly different accounts from witnesses, one common theme catches my attention: many people report seeing a thin, blonde woman with a ponytail.
My mind flashes back to the image of Emma cooking in the kitchen in just her panties with her blonde hair in a messy ponytail.
Finally, we finish collecting statements at the scene. Unable to hold it anymore, I rush to the nearby woods to pee on a bush as quickly as possible before the fire truck takes off without me, leaving me alone with a probable (blonde?) arsonist.
“Where did you disappear to?” The Captain asks me as I hop on the truck after everyone else.
“I took a quick break in the woods,” I admit.
“I’ve been there. No one realizes how inconvenient firefighting can be.”
The Captain laughs to himself until the laughing turns into a deep cough.
I pat him on the back, but he pushes me away.
