Page 3 of Burn (Two Wheeled Psychos #2)

The firehouse is almost eerily quiet when the tones aren’t ringing, and the guys are sleeping.

The bunkhouse may be half full, but the only movement is the fluttering of the curtains that separate our beds from the overhead fan.

I like the quiet most nights, but as I sit on my bed cross legged holding the backpack that my little witness dropped, I feel on edge. Today didn’t go as planned, and it just doesn’t sit right inside my guts.

“Let’s see if we can figure out who you are, little thing.”

I say to myself as I slowly open the zipper and peel open the bag.

It’s full of textbooks, a hoodie, and a little brown makeup bag that looks like it’s seen better days.

Pulling the books out, a small one falls between my thighs and flutters open.

It’s a paperback, unlike the rest of them, and the metal bookmark in the pages has little teeth marks on the corner of it. Picking it up, I flip through it, reading a few lines.

“He lifted my skirt, his hands fluttering over my shivering flesh…my nipples pebbled into hard little stones…‘Oh yes! More’…My orgasm…”

Even though no one can see me, I feel my cheeks flush, and slap the book closed between my hands, while clearing my throat nervously.

“So you read smut.

Good to know.

You’re probably a whore then.”

I say under my breath, tossing the novel aside and looking at the textbooks.

“Anatomy, Advanced Biology, Pharmaceutical Identification.

Wow, you’re a med student.

Then why little thing, do you read such vile stuff?”

The hoodie is black, with a flaming skeleton on it, its middle finger extended, and a band name in jagged text tells me she listens to heavy metal.

That’s one thing we have in common, they’re my favorite band, and their logo is absolutely divine.

“So far nothing to tell me anything except you’re a sex loving, med student, who likes good music.

Anything else in here, baby?”

I pick up the makeup bag and give it a shake, listening to all the items inside rattle.

The scent of something floral and clean permeates from it, and I find myself with it up to my nose taking a big whiff.

I’ve never smelled something so pure when it comes to women. It’s not the drug store body sprays that the crack whores douse themselves in to cover the smell of their rot. It’s expensive, and nice.

The zipper of the little brown bag sticks and I have to give it a little bit of a hard pull, making it fumble in my hands, dropping it onto the mattress of my cot.

Brushes, compacts, and things I have no idea what they are spill out onto my white sheets, along with the jackpot, a driver’s license.

“Phoenix Huang.

Your name is Phoenix? The bird of fire, death and resurrection.

Oh baby, how lucky are you?”

I croon, turning the ID over in my hand again and again, stroking the picture of her with my thumb.

The little square photo shows me the face of the woman who fled from me screaming.

She’s beautiful and different, just like me.

Her black hair is smooth and cut with a sharp angle towards her narrow chin. Her porcelain skin is light but has a slight bronze tinge to it. But those eyes, dark brown, almost black eyes shaped like a cat’s, they’re stunning, like dark pools you could fall into and lose yourself. Even in print, they’re sucking me in.

She’s a complete and utter contrast to me in appearance.

She’s petite, slim and lithe, with the dark features that make her sophisticated and polished, even in her sneakers and hoodies.

I, on the other hand, am tall, muscular, and cut from stone. My dark blonde hair curls around my face, and my blue eyes shine as bright as the torch I use to do my “work”. She’s the fucking yin to my yang.

“The phoenix, amazing.”

I say quietly to myself as I stare into those dark pools under the clear laminate, feeling something in me stir that only normally responds when I’m watching trash burn.

Under my navy pajama pants, my cock grows, snaking up onto my lower stomach, asking for the attention I hate to give it.

Sex is dirty, pussies are filthy, and the act of sticking my dick in something wet and squishy makes me want to gag, but as I look at the face of her, all that changes.

I want to see what it’s like with her. Would it be as clean as her scent? Would I feel “normal”? Could I give in to the urge currently overtaking me without feeling ill?

We shall see.

I thank fuck that all the other guys are asleep as I pull my pants down and my dick springs up, slapping me in my shredded abs.

The head is swollen and leaking and I look at it in confusion.

I’m not used to having these feelings at just the picture of a woman. I’ve never been turned on by dirty magazines or porn, they always make me uneasy. But she, the Phoenix in my hand has me craving the touches that I despise.

I want to feel her little hand instead of mine as I wrap my fist around my length, squeezing it, making the drops of precum come out faster.

They roll down, coating my hand, making it slick enough for me to rub up and down without any friction.

It’s the wettest I’ve ever been, my body responding to her face on the ID like a horny teenager opening his daddy’s jerk off material for the first time.

At my age, things like this should not be, but I guess the fact that I’ve never been normal makes this “normal” for me.

“Phoenix.”

I moan her name as I stroke myself, my legs tensing, my ass clenching as I go faster.

It’s embarrassing even though I’m alone in my bunk and the curtain is drawn closed. The fear of someone hearing has me gritting my teeth, trying to stay silent. I’ve heard them all before, it’s not like it’s a terrible thing, we’re all dudes here, all with needs, but I’m different, and they know that. If one of them were to wake and hear me, the ragging would be endless that the freak in bunk three has finally become a man. I’ve never told them I’m a virgin, but they know. I can tell by the way they look at me. The guy with crazy eyes who’s quiet and reserved shouts that fact.

The slickness between my fingers coats me thickly as I rub and pull on my dick, clenching my jaw, and scrunching up my toes. It feels so good, and I can’t help but stare at the picture in my other hand, imagining my reflection in her dark pupils as I hover over her, holding her down, plowing the pulsing cock in my hand into her heat.

Mmmm, heat. But wet heat, not fiery. Are you fiery inside?

I wonder if she would take all of me. I’m fairly large. Not like a monster dick, but from what I hear the guys talk about, I’d be considered big. Bigger than most of them. That gives me a laugh sometimes when they’re comparing penis sizes. I just sit there quietly listening to them, knowing that I have them beat.

I think about the feeling of her under my body. Would she be soft compared to the hardness of the muscles that I work hard to maintain. Would she give in under me, her thighs dropping open, her hands grabbing at me, touching all the ridges and planes on my cut body? Would I like it?

My cock is twitching hard in my hand, the head getting darker and leaking more as I rub. It’s drying out though with the speed at which I stroke it, and with a sly smile to myself I drop a mouthful of spit down on it, watching it spill over my head, then down my shaft and hand.

“Oh fuck yes.”

I groan in my throat, feeling it heat up and pulse harder.

I’m close, so close to the thing that usually deters me from doing this, the orgasm, well, the cum.

It’s messy and dirty, and I hate it, but I’m careening towards it now, unstoppable, wanting it for the first time since I discovered how gross it is.

The first wave shoots out of me splattering across my abs in ribbons of hot white cream, heating my skin and making me a sticky mess.

The rest dribbles out the tip of my dick, and I can’t help the urge to rub it all over the picture in my grip, just like how I would want to rub it on her face, coating her in it, claiming her as mine.

I can see her as I close my eyes, her smooth cheeks and her lips covered in my mess, and it’s beautiful.

She would look perfect being all white and drenched in it, and the image behind my eyelids makes more run from my cock, covering the plastic card until it’s dripping off it onto my sheets.

Oh fuck yes.

My moment of solitude is broken by the sound of the dispatcher’s tones ringing out loudly in the bunk room.

The screeching of the three notes repeating over and over again as I scramble to wipe myself off, dropping the license on my cot mattress as I pull my pants up, smearing what’s left of my cum into the material.

I’m scrunching up my nose at the feeling of it as I rip the curtain back and reach for the rest of my clothes.

“Up and at ‘em.”

My captain calls out, his heavy booted feet already stomping between the bunks as he claps his hands, rousing everyone that’s not already clamoring for their own clothes and gear.

It’s a whirlwind of action as the six of us rise, dress, and drop down the pole in the middle of the room down into the garage.

The pole ride, it’s something that as a child I always wanted to do.

It’s the quintessential thing people think of when they think of firemen, and now I get to do it daily when I’m on duty, and sometimes even when I’m not, because my twisted little brain likes to go to the calls, even if I’m not supposed to.

The brothers think I’m just a gung-ho team player, but they don’t realize that I want to be there, to see things burn, to watch them be destroyed even when we try our hardest not to let them be.

Fire is an evil bitch, she claims what she wants without question, and without emotion or fear, even though I believe she’s a living thing.

She breathes, eats, and dies.

She’s a creature of habit and a user of opportunity waiting to take you and your things with her when she goes, leaving nothing but piles of embers and ash that blow away on the wind, or wash down the drain with the water that was her demise.

An evil bitch she really is, and I love her.

Grabbing my gear from the rack on the side wall of the garage, I pull on my jacket and pants, then stomp into my boots before slamming the helmet on my head with my palm.

The visor clicks down in place and I’m ready to go, jumping on the back of the truck with one of the other guys who gives me the nod of brotherhood, acknowledging that even though he thinks I’m a creep, he has my back as he knows I have his.

With a fist bump, I return the gesture then hold on tight as the truck lurches out of the garage with the sirens wailing out their warning of our coming.