Content Advisory : male/female – fantasy and frustration!
I fantasize about you – mind boggling, wanton fantasies. I guess its not seemly, me being married and all. I’m old enough to know better – old enough to wear the dubious title of “cougar”. But that’s OK, ‘cause I’m not prowling, or cheating – I’m just looking and dreaming. The beauty of dreams is they’re free and no-one can tell you whether they’re wrong or right.
This is the reason I come here every day. Supposedly, it’s because you make the best coffee in town. But it has nothing to do with the kick of the caffeine and everything to do with the thrill of my own personal daydreams.
The first time I saw you, it took all of my self control not to openly drool. As far as eye-candy went, you made me want to buy the candy store, dress in elasticized trousers and start munching my way towards obesity.
Standing behind the counter, You are perfection. Tall, dark and handsome may be a romantic cliché, but you kick the cliché’s ass and redefine its meaning. Your dark wavy hair and “come-to-bed” eyes would not be out of place on the cover of a bodice-ripper novel. The athletic lines of your body are delectable. You should be modeling underwear on a billboard, rather than fighting the vagaries of a temperamental coffee machine. Not that I am complaining! Who am I to berate fate for throwing you into my path as fodder for my over-active imagination?
As I wait for my opportunity to get close to you, the length of the queue in the coffee shop never bothers me. It gives me time to fall back into the depths of my mind. To go to the happy place, where it’s just you and me and our sexual adventure for the day. Who will I make you today? An Italian Count? A Greek Tycoon? A swarthy pirate? A…
“Your usual?” A nasal voice cuts through my reverie like a rusty razor. Little Miss Yoga-Barbie, the cashier, looks at me expectantly through her lashes, black and spiked up like startled spiders. She taps her hot pink acrylic fingernail on the counter.
“With extra cream today please”.
It is obvious from her slight moue of distaste, I may as well have asked for extra cyanide, but she writes down my order and takes my money. I slide to the side of the counter, closer to you.
Watching you move gives me goosebumps. You glide with an elegant economy of movement behind the counter; tamping and grinding beans, heating and frothing milk. As you deal with the hissing steam wand and juggle clanking cups and saucers, the muscles in your arms bunch and flex under the thin covering of your tight, white t-shirt. A sheen of sweat shines your brow. It furrows ever so slightly in concentration, as you put the final sprinkling flourishes on a cappuccino.
The dappled morning light from the window highlights the stubble shadowing the lower half of your chiseled face. The sort of stubble that would chafe anything rubbing against it.
My vision softens, as I retreat inside my head with you. It is my smooth skin craving the sandpaper feel of your face. I imagine placing feather-light kisses along the line of your jaw. My lips tingle at the rough sensation, as I make my way towards your mouth. Reaching your lips, I snake my tongue over their velvety smoothness, nuzzling you. I press against the seam of your mouth; probing and seeking entry.
Without warning, your hand is fisted in my bobbed hair, pinning me in place as your mouth descends on mine; driving the air from my lungs. I am drowning in your kiss. The force of your passion bruises my lips, and chafes my cheeks, but I don’t care. I return the kiss with an intensity to rival yours. My senses are full of you; the spicy notes of your cologne, the minty taste of your mouth and the solid lines of your body pushed up hard against mine.
My eyes are shut tight, serving only to heighten my other senses to fever pitch. I throw my head back, in a desperate effort to draw air into my lungs. Bereft of my lips, your potent kisses drift down my neck, towards the swell of my heaving breasts. I don’t need to open my eyes to know the tips are already erect, rasping against the confines of my bra, in a delicious mixture of pleasure and pain. I arch my back in a silent plea for you to release them and draw them into the heat of your mouth.
I cannot control my moan of pleasure, as I feel the warmth of your breath against my skin. With a muffled click, you unsnap the clasp at the front of my bra and my breasts fall into the warmth of your waiting palms. Your dark head dips and pulls one sensitive tip deep into the wet interior of your mouth, circling the areola with your tongue. I push hard against your mouth, wanting more. Not missing a beat, you give it to me; simultaneously suckling hard on one nipple, whilst pinching the other between your forefinger and thumb. Moisture pools between my thighs and I gasp my approval, tension growing deep in my belly.
Stepping away, you deftly deal to the fly on your jeans and your cock is open to my gaze, free from its denim confinement.
“Take me in your mouth.” The huskiness of your tone makes me tingle to my core. I love that I’m turning you on so much. The hand on my breast stops its kneading and moves to my shoulder, gently pushing me down to where you want me; kneeling. I am face to face with the thick length of your engorged cock. My lungs fill with the musky scent of your arousal. Before I can do anything you grasp yourself with a firm fist and squeeze out a milky drop of pre-come. My tongue darts out and licks away the little pearl of exotic cream…
“…extra cream,” says a voice from far, far away.
“Excuse me – I think that’s your order.”
Mr. Beige-Suit beside me taps my shoulder and points to the counter. My fantasy shatters into a million little pieces as the sledgehammer of reality descends.
“Uhhh…thanks,” I mumble, closing my mouth. I wonder if I have been openly panting. My sensible white cotton knickers are soaked and have molded themselves to my inner folds, clinging and stimulating my sensitive flesh. My clit throbs, pulses, and I am strung so taut that with the slightest touch, I know a tsunami of sensation would overwhelm me. I clench my teeth and my thighs together tight in a supreme effort of self control. But, I look at you over the counter, wearing your tight white t-shirt and your sculpted muscles seem to be mocking me. Perhaps it’s the sexual frustration making me a little crazy, but today, I want something more than imagined scenarios in my head. I want to taste you on my lips, feel the thrust of you deep in my throat. I want you to notice me.
I moisten my lips. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I look you straight in the eye, seizing your gaze and refusing to let it go. You raise a bemused eyebrow at the audacity of my stare and the corners of your luscious mouth turn imperceptibly upwards. Your gaze dips and hovers over my chest. Does my confidence daunt you or are you lost in my cleavage? Oh my God – are you checking out my tits? The thundering of blood in my ears is so loud, I’m sure you can hear it, or see it in the pulse in my neck or in the peaking of my nipples. You lift your eyes, smile and open your mouth to speak.
“Nice necklace,” you say, “the blue matches your eyes.” Your voice is a deep baritone, rich and mellow. Just like the coffee you push toward me. “Mocha, extra cream. Enjoy.”
You turn back to the machine and start on the next coffee.
Nope – not checking me out. You were just being polite, just doing your job. Nothing more, nothing less.
Embarrassment descends like a vulture on my mortified bones, as I turn and flee the store before I make myself look more foolish than I already have.
I plough my way through the steady stream of city workers, who, like me, are struggling their way to the office. I take a quick swallow of my mocha, and my eyes dip in pleasure at the luxury of the extra cream. I have a sudden flashback of your cock, encircled by your fist, leaking proof of your excitement.
Suddenly I am overcome with giggles at the power of my own imagination. The mind is a powerful thing and today that power short circuited my libido and most of my common sense with it. I may not have blown you, but I certainly blew some cover! I’m not sure if I have the cajones to look you in the face again. As of tomorrow, I’ll be looking for another coffee shop and barista to take care of my furtive fantasies and morning mochas.
***
Please come back on February 15th, when Greta will be bringing you more hot, original fiction.
Copyright © 2011 Greta Goddard
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
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