“Beanpole.” That’s what they call him, that designer-clad, perfectly-coiffed pair of society moms over near the window. One of the kinder epithets they’ve bestowed, actually, but it fits him, poor man.
Awkward, skinny and at least six feet tall, he hunches over his laptop at his regular table in the corner, alternately pounding away at the keys and staring into space. His head’s a wild mass of straw-colored curls. His eyes are a watery blue behind the thick lenses of his wire-frame specs. His wrinkled shirt is half untucked and half unbuttoned. I catch a glimpse of his pale chest, sprinkled with blond fuzz.
He flashes me a vague grin when I bring him his double cappuccino. Not at all like the avid gaze he turns on the coeds and career gals who come in for their caffeine fix—all those tanned legs and painted toenails, flirty skirts and high heeled sandals. Not that I blame him; summer brings out the best in the local women.
With my buzz cut and tattoos, I guess he doesn’t realize I’m a girl. Still, I’d wager a triple mocha frappe with extra whipped cream that I could show him a better time than one of those little tarts.
He’s not really my type—I prefer both my men and my women with darker hair and more meat on their bones—but he broadcasts his need like an S.O.S. Plus I’m intrigued by his metier. He’s spent almost every weekday afternoon here, for the past month, and I’ve had plenty of opportunity to sneak glimpses at his screen.
He’s a writer—well, anyone could figure that out—but guess what he writes? Erotic stories. Kinky stories, if I’m not mistaken. I’d love to read them, but in my professional capacity I’ve only caught a sentence here and there.
“I’m willing to bet the price of this fancy ride that your pussy’s bare under your skirt.”
“Oh, but those rosy nipples just cry out for some clamps!”
“The belt slices into my flesh, less than an inch from my pubis.”
I’ll say one thing for Mr. Beanpole. He’s got a vivid imagination. Probably compensating for a lack of sex in his everyday life. In this image-obsessed town, especially, someone with such a total lack of style probably has a tough time getting laid.
What would happen if I came on to him? I can picture him stretched out on my futon, his desperate cock rearing up from the yellow tangle of his pubes. I suspect it’s long and thin, like he is, just right for getting at those hard to reach places. Perfect for back-door entry, actually. That’s probably something he’s fantasized about a lot—most guys do, I gather. One of my specialities—both taking and giving.
Wiping the smudges off the massive brass espresso machine, I pause for a moment to close my eyes and imagine his solid, greased rod sliding into my anus. I feel the scary pressure against my tight ring of muscle, always there no matter how many times I’m butt-fucked. Then the painful instant when he breaches me, followed by the sweet, nasty sensation of his bulk filling me up. My clit tingles and swells as I mingle recollection with anticipation. My jeans are suddenly too tight.
When I shoot a glance in his direction, I discover he’s looking back at me. He points to his empty cup and with an apologetic grin, raises one finger.
Sure, baby. Whatever you want.
I grind the beans, set a pristine cup under the spout, and go to pour the milk while the head of steam builds. Inhaling the rich, complex scent of high quality coffee, I flip the scene in my head. Now I’m the one reaming him, the straps of my harness biting into my hips as I bury my cock deep in his ass. His pasty white cheeks tense each time I impale him. They just cry out to be pinked by a slap or two.
Would he like that? Given what he writes, he just might.
He wouldn’t refuse me, certainly. If nothing else, he’d want the opportunity to research all the things he writes about. And I expect he’d be suitably grateful. After I make him come, I’m sure could coax him into eating me out.
So what I’m not his ideal woman, all soft and feminine. Beggars can’t be choosers.
I scribble my phone number on a napkin and stuff it into my jeans pocket. Then, feeling playful, I sprinkle cinnamon over the foamy surface of his beverage, in the form of a heart. When I place the cup next to him on the table, I deliberately brush the side of my breast against his arm.
He starts, looks up, snags my eyes. Oh, there’s fire there! A bolt of lust sizzles from my solar plexus to my pussy.
I’m just about to hand him the napkin when the door of the shop opens. His gaze snaps to the woman who enters.
He jumps to his feet, towering over me. “Layla! You’re early!”
She breezes in, silver bracelets tinkling, unutterably lovely. Ringlets black as midnight tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Ropes of colorful beads encircle her neck, nestling in the valley between her opulent breasts. A flowing rainbow-hued skirt drapes over her equally abundant hips and swirls around her sturdy ankles.
“Michael, darling!” I back away as she descends on the writer and sweeps him into a searing French kiss. His hands slide down her back to fondle her ass. As his tongue plunders her mouth, he grinds his pelvis against hers. The gesture’s definitely not family-friendly. I glance around at the other customers, hoping no one has noticed, but everyone appears to be transfixed by various mobile devices.
They make out for a shockingly long time, while I watch, becoming hotter by the instant. And I thought this guy wasn’t getting any! I thrust my hands in my pockets and crumple up the phone number, as a blush climbs into my cheeks. Talk about feeling stupid!
Finally, I tear myself away from the erotic spectacle, hurrying back to busy myself behind the counter. They’re still kissing, though the intensity has waned a bit. At last he releases her. She sinks into the chair next to him, licking her lips.
I’m still quivering with arousal when the writer—Michael—beckons to me.
“Can I get the check please, Nicki?”
I didn’t think he knew my name. “Oh—sure. Just a sec.” I have new respect for this guy. Despite his less than impressive appearance, he must be someone special, to have hooked someone as gorgeous as Layla.
He turns to the gypsy-like vision beside him. “This is Nicki. She’s been taking care of me over the past few weeks, while I’ve been trying to finish the novel.”
Layla snares me with eyes the color of French roast coffee. “Thanks, Nicki. I know Michael can consume a lot caffeine when he’s in the throes of a creative endeavour.”
“Um. Yeah. I noticed.” I’m burning up, though I can’t say whether desire or embarrassment makes the greater contribution.
She turns to her lover. The pair share a long, smoldering look, before she swings her gaze back to me.
“Looks like you work really hard.”
Is she mocking me? I’m sure she saw the cinnamon heart. “Well, you know. It’s a job.”
She fingers a inky tendril of hair before it flipping over her shoulder. Her full lips curve into a friendly smile. “So we were wondering, Michael and I, when you have a day off.”
What? My knees actually go weak for an instant. Does she mean...?
“I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for you, actually,” Michael adds. “Seems as though nobody here really appreciates you.”
“Except Michael,” Layla adds, stroking his arm. He shifts in his chair. Even though his lap’s in shadow, I glimpse the swelling in his crotch. “And me, of course.”
The beanpole hands me a twenty. Electricity sizzles between us when our fingers touch. “Keep the change, Nicki.” His smile makes me feel naked.
Meanwhile, Layla pulls a pen from her lover’s shirt pocket and writes something on the check. “Call us,” she murmurs. “We’ll be good to you.”
Blood roars in my ears. I have a lot of fantasies. I’m not used to having them come true.
I’m certainly not going to turn them down. Even if, for them, it’s an act of charity.