Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00353 515 73 20
COFFEE AND CREAM by K. Nitsua. Revised version copyright 2008 by the author.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Another former print story of mine, back in a revised version.
I went to college at a large state university and when I graduated I was lucky enough to get an entry-level position with a local company. I loved my job, though it meant putting on a tie to go to work. I was twenty-two years old, upwardly mobile, with a nice place, a good income, and no one to share my good fortune.
Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t desperate. I’d come out in my sophomore year and was comfortable with my gay self. Not that I was standing on the street corner shouting the news, but I wasn’t trying to hide it either. I worked out, without becoming a gym rat. I went out, without becoming a bar fly. Things were out of control in only one area of my life. Years of late-night studying in college had left me hopelessly, incurably addicted to caffeine.
Last summer a new coffeehouse opened on my daily route to work. This was a godsend, not least because whoever owned the place had to be gay. How could I tell? Well, the staff was all male, breathtaking to look at, and free of attitude-a gay coffee lover’s wet dream.
It wasn’t a queer java hut, though. The place was in one of the tonier neighborhoods in this city, and it drew an upscale crowd, mostly straight yuppies. Not that the young husbands and fathers who came in for their caffeine fixes weren’t worth looking at. Often I wasn’t sure who to check out while I waited in line, the counter boys or the customers.
During the week I never hung out there, having only time to dash in and dash out. Sometimes on the weekends I would go, sit in one of the overstuffed armchairs and read the paper while sipping my espresso. One Saturday morning in September I was doing just that. After a while I got bored and looked around the room.
The place was empty except for one man sitting opposite me at a table against the wall. He was reading the paper too, dressed in the neighborhood’s standard leisure ensemble: T-shirt, sneakers, and running shorts, the kind whose legs were split up the side for extra freedom and skin exposure. He was about my age, lean and lanky, legs corded with muscle. His dark wavy hair fell over a strong, square-jawed face, serious in expression as he studied the headlines. I turned my attention to my favorite part of the male body. I notice arms, especially forearms. The pair that held that paper was as ripped as his legs. The only disappointing thing was the glint of a gold wedding band on his hand.
So he was married-that didn’t mean I couldn’t look and enjoy. As I watched he shifted positions, raising his leg and putting the ankle on his other knee. The vent of his running shorts on that side fell open, exposing part of his butt and a narrow elastic band crossing it-he was wearing a jockstrap. My cock leapt up in my jeans at the delicious sight and I had to shift positions myself to relieve the pressure. My breathing quickened and I felt the pre-cum start to flow.
At that moment, the married hunk looked up and caught me square in the act of checking him out. I thrust the paper up to cover my face, succeeding only in making my wandering eye more obvious. My cheeks were flaming behind my newsprint screen. I thought about just jumping up and getting the hell out of there before he came over and confronted me.
I sat frozen in that position until my muscles began to ache. Nothing happened and finally I decided I was being ridiculous. I let the paper drop slightly in my hands so I could see over it.
The handsome man was still there, still reading. Now, though, he was facing in my direction, leaning against the wall with legs slightly apart. I had a perfect view of what was inside his shorts-strong, hairy thighs and, further inside, the pouch of his jock, stretched full by its contents. The next moment one sinewy hand wandered into the picture and stopped, cupping the swelling mound in dark blue nylon.
I looked up, startled. The guy locked eyes with me and gave a slight, almost invisible nod. My heart was thudding as I cast a glance around. No one else was nearby. The counter help had gone in the back for a break. I fixed my gaze on him and nodded in response.
He put his paper on the table, stood, and stretched, the picture of casualness. Then he strolled into a narrow hallway at the back, where the restrooms were located. I didn’t take my eyes off him for one second. Just before opening the door to the men’s room he glanced back over one broad shoulder, reached down and hiked up one side of his running shorts, baring one dimpled butt cheek framed by the strap of his jock. The devil.
I forced myself to wait a minute after he disappeared inside. Then I got up and walked toward the back myself, my erection a hard, insistent ache in my bulging jeans. At the door to the john I looked back one last time. All clear. I pushed the handle down and walked in.
It was a single-occupancy restroom with a toilet, sink and amsterdam shemale urinal, filled with the artificial perfume of air freshener. My man was standing at the urinal, his back to me, one arm moving. He turned as I shot the deadbolt. For the moment we were safe.
He had pushed his shorts and jock down in front. His long, cut cock, half hard from his stroking it, jutted out above a pair of round tight balls. In a flash I was on my knees in front of him, peeling his gear down his thighs. I grabbed his cheeks and took his pole into my mouth, coaxing it to full erection.
He sighed and ran his hands through my hair. “That’s nice,” he said in a low voice. I made what sounds I could to indicate agreement. I was fucking turned on. Nothing like doing a hot hunk in a public place to get your juices flowing.
After a while, to my surprise, he pulled me to my feet. I had figured a married man would only want to be serviced, but I was wrong. He knelt, unbuttoned my fly, pulled my cock out and went to work like a pro. His bottomless hot throat and agile tongue had me at the edge in moments. To head off the explosion I pulled back out of range.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, panting.
It took a moment to collect my thoughts. “I-I didn’t want to cum in your mouth.”
White teeth flashed in a charming, astonishing grin. “Why not? That’s the best part.”
Again I was amazed. “You really want me to?”
“Sure. I love it. Let me taste you.” He grabbed my butt and engulfed me again with his mouth. His other hand jerked his cock, lubed with my spit.
“Uh, buddy, oh jeez… oh shit… oh… FUCK I’M GONNA SHOOT…”
My body jackknifed and my knees buckled as the orgasm raced up from my crotch and exploded in my brain. My hands clamped around his head in a death grip as I fired bullets of hot liquid down his throat. I heard gulping noises below me as he swallowed.
Still gasping, I forced my eyes open and looked down. He had let go of my cock and thrown his head back, his mouth open, his eyes closed. His own organ was still hard as a rock between his thighs.
Before my better judgment kicked in I got him to stand up and hit the floor again. I took him into my mouth and began to suck fast and hard, using as much spit and pressure as I could. It took only a minute for his breathing to quicken and deepen into rhythmic grunts as his cock came to life, filling my mouth with his hot salty juice. When he was finished shooting I stood on stiff legs. The reality of the situation hit us. As fast as we could we cleaned ourselves off and stuffed ourselves back into our clothes. We washed our hands and faces, wiped up and flushed the evidence down the toilet. Finally we stood facing one another. My partner in public sex looked relaxed and happy. He stuck out a big, warm hand and I shook it.
“Thanks, man. I really needed that.”
“Guess you don’t get enough at home.” I blushed at how tacky that sounded but he just laughed.
“It’s that obvious, huh?”
I was kicking myself. “Forget I said that, I’m sorry.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” He turned and unlocked the door, opened it a crack and peered out. He gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Give me a minute, OK?”
He flashed that smile one more time and gave me a thumbs-up. Then he was gone. I wanted to stick my head out the door, get one last look at him, but caution won out and I waited to leave until I was sure the coast was clear.
I’d like to say that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but I never saw the horny husband again, though I scanned the place every time I came in for weeks afterward. I was sorry, but there wasn’t a lot I could do, since I hadn’t gotten his name. Then a new barista came to work at the coffeehouse and things started looking up again.
Greg was around twenty, slender but toned, and kept his blonde hair clipped very short. One ear was pierced with two thin gold rings. His large brown eyes seemed to pop from his face, giving him a startled look. In repose, his square jaw and longish nose gave him a stolid, almost sullen expression. But when he smiled or laughed, brilliant white teeth framed with a pair of deep dimples flashed out, transforming his face. He was a student at the same university where I had gone, and was here brewing espresso to pay the tuition. His real passion was playing the drums in a local alternative band that had visions of making it big.
I thought he was cute the first time I saw him, of course. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have chatted him up and found all this out. But I didn’t actually fall head over heels until one afternoon when he was ringing me up and I glanced down as he handed me my change. Greg’s forearms were as solid as oak from all that drumming, roped with muscle and vein. I knew then I was a goner.
Like a love struck high schooler I lost the power of speech. After that, Greg would see me standing in line and say in a friendly voice, “Tall non-fat latte?” I would rotterdam shemale nod, blush and duck my head. Other mornings he would man the espresso machine, making conversation while I stood waiting for my drink. I grunted monosyllables in response. I could barely look him in the eye when he wished me a good day.
When Greg disappeared for a while after Christmas I was desolate, until one morning he was back behind the machine as usual. I was overjoyed and said to him, “You’ve been gone.”
“Yeah,” he said, twisting a handle with one beautiful arm. “My band went on tour.”
I became worried again. “Does this mean you’re going to quit your day job?”
Greg laughed. “No, we’re not that good yet. Going to keep making your lattes for a while. Here you go, man.” He put my drink in front of me with a courteous nod.
I screwed up all my courage and said, “Well, I’m glad. I missed you.” Then I fled before he could reply.
God knows how long we would have gone on like that. Life, though, has a way of forcing the issue. That spring, the treadmill that I had inherited from a college buddy gave up the ghost. I had free weights and a bench at home and didn’t want to join a gym. So I started jogging and walking around my neighborhood, shopping and running errands on foot. The weather was good and I was enjoying the outdoors. I decided not to get a new exercise machine until I had to.
One warm afternoon after work, I changed out of my good clothes and went to pick up my shirts at the cleaners. It was a hilly walk on a busy thoroughfare, two miles round trip. When I got there I was startled at just how many shirts there were. I was going to get a good workout today. I paid the bill, hooked my finger into the stack of hangers, and began trudging home.
I had walked maybe half a mile, my shoulders and back protesting their burden, when I sensed a car slow down behind me. A battered Suzuki Samurai pulled to the curb.
“Need a ride?”
It was Greg, dressed in dark gym shorts and a blue wife beater, his shoulders golden and muscular, leaning toward me and smiling in his dazzling way. I wiped my brow with the back of my hand. Next to his relaxed masculinity I felt hot and stupid.
“Well, if it’s not too much trouble…”
Greg flipped the door handle and I clambered in.
“I was just coming from my bank,” he said, gesturing behind us, “and said to myself, hey, I know that guy. Car trouble?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t tell him I’d been power walking with a bunch of starched shirts.
“I hear you, man. It’s costing me an arm and a leg to keep this baby running. Where to?”
I gave him directions, eyeing him covertly. My recent jaunt wasn’t the only reason I was sweating. I thought about what it would be like to put my hand on this college boy’s knee, let it wander up his sturdy thigh and into his shorts. I could bet he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Good thing the pile of shirts was in my lap so Greg couldn’t see the results of my fantasizing.
Greg worked the gearshift, arm muscles rippling with every motion. I was nervous as a cat, but determined to see what I could make of this stroke of luck.
“Am I taking you out of your way? By the way, I’m Steve.”
He shook my hand, sending a jolt like electricity through me. “No problem, Steve. I’m not in a hurry.”
We pulled up to my apartment. I said as casually as I could, “Thanks a lot. Can I at least offer you a drink for your trouble?”
Greg thought a moment, then nodded. “No coffee, though. I smell it in my sleep.”
I was elated. “How about a beer? I’ve got some cold ones in the fridge.”
We sat in my living room holding Bud Lights, Greg on the couch, me in a chair. We made small talk about the university, compared notes about our experiences. The beer was giving me a pleasant buzz and I suspected he felt the same. There was a lull in the conversation. I looked into his brown eyes and took a deep breath. It was now or never.
“You work out, right?” I said.
“Yep. I do some. My band, we play a lot with our shirts off. Got to look good.”
“I’d love to know how you get those arms. They look great.” I hadn’t said anything overt yet-just guy stuff.
“Well, drumming helps, but I’ve also got a routine I do with free weights. I could show you, if you’ve got any here.”
“As a matter of fact I do in the guest bedroom.” As I got up, I thought I saw Greg’s eyes drop for an instant to my crotch, but maybe it was the beer. “Come on back.”
In the spare bedroom I handed him the barbells as he sat on the workout bench and demonstrated various curls and lifts. I spotted him when he needed it, staying close, feeling the heat rise from his body, breathing in the scent of his clean sweat.
He finally stopped and put the weights down, panting. “So that’s about it.”
Watching him work out had made me fully hard. The bulge in his flimsy shorts seemed larger, too. I went for broke.
“Those are really good,” I said. blog shemale “No wonder you look like this.” I was kneeling on the floor next to him. I reached out and grasped one sinewy forearm, gently squeezing it, not daring to look him in the eye.
Silence. Nothing happened. I finally got the nerve to look up. The smile I liked so much was on his face. I stroked his skin with my thumb. “Is this all right?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “You like my arms, huh?”
I stood, put my hands on his bare shoulders and pushed him back on the bench so I could straddle it facing him.
“The rest of you isn’t bad either,” I said, running my hands under his tank top and pulling it up, exposing his smooth, hard chest and stomach. I leaned down and tongued one pink nipple. He moaned softly and ran a hand through my hair.
I grasped the waistband of his shorts. He raised himself to let me pull them down his legs. His cock sprang up, fluid leaking from its dark head. I had it in my mouth almost before I’d seen it, lowering my head into his warm musky crotch, grasping his hips to steady myself as I slid up and down on the hard, veined shaft.
After a few moments I raised my head and looked once more into his liquid eyes. His hand clamped on the back of my head and propelled my face toward his. Our lips and tongues met and tangled in a long kiss. We broke apart, gasping.
“Fucking nice,” I said.
He chuckled. “What can I say, I’m a nice guy.”
“Are you ever. Want to go to my bedroom?”
He shook his head.
“Why not?” I asked, puzzled.
Greg hesitated. “Well-I’ve always had this fantasy about doing it in a gym. Working out just gets me so hot. This isn’t exactly a gym, but-“
“It’s close enough,” I said, squeezing his cock. “Let’s get naked.”
In a flash my clothes were on the floor. Greg’s eyes widened at the sight of my jutting cock. It didn’t take long for him to peel off what little he had on. He reached out, grabbed my butt and guided my pole to his mouth. I closed my eyes and let pleasure wash over me, running my hands over his forearms, tickling his nipples and hearing him moan in appreciation.
He let me go and said, “I want you to fuck me.”
“Sure. Just give me a second.” I went to the bathroom and got a box of condoms and lube out of the medicine cabinet. When I got back Greg was lying on his back, his arms over his head, his hands grasping the top of the bench. He grinned and raised his legs, the ridges of his stomach leaping into view as he contracted his abdominals, the puckered hole between his cheeks exposed and vulnerable, ready for the taking. My hands were shaking so I could hardly get the rubber on, but at last I was ready.
I took a fingerful of lube and squatted in front of him, watching his face as I found his hole and greased it. He gasped at my touch, his eyelids fluttering. I stood, put my cock against his asshole and took hold of his calves. One push of my hips and the sheathed head disappeared inside. Greg’s head fell back, his eyes closed and a long “aaaah” sound welled up from his chest.
“Fucking fantastic. Oh man, give me all of it.”
“You got it,” I said through gritted teeth as I hit bottom, my balls pressed against his steely cheeks. I pulled back out, then rocked my pelvis in a quick thrust. He grunted in satisfaction as I slammed into him.
“Do it, buddy. Fuck me.”
As I plowed Greg’s ass, my eyes took in the visuals: my rod sliding in and out of his tight hole, his chiseled abs and chest, his face contorted with lust, and best of all, his arms raised above his head, muscle and sinew rippling underneath smooth skin.
I let go of one leg and took hold of his cock, jacking him off as I continued to fuck him. He took over after a while. Our motions became frenzied.
“Getting close man. Can you cum with me?”
“Mm hmm,” I muttered as I drilled his hole even faster and bent forward toward his face. On the narrow bench I didn’t have much leverage, but Greg knew what I wanted. He raised his head and our mouths opened for each other. I cradled his shoulders as we kissed again.
Greg broke away. “Ah yeah, going to shoot.” I rose in time to see the white jets explode from his cock and spatter over his heaving stomach muscles.
“Shit,” I gasped, screwing my eyes shut as I sent my seed blasting into the rubber in his ass. For the next few moments no coherent sounds came from either of us, only wordless shouts and gasps.
Finally my breathing slowed and I opened my eyes. Greg’s head was back down on the bench, his eyes closed. I pulled out of him gently and got a towel from the bathroom, peeling off and throwing the condom in the toilet. I went back in and wiped the cum off of him. When I was done, Greg sat up and put his arms around me. I kissed his decorated earlobe. We stayed in an exhausted embrace, sticky with sweat.
After a while he stirred against my shoulder. “You know,” he said, “I never thought I’d meet such a hot guy at the coffeehouse.”
“That reminds me. I think I’m going to change my regular drink. From now on you’re making me mochas with whipped cream.”
Greg looked up. “Why?”
I replied, deadpan, “I like watching you squirt white sticky stuff.”
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00353 515 73 20