By Amanda Artemis
This book is for the hipsters who love to lust, the daydreamers at work who pretend they’re merely thinking about entering numbers into a spreadsheet or making a halfway decent cappuccino, and for every one of my friends who dared read this novella before it went to print. MP, NV, CWC and EG.
Café Revival is exactly where you’re thinking it is: a cozy, abandoned church. The pews have been converted to form long, picnic-table style seating, the Wi-Fi is inconsistent, and the baristas believe that yes, their coffee is the best. And while I admit, the baristas make a stellar latte, I never thought they were the end-all, be-all to my espresso needs. Until Marlin’s text message left me needing to both caffeinate and inebriate myself.
I’d been reveling in the solitude of my apartment, as my roommates Mariah and Katie had taken the week off to go out of town on a BFF adventure. By reveling, I mean before they’d even left I’d whipped out my phone, zipped through some of Marlin’s dirty sexts as a primer, then pulled up one of my favorite not-safe-for-work emails from him…a long, sexy story. By the time the girls were gone, I had my vibrator at the ready:
Hey doll. You know what I want to be doing to you right now? Grabbing your hair and pulling your face down to my crotch, watching you squirm a little as you feel my rock hard dick lingering below my jeans. At first you’re fighting me but you feel how warm it is, how much it wants your mouth. With my other hand I undo my zipper and pull my pants down. Before I can ask, you start licking my shaft. I jerk your head away, staring down at you. “Not until I say so, baby.” You whimper, still not quite sure and still fighting me a little. With your hair still wrapped in my hand I pull off my jeans, then press your body against my leg. I can feel your warmth through your skirt, probably a little wet even though you wish you weren’t. I wiggle my leg against you and find your clit a little hard. I keep pressing my leg into you, your lips close to my cock. I watch as you go from intimidated to hot, making sure you won’t back down. “Now, baby.” You start sucking my dick slowly, taking it all in then pulling it all out. Tease. You’re grinding my leg now, and I can feel definite wetness as your skirt slides up and just your panties are between your pussy and my skin. Then –
Only I didn’t get any farther, or get off, because a text pinged in from Marlin himself. And this one was not sext-y. It said, I gotta cancel tonight, Cora. He never calls me by my name. I ask why, and if he’s okay. He responds, I think I gotta cancel every night. I pause, vibrator still in hand as I text back, Am I reading this right? Are you trying to tell me you’re ending our relationship?
He responds, Yeah, that.
So he broke up with me via text message in a bizarre moment. Cool. One second you’re getting off to your boyfriend’s sexty-sweet words, the next, you’re single.
In the wake of the breakup, I spent a day in bed with my phone on silent watching When Harry Met Sally and Under the Tuscan Sun on repeat, reminding myself that yes, there is hope for my future. Sure, I told myself over and over, I’m twenty-eight years and seven months old (but who’s counting?) and harboring five failed long-term relationships since the start of my adult life (still not counting). And sure, by this time in her own aging process my mom had been married to my dad for three years and they were expecting their first baby, my perfect sister Joyanne (but who’s comparing?). And sure, my best friends from high school and college are all either married, engaged, or engaged to be engaged – which seriously sounds even more ridiculous than and as useless as a training bra. I probably say that only because I’ve never been engaged to be engaged. Or had a training bra.
After the twenty-four hour grace period I gave myself to cry hysterically and wallow sans judgment, not put on eyeliner and not bother to shower, I did get out of bed. Determined to not move any more than I had to, I laid down and scouted my café options. I need the absolute closest one that Marlin was sure not to show up at. A quick check on my map app told me Revival was exactly 0.2 miles closer than any other bar or coffee house, so I hop in the shower to freshen up – a feat which didn’t work as all I did was cry and think about how Marlin first told me he loved me in the shower while I was acting like a fountain and spitting water on him.
Before getting dressed, I stick my arm out of my window, wondering if there will be goosebumps or sweat beads when I bring it back inside. The answer is neither. It’s warm outside, which is surprising as the last time I had stepped foot out of doors it was overcast and bordering on cool. The California coast is a peculiar place weather-wise (hence the arm-out-the-window test). Everyone expects it to be beach-style hot all the time, and it’s not. In fact, it is far too often foggy here, which makes me wonder why I chose to go to both college and graduate school in this town, and stay afterward, too. Fog and no jobs? What a deal.
I stroll down to Revival without makeup, not trusting myself to manage holding back tears in public. Besides, accentuating the pouf of red around my eyes doesn’t sound awesome. My auburn hair dries in the sun during my foot-commute to the coffee shop. As I walk through the heavy arched wooden front doors, I’m greeted with a cool breeze of stale air – Revival never seems to get the stench of God out of the place – but nothing more. The girl baristas with their dreadlocked tresses ignore me, and the guy baristas with their over-shiny long hair follow suit.
Regardless, I order a glass of white sangria and a chocolate macaroon, not caring if the pairing is getting raised eyebrows from the mustachioed man handing it to me with no trace of humanity on his face.
“The back patio is open,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible above the banjo-heavy, accordion-laden folk rock Revival has pulsing through the speakers from the pulpit. A band with similar instrumentation is setting up on the stage, and though I’m open to new music, I’d really prefer the company of a podcast right about now.
“Thanks,“ I reply. Scooping up my beverage, which inexplicably came in a pint glass, I’m out the side door and in the garden before any more of the baristas’ soulful, hound-dog eyes can judge me. He must be so deep. In an effort to look unapproachable, I put in my headphones, drop my sunglasses over my eyes, and start drinking to Ira Glass’s nasally soothing voice.
To be fair, the band sounds better than I expected the music starts. Wait, that makes no sense if I hated them before. Oh, that’s because an empty stomach plus a pint of sangria means I’m drunk.
Home I go, alone.
The next morning I wake up not even hungover, which is depressing. The least I could do is have a hangover to nurse, a reason to stay in bed. Without one, though, and with text messages from friends piling up unanswered (it appears Marlin unrelationshipped us on Facebook), Revival is again my best bet for escape. This time I pull on a sweatshirt, skip the shower and the teeth brushing, think about makeup but forget about it, and make my way to the café, laptop in tow.
Outside is overcast. Once again, the folk music greets me, as does the sound of no human voices calling out hello. Once again, the same pretty-haired boy rings me up, handing me an iced Americano and a chocolate macaroon. This time, though, his humanity betrays him.
“Your breath smells like sangria,” he says after I thank him for taking my money.
“Yeah,” I reply.
“And your hair is everywhere.”
“Where are you going with this?” I ask.
“I’m just wondering if you would like to borrow a hair tie,” he says. “I’ve got one in my apron.” He reaches his fingers down into the pocket of his black apron and procures an elastic band, holding it up almost as though it were an eyelash for me to make a wish on and blow away from us both.
Instead of blowing though, I pluck the band away from him. “Thanks for the brutal honesty.”
I sit down next to a stained glass window, where roses and birds of paradise live in harmonious transparent color. Revival replaced only some of the religious stained glass testaments to its churchy heritage with neutral, secular imagery like flowers and nautical scenes. The rest of the windows remained: three wise men (or are they kings? I should read the Bible’s CliffsNotes someday), an ark full of animals in pairs and a lion, a witch and a wardrobe. Even the creatures on Noah’s watch were paired off, I think as I pull my hair back into a knot high upon my head.
Marlin hated this hairstyle, probably because it drew attention to my long neck, which thankfully naturally has grace and style without my ever having taken a ballet class or attended a yoga session. His theory was anyone else paying attention to me meant I might pay attention to them instead of him. Which in retrospect sounds a lot like a red flag. I open my laptop.
Jobs aren’t plentiful but they aren’t quite MIA, either. I tackle online applications, navigating a variety of step-by-step forms through a plethora of apps meant to make applying for employment easy. Really though, I miss the days of simply turning in a cover letter and resume. This whole hoop-jumping, creating accounts with passwords, and unique questioning is time-consuming. And given my unemployed status, not fruitful either.
Mr. Mustachio walks by, refilling my iced coffee. I look around and notice Café Revival is hopping. People are everywhere. Meetings are being held that almost look like impromptu prayer groups what with the pews. Other solo sitters have computers, tablets, and honest-to-god real books taking their attention. There’s even a well-groomed seeing eye dog in training lying below a gaggle of women, all besides that dog-owner with babies like accessories in those little baby-holder things that look like high-tech baskets.
I turn my attention back to my screen, but can’t bring myself to focus. My heart hurts a little; my head doesn’t hurt at all. I go back to the Craigslist homepage and click on “Casual Encounters.” With no intention of actually taking a guy up on his NSA offer, I may as well check out the fantasy stories some men write and share.
Of course, there’s a filtering process. Titles such as This Tuesday is Open and Hey wanna f*ck (really, as if there is some reason not to be crass in a forum titled Casual Encounters?) I skip. But Licking Saloon gets a click, though it’s not a scenario, and from there I move onto Did you call a handyman? which very well might be good:
You placed the call hours ago – your washing machine went kaput and no one ever came to fix it. Though in your satin robe, you answer the door when I ring the bell, tool box in hand, I’m apologizing multiple times as my previous job went longer than planned and my cell phone had fallen into a sink full soapy water and dishes so I couldn’t call. You’re put at ease by my apologies, and any frustration is gone. You offer me some tea and I reply, “Sure, but after a day like today, I won’t be mad if you slip whiskey in there.” You smile and say, “I know what you mean.”
Before I start working on your machine, I look it up and down, running my hands over it, opening the lid and checking every hose, knob, nook, and cranny. You watch for a few moments before handing me a cup of tea with yes, a shot of whiskey.
“You’re very thorough,” you say. I look you up and down as I take the tea from you.
“You’re both in good condition,” I reply. Instead of being offended, you’re charmed. Maybe it’s the satin rubbing against your nipples, or maybe it’s the two glasses of wine you had after work, but you’re not in the mood for women’s rights. No, you’re in the mood to get fucked.
With the same level of attention I brought to the machine, I start examining your body. I run my hands up each of your legs, starting with your toes and stopping just at the crease where your thigh becomes your sweet, wet slit. You’re quiet at first, letting me run my tests. Breasts – firm. Nape of the neck – smooth. Ears – licking them makes you moan.
“This is going to be fun,” I whisper. I then flip you around so you’re bent over the washing machine. The coolness of the metal presses against your legs, and I disrobe you so your torso and tits feel a full sense of chill. You gasp in shock at the temperature, and worried you’ll try to get away I push your head onto the top of the machine, the chilliness on your cheek even more of a turn-on as you feel my hot breath in your other ear. “If you struggle, it’s more fun for me,” I say.
Keeping your head pressed down with one hand around your neck, I use my other hand to start fingering your clit. Your hips gyrate downward and it feels like you’re trying to get my fingers inside of you. But I have other plans. I pull down my pants and slide my raging manrod into you. You’re so wet and ready that the usual sharp inhale that accompanies a first thrust doesn’t happen, and within thirty seconds of me fucking you an orgasm has rippled across your body and escaped through your lips.
I keep going, placing one hand on your clit and rubbing while I keep fucking you from behind. Your hands are resting on the machine now, and we pant together until I’m about to come. I yank my dick out and with one hand jerk off over your ass crack, my other hand still rubbing you and fingering you to replace what you’ve lost. As we both cum you jerk wildly, and all of a sudden the machine starts up.
“Told you I’d fix it,” I say to your backside as I pull up my pants.
Call me if you want this to happen to you.
Just as I’m finishing the post, and I feel my own slit a tiny bit wet, I see that damn barista in my screen’s reflection. He’s looking over my shoulder, and I wonder how long he’s been standing there.
“Ummm. If your internet time runs out, you’ll have to order something else. You only get a few hours with every purchase,” he says. With that much to say, I assume he saw I was reading what amounts to porn.
“Not a problem. I was just leaving.” I tear out of Revival, but back at home I can’t concentrate on trying to get myself off. My fingers fumble, my heart continues to hurt. Even looking for work sounds better than this.
The week goes by, and I’m at Revival at least twice a day for hours at a time. Morning coffee and evening sangria lead to me recognizing regulars, and I notice there are even a few that have penetrated the barista wall of solitude. Like homeless men, who some baristas give their free lunches to. Mr. Mustachio gives his free meal away every day to one of many guitar-carrying, supposedly veteran men. No wonder he’s so ridiculously skinny. And here I thought he just looks so skinny because he wears the world’s smallest jeans.
I don’t hear from Marlin. I don’t respond to text messages from my friends, except the cursory “I’m fine, just want to wallow alone for a bit” response to ease their worry. I don’t hear back about jobs in the accounting field, as an administrative secretary, or as a dishwasher. I consider trying to find out just how long unemployment checks will be coming in, but then I decide I don’t really want to know. I consider asking the apathetic baristas at Revival if their manager is hiring, but I’m not sure I want to be associated with them. Fine, I admit it. I am worried I’d get the job and they wouldn’t want to be associated with me.
My roommates, Mariah and Katie, return home at the end of the weekend. Once they’re done unpacking, we meet in the living room with a few bottles of wine to catch up. I’m pouring glasses of sparkling wine for myself, Mariah has a Malbec she’s excited about, and Katie is drinking Strawberry Hill for nostalgia’s sake (so she says).
In true “us” fashion, we’ve blatantly ignored sitting on the couches in favor of nesting on the floor. We’re nestled on top of an array of blankets – there’s an Afghan, a comforter, a quilt, and a few fleeces in plain sight – plus throw pillows and body pillows that look straight out of our teenage years. I’m guessing only single girls hang on to body pillows, and yes, that lavender one is clearly mine. The girls have boyfriends – they’re dating twin brothers, actually.
“How come you two aren’t with Connor and Caleb?” I ask. “I thought you’d be jonesing for them.”
Mariah tilted her neck toward me, her cocoa skin creasing just slightly at the collarbone. “We are, but they’re out of town visiting their grandparents.”
“Okay, first, their grandparents are still alive? Lucky!” I say.
“Right?” chimes in Katie.
“And second, you’re going to speak for Katie on her level of jonesing?”
Without missing a beat, Mariah says, “Cora, we’re best friends. I know everything about her. Naturally I’m speaking on her behalf.”
I look at Katie. “Is she right?”
“Yeah. Except I don’t think she knows everything about me.” Katie stands up, her tiny pajama shorts riding up, slightly showing off the very bottom curve of her ass.
“Oh?” says Mariah teasingly. “What exactly aren’t you telling me?”
“You know. Stuff,” Katie says vaguely, her dusky-blonde bangs swooping over her eyes as she refills our glasses carefully.
We click on the television – we’d refused to purchase cable and had been one of those we-don’t-have-TV households until we’d discovered free full-access cable was still somehow hooked up – and find ourselves laughing through reality TV reruns of something Kardashian related.
As a fourth episode rolled onto the screen and our wine bottles were noticeably almost empty, Katie gigglingly asks, “Which Kardashian is the hottest?”
“Is this what you’ve never told me?” Mariah asks. “That you have a Kardashian crush?”
“I’ve got to say Kourtney,” I say.
“Really? Not Kim?” That Katie has ignored Mariah’s question doesn’t make M very happy.
Mariah visibly pouts, puffing her mahogany lips in an exaggerated manner.
“Seriously Katie, what don’t I know about you?”
“They’re all nice to look at,” I say diplomatically. “I mean, they’re all hot. And if any one of them said ‘let’s make out’ at a bar I’d be so there. But Kourtney just looks the most real.”
“Katie, really. What is it?” Mariah isn’t letting this go, and I can’t tell if Katie is simply too tipsy to notice or if her best friend’s insistence is merely a nuisance.
“I guess her chest does look the most real,” Katie says thoughtfully, as though she’s been given some insight she never had before.
“Kayyy-teeee,” Mariah whines softly, almost under her breath.
Katie finally turns her attention to Mariah. “You don’t know what my pussy feels like,” she says plainly.
Mariah’s eyes widen, and try as I might to remain nonplussed, mine do too. “So?
Neither does Cora,” Mariah says.
“Hey, don’t bring me – ,“ I start but am interrupted by Katie.
“Actually, she does. See, something else you don’t know about me.”
There’s silence. The TV, which was muted for commercials, is still on silent, the Kardashian sisters prancing about doing their Kardashian thing. The room is heavy with breathing. Mariah can’t seem to decide if she wants to glare at Katie or at me, so she’s switching back and forth. I’m watching Mariah between staring down at my toes. And Katie…well, Katie’s lounged back with her eyes closed, looking completely peaceful.
Like a cat on the prowl, Mariah slowly crawls toward Katie. She lowers her lips to Katie’s ankles and begins kissing the indentation right before the ankle bone. Katie’s slender legs seem to lengthen under the touch, her rose-colored toes stretching as Mariah continues to lick, nip, and kiss up Katie’s legs.
I watch, entranced.
When Mariah reaches the hem of Katie’s tiny shorts, she takes some time to run her fingers around the bottom of the cloth, to dance her tongue right there, to pull on the hem with her teeth just a little. I see Mariah look up toward Katie, who still has her eyes closed and a look of contentment across her face. Mariah proceeds to weasel her way up, gracefully ignoring Katie’s crotch except for the slightest brush of her breast as she moves toward Katie’s chest and lips. The moment is almost tender.
Then Mariah grabs Katie’s single braid and jerks her head. Katie’s eyes flash open with a look of pure shock, but she’s put herself in a vulnerable position. Using her hair, Mariah maneuvers Katie onto her stomach, then sits on top of her so she can’t move. She leans forward and softly whispers, “She knows what mine feels like, too, miss.”
Katie whimpers as Mariah finagles the elastic waist of those tiny shorts down, her pale ass exposed. Delicately, Mariah traces Katie’s rear up and down. Just watching sends shivers down my spine. As though a timed dance, Mariah releases Katie’s hair and spanks her immediately. Once. Twice. Smack. Smack. There’s a pause, then, smack. The spanks are harder, not softer, as Mariah goes on.
I hear a noise from Katie, but I can’t tell if it’s another whimper or a moan. The spanking continues, and I see Mariah is grinding against the back of Katie’s knees while she’s doing it. Katie’s ass is turning bright pink from the beating.
“Turn over,” Mariah says, and Katie obliges without hesitation. I see tears glistening from her eyes, which Mariah ignores. “Let’s even the playing field with your tongue.”
Mariah slides up to Katie’s mouth and rests herself against her. She’s wearing only black panties and a t-shirt. Katie shakes her a head a little, her nose rubbing right where Mariah’s clit should be. Her lips begin to move, and I can see she’s trying to back away now, but Mariah leans into her. “Do it,” she says.
Katie starts mouthing the black panties, softly. I see Mariah has her hand in Katie’s hair again, trapping her. Katie’s getting more into it, whether because she has no choice or because she’s succumbing to the ungraceful seduction and turn of events. I watch as Mariah moves her panties over so Katie can access her cunt.
Mariah begins to moan. “That’s it,” she coos. “Keep going.” As Katie continues, I move my eyes down her body. Her shorts are still half way down, and her completely bare pussy is exposed. She waxes – who knew?
Images of Marlin flash in my mind, followed by an overwhelming sense of freedom. He’d never be okay with me watching this scene, let alone joining in. But hey, he’s gone. And even if he was coming back, I’m not taking him back.
Careful not to disturb Mariah, I advance toward Katie’s pussy, which seems to have almost a tractor beam effect. I can’t take my eyes off of it, or stop thinking about what she might taste like. I lower myself onto her slit and start licking, surprised to find she’s wet. Her hips rise, and I don’t bother to look if Mariah’s seen me yet.
Katie tastes like sweet lemon tart, and the lips of her pussy are rather shallow. Her pink hole isn’t hidden, and it takes zero effort to have my tongue pulsing on her clit. I move my tongue in circles, dropping it down to taste her then pulling it back up. I run my hand up her leg, just where Mariah had been, but I keep going until my fingers find her slit.
I lift my mouth for a break and see Mariah has now turned around on Katie’s face and is watching me. She leans forward, licks Katie’s juice off my chin, and says, “My turn.” My fingers fucking Katie, I lie next to her as Mariah’s pussy comes toward me. Katie is wiggling back and forth, moaning now and enjoying herself.
“She started moaning on my clit,” Mariah says to me. “You thought you’d be sneaky, but you weren’t.” I’m a little intimidated. Mariah isn’t all natural, but she does have well groomed hair surrounding her woman parts. Her pussy is in my face and I realize the hair actually is a fun change of pace. I can smell both her and Katie’s scents mixing together. Mariah is a bit more faint, almost musty like the most comforting of libraries or cozy cabins.
Katie continues to moan, and once I start running my tongue over Mariah’s labia lips, she starts to moan too. She’s gingerly humping my face, her incredible ass just centimeters from me. I open my eyes and up her back, a smooth surface begging to be touched. With my free hand, I lightly run my fingers down her back.
Mariah removes my hand from Katie, and I can only hope she’s replaced them with her own. With two hands free, I reach around Mariah and start patting her clit. I tap first, and she seems to buck a little, so I tap harder. I keep tapping until I’m patting it like you would a cat who likes a firm touch. I pat harder and more insistent, over and over. Mariah is getting louder, as is Katie.
Suddenly, Mariah is off of me and she pulls Katie up, keeping one hand inside of her. Without missing a beat, I reach for Mariah’s pussy. Katie in turn reaches for mine, which has been screaming for someone to touch it and my hands have been well, full. We finger fuck each other to orgasm, first Katie screaming, then Mariah wailing, and finally me…faking it with a hushed whimper and a shudder.
“Now we’re all on the same page,” Katie says.
The next morning, I wake in my own bed and recount last night’s events. Contrary to all statements made, I hadn’t touched either girl prior to their conversation, and I can’t help but wonder if it was all a tactic to get me to join in their fun. Best not think too hard on such topics.
The hangover isn’t as vicious as a bottle of wine should have induced, and just as with every awakening since Marlin broke up with me, I’m disappointed. I shower, brush my teeth, and walk downstairs to find the girls spooning on the floor, looking like two slumber-partied out adolescents, hints of innocence screened over their faces. The Kardashian marathon is still going strong, and the sisters are on the screen, silenced by the powers of mute.
As I cross the threshold of Revival, I wonder if I’ll be struck down for my sins. Even if this is no longer a place of worship, it seems possible God continues to lurk about, watching for people like me. I enter unharmed, and Mr. Mustachio hands me my espresso without me having to ask.
“You look relieved,” he says. He always has something to say.
“I guess I sort of thought God might strike me down this morning,” I say. “Pretty pleased I’ve remained lightning bolt free.”
“Guess you’re not trying hard enough,” he says, handing me my macaroon. “Though from the looks of what you read in the shop, I’d have thought you were.”
I feel the heat rise up in my cheeks, and even though I’m wearing a sundress I suddenly feel too hot, like I’ve been in the sun all day. Without a word I seat myself in the corner of the café, take out my laptop, and try to concentrate. Only every time I look over the top of my screen, there’s the barista. Sometimes he’s helping a customer, sometimes he’s making coffee. I watch him give a woman in ramshackle clothes a sandwich.
I’ve never been so aware of my body. My breasts feel exposed despite being covered. My shoulders feel like lighthouses on a dark evening, calling ships home. The hair on my arms keeps rising up when he glances at me, and my entire body tenses when he brings me more coffee only to release when he leaves. Is it even possible I’m attracted to this man? This guy who listens to broody-moody music (I’ve seen him make the iPod selections), who hangs around willingly with the too-cool-for-everyone-even-each-other barista crowd, whose mustache would probably tickle my thighs if he ever went down on me?
Yes, yes I am. I get up and race home without looking him in the face. What the hell is wrong with me?
However, my need for a drink has me back at Revival’s doors later that evening. There’s a jazz band playing standards switch hitting with a beat poet – a nice change of pace from the emo-driven musicians I’ve been witnessing since I made this my everyday (and night) hang out spot.
I sit in a pew, book in one hand and sangria in the other. The aisle has been lit with candelabras, and if it weren’t for the din of music and laughter, I’d almost believe I was in church. The feeling is too eerie, and I go check out the patio scene. It’s chilly, but there’s an oven furnace offering solace from the cold.
Just my luck, Mr. Mustache is sitting there too, a book in one hand, a beer in the other.
“I thought you’d be back,” he says.
I look back toward the door inside, wondering if this is my cue to leave. But he looks at me with those liquid amber eyes showing off a smirk not found on his lips, and I quietly sit. We “cheers!” and keep reading our books until our drinks are both finished, and he offers to get me a second.
When he’s settled back down, he starts talking. Literally, Mr. Mustache asks me questions about literature, about bicycles, and he tells me about his sister who has Down’s syndrome. We even discuss how our culture’s fascination with spectrums these days (hello, sexual spectrum, Autism spectrum and the like), while simultaneously discussing where on the Down’s syndrome spectrum she rests.
The talking leads to touching. His hands are a bit rough with calluses at the base of his fingers. I smooth my palm over them, and he notes that pulling espresso shots has led to the deterioration of his hands. I pull them to my mouth and kiss them to show I’m not turned off and catch a whiff of coffee. There is obviously a bonus to being near a barista: his continual aroma of one of my favorite beverages. He laughs when I tell him this, then grazes my hair with his hand.
“Let’s get out of here.”
His studio apartment surprises me. For one, I didn’t know baristas made enough to live on their own. Two, it’s meticulously neat and rather sparse. There is one piece of obligatory California state art on the walls (I swear, no hipster pad is complete without showing off local love) and when I step into the bathroom I note more beauty products than I own lining the built-in shelves. Other than that, there is a non-descript bed, desk, night table, dresser, and that is all. The shoot-off kitchen proves to be a different world though, with red accent tiles and a photo of a delicious-looking fried egg and fried chicken sandwich.
I consider commenting on his style, but before I can think of something to say he’s stripping off his skinny jeans, revealing a physique that is far more muscular than I’d thought possible. I walk over to him and carefully undo each button of his cowboy-inspired shirt, feeling his cock start to rise underneath his navy blue boxer briefs. With him nearly undressed and me still cinched into my clothes we start to kiss.
He leads me over to the bed and sits down, trying to lift my dress to get access to other parts of me. I sit next to him and lick the underside of his lips, which stops him short. He holds still as I suck on his top lip, then kiss the corners of his mouth before making my way to his earlobe and sucking on the bottom of his ear. I run my tongue up the curves of his ear, then enter the surely more tender inner area. He remains still, his breathing getting heavier as I suckle his ear.
Still sitting next to him, my tongue moving down his neck, I remove my cardigan. I pull away and stand up, offering him my zipper, which he undoes eagerly, then pulls the straps down and my dress falls to the floor in a puddle of clothing. He stares at me like my body is the best present he’s ever opened, but doesn’t say a word.
I step over the dress and push him down, making sure our parts line up. “How long have you wanted me?” I ask, before busying myself licking his nipples.
“Longer than you’ve wanted me,” he replies.
I pinch his nipples lightly, and he takes my hand and presses my fingers together more firmly. “Like that,” he instructs releasing his hands. I take feedback well, and while he moves my mouth away so he can caress my breasts, I continue rubbing his nipples, brushing them strongly and occasionally pinching them, as he rolls me over onto my back.
He puts his face between my tits and sucks one breast while squeezing the other. I feel a drop of wetness pressing into me from his hard cock, and I realize his pre-cum has leaked onto his underwear, creating a dark spot right where the head of his dick is.
His hands wander down my body, his mouth still absorbed in my breasts, and he slips down my panties confidently. How does he know I want him so much? Or does he simply want me so much he just doesn’t care? He presses his finger inside of me, just the tip at first. His fingers are so different than the girls’ were – theirs were delicate and small, while his knuckles are thick and manly. My pussy feels secure in his grip which makes me even hotter.
I begin petting his dick on top of his underwear, letting my hand linger over the wet spot that I know is because of me. I let my hands grope on top of him until I can no longer wait, then reach under his boxer briefs for the real thing. His cock stands tall, like being trapped under clothing was stifling it. I rub pre-cum over the head of his dick and he emits a low tone of pleasure.
He looks down at me and again I imagine that mustache tickling my thighs, but instead of lowering his face he moves up toward the nightstand, grabbing a condom. I keep one hand around his dick and the other hovering near my clit while he unwraps the protection slowly, as though he’s trying to torture me a little more. Once it’s on he moves down again, using his cock to push my hand out of the way and starting to rub the head of it on my clit.
I gasp, then grab his dick and slide it to my opening. He starts entering me slowly, all sense of his bravado gone for a moment. He pulls almost all the way out, then goes back in, then out, then in further, then out, then in further, then pushes all the way into me and releases everything I’ve been wanting to feel.
We become fevered with each other, kissing while he pumps. His torso is pressing against my clit, and I feel myself getting more and more reckless, abandoning all sensibility and boundaries. He tries to switch positions. “Just keep going,” I beg. “Keep doing that.”
He obliges, pulling one of my legs up and letting his body rub against mine. Within moments there is darkness and light all at the same time, a burst of color and of black and white. My moans are practically screams and it’s only after I’ve been coming that I realize he’s coming too, our noises blending into one another.
Many thanks to CW for editing, blushing, and editing some more.
And to ST, for not thinking this was completely bonkers.