The Fireman Came for a Painting, But He Claimed Me on My Art Table Instead

My booth was supposed to be the focus of my attention, but my gaze kept drifting past the easels displaying my art, across the sun-drenched grass of the park, to the fire department’s demonstration area. Specifically, to him. He was a mountain of a man, thick and broad in a way that made the navy blue uniform seem two sizes too small. His name was Orson, according to the announcer. The name felt as solid and heavy as he looked.

He was operating the Jaws of Life, a monstrous piece of hydraulic machinery, peeling the door off a junked car with a terrifying shriek of metal. But my eyes weren't on the spectacle of destruction. They were on the way his biceps swelled, straining the fabric at his shoulders as he maneuvered the tool. His back was a solid wall of muscle under the thin cotton shirt, his thick thighs braced against the ground. Even from fifty feet away, I could see the sweat beading on his temples and darkening the collar of his shirt. He was all raw, functional power, and every controlled movement sent a hot throb straight to my groin.

My sketchbook was open on my lap, a thick stick of charcoal in my fingers. I wasn't even thinking, just letting my hand move, trying to capture the sheer mass of him. The powerful curve of his ass in the tight-fitting pants, the solid column of his neck, the way his thick, dark hair was cut short and neat. I pressed harder with the charcoal, trying to get the shadows right, the deep crevices between the muscles in his forearms. My fingers were already smudged with black, the lines on the paper looking frantic, desperate.

This was so far from my usual subjects—lithe bodies, ambiguous and fluid. This man was an anchor. He was an absolute. The thought of those huge, calloused hands on my body, gripping my hips, made my breath catch. I could almost feel the weight of him pressing me down, his thick cock filling me up. I shifted on my stool, my jeans suddenly feeling restrictive. The charcoal stick snapped between my fingers. I looked down at the drawing. It was less of a portrait and more of a study in pure, unadulterated masculinity, a messy, visceral reaction to the man currently wiping his brow with the back of a gloved hand. He was a challenge, a force of nature I wanted to be consumed by. And as the crowd applauded the mangled car door hitting the ground, I felt an ache deep in my gut that had nothing to do with art and everything to do with want.

“Next, we need a volunteer to show everyone just how easy it is to use one of these standard ABC extinguishers!” a chipper woman with a clipboard announced. Her eyes scanned the crowd before landing directly on me. “You, sir! In the fabulous platforms! Come on up!”

A smattering of polite applause rippled through the onlookers. My face flushed hot. My outfit—a loose silk top, wide-leg pants, and four-inch platform boots—was designed for artistic expression, not public service announcements. Stumbling forward felt like a walk of shame, my boots catching awkwardly on the uneven grass. A few people chuckled, and my mortification deepened.

The woman handed me a heavy red canister, and I nearly dropped it. And then, he was there. Orson. He moved from the side of the demonstration area, his presence immediately sucking all the air out of my personal space. Up close, he was even bigger, a solid wall of man that blocked out the sun. He smelled of clean sweat and something faintly smoky, a scent so masculine it made my knees feel weak.

“Here, let me give you a hand,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through my chest.

He stepped behind me, his body fitting against mine so perfectly it felt like it was designed to. His broad chest pressed into my shoulder blades, the solid heat of him seeping through my thin silk shirt. My ass brushed against his thick thighs, and I could feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing into the small of my back through both our layers of clothing. My breath hitched. He was completely, undeniably hard.

“Just relax,” he murmured, his breath hot against my ear and the side of my neck. A shiver traced its way down my spine. His huge, warm hands closed over mine on the extinguisher’s handle, his calloused fingers completely enveloping my own. The contrast of his rough skin against mine was electrifying. “Aim at the base of the fire,” he instructed, his voice low and private, meant only for me. His grip tightened on my hands, his pelvis giving a subtle, deliberate push against me. “Now squeeze. I’ve got you.”

I squeezed. A powerful blast of white powder erupted from the nozzle, extinguishing the small, controlled fire in an instant. The crowd clapped, but I barely heard them. All I could feel was the solid wall of Orson’s body behind me, the possessive weight of his hands on mine, and the undeniable pressure of his erection branding itself against my back. He held the position for a moment too long, his thumb stroking the back of my hand before he finally released me and stepped away. The sudden loss of his heat was jarring. I turned, flustered and aching, and handed him the extinguisher. His eyes, a warm, dark brown, met mine, and they held a look of raw, undisguised hunger that promised this was far from over.

I stumbled back to my booth, my legs unsteady. My whole body was buzzing, my skin hypersensitive where he had touched me. I sat heavily on my stool, my mind replaying the feeling of his hard cock pressing into my ass, the low rumble of his voice in my ear. I tried to focus on the crowd, on the potential customers milling about, but all I could see was the ghost of his body pressed against mine. My own dick was semi-hard in my jeans, a dull, persistent ache that was both frustrating and thrilling.

A few minutes later, a large shadow fell over my booth. I looked up, and my heart hammered against my ribs. It was him. Orson. He’d taken off his heavy fireman’s jacket, and was just in the navy t-shirt and pants. The thin fabric did nothing to hide the sheer bulk of his chest and arms. He filled the small space of my booth, his presence so immense it felt like the air had gotten thicker, harder to breathe.

“You’re really talented,” he said, his voice that same low gravel. He gestured with a thick hand towards my canvases. His eyes scanned the paintings, moving slowly from one to the next before they stopped on a large piece hanging in the back. It was one of my more recent works—two abstract male figures, their limbs tangled together in a way that was more about power and submission than tenderness. One figure was massive, enveloping the other, their bodies rendered in deep, bruising purples and fiery reds.

His gaze lingered on the painting for a long time, then his eyes flicked to me. A slow, knowing smirk played on his lips. He got it. He saw the fantasy I’d painted, the craving for a powerful man to just take control. My face grew hot, but I didn’t look away.

“This one,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “It’s something else.” He took a step closer, and I could feel the heat radiating off his body. He smelled incredible. “I’ve actually been thinking about getting a piece commissioned.”

My breath caught. “Oh?” I managed, my voice thin. I could feel my cock starting to get properly hard now, straining against the denim of my jeans. The thought of him commissioning me, of having a reason to see him again, to be in the same room with him, was almost too much.

“Yeah,” he continued, his eyes locked on mine. “Something... specific. Do you have a card? Or maybe I could just get your number.”

The words were professional, but his tone was pure possession. He wasn’t asking to discuss art. He was setting up our next meeting. My hands trembled as I pulled out my phone and unlocked it, holding it out to him. He took it, his thick fingers brushing against mine. The contact was brief, but it shot a bolt of electricity straight through me. He slowly typed in his contact information, his thumb pressing firmly on the screen. He handed the phone back, but he didn't let go immediately. His thumb deliberately stroked across the back of my hand, a slow, rough caress over my knuckles that felt like a brand. It was a clear, unambiguous promise.

“I’ll call you, Jaime,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue like a secret. He gave me one last, smoldering look—a look that mentally had me bent over my work table, my ass in the air for him—and then he turned and walked away. I watched him go, my whole body aching, knowing without a doubt that he was going to fuck me. And I was going to let him do whatever he wanted.