Speaker 1: The salt air had settled into everything, the espresso machine,
the sugar dispensers, even the napkins in their chrome holder.
Summer was finally loosening its grip on the coast, and
the afternoon crowd had thinned to nothing. Hours ago, I'd
already wiped down the counters twice. The chairs were upside
down on the tables, legs pointing at the ceiling like
dead insects. My phone read five fifty two, eight minutes
until I could lock the door and walk barefoot across
the cooling sand. I was behind the register, counting singles
for the third time when the bell above the door chimed,
Please tell me you're still open. The voice came before
the woman did, low, a little ragged, with the kind
of texture that suggested cigarettes and late nights and expensive whiskey.
She stepped inside, and the dying sunlight caught her all
at once. Silver streaked hair pulled back in a loose knot,
linen trousers rolled at the ankle, a silk tank top
the color of oatmeal. No bra I noticed that immediately
the way the fabric moved when she walked toward the counter.
Forty five maybe forty eight. The lines around her eyes
deepened when she smiled, and she was smiling now, a
half apologetic, half conspiratorial thing. I know you're closing, she said,
palms flat on the counter. I'd just sanitized. I saw
the chairs. But I've been driving for six hours and
my Airbnb has exactly zero, and I will pay triple.
Her eyes dropped to my name tag Kai. She read aloud,
and the single syllable curved in her mouth. I should
have said sorry, machines cleaned espressos off. Instead, I heard
myself say I can do a pour over. It'll take
a few minutes. I'm not in a hurry. She leaned
her hip against the counter. Are you The question landed
differently than it should have landed, somewhere below my ribs. No,
I said, not really. I moved toward the pour over station,
hyper aware of my own body, the way my cut
off shorts rode up, the strip of skin between the
hem of my tank top and the waistband. She watched
me grind the beans. I felt her gaze on my shoulders,
my neck, the place behind my ear where I dabbed
lavender oil that morning. You're not from around here, I said,
pouring the hot water in slow circles. San Francisco. Here
for a week, a divorce present to myself. I glanced back,
congratulations or condolences. Her laugh was sharp and quick. Yes,
the coffee bloomed and dripped. The shop smelled like fresh
grounds and ocean and something else now, something woody and warm,
radiating off her skin. She'd moved closer without me noticing.
Twenty years of marriage, she said, and I never once
kissed a woman. The spoon stopped in my hand until
last month, she added. I turned. She was right there,
close enough that I could see the faint sun damage
on her collar bone, the way her pulse beat visible
in the hollow of her throat. How was it? My
voice came out steadier than I felt. Her smile widened.
I think you already know. My lips folded over each other,
a nervous habit. Her eyes tracked the movement. There's more
room in the back, I said, quietly through that door.
She didn't ask what for, didn't pretend not to understand,
just nodded once, and I led her past the espresso
machine and the pastry case and the schedule taped to
the wall, into the store. Room where we kept the
extra beans and the paper cups and the folding table
I just cleared off an hour ago. The door swung
shut for one suspended second. Neither of us moved. The
fluorescent light hummed overhead. Cardboard boxes lined the walls, and
then her hands were on my face, cool palms against
my jaw, thumbs pressing into the hinge of my mouth.
You're beautiful, she said, like she was discovering it in
real time. God, you're so young. Is that terrible? I
don't care. I pulled her down by the back of
her neck, and our mouths collided. Not a first kiss.
First kisses are tentative questioning. This was an answer, hard
and certain, lips already parting, her tongue slick and hot,
sliding against mine. She tasted like spearmint, gum and the
long drive, and something metallic underneath, something hungry. My back
hit the edge of the folding table, her body pressed in,
one thigh slipping between my legs, and I gasped into
her mouth. I haven't stopped thinking about it, she breathed
against my lips. Since I walked in, since I saw
your hands, my hands there. She kissed me again, open
mouthed and wet, really fucking pretty. I'd never thought about
my hands before. Now I'd never stop thinking about them.
Her tank top strap slipped. I caught it on my thumb,
pulled it lower, exposed the upper curve of her breast. Freckles.
She had freckles everywhere, pale constellations scattered across her chest.
I bent my head and pressed my mouth to the
highest one. She made a sound that wasn't a word.
My hands found the hem of her tank top and
tugged upward. She raised her arms. The fabric lifted away,
and her breasts swung free, heavy soft nipples. The fabric
lifted away, and her breasts swung free, heavy soft nipples,
dark and already tight. My own top followed. She peeled
it off me without ceremony, and then her mouth was
on my collarbone, my sternum, the swell of my left breast. These,
she murmured against my skin, are absurd. Her tongue circled
my nipple once, twice, a third time, so slow I
felt it in my spine. I arched into her mouth,
one hand fisting in her loosening hair, the other clawing
at the table behind me for balance. She sucked hard.
My hips jerked. Yeah, I managed that. Keep doing that.
She switched to my other breast, gave it the same
tortuous attention lick, circle, suck, while her hand needed the
one she'd abandoned. The ceiling lights blurred. My breathing went ragged.
Then she pulled back. Her lips were wet and slightly swollen.
Her eyes had gone dark. Can I, I started, yes.
I didn't even finish the sentence. She was already hoisting
herself on to the folding table, the metal legs groaning
under her weight. She lay back against a bag of
coffee beans and let her knees fall open. Linen trousers,
lace underwear. She lifted her hips so I could pull
both down together, and then she was bare from the
waist down, and I stopped breathing entirely. Her cunt was magnificent, dense,
dark hair, silver threaded, curling, thick and wild. The lips
underneath were darker, still dusky, pink, already glistening. The scent
hit me a second later, musky, oceanic salt, brine and
female heat. Come here, she said. I went. My knees
met the concrete floor, my shoulders pushed her thighs wider.
Her hand found the back of my head, not pushing,
just resting there. Fingers laced through my hair. The first
lick was cautious. The taste exploded across my tongue, sharp, deep, mineral.
She gasped. The second lick was less cautious. I dragged
the flat of my tongue from the base of her
cunt all the way to the top, where her clit
swelled hard against my lips. Jesus, she hissed, yes, like that.
I found a rhythm, slow circles around her clit, then
long strokes down through her folds, then back up again.
Her hips started moving with me, small undulating pulses that
matched the cadence of my tongue. Her grip tightened in
my hair. I slid lower, passed her cunt to the
tight puckered asshole behind it. She went rigid for half
a breath, then a long shuddering exhale. Okay, I whispered,
don't stop. My tongue circled her ass tentative at first,
then firmer. The sound she made, low and guttural, dragged
up from somewhere. Primal sent a bolt of heat straight
between my own legs. I ate her with shameless, focused attention,
switching between her cunt and her ass, back and forth,
until her thighs were shaking against my ears and she
was muttering a stream of profanity at the ceiling. Then
her hands were pulling me upward. My turn, she said,
on the table. Now I scrambled up. She slid off.
We swapped positions like choreography, Me on my back on
the coffee, bean bag, legs spread, her settling between them
with the kind of focus I'd only ever seen on
faces and museums. She didn't start slow. Her mouth dropped
onto me like a wave, breaking tongue, delving deep, then
sliding up to flick rapid fire against my clit. My
back bowed off the table. I grabbed at the coffee bag,
the table edge, her hair anything solid in a world
gone liquid. She ate like she'd been starving, sucking, licking
her nose, pressing into the trimmed hair above my clit,
while her tongue worked lower than circling back up. Fuck,
I heard myself say. Fuck. Fuck. Her fingers found my opening,
Two of them slid inside without resistance, curling upward, finding
that spot behind my pubic bone, like she'd mapped it beforehand.
I was close, embarrassingly close. The pressure was building in
a way that felt almost unbearable, heat spiraling outward from
my core to my fingertips, my scalp, the soles of
my feet. Not yet, she said, pulling away. What together?
I want together? She repositioned, swinging one leg over my face,
lowering herself onto my mouth while her own mouth returned
to me. Sixty nine on a folding table in the
back of a beachside coffee shop, surrounded by paper cups.
I didn't last long, neither did she. My tongue found
her clit At the exact moment her tongue found mine,
my two fingers pushed inside her, while her two fingers
stayed buried in me. We moved in tandem, synchronized, a
closed loop of pleasure that built and built and built,
until her thighs clamped around my ears. Her scream was
muffled by my cunt. Mine wasn't muffled by anything. It
tore out of me, raw and ragged. As the orgasm
cracked open my spine and poured white heat through every
nerve ending I possessed, I gushed against her mouth, she
bucked against mine. We rode it out together, shuddering, grinding, gasping,
then silence. The fluorescent light hummed. Her weight settled across me,
both of us limp and breathless. Coffee beans shifted beneath
our combined heft. Somewhere far away, a seagull cried. Eventually
she rolled off. We lay side by side on the table,
staring at the water stained ceiling, legs tangled, skin sticky.
A long moment passed, then I sat up. She watched me.
One eyebrow arched as I climbed off the table and
walked slightly unsteady, to the corner where we kept the
clean mugs stacked on a shelf. I grabbed one, ceramic,
our largest size. I squatted over it. The sound of
urine hitting porcelain filled the storeroom, loud and unmistakable. Steam rose.
When I finished, I stood, picked up the warm mug
and carried it back to her. She was already propped
on her elbows, grinning one spicy special, I said, extending
the cup just for you. She took it, held it
under her nose, inhaled, then her laugh, bright and delighted,
and utterly unrepentant bounced off the storeroom walls. I think,
she said, lifting the mug in a mock toast, I
just found my new favorite coffee spot. She brought the
rim to her lips. Her lips. I hoped you enjoyed
today's sexy story. If you love this podcast, leave an
Apple review, Share what sexy fantasies you want to hear.
Maybe we can make your dirty dreams come true. See
you soon, one