FIREMEN YUPPIES
By the time the sun sets behind the skyline, the true work begins.
I’ve spent twenty years commanding the city’s fire bureau, my hands calloused from real heat, my voice trained to cut through smoke and chaos. But lately, the emergencies are fewer. The city’s safer, the alarms quieter. The flames I once fought now live in the eyes of young men — fresh recruits who answer a different kind of call.
They come to me from boardrooms and skyscrapers, suits by day, stripped down by night. Ambitious yuppies in their twenties — driven, sculpted, eager. I recruit them not with promises of heroism, but with something more primal: strength, brotherhood, discipline… transformation.
They’re told it’s community work. Something for the CV, for their image. But I see the hunger in them. They want to sweat. They want to prove themselves. And under the red haze of the training lights, they do.
Five of them. Five golden, greedy yuppies who stepped out of boardrooms and willingly into the furnace. Not one of them truly knew what they were signing up for — not at first. But it didn’t take long for the truth to sink in: this was never just community service.
This was transformation.
They come to me now every night — shedding their dress shirts, their egos, their names. What remains is sweat, breath, muscle, and obedience. Their bodies answer before their mouths do.
Let me introduce them — not by name, but by power. By the men they were, before the firehouse reduced them to what they are.
1. The Head of Research & Development – the scientist.
He was analytical. Controlled. All equations and clean-cut suits. Now he’s nothing but raw need in bunker pants, kneeling in the center of the room with his eyes closed, waiting for orders. Every movement is precise — every breath shallow. He approaches training like an experiment: calculated, clinical, obsessive.
But the body betrays him.
By the time we hit the heat drills, he’s flushed and trembling, soaked in sweat and something deeper. He always asks for extra reps. “Please, Chief… one more.” Not to prove anything to me — but to earn the burn. To feel seen.
He says nothing when I push him further. Just opens his mouth slightly, eyes on the floor. Like he’s waiting to be used.
2. The Corporate Lawyer – the alpha.
In court, he’s ruthless. On firehouse floors, he’s the loudest to grunt, the quickest to strip. He likes pain. Welcomes correction. Challenges every limit I place on him — but only so he can be forced back down.
He lifts heavy, breathes harder. But what he really wants isn’t power.
It’s surrender.
He looks at me during drills like he wants to be broken in half and remade from ash. When he drops to one knee after a run, he always presses his forehead to the floor. “Thank you, Chief,” he whispers — like I just saved his life. Like he needs saving every night.
And I give it to him — in silence, in pressure, in heat.
3. The Brand Strategist – the smooth one.
Words are his weapon in the office, but here, he's all soft eyes and parted lips. His body is lean and sculpted, carved like something from marble — and he knows it. He watches me during drills with a gaze that smolders, full of intention.
He moves differently — like everything is choreography. Slow. Deliberate. Seductive. He doesn’t just do push-ups; he offers them. Back arched, arms flexing, face glistening under red light.
He always lingers after. Last to leave the locker room. First to volunteer to stay behind for extra photos, more poses.
When I call his name — and I rarely do — his breath catches like I’ve touched something he’s tried to keep buried. He craves being seen, not just for his body — but for the want etched deep in it.
4. The Junior Investment Officer – the upstart.
He’s the youngest. The hungriest.
Fresh from a major firm, all teeth and ambition. At first, he strutted in like a frat boy with something to prove. But now? Now he’s pure electricity. No more smirks. Just eyes wide with devotion, legs trembling during planks, mouth slightly open during rope pulls like he’s waiting to be filled with approval.
He works harder than all the others — not because he wants to impress me, but because he needs to.
He needs to be chosen. Used. Marked.
I make him run drills until his knees give out. He never complains. Only shudders when I adjust his form, when my voice gets low in his ear. He twitches like he’s been touched somewhere deeper than skin.
5. The Product Manager – the polished one.
He walked in with million-dollar poise — clean lines, pressed shirts, a jaw that could sell anything. But beneath the polish is a creature of appetite. He hides it well — but I see it.
I see how his fingers tremble when I call him forward for gear checks. How he locks eyes with me a second too long when I pass the water bottle. How his breaths get sharp during drills that require restraint.
He wants to serve. Not just to follow orders, but to carry the weight of them. To be responsible for my satisfaction.
And when I put the oxygen mask on him during simulation, the way he moans against the rubber tells me everything. It’s not fear. It’s worship.
Together they are my fire.
Every night, they gather in the training room under red light, half-clad in sweat-drenched bunker pants, chests heaving, eyes full of hunger. They call me Chief like it’s a sacred word. Like it tastes better on their tongues than anything else in this world.
And when the drills are over…
When the cameras are put away, and the station goes quiet…
That’s when they do their real service.
They don’t speak.
They just kneel.
Bare-chested. Ash-dusted. Palms open in reverence.
And I stand before them — the embodiment of the flame they cannot extinguish.
Not because it must burn…
But because they want it to.
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